maybe's a nice word

Spring Again

2011-03-21T13:22:00.000+05:30

I love this time of the year because the air feels like silk over your skin. The wind still retains a little bite, and the nights are perfect for long-winded stories and remembrances of a softer time. This year feels better, because there's a backyard to experiment with, plants to water everyday and birds to chase away.

I remember my mother being good with plants. Putting down new roots, adding here, pruning there. Organic fertilizer, and lots of love. Chrysanthemums and snowballs, forget-me-nots and dahlias, gladioli and daisies. Homegrown tomatoes and mint leaves, flat beans from the terrace garden. Fragrance in spring; sharp and piquant, mellow and soothing. Bursts of colour amidst seas of green, celebrating life in the only way that mattered.

Life turned brown for so long in between that I stopped looking for spring. The seasons mattered only in as much as whether to complain about the heat or cover up against the cold. There was no space to plant a bit of me, and no will to either. And then, in the year where everything else seemed to be going wrong, spring showed up. I have a backyard, with a lemon tree, a papaya tree and a pomegranate tree. There are plants which are beginning to sprout the first flowers of the year. The guava tree is loaded with beautiful young leaves, a mixture of dew green and red. The front yard is filled with potted plants, all crowned with the most beautiful blooms. My fingers are itching to get some mud on them.

In so many ways, professionally, this is the worst year I've had. Looking for the ideal job is always less interesting than it sounds. And the only people who know your awesome work ethic are those you already know. And yet, I can't seem to get too worried about it just yet. Someone will hire me to do something I love, someday soon. Till then, the world is green again, and that will do.

A Love Unlike Others - II

2011-02-09T22:41:00.001+05:30

Around Seema, people bustled, busy with the million details that made weddings such a complicated affair. Her mind, however, was at another, very different wedding: one that belonged to another time and another person.

Zoe's wedding was far from the lavish extravaganza that Seema had always pictured for her friend. Zoe's gloomy prognosis about Rajiv's parents had been correct. For a month after the marriage was registered, they staunchly refused to believe that their son could have taken up with 'such a girl'. It was only the prospect of social humiliation that had prodded them into organizing the world's unhappiest wedding reception for their only child and his wife. Even now, they stood on the sidelines with fixed smiles and hard, flinty eyes that watched as their daughter-in-law effortlessly charmed their extended family and legions of friends.

Seema barely knew how she had managed to get through the last month. With a resolve she barely knew existed, she had called her mother and agreed to consider the colourful brochures her mother had collected, each promising more and more idyllic visions of an education overseas, far away from the pain that kept her awake at night. She had no illusions: this was an escape, a retreat and nothing more. She packed her bags, refusing to give her hostel room the honour of lingering in its memories. The month that she spent at home, she was careful to mask any sign of unhappiness from her mother. The constant strain of watching every word she spoke took its toll. She spent the first twenty hours after her arrival in the US in a deep, dreamless sleep.

But maybe she was built with sterner stuff than she gave herself credit for. She did get out of bed, eventually. She refused campus accommodation and found herself a tiny apartment that was utilitarian enough to discourage any attachment. She enrolled for as many classes as would fill up the day. She barely spoke to anyone. The recluse in her was familiar, safe, a protective blanket that kept her going. Till one day, she looked up from a book she was reading on her bus, and lost her heart to Boston.

It was fall, and the sky was just crisp enough, the colours of the leaves on the trees sharp enough for her to draw her breath with pleasure. She spent hours just walking up and down the streets, looking at the houses with the beautiful shrubs, feeling each crunch of every leaf under her foot, savouring the crisp autumn air as if she were breathing again after a long time. She was helpless against the smile that curved her lips upwards. She didn't even realize she was grinning till she noticed a few people smiling back at her.

She went back home, drew the curtains till all light was vanquished, and got back into bed.

A Love Unlike Others

2011-01-13T16:58:00.000+05:30

She was meeting Zoe tomorrow.

It seemed like they had known each other forever. But she still remembered, with crystal clarity, the day they had first met. She'd been nervous, too nervous to see the exciting side of attending college in a new city. The shyness that had seemed to recede in the last few years of school was back, pressing down on her with renewed force. Her mother had dropped her at the hostel in the morning, trusting her newly turned eighteen daughter to make her own way. She'd been in her room for five hours, putting away her things, arranging her books with extra care. Unable, so far, to pluck up courage to go and talk to any of the other girls. Suddenly, the door had banged open, and in walked a girl with a smile as bright as the sun. Zoe.

She'd been the reluctant friend, at first. But one couldn't resist Zoe's charm for very long. The three years of college were when she'd truly lived, for the very first time. Zoe had blackmailed her into wearing kohl, letting her hair down once in a while, actually wearing the shocking pink jacket her mother had forced on her. They'd called each other Kamla and Bimla, secret names that made their friendship more vital somehow. Bunking classes to discover newer varieties of chaat, sharing the first tentative sip of alcohol on a Friday afternoon in a deserted pub, filling their brains with reams of abstruse information before the examinations... every moment had had its own thrill. Zoe had been a serial dater, stringing along an ever increasing line of boys who seemed to hang on to her every word. She'd never really been one for dating, even though Zoe had coaxed her into a fair few. Zoe's love life, though, had never flagged for an instant. The wining and dining with the endless admirers was a regularly Friday night feature.

It was one such date that had changed everything. On her return, Zoe had been unusually quiet; her eyes filled with a strange new light. For the first time, she'd felt somehow excluded from a secret, somehow distant from Zoe. Soon, Rajiv became the first boy to ever get a third date. She'd been vaguely annoyed at the time, and unable to explain her mood swings. It hadn't mattered; Zoe hadn't cared, or even noticed.

A month later, on one frenetic pre-exam evening, Zoe had turned to her with a sombre look on her face.

"He asked me today. I knew it was coming, but I still wasn't prepared. I couldn't have been prepared for this kind of happiness, could I? We're going ahead with it, sweets.I wasn't supposed to tell, but I couldn't hold it in anymore."

"Going ahead with what?" she'd asked, half willing the answer to never come.

"We're getting married. His family won't approve, so we're having a civil ceremony before we tell them. Bimla, I'm getting married tomorrow! I'm so dizzy, I can barely breathe! Can you believe it?"

But I love you...

Her eyes widened as the unspoken realization sank in. She masked it with a huge smile, hugging Zoe tight, whispering her congratulations. Zoe drew back, looking at her with a half smile and a strange look in her eyes. Her breath caught in her chest. She recognized pity well enough.

Zoe knew.

(To be continued)

Night Vision

2011-01-09T05:00:00.000+05:30

Things have a way of getting tangled up.

The rain pours outside, relentless like the thoughts in her head. The man beside her sleeps on, dreaming of God only knows what men dream of. Race cars? Supermodels? Her fingers have long since stopped seeking his out for comfort. They seek out a cigarette instead; the gesture now so practiced it barely registers anymore. The smell of the rain mingles with the tobacco scent of a thousand nights like this one. The mingled odours rise up and settle onto her chest, pressing until she can barely breathe anymore. The bed isn't hers; she rises to escape its throttling embrace.

The window seems less dangerous. Leaning out, she looks at the plants by the windowsill. His wife is a herb lover, she remembers. In the early, heady days of their acquaintance, she remembers laughing at him telling her that the missus's green thumb cultivated everything except weed. Now she leans and smells thyme, basil and mint. Well grown, well loved plants, tended with the care that escaped the marriage within the walls.

But then, how can she judge anymore? He's been lying to her for years now, inuring her to a life of secret meetings and covert hook ups. She may even have begun preferring it that way. God knows she couldn't be the wife, satisfied with herbs alone. She's been meaning to break it off for a long time, but habit has proved more persevering than she accounted for.

How does one end up as the Other Woman? Is she predisposed towards it? Is there a separate school or university for virtuous, herb growing wives? There's been nothing out of the ordinary about her life, so why did she end up taking this fork in the road? She looks at the sleeping man, the man who somehow got her to accept sordid as exciting; who managed to erode what was inside her till she was okay with this.

He's vain, a peacock looking for validation, from yes men and yes-to-anything women. His vanity is even more extraordinary given how meagre he is. Suddenly, it's impossible to stay used to this any longer.

She goes to the dresser and opens a drawer. The scissors are exactly what she needs. She goes over to his sleeping form and gently begins what she should've done years ago. It takes a while because she wants him to stay asleep; a scene isn't something she can endure right now.

When daylight breaks, the room is empty save for the gently rumbling snores of a man lying on the rumpled bed. All around his head lie bunches of hair, snipped without grace or mercy. The herbs on the windowsill look freshly watered.

Again

2010-12-29T14:41:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, it's the unasked questions that rankle unexpectedly. The other day, I decided to restart a knitting project I had, in my usual way, abandoned seven years ago. But my fingers no longer remembered the pattern. I'd almost picked up the phone to call and ask before I realized that it was no longer an option. Over the last nine years, there have been so many things to ask, so many conversations to have, which will never be.

What was that pesky knitting pattern? How do you make your patented dry fish curry? Do you really like him, or are you just saying so 'cause I do? How do both the ends of your Mughlai paratha join so seamlessly? Can you believe I have to wear sarees to work now? Can I just drop everything and come home?

Most days, I'm at peace with life, mostly because I've never expected it to be fair. But the unguarded moment seems to always be around the corner, waiting to undo me again. But you did a good job of teaching how to pick up the pieces, every time.

Restart

2010-10-01T23:24:00.000+05:30

So, finally, I have something to do that I actually want to do. I've just been asked to join a collective of freelance copy editors. I have a feeling that this is probably the first time in my professional life that I will actually enjoy what I do. The last two months of submitting my CV online have just reinforced the fact that nobody gets hired by applying online. And in the process, somewhere I began to question myself, as to whether this decision to wait for the right job in the right location was going to be a great debacle. At this moment, I'm just grateful I had the courage to walk away from the comfortable. And I haven't found the perfect job yet, but I'm certain that the lords of language won't leave my great love unrequited.

Maybe it's a good thing that I was so terrible at math. Or that my drawings looked like dullness itself. Maybe it is wonderful to only be good at one thing; juggling words around till they please you. Atleast when you find where your soul needs to be, there won't be other tempting paths to confuse you.

So it begins.

My Own Lady Gaga

2010-08-31T06:01:00.001+05:30

So now I apparently only write birthday posts.

Anyhoo, all my life, I've always aspired to be noticeable. Not conspicuous, but noticeable. Someone who walks into a room knowing that she belongs at the centre, right under the crystal chandelier, not unobtrusively edging near the curtains in the corner. I think the word I'm looking for is flair. So at the end of my second year in college I became friends with a person who seemed to have been endowed with the elusive F-word.

Quirky, colourful, loud and sensitive. PS is usually all these things at once (her version of multitasking, I guess). She is also immensely helpful, gloriously uninhibited, and supremely talented at getting shy people to try on shocking lingerie at departmental stores. Going to shampoo workshops in Japan, getting a tattoo around another tattoo, shopping outrageously and jumping from heights in killer high heels are all in a day's work for her.

But somehow, through all these years, from the time we started talking while rehearsing a Chekov play to today, I've always felt that within PS's head, there are pockets where not many are allowed. The parts of her that few people see, getting lauki juice for a friend's sick mom or realizing that outrageous Bollywood gossip is sometimes the best way to cheer someone up without giving the appearance of trying too hard.She sort of combines the advantages of being a wallflower (escaping scrutiny) and the absolute heart stopping thrill of living your life as the belle of the ball. So PS, you lucky @#@#$#@, you've been blessed with moonshine. Not sunshine, unvaried and ordinary, but moonshine, bright and reserved, electric and subdued, all at once.

I'm glad for your generous heart that is as open as your laughter. I love the fact that you bring fashion and colour into our drab, drab lives. I'm sick of the fact that I cannot still think of you with short hair, so grow it back at once! I love going through your bag because it's like Toiletry Disneyland. And I'm very proud at how beautifully you embrace every part of yourself.

Happy twenty six, Ranevsky. Be fabulous.

All I Can Do

2010-08-27T09:43:00.001+05:30

As it turns out, I can't stand unemployment for too long. It makes me feel dissipated, like I'm becoming invisible and conversely growing fatter at the same time. I know one's self esteem shouldn't be tied to a paycheque, but there are so many other things tied to it. Things to eat, things to buy, things to see. If I had a vegetable garden and I were any good at gardening, maybe I wouldn't be so bored. As it is, my only project is compiling family recipes and feeling sorry for myself and my poverty.

After getting half my soul sucked to hell in advertising, I figured that I'd give the publishing industry a try. God knows that I can't love grammar and punctuation enough. God, and the many people over the years whom I've offended by correcting them (and I'm not sorry, never will be). And I do love to write. Just as long as making it a profession doesn't turn it into drudgery as well. The publishing industry is unbelievably insular though. No ads, no links, nothing unless you're the editor's niece or secret college hook-up. But I will keep at it nonetheless.

After all, I haven't much else to do. Till I become a gardener.

Why I Believe In Magic

2010-05-07T16:22:00.002+05:30

In early 2002, I was flipping through a magazine when I came across an article on the changing face of children's literature. The piece was mostly a gushing account of how the Harry Potter series had brought in enormous profits, and therefore, renewed interest in a hitherto 'niche' genre. I had heard of Harry Potter, of course, as I wasn't living under a rock. But I didn't bother to read one of the books because my snob of a mind had already classified it unworthy. My younger sister wasn't so circumspect. In the summer of the following year, I read the first Harry Potter book that she had borrowed from a friend, while I was home on vacation.

Within five minutes of reading, I was hooked. And the fact that there were more waiting to be read was like a constant, unwelcome itch on the most inaccessible part of the back that I just couldn't wait to scratch. But these were my college years, and 'shoestring' was too grand a term for my finances. Spending four hundred bucks on a book wasn't just indulgent, it was impossible. So I yearned and waited and longed. Till suddenly I remembered the girl in my class who had a reputation for having charmed the gnarled old librarian into an easy friendship in our first year itself. She was a quiet girl who seemed to be joined at the hip with another girl who reminded me vaguely of an industrious sparrow. Quiet Girl was always looking at people intently for short periods of time with a patient half smile on her face. All the professors loved her and she knew all the answers, even though she never seemed to seek out the Dork Limelight. And it was rumoured that she Had All The Books. Ever.

So I decided to ask her for the second Harry Potter book. It was a big step for me; I was still as inhibited and self conscious as a timid dormouse. And I had my small town complex - my two friends in college both came from Shillong and Delhi women intimidated me effortlessly. But then, Quiet Girl always smiled. So I asked her, and she said sure, she'd get me the book. And she got me that one, and the third one, and zillions of other ones (the rumours were true). She gifted me the Lord Of The Rings series, and introduced me to Samit Basu's work, and showed me a new world of fiction where misfits like myself seemed to rule the roost. She also bought me breakfast everyday (a chocolate brownie and masala tea) and gave me new pride in my handwriting. When another girl in class asked me for my copy of the fifth Harry Potter book, our triumvirate was complete.

The two years we spent in college sharing food, books and laughs are still easy to conjure up, and heartbreakingly difficult to relive. Quiet Girl is still busy patiently taking care of those she loves in a million ways. She's still ready to listen to any rubbish you want to spew or to comfort you when you cry about a stolen wallet. She will still bake you a cake when you have a cold, and get you macaroni and cheese because it feels like that kind of Tuesday.

And that's why I believe in magic; because a story about a wizard boy led me to two of the most wonderful women and the most prized friends I've ever had. On Quiet Girl's birthday, I wish that she finds all the love and care she has spread so freely returned a thousandfold. I hope that this year, she can find some time to discover why we all love her so, and that it brightens the patient half smile into something more radiant.

Quiet Girl, you are one of kind. Happy Birthday, and I love you.

I Watched An Emu Poop

2010-04-26T14:44:00.000+05:30

On the old Mumbai-Pune road, in an establishment called Toni Daa Dhaba (as spelled by Toni). Apart from its culinary delights, the place also houses several bewildered guinea fowls and emus that you can choose to eat, if you be of a gruesome nature. One of the birds was obviously a poet who recognized a kindred soul and marked the moment with defecation.

In between talking about bird droppings and kindred souls, I do have something to say. For the last three years, I've been a working girl. Well, sort of. I've felt supremely useless and smugly superior, sometimes at the same time. I've bitched and whined and complained while cultivating and air of productivity to cover up my deep desire to do nothing. Most of the time, it worked. It worked so well, in fact, that it started to make me sick.

So I quit. Because life can't be a trapeze act between one job and another. And sometimes it pays to just jump. Sometimes the bird just has to poop. I'm spending June and July on a detox diet, where I hope to forever be rid of jargon like creative strategy and brand visibility and so forth, things that mean very little in the larger scheme of things. And now I'm going to create the larger scheme of things. Like a wise woman in a movie once said, "You have to be the leading lady of your own life."

I'm taking my life back.

P.S.: How offensive is the Tanishq wedding jewellery ad? Throw some diamonds at your recalcitrant daughter and watch how fast she sprints down the aisle? And would you believe that this weekend, the Times carried a feature about Indian women being essentially dour and humourless. Evidence? Sonia Gandhi doesn't smile and neither does Mayawati. I mean, I know the Times is a cesspool of endless crap, but this was truly a new nadir even for them.

Old Love

2010-03-22T17:33:00.001+05:30

Why do I love Delhi? A is still unable to fathom the depths of my infatuation. He truly believes that Mumbai is the city of dreams. But only a certain kind of dream can take root in the grit of the city that smells of fish. We have a very uneasy relationship, Mumbai and I. I don't like her; she senses it and reciprocates. We have history of the bad kind. The future doesn't hold much promise of reconciliation.

I try to explain it to A. I tell him that I love Delhi because our souls are similar, and entwined. We are old, and reserved, and open and gaudy. I read a book which says that you can't help giving, or withholding, your heart. Mine was given without restraint or struggle, to a city with forts and bungalows and aloo tikki on the streets and cheating auto drivers and some horrifically dumb people, mostly boys.

Summer days where all you can do is use your breaths to bridge the gap from one moment to another. Autumn laced with the acrid smell of the ten thousand rupee endless firecracker that your neighbour uses on Diwali to show he's arrived. Winter arriving with a blaze of fiery carnations that take your chilled breath away. The Tibetan lady in Lajpat Nagar whose momos never hit a false note. The lime soda guy in North Campus whose crooked smile is still summoned up in an instant by your mind. The sublime finesse of LSR Cafe's very own stuffed parantha and boondi raita. The feel of 100% cotton in your quintessentially Delhi garb, heavy on the kajal please. The friend whose mom makes the best rajma ever, and the one who taught you that Ctrl X equals Cut. Girlhood. Womanhood. Heartbreak and elation, never the same twice.

It's the one thing that still has the power to make my hands fly over the keyboard with impassioned, fevered words, even while writing rubbish for a living has choked whatever writer was left in me. That is why I love her still.

Pop Culture and I

2010-02-25T21:56:00.000+05:30

We spend a lot of time in each other's company, so a few thoughts get formed and stick around till I have to blog about them.
1. Hariharan is white wine, Rekha Bhardwaj is red.
2. How Gulzar knows exactly what to say to make the whirling in my head stop is beyond me. I mean, the man just gets it, everytime.
3. I love how A.R. Rahman brings reality to celebrity. He knows he's good, but he isn't eaten up by it. Maybe everytime his fame threatens to swell his head, he remembers how bad he is at changing lightbulbs or something. AND the guy told Hollywood's greatest that uske paas ma hai.
4. I don't know of any woman who thinks that hair gelled to look like a honeycomb is sexy.
5. Phenomena I fail to understand include Katrina Kaif and Himesh Reshammiya, apart from economics and the Bermuda Triangle.
6. Dev Anand's raven black hair actually suits him. I don't know how he pulls it off, but he does. Innate awesomeness, I suppose.
7. Bones is hilarious. I've never laughed so much while watching a murder centric series.
8. 'Dil sa koi kameena nahi' is now my mantra to explain every fickle turn that my mind takes. Thank you, Bollywood, for hitting the nail on the head.

Two a.m.

2010-01-29T02:40:00.000+05:30

Long time. The drought has been particularly severe this time. But apparently being sick as a dog makes me want to blog again. Thank you, dust allergy.

You know how they say that if your wife asks you if she's looking fat, always say 'No'? It's always portrayed like a way to stop the wrath of the female from descending on you. But my problem is, don't the men understand why she needs to hear that 'No' from them? Look, she has a mirror. She is probably so critical of herself that it took her a tremendous amount of gumption to buy that slinky dress while the snooty salespeople made her feel frumpy. And if even a single microparticle of excess weight shows, she probably won't wear the dress outside the bedroom. People who love themselves enough to do so are pretty rare. Why does she need you to say 'No' then? Maybe it's because she wants to feel that you're the one person who can never find her fat. Maybe she wants to feel the way she did when you first started looking at her in that special 'you're the one I want to cook my meals and do my laundry forever' way. She's asking you to see her through the eyes of love. Just say 'No'. Just to give her a momentary happy thrill. She'll probably look at the mirror again and change to something else anyway. So step up and lie, not because you're scared of her, but because the woman you love could probably be spared the extra fretting should you happen to say 'Yes'. She may just love you more because she knows you'll always lie to her for her. She's probably not too thrilled about your midlife crisis inspired Backstreet's Back T-shirt, but she's not telling, is she?

Do not say, "I wouldn't really say 'fat', honey. Maybe a little umm... er... snug?'

***********

On other topics, has anyone ever seen a Charagh Din ad that did not suck? I think that is advertising's last undiscovered world.

************

After watching 'Three Idiots' I wondered why Chetan Bhagat even wants the credit. I mean, a baby coming to life because Aamir Khan's tagline is actually the secret Freemason hymn that invokes life itself? Really?

*************

As an Indian, I am outraged at 'Phir Mile Sur Mera Tumhara'. Isn't it ironic that on Republic Day, we get to see the most shameless self congratulatory eulogy to dynasty? Dis-gus-ting, and sixteen minutes long, to boot.

If they ever try 'modernizing' 'Ek Chidiya, Anek Chidiya', I'm going to get violent.

Profound Witticism Of The Day

2009-12-27T01:00:00.001+05:30

How can I be a fish and a cat at the same time?

I may flounder, but I'll always land on my feet.

All rights registered. Happy Holidays!

What On Earth Do You Want?

2009-11-15T16:09:00.002+05:30

Who is this shimmering, transient quantity called you? Why is it important that you should be? Why do you need to be? And why is this need dulling with every day that passes in a mediocre, less than okay haze? When purpose is missing, and talent questionable, how long can you run? And why are you running? After so many, many days of giving in, why does it rankle so sharply still? The conviction of being something, something worth being, that shone like a torch inside for so many years; where along the way did it quench itself without ceremony? Why do words offer poor consolation, when they have been more than adequate shoulders for a lifetime thus far? And do you even want to know? Or is the asking deliverance enough?

What do you want? Not need, because need is something you have no say over. What do you want with the fierceness of flame and the grit of dripping water seducing rock into sand? What do you want with a passion that rages across your mind and your soul, without relent, without rest? What do you want to be, to assuage a fear building for years, that may be this is all there is and ever will be. What will shield you against the cutting licks of desperation and the beginning of despair? Where has your body of strength disappeared behind a shadow of impersonal mass? Do you want, and want badly enough? Will you, ever again?

Life In Limbo

2009-10-18T00:48:00.003+05:30

My brain is so rusty with disuse that I can hear it creaking whenever I try to think about anything more challenging than "Is it time to the bathroom?". Is it the work? Is it the house? Is it the life? How does one fill a void one can't find? Should I have lived during the bubonic plague so that I'd have more substantial things to worry about?

All right, I need a break. This blog is on hiatus till further notice (or RSS update). Because melted icecream is just, well, mush. And no one likes mush.

Much love.

Convent Educated

2009-09-13T01:16:00.002+05:30

These past few weeks, I've been thinking about my schooldays a lot. This particular wave of nostalgia was triggered by a classmate who recently got married and did the requisite commemoration of the event on various social networking sites. We had been rather close at a point of time, and in remembrance of that particular chapter of our lives, she had sent me an invitation two months ago. Of course, I didn't go, but what struck me a little was how I didn't even consider going.

This friend of mine, S, was my partner on the quiz team in school. Well, we were the quiz team in school. Between the seventh and the tenth standards, we spent a lot of time together trying to win glory for our school with our astonishing knowledge of random trivia. We had our moments. We were the first all girls team to qualify for the final round of a particularly prestigious city competition (which we eventually lost). We had four exciting and exhausting years, competition after competition, and a friendship burgeoning in between. My mother was taken by S's other worldly commitment to her studies. Her parents also seemed fond of me. We lost touch after school, and over the years, I only heard of her, not from her.

So when I saw her wedding pictures, I was looking at her, really looking at her, after a gap of nine years. And it freaked me out a little. I know it's unrealistic to expect everyone else to stay the same while your own life moves on, but I just keep picturing everyone else still in their school uniforms. How can they be getting married? Are some of them seriously posting pictures of their children?

Driving down the lane of your own intensely important life, you tend to keep others' lives constant just to give you perspective. When it finally filters down to you that the rest of the world is moving too, it can be oddly unsettling. I miss the existence of the two too serious girls in their navy blue blazers and skirts, discussing the latest weird factoid in the corridors of a beautiful, still colonial school. I miss the fact that school is one part of my life that I have absolutely no contact with, keeping it fossilized in my memory. Most of all, after all these years, I still miss school as sharply as I did after I left. But that actually makes me happy.

Congratulations, S. You were beautiful.

Divine Inanity

2009-08-13T17:01:00.002+05:30

I used to write poetry some time ago. Used to because these days I don't write anything apart from mediocre copy and superlative grocery lists. But today I read some of the stuff I'd written and kept secret all this while. Then I decided to post some of the poems in order to feel that I've earned the right to an evil smirk. Here's one now:

They build you temples,
Mosques, churches,
Even complicated sounding places
Like synagogues, imagine that.
They look to you
With hope, everyday
Believing that every little sorrow
In you, will be assuaged.
Kindness, mercy, love, wisdom
Are contained in you, they think.
Incense, flowers, wafers, wine
Small things to get you
To notice, to care.
But you keep laughing,
Hurting and watching,
Lashing out at the very fools
Who then grasp you closer still,
Wondering why the gashes
Keep working deeper in.

One day you will be found out
For what you really are.
No benevolent mother, or magnanimous father.
Just a vicious child, with more toys
Than he knows what to do with.
I wonder if I should tell them
Maybe get stoned to an early demise.
But lift the mists in the process
Of them wondering why.
I only hold my tongue because
Wilful child or not,
In you lies the hope
That they hold on to,
The possibility of a morning
A little less blue.
It's not you that I bow to,
You're a child of cruel whim, destructive fantasy.
I bow to the ones
Who know no better than
To put all their faith, their trust,
Their hope, everything in you.
Their faith moves
My mountain everyday
So you keep playing, and I let you be,
Needless delusion, futile, necessary.

It Wasn't Supposed To Be

2009-08-03T17:47:00.003+05:30

He wasn't supposed to die. She was sure of this, surer indeed than of anything else in the world, including her own existence. She couldn't imagine anyone more solid, more real than him. Why was it then that everyone around her refused to meet her eyes when she asked about him? When the warmth had still not left his body, why did his eyes refuse to light up? And just what was she supposed to do if he did actually prove her wrong?

As it turned out, he did prove her wrong. He died barely six days after being rushed to the hospital. He died in the same manner in which he had lived - quietly, with dignity. He even chose the wee hours of the morning so that there would be no one around to create a fuss. The next time she saw him, she no longer had the warmth of his body to console her anymore. Her children wept at the sheer incomprehensibility of it all. Her own mind was reeling with questions. How was it possible for the world to keep moving? Or did the world simply not care for the passing of quiet, dignified men? How was she supposed to fill the little voids he left in every single pattern of the life they had crafted together for the last twenty five years? How was she supposed to surmount her insomnia to make sure that the kids got to school on time? Who was supposed to ensure the precise shape and texture of the rotis? How was she going to make any sense of the innumerable minutiae of life that he had stored in the different corners of his mind? Would people ever know that he'd written her poetry?

Her mind came to the only conclusion she could fathom - it was unnatural, it had not been fated. Now every other player in that theatre of illness and uncertainty was suspect in her eyes. Her relatives, there was a reason they had refused to meet her eyes. They were killing him, they had killed him. Friends and well wishers drew away, the ones who remained suggested that to decipher unnatural events she had to consult those with supernatural faculties. Therein began the never-ending line of holy men, yes men and of course men. They were sure he'd been killed. If only they had been consulted, they would've saved him. Even now, danger lurked around her and her children. Amethysts and pearls, emeralds and opals were the only protection. They all visited, sympathized, prescribed and disappeared. She never seemed to find peace. After every holy man left, she would meet a detractor who denounced him as fake, and lead her to another. The wall of gemstones and suspicion had turned into a fortress which left the world outside. She was happy in her prison because it was just the way she liked it - orderly and neat, with thoughts that stayed in their boxes. And yet, all the gemstones in the world couldn't drive away the sight of his face and the little proofs of his existence that still made her weep. Was there any stone in the world powerful enough to drive away the love from her heart?

Within two years of a holy man predicting that she would live to a ripe old age, she lay dying. Her fortress was in ruins and she was letting go of life everyday, bit by little bit. The friends and well wishers crowded around her once again. They wondered if this helpless waif could be the vital, colourful person they had known. They implored her to try living, but how did one live with a heart that was so irrevocably broken? She lingered for a few moments, taking in the faces of those who had meant something to her in an existence which was getting more difficult to remember with every passing second. A few more moments, and then it was done. The ignominies of life were rendered powerless, and with her last breath she found him again, waiting as patiently as he'd always had. For once, love had won over the need to let go.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

2009-07-01T19:23:00.003+05:30

They made me move out of my perfect apartment. Some high-flying company decided that their executives needed the house with one red wall more than I did. The landlord's compliance was purchased with a princely sum of money. The roomie and I looked around for a week or so. It made me realize certain things all over again:

1. Moral policing is a landlord's definition of value addition.
2. This whole metropolis thing is a sham to disguise mindsets which are narrower than Slimfast powered waistlines and more medieval than all the assorted K soaps.
3. If you're unmarried, your virtue (?!) is to be guarded zealously by conducting random checks on your household, for your safety of course.
4. If you're single/non-Hindu/slightly independent of mind, you should live on the street.
5. If you don't believe that owning a house makes people demigods, you should live in the gutter that flows by the street.
6. In your house hunt, you will say 'uncle' more times than you have ever said in the rest of your life.
7. Wine shop owners are not appropriate landlords. After a while, the fumes go to their heads.

Let me decode it for you. We fell in love with a beautiful, fully furnished place owned by aforementioned wine shop guy. After packing for two days, hiring transport and moving in, the guy hectored us for an hour for having 'itna zyaada saaman'. Then he proceeded to humiliate a friend who had come to help us because he happened to be male. The same night, we moved to another place where the landlord was easier to live with simply because he doesn't live in Mumbai. So if something seems too good to be true, it is, really.

One more of my teeth has decided to go to the Great Big Mouth. Of course, the process of its demise is exceedingly painful and equally expensive. To top it all, I'm supposed to be churning out creative ideas to garner new clients while my head feels an electrocuted, overly tuned guitar wire.

She came to visit me for barely three days, out of which one day went to the dogs because I was travelling on work. Woe is me for ever imagining that work related travel could be interesting and fun. The work is interesting, yes, but the travel is an exercise in wishing you were elsewhere. Of course, there are also moments when you discover new facets to your personality. Like the moment when I shut up two loudmouths who weren't letting the other participants talk, simply by being politely rude. Now that was fun.

At one research trip, I managed to lose my glasses for almost three hours. Three hours of blundering my way through a blurred world, trying to convince myself that I could conduct a serious group discussion wearing sunglasses. And some people should really stop with the 'Tough Love' pep talks. Unless you've walked a mile in my shoes, or seen the world with my very poor eyesight, skip the lecture.

And then, Michael Jackson died. I mean, is it funny to someone up there?

And yes, I really meant every word of the post title.

Here We Go Again

2009-05-14T00:27:00.005+05:30

Over the last couple of months, I've been very detached from the blog. I've preferred reading to writing, and not just out of laziness. I even mulled announcing that the blog and I are on a break, but I couldn't do something so self important and keep a straight face. It's not that I've finally run out of things I wanna say or write. It's not even that I'm too busy (it's never that. If you wanna do something you'll make the time). It's just that the 'what to say' has been overwhelmed by the 'how to say it'. I'm trying to get over that, so here it is.

We met a year and a half ago, driven by mutual curiosity elicited by somewhat deft wordplay which filled up the minutes we spent at work, glued to our screens. We read each other and wrote to each other with a level of intimacy that only very close friends share. We were both addicted to the catharsis of blogdom in a world that spun either too fast or too slow for our liking. He wrote like I wanted to write, and what I wrote gave him pleasure. We had windows into each others' minds long before we met. Of course, the real world is different, and it contains the very real possibility of turning virtual friendships into quietly shushed embarrassments of the past.

But we did meet, and it was so easy that we never noticed the shift. It was simple to be friends, simpler even to be more than friends. A relationship was forged during midnight rambles about philosophy and vada pav, the weight of family expectations and the hilarity of existential angst. We met everyday, without fail, and we never forgot to share a few laughs. I moved to a new place so he could visit without encountering the unpleasantness of a landlady. We fell into a pattern where I always got my way and he always gave in, where I bullied and he let me, where I tried to get him to read Harry Potter and realized the strength of passive resistance. Our friends started referring to the two of us as a collective noun, and we never felt any danger of losing ourselves.

Love is deceptively easy to get used to, especially when it's the kind of love you've unconsciously been holding your breath for. So I've gotten used to the smell of the skin just above his temple, the quick smile that always manages to overlook my instinct for world dominance and the voice that is meant only for me because if anyone else hears it, it'll be the joke of the century. He's gotten used to my hectoring and shrillness, my impulsive demands and my thorough conviction that I am always better and always right. Now we've gotten to a point where we're pretty much unlivable without the other. Of course, this means that he now has to move away.

It's not the most difficult thing in the world. It's not that we can't make it work, or that we 're entertaining any doubts about what we want to do with our lives. It's just that I'm tired. Tired of change announcing itself on me. I could probably get him to stay, but of course I won't. I would never grudge him the opportunity he's been waiting for all his life. But emotions are never absolute, and being happy for him would be so much easier if I could pack myself in his suitcase. I know I shouldn't be this way, but I just am. I'll stop.

Just as soon as you explain to me how to have Friday night dinner with a phone and how to get Google Chat to give me a hug on Sunday evenings.

Borrowing Others' Words, Coz I Don't Have Any

2009-04-08T17:15:00.002+05:30

From Professor Dumbledore.

If you ever have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember Cedric Diggory (or what I take to mean keeping your eye on the long road).

From The Mask.

I can take off the mask anytime I wanna. I just don't wanna.

I've never been good at being cryptic or mysterious. But this isn't the time to spill my guts. All I can say is that I really, really, really don't wanna. And it's driving me crazy.

I wanna crawl into a dark little burrow for a while. Any suggestions?

25 Things That Hardly Matter

2009-03-15T13:50:00.003+05:30

Just because I don't like writing on Facebook.

1. Right now I'm playing fetch with Ramprasad, my Facebook pup.
2. Whenever I read about Madeline Bassett in any of the Jeeves books, I get more convinced that she was written because Wodehouse found Anne of Green Gables ridiculous.
3. Mosquitoes did not let me sleep all night, so I read the Deathly Hallows book for the nth time. Harry Potter is an inexpressible comfort to me.
4. I find all doctors sinister, even the friendly, white haired 'Family Doctor Uncle'.
5. Masakalli makes me feel like I could fly.
6. Today I discovered that poppy seeds are called khus khus in Hindi.
7. The most ridiculous thing that happened to me recently was when I was huffing and puffing away on the treadmill. As it is, treadmills make me feel unco-ordinated and nervous. To add to that, my gym plays crappy remixes all the time. The icing on the cake was the woman next to me, loudly exhorting everyone to 'Shake it Daddy'.
8. I'm deeply convinced of the innate decency of Gregory Peck.
9. I feel embarrassed when other people do stupid things, even in the movies. I look away because I feel like I'm watching something indecent.
10. Yesterday I washed and dried all the detachable parts of my fridge, taking neat freak to a new level.
11. I'm so used to PVR that I find that all other cinema theatres smell funny.
12. My trainer recently told me that my life is doomed because I never played any sports in school. He has told me this everytime I've worked out with him. Now I wonder how many muscles I will benefit by socking him on the jaw.
13. I think that the term 'White Lies' takes the cake as far as racism in language is concerned.
14. Somehow, the knowledge that Hermione Granger is played by an actress who is a straight As student in real life feels right.
15. I can't believe how large a number 25 is.
16. I don't know if I'll ever have kids, but I've got names picked out.
17. I still write letters, old fashioned pen and paper ones, to the two people in the world who write back. I love it.
18. I have a couple of giant regrets, a few of which I plan to address by getting back to academics someday.
19. Boredom and idleness make a fascinating cocktail. That is my poison.
20. Dating someone younger to me has made me realize that age does matter, just not in the ways we think.
21. If I had to think of one word to describe how I'd like to feel, that word would be Sufiyana.
22. Dave Barry is my Monday morning ritual.
23. The best thing about the aftermath of Delhi 6 is the number of people I've discovered who are in love with Delhi. Thoda sa resham, thoda khurdura, a slice of the same ancient soul in all of us.
24. Tomorrow I have to tell my client that she lacks professionalism and courtesy, without offending her. I'm looking forward to it.
25. Mangoes are God's way of making up for life.

Clickety Clack

2009-03-01T22:30:00.004+05:30

You know, there is always that moment. The one where things clear up in your head with a resounding click. The click may be a perky one or a gloomy one, depending on the subject of the epiphany. I've had more than my fair share of those during my life.

The day I saw Aamir Khan on screen for the first time, when I was about four years old. Click! Barbie was a mere crush, this is love.

The thousandth time that my elder sister was beating the crap out of me, while I was retaliating with all my might, but with little effect. Click! There are some battles you can never win.

The time I was watching Roman Holiday in SKT's house. Audrey Hepburn woke up, looked around at Gregory Peck's modest apartment, and asked in her regal tones, "Is this the elevator?" Click! Girl crush.

After three years of reading blogs, scrapbooks, walls and suchlike, click! Very, very few situations in life merit the use of an exclamation mark.

The first time I met A, after three days wondering what I would do if he looked like a paunchy kind of yeti. Click! I'm superficial, and he's not Sasquatch.

The time I spent a whole evening at an awards show, looking at the brightest stars of the film industry. Click! It's boring, they're boring. And it's painful how much I don't care.

Yesterday, when I was spending my day off squatting in the bathroom shampooing my stuffed dog Chandu. Click! I'm so very old.

The first time I tried to write a post and drew a complete blank, about three weeks ago. Click! People change.

Comprehension Refuses To Dawn

2009-02-12T17:19:00.005+05:30

It's something that has happened everywhere that I have ever lived or visited. It's something conducted with stealth and co-ordination akin to a secret service operation. It's something everyone does, and everyone knows that everyone does this, and yet we all do it in secret. If we see someone doing this openly, we try to persuade them to do it under some sort of cover so that it is not seen by others. And I have never understood why.

I'm referring to the act of putting underwear/innerwear out to dry. People who have otherwise had a very evolved outlook on life have advised me on how I should cover underwear with a towel so that people from outside can't see it hanging with the other drying clothes. It is most puzzling and it throws up certain questions:

1. Why are people embarrassed about underwear?

2. Is it shameful to wear underwear or to go without it?

3. If it is assumed that wearing underwear is a desirable quality in people, isn't washing underwear necessary for reasons of hygiene?

4. Since washed underwear cannot be worn while it is wet, should it not be dried?

5. If wearing and washing underwear are respectable pursuits, why is drying it a covert activity?

6. Why does it reflect on the respectability of a household if drying underwear is as visible as other clothes?

7. Wouldn't the sight of drying underwear reassure you that the nice family you were visiting believed in both wearing and washing their underclothes?

Tangentially, let's look at the concept of underwear itself. It is being used, rather brilliantly I believe, by the Pink Chaddi campaign to make a point about loose, forward, pub going women like myself to the Sri Ram Sena, the self appointed guardians of my womanly modesty and yours. It's bright, it's fun, and it has had quite an impact because of the very nature of the campaign. It has also evoked some inexplicable reactions among some other well-wishers of Indian women.

I read a post by Sagarika Ghose of CNN IBN arguing that this campaign would somehow render the whole argument against this kind of corrosive moral policing frivolous. Some others have called it vulgar, a brash idea brought to life by a few westernized apostates, something a 'truly Indian' girl would never do. I have difficulty understanding these arguments. Why should this campaign prevent other less 'frivolous' engagements with the issue from coming to the fore? If anyone genuinely wishes to make a point, chaddis are not going to drown out his/her voice. Let's face it, most of us did absolutely nothing to address the issue before the inventive chaddi brigade. And it is equally restrictive and dangerous for us to undermine someone else's debate because it does not go along with what we construe as serious.

The reason I believe that this campaign was necessary was that I didn't see anyone else doing anything remotely meaningful about it. Apart from a few newsroom discussions and indignant editorials, nothing happened. A few men were arrested and let out on bail, so that they could begin making threats again. There was a gaping chasm, a complete absence of the meaningful debate that is supposedly being threatened by our frivolous underthings.

As for the argument that most of the 'real Indian' women cannot relate to this sort of action and that it is not representative of that constituency, the loose and forward pub going woman is as much of an Indian as the exemplary woman of Pramod Muthalik's fevered imagination. This may be a campaign by a miniscule elite educated and westernized section of Indian womanhood. But since it is this very demographic and its way of life that is under such vicious attack, isn't it only fair to expect a response out of it?

So yes, the next time you come to tell us that we belong at home, that you get to decide how we should live our lives, the next time that you froth with indignation at our way of life conveniently before major elections, we will treat you with the contempt that you so richly deserve. We will throw at you the humble chaddi which, for all its disrepute, has more reason to be proud of itself than you do.

Her Story

2009-02-02T15:00:00.004+05:30

Once there was a little girl. She was a fanciful kind of child, and she liked nothing better than to listen to her grandmother spinning yarns on lazy afternoons. At one such session, her grandmother abruptly interrupted her story and admonished the little girl for shaking her legs while sitting. The little girl protested, "But Dad does it too!" Grandma replied that it was alright for him because he was a man. The little girl could not understand how she knew, but she knew instantly that Grandma was wrong. Maybe it was because she had heard her Dad tell one of her aunts who had tried to sympathize with his son-less state that in his eyes, each of his three daughters was as good as ten sons. The little girl kept shaking her legs.

In time, the little girl grew up to become just a girl. She started noticing that people on the streets looked at her differently when she walked on the road. Their eyes followed her, bothered her, made her feel like she was under some kind of spotlight. She hated every instant of it, so she decided to cover herself up and make herself invisible. She wore clothes which could have accommodated her twice over, she wore dull colours, she did everything she could do make herself invisible, and yet they never stopped looking. She envied her friends who wore shapely clothes and riotous colours, but never had the courage to follow suit.

Then came a day when that selfsame grandmother told the girl to wear jeans, because they flattered her more than the gunny bags she usually wore. The girl realized that she need not be ashamed if people looked at her. She wore colour, and she was happy. She wore well-cut clothes, and she was pretty. She felt sorry for all the women trapped in the faraway realm of Talibanistan, who were beaten in public for showing the teensiest bit of skin, as though their very physical existence was somehow shameful and needed to be hidden. She felt secure and thankful for the country that, for all its lascivious eyes, did not seek to put her away in a corner, deny her being and make her feel like she was less of a person than any man.

The girl grew into the woman who laughed aloud without fear when she found things funny, earned a living through her own hard work and also earned the luxury of doing what she wanted in her free time. When she had her first drink, it was not really a momentous occasion, mostly because she had never thought of this as something proscribed to her. She danced when she was happy, and her friends danced with her. She held hands with the one she loved, because it made her heart sing. She was free, unfettered and proud. She was the daughter her Dad had been so proud of.

Then some people decided that the woman was not how she should be. She did not hide her face anymore. She did not cower at their sight anymore. She did not cast her eyes down when they spoke to her. And she spoke back. She made them feel less sure of themselves, no matter how many times their mothers told them that they were special too. They could not deal with her, so they beat her up. They hit her, shamed her and laughed at her. They pushed her back into the box and labelled it culture, because most people had no idea what culture was. They felt secure because she could no longer undermine them, could no longer make them feel less.

Some people saw her in the box labelled culture, and came towards her. She looked at them hopefully, because they looked like they had power in their hands. They looked at her for a moment, refusing to meet her eyes. In that instant, they betrayed her. They talked in serious voices, while shutting out the sound of her voice. They quickly agreed that she belonged in the box-labelled-culture. She was less than a person, she had no mind, of course she didn't know what was bad for her. She would drink her liver into oblivion if given half a chance, she would corrupt the spotless minds of the boys on the streets by holding their hands and the country would descend into chaos if she didn't bring up another generation just like the one that had shamed her.

And the woman was silenced. Her country turned into a repository of culture, a culture of silence at the pain of death. She trained her daughters to keep quiet, stay out of the way and never talk back. They were told that shame was their raiment, that honour resided between their legs and not in their conduct, and they were too base, too stupid and wicked to preserve it without the instruction of their fathers. The colour went out of life once again, the country withered into a cultured shambles, and she still kept quiet. She heeded every instruction of the guardians of the box-labelled-culture and she had no need to think ever again. After all, she was a woman, not a person.

It need not be so. Go over here and sign up.

Can Life Get Better?

2009-01-25T02:11:00.003+05:30

You guessed it. I'm happy. Sharp (and sweet) of you to notice. Let me tell you why.

Mohit Chauhan's singing into my ears words penned by Gulzar. Some I understand, some I don't. But I know them all. The strange rhythms of a graceful, earthy language, further spurred on to dance their strange dance by a music effusive as sunrise, seductive as sunset. And yet another movie on Delhi! Ah, happiness.

It's past two in the morning and I'm writing a post. It can only mean one thing. I've got an internet connection for that most beloved of laptops, The Sexy Beast. He's over two years old and has lost some of his sheen. But now he looks distinguished, war weary and thrillingly familiar. In short, he's yummier than ever.

I just realized that I need not blog from work again. Sigh (a happy one, finally).

Alexander Mccall Smith's latest has been devoured and placed alongwith the rest of my books. My library (or something like it) has finally made its way from Delhi and found its place in Mumbai.

Two more days in this extended weekend that has started so well. And Icecream has a brand new look! Arctic blue and yet warm, like the soul that this blog has preserved, quite independent of me.

And I just know that little Pinkerton, my younger sister, will tell me in a few days that Dev Patel has caught her fancy. I will rejoice at the fact that Ranbir Kapoor has finally been replaced.

I could just sing right now.

Hawa se judd, ada se udd..

I'm Inside Of A Blur

2009-01-12T19:15:00.002+05:30

And it's like travelling by Floo powder. There are glimpses, and then there are none. There is the occasional nausea and the necessary headache. But beneath it all is the fierceness of travelling by fire, the burn of it.

Firstly, I broke my mug on New Year's Day. It was filled with intoxicant, which probably explains it. Then there was Delhi, blasts of cold weather and more fun than one could possibly pack into five days. My twenty-fifth birthday, and the realization that I can never get old, because I've been old since the day I was born. My phone was off all day because I couldn't for the life of me find a charger, so my apologies to whoever was nice enough to remember and call and got irritated at finding my phone so non-cooperative.

Delhi makes me believe that I was born to buy. Socks, curtains, jewellery, shawls and if I could have, just a little more time. The friends were gorgeous, as I expected. Fun was had, alongwith scrumptious food at every possible place between Paranthe Wali Galli and The Astronomically Expensive Big Chill Cafe. I had a moment or two of contempt for modernity at Humayun's Tomb, but that is nothing really new.

At twenty five, I'm so short of what I'd wanted to be. I'm not a millionaire doing volunteer work full time, I haven't written a single word of the book that is supposedly in me, I still don't like my looks and there's just so much I don't know. But hey, atleast I still like me, I have the most wonderful friends one could ever want, and I'm in love with a man I couldn't have dreamed up. Yay.

P.S.: - I know that imitation is supposed to be a form of flattery, but I don't include copying my posts in that category. A few bloggers were kind enough to let me know that someone named Mansi was copying my posts onto her blog, which has since been deleted. She was another one of those online magpies making a srapbook of others' thoughts and giving herself credit for it. I just want to say that just because some things are so underhanded that they don't even occur to you, it doesn't mean that no one else will go ahead and do exactly just those things. I've never given advice to bloggers before because I don't believe it's my place to do so, but if all you can do is copy others' posts, you might as well delete your blog. Trust me, we'll live.

Here We Are Again

2008-12-31T13:44:00.002+05:30

So it's time for hallowed tradition to make its presence felt once more. I'm talking, of course, about my year-end list of moments, people and things that made an impact on my life. How it matters to the rest of the world is a question I choose not to ask.

1. Changing jobs and moving into the suburbs was probably the best thing I did this year. I'm so relaxed these days, compared to the nail chewing frenzy that was last year. And it's nice to have a bit more than spare change in the wallet.

2. My apartment! I love, love, love the single red wall in the living room, my cozy cane couch that's perfect for post dinner reading and the airy kitchen where I actually feel like cooking after spending last year in a dingy passageway that passed for a kitchen. I love going home these days!

3. A and I became a regular popcorn couple this year. We watched movies with amazing regularity, almost once a week. Sometimes we were spoiled for choice and at other times we watched movies so bad that we couldn't even laugh at them afterwards. However, it has enabled me to hand out my very own year-end movie awards. Hold your breath (or don't) as I present the inaugural edition of the Filmy Flavour Icecream Awards!

The Rum and Raisins Award goes to the movies that were so rich, so well done and so taut that I don't recall how much popcorn I ate while watching them - The Dark Knight, Kung Fu Panda, Wall E and Welcome to Sajjanpur.

The Synthetic Flavour Award goes to the movies that were unforgivably mundane inspite of promoting themselves as 'different' - Madhur Bhandarkar's preachy, cliched, overlong and screechy Fashion (which A characterized as the local train version of high fashion) and the supremely homophobic Dostana (I mean really, hotdogs?).

The Vanilla Award for a movie that was so wonderfully familiar to everyone who has ever lived in Delhi, coupled with flashes of humour and some good acting - Oye Lucky Lucky Oye.

The Empty Cup Award for a movie without a single redeeming feature, not even unintentional humour - Drona.

The Butterscotch Award for the one that really warmed my heart in the most surprising ways - Das Vidanya.

4. Having an apartment also meant that I bought more books than was wise, aided by the fact that a bookstore sits prettily near my favourite movie theatre. I mostly binged on Amitav Ghosh this year. I also really enjoyed Jhumpa Lahiri's latest. However, the find of the year is undoubtedly A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson, which is going a long way in undermining my deep ignorance of things scientific.

5. I'm now an aunt to a very pretty little boy who's less than a month old. It's the strangest feeling in the world, having someone in the family who's younger to me by a whole generation. I'm going to have the experience repeated twice in the coming year.

6. I met A's family after quaking in my boots for more than a year. And the waiting was much more terrifying than the actual meeting which passed off rather pleasantly.

7. It was the year of the spectacular return of belly fat.

8. I caught myself breaking into a cold sweat once when I was out on the street and a car backfired. That was the moment when terrorism became real to me.

On a concluding note, I hope that 2009 has less excitement because I really don't think my stomach can stand it. I hope the year's generally less overwhelming than this year has been, and that people can take some time off being happy. And I'm hoping for a worldwide moratorium on firearms. No harm in hoping, right?

To all my friends, readers who have lasted another year and people whom I should call tonight but may be thwarted by forgetfulness, laziness or swamped telephone networks, have a wonderful year ahead. Love and best wishes, S.

I'm A Little Irritated...

2008-12-24T14:32:00.002+05:30

...with people who use the comment space as a free advertising medium. Being a part of the ad world, I know that legitimately buying media is expensive, and I sympathize with you. But if you decide that my comment space is a good opportunity to talk about some guy's new corporate blog or whatever nonsense you're intent on promoting, I WILL report you. Just because I don't resort to word verification doesn't mean I'll let you crap over my blog. And don't tell me I'm overreacting. I've only just begun reacting.

...with the unending and progressively more moronic 'fraandship' requests. For heavens' sake, give me one single reason why I'd like to know you. A reason apart from 'I'm the height of coolness' (I DON'T @#^%$%# CARE) or 'I'm a simple guy looking for the love of my life' (Hint: It's not me), or even 'REPLY IS MUST' (Taking Fascism to Orkut will not help your cause). Why do men think that women like jackasses? We don't, no matter what Shah Rukh Khan may say.

...with my clients who seem to have a lot of opinions. Here's a sample: -

1. 'Yuletide' is a bad word and the essence of Christmas is turkey.
2. It is not enough for turkey to look like turkey. It has to 'give the feel of turkey'.
3. 'Vibrant' is a magic word guaranteed to sell flats like hot cakes. The recession is no match for the awesome power of 'vibrant'.
4. Everybody can write copy better than the copywriter.
5. Insisting on correct grammar implies an excess of education.
6. 'Waldrof' Salad is named after the mythical land of Waldrof, and not the Waldorf Hotel in New York. The only acceptable way to correct such fantastical errors is Wikipedia.
7. If I want to sell flats located in China to Indians, all I need to do is tell the gullible Indian public that China is the new Very Very Eastern India.

Whew. Vented. Merry Christmas to everyone. Spammers will be vengefully prosecuted. Joy to the world etc.

Secure At My Desk, I Write

2008-12-01T12:11:00.006+05:30

When I was around ten years old, I watched a report on the possibility of a comet colliding with earth and wiping out all life on the planet on Prannoy Roy's flagship show, 'The World This Week'. Being somewhat more indulgent of my imagination than most people, I was scared to death by the report. That night I insisted on sleeping next to my mom because, of course, that was the foolproof solution to every problem, even a daunting one like the end of the world. For weeks after watching that show, I would scan the night sky for any sign of a comet bombing the world into oblivion. With the passage of time, the terror of the comet also loosened its vice-like grip from my mind, and life went on.

Now, suddenly, I realize that a comet collision sounds like pumpkin pie compared to what people keep doing to each other in this seriously strange world. When bombs go off in a crowded pre-Diwali market in Delhi, when people going about their business are blown to bits in Ahmedadbad, again and again and again, when Jaipur and Guwahati show the geographical spread of the new and efficient method of controlling spiralling populations by simply getting rid of a large chunk of people and when Mumbai's movers and shakers find that their distinguished lives are as much at the mercy of an unknown bullet as are those of the ordinary families trying to catch a train to be home for Eid. A shake of the head, a few pithy comments and condolences, breaking news spattered with blood, strategic thinkers and lobbyists on the news, muttering at dirty politicians trying to extract mileage. Life goes on, and the ones who have been hurt shed a few tears in the process. India is a soft target, Indians have notoriously short memories, and we all wear pretty yellow Post-its on our heads labelling us 'Muslims' and 'Hindus' and 'Jews' and 'Westerners' so that the next gunmen can pick out which ones they want to target next time. These days even the other side wears labels like 'Islamic terror', 'Hindu terror' and terror of other denominations, because maybe they kill people differently from each other. Time isn't really the greatest healer, apathy is. We continue doing our mundane jobs while somewhere another young man is taught that ending our lives arbitrarily is the way to set everything right in his world, to end the cycle of poverty, misery, misunderstanding and ghettoisation that he deals with everyday.

Who are these people who play with us so? Why are they so easy to 'brainwash'? Why are there so many of them willing to kill? How desperate are the lives of those who pick up guns to settle scores with unknown, uncomprehending victims of their rage? When you make people believe that a shortcut exists which will take care of all their problems rightaway instead of telling them that it takes hard work and years of it, to build schools and generate jobs and start businesses, to pave roads and build houses and make women feel a degree of safety on the streets, to give children an unblighted childhood and to make life what it should be, you create a bloodthirsty race of terrorists who are themselves too scared of their own reality and seek quick fixes for everything. Well, wake up and look around. Things won't change because you jump on a boat with a bag full of bullets and dry fruits with frenzied visions of martyrdom in your eyes. Every life that you take is an intricacy of nerve and vein, bone and muscle, complex beyond your imagination, something you cannot even comprehend, let alone give back. And yet, it takes you not a moment to tear it apart. I fervently hope that you live, with the crushing weight of possibility held by each life that you snuffed out so casually. I hope the guilt never leaves you alone, not even for a moment.

I look at the pictures on the screen, showing the very spot where I met A for the first time. I feverishly read every news update, in between assuring the relatives and friends that I'm okay. I wonder if I've been spared this time so that there's fodder left for the next strike. I wonder if I can ever feel safe again, even if I could insist on sleeping next to my mother. I wonder if I'll ever get my voter ID and actually do my bit instead of wondering how people like this keep getting elected. In the meantime, there's always next time, and life goes on.

Update: - Thank you for all the thought you put in your comments, it was a good exercise to read and debate all of your views with myself. However, this particular gem of a comment gets my vote as the final word. It made me crack up so loudly that I was the cynosure of all eyes at work for a while today. Please do read it.

And She Hit A Ton

2008-11-25T18:41:00.005+05:30

Much in the fashion of Rahul Dravid, who seemed to achieve the feat merely by still being around, as opposed to spectacular flamboyance with the bat. So after two years (ack! I forgot!) and a month, the blog finally has its hundredth post up. On this momentous occasion I'd like to thank:

- my office for the wonderful (and free, for me) broadband connection.
- my office for the work that bores me to tears and urges me to blog instead.
- my office for the frosted glass panel near my cubicle which doesn't allow others to read what I'm writing.

Of course, I also thank all those of you who read my rants disguised as cotton candy. I am especially thankful to the ones who actually comment, because let's face it, it's nice to be acknowledged. I don't understand why people get defensive on the subject of their blogs by insisting that they write only for themselves. Sure we write for ourselves, because we (or atleast I) sure as heck need this outlet for whatever kind of gratification that it affords us. But we also write for an audience, and not to acknowledge that very audience is like saying that we breathe because we like to exercise our nostrils. Sure we do.

I've decided not to ramble too much with this post, so let me just write about a few things that made me laugh recently.

Incident 1 - Coffee Shop, The Boy orders an espresso without realizing exactly what it is. So he decides on a mnemonic to remember it for the future.

Me - You ordered an espresso again? You did the same thing yesterday and then had to send it back. How come you forgot so quickly?
The Boy - From now on I'll remember.
Me - How?
TB - E for 'ektu' (a little), E for espresso.

Incident 2 - I met A after more than a year. She's in the country briefly for research, and we met for coffee on Sunday. I whined (as expected) about how stupid some clients are.

Me (really on a roll) - I mean, he's the CEO of a multi-crore construction company and he's dumb as a brick!

In another first, I leave the field open to you with a very generic, and therefore problematic, question. But I'd really like you to answer the question, so atleast give it a shot.

Do bloggers make good authors?

They Tag Teamed Me!

2008-11-11T17:20:00.007+05:30

Really, they did. Kitkat and Skaty really want me to answer this particular questionnaire, so in the tradition of friendship and other pally feelings, answer them I will. But first, the rules:

RULE #1 People who have been tagged must write their answers on their blogs and replace any question that they dislike with a new question formulated by themselves.

RULE #2 Tag 6 people to do this quiz and those who are tagged cannot refuse. These people must state who they were tagged by and cannot tag the person whom they were tagged by. Continue this game by sending it to other people.

(Note the imperious 'Cannot refuse'?)

1. If your lover betrayed you what would your reaction be?
I'd cry quite a bit, and then stop crying and try to get over it. I would probably write a scathing post, but my vendetta wouldn't extend further. But I would take really, really long to get over it. I'm horribly slow at getting over bad things. And I'd wonder endlessly about the woman unlucky enough to be on the other side of the scenario.

2. If you could have one dream come true which one would it be?
Teaching history (preferably to undergraduates) and writing a book by night. But lately I've been assailed with a serious amount of doubt as to whether I'll ever be able to write something worth reading, and further if it'll be good enough to get published without getting me crucified.

3. Whose butt would you like to kick?
Rabid hate-spewing right wingers, Himesh Reshammiya and some of my clients.

4. What would you do with a billion dollars?
Save up about half of it to invest if and when the markets recover, buy a nice house for myself and one for my sisters, alongwith one in the hills for all three of us, immediately go back to studying and get my Ph.D so I can start a teaching career, and make some serious donations to organizations fighting global warming and providing any kind of aid (educational, legal, medical etc.) to women and girl children. Oh, and I'd buy the boyfriend his dream camera so he could spend his time developing the one talent he truly loves.

5. Will you fall in love with your best friend?
I sort of did. With one of my best friends (they number about half a dozen).

6. Which is more blessed: loving someone or being loved by someone?
Loving someone helps you know parts of yourself that you'd never have known existed. It's a benediction to be capable of such intensity of emotion and self discovery. But being loved is a balm that renews the soul at every moment. Without having received love of some kind, it is difficult to give love. I conclude that the question is rhetorical. :)

7. How long would you wait for someone you love?
It would depend on why they would want me to wait. If the reason held weight in my opinion, I would wait. But the waiting would be subject to my strong streak of impatience, so I'd probably whine a lot.

8. If the person you like is secretly attached, what would you do?
I'd wonder why he's 'secretly' attached, and in the process I'd get over him.

9. If you could root for one social cause which one would it be?
Women's causes and the upliftment of the girl child. Also, I'd like to possibly modify the process of adoption and make it as free of hassles as possible.

10. What takes you down the fastest?
Reminiscing about past hurts and pains. I can never seem to stop myself.

11. Where do you see yourself in 10 years' time?
Hopefully studying and writing, still blogging about randomness and making it possible for my family to live their dreams too. And maybe organizing a blog meet of people I like to read, luring them to attend with the promise of good food.

12. What's your fear?
Being stuck in a hospital for a length of time. I hate those places.

13. What kind of person(s) do you think the person who tagged you is/are?
I love them both deeply. They are a part of my consciousness, of who I am, and will be a part of my unchangeable truths no matter where I go or what I do. So, yes, they're very nice.

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married and poor?
I'd be married and stretching the meagre finances because I think that the journey depends on who you're in the boat with.

15. What is the first thing you do when you wake up?
Look at the time and wonder if I can possibly sleep for ten more minutes (and the answer's always yes).

16. If you fall in love with two people simultaneously who would you pick?
I don't have the ability to make such a huge emotional investment twice simultaneously.

17. Would you give all in a relationship?
I'd wonder at the quality of the relationship. I'm not a big believer in 'giving all'. You need to hold on to yourself as well, because you're not a unidimensional lovebug. You're a lot of people, and a lot of people need you to be you. Does that make any sense?

18. What's eating you now?
Boredom and irritation at the workplace and the severe lack of time to read the lovely books lying at home.

19. Do you prefer being single or in a relationship?
That's like asking if you prefer to breathe with the nose or with both nostrils. You live each phase of your life to the best of your capacity, and do the best you can, whether single or in a relationship. How you are should not change alongwith your relationship status on Facebook.

20. Tag 6 people...
I hate this part. But,
Pinkerton (who will probably ask me for money to visit a cybercafe).
RK (who is a prolific non-poster).
Probe (who is very lazy).
Gits(who is proud aunt to two nougatty nieces now).
Doubletake, Doublethink (who hates tags).
New Age Scheherazade (who I suspect has renounced the world of blogging).

I expect you to sucker yourself at the earliest. Thankee.

Weird Chronicles - IV/ My Bestselling Dream Diary

2008-10-31T16:39:00.006+05:30

It is said that dreams are manifestations of our subconscious aspirations, desires and experiences. If that is true, my subconscious is alarmingly flamboyant and completely certifiable. On Wednesday morning, I woke up breathless from a nightmare that I was being forced to marry Annu Kapoor against my wishes (no offense to said Annu Kapoor, of course). I managed to avert the catastrophe by getting into a taxi to run away from home, only to discover that my co-passenger was my 76 year old ex-landlady who was rushing to a concert to obtain Falguni Pathak's autograph. This was actually the most realistic part of the dream.

I'd thought that the dreams to come for the next few days would have a hard time living up to this gothic scare-fest. But then, my mind loves a challenge. So when I snoozed away on Wednesday night, I was blissfully unaware of the explosive blockbuster about to unfold within my head.

In the dream, I was living in Paris, except it looked just like Shillong. Ironically, my dream self was swaddled in lovely woollens while my corporeal self sweated in out in Mumbai's humid heat. I was at work one day when she called. She is a classmate from school whom I haven't seen or heard from in donkey's years. Neither were we ever exceptionally close in school. Let's call her Lizol, since it has some phonetic similarity to her real name.

Anyway, Lizol called me and begged me to meet her for a cup of coffee. She pleaded that she really needed my help with something personal, and if I refused she would have no one else left to go to. I was more than a little puzzled, but I agreed because coffee sounded harmless enough. We met in a quaint little bistro which was furnished with charming umbrellas and smelled like cake (yes, my nose dreams too). After a little chitchat, Lizol got to the heart of the matter.

L - "I wanted to see you because I'm facing a really serious problem."
Me - "Yes I kinda figured."
L (choking up a little) - "You see, I've been married for six years and I think that my husband has recently started seeing someone else."
Me - "....."
L - "I contacted you because I want you to follow him around for a couple of days and get me proof of his affair."
Me (choking a lot) - "But why me? And why d'you think he's having an affair?"
L - "Well, coming back late at night smelling of strange perfume and ALWAYS snapping at your wife are pretty telltale signs, no? And I want you to deal with it coz you'll be more careful than a professional detective. Personal touch and all."
Me (with grit and resolve) - "No."
L - "I'll pay you potloads of money."
Me - "Okay."

So the next day, I went on my mission, equipped with a thermos full of tea and a magazine. I followed the errant husband to work in my grey Santro (?!) and waited outside the whole day. In the evening, I followed him as he bought a bunch of roses and drove all across Paris-Shillong to the distant suburbs. He stopped outside a music school and a woman wearing a tutu and carrying a violin case got into the car. They drove on and on, before entering a large estate full of teeny tiny cottages and a small cafe. They then went into the cafe, as did I. I sat at the table next to them while they coochie-cooed their way to oblivion. The woman asked Lizol's husband as to how he came to know about the cottages. He told her that a friend of his had frequented the place for his own indiscretions and was, in fact, coming to meet them and give them the key to his cottage. He suddenly pointed to the door and said, "There he is!"

I turned around and, wonder of wonders, it was Ajay Devgan! Not Ajay Devgan as he looks now. Here was the Ajay Devgan of the longish hair and the seedy action movies. He came and joined the runaway couple and told them about how he had used the cottage zillions of times without the media being any wiser. Then L's husband asked him who he had come here with. He replied,"Sonali Bendre, of course."

Ignoring the fact that my eyes were almost falling out of their sockets by now, I followed L's husband and his paramour discreetly and took lots of pictures of them going inside the cottage. I was waiting outside the cottage when I saw another car come into the estate. The strange thing was that the car was being driven by a very giggly Lizol, accompanied by three guys from my erstwhile Class VIII Maths tuition class!

By this time, I was confused and irritated in no small measure. I took pictures of Lizol with her gang and left in a huff. I called her and asked her to meet me the next day. When we met, I accosted her at her own adultery and asked why she was then so indignant about her husband's affair. She replied, of course, that she wasn't having a secret affair for fun but to teach her husband a lesson. How that would happen if she kept her affair a secret is anyone's guess. I asked her how she found out about the cottages. She replied, "From my good friend, Sonali Bendre."

The highlight of the dream was my long lecture to Lizol about how Ajay Devgan and Sonali Bendre were ruining lives left, right and centre by their libertine handling of their cottage keys. I shall not reproduce the lecture here. Anyway, I concluded by demanding that she pay me my due and apologize for wasting my time. At this she laughed, a shrill, pealing laugh, and deposited a cottage key in my hand before leaving. I turned over the key in my hand and saw engraved upon it the name of the cottage.

Unfaithful.

Disclaimer: - This post does not attempt to slander Ajay Devgan, Sonali Bendre, Lizol or her husband(s). It just makes me wonder how many things are going on in my head that I have absolutely no inkling of.

The Sky Is Blue

2008-10-21T13:32:00.002+05:30

Yes, that about sums up my experience these last few days. I had my little sister Pinkerton and her friend A over to Mumbai for about ten days, and then I went back to Shillong for about five days for my cousin's wedding. Family matters were high on the priority list, but mostly I was just soaking up the pleasure of having familiar faces around me. One thought kept nagging me the entire time - am I on the wrong track? Sure, living on one's own and earning a living sounds like the right thing to do, but what do I have at the end of the day? When was the last time that I lived in a house that was truly home? It's humbling to see that inspite of all the years away and all the monumental changes that have taken place over the years, at home I'll still be given a cup of tea and breakfast before I'm done brushing my teeth and my clothes will wash themselves before I even realize it. The endurance of these bonds, of family, community and familiarity seems more powerful when you see it after ages of living on your own.

What is it about home and nomads? It is a certain kind of wistful magic that weaves itself into my being every time I go back. I want to stay back forever, even though I know it's impossible, or maybe because of this knowledge. I keep telling myself the usual things about how I'll never get a well-paying job or be able to buy a house, about how I'll soon be climbing the walls with boredom. But then the mean, contrary part of my brain starts telling me to think about how the weather is always glorious at home, how I'll get to eat all the exotic things that aren't available anywhere else, about how transport is ridiculously cheap and comfortable etc. Then I have to make the mistake of looking at the sky which is gloriously, unbelievably blue, at the clothes flapping on the clothesline, at the small roads winding down the hills and the houses with their homey tin roofs, and I'm lost. It seems a fitting punishment for me to be a homesick nomad, the punishment for my biggest weakness - dissatisfaction.

The worst thing about these trips is the sick feeling I get in my tummy when I'm about to leave. It makes me wonder whether I'll ever see these things again. Why must people be human? There's a reason why cows are generally less stressed out. My plan is to become more bovine with everyday, with eyes that are glazed with contentment and a brain fossilizing so quickly that it has no room for thought. That's my mantra from now on - happiness lies in the ability to be a cow.

Retracing My Steps

2008-09-18T16:57:00.005+05:30

I've been thinking a lot lately about my cousin M. With less than three years' difference between us, she and I had always been very close, from the time we were both toddlers. She was my first playmate, my first actual friend, and I loved spending time with her. Part of it was some sort of hero worship, because she was funny and pretty and everyone around us, young or old, really liked her. As a kid, these things put me quite in awe of her. The good thing was that she remained sweet, cheerful and completely unaffected by all the renown she was getting for being some sort of singing prodigy, exceedingly good at art and good at most things in life.

I remember her telling me that she was convinced that Vivekananda was her grandfather, because she thought his name was Vivek Kanungo, which matched with her surname. I, of course, was thoroughly convinced. She used to live across the street from my house, and everyday after school we spent our time playing and coming up with elaborate games. On weekends, her mum used to give her a bath in the courtyard while I used to stand at the gate with my arms stretched out wide so that no one could see her from the street. Such naivete seems almost precious now that I remember it.

After my family moved to a nearby quarter complex, our interactions became less frequent, except for those three odd years when we commuted to school and back together. We used to get the princely sum of two rupees for the bus fare to get back home. We always walked instead. It was a long walk, atleast a half hour long. We spent the money on roadside aloo chaat, the dirtier the better. One rupee was saved to buy sweet lozenges in case the chaat proved too spicy. We were quite the resourceful team.

On our walk back home, we discussed the impossibility of God, the perverseness of God in creating boys, the shapes hidden in clouds, the way our shoes squelched when we walked in the rain, how Shillong was doomed because of pollution, the fascinating polka dots made by mud on our white socks in the rain. What strikes me now is how these conversations were held with such seriousness, punctuated by the sound of our huge umbrellas tapping on the ground. We could have been a couple of miniature British adults on our way to the pub after a hard day's work.

The inevitability of growing up did put thousands of miles between us as I moved away and she stayed put. We met when I went home on vacation, and there was no need to reconnect. It was always there, what we had, the bond forged in childhood that had transcended time.

The last time I went home, I learned that she was engaged to be married. As I write this, less than a month remains for the wedding. I would have been happy for her had she not told me the precise reasons for the wedding, none of which had the slightest relation to love, or the longing to be with someone, or even companionship. She's a stronger person than I am for walking down this road, and this time I can't keep her company. I hope that eventually she is happy, and the ones who 'love' her do not manage to completely wreck her life. I feel a strange sort of disloyalty in thinking these things. I really wish that I could toe the official line and make merry at her wedding. But things are hardly ever as simple as that.

So, M, I don't think you should get married, but I know you will. I hope that you get everything you want, but I pray you get what you need more. And I wish I could honestly say that I'll always be there for you. Such things don't happen; we hardly even manage to keep in touch. But maybe when I go down the corridors of our memories together to a time when we were both truly happy, I hope to believe that this sort of unqualified joy will find its way back to you. And I believe that whatever else happens, we will always be the ones who can see roast chicken in the clouds, surrounded by mounds and mounds of vanilla icecream.

Luck and love, S.

Why I Laugh In My Sleep Sometimes

2008-09-04T15:56:00.004+05:30

Yesterday I was dreaming about these actual conversations I had with seemingly normal, rational people. I remember each of these conversations really well, mostly because they were so dazzlingly stupid and they have the potential to entertain me even now, years (or months or days) later. And because very few things in life can make me laugh when I'm asleep.

Conversation One (with a cousin who is a software engineer, God save her soul. It happened when I was in second year of college).

Cousin: So you're studying history.
Me: Er..yes.
C: Why?
Me: Eh?
C: As in, what's the point?
Me: What's the point in software engineering?
C: It's relevant today. What I do makes a difference. How does it make a difference if you study about dead people?
Me: *mouth open, jaw slack*
C: I mean, what is the use of studying the past when you can't do anything about it?
Me: It may surprise you to realize that you've been studying history all your life.
C: No, no, I was very glad to get rid of it after Class X.
Me: All history isn't called 'History'.
C: Huh?
Me: Everything that you learned in your course; every sum, every code, every theorem, every formula - that is the history you studied. Without it, every generation would have to start at zero. We would need to rediscover gravity, heliocentrism, DNA, the fact that certain chemicals smell like rotten eggs, over and over and over again. You spent four years studying the history of software engineering. I'm studying the history of people. My learning is relevant because I can perceive this and you can't.
C: But how is studying a formula history?
Me: Because someone before you created that formula which is why you're using it today. And everytime you use it, you are using the past to understand your present.
C: Doesn't make sense. I still think history's useless.
Me: You'll be your children's history. I hope they don't feel the same way about you. I'm going to bed.

And I went to bed, angry as hell.

Conversation Two (with a random 'family friend', after I'd opted for Humanities after Class X).

FF: So, you're going to be the next engineer in the family, aye?
Me: What?! No! I'm studying Humanities.
FF: Humanities? Oh you mean Arts. But why? You did well in your exams. Why Arts? You won't get ANY jobs.
Me: Please don't worry about me. Plenty of 'Arts' afflicted people manage to make a living.
FF: All nonsense. In the past it happened, yes. But now there's no way it can happen. In fact, all schools and colleges are going to shut their Arts faculties in two or three months. And why is your dad allowing you to do this?
Me: Must be nice to have all the inside information about school management decisions. And my dad's 'allowing' me coz it didn't occur to me to ask his permission and it didn't occur to him that I needed it.
FF: Change your stream while you can. Computers are the way to go these days.
Me: Okay, thanks. Now can I get some potatoes please?

Again, I was angry as hell. But then I considered the circumstances and realized that I shouldn't be mad. After all, he was a fifty year old grocer, not known for temperance or wisdom. Being a newlywed at 50 must be hard on the brains. And he did manage to run his grocery business into the ground.

But what made me laugh in my dream was wondering how a conversation between him and my software engineer cousin about the reasons why crazy kids study Arts might go.

Excuse me while I nap. The hilarity awaits.

A Walk In The Clouds

2008-08-16T16:30:00.002+05:30

Quite literally.

When you are so grounded in your life that you forget what exists beyond it, the biggest thing in your life becomes scheduling baingan ka bharta for Saturday night dinner. It's not half as bad as it sounds. It implies that I'm cooking my own meals now, which makes me content. It also means that I can enjoy spending time at home, which is essential for my peace of mind. The problem with contentment, however, is that it makes you stop yearning for the other things beyond your spectrum. So you decide to do something contrary. Take a trip to a hill station in the rains. You know it'll pour the whole time. That it will be cold enough for you to say 'The cold is in my bones, IN MY BONES, MAN!'. But that doesn't deter you either. Your enthusiasm envelops not only you, but your roomie (Roomie), normally sane close friend (RK) and The Boy (A). You and your motley crew will now take a trip to a tiny hill station with no cars or any vehicles whatsoever, where you walk to get around. Or ride a horse. A hill station with no paved roads, only mud paths. Paths that become slush in the monsoons. Ah, finally, a challenge.

You wake up late, but not too late. Rush through the bathing and the getting dressed and leave the house, only to be surrounded by a gang of extremely effusive dogs, all ready to become Best Friends Forever at six in the morning. You finally catch an auto and switch to a taxi midway, reaching Dadar station without further incident. While the boys go to buy tickets, you stand and wonder why there are already a zillion people at the station. And then you realize that the train is at 7.03, which isn't too far away from 6.57. So you run, jump down the stairs, look around wildly for the first class compartment, all the while being obstructed by all the Israelites fleeing Egypt. The boys in the meantime are already in the correct compartment, yelling and waving you over. You and Roomie run, push, shove and exhale, and get into the first class. Except is the first class ladies only. You jump out again and put your feet onto the correct compartment just as the train begins moving. The resulting adrenaline rush makes you woozy for twenty minutes.

The train ambles along. It's cool and there's already a chill in the air. Increasingly random conversation between sleep deprived adults is punctuated by 'I need to pee' and 'I'm hungry'. Then the green fields and the hills come into view. Faraway hills with threadlike waterfalls making their way down. You stand at the door and sigh, the same sigh usually reserved for Shillong. And there's a hug; momentary and brief, but warm enough to leave you smiling for three minutes. And then you wonder why people stare when you smile.

The station is reached, and the walk to the cab is laced with crisp vada pav. Then as the cab makes its way up the serpentine road, you notice waterfalls on all sides of you, even splattering some of the raindrops on to your arm. The taxi stops at the car park and you enter the town where time stopped a hundred years ago. You begin walking, and it rains, rains, rains. Mud in your shoes, and you're one with the rain. There's no difference between you and the water anymore. On the way to the hotel, you buy the long plastic sheets and sombreros favoured by the locals. At the hotel, there's steaming tea and breakfast. And lots of rounds of Uno, where you lose because you just don't remember to say Uno at the right time. Then there's lunch and a protracted argument which ends in you sending the boys to the market to buy you shorts to wear when you go trekking. You haven't packed enough clothes, you see. In the evening, you're all wearing shorts, plastic sheets and sombreros. The companionship in being silly together is wonderful.

You walk through the little mud paths, up and down, this way and that. The lake comes into view, along with the monsoon clouds moving at a terrific speed all over it, and all around you, lashing and caressing. There's the spot on the edge of the cliff where you sat the last time you were here. Now it's the edge of a roaring waterfall that looks like the end of the world. It's easy to imagine that the world was primal once, before people, before friends and neighbours and dogs and goldfish and baingan ka bharta. Then you go back to the hotel, piggybacking for a minute or two. You're on holiday after all. There's some more Uno, presided over by an old monk (very old, vatted seven years ago). Then the electricity goes off and you go to sleep. You wake up after some time, and it's pitch dark. So dark that if you put your hand in front of your face you can't see it. And it hits you how much you miss that, because it's never really dark in the city, even with the lights off.

The next day they serve you the most fabulous lunch, as if to make you feel even worse for leaving. You have nothing to wear, so you have to make do with the giant pair of shorts belonging to The Boy, tightly belted up and making you look like a havaldar. Your friends are too tired to walk all the way back, so they make you ride a horse, even though the mere thought turns you to jelly. It turns out to be a better experience than you'd imagined, mostly because the horses are really docile and you're looking at the mist above the little brooks babbling away on both sides of the path. Then you reach reality again, and this time you're too cold to be emotional about it. You've just had the definitive weekend.

Favourite moment: - standing above the cliff, looking down at the end of the world.

The moment I won't be allowed to forget: - We're walking our way up to the hotel, and someone asks me for the time.

Me (looking at my watch with great concern): -"OH NO! My watch stopped at ten o'clock!"

RK: -"It is ten 'o clock, you idiot!"

Tunes In My Head

2008-08-04T10:42:00.003+05:30

Yes I still post. And has it been over a month already? It's the new job's fault, really. Don't know what they would do without me :)

Anyway, something relatively strange happened to me on Friday night. I'd been unwell in the morning, with a head that felt like a tub of mercury. Added to that, I had a typically long day fussing over punctuation and text placement. So I figured that I was in for a good night's rest. But I didn't sleep as much as a wink that night. Tossing and turning is only exciting for the first two and a half minutes. I got bored of the extremely random conversations inside my head as well. I even tried reading a truly godawful book called Tall Dark & Handsome, which was so gruesomely bad that I could only persist for ten minutes. As a last resort, I switched on the radio, hoping that music would lull me into slumberland.

So there I was, lying in bed with my eyes wide open, while my ears were assaulted with a mindboggling variety of kitsch. With nothing else to do, I started listening to the kitsch. And found some of it actually resonating within me. Pithy wisdoms in everyday melodies. The songs we hear but don't listen to. So uncool because they are popular. But so infectious that they give us headaches when we battle to get them out of our heads. So evocative of forgotten and not-so-forgotten things and people.

We're all history sheeters. Reminisces lurk around every corner of our stylishly spiralled minds. And there's always some Bollywood song to encapsulate these memories.

Like sleeping on the back lawns in LSR in third year. The smell of grass and the warmth of the sun. Watching Ankita write in her journal, or Simran reproducing Impressionist art. SKT's foot up in the air while she dozed. Or Reeju with a bag that was perenially bursting at the seams. Hum na rahein kabhi yaaron ke bin.

Or Gitanjali, Shreya and me in the first few months of the Masters programme. The most awesome trio with the shortest life span, before Gitanjali and I became leftists and Shreya became a centrist (in terms of seat preference, not the political spectrum). Akele hain, toh kya gham hain?

The hostel experience. Staying up till the wee hours, talking about absolutely nothing. Giggling while tipsy, or not. Sitting on the floor of the hall at 3 am and insisting that Absolut vodka was made out of the finest potatoes in the world. Ranjit and Bindiya, perenially setting each other off. Akhila, Tanu, Pallavi, Reeju, the four directions of weirdness. And Pia, the one who cried because I told her that just because she spoke loudly, it didn't mean that she said what was in her heart. Katra katra jeene do.

The one time we ran into RPM, to dance for five minutes after the movie. Spontaneous and awkward at the same time. Ten minutes of unadulterated fun. Pappu naach nahi sakta.

Vasudha Pande, with her luminous eyes and her easy smile. Drumming modern Indian history into my brain with the lightest of touches. Me marvelling at how suddenly economic history became so fascinating, while wondering if her glasses would actually fall of the tip of her nose someday. Ho sake to is mein zindagi bitade, pal jo yeh jaana waala hai.

My sisters and I. So exceptionally strange. Can't shut up, and can't talk either. Always wondering what the other is about. And where we're gonna land up eventually. Golmaal hai bhai sab golmaal hai.

Finally, Jaane tu, jaane tu ya jaane na. Jazz, and a smoky Chicago in the 1920s. Or in this lifetime, a boy and a girl, whiling the weekend away at Marine Drive. The boy likes peanuts, the girl prefers roasted chickpeas. He points out the crabs on the stones below, she takes enthusiastic, if somewhat pointless pictures with a woefully inadequate camera. He gives her a poem in a matchbox, she laughs because she doesn't quite know how to react. Or a day at the Hanging Gardens, where they laugh uproariously at having become the biggest cliche of them all - The Couple in the Park.

At 3 am, clarity is at its best, even in a cluttered dustbin of a head like mine. So much so that I remember every moment after three whole days. My life and Bollywood, intertwined in their uncoolness and their kitsch quotient. And the sudden epiphanies that make it worthwhile.

Don't Fight The Change

2008-06-27T13:04:00.004+05:30

So I got tagged by Skaty to tell the world at large (or atleast my indulgent readership) about ten secrets that I had otherwise sworn to take to the grave. But since I am such an adept at seeing only what I want to see, I've converted the tag into a convenient way of telling you about the Big Changes on the anvil without the corollary melodrama. Gasp, long sentence. Why do I have a sneaky feeling that if I had a sidekick named Robin, right now he would have exclaimed, "Holy Punctuation Party, BattyGirl!"?

Anyway, getting to the point, Ten Things You Don't Know Yet:

1. I've quit my job. Today's my last day here and on Tuesday I'm joining an advertising agency as a (a-hem) Senior Copywriter. And right now I'm most excited about redecorating the interiors.

2. I'm spending a lot of money to move into a nice place of my own. I'm excited at the thought of having eggs for breakfast and dry fish for dinner. Yay, me!

3. I'm fanatical about kitchen etiquette. And I hate it when people try to help me when I cook. I'd rather they just talked to me from the sides. You're right, the subtext of this is that I'm a control freak.

4. I have three times more clothes than a normal person needs. And shoes. And I can't get enough. I'm extremely greedy.

5. I've named my newly acquired stuffed toy dog Chandoo McAdams. The boyfriend quips that this is what the British called Chandu Muqaddam.

6. I'm a nag. I keep at it consistently. And don;t let anyone tell you it doesn't work.

7. I'm a big believer in Girls' Night Out, but I've never really enjoyed Sex and the City. I just keep wanting to lock Sarah Jessica in her closet.

8. The biggest indicator of whether I like a person is whether I'm comfortable telling her/him that s/he is a donkey.

9. I've never seen porn. There, it's out in the open.

10. I judge people who carry melancholy about their past sufferings like a badge of honour. Especially when they look into space and sigh for effect.

Okay, so now you know. I inflict this tag on New Age Scheherazade and Villager/ RK (just to get a post out of them). Also, Doubletake, Doublethink, Annesha (ha ha, revenge), Kitkat, Dreamcatcher and Probe (coz I'm soooooooo curious and I'm wondering if your talent for jamming your foot into your mouth transcends real life and ventures into blogdom). Now I need to pack up my desk. Good day!

Life For Rent

2008-05-28T19:31:00.004+05:30

These days I'm fervently hoping to move out of my rather squalid living situation as a reluctant paying guest (paying in many diverse and cruel ways) to a rented flat where I will live alone and be happy. The move is tantalizingly close and so I figured I'd take you through a retrospective of the various horrors who have masqueraded as my landlords and landladies and have lent themselves to vilification and some slapstick on my blog. Retribution was long due.

There was the family of losers that I lived with in my first year in Delhi. The father was terminally unemployed and habitually shrill. The mother was gloomy as a matter of principle. The children were a couple of snobs (although I never really figured out what propelled them to indulge themselves so). One of my roomies was a habitual thief who figured that I wouldn't notice if she scamped on my toiletries. All of them, all the time. She also didn't believe in bathing too much, so I don't know what she did with the stolen toiletries. The family's idea of fine cuisine was large chunks of ginger in anything and everything. Their monthly pastime was fighting with any one of the girls living there and threatening to throw her out in the middle of the night. They were so pathetic, they made me grateful for myself everyday. I suppose one always manages to find a silver lining, no matter what. I had to look really hard for it.

Then came the young family who rented a floor in their house to my sister and me. They were nice enough, very helpful and equally weird. They had a two year old son who looked like an angel and swore like a truck driver. His linguistic blasphemies would begin every time someone failed to give him what he wanted. I woke up on many a morning to hear him call his father a whatnot, his mother a wouldyoubelieveit and his sister a don'tevengetmestarted. So yes, deeply individualistic people.

After that, I moved into a hostel in JNU. My first roomie (who lasted a year) can be described thus: acne, body odour, shady affairs. She was obsessed with the acne on her face and spent hours examining it with a sort of horrid fascination. She spent a small fortune on all kinds of ridiculous and always disappointing treatments. She also conducted a series of affairs with men she met online (one of whom was married) and always seemed to think it necessary to share the gory details with me. She left in the second year because she hadn't really reckoned with the Need To Study Sometimes. My next roomie was really nice and we had a wonderful year together, so I shall leave her out of this uncomplimentary post.

Then I moved to Bombay, where everything bad was exaggerated in true Bollywood fashion. The first tyrant looked like a really obese warden of a Kafkaesque mental asylum. She cooked curries out of only onions, mixed in water whenever extras were needed and charged money for every little transgression like leaving the bathroom lights on. I got out of there in a month, only to land up with Cronos herself.

She's seventy-five, avaricious like you wouldn't believe, and three times stronger than I am. She thinks that half a bed and a cupboard are all you need to live, and that one should cough up five grand a month without a murmur for these extravagances. She made me spray insecticide and kerosene all over my bed, so she has most certainly taken valuable years off my life span. And she has made me resent enforced vegetarianism with a vengeance. I can't wait to get out and I hope the bed bugs teach her a lesson about the need for professional pest control. I also hope she stops talking incessantly about the flaws in the other roomies when I'm studiously trying to ignore her. I hope the time comes soon when I can look back and laugh really (and even unnecessarily) hard at her.

The rant is over, for now. Pray I don't have occasion to repeat it.

Just Because I Can

2008-05-08T20:28:00.003+05:30

R: de de da de doo de de dum de de dum
Me: tell me about it :)
R: are you looking good, and feeling fine?
Me: i'm looking alright and feeling benign
R: is it feeling benign, and not feeling fine (in the song?)
Me: it is fine in the song, i believe
R: hmm... tres bien
Me: except most days i have malignant feelings towards atleast one person
R: i seem to be getting there -- yesterday i growled at colleague, and day before i shooed away a surd boy who came to the office
Me: did you growl at him on racial grounds? or coz he was there?
R: eh.. growled at colleague cos for the 5th day in a row i was opening the door for him - turned out he was just being lazy and not pulling his access card out of his bag. today pal used his access card to get into the office
Me: my god, that is probably the saddest non issue i've heard of in a long time
R: haha... i know whats happening to me?
Me: you need a couple of real problems
R: no but see the point is when you are given an access card, use the damn thing. there is no need for your colleagues to trot across to the door every day because ur too lazy to pull it out of your bag. its a different matter if you've lost it or were never given one, or on occassion left it at home. but intentionally not pulling it out everyday because you think kind ol r will let you in warrants a growl
Me: next time just smile and wave at him and ignore it
R: now there won't be a next time -- today he used his access card. yesterday i was like "what happened to your access card? did you loose it?" and he was like "no, its with me, in my bag."
Me: arre. you should wave and smile. terrific comedic potential
R: anyway surd guy -- the kind turning 13 and with sprouting facial hair -- was coming from some computer hardware company and wanted to meet admin incharge. who was truly not in the office. he refulsed to leave and i was like "jaa... abhi koi nahi hai"
Me: okay. and?
R: and then i turned my back on him and trotted off... i guess he left after that cos its the last i saw of him... muhahahaha... i'm so evil
Me: you're just anger let loose on the streets, aren't you?
R: i have less and less patience with small things like these....
Me: ah. bombay is getting to you.
********
This conversation just made me extremely nostalgic for the days of yore. You know, yore. When access cards were not even the last things on our minds.

It Only Happens To Me

2008-04-30T19:07:00.002+05:30

There are a lot of situations that we characterize as 'filmi'. You know, when a mother tells her only son that she's made some culinary delicacy for him with her own two hands (as opposed to the rest of us who cook with our neighbours' ears), when two long lost brothers identify each other through the identical tattoos on each other's arms (who says parents don't like tattoos? They actively propagate them) or when young women are locked in their rooms and then married off to a leering goat from the nearest stable. These are situations that we believe we are safe from, simply because we are not in the movies. We carry on with our lives, cocooned in our comfortable ignorance, and we smirk every time some overenthusiatic perpetrator of celluloid melodrama claims to draw his inspiration from real life.

"Real life? HAH!', we say. "What do YOU know about Real Life?"

"Boo!", he says.

"Ooh, are YOU in for a surprise or what!", says Life.

My big surprise happened about a week or two ago. The Elder Sister called in the morning while I was pretending to work. She sounded a little bemused, as if she'd just been hit on the posterior with an airgun. The mystery behind her tone of voice was soon solved. After exchanging the usual impoliteness, she very gleefully informed me that my mother's close friend had called her earlier on the fateful morning. This lady (we'll call her NM) first made some polite conversation with the sister before telling her that she was going to visit Delhi soon. The visit was necessitated by her son's ill health. The ill health was caused by his inability to cook properly or wash his clothes or clean his house. This in turn was the result of an upbringing which thought basic survival skills too demeaning for a man-child to learn. So now this son of hers was in some amount of discomfort and she was going to visit him and shoo away the boo-boos.

So what, you ask? Well, she then proceeded to inform my sister of a meeting she had with my mum two years ago, when my mum had just found out about her illness. Apparently, my mum had requested that NM and her husband take care of me and my siblings, should the illness prove fatal. This further entailed that I marry her son (because, of course, on my own I am incapable of decisions like this).

Go on, gasp. I did, and then I fumed. My sister then told me that from the conversation she deduced that the reason this came up was because her soon is now in need of someone to cook for him, clean his house and wash his clothes. Instead of hiring a maid, his mum figured that the more economical thing to do would be to get him a wife. And who better for the purpose than poor old me who would be eternally grateful to her for 'taking care of me'? GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

First thought: "MOMMMMM! How could you sell me so short? Why didn't you just arrange for me to be tied to a cow?"

Second thought: "Dear sister, why did you not hang up on her, or even better, why did you not laugh?"

Anyway, where my story diverges from the movies is that I am not tragically locked away in my room. I will also probably never have to see the guy in my life, let alone marry him. I can also blog about my tragic misadventure. Sure, we played together as kids. Sure, our parents were friends. But unfortunately, I never was a heroine. Thank God for small mercies.

Don't Know What Anyone Sees In Anyone Else...But You :)

2008-04-04T19:32:00.004+05:30

I feel vaguely uncomfortable writing about sentiments of the mushy variety in a public domain. It feels so typical of a reality show contestant. But I'm going to write this post anyway, because it has become quite an integral part of my life, and my blog should be in the know. After all, this is where we began.

*****

Situation One - In A Bus

"Y'know what? We really should travel more. Go out for little weekend trips. I'm getting sick of the city."

"You're right. Maharashtra has all these beautiful holiday spots near Bombay. We should go to Janjira Fort at Murud."

"What's the place like?"

"It's a fort on a cliff with a sheer drop to the sea. You remember that song in Bombay where Arvind Swamy was wailing away? That song was shot at Janjira."

"Really? That place is GORGEOUS! I always thought it was somewhere down south."

"And on the way there, the road winds around the cliff so that the sea is visible from there."

"Oh, like in Italy?"

(smiling indulgently) "Yes, like in Italy."

"OOOOH, Y'KNOW WHAT? WE HAVE TO GO TO ITALY!!!"

"Let's get to Murud first."

*****

Situation Two - In A Vegetable Market

"How much for the tomatoes...hey, wait!"

"How much for the tomatoes?"

*Huff Puff* "Mr. Market Research, do you have to know how much the tomatoes cost in every single shop? It's getting late and if we finish this quickly, we'll have more time to sit and talk. Getting cheated out of a few rupees is not a problem, ok?"

"Ok."

(On the way out) "How much for the crabs?"

"SIGH."

*****

"You've stopped drinking lots of water everyday, haven't you?"

(Burning in righteous indignation) "What makes you say so?"

"Well, we no longer have to race through town finding a place for you to pee."

"Oh."

*****

On second thoughts, that was not too bad. Not even as cloying as I'd expected. It's ok to be just a girl sometimes, I suppose.

My Secret Harem

2008-03-17T15:29:00.004+05:30

This is the first of the four odd tags that I'm supposed to do because I'm so freakishly popular. I got tagged by Priyanka and I'm doing this one first because the tag originated with her. Anyhow, here goes nothing.

The rule is to tell the world about your Georgette Heyer Man (GHM), the literary character that you fell unabashedly in love with, and prayed fervently that he might be real somehow.

My first affair with a man of letters (goodness, am I witty or what?) was with a dunce. Yes, I said dunce. And I'm not trying to be contrary to squeeze a few laughs out of you. I was about four or five when I went to a book fair for the first time. My sister bought a huge collection of fairy tales by Hans Andersen. At four I wasn't prodigy enough to read the book, but oh, the pictures. Beautiful paintings filled with people who looked like they belonged in fairy tales. A few years later, when I'd learned to read, I discovered that the book was quite intriguing. I was most taken by the story of the dunce who used a dead crow, a handful of mud and a shoe to make the princess his duck, in a manner of speaking. The feat was even more impressive when you considered that he was competing against scholars of great intelligence and equal pomposity. I'd developed a thing for the streetsmart quickwit quite early in life.

My next serious dalliance was with that most perfect ladies' man ever created, namely Mr. Darcy of Miss Austen's pen. I think the reason I loved him so much was because he was the cliche that started it all. The striking good looks, the intelligence, the hauteur and of course, the healthy wallet were all active ingredients in this veritable elixir of suitability. But the reason I liked him was because in my head he was someone else. He was vulnerable and a little less starched and a wee bit more eloquent. Ah, my Darcy.

And then of course, there was Heathcliff. More than him, it was the way that he was loved that drew me to him. There was almost a feverish intensity to my tryst with Wuthering Heights. It was the only time that I ever took my affection for a character seriously. I was actually worried as to whether it indicated some sort of pathology. Really.

There was also Atticus Finch, the one I loved because of his utter compassion. I remember crying for his quiet dignity, smiling at the gentleness of his gestures and wondering at the sort of courage that we rarely get to see, or even less understand.

In between all of this, I became friends with Kitkat and Sim, both of whom had an incurable affection for Mills and Boon novellas. Before you cringe, let me tell you that M&Bs were our circus for the next three years. I've never read such ridiculously and shamelessly bad writing and I've never relished it half as much as I did then. We even came up with the idea of writing an M&B on our own, with a fiery Mediterranean hero whose profession it was to lust over a dreary but somehow not plain heroine, whilst getting conveniently misinterpreted at every turn. To suit his scorching personality, he was named Blaaaze and our novella was to be called (ahem) Aag Ka Gola. Muahahahahaha.

All along, I also nurtured a healthy affection for both Calvin and Hobbes at different points of time, along with a great regard for Fred and George Weasley and Aragorn of a thousand different names. Also, Freddie Threepwood, the one whose favourite word was 'Cor!'. My last big affair was with Kirin, of course. He was just so completely perfect that I never really had a choice. Generous doses of a dark, mysterious past, an arch sweetness and a hearty sense of humour. And which girl could ever resist a shamelessly good looking Dark Lord? Not I. My GHM award goes to Samit Basu, manipulator extraordonaire of every shade of girlie emotions.

So now I pass on the tag to Kitkat and Sim who introduced me to Georgetter Heyer and her array of wicked men, none of whom I fell in love with. But we did have our moments of mirth, and that's not too shabby. Enjoy, ladies.

Ho Hum - V

2008-03-10T12:45:00.003+05:30

"I was abandoned..."

It seemed to me, as I listened to Rakesh's litany, that he had been singled out as the Chosen One from the moment that he was born. He had been found abandoned in front of a small garment retail shop. The owner of the shop took him in and brought him up, but only just. There was always a remove between the family and Rakesh, which was not helped by the other children's resentment towards him. This resentment festered and brewed under the surface of seemingly normal and placid daily life, and bubbled over to the surface at the least provocation, and sometimes even without it.

"I suppose", he said, "I was lucky that no one ever hit me or beat me. But they were not happy. It made them dislike me, and I never really knew whether I could blame them for it. After all, my life itself was nothing more than the sum of their kindness. But amma, you know how children are. As a child, you are much more keenly aware of every little injustice that is meted out to you. I resented them, the fact that they ate at the dining table while I sat on the floor for my meals. They went to school, while I was given lessons only when one of the older children had time to spare to teach me. I helped with the housework and in the shop, but I never received any thanks for it. My resentment was coupled by a deep, shaming guilt over the fact that I felt this way, that in some way I was being treacherous and unfaithful to my benefactors, however flawed their kindness may have been. My life passed by, largely unacknowledged. The pain was there, but over time it turned into a dull ache that I barely noticed anymore".

"Things started changing for the better once I started working fulltime at the shop. I found a strange solace in the rasp of the yards of fabric slipping under my fingers, a veritable thrill every time I was able to make a sale and a sense of giving back to the family that seemed to assuage my guilt and resentment. I also grew a lot closer to Baba. He was the one who had taken me in, and he had been good to me in his own quiet fashion. I suppose he had never really thought that I would have needed anything more than food or shelter. He had spent his whole life trying to give a good education and lifestyle to his children, with the inevitable result that they were all doing very well for themselves, speaking impeccable English and trying unsuccessfully to hide the fact that they were slightly ashamed of their not-so-polished father. He and I were joined by our love for the little shop with its peeling paint and dingy atmosphere. To him it was a lifetime's hard work and effort, to me it was a refuge as well as the arena where I proved myself everyday."

As I listened to him speak, I couldn't help but contrast his life with mine. I had spent my entire life bemoaning the dullness of my life while he had spent his life wanting the normalcy that I held in contempt. I was a little ashamed at the pettiness of my perspective. He kept talking about how adulthood had seemed to compensate for the voids felt in childhood, and slowly life started to shape up into something respectable and meaningful.

"After twelve years of working in the shop, I was more or less left in charge as Baba's growing years finally made him more agreeable to the prospect of retirement. He still came to the shop everyday, but now all he did was drink a cup of tea and watch contentedly as the business conducted itself. His regard for me had grown over the years, and he wanted to give me something that I had missed all these years: a family of my own. He had spoken to some of his relatives who had arranged for me to get married to a girl of their acquaintance. He had also built a small annexe where I would live after marriage. I was delirious with happiness. All my life I had struggled to fit in somewhere, to feel like I belonged with someone, and now it would finally happen for me. The wedding date was coming closer, and Baba took me with him to meet Neela, the girl that I would marry. I was already half in love with her although I'd never met or seen her. I imagined her as the one who would be my anchor, the one who I would live for and with, the one I could love, finally. I had trouble sleeping because of the excitement and anticipation. The day arrived, lovely and warm, and we reached her house around noon."

"We met under the watchful eyes of her parents. She came and sat next to me with her face cast downwards. I could not read her expression; it seemed to be a little troubled. She went inside after a while and I asked to go to the bathroom to wash my hands. As I walked in, I passed her room; the door was slightly ajar. I leaned in at the door to listen to her voice. All was quiet for about ten seconds. I was about to leave when suddenly I heard her say, "He short, he's ugly and the smell of his hair oil makes me gag. You can't make me. I'll kill myself if you try". I walked back to the living room, sat through the rest of the meeting and left without uttering a single word. I went home and told Baba that I didn't want to marry her, that I didn't like her demeanour. He was disappointed and behaved rather cold towards me. But I didn't really mind; my mind was consumed by the thought that someone actually preferred death to being with me. Three terrible days passed in this way. I decided that killing myself was the reasonable thing to do".

"Reasonable?"

"Reasonable", he laughed. "Reasonable because it would finally stop her words from echoing inside my head. Therefore, reasonable. I took the train to go to the beach; drowning is the only thing that is free of cost. But when I saw you almost fall off the train because of your carelessness, something inside me snapped. Amma, I'm sorry, but all the myriad little sorrows and pains that had simmered inside me for the last twenty seven years finally came out with that slap. And now we're here, and in trouble too, but I no longer want to kill myself".

"That's worth a jail term, I think", I smiled.

We sat in silence for a couple of hours. I managed to convince the lady who came in to question us that we were just victims of unfortunate sentence construction and inherent drama queen characteristics. She let us go after the mandatory stern warning, and everyone else had a good laugh at our expense. Rakesh went back to his beloved shop and I came home and dozed off for a marathon thirteen hours.

It's been a month since that day. My life is still as dull as it was before. I'm still at my old job. But I did break up with the guy who liked my shoes. I don't know if I'll ever see Rakesh again, but he did change my life irrevocably. How, you ask, since all else seems the same?

1. I'm happy.

2. I've realized that I should stick to dealing with what I can handle, and I can handle humdrum, normal and placid exceedingly well. In fact, I think that's what I'll name my children.

3. Excitement has an unpleasant corollary - a rumbling tummy. And clean toilets are hard to find. So I've decided to leave the excitement for the rest of the world.

And I think I won't tell you my name after all. I've grown to like Jane Doe.

Ho Hum - IV

2008-02-18T17:50:00.003+05:30

What next?

Beleaguered. Bewildered. And a little thirsty. That was my state as I watched the little man sob his lungs out while clutching my arm in such a manner as to make me deeply aware of the blood attempting to circulate in my body. I'd given up asking him to stop crying; apparently it only opened up more gates of grief. I'd also given up all hopes of getting to work on time, but by this time that was an insignificant detail.

I decided to get the man off the train and then figure out what to do with him. This decision was also prompted by the forty odd pairs of eyes that were still glaring balefully at me. I began with a tentative opening move.

'What's your name?'

'Sob. Sob. It's Rakesh, amma...sob, glug, sob, weep.'

'Alright, Rakesh, I'm going to help you. First get off the train with me and then we'll talk.'

At this his body was convulsed with sobs. I was beyond caring by now, so I hauled him to his feet (no mean task, I tell you. That little fellow was no lightweight). I also had to help him off the train, since he seemed to think that independent locomotion was too much to ask of him.

As I half walked, half dragged him off the platform, we were stopped by a railway official who wanted to check our tickets. I showed him my ticket and looked hopefully at Rakesh, who looked hopefully at me.

'Rakesh, show the man your ticket.'

'I don't have one.'

*Stomach sinking to as yet undiscovered depths of the nether world*

'WHAT? Why on earth do you not have a ticket?'

'I didn't think it was necessary.'

'And why is it not necessary to buy a ticket before getting on a train?'

'Because I was going to the beach to kill myself. Buying a ticket seemed a little stupid.'

'Oh.'

I mean, what else could I say? But the official did have a lot to say. Having heard 'No ticket' and 'Kill myself', he cleverly deduced that we were a either a bunch of suicidal varmints out to kill ourselves or sinister bombers out to kill others. In either case, the prudent thing to do was to dump us in a jail cell. Okay, I'm dressing it up. Technically we never really saw the inside of a jail cell, but we were taken to a very smelly police station. By this point I was no longer surprised that this was happening to me. I was just grateful that Rakesh had stopped crying and was deeply occupied with combing his hair and cleaning his nails. He explained that ever since he'd decided to kill himself three days ago, these things had just not seemed worth the effort. On my part, I called in at work to tell them that I was unavoidably detained, after which I called my mother to tell her that I would see her as soon as I got out of jail. She didn't seem too amused.

At this point of time, Rakesh decided to go loquacious on me, mostly because I'd been shooting him murderous looks and muttering darkly to myself in a corner. At first he blanched and blushed a becoming shade of purple, after which he slowly made his way to where I was sitting, and started his tale of woe.

'Amma, don't be so angry. I know it was my fault, but I really didn't mean for things to turn out this way.'

'Don't call me amma.'

'Arre, amma, bura mat maniye.'

*Baleful glare # 27*

'Acha koi baat nahi. Once I tell you the desperate tragedy of my life, you will stop feeling angry. My sorrows started as soon as I was born. I was abandoned..'

'I don't want to know.'

Rakesh looked at me petulantly. I glared right back, determined not to give in. It was at this point that he deployed his most effective weapon. His lips quivered and his eyes started brimming over with tears.

'Oh alright. Fine. I'm all ears. Talk away.'

That was enough for the quiver to be replaced by the toothiest grin I'd ever seen, and he began to tell me his woes with such relish that I couldn't help getting sucked into it, much like hapless housewives get sucked into daytime soaps.

'So, as I was saying, I was abandoned...'

**********

P.S.: - to the readers who still visit this page (That's right. Both of you). Many thanks, and today is technically a Monday.

And I'm in deep awe of Cyrus Broacha. No one else can enthrall an audience of over 300 people (and bawling kids) for over three hours by spewing unadulterated nonsense. I have a new idol.

Excuses, excuses

2008-02-08T16:21:00.000+05:30

Yes, that's right. this post is about everything that has been going on with me in the last three weeks. These are the excuses that I'm seeking to hide behind as valid reasons for being a shirker and not writing Ho Hum Part Four. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to act pricey. I will write, and soon. It's just that soon is not today. Sigh.

Anyway, some things that happened to me...

The most standard excuse, and the truest one, is that I have been insanely busy with work. It has come to a point when there are very few hours in a day when I'm not thinking of work. I'm morphing into one of Them so fast, it's scary. My boss even yelled at me for working like a donkey.

The second thing (first in order of importance) is that I went to the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival and met Samit Basu, author, amateur film-maker and latest groupie magnet. My version of groupiedom was wide-eyed adoration, laughing at Everything and saying 'Ehehehehehe...yes' on being asked if my name is S. There was a soul braver than mine who more or less propositioned the guy (y'know, the entire "I'll be there if you are" spiel. Shudder). And one very strange guy asked the father of Gameworld why he thought that writing can be frustrating when the strange guy never faced any frustration as a writer. I discovered that I still cringe in embarrassment when other people do stupid things. I was fluttering for three days after the momentous occasion, so there was no mindspace for anything else. And I have a sneaky feeling that the Silver Dagger is Mr. B's desired alter ego. What do you think?

The third thing is that suddenly my social life (which currently revolves around one person only) has become very full and exciting. And blogging has been hit. But I promise to manage time better.

Oh and some other personal stuff happened which messed up my head a bit. But that's more or less resolved.

Part IV by Monday, promise.

And next time I'll come up with better excuses.

Ho Hum - III

2008-01-16T18:37:00.000+05:30

...a long, long day.

Various people in the audience then proceeded to assume their most sanctimonious horrified-productive-morally-upstanding-member-of -the-community faces, with the collective intention of making me incontinent. I did a lot of things in those few moments, like quailing and playing cymbals with my knees. But then I realised that paralysis is never really a solution to anything, and that everybody in the compartment was actually expecting me to do something about the man who was threatening to sweep us all to the sea in the tidal wave of his very loud sorrow. Some wise person had once told me (okay, okay, I heard it on TV) that when everything starts happening to you all at once, all you need to do is to take a deep breath, and Time itself will slow down for you and let you deal with it bit by bit. At this point my memory decided to turn sardonic and remind me of how deprived I had felt when I'd first heard this, figuring it was a solution to a problem that I'd probably have to be reborn to face. Ah, the innocent ignorance of the non-happening.

Anyway, I figured that maybe now would be a good time to breathe and let the rest of the world slow down as I figured out how to wipe the mud off my face. Unfortunately, breathing, as it is, is not really always as simple as it is made out to be. Sure, we breathe. All the time. Maybe you'd snicker less if you tried breathing deeply and then, midway through the inhalation, you discovered that your throat had clogged up with the biological byproduct of fear. Now obviously, your brain would be screaming 'ABORT! ABORT!' but your nose would have gone mysteriously deaf. Eh. Noses are routinely deaf, I just remembered. To sum it up, your deep breath would end up as another near death experience of the slow-choke-to-death variety. To add insult to injury, your wheezing grimace would be misconstrued by the breathless audience as a cheeky grin, and disapproval would freeze over into disgust.

Enough. I'd had enough of feeling like a criminal. I mean, HE STARTED IT! But overwrought as I was, I was still wise enough to know that now was not a time to stress on a technicality. So, with a certain amount of difficulty, I brought myself to stop wheezing and sat down next to Cry-Me-A-River to assuage his grief. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, so I had to tap him on his shoulder a couple of times before he let up and looked at me. I blinked, mostly because upto this moment I had omitted to realise that I would actually have to say something.

"Don't cry please!", said my rapid brain.

"Guhh....nghhh", said I.

*Splutter, splutter* went Cry-Me-A-River.

Thankfully, I'd recovered enough of my faculties by this time to actually string a sentence together, no kidding.

"Rona mat, don't cry. It's not so bad, aisa kya ho gaya ki aap itna ro rahe hai?"

"AMMAAAA!!!! Kya batoon aapko!", said he, before dissolving into tears and clutching my hand in a death grip.

Great, I thought. Of all the people in the world that I could have slapped, my hand had chosen to land on the cheek of the living, breathing Spirit of Nautanki.

What next?

Ho Hum - II

2008-01-07T17:23:00.000+05:30

...a month ago.

I won't delve into the details of how the day started, because I think that 'It was a bright, sunny day' has been used so many times that now people assume that it was a bright , sunny day unless you specify that it was not, in fact, a bright sunny day. Anyway, you get the point. In the shower, I wasted nearly ten minutes contemplating alternative and more exciting career choices, like becoming a hired killer, before the water got too cold for comfort. I had chocolate covered cornflakes for breakfast that day. I don't know why this is worth mentioning, or even why I remember it. I also remember my mother telling me to wear a scarf along with my white shirt and blue jeans, because I was looking so washed out in white. I know why I remember that, though.

So I left home equipped with a multi-hued scarf, infusing some colour into me. The daily life and death struggle on the streets of Bombay commenced, and I reached the railway station after risking serious injury four times, as usual. As I got on to the platform, the train started moving and I had to clamber onto a general compartment which was closest to me. It was then that I did something unusual, in that I almost fell off. Except I didn't. Somebody grabbed hold of my scarf and pulled me back onto the train. So after a very surreal fifteen second near death experience, I found a pair of fiercely wrathful black eyes looking at me. I've never been the recipient of such vehement emotion, so I was a little bemused for a minute. Then I calmed down sufficiently to notice that the eyes belonged to a face that was topped by a mop of passionately oiled hair. If you're wondering how passion is related to the application of hair oil, it has to do with the word 'drip'. Never mind. Anyway, the hair and the eyes went with a face that was small, round, brown and contorted with rage. I think he was even gnashing his teeth. I was just about to smile in amusement when THWAACK! It took me two whole seconds to realise that the little gnome like man had actually slapped me.

I have never really been angry, but at that moment all other rational thought was completely wiped out from my brain. My ears were buzzing. I wanted to claw his eyes out and subject him to unspeakable violence, but I settled for slapping him back with all my strength, fully geared up for a fight to the finish. But what I was not prepared for was to have that face crumple up and to have a grown man burst into tears and flop down to the floor of the compartment. Everyone else in the compartment started looking at me with accusatory eyes, while the unknown man kept crying, no, wailing at the top of his vocal range. My ears were pounding with the uncomfortable sound of embarrassment, and my face resembled an overly bashful beetroot. I sighed as the realization sank in that it was going to be a long, long day..

*********

So much for Part Two. Apart from writing bad fiction, I also turned twenty four on Saturday. There was a lot of love, some beautiful presents (I'm a greedy pig, I adore gifts) and a lot of whining aboout how I was too broke to celebrate. There was also a lot of grief in my heart about how I am now utterly over the hill, to which the supersensitive 22 year old boyfriend had this pearl of wisdom to impart.

"Don't feel so bad. From now on, you must consider every passing second to be one step closer towards menopause."

Cheers! (The cheers are because I'm hoping that Skaty was spared similar pearls of wisdom. I could make a career out of optimism, couldn't I?)

Ho Hum - I

2008-01-02T18:27:00.000+05:30

This is Part One of a five part story I'm writing on request by Skaty, as a birthday gift. So it's all HER fault.

Ordinary. That's not always a very nice way to be. It is comforting and secure most of the time, but always? What if, at every moment of your life, you were the one people used as the definitive example of 'Normal'? What if you never transcended everyday life for a bit of shimmer and sparkle? Well, that was me. Jane Doe. That isn't my name, but it should've been. I had the soul of a drama queen trapped inside the body of the most inconspicuous person on the planet. My biggest grouse was that nothing, but nothing, ever happened to me.

I was the third child to my parents who had drunk so deeply of the joys of parenthood with my two elder siblings that my birth simply underwhelmed them. It wasn't as if my siblings were spectacularly talented, but I was the background which made their less than extraordinary achievements stand out. People say things like 'I was an average student', but it would be more apt for me to say that my averageness was so ingrained in me that it was the special something that I brought to everything I was or I did. I studied ordinarily, played humdrum tennis, sang unexcitingly, developed my game of golf from mindnumbing to dull and cooked the proverbial 'daal baraabar' variety of food. I finished college, like a lot of people do. Then I got a job after doing nothing for a while, which a lot of other people do as well. I met a boy whose idea of a passionate declaration of love was 'You have nice eyes and I like your shoes'. I figured that the way I felt about him was the Jane Doe version of love, so I went along with it and let him be The One who completed my mundane self.

It wasn't as though I didn't indulge the drama queen in me. I did the entire sitting-at-the-window-and-sighing-at-the-rain routine, but the trouble was that no one noticed. I clutched at my heart, batted my eyelashes and developed some other mannerisms, but they repelled me so much that I went back to being placid. I even tried wearing loud colours, but they made my digestion go haywire and I had to go back to wearing brown. I tried writing poetry but then people started to borrow my poems for help on nights of insomnia, so I stopped that as well. I just couldn't seem to catch a break.

Well, till about a month ago...

One More List

2007-12-27T19:14:00.000+05:30

This is my premature year end post, because the next post will be the first in a five part story. Atleast, I hope it will be, because one of my best friends (who also happens to be endowed with enough serendipity to be born on the same day as I was) has requested a story as a birthday gift. And I'm short on cash, so. Anyway, let's deal with the year end first.

So I'm sitting in my office in the heart of Bombay, surrounded by the pleasantly dull buzz of conversation between people who are at the fag end of the workday. The only thought that comes to mind is "How on earth?"

So did I really leave everyone I love and everything reassuringly familiar to move to Bombay? Have I actually been here for over five months? *Blink, blink*

No, I'm not being a drama queen. Okay, maybe I am, just a little bit. Indulge me then. Let me make a list of my 2007 moments (Good, Bad and Ugly).

1. The start of the year in Islamabad, with a stolen bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream and some of my favourite people in the world - Good.

2. My birthday, where I actually got flowers (thanks, RK) and slashed three cakes to ribbons - Good (for the flowers) and Ugly (seeing what the cakes were reduced to after my slashing).

3. Fourth semester in JNU which I spent sleeping, eating and going back to sleep - Ugly (my face swelled up with all the extra naps).

4. The bus ride from Bhopal to Pachmarhi in an overcrowded bus, riding through hellfire and amidst increasingly frayed nerves - Hilariously Ugly.

5. Leaving Delhi without really registering that I was leaving - Bad. Would've been worse had I understood the enormity of the move.

6. My first two and a half months in this city, when Monday mornings used to make me happy because I could come back to work - Bad.

7. The leviathan-cum-tyrant of a landlady at my first place and the watery onion curry she fed me for forty bucks - possibly the lowest point of my year.

8. Moving to the Sindhi landlady's place and finding out that her favourite pastime is to loudly repeat any random set of words from songs airing on TV - Hilariously Good. Here's a sampler. You're watching television, when suddenly the 75 year old woman next to you screams 'RAAT GUZAAR!' Go figure.

9. Having a windbag for a roomie - Stinker. Very, very Bad.

10. Meeting Someone after spending a really long lifetime believing that these things only happen to Other People - Surprisingly Good.

11. Feeling belonged - Exhilarating (the labels were not really adequate).

12. Crying my eyes out watching Taare Zameen Par, simply out of surprise at watching people just be, and so beautifully at that - Really Good.

Hmm. Year end messages.

Friends in general - Khush raho, bacchhon. Aur agle saal, sab mujhse milne aao aur mujhe khana khilaao.

Sisters - Khush raho, bacchon. Aur agle saal mujhe zyada pareshaan mat karo.

Bloggers that I read - Khush raho, bacchon. Aur do maheeno mein ek post likhna ek acche blogger ko shobha nahi deta.

Boy - Dukhi ho jayo, bacche. Your life is officially ruined.

Happy New Year, folks. Love, life and general merriment to everyone.

This and That

2007-12-14T18:56:00.000+05:30

It's Friday evening and I'm all done with work (I think). I still have an hour to kill before leaving. It's strange that The Boy has to pick this hour of the day to make an impromptu visit to his workplace. But so is life, I suppose.

What on earth am I rambling about? This post is so pointless that I don't even have a title for it yet. Must one post utter trash just because one can? Yes, one must. Let me do some philosophizing on the spot.

Random truism # 1 - stay away from people who are fundamentally insecure, because they will never let you be happy, or even let you be, for that matter.

Random truism # 2 - self destruction is just that and nothing more. It is not begging out to be changed or reformed or loved, it is just standing there. Don't get your hands burned.

Random truism # 3 - adjectives such as 'grown-up' and 'childlike' and 'naive' and 'weird' are labels that people ascribe to others to make their own selves comfortable with things or people they don't understand or to talk down to them. That does not mean that you need to take the labels seriously. Life isn't an inventory.

Random truism # 4 - Chad Kroeger may have dyed his hair blond and may now look more like a Backstreet Boy than the frontman of Nickelback, but he still has the voice of an angel.

Random truism # 5 - silence in the face of unnecessary belligerence is not wise. It doesn't matter if you have all the right responses in your head. If they stay in your head they won't make an iota of difference to anyone in the world, not even to yourself.

Random truism # 6 - say 'NO' when it's required. Doesn't sound half bad, really.

Hmm. I'm all out of truisms. But I have a very merry looking weekend to look forward to, and the lows of the week have only reinforced my gratitude for the people I have in my life and the wonderful things they do for my soul. And my boss got me a huge jar of homemade pickle today. Equilibrium has been established, and it's tilting towards happiness.

P.S.: - Reason # 134 why I'm fervently fond of Gulzar.

Humne dekhi hai un aankhon ki mehekti khushboo,
Haath se chhooke isse rishton ka ilzaam na do.
Sirf ehsaas hai yeh, rooh se mehsoos karo,
Pyaar ko pyaar hi rehne do, koi naam na do.

Luminous, incandescent, gentleness. Have a good weekend.

One Fourth Of A Vacation

2007-12-06T20:06:00.000+05:30

It's always nice to revisit someplace that you've loved, people who you love, a season that makes you more mellow than any amount of wine could accomplish. Slipping back into the folds of the cocoon of familiarity, you'd almost believe that you'd never left, that the next morning you'd wake up to discover that you'd slept through your lecture on China yet again. So I went back to Delhi, and back to the life of a lazy, indulgent non-worker for just a little while.

What can I say, really? Let the others do the talking for a change.

Kitkat (on seeing me for the first time, at her brother's cocktail party): - "Very nice, very nice, LOVE the shoes".

RR (when she pointed her finger at me for no reason and I burst into gales of laughter): - "Why are you laughing? Only you would find something amusing in this".

Skaty: - "Am I a bad person?"

PS: - "You came? When? Make me tea."

P (ex-roomie): - "Can I smoke in the room?"
Me: - "It is your room now, y'know".
P: - "Noooooooo! It's YOUR ROOM!"
She then proceeded to stick her head out of the door and smoke.

Sister: - "Why in the whole world did you have to find a Bengali boy? Does he wear sweater vests? (Gasp) I disown you".

The train attendant on the way to Delhi was a spitting image of Murli Manohar Joshi, complete with vermillion on the forehead, while the venerable Gujarati matriarch on the way back was the spitting image of A.K. Hangal. Reminds me, does any of you ever remember seeing a young A.K. Hangal? There was an earthquake at 4.30 am in the morning when I was sleeping in my old hostel and I woke up to the familiar sounds of women screaming, giggling and running. I debated getting out of the blanket for five minutes and then went back to sleep. I lost my charger and a brand new dress that was worth a thousand bucks, bought a pair of killer shoes that practically annihilated my feet for over two days, had my phone die on me for three days and happily poached all my friends' phones, didn't meet half the people I wanted to, didn't even have the time to look at the mecca of blueberry cheesecake, the Big Chill. But I also tramped all over Lajpat Nagar shopping all on my own, ate atleast three truckloads of food and painted my toenails a nice shade of mauve. On the way back, I was adopted by a family of fourteen elderly Gujarati people who let me sleep blissfully and took care to see that my food was kept aside for whenever I deigned to eat.

So I'm back, and it's not really too bad. Hopefully there will be ten days every year when I can go back to winter and peace. Next time there will be cheesecake, there won't be earthquakes, and there will hopefully be more time. Oh, and bathroom pipes won't spontaneously burst anymore. Fingers crossed.

Long, long overdue

2007-11-19T11:33:00.000+05:30

I've been thinking about writing this post for nearly six months now, but laziness always got in my way. So, I've read about a zillion posts on Orkut, on how it is such a royal waste of time, on how the shadiest of characters inhabit its murky depths, on how franship requests are the new weapon of the cyber Romeo etc. Let me say that I agree. Orkut Is a waste of time, because essentially social networking isn't really meant to be Deep and Meaningful. And well, the Romeos have to do something to keep up with the times. But the reason that I don't hate Orkut or even dislike it too many times is because it has brought such joy into my life. Here are some samples.

1. u r awesome ma'am. i am mesmerized and gone crazy after watching yur foto today, kindly accept me as yur frend, or i'll die. in fact even if u dont consider me as a friend,...plzz keep me as yur servant, better as yur slave, or even dog. i'll be happy in life.

I'll never have to look too far for pets. Oh, joy.

2. Hi, howz life? I was just going through your profile n thought I should try to contact you. Well I am trying to make some friendz through Orkut n I guess you would be an ideal match for that. Would you be interested to join my circle of friendz? If you wish to join in get back to me.

Circle of Friendz? I am absolutely delighted at the prospect of being Friendz with Friendz.

3. I am an artist.......... want to be ur friend

Simple and touching, except that jobless heh? ok actually had the time to check out this guy's profile and all his other friends had bare posteriors as their display pictures.

4. hi, jst gone thru your profile and found intresting ... saw your pics too ... hey u knw what u have gotta CUTE FACE .. wanna be frens??? if yes then you can add me into your buddy list my id is xxx4you@yahoo.com you can catch me online most of the time on msnger ... hope to see u there ... if u wanna knw more abt me watch out http://www.xxx.com , keep smiling .. take care girl.

I've gotta cute face. I'll do it as soon as I figure out what that is.

5. hi how r u plz tell about u

About me, I can tell that I don't like telling about me too much.

6. Salam wale khum...
hw r u doing ?I just had a glimpse on yr profile and its really alluring...I know its absulately outlandish to get a unsolicated mail from a stranger(specially from a male), which I am so sure u found it so sleazy and fudge. I am so sorry miss !!! As most of the guys do the same thing for wooing females even I am not doing something really special but I couldn't find any other way to approach you.Condife me!! nothing fishy...it just that I want to know you as a person and a true human being.Rest all upto to you to decide
whether I am the right person to reply or not..Candidly,I will be rejoice and delighted if u reply and cummunicate with me further..where r u from and what r u doing ? Just a little more introduction..
I am craveing to see yr response miss...
Take care of yrself and allah hafiz !!
Flaunt this sparking and glossy smile on yr face forever......
Cheers !!

Sleazy and fudge? Still blinking.

Apart from these poesies, Orkut has also ingrained in me a deep sense of community, or communities, like these ones.

1. Friendship is something very important in everyones lives......but can a friendship with opposite sex lead to a loveship????

sometimes this happens...........when ur friend become very trusty u will fall in love with him/her.........this happens in everyones life.........

Has It happened to You? And You? What about You?

2. SEX IS MOST SACRED THING OF THE WORLD becoz it can bring new life , it is gud expression of love BUT sex is very bad , if doing for just enjoying - without love and when know that marrige will absolutly not possible,, so join the community and save the world from become hell.

I've just been saved from eternal damnation. Please pitch in to save the world.

Now I must get back to earning my living, but the next time you're tempted to badmouth Orkut, I implore you to take a moment, and remember the endless joys, the simple pleasures of social networking, franship and community.

Bump!

2007-11-12T12:41:00.000+05:30

Getting hit on the head (metaphor, people) is a definitive experience in everyone's life. That is one of the Great Truths of life. In fact, some people would have you believe that it is The Great Truth of life, the one which makes the others pale in comparison. These people are either spiritual gurus or writers of bad fiction. All of us wait expectantly to get hit on the head, even as we go about our daily lives. We hand out advice about it to everyone around us, regardless of whether our own experience has qualified us to have any insights on it. It is everyone's universal PhD degree, because everyone knows.

So I got hit on the head. It plonked my cerebrum on Diwali night, and I can still see stars. Now I must talk about it, obviously, and you may indulge me by listening.

My learning so far.

1. It really is the best feeling in the world. They cannot say that too many times.

2. I've always been a giggler. Every silly little thing makes me laugh. Now this attribute has been magnified. I grin all the time, at strangers who stare back at me, wondering.

3. It makes you stop caring about the fact that if you grin at strangers, they will consider you insane. How on earth does it matter anyway?

4. It is the most effective security blanket in the world, and because of that it makes you a much calmer person.

5. Paradoxically, it is also terribly exciting.

6. It makes you look at yourself differently, more kindly. I mean, if you're nice enough for someone to actually hit you on the head, you must be quite a special person.

7. It makes you want to hug everyone, even your nitpicking landlady at times.

Now I must stop smiling and get down to more mundane things, like wondering what to have for lunch. Or maybe I can keep smiling.

P.S.: - I've been hit on the head in the literal sense twice so far. Once when I was a couple of months old and my sister dropped me on my head (gasp!) and another time when a tree branch fell squarely on my head outside the Fabindia outlet at Khar. I see the light of understanding dawning into your eyes. That's right, I'm not strange for no reason.

Yawn

2007-11-05T13:24:00.000+05:30

It's Monday afternoon and I want to write something nice. I want to not write about how very sleepy I am and how all I want to do right now is to find some cozy corner in the office where I can nap unperturbed. Seriously, I just cannot keep my eyes open. Anyway, I will postpone the nap for another ten minutes to write about my weekend.

Saturday night was when the roomies and I bonded over some intoxication. The landlady was away, so the girls came out to play. We all got extremely inebriated, and dealt with it in very different ways. R went and cooked us all a lovely dinner (talk about productive highs), S went and had herself a gastric attack and I called up certain unfortunate folks and shouted my head off. I do that a lot. I wonder why. Then the fun got even more acute, because the landlady came back early. I somehow managed to stop giggling (it's really difficult) and pretended to be interested in the reality show that she was watching. It was not too suspicious, except for the fact that everything everyone said sent me into fits of (suppressed) laughter. I don't think anyone noticed; it was very quiet laughter.

Obviously my sleep on Saturday night was of the passing out variety, so it was impossible for me to even attempt to get to dance class yesterday. RK called me a zillion times in the morning but I was pretty much catatonic. I woke up, though, when he sent me a message telling me that my famous luck had reasserted itself and my dance class had gotten cancelled. It has been RK's eternal grouse with me, ever since our university days, that whenever I have decided to miss a class on account of sleep or laziness or sleep induced laziness, that class has invariably gotten cancelled. He had thought that with time, either I would get more responsible or it would get more difficult for me to get away with my escapism. Ha, RK, I still rule.

I was sufficiently recovered by the evening to haul myself to Juhu beach for yet another round of Profound Conversation with A. I had decided not to let last weekend repeat itself, and to this end I sent him a couple of snarky reminders to be on time. But when you're destined to wait, wait you will. Therefore I overestimated distances and train speeds and ended up reaching fifteen minutes early. I didn't fancy waiting alone for too long, so I called A and told him that I'd reached, in the hope that he would also get there earlier than scheduled. He, however, had this absolute gem of a response when I told him I was early. With some amount of flourish, he dismissed me, saying, "I am not used to such situations".

This is when I went back to Ye Olde Faithful, my ever loyal standby in times of Great Need, Kitkat, who gracefully rose to the occasion and entertained me for the next half hour. I'm so glad I'm taking the week long trip to Delhi at the end of this month. If there were no other reason for her brother to get married except to provide me with an excuse to go to Delhi, I'd make sure he got married.

I'm getting accustomed to Profound Conversation, I realize. I'm even getting used to having absolutely nothing to say sometimes, because it doesn't really matter. Isn't that wonderful? It is, because I say so. Ah, upbeat and happy again. I could get used to this.

I feel like I'm floating in a vat of the most fragrant, well-brewed tea. And I do enjoy my tea.

Oh, I stopped yawning. And now I should stop rambling too. Back to work (?!).

Saturday Night

2007-10-29T13:48:00.000+05:30

This is another post on request, the request coming from The Other One who was a part of my Saturday night. We'll call him A, because here we're all powerful and we can call people whatever we want. Another reason is because some people have done a better job of staying anonymous than I have, and I'm too nice to blow their cover (but believe me, it's a tempting idea).

A lot of people will tell you that I'm always, always late for everything. Chronic sufferers like RK have now become resigned to this inevitability, and always mentally add a half hour to the appointed time of meeting. But now I realize that I am but a mere apprentice in the art and science of never getting anywhere on time, and A is Grandmaster. For once in my life, I made it to Dadar station on time, only to have to wait for some thirty odd minutes, during which time three men of varying description puckered up and made kissy faces at me. Blech. And when i got really mad and called to find out where the truant was, he nonchalantly informed me that he was waiting for a train, would take another twenty minutes atleast, and (splutter, splutter) would save the apologies for later. I was still blinking stupidly for five minutes after the call ended.

Now what do you do when you have a very angry heh? ok waiting for you at a railway station of all places? You send foolish messages about how you're going to make it up to her and get worried when she doesn't reply. You're so worried that when you do actually meet her, you slip in a few innocuous compliments about how men making gross kissy faces at her implies that she's looking nice etc. This actually ends up amusing the aforementioned heh? ok, who can't stay angry very long for trivial things anyway, and also knows the pitfalls of being a chronic latecomer herself. So after fifteen odd minutes of general rudeness and sarcasm, things are peachy keen once again.

After this little aside, there was a very fruitful exploration of a little eatery near Churchgate station, where A was the cynosure of a strange gentleman's eyes. It's nice to see men getting fidgety when other men pay them too much attention. Some sort of sweet revenge.

We then went to Marine Drive for some Profound Conversation. We also had to dodge some very amorous couples who thought that the parapet by the sea was the best place for clandestine intimacies. Seriously, this city has no space, and people need to understand the phrase "Get a room". But apart from them, there was a sad lonely man with vodka in a Sprite bottle who thoroughly fascinated A the entire evening. The glamour of sorrow is rather attractive, I must say. There was also as much conversation as one can possibly squeeze into four hours, sometimes glib, sometimes serious. It's wonderful to talk by the seaside, really. It feels like the waves themselves are inching closer for a listen. We also had some adventures with a matchbox, but you don't need to know any more about those. Then we went to Leopold and ordered a heavenly dinner which we did not eat. It's strange how full you can feel without eating at times.

I can now boast that I have once caught the last train back home. A believes that slow trains are the dregs of the world of transportation. I think they're nice. They let you be, sink into the night, watch the other people who inhabit your life for all of twenty minutes before you disembark. I also get lulled into a sweet, half dreamy state because of the motion. Okay, enough poesy about local trains. By then it was already Sunday, so logic dictates that the post must end.

Note to A: - I hope that was accurate enough. If not, too bad, write your own post about it. If it was, great, write your own post about it.

Note to others: - Wake up. It's over, you can celebrate now.

Happy Budday To Blog!

2007-10-24T11:50:00.000+05:30

Thanks to the ones who sent their good wishes to Icecream, she is rather pink with glee. She is one year old today, and gurgling with the pride of achievement at having survived me for that long.

People ask me why I'm so attached to my blog. When they do, first I roll my eyes dramatically. Then I go on to tell them that my blog has given me so much back in return for the few words I manage to put in - my job (I'd like to credit it to my effusive charm, but it was really the blog), friends who have diligently suffered me or have fallen by the wayside after valiantly trying, and even some sort of readership that actually checks this page out quite frequently. But more than all this, it has given me the belief that if I were to write a book some day, it would sell two copies, guaranteed.

And so, it is most fitting that today I post a list (I love making lists) of moments in the past year that were blog-worthy, but didn't make it because I didn't have access to the internet, I was lazy or I forgot.

1. There was a moment when I realized that if I were to print a T-shirt with the blog URL in front and my hopelessly non-anonymous pseudonym at the back, it would make perfect sense.

2. Skaty and I had our own quiet version of a blazing row. I've never really had a fight with a friend before, especially not someone who I'm that close to. It lasted almost two and a half months, and the blog was in some ways a part of it, because she felt I was doing more writing than talking. I felt that she cared too much and she felt that I didn't care enough. It was long and awkward, and I'm so utterly glad that it's over. I hate confrontation, even if it is supposed to make you stronger.

3. I wanted to write a long post about how I am so heartily sick of getting unsolicited advice. Honestly, given the volume of sermons that I receive, you'd think that I was some sort of walking talking mini-disaster. Don't smirk, I'm really not.

4. Then I wanted to write about how I think that giving advice to me is some people's way of feeling better about themselves, but then I figured that if somebody's self worth gets augmented by my listening and assent, then I might as well listen. Call it my version of social service.

5. I wanted to blog about the first time I met the Brick In The Wall, and the self proclaimed rebel rocker spent about an hour staring at the wall between me and Kitkat, who was sitting next to me.

6. I've been so disappointed in so many people in the last year, and I think the feeling was mutual. But none of them ever said anything to the effect, and I was just too clumsy to write about it with any sort of grace or dignity. I also figured that when people say "I will always be there for you", they also mutter "at my convenience" under their breath.

7. Bombay is a cruel city, has always been. We are so fated. I have lost so many people to this city, and I really don't know what sort of foolish courage propelled me to actually move here. Everyday there are atleast three moments when all I want to do is to go back.

8. Loneliness is a mean thing, but the meanest kind of loneliness is the variety that is self imposed. It makes you want to write long laments to your stupidity.

9. A-hem. I write poetry in secret, lots of it. I've been writing for a very long time, and almost no one knows. It's really awful, depressing stuff. I'm almost positive that I'll never post it, but if there ever comes a day when I'm really, really angry, there will be some fatuous poem waiting right here to ruin your day.

10. I don't like it when people indulge in baby talk to get their work done. As a general rule, I think baby talk should be left to babies. I wanted to write about how hearing baby talk makes me really violent in my head, but then I realized that it made me sound like some sort of lunatic, the sort that I'm not. I'm the other sort of mad.

11. I'd gone to watch the flavour of the season, Chak De India, with a couple of friends. I liked most of the movie, but my absolute favourite was the moment when all the hockey women ganged up to beat the daylights out of a gang of lechers. Every single woman in the hall was shouting, cheering and clapping. It was a wonderful way to release the regret of not being able to do that ourselves, sweet revenge for every whistle, every predatory eye, every accidental-on-purpose shove, every traumatic bus ride. It was a moment to let go of the weariness of being a woman in a man's world, and it was blissful.

12. I get really irritated when people try to read my posts while I'm typing them. It's as bad as peeking into a book while I'm reading it, or tapping your feet while I read the newspaper, dropping oblique hints that I should hurry up with it. It's just plain bad manners, and I hope you know it. Yes, you, the one who peeked at my screen five minutes ago.

Okay, that's about it. I'm going to buy myself some cake in the evening as I'm too poor for lavish celebrations right now. And there will be no poetry here as long as you keep me happy.

I Really Should Be Working...

2007-10-22T11:58:00.000+05:30

...but what the heck. I'm gonna post instead, truant that I am.

I'm exhausted right now. Sometimes living is such an effort. Getting up in the morning when all you want to do is to keep rotting in bed, getting to work amidst a maze of people and vehicles trying their best to kill you, maim you, or even more unforgivably, delay you. Then you get to work and you have that face on, the one that says talk-to-me-and-I'll-bite-your-head-off. Most offensively, some people think that you're making your funny face.

Someone asks,"How are you?" and you want to say,"Die. Now."

People are generally being innocuous, going about their business, it's Monday after all. It makes you want to take a giant sword, get up on your chair, shout out an ancient Viking war cry and then proceed to kill everyone. Slowly.

What the heck is wrong with me?

P.S. In two days' time, icecream is gonna celebrate her first birthday. Please send your wishes (good, bad, evil) to my poor, beleaguered blog. Heaven knows she could do better than me.

Of Dances That Sound Like Sauces

2007-10-15T10:49:00.000+05:30

Every-tiny-bit-of-me-hurts.

Dramatic statement, isn't it? Well, it's true. Turns out that twenty three is actually not the full bloom of youth, as I'd imagined it to be, but the beginning of dotage. How else does one explain the fact that my attempt to learn how to dance turns me into eighty year old Ms. Creaky-Bones every weekend?

What I realized yesterday is that walking is actually a very complicated exercise which involves a complicated co-ordination between very many bodily systems. It's funny how one doesn't appreciate the wonder of bipedal movement till one is reduced to wincing with pain at every step.

Also, I am rather confused as to whether I can dance at all. It's strange. I feel like I have two left feet when I'm dancing, but when I watch the others, I tell myself that I can't be that bad. So is a good dancer defined as a good dancer, or one who is not as bad as the other bad dancers?

At the end of all the pontification and the grunts of pain, I'm forced to conclude that there are two kinds of people in this world, or atleast in the dance classes of the world: those whose grace and fluidity makes them look like they were born to salsa, and those who must resign themselves to dipping their french fries in salsa sauce and watching.

The One About The Job

2007-10-09T16:46:00.000+05:30

So I have a job at long last. I've had it for the last three months. It would be fair to say that it really is nothing like I expected it would be. I love that line. It is so loaded. It could be the statement of an ecstatic copywriter who has been lucky enough to find her niche in the World of Work in the first attempt, or it could be the gripe of a disillusioned copywriter who finds that the World of Work has placed her in its very dregs.

Don't worry, I'm somewhere in between. I'm not likely to die of too much happiness or become an embittered, cantankerous old lady who lives with a parrot with a charming disposition anytime soon.

I work at an event management company where I'm supposed to supply out-of-the-box event ideas for mostly corporate clients and write the copy that these events entail (on brochures, leaflets, invitations etc.). Theoretically, I'm supposed to be writing a brochure on LPG right now. But I'm blogging instead. One needs to give oneself some indulgence if one is to write well. I mean, it's gas.

Anyhow, I've learned some valuable lessons in the last three months. One is that mindblocks are very pesky things, and they have lousy timing. Secondly, levels of ignorance are bound to be higher once you step out of your hallowed university campus, so that shouldn't surprise you. Third, if you have some level of talent as a masseuse and you give better than average back rubs, then you shouldn't make it too obvious. Every organization has its share of hairy men waiting for a back rub, and your creativity will be sorely tested when you have too talk your way out of these touchy situations. Ooh, I punned! Fourth, most people will not understand your need to talk aloud to yourself, and they will react by smiling indulgently and giving you their best "She's SUCH A Child" look. Next, people say some shockingly inappropriate and offensive things sometimes. Things like "I like to break these 'strong' women". When you simmer down, you'll realize that the bloke has a daughter, who shall grow up someday. And then you smile slowly, sure in the knowledge that life will teach him. Finally, you will sorely miss the time when your friends were the people that you spent most of your days with. Understanding, empathy, love and friendship are very, very precious things. And if you're lucky enough to actually find a friend in your workplace, go break a coconut in a temple or something. Most people bring only one part of themselves to their workplace, and that is not really enough sustenance for a friendship. It's good enough for a few laughs and general niceness, but not really friendship.

Oh, and about a gazillion people will ask, in tones of utmost concern."Why don't you do an MBA?". After the fifteenth time, you'll smarten up, stop explaining, plaster your best wise-grandma smile and say,"Because I don't want to have to manage".

I like parts of my job. I like that I can wear jeans and kurtas to work because I'm 'Creative'. I like that I can listen to music while I work. I like that there's a room where I can read the newspaper everyday. I like the fact that tea and hot chocolate are free, and the pantry boy is pally with me. What I don't like is the amount of copying and pasting I have to do (about gas today. Shee.). I don't like the profusion of gender offensive cursing, and the lack of awareness about the offensiveness of it. I don't like the recycling of old ideas. I don't like that I don't have enough new ideas to make the recycling unnecessary. But I'm very, very lucky that I actually get to do what I'm good at, and have my work taken seriously. Sometimes.

Weird Chronicles Part Three

2007-10-08T11:05:00.000+05:30

Without much further ado, let's get down to business.

1. If I see a beautiful tree that I don't know the name of, my head automatically labels it 'Acacia'. I doubt if I've ever seen a real acacia tree.

2. I cannot move my hips independently of my shoulders. I discovered this in dance class yesterday, where I massacred the salsa.

3. I always get epiphanies about clothes when I'm broke. What I mean by that is that the only time when I find clothes that I MUST have is when I can buy them only if I forgo transport for the rest of the month.

4. On the days that I take cabs to work, I keep laughing at random shop names and slogans. Names like "Waaa! Baby" and slogans like "If you find rates cheaper than ours, please don't call us". To the first, "Oh good god, really?" and to the second, "Well D-UH".

5. I wear two rings on my hands. Both are ugly as hell. I can't take either off because they were given to me by my super-superstitious mum, so I wear them because she had faith in their protective powers. So I wear both of them turned inwards, so that only my palms know how ugly they are.

6. When I was younger, one of my enduring ambitions was to take a helicopter equipped with a huge bucket of water and wash the dust off all the trees on the Shillong-Guwahati highway.

7. I cannot write a post without posting it immediately. No mulling over it, no editing, no writing rough drafts etc. If I know that I cannot post it rightaway, I won't write it at all. I guess that the lack of quality control shows.

8. Some part of me dies when I see people use apostrophes to denote plurals. See? It's apostrophes, not apostrophe's.

Okay, enough for now. Monday mornings need a little pick-me-up. And then one gets back to seriously pretending that one is busy. One's dramatic abilities are a constant revelation even to herself.

A Thought

2007-10-01T11:06:00.000+05:30

I want to be a little cryptic today. It's Monday morning, I've just spent an hour travelling in the hot sun and I'm not feeling too willing to be understood. Therefore, cryptic.

Sometimes people become cynical, bitter and full of regrets. They say things like "I wish I'd never laid eyes on you". I'm also feeling more bitter today than usual. But I will never regret the fact that I knew you. Maybe there are moments when I am your deepest regret, but then that is your cross to bear.

I don't know why I scared you so much. I know that you find some sort of romantic glamour associated with being misunderstood. Maybe the fact that most of what I said to you seemed to reflect your most secret thoughts is the reason that these days you won't let me say anything. Being understood easily may have dscomfited you, but I am not going to apologize for not being stupid enough to make you comfortable and secure.

It made me a little uneasy too, when you knew from the tone of my voice that I was pretending to be alright, but I never really considered running away from you. So you fled, and now you stand atop your faraway mountain and smile down at me, confident in the knowledge that now you won't see yourself in me anymore. You always were stupid.

I miss your spirit, your being, which melded so easily with mine. I miss your songs, your very strange laughter. I miss so much, and mostly I miss you when you're around. I wince when I see you doing your pantomime of wellness for my benefit; I'm embarrassed for your lack of acting skills.

My only regret is that I've become so petty that I don't really want you to recover. You've scratched my soul to a fair extent; I hope yours is damaged too. And I hope it hurts.

Yeh Hai Kirkit, Meri Jaan

2007-09-24T19:10:00.000+05:30

I'm watching the match right now. They'd better win this one or else....life goes on. But this is fun. I haven't watched a full cricket match in ages. An India-Pakistan match, to boot. I've been mad about cricket for so long. I've patiently watched India lose over five long days, over a hundred overs and so on. I've raved and ranted and vowed never to watch another match, and then religiously watched the next encounter.

But they'd better win this one, or else...

Update: - They WON :)

Ten Sureshot Ways To.....

2007-09-17T12:54:00.000+05:30

....Irritate the HECK out of me.

1. Call me a 'nice kid'. If you are not Big Papa/ Mama, then don't act like it.

2. Condescend, or talk down to me. I may not be the wisest person in the world, but if you think you are, you're clearly not wiser than I am.

3. Make me watch inane soaps on TV when That 70s Show is airing on the other channel and I'm dying to watch Steven Hyde. If the soap is the kind that believes in drilling things into your brain by showing every scene thrice, so much the better.

4. When asinine jokes are being cracked on TV, you not only laugh loudly, but then proceed to explain the jokes to me. Yeah, I got the joke. And no, it's not funnier when you say it. I will not laugh.

5. Sit on my bed and pass wind audibly, and then look at me brazenly as if daring me to respond.

6. Use the kitchen before me and make a holy mess. Oil on the walls, utensils dirtied, potato peels everywhere.

7. Use the bathroom when its my turn to bathe and I'm in a hurry. Sing crappy songs loudly to add to the effect.

8. When I'm watching something on the laptop or reading, keep peering in pointedly. Ask useless questions as well.

9. If you're one of the people that I like, neglect to call me for more than ten days. I'm reasonable; I give people ten days before blacklisting them. Or better still, hang up on me a couple of times.

10. When you find out that you've been blacklisted, wail plaintively,"But I was waiting for You to call me". Yeah, bub, enjoy the wait.

Are you wondering why I'm ranting? Because apart from work people, nobody, and I mean NOBODY has called me in the last three days. All of us know, deep in our shrivelled little hearts, that we are dispensable. We know that if some celestial eraser were to rub us right out of the picture, life would prance along merrily. Our biggest insecurities arise from this knowledge, and our quest for love, companionship and understanding is aimed at being indispensable for atleast one other person in this world. On my part, I would like to be thought of on a Sunday. Sometimes.

So as I have been so forcefully reminded of my dispensability, I'm miffed at You. And You too. And do not call me now, thinking,"Oh, poor thing". The eleventh thing that irritates me the most is pity. Stuff it.

Experiment

2007-09-10T10:59:00.000+05:30

I've noticed that I adhere to very set structures while writing. So there has to be a beginning, a middle and an end. There have to be paragraphs, there has to be accurate punctuation. The tenses have to be consistent, the spelling has to be correct. When I'm cooking, the vegetables have to be cut into an even size, the spices have to be just so, the salt has to be that many grains and not one more. Obsessive Compulsive? Let's not answer that. This post shall try to do without structure. Or is the absence of structure some sort of structure in itself? Aaaargh...

I hate Murphy. He decreed that the day you decide that the rains are over and you can wear your favourite kurta that you had washed and ironed with your own two hands, the monsoon gods will be in a playful mood. Not only that, when you manage to do the whole train changing routine and land up at your station, the Railways will choose that very day to seal off and repair one of the exits. So the whole of humanity will have to go out the other way, a presumptuous and foul smelling woman will scratch the living daylights out of your kurta and your pretty Pakistani kolhapuris will have to tread on garbage (and I mean garbage) to get to the office. People smell so very bad, and there just has to be an open garbage dump to add to the sea of olfactory nuisances.

They will tell you that with time, it'll get better. They'll tell you that as the years go by, the hurt will lessen till it barely exists anymore. They say a lot of things about time being the greatest healer. Nine times out of ten, they'll be right. But what they won't tell you is that there's always a tenth time. They can't possibly tell you that there will be moments when the pain will stage such a spectacular comeback that you'll feel like you've been punched in the stomach, that you'll struggle to keep your hurt from becoming audible to the other people that you share your room with. They may be right for most days of the year, but they aren't there with you when time takes away its protective cover. They won't see you almost calling some of them, looking for solace, a listen, or just a hug, because every time you will look at some of their numbers flashing on your phone and then decide not to call. It's better to leave the awkwardness out of relationships. Not better maybe, but definitely easier.

You will have a moment of epiphany when you will realize that the reason your problems have such long lives is that while most people wrestle their demons, you nurse yours.

Then you will decide to redeem the promise you made to yourself three years ago, and will join up for dancing lessons. After spending two hours realizing that snails can probably jive better than you can, you will undertake to come back for the salsa version of embarrassment the next weekend. As a reward, your calf muscles and your back will spend their time reminding you of your adventure at every waking moment.

There. Almost no structure, except for the paragraphs. Ah well, one can't change one's spots. Especially if one has just decided that spots are in.

Sweet Oblivion

2007-08-27T12:04:00.000+05:30

I want to write this one in third person.

So there was This Girl (TG) who had recently moved to a new city, and being a bit of an emotional fool, spent most of her time feeling homesick. The people at work decided that the time was ripe for everyone to take a little trip together. TG vacillated, as was her wont, but in an uncharacteristic moment of optimism, she decided to go along with the plan. Now the thing with TG is that whenever she has done things that were out of character in the past, she's ended up with a little bit of figurative egg on her face. But this time turned out a little bit differently.

The onward journey itself went off alright. She looked out of the bus window, and as usual the unending variety of the word 'green' kept her occupied for most of the five odd hours. On getting there a game of throwball took place, which served mostly to reinforce her strong conviction that if there was anything that was meant for her to catch, she would most definitely drop it. It was in the evening that things started to get interesting. TG was surrounded by intoxicating fluids all around, and in keeping with her left-liberal political leanings, got a little too friendly with the intoxicant from the land of Lenin. What happened after that is a little hazy in her memory, but the rest of the people were supremely entertained. Apparently she went and talked to everybody (and I mean everybody), kicked a lot of people, cackled, simulated dance movements and also fell down into the mud in the process.

The next morning they all made their way down to the lake. TG doesn't know how to swim, so she was content to wear a life jacket and float about in the shallows. But the rest of the company had other ideas. After successfully resisting all lures for about three hours, she was taken in by a devious ploy and ended up in the middle of a twelve foot deep lake. It was quite an experience, suspended in endless water, watching fat drops of rain splattering all around. The rain also meant that no pictures were taken, so now she has no proof that it actually happened. But there are moments in your life when every pore of you is glad to be alive, and this was one of those. Also, because of her inability to swim, The Boss had to lug her and swim back upstream for a good ten minutes or so. The next time they won't be quite so keen in her facing her fears. Muahahaha.

The night was a slightly sobered down version of the previous evening. There was no more falling down, but there was a lot of good music and company that kept her up till the wee hours. Atleast, that is what she thinks happened. Mostly she doesn't remember. This information was gleaned from secondary sources. Then it was back to reality the next day.

So now here's reality. Its raining, and there's not much to do, so she's telling long, pointless stories again. And I'm sick of third person. Makes me sound like a complete ditsy do-head.

Soul Massage

2007-08-21T19:03:00.000+05:30

The last week was one continuous downward slide. My head was even more messed up than usual, and very innovatively dealt with the overload by shutting down without bothering to ask for my permission. It was a shutdown in the most complete sense of the word, and I've always hated feeling numb. If you're working in the Concepts department, you really cannot function with a comatose imagination.

Fortunately for me, I've always had wonderful luck as far as friends are concerned. Okay, not always, most of the time. Anyway, this was one of those times. RR made a very well-timed visit to this city, and I spent the better part of my weekend with her. We had coffee, watched a wonderful play, had the most divine steak and onions for dinner, and just laughed because we could, with each other. The only spanner in the works was this jackass of a boy (but obviously) who tagged along with us on Sunday.

I also had the rather bizarre experience of being stared at for half a minute by a rather wonderful actor who I remember from as long ago as my pre-school days, charming people on Doordarshan. I'd have been flattered by the attention, except that it was not a "Who is she?" look as much as a "What is she?" look. Sigh.

Since yesterday, the ideas have started flowing again, I don't have to struggle to get out of bed as much, and I'm even singin' in the rain.

I also want, right now, to tell all my friends how much I love all of them and how they always do wonders for my soul. Okay, not all of them. Just about a dozen women spread across this country, with about half that number at Delhi. I'm borrowing a line from a t-shirt of mine that I particularly like.

Live, Love, Rock.

Mera Gown, Mera Dress

2007-08-16T18:46:00.000+05:30

Yesterday was my country's sixtieth birthday. For me, it was a chance to catch up on some sleep. Don't get me wrong. I'm as concerned about where this country's headed as the next person is; maybe even a little bit more than most people. But I don't get very charged up about watching speeches on television and then being force-fed advertisements about how every major company on this planet is running purely in order to benefit India. And then my old disease makes a comeback. I'm talking about irreverence. Let me give you an instance.

Yesterday all the television channels were choc-a-bloc with programmes extolling our nation's greatness and I was laughing through it all. What kept flashing in my mind was this slapsick show that used to come on television a long time ago. It used to consist of parodies of famous Hindi films. It wasn't particularly sophisticated comedy, but then I've never been much of a sophisticate, and anyone who knows me will readily attest to my predilection for laughing (loudly) at just about everything, and sometimes nothing at all. Phew. Long sentence.

My favourite episode in this series was a parody of Mera Gaon, Mera Desh. As you may have guessed, the parody was titled "Mera Gown, Mera Dress". It had a Dharmendra prototype discovering an ancestral gown and then deciding to wear only that for the rest of his life. I crack up every time I remember that strapping gentleman in a ghastly velvety blue gown, exclaiming lustily,"Aaj se mera gown mera dress hai". I was laughing all of yesterday as well. I guess after sixty years, people should be able to be irreverent about serious things like freedom as well. It'll be a healthy counterforce to all the fake jingoism that masquerades in the guise of patriotism these days.

P.S.: - I really wish that a day would come when I would stop whining, but I don't think that it's ever gonna happen. My latest gripe is this nagging feeling that I'm living a half life. It just doesn't go away.

Close Encounters Of The heh? ok Kind

2007-08-05T19:54:00.001+05:30

I started writing and then the internet explorer gave out on me. So if you notice the curt tone, kindly endure. I'm trying to tell you a story that's essentially happy.

People always manage to surprise me. The last week has reaffirmed my belief that at the point when your cynicism reaches its unwholesome peak, you will meet someone or the other who will make you shake your head and wonder how you let yourself get jaded so easily, time and time again.

Anyway, I'd been part of a team that had organized a mall activity sponsored by a stuffed toys manufacturer. Part of the event was a stall dedicated to the display of the aforementioned plush animal companions, and I happened to be sitting behind the desk at this stall when the first encounter happened. She was three, he was eight. She had a look on her face that had been designed to charm the rest of the world, he merely looked amused at the thought that this might actually work. She came to me to look at the pink bear on the desk, and he followed. I asked her if she liked the bear. She blushed, smiled and said 'No.' He had a wry grin on his face, as though she had just lived up to his expectations. Then I began talking to him (lets call him A).

Me: - Do YOU like stuffed bears?
A: - No.
Me: - Then what kind of bears do you like?
A: - The kind that lives in forests, not shops. That's what they're actually supposed to be doing.
I started blinking at this point.
A: - These bears must be rich. They're all wearing snazzy clothes. And you must be very rich to own all of them.
Me: - Oh no, I'm quite poor. They've hired me to tell the world about them.
A brief conversation about the banking practices prevalent among bears followed. We were interrupted by his elder brother who refused to talk to me.
Me: - Your elder brother doesn't seem quite as friendly as you are.
A: - He's friendly enough to me. Hahahahaha.
Me: - So you're the one in the middle, just like me. I have a younger sister who's taller than I am, and an elder sister who's shorter than I am. We're quite a strange family.
A: - There's nothing strange about it. People are like that; it happens in all families. My eldest brother is only 13, and already he's as tall as my mum. Its not so strange.
Me (slightly flabbergasted): - So you're saying I shouldn't take it to heart?
A: - Absolutely not. They're your family after all. There are other things to love apart from height.
He left after that. I'm still trying to believe that this little boy was for real.

The next encounter was again at the same mall, where some 50 kids from a local NGO were visiting. Her name was Nisha, she was dark, bald and crying. All of two years of age. So I picked her up, and gave her a tour of the ground floor of the mall. She put her arms around my neck, trying to understand the bewidering brightness around her. When the volunteers took her from me, she screamed her lungs out. After a minute or two, she was sombre again. Two years of life had already taught her resignation.

The third meeting was with one of the workers in the cafe at work, who makes me hot chocolate every morning. He took me by surprise, asking me to tell him exactly how Harry Potter's life turned out, and what happened to Ron and Hermione in the end. That takes my tally of friends made over Harry Potter to three, the other two being Kitkat and SKT.

Also, a very scared and liquid brown eyed black stray mongrel followed me and a very scared someone around for fifteen minutes on the street today. The poor thing couldn't keep up in the end. Hope he doesn't sleep hungry.

P.S.: - On a Kailash Kher trip right now. I have placed him right next to RHCP on the list of 'must-watch' performers. Okay, its not a list, just two names right now. So sue me.

A Week Later....

2007-07-21T22:27:00.000+05:30

So its been a whole week, and hard as it is to believe, I've managed to survive. Its been quite a week. Never again will I underestimate the importance of the word co-ordination. No matter how hard you try, there's always something you'll forget. But you learn to move on. I haven't quite learned yet. Oh, and its the first time I'm blogging from work (Don't look so shocked, its 10.40 on a Saturday night. I'm not exactly lazing around on company time).

Most things are alright. I quite like what I do, and most people are nice to me. The puritannical Jain lady turned out to be worse than an ordinary tyrant. She has the added quality of being mercenary as well. So if you do something she doesn't like, not only will she make a face at you and lecture you, she will also charge you a hundred bucks for the privilege. I'm getting out of there as soon as I can manage.

But most importantly, I'm so, so homesick and heartsick all the time. I don't know what to do if I want to get a bite to eat, or who to call if I want to just laze around and talk about nothing and everything. The worst part about being homesick is that its worse when you have more than one place in your memory that you call home. And if your memory's sharp, then you are a doomed soul.

God, I miss Delhi. I miss my corner seat at the Barista outlet in Priya, I miss rambling around late at night on campus. I miss the liberty of dropping into various friends' houses when I feel like home-cooked food. There used to be a lot of love around me, and now I feel a huge void when there's no one around to check whether I've eaten properly or slept on time. It isn't like I always ate properly and slept on time in Delhi, but people asked all the same.

I'm going home now, rather, I'm going back to the madhouse. Will keep you updated.

Things To Do Tomorrow

2007-07-14T22:31:00.000+05:30

1. Try not to take the wrong local train and get lost again.

2. Try to talk the puritannical sounding Jain lady into letting you be her paying guest inspite of unpredicatble office hours.

3. Get rid of preconceived notions about all Jain ladies being puritannical.

4. Figure out if seven more cartons of your stuff will fit into a room that you'll have to share with another girl.

5. Fervently pray to whichever god or whatever you believe in that your next roomie is atleast half as nice as your last one, that she's reasonably clean, and that she doesn't smoke.

6. Chuckle unkindly at the thought that puritannical Jain ladies wouldn't really take in girls who smoked, and wonder at the irony of the fact that someone else's narrow mind might actually help you for once.

7. Keep your fingers crossed for a nice bathroom.

8. Get to work on time. The trains will be less crowded on a Sunday, which means that you won't have to graciously walk away from the crowd like you did today.

9. When the AC makes your feet numb, have some tea.

10. Thank some divine authority for the divine weather.

11. If you manage to survive your second day in Bombay as (a) employed, and (b) hale and hearty (or your watered down version of it), give yourself exactly three pats on the back.

12. Don't pat yourself on the back while you're hanging around in a train. Tempting Fate is not for you and you know it.

13. Sleep early. Monday awaits.

Good luck, me hearty!

Newsies

2007-07-09T19:57:00.000+05:30

I LOVE writing posts on request. It makes me feel thoroughly important. This particular post is for New Age Scheherazade, who very sweetly and dramatically stated that she NEEDS another post. I shall oblige most delightedly.

First, the important announcements. (Ahem).

I am OFFICIALLY employed. That's right, somebody decided to hire me AND pay me.

I'm moving to Bombay as a consequence of the previous announcement, and its happening soon, probably by this weekend. I anticipate being thoroughly cross and cranky, firstly because I HATE moving, and secondly because I have to find a place to stay in nanoseconds. So, those of you who can stay away from me for the next month or so, count your lucky stars. As for the rest of you, I apologize in advance. I'm NOT an unreasonable, mean banshee, no matter how much you may want to believe the contrary.

I still can't believe someone hired me. Let's see how long I stay hired.

When I'm cooking, my mind goes off on all kinds of trajectories. The other day I was dreaming about how, when I was a child, my dad used to make rotis every morning. To this day I haven't had rotis as wonderfully soft, or perfect in shape. I remember taking rotis for lunch to school, and my friends being routinely amazed at the fact that my dad was such a wonderful cook. I also remember one of them remarking that her dad couldn't even boil water. Strange, the things one remembers.

And one of my latest resolutions is that I need to replenish my self respect in a big way. I'm going to cultivate an ego the size of a football field. Why, you ask? Who says I have to tell you?

P.S.: - My little sister, the Pinkerton, has started her own little weblog, and has asked me to invite all my friends over. I'm going to go read now, the enthusiastic ones among you can check out her link. She writes poetry, I'm told. :)

Another Birthday Message

2007-06-29T18:01:00.000+05:30

Today's the little sister's eighteenth birthday. She has specially requested a post on/for her as a present. As I'm currently too broke to buy her anything else, I shall oblige. But I'm not going to write her a eulogy or anything, she isn't Prithviraj Chauhan after all. I gave some amount of thought to what I should write, and I figured that the things we both remember sometimes are the ones I want her to have on her birthday. So, Pinkerton, here are some memories. Enjoy.

I remember the day they brought her home from the hospital, swaddled in blankets, looking cross even while she was sleeping. They wouldn't let me hold her, which I greatly resented at that point, but I suppose in retrospect that handing over a newborn to a five year old isn't very wise. She was both a delight and a holy terror as an infant. When she was benevolent, she was quite a hoot. Otherwise there were times when she would wail her head off and only my dad could ger her to quiet down by rocking her to sleep in superfast express train fashion. When she was lowered into the big tub for her bath she would cry like someone was trying to drown her, then settle down in the water and gurgle with amusement, and repeat the wailing when you tried to get her out. My fondest memory of her infancy is one afternoon when my dad was home with both of us. I was trying to pat her to sleep, but she was clearly not interested, and as things turned out, my dad ended up putting me to sleep. Oh well.

We were great ones for all kinds of made up games when we were growing up. The most vivid recollection I have is of playing Vikram to her Betaal. She would dangle from these concrete bars on our terrace, and I'd take her on my back and roam around while she emitted her version of ghoulish laughter. She also came up with her own dance form which involved clambering on top of the harmonium and promptly falling off. Then there was weird dancing to weirder Hindi film songs, also on the terrace without caring as to who was watching and laughing, and when I call it dancing I'm using the word very liberally. The first day she marched off to school, she was all smartly turned out with blue skirt and white shirt and red ribbons and shiny black shoes and the works, only to come back home a half hour later, because kindergarten started the next day. Another character quirk I discovered was that she was afraid of everything. She'd cry if it started raining at night, and in Shillong, where it rains pretty much throughout the year, that's a recipe for psychosis. But she seems to have avoided that fate.

We grew up in our own ways and our own worlds, which diverged more as time went by, but we still manage to share a lot of laughs, most of them for no reason at all. When our lives were rocked by tremors, we managed to just about hold on, and we're still trying to fashion out our own versions of elusive happiness. It isn't really as hard or as bleak as I'd imagined it would be, because of one simple reason: whatever happened, we never let go of the laughter.

Now, Pinkerton, you're eighteen today. Have a great day, a great year and a wonderful life ahead. And if sometimes that looks a little difficult, just look back to that little girl who danced on the terrace with me all those years ago. Tough little tyke she was, and she'll make you happy whenever you go back to her. Happy Birthday, you're a good kid. Just stop running up monstrous phone bills.

Notes From A Homebody

2007-06-21T13:37:00.000+05:30

I love coming back home. There's no other feeling that quite compares with the experience of entering Shillong city after the cab ride from Guwahati. Every time I come here I feel like I've been away for centuries, and I never, ever want to go back. The colours are fuller, everything has a richer texture, be it food, or drink, sleep, or rain. It just feels like more.

My grandma has been feeding me non-stop since I got here. She keeps telling me that I've wasted away to nothing and now I look like a plank of wood. I feel like a tragic figure in some terribly maudlin book every time she says that, but it has its compensations. She's been outdoing herself in the kitchen in a bid to fatten me up, and that is saying something.

The little sister is growing up, and trying her best to be complicated. I feel like telling her sometimes that its alright to be an adolescent while you're at the right age, instead of trying to get the whole world to take you seriously. There's enough time for that. And its always easier to get the world to laugh with you instead of sulking and hoping to be miraculously understood. But I suppose that life is a better teacher than anyone else can ever be.

I've realized that I'm essentially a domestic cow. No matter how far away I go, or what I do, I'll never really be at peace till I'm home again. Darn. I'd hoped that I'd turn out to be more interesting. Anyway, lunch awaits (masala stuffed fish...yummylicious), and I better get home before it starts to rain again and I get drenched. Toodle-oo!

I'm Writing, Yet Again

2007-06-15T18:50:00.000+05:30

Third post in a week, and if you're thinking that I seriously need to get a life, you're probably right. Anyway, I have absolutely nothing to do, and it'll be two hours before The Sister gets back from work. Also, I realized that since we're leaving the guesthouse tomorrow, I won't have access to the righteous wi-fi network here anymore, so I may as well blog while its relatively easy.

And what do I want to say? Well, it rained here today, not half-hearted drizzle, but real rain. And its still nice and cloudy, hours after the rain stopped. Delhi does have its charms sometimes. I will miss it quite a bit, now that the Big Move to Bombay is more or less imminent. Its been quite an experience; these last five years in Delhi. College, University, Bachelor's, Master's, friends who became family, heat, food, drink, late nights, monuments, rain, little things, big things, walking, walking and walking, and so much talking. Phew.

The person in the room next to mine plays music really loud. Most of the time that isn't a very happy situation, but thankfully my anonymous neighbour has decent taste in music (no Himesh as yet). Speaking of Himesh, I cannot believe that anybody spent over a hundred crore rupees on making a film with a nasal, out of tune guy in a cap romancing a very toothy girl who may not even be legal age yet. Getting back, I was in the shower today (and one of you is about to ask for a video clip. Pray, don't, that joke has been dead and buried for some time now), when I heard this song. I haven't listened to it in ages, and yet it resonates in the lives of a lot of people I know right now. And I was also reminded of how much I love this song.

I've still got sand
In my shoes,
And I can't
Shake the thought of you.
I should get on,
Forget you,
But why would
I want to?
I know we've said
Goodbye,
Anything else would've
Been confused, but
I wanna see you
Again.
- Dido, "Sand In My Shoes".

This song is for all those of you who realize that sometimes, being stupid is the wiser choice to make. And those of you who've made that choice, and had enough integrity to admit it, you have my complete admiration.

Pak Conversations - X

2007-06-14T14:36:00.000+05:30

This is the last one, and it took the longest. I'm so incredibly lazy that at times it manages to surprise me still. Anyway, here is what I remember.

The last couple of days in Pakland were spent shopping in Rawalpindi and going to see the old temples at Chakwal and Malhot. The latter was again, a half somnolent experience, as in, we slept all the way from Islamabad to Chakwal and all the way back. Its such an experience, I must say, sleeping peacefully as the car takes you through beautiful countryside and you wake up intermittently, look out of the window, smile and go back to sleep, as the driver plays his favourite soppy Bollywood numbers.

So, we got as far as Chakwal before our local police escorts showed up, which actually turned out to be a good thing, because they were the only ones to know the way to Malhot. Chakwal in itself was quite desolate, the temples in ruins from neglect.Apparently there used to be annual pilgrimages by Hindus from India in the past, but this was discontinued after the demolition of the Babri Masjid. I've been told that attempts are being made to revive the practice. Its funny how all-pervasive hate campaigns can be. As I was saying, it was quite hard for me to imagine this as a religious and intellectual hub, with a famous university where the legendary Alberuni is said to have stayed for a while. There was also a pool known as Shiva's Teardrop, which was murky with algae and dirt, but was a deep, clear blue at the source. We ourselves became something of a curiosity, and a small crowd of villagers gathered to watch us. I think they were hoping for a bit of drama, but the only dramatic thing which happened was that nature started issuing its summons to me yet again, to my utter despair.

We left Chakwal with two police jeeps in front, and stopped at a petrol pump on the way, so I could continue my humiliating tryst with the public restrooms in Pakistan, and the spooks could write about it in their report. A made great use of the opportunity, however, and took pictures of a very ornately painted Pakistani truck, with the regulation Elvis puff, which literally looked like the essence of colour had exploded on it. We then finally got on the road to Malhot, which may rightfully claim its place among the scary bloodcurdling rides that weirdos pay to ride at amusement parks. I screamed a little bit, mostly in my head.

Once we got to Malhot, we had to trek over an area covered with smooth, white stones for about ten minutes. It isn't very easy to walk, swaddled in thermals and wearing salwar kameezes, let alone trek, but I'm proud to say that we managed. And once we reached, we realized that it was completely worth the effort, and more. More than the temples, it was the astounding view that took my breath away. One could see the entire span of the Jhelum plains, with the Islamabad highway on the horizon. It was very high, and very cold. We walked all around the cliff, which petrified R completely. She doesn't seem to like heights very much, or the idea of other people liking heights. We sat there for a while, drinking in the solitude, the peace and the incredible dry beauty of the place. One of the spooks had gotten his kids with him, and they seemed to be having a good time too. Then it was time to get back, and we promptly nodded off again.

The last trip we made was to Rawalpindi, to do a final bit of shopping. The shopping itself was quite nice, we made some good buys. The only jarring thing was a conversation R and I had with a shopkeeper who turned out to be the Pakistani version of the sticky, fawning lech. This is how it went: -

Sticky, Fawning Lech (SFL): - Madam, what is your name?
Me: - So-and-so.
SFL: - oh, how beautiful, just like you....
Me: - Eh? Hehehe...erm..ehehehe.
SFL: - Here's my card, and my number. Please call when you get back.
Me and R: - Of course...*simper*
SFL (with an inspired gleam in his eyes): - Or maybe I can have your numbers, so I can call you, and if you want anything from here, I'll send it, of course.....
Me and R: - We don't have phones, you see, we live in a hostel.
SFL (crestfallen): - Oh....But please, do call me.
Me: - Of course, as soon as we get back.
My thought bubble: - Yeah right, moron. Like there aren't enough creeps in India.

Anyway, we made our hasty exits, and I bought just one little piece of cloth from him. Then there were tons of shoes and dry fruit to be bought, a final taxi ride back to Islamabad with way too many people in for comfort, and some more emporium shopping in Islamabad itself. We're incurable, I tell you.

The next morning we left early, after I snapped rudely at poor T who tried to wake me up using the disastrous tactic of shaking me by my shoulder. I hate that. It was a long trip, from Islamabad to Pindi, and then to Lahore, and back to Wagah. We slept through it all, and at Wagah, R tried to pay the coolie the money intended for the taxi driver, while we wondered. The coolie stared at R, R stared back, we stared at R and the taxi driver stared at all of us in turn. Then the customs officials when through our mounds of shopping, and R's tactic of putting her fake antiques in her sleeping bag did manage to half convince one of them that we were more than met the eye. At the border, the same guard welcomed us back, asked if we'd eaten well. T, who's the shortest one among us, then dropped her passport at the feet of the 7 foot plus, and very amused, guard.

The feeling that I got on crossing the border was indescribable. No more dupatta bondage, I could burn it if I wanted. We watched the border closing ceremony, whooped and cheered loudly, even though we aren't fervent nationalists. Its the ambience, sucks you right in. We gave our friend from the dhaba the bangles he'd requested for his sister, and took a cab to Amritsar, where we had to wait for hours in a dirty, smelly waiting room for our train. Welcome home. In the train, at midnight, R and T gave me a bar of chocolate to cut instead of cake, to ring in my twenty-third birthday. I love you guys.

So, it was one heck of a trip. I left a big chunk of my heart in Pakistan, and it'll always hold a special place in my life as the first stamp on my passport. I hope to go back someday, and see the western part of the country. And now I can stop feeling stupid about not having completed the series.

P.S.: - My grandmother has asked me to make a list of the things I want her to cook for me when I go home next week. I love grandmas, and I'll be getting fat soon. Yay!

A Rare Pleasure

2007-06-11T15:13:00.000+05:30

I have read and loved books for as long as I can consciously recall. It has been an obsession with me, the written word. When I was a wee babe (almost), I even used to read the newspaper-made paper bags that the shopping used to come in. My mother was always slightly worried about that. So, its been a while since then, and I have moved on from shopping bags to books and blogs. A lot of blogs have surprised me, for a lot of reasons. Some are so astonishingly powerful and well written that they make me stare at the screen for about ten minutes after I've finished reading. Others are like this one; incredibly self-indulgent, but I figure there's no better place to indulge one's own poor self than on one's blog. Some are hilarious by intent, others by accident. I prefer the latter variety, the first kind always manages to intimidate me. One particular blog sorely reminds me of myself when I was seventeen, so I check it regularly to feel better about myself. There was even this one guy who put up sixty posts in a day, I kid you not, to get into the record books. 'Twas a sad day when I came across that particular one. Also, there's nothing quite like the high you get on seeing your words, your thoughts out there, open to the whole world, on your own terms.

About books, the affair grows stronger with age, although my 'type' has changed. At one particular job interview, I was asked about the kind of books I read, so I rattled off my usual list: Wodehouse, Pratchett, Tagore, Marquez, Tolstoy and so on. The gentleman then asked if wry humour was my preferred kind, to which I retorted that seeing someone slip on a banana peel was enough to make me laugh. He looked slightly disappointed at my lack of taste and finesse.

Lately, though, one particular author has been growing on me. No one writes about ennui quite like Rohinton Mistry. I have rarely seen a pen that evokes so easily the dust and dirt of everday life. The empathy is real, as is the pain at the inexorability of decay. I have been unable to finish reading A Fine Balance for two months now, because I'm too afraid to go on. I'm giving it another shot, though. It amazes me, the way he just weaves such seamless narratives about ordinary people and ordinary situations that somehow manage to transcend the ordinary and become something almost poetic in his narrative. I know its quite a weird thing to say, but I've always wanted to be able to write in a way that can make people cry, although I inadvertently and inevitably produce the opposite effect on those who read what occupies this space. He manages, though, and quite well. I remember the very surprised tears I shed reading about the reality of caste violence in India, thinking about the immediacy of it and the absolute tragedy of it in ways that I'd never imagined before. We mostly know what to believe in. Caste is unnecessary, religious hatred is evil; truisms that we keep holding on to in a bid to make sense of the chaos around us. But very few of us actually manage to understand exactly why it is necessary to believe in such things, and why the survival of the civil society that we take for granted depends on it. Also, the depth of compassion that I feel in this gentleman's writing never ceases to move me. I haven't yet come across a character that was rudely or singularly etched; every person had texture, history, some sort of humanity.

Like I said, 'twas a rare pleasure.

P.S.: - Lights will guide you home,
And ignite your bones,
And I will try
To fix you.
- Coldplay

Don't ask why, I don't know either.

Mumbai Minutes

2007-06-07T11:36:00.000+05:30

I realize that this blog has been so full of travel accounts lately that it may give people the impression that I lead a very full and exciting life, zipping around all over the country. Sorry to dispel that happy impression, but I don't. Its just that life is suddenly compensating all at once for the utter boredom of the last couple of decades, and suddenly there has been a surfeit of trips and vacations. I'd like to think that I've earned it. If you don't agree, you're not honour-bound to let me know.

So, Bombay. Whoa. I really don't know why I came back to Delhi. The flavour seems to have gone out of my life here. Don't worry, that's just another way of saying that I had a really, really great time there. Let me tell you about a few of the highlights and the lowlights. You can figure out which is which.

Bombay at night, from the window of your plane, is beyond exquisite. Its like the setting for the mythical Perfect Wedding; festive but not garish, geometrically right somehow, waves lapping all around. The smell of the city makes me nostalgic for dry fish chutney, which is strange because the very same smell makes most new arrivals gag. Actually, any East Bong with a partiality towards dry fish would feel right at home here. The Brother's apartment in Dadar, with a view of the sea, was just right. It was sunny, and pleasant, white and yellow and orange, happy colours for happiness, and a strange sense of contentment. Even so, the rents are crazy.

Meeting people (bloggers actually) was never quite so much fun. There was coffee, and movies at Regal (very nice, I thought), sumptuous meals, a wee tipple for the tippler in me, bike rides along Marine Drive in the evening (WOW!) and in the rain, when the first pre-monsoon showers hit Bombay, my first guitar lesson, the only one so far, the Gateway of India....etc.

Then there was the food. I shall now provide a list of the very nice establishments and their equally great fare. That city is right after a foodie's heart. So, there was Chinatown, Jai Jawan stall (best prawns ever), Santoor (very nice methi and peas dish), Cafe Mocambo (sigh, the pasta, and sigh, the double chocolate torte), Spaghetti Kitchen (where I discovered that I like squid), Cafe Leopold (good food, but its so hot in there), Goa Portuguesa/ Culture Curry (upon my word, Rajnikanth coasters, yummy prawns, very nice cranberry juice, muahahaha, and even a quaint Goan singer with palm trees painted on his guitar, and a smiling moustachioed police officer's face on the bill. One of their customer feedback forms now says that his/her favourite dish/drink is Scarlett Johansson. Oops.), Tamnak Thai (nice establishment, but I'm not really Thai at heart, as I discovered), Theobroma (such cheesecake, but they'd run out of icecream when I got there. Another one of those subtle irony things), and Hard Rock Cafe (which has atmosphere, some nice memorabilia, and a very nice Long Beach Iced Tea, after imbibing which I was merrily explaining to Kitkat the difference between a hic and a hic-ee), and Amici's (of the melt in your mouth gelatos, the fellow with the World Scrabble Championship t-shirt and the bickering couple), and your regulation Baristas and Smokin Joes and Cafe Coffee Days etc. I feel so replete.

There were also job interviews, where I was mostly trying to make sense out of myself, and discovered that sense is rather elusive. Let's just say that giving interviews will ruin atleast two out of your fourteen vacation days. Three, if you're the kind whose nerves think that jumping around in gay abandon is what they should do on vacation.

There were also the tiny tots, Kitkat's cousins, who are the most adorable little things. The elder one loves to dance, and the younger one loves to ask "Kyun?". One is six years old, the other is two. The little one promptly adopted me fifteen minutes after we met, jumped on me once every twenty minutes, gave me a lot of imaginary money, and when I was leaving, clambered onto my lap to ask, "Aap laapash (waapas) aaoge?". I replied that I didn't know, to which she promptly retorted, "Kyun?"

One night when I was leaving for dinner, I passed one of the men living downstairs in one of those teeny roomlets. He was sitting on a broken down scooter, singing away to the night. He was rather...bald. And when I passed him by, he turned to me and yodelled soulfully. I didn't make the appropriate response then, so I shall do so now. Teehee.

This trip was also the culmination of years of planning to holiday with Kitkat, PS and SKT, and we all sorely missed RR, especially when we were dropping or spilling anything. We discovered that PS makes a mean pasta and cannot be subtle, SKT gets homesick very very soon, and Kitkat is a rather nice control freak. We also discovered that we can cook some, but the main trick with pasta is to boil it. Thoroughly. Sigh.

Finally, Bombay is a shopper's paradise. Carry lots of money when you go there. The sea is dirty but soak your feet anyway, till they start itching. Its worth the risk to feel the waves dragging the sand out from under your feet, and squealing in surprise, every single time.

Now, the vote of thanks. Thanks you R Bhaiyya, for the hospitality and the riot of restaurants, thank you Brick for all the fun, and for having a bike and for being a sentimental fool who came all the way to the airport to say goodbye for half a minute, thank you Raghu, because you're 'berry likeable' too, as long as you don't text me at four a.m., thank you n.g., provider of interviews and whiskey samples and tiramisu flavoured gelatos, thank you, nice HR lady, for being good to me when I was quaking in my boots (figuratively), thank you, bald guy, for the amusement, thank you, parlour lady, for the wonderful haircut, and whoever I forgot and therefore omitted, I'm like that, but thanks anyway. Now back to life.

P.S.:- I omitted some lowlights, which I shall now include. I didn't have any mangoes, coz I didn't have the money or the time. I didn't ride the ferris wheel at the beach either. I shall also have to leave Cafe Churchill for the future. Also, I now figure, that if any place has given you sadness, or bad memories, or general heartache, its a great idea to reclaim that place and colour it in the shades of pleasantness again. It worked for me, it did. I can claim to like Bombay again.

It Hurts, And How..

2007-05-21T09:56:00.000+05:30

I've been thinking, about nothing in particular, and everything in general. The outlook is rather grim, for some reason. I'm not very clear as to what that reason is. I suspect it is more because of self indulgence than any concrete malady. So, now, I obviously have to overanalyze it. Goodness, this blog must be the most mixed up collection of pap in the world. Or maybe not. Lets not be presumptuous so early in the morning. I almost never blog in the morning. That's because I'm almost never up. But that doesn't mean that I can't, does it?

Sorrow, pain, misery. It has some sort of strange glamour attached to it. The songs that touch us the most are the ones that speak of loss, and unrequited emotions, and what could have been. I've heard people talk of migraines as if just the act of suffering a migraine is one of martyrdom that somehow makes them deeper, more intense people. Or just look at that very astute index of human emotions, the Orkut profile. So, what did you learn from your past relationship? More often than not, never to trust anyone (girls, in particular, seem to be the most heinous offenders of the heart). Its a not too obtuse way of hinting at a broken heart, a tragedy that lends some texture to life. I call it the Meena Kumari Syndrome(MKS). That esteemable lady made a career out of speaking in a low, sad voice and drinking along. I've always laughed (secretly) at people lost in sorrows of their own making. Laughing on their faces gives them an opportunity to feel misunderstood, and the pain just keeps increasing. MKS induces a belief that only morons are happy, that being sad is an intellectual statement. Why, though? Why must one be deep and intense? If you're inherently superficial (oxymoron alert), why can't you be like that? Why wear misery like a badge of honour?

Recently, it looked like a variant of MKS had come to bite me. This particular variety of the disease makes one angsty and blue for no paricular reason, and manifests in a huge jump in the number of thoughts whirling around in the brain, till the head wants to explode and the heart wants to take a nap. The only reason that seemed to justify this bout of the blues was that my plan wasn't working out. Which plan, you ask? The Plan. The outline of what life is supposed to be like, the one that I'd worked out at sixteen, which was going horribly awry. All evening I tortured myself (and others) being listless and listening to bad music, loitering around the hostel talking to myself. Today I decided that I'd had enough. I wrote down The Plan on a sheet of paper, and threw it out in the trash. Symbolism, very profound. I don't care, The Plan can take a hike in the garbage truck. If I'm gonna be inflicted with MKS, I'm gonna own up to it and not hide behind silly reasons like The Plan. And the next time you ask if anything's wrong, and I say nothing's wrong, and continue to mope anyway, you'll know that I'm telling the truth. It is precisely 'nothing' that makes me sad most often. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to sleep. Some things are sacred.

Tag'd

2007-05-19T13:29:00.000+05:30

This post is being inflicted on you because I got tagged by Corn-Knee. Just to make it clear that whatever happens henceforth is not my fault.

So, apparently this arcane ritual has two steps. First, I'm supposed to pass the disease on to five others. Muahahahaha. I choose Kitkat, Another Brick In The Wall, Red, New Age Scheherazade and Raghu. Muahahahaha.

Secondly, I have to type out the last paragraph on page 123 of the book that I'm reading, which is not, as some people have insinuated, the latest lurid Mills and Boon. Here goes...

"There was a side door to the house, and she opened this and peered out into the yard. The paw-paw trees had incipient fruit upon them, which would be ready in a month or so. There were one or two other plants, shrubs that had wilted in the heat but which had the dogged determination of indigenous Botswana vegetation. These would survive even if never watered; they would cling on in the dry ground, making the most of what little moisture they could draw from the soil, tenacious because they lived here in this dry country, and had always lived here. Mma Ramotswe had once described the traditional plants of Botswana as loyal and yes, that was right, thought Mma Makutsi, that is what they are - our old friends, our fellow survivors in this brown land that I love and love so much. Not that she thought about that love very often, but it was there, as it was there in the hearts of all Batswana. And that was surely what most people wanted, at the end of the day; to live on the land that they love, and nowhere else; to be where their people had been before them, as long as anybody could remember."
- Alexander McCall Smith, The Full Cupboard of Life.

I love how he writes, he makes me smile. And all you people playing the tagging game, have you given a thought to copyright violations?

Just A List, And Some Other Things

2007-05-17T20:56:00.000+05:30

Things I Liked About The Pachmarhi Trip: -

1. Seven official Masters out on their last hurrah, before life beckoned.
2. The weather in Delhi at the beginning of the trip. Thunder, lightning, rain. Unexpected, and therefore, so very nice.
3. The part on the train journey where everyone except RK was up, early in the morning or in the dead of night, whichever way you want to see it.
4. B screaming 'chai!! chai!!' at a rather surprised pair of guards at Jhansi railway station at 4.30 in the morning.
5. Poor RR trying to get us a cup of tea in the morning, having to jump back onto the moving train, and consequently getting hot tea all over his hand. (Us equals B and I. We're addicted to the stuff, as the others will attest). Thanks man, but the tea was sooooooo bad. It smelled like a cow.
6. VJF insisting on telling the thoroughly disinterested RK that the city of Bhopal was named after its founder, a guy named Bhop.
7. The start of the bus ride to Pachmarhi, when the bus was almost full, and I honestly believed that we'd be there soon.
8. The little boy at the fruit juice stand at Hoshangabad, who very proudly rattled off a list of fruits that he could juice up, and then was too shy to look at me after I'd given him a bar of chocolate.
9. The first dinner at Pachmarhi. I was so hungry that everything tasted like manna from heaven.
10. The fact that the place had no cellular network, very few people and practically no noise.
11. That there was a pair of swings outside the cottages where we were staying. I haven't done that in so long.
12. I slept early and woke up early (ahem, relatively) and had tea sitting on the veranda, and looked at the trees.
13. The cold water was cold, and sweet, like it always is in the hills, and back home.
14. The frolicking around at the two waterfalls the next day. Sitting at the base of Bee Falls, with the water rushing down my back. This is what the leading ladies of Hindi cinema get paid to do. I'm so jealous.
15. The view from the viewpoint with the name that I don't remember, with a glassful of the best tea I've ever had.
16. Standing up in the Gypsy on the ride back to the cottage, and taking awkward pictures.
17. The after dinner walk where I picked up a disreputable looking and thoroughly chewed up pencil stub, and pocketed it as a souvenir. RK thought it was rather gross.
18. The visit to the two hundred and fifty year old British church the next day, and peering in to see the stained glass windows.
19. The short, death defying bus ride back to Bhopal, which restored some of my faith in this nation's public transport system.
20. Reading all of Hosseini's 'The Kite Runner' and almost all of Dalrymple's 'City of Djinns' on the train back. Heya Kitkat, is that why you refer to denim pants as D-Jeans?

Things I Didn't Like Quite As Much On The Pachmarhi Trip: -

1. Bhopal Express should be renamed 'Lose Weight Now? Ask Me How' Express. There was no food. No hawkers even.
2. The train was three hours late, we missed the state transport bus, and had to resort to the Shady Travels bus, which had to go bust at H'bad, to add the last missing element to the bus ride from hell.
3. The conductor evidently thought that his bus was actually Noah's Ark, and he had to save Everybody.
4. I had an aisle seat, and therefore, posteriors belonging to a whole swathe of people, and of every possible description, were thrust in front of my face.
5. B also managed to garner a smiling, leery admirer, who had teeth of every conceivable size, shape and colour.
6. The bus journey which was supposed to take five hours took seven instead, and made me re-evaluate my notions of what the phrase 'blazing heat' was supposed to mean.
7. Everybody had the most frightful fit of the sulks as a consequence. At one point I thought that VJF would kill the next person who said a 'Hi' to him.
8. The food at Pachmarhi was....very interesting. The chicken biryani at the Khalsa Restaurant should be called raw chicken and uncooked rice with fossilized onion rings on top.
9. The smart alec tour guide (there is ALWAYS one of those) had the temerity to tell me that I should shut up and climb the rest of the hill in silence for the trek to be 'complete'. ME. And I wasn't even being particularly loquacious. Should've pushed him back into the waterfall, but I figured that I didn't want to pollute something so beautiful.
10. The Rasoi Dhaba took an hour to serve us lunch, messed up our bill, and the tastiest thing I had was the soot from the mud stove that flew in and got mixed up with my food.
11. The three hundred very steep steps that led to the Bee Falls, that made me realize the exact position of every muscle in my thighs, and made my heart want to leap out of my body with sheer exhaustion.
12. The motley bunch of men at the waterfall who thought swimming trunks were unnecessary frills, and bathed in their underwear. Boys, swimming trunks are NOT a luxury, you made me want to gouge my eyes out AND ruined all the pictures. And do not presume to use my shoulder as a support for you to climb back down, you're all disgusting. And the woman who shampooed her hair in the waterfall should've been arrested. And the bunch of cheeky kids who thought that getting me drenched was a great idea, you will grow up to be exactly the kind of people who will travel ticketless in buses.
13. The waiter dropping dal on my head at dinner, and cleaning it up with the rag he used to clean all the other tables. He did tell all the other insensitive louts at my table to quit laughing, though. I forgive him.
14. I really did not want to see a dead puppy on the road.
15. The fact that the train back got diverted because of the accident, and took twelve hours extra through blisteringly hot Rajasthan. We had to drink boiling water all day, there was no food anywhere, and I have never felt so dirty in my life. I think it was meant to make us appreciate the relatively pleasant heat that tortures Delhi.

Yes, that's about it. Among other things, there are a lot of goodbyes to be said, which is bumming me out a little bit. I'm feeling a curious sense of deflation, now that I'm officially unemployed, and can no longer use my student status to not leave tips at restaurants. I'm also quite scared about what is to come, but that is no real novelty.

Weird Chronicles - II

2007-05-01T01:04:00.000+05:30

This post is the result of my recent conversation with Pinkerton, my little sibling. We spent about an hour reminiscing about our childhood, and some of the more foolish things we did. It made me realise that certain traits do run in families, and weirdness is one of them.

Once the parents, Pinkerton and I were travelling by train from Guwahati to Kolkata. P and I were on the two top berths, conversing loudly. It went as follows: -

Me: - I have been on this berth for fifty years. I got on, forgot to get off, and now I live here.
P: - hehe.
Me: - I have rats in my hair. They go foraging for food at night, and come back and sleep here during the day.
P:- hehahahaha.
Me: - I haven't bathed in fifty years. I stink so much that my dog left me. One day he just got off the train and never came back.
P: - heheheheheee....bow wow!
Me: - arf arf!!
Parents: - Sigh. Let's eat.
Other co-passengers: - Wha..?

This other time, my mum, my two sisters and I were travelling from New Delhi to Jamshedpur on a train called Purushottam Express, and we had very adventurously decided to travel by sleeper class. The trip hadn't started very well. We'd almost missed the train, and once we were on it, we were wishing that we had, in fact, missed it. Briefly, it was dirty, crowded, slow...complete tinpot. The next day, on the train, the sisters and I came up with an alternative, a train that we would develop, called the Horror Express. Here's why.

This train would be patrolled by robots armed with machine guns. The slightest violation of norms and rat-a-tat! The mess that resulted would also be promptly cleaned up. If anyone went to the toilet and didn't clean up after themselves, a mechanized boot would appear out of the wall, and would proceed to kick him/her out of the train. If anyone were to spit on any part of the train, it would self destruct in thirty seconds. Ka-boom! And the USP of the train would be that every ticket came with a guaranteed nervous breakdown, free of charge.

Trains bring out the best in my family. That also seems to liven up the journeys of those travelling with us, whether they like it or not. But that's alright. Like ol' Pelham Grenville would say, into each life, some rain must fall.

P.S.: - This one's for my grandpa, who, I am convinced, was the best one in the world. I'll miss you, Dadubhai.

Things I Want To Say

2007-04-21T17:18:00.000+05:30

I hate exams. I wish they'd never been imagined. I hate fertile imaginations which dream up things like making people give exams, instead of letting them blog in peace. I'm sick of professors who behave like their papers are the only greenery that populates the vast, arid desert that is my life. I'm also sick of professors who don't behave like that, because they make you slog anyway. In short, I'm not very fond of the teaching community right now.

I want to get far away from all this. I want to go have a look at Ireland, to see if I can find me a leprechaun (no, I'm not angling for his gold. Have a little sense of adventure, and tone down the cynicism a little bit). I want to see if the green hurts my eyes, so used to having dust blown into them at regular intervals.

I like tea. I also like Maaza. But I have to stop drinking one right after gulping down the other. It sends my tummy into the most ridiculous spasms, like my stomach is laughing mockingly at my shocking gastronomic sense.

I hate it when I'm not allowed to talk. I also hate it when I can talk and I have absolutely nothing to say. I just want to make meaningful conversation with my mirror for an hour everyday, where my reflection and I can constructively debate the nature of existence and the meaning of being.

I dislike the fact that Maya and Grumpus (the dogs) are so horribly obvious about the fact that they're in love. Inspite of that, Maya has to be a coquette and make eyes at the two other poor dogs who keep glancing at her with such expectation in their eyes. Those two are all over each other...blech.

I am sick of the mess that my room is in. I haven't cleaned in three days and its driving me insane. I'm also really scared of this Monica-ness that seems to be getting rather too persistent these days.

I absolutely detest the fact that I'm blogging at a cybercafe. How the mighty have fallen! I also am sick of the persistent "I must be a nice girl" complex that has ruled me for all my life. I will be the meanest one in town now. Enough. If I'm bored of me, I cannot even imagine what the rest of my acquaintances must go through everyday.

Also, I hate the fact that I've written a post about absolutely nothing. It seems to me to be a reflection of the times to come which will hold....you guessed it...absolutely nothing.

Oh, and I'm sick to death of Orkut, but some weird nag in my head, who sounds quite like Janice (too many FRIENDS allusions, you say? Its my space mister. If you don't like it, beat it) keeps telling me not to delete my profile.

And I'm sick of being called Sangy/ Sangee/ Sangeeeeeeeee. Its too nice. I'm gonna be called Roberta Flack from now on. No Bobby or Bob. Roberta Flack. Full name always. Let's see how you dress that up.

Pak Conversations- IX

2007-04-04T21:46:00.000+05:30

This one's gonna be short, seeing that I'm a little cheesed off with the world right now, and I don't see the point of inflicting whoever reads this page with my garbage. So if it sounds a little curt to you, that's probably because it is.

It was the 31st of December, and we were headed towards Murree. Its a hill station about an hour's drive away from Islamabad. It was the day before Id as well, and the streets were lined with animals being bought and sold for the next day's feast. That made me a little bit uncomfortable...its not really easy being a non-vegetarian with a conscience, especially when you have wee little lambs staring into your eyes. The drive was redeemed by the fact that we played a very strange game of antakshari, where everybody was reassuringly out of tune, and because I saw snow for the first time in my life, lined all along the winding road.

We reached the main road and managed to get lost twice, before finally figuring out how to get to the Indian High Commission's guesthouse. I was rather surprised to see that it was right opposite President Mush's summer retreat. That one is pretty as a picture, though. Anyway, we spent some twenty minutes warming up with tea and brownies. After that, there was snow, and there was us. Consequently, there was frolicking, singing, taking pictures and stomping around on the pristine white snow.

After that entire Enid Blyton-ish episode, we went to Mall Road for sightseeing and lunch. There was a lot of awesome junk jewellery, to my surprise. There was also a shop called the Magic Box (I think that's what it was called) which had the most confounding stuff for tricksters, like fake phlegm for fake sneezes. Ew. Also kinda cool. I spent all my money at an emporium, and then ate an entire chicken for lunch. Then, I went along with poor T on a reconaissance trip to all the PCOs, trying to call her grandmother, who was originally from Murree and is now in Dehradun. It was not meant to be, as we realised after visiting twenty of the draned things.

On the drive back, our chaffeur decided that he wanted to have a little bit of fun. We were taking pictures of the distant mountains, when he very sagely commented that our spooks (who'd been following us all day) would've noticed our cameras flashing, and would confiscate all our film rolls before we left the country. He also tried to convince us that our van was bugged and all our conversations had been taped. He unwittingly gave it all away when, on being asked as to who had bugged the van, he confusedly blurted out that it was the Indian High Commission that was behind it. Clearly he wasn't as far ahead of the game as he had imagined. On the subject of the spooks, it was hilarious how hard they tried to be inconspicuous and nonchalant, which is a little difficult to do when you're tailing cars that have gotten lost, and therefore have to stop and reverse a zillion times. Again, I happened to look straight at one of them when our car had stopped parallel to theirs. He demonstrated the quick thinking and strategizing that characterizes the intelligence services, and deftly managed to cover his face with his hands, a la Manoj Kumar. Bond would've been proud.

Once we got back, the New Year had to be dealt with. It was with a combination of red wine, Bailey's Irish Cream (and the zillion little deaths I died with every sip), olives, the Beatles and Orkut (unikely and pathetic, I know) that we escorted ourselves into 2007. Then we tamely went to sleep. Did I mention that we're not the most exciting people in the world? Or did you manage to guess it, you astute, perceptive people?

P.S.: - "Urmila, tum usse nahi shaadi karogi jisse tum prem karti ho, tum usse shaadi karogi jisse main prem karta hoon, yaani ki Ram Prasad se."

Vintage Utpal Dutt, in Golmaal (1979), one of my alltime favourite movies. Brilliant guy, such spark, such diction. And a movie about people who were not larger than life. I wonder where those have disappeared.

Happy Fiftieth To You

2007-03-13T14:54:00.000+05:30

It’s your birthday today, the first one that you won’t be celebrating with the rest of us. Its funny how, as a child, I never considered the possibility that parents have birthdays too. I selfishly assumed that being born and being celebrated for one’s birth is a privilege accorded only to children. Parents were too old and worldly wise to need, or even to appreciate, such trivial things as birthdays. But today I feel the need to wish you a happy birthday, to celebrate your life, your love, all that you gave to me that I cannot even begin to understand. Its crazy how most of the time I don’t even realize how much I miss you. But sometimes that part of my mind that stays quiet most of the time catches up with me to remind me of the things that are important and the people who matter. The last two nights I dreamed of you, not as you were for the last two years, but as you used to be when I was a child. You always did have an unbelievable amount of energy and life in you, and such incredible bluster that the rest of the world never got to know how fearful you always were, of just about everything. It was only as I grew older that I saw your vulnerability and appreciated your grace. You taught me integrity, the importance of detail, the meaning of multitasking long before it became jargon, how to cook, how to love new clothes, how to be obsessive about cleanliness. You also passed on to me a complete disregard about what other people thought. It was quite an experience being your child, you know.

Then you became my child. I hated it, completely. I wasn’t prepared, and I didn’t have the capability to slip into the new role gracefully. I protested, rather ungratefully, and I know it hurt you. Kids are selfish, you know? They aren’t really programmed to think about anything apart from themselves. Sometimes I wonder how things would’ve been if I’d been a little older, a lot wiser.

Anyway, some time has passed, and the recriminations inside my head have mostly stopped. I think I’ve realized that thinking that I could’ve changed everything had I done something differently is being too presumptuous about my role in the larger scheme of things, that life and death are so much bigger than you and I and what we do or fail to do. When you were around I hardly told you how much I love you, but now I’ve gained perspective enough to say it. Last night in my dream you told me that you miss me too. I honestly hope that you meant it, I think I’m quite miss-able, don’t you think? Don’t worry about us, you’ve trained us well. We’ll manage to survive, and then some. You’ll see. I hope there is cake wherever you are, and lots of it. And now, something I think I want to dedicate to you. Its been preying on my mind these last couple of weeks, and till just now I didn’t realize why. It’s for you.

See the stone set in your eyes,
See the thorn twist in your side,
I wait for you.

Sleight of hand and twist of fate,
On a bed of nails she makes me wait,
And I wait without you.
With or without you.

Through the storm we reach the shore,
You give it all but I want more,
And I’m waiting for you.
With or without you.
I can’t live, with or without you.

And you give yourself away,
And you give, and you give,
And you give yourself away….

Happy 50th birthday, Ma.

Pak Conversations - VIII

2007-03-11T00:24:00.000+05:30

I first heard about Taxila in a serial that used to air long ago on Doordarshan, called 'Chanakya'. I guess I don't need to appraise you about its subject matter. There I first heard about this wondrous place called Takshashila, where the mighty Mauryan empire reigned supreme, and I don't know why I assumed that it was golden in colour. The whole city. Just golden. Never mind. I also assumed that it was in North India, as the other place I heard mentioned quite a lot was Magadha, which was another way of saying Bihar, and I reasoned that one couldn't travel very far on horses anyway (I was EIGHT, okay?), so T'shila had to be close to Magadha. It was quite a moment of bewilderment for me when I found out it was in Pakistan, although by that time I had already reconciled myself with it not being gloriously golden.

Anyway, this trip realised Taxila for me too. Let me give you a little background information. It was a centre of religious and economic activity in this part of the world, and was therefore dotted with monasteries which functioned as both banks and religious centres. It was a day trip from Islamabad, so we left early (hehe....relatively) in the day, armed with egg sandwiches, potato chips, multinational cola products and chocolate cake. The egg sandwiches had black pepper powder on them. Inconsequential detail, but its one a.m. at night and I'm hungry. Getting on with the tale, we went to the Taxila Museum, which was again a quaint ivy covered British wooden building with extensive grounds littered with likely looking benches which would've been filled with furtive couples if it were in India. This NRP(Brit) woman took a picture of us in front of the museum, and shook at the camera at the opportune moment so that the picture came out looking like we all had halos around us. This post isn't a description of the contents of the museum. If you're interested, get a brochure. Suffice to say that it was marvellous, especially how some things never change, and by that I mean junk jewellery. Across the centuries, it has been strings and beads. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.

We visited Dharmarajika Stupa, where the guide tried to convince us that the small pond-like structure was actually Emperor Ashoka's private swimming pool, and then saw nothing incongruous in telling us that the small concrete chambers next to the 'swimming pool' were jail cells housing hardened criminals. We bought a couple of fake Buddha head antiques there, as we did at EVERY stop that we made after that.

The next stop was Jaulian, perched atop a slope that necessitated us climbing over two hundred steps. The view from the top was breathtaking, mountains, highways, canals....browns, greens, blues, reds. It was like being at the beginning of time, with nothingness all around. I don't need to tell you that the stupas were magnificent, with beautiful detail and immense scale, but I suppose I just did. There was an appropriate looking beggar too, requisite with incomprehensible mutterings and wrinkled, weather beaten skin.

We then went to Mohra Moradu, where the stupas started getting familiar, and our visit was livened up by children who were impossibly perched over a very tricky looking slope, and who decided to welcome us by throwing stones at us. Charming? Not really. And I was getting rather testy by this time, for reasons that I shall disclose soon. The final stop was Sirkap, which was a well planned urban settlement, and rather attractively windswept and time scarred. If you notice a tone of impatience, it is because I really was in no position to enjoy the remnants of an antiquarian empire anymore. Thankfully, my very pressing problem found a solution at Sirkap.

You see, right from the start of the trip, nature had been issuing its summons to me with ever greater urgency. And the United Nations, while taking on the very praiseworthy task of preserving these monuments, regrettably neglected the task of providing facilities where the baser tasks of human existence could be attended to, and the Government of Pakistan had failed me too. Okay, in simple terms, my bladder had been at bursting level right from Jaulian, there were simply NO toilets to be found. And have you ever noticed how, when you're desperate to finish the whole thing and get home before you get incontinent and embarrass yourself and everybody else, your travel companions decide to walk as slowly as possible, buy as many Buddha heads as possible (which all look the same to you, but then you're in a haze anyway, with the pressure of trying to stay within the norms of civilized behaviour), and generally make it very hard for you not to explode into profanity? And then, at the very last stop, which could've been the first stop if you'd turned right instead of driving straight on, you find a toilet, and you thank the merciful heavens, and spout benedictions for the rest of humanity.

In the final analysis, if you want to enjoy Taxila, take a whole day's time, don't listen to the guide, empty your bladder before you set out, stay away from the cola and just let the feel of a different world sink in, without getting disturbed by the vagaries of nature.

P.S.: - When you're finances are in a state of crisis, do not fool yourself into thinking that a visit to the nearby bookshop will be harmless, because you're of such a prudent nature. Doesn't work, children, never does.

Pak Conversations - VII & Other Sundry Things

2007-03-08T10:27:00.000+05:30

This post is specially dedicated to my one loyal reader who was sweet enough to ask for the next part of the series, therefore shaking me out of my recent blankness. So, Raghu, enjoy.

The next part of our trip was basically spent in Islamabad, with us making day trips to Taxila, Murree and Chakwal. More about the day trips later. It was time for indulgence, Islamabad style. So, we slept, and ate, and slept, and ate some more. P gave us shining demonstrations of her culinary skills and conjured up almost a tubful of delicious pasta in white sauce. We pretty much depleted around one-third of the larder. And then there was cake, and apple crumble pie, and every other thing that we wanted to stuff our faces with. It made me wonder how on earth she ever persuaded herself to eat the incessant nothingness that passes for food in the hostel mess. To keep ourselves entertained while eating, we also watched endless seasons of FRIENDS, and drooled over Colin Firth in 'Pride & Prejudice', the greatest Mills And Boon novel ever written. It was quite interesting to watch P trying to convince us that the lead actress opposite the hero of the fluttering female hearts was "so fat, its a wonder she hasn't burst yet". Ah, jealousy. Its so nice and warm, almost reassuring. We've still not given up on Darcy, inspite of having realised years ago that the best men exist only in the fertile imaginations of women.

In the evenings we set out to explore the local markets in Islamabad, which is probably the only city in Pakistan where 'local market' equals 'supermarket'. Anyway, they have these plush music stores and video stores dealing ONLY in pirated stuff. Its funny to watch our notions of piracy get inverted from shady little shops in Palika Bazaar to brightly lit, very propah establishments in downtown Islamabad (I love that word, 'downtown'). So, we shopped, and then some. And then, there were French fries. Potatoes cut in spiky shapes, spiced up and fried...heaven in ten bucks. McDonalds could take some lessons. And everybody who's had overpriced shawarmas in any of the Delhi establishments, YOU'VE BEEN GYPPED! The ones we had in Jinnah Super were succulent, delicious and huge, to boot. I do like to brag, don't I?
The only disappointment was that Covered Market, which is basically heaven for people who like junk jewellery, remained resolutely shut the whole time we were there. I guess the One Above realised that there is such a thing as too much happiness, and He/She didn't want to blight our young lives with it.

Now moving back to recent events, my curiosity was piqued by the publicity around 'Nishabd' recently. S and R were also interested, so we watched it, my going being especially traumatic after the recent fiasco involving a cellphone and another movie theatre. Anyway, getting back to the movie, it was a curious mix. It almost put me to sleep in the beginning, there were bits that were irritating in their stupidity (oh my god, that horrendous poem), and there were moments when I was gripped. So, yes, it wasn't good cinema, it was....interesting cinema. The only thing that comes for unqualified praise is the mindboggling cinematography. It was like a character in itself, and the most interesting of the lot.

One thing that killed the movie irreparably was the overabundance of stereotypes. The most obvious one was the Other Woman, of course. She just had to be dusky, leggy, accented (therefore not completely 'Indian', thus explaining the lack of our 'values'), and so....blah. She had to come from a broken family and have an absentee father, so as to make her actively seek out a father figure and then confusedly fall in love with him. The only saving grace was that she wasn't called Maya, thank heavens. I mean, for once, I'd like to see characters who don't have the crutch of non-normal lives take a risk and contravene social norms. I'd want to watch a movie where a girl who belongs to a 'happy family' (adorable parents, siblings, dog etc.) go beyond norms and act on her attraction to an older man. Why is it so necessary to give explanations for illogical behaviour? Isn't that what love is supposed to be all about anyway? Also, this movie is so spectacularly sanitised that it was a bit of a travesty to call it an adaptation of 'Lolita', that particular work giving new meaning to the word 'explicit'. Inspite of its taboo theme, Nishabd disappointingly stayed well within the lines drawn by the moral police, the censor board and any other social group that has the power to wantonly destroy furniture in cinema halls screening movies that 'go against our culture'. Sad. Or maybe my expectations were too unreasonable for a mainstream Bollywood movie. In conclusion, I didn't actually dislike the movie, but I could've liked it a lot better if it'd shown greater evidence of thought.

P.S.: - Writer's block is finally over! Jubilations!

P.P.S.: - On a less optimistic note, if you're wondering whether I'm annoyed with you, and you're unsure, I probably am. Good luck. :)

Of Fools, Morons and Worse

2007-02-28T18:58:00.000+05:30

You know those T-shirts that come with corny slogans on them? I feel like wearing one permanently. The slogan should be 'I'M WITH STUPID'. Before you start wondering who the flesh and blood reality of my metaphorical Stupid is, let me spare you the trouble. Its ME. And the worst part is, I can never dump me, so I'm stuck with Stupid for life.

You're wondering what brought on this bout of self appreciation? I lost my cellphone today.

It was a pretty ordinary phone, nothing fancy, no camera or MP3 player or ipod or...I dunno, all that other unnecessary stuff....inbuilt cars, dogs, jetplanes etc. You could call, you could text, and listen to annoying radio jockeys on the FM channels, that's about it. But it was pretty, pink, purple and white, and it had been with me for two years. So what, you ask. It was just an old phone, that too an outdated model, can be replaced soon (debatable, but I'll let that pass...see, the word 'soon' is less likely just now considering the recession in my finances). I'll tell you why the despair. You see, it was MINE, and I miss it. It was reassuring, it was my alarm clock which consistently failed to get me anywhere on time, it was my dose of trashy songs.

I still don't understand how I managed to lose it. One moment I was laughing at Hugh Grant on the big screen, the next moment I was going through the garbage bag at the theatre. Popcorn boxes soggy with spilt Coke...EW! No luck. Damn. I think I'm gonna go and have a good cry.

P.S.: - Hey, you. Hugh Grant. I don't care what they say, you've still got it.

P.P.S.: - In case you haven't already figured out exactly how accurate Orkut fortunes are, maybe this'll help. My fortune for today said,"You will inherit a large amount of money". Hah.

Women Who Never Learn

2007-02-23T22:17:00.000+05:30

Let me tell you a story about two girls. One of them, the protagonist of this story (we'll call her L in the interests of protecting her privacy and keeping me safe from legal action) is a smart, pretty, popular girl, with great taste in clothes and music and books etc. The other one is a bespectacled, nondescript, reasonably intelligent wallflower with one quirk: she's a smartmouth. We'll call her S. No reason. I just like the letter S.

So, L and S both join a new school in the eleventh standard. They hit it off, and become friends, because, inspite of all the dissimilarities, they have quite a few things in common. They're both incurably romantic (every Wednesday there is a systematic rehashing of the latest Ally McBeal episode), and they have big dreams. S is also quite amazed by the fact that L cracks up at just about everything she says. Then they begin to travel home together. S discovers that L is just as strange as she herself is, when one day, while walking home, L begins to croon loudly, "STAND UP, STAND UP! Stand up for your rights". S keeps wondering whether they shocked the living daylights out of a nearby grasshopper or something. On one of these walks, L coyly reveals to S that her dearest fantasy (inspired by endless Mills & Boon romances) is to be a single mother, widowed preferably, who then falls in love with her darkly handsome, suave and secretly besotted boss. It is all S can do to not roll on the ground with laughter. This should have served as a hint of things to come, but neither of them were wise enough to realize it.

The two years in school pass, and the two of them are firm friends. L goes south, to study law, and S comes up north to (presumably) get her liberal education. L soon finds out that her boyfriend, who is studying to be a pastor, no less, has been cheating on her (choke, with sorrow/ laughter at the sheer irony...your choice). So she writes tearful letters to S, about how he was the only one etc. S frets and worries and writes back, but as usual, is unable to do anything more effective. Let me mention here, that in school, L had devised a dazzlingly brilliant plan to seduce this selfsame boyfriend, by doing a risque dance to 'Lady Marmalade', and S was the trial audience for the same (more comic than risque) dance performed atop a table in the Biology lab. Anyway, getting back, soon L decides to move on and get a life. S is happy till she discovers that L's idea of moving on is to get back together with that lying cheating organism. The inevitable breakup follows, not once but twice. L has a couple of minor flirtations in between, and S keeps sighing.

Three years later, L falls in love, with a character that S finds rather hilarious, simply because of his purported 'royal' links. L is thrilled, and S smiles and hopes that things work out. She's actually surprised at how deeply involved L is, to the extent of even doing some very unnecessary things to assuage the boyfriend's ego (no, I shall not elaborate). But the problem is that the two belong to different faiths, and chances of a future are slim. S keeps telling L that she isn't the kind of person who can deal with casual affairs, and L keeps saying that she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. S's visions of unhappy families and filmy elopements are laid to rest when the boyfriend proves to be the usual moron, and takes L for granted to the extent that she dumps him with no regrets. S thinks that L has finally wised up, but, well, no. L now enters into some kind of contraption called an 'open relationship'. S tells her a zillion times that she is not equipped to be in an open relationship, because she's still the kind of girl who wants a nice church wedding and well behaved children. She even argues that it can either be open, or it can be a relationship, it can't be both. But L carries on, S sighs some more, and inexorably, L ends up falling in love, again. Long conversations follow, where S is almost hysterical with sheer exasperation sometimes. Again, L decides its time to move on and she lands a great job, and talks to S about how there are other things in life besides love and stupid boys. S is reassured again, fool that she is, till L calls her up to tell her, "There's someone new...he's not goodlooking, for a change. But he's so funny". By now S has learned her lesson, and wisely sticks to the path of least resistance.

S sits down to think about L, about how such an incredibly smart person can do such amazingly stupid things. And then she wonders whether her own choice of a resolutely single (yawn) life is an alternative that is necessarily a better choice. She's still wondering.

P.S.: - This post is dedicated to one of my most cherished friendships, and a person who I love very much, inspite of her incredible foolishness. Be good, Lady Marmalade.

Pak Conversations - VI / Hack! Splutter!

2007-02-18T18:19:00.000+05:30

So the journey from Multan to Rawalpindi introduced me to the Pakistani version of the Rajdhani Express-- the Daewoo buses. This bus service is a part of the deal between the Pakistani government and Daewoo involving building these really amazing highways all across the country. Anyway, the buses were pretty plush, and I'd never seen a bus stewardess before. It was a rather interesting journey, beginning with prayers and a short speech welcoming all the passengers. The one in Urdu was easier to understand than the one in English, which was truly terrible. We were served chicken sandwiches which were actually quite good. I wish they'd better the standards of journey food in India. Sigh.

Getting back, these buses have radio and TV, but the TV is quite pointless unless you want something boring enough to put you to sleep quickly.So I thought some music would make the journey more pleasant, seeing as it was to last ten hours. I put the earphones on, and shook my head in disbelief. No, not here!! I couldn't have come so far away to be haunted by this spectre....no, anything but HIMESH! So, yes, radio was not an option, and I settled for sharing headphones with A and using her MP3 player. The consequences were rather hilarious. We each heard one half of 'California Dreamin'. Among other things, there were the regulation bawling babies (they are the same the world over), the police jeep waiting at Jhang where the bus stopped so that we could, ahem, use the facilities (may I add here that this stop was not exclusively for my benefit), and the stewardess telling us that the bus had never travelled so fast, as the road ahead was being cleared of traffic on our account. Sheesh. I also had to try very hard to not fall asleep, considering that gravity plays strange tricks on me when I fall asleep in a bus, and I really didn't want a bunch of normal people to have their psyches scarred forever with a view of the inside of my mouth. I didn't succeed, I must have slept for atleast eight hours. Thankfully, I woke up as soon as we approached the mountains. They were like a testament to time itself, layered in colours that were as solid as the rocks, and yet vibrant, bursting, beautiful inspite of being dry and bare. And I must say, I do take the most wonderful photos from inside moving vehicles. Pat(s) on my back.

On reaching Rawalpindi, we were wondering whether we should wait for our escorts to show up, as we'd been instructed to do by the cops in Multan. But we were tired and dirty, and in no mood to humour Pakistani intelligence. So we got into an ancient cab and left for Islamabad, all the while amusing ourselves at the thought of the hapless party that would have been sent to recieve us, and would now be frantic at the thought that they'd managed to lose five Indian women.

Islamabad was reached quite quickly, on account of being only forty five minutes away from Pindi. Its rather like a pretty American suburb, with wide, clean avenues, pretty houses, and no poor people visible. I rather liked it, although its been called lifeless and boring. It was more a place that a homebody like me would enjoy living in. Of course, it is most essential to have noisy, riotous Pindi nearby, so that one can escape from sanity once in a while.

We reached P's residence. It was quiet, beautiful and most important, it was home, finally. We luxuriated in the bathroom, and the beds, and the heater, and the television, and we gorged in the kitchen (tea, nutella on toast, glorious chicken in manageable portions, glorious vegetables after a long period of parting, more of everything in general, except for T, who kept up her tradition of being functional with food). We finally had to roll ourselves out of the kitchen, and I discovered that my blog, and all other Indian ones, are inaccessible in Pakistan. Talk about irony. They do have that demon called Orkut, though.

P.S.: - I'm taking a hiatus from blogging for a while (meaning a week, tops). the reasons are as follows: -

1. I have to work on a book review on something about a second nuclear age by Colin Gray. As you can see, I haven't even begun. Blech.
2. I have to catch up on my reading. The list is, well, long. For this week, I'll restrain myself to three maybe.
3. There is a mountain of clothes to be washed and bed linen to be changed.
4. Why would you want to know about my extremely mundane chores?

Also, everybody who went to the Roger Waters concert tonight in Bombay, I hope you realize that you shouldn't have, coz I couldn't. Also, since more than two thirds of my bloodstream now consists of cough syrup, don't take me too seriously. That's it for now. Be good, boys and girls. Tata.

Love Me Do

2007-02-15T00:49:00.000+05:30

So, yes, I know, how much more cliched can it get, writing a post about love on Valentine's Day of all days. I've lived through all of these single so far, and today is no different. And it isn't as though I'm really starry eyed about this entire concept. But today I woke up happy, and I was upbeat all day, listening to mushy numbers and generally being a complete sap. And then I went out for dinner with the sibling and a friend, and waited for half an hour as no tables were available. In that half hour I saw a lot of very badly dressed people, folks holding hands, giving each other flowers, looking like they were in love or desperately trying. And yet, the cynicism did not really reach me today.

I've been wondering for some time now, why it has become so inordinately difficult for us to be upfront about love. Why is it that Valentine's Day is allowed to mean either a vast marketing conspiracy of the Archies/ Hallmark conglomerates, or another day to do what you do everyday, but pay more money and wait in longer queues for it? If you're seeing someone you splurge on a fancy gift, an outfit and dinner, and if you're single you either crib about your singledom or smirk at the foolish twosomes who actually fall for silly things like these. Why is it that a basic enough need to be understood, to be a companion, to not be alone, has become so mired in attitudes and perceptions?

And then there are the ones who love, but will not let it be. They will resist, fight it to the last, because its somehow not a part of their plan. They never planned on being with someone, their family will disapprove, they have too much on their plate. Clarity, where on earth is clarity? If you love, and you're lucky enough to have that returned to you, then do you really think that somehow depriving yourself of it will make your family happy, or clean up your cluttered plate, or make your grand life plan a better success?

I'm a romantic and I don't want to help it. It isn't as if I haven't seen the downside of it, how can one not? I've seen the hurt, the devastation, the struggle to get out of bed every morning. But being comfortably numb is at best a stage, not a solution. Being an automaton isn't living, its better to be broken than to be untouched and lost in an eternity of wondering. Yes I know, I'm not really in a position to say that I understand the pain of it and so whatever I say is superfluous. Maybe it is. But it is essential for me to believe in the possibility of this, the chance that there are still people who aren't content to play it safe, who are ready to feel, however incredible the highs and terrible the lows entailed in that path are.

Finally, since I've been listening to this song all day, its only fair that I subject you to it.

Isn't it strange, the way things can change,
The life that you lead turned on its head,
Suddenly someone means more than you fell for,
A house and its yard turns into home..
I'm sorry but I meant to say
Many things along the way
This one's for YOU..
Have I told you I ache..have I told you I ache..
Have I told you I ache...for YOU?
(Ache-James Carrington)

This one is for all the YOUs of this world, from all the MEs of the world, with lots of love. Happy Valentine's Day, and I hope it means something this time.

Rainy Days

2007-02-11T15:54:00.000+05:30

Delhi's in the grip of some really fine weather since yesterday. It has been pouring. Somebody up there has suddenly decided to like us. The younger sister is here with me for a week, and so I've been obliged to play the dutiful host, but I don't think I'm doing a very efficient job of it, considering that my natural impulse, whenever I see even a spot of rain, is to dive under the covers and go back to sleep. But, well, I have Friends. The kind who come to the university on a rainy Saturday to study, and then decide that making me fulfil my sisterly responsibilities is a better pursuit than higher education. I am, of course, talking about that intrepid soldier of fortune, Kitkat.

So she walks all over campus in the rain, comes to my hostel and determinedly knocks on the door at 9.30 in the morning. I wake up and stumble to the door, hoping that its just the benevolent roommate. Sigh. She breezes in, while I try to get back into bed, but then she pouts indignantly, "Aren't you even gonna give me a hug?" Of course, I go over to hug her, only to have my sleep-warmness destroyed by this rain-drenched deviant, who goes on to snigger, as usual.

Anyway, the point is, we decided to lunch out, but the autos decided to give the campus a miss. So we went to the gate in the bus, only to find that autos per se were not intended for our use that day. So we waited, waited and waited. Kitkat suddenly remarked that we should stand there looking cute, so that we'd get a lift. In less than five minutes after I had disdained her suggestion, a long black car pulled up, and the driver, a middle-aged man, gestured that we could get a lift from him. I, of course, goggled at him so hard that my eyes began to feel strained. We couldn't obviously take the risk of getting into a stranger's car, here in unsafe ol' Delhi, but Kitkat got her use out of it. She kept insisting that she and the little one had been innocent bystanders, and it was my incandescent charms that had made the guy (nice guy/sleazebag, take your pick, I still can't decide) stop for us. And worse, she labelled my very just indignation at her remarks under the horrible category of 'coyness'. The result of such mental trauma was that I got so drunk on chocolate at the neighbourhood Barista that for twenty minutes, all I could say was "so, so you think you can tell, heaven from hell..." etc.

After that we did our Valentine's Day shopping at the gruesomely pink Archie's outlet, the little one and I for the Other Sister, and Kitkat for her momma. We're sad, dull people, as you can see.

Anyway, we're all at Kitkat's Haryana abode right now, where she's feeding us and making fun of me. Good weekend. We're going shopping in a while. Did I say good weekend? I meant perfect.

Update: - Rule of thumb for perfect things-- never call them perfect till they're over. So we did go shopping, and it was not too bad. But the process of getting there reinforced my belief that buses in Haryana really hate me. The backdrop to this experience is the fact that not only did it rain today, there was actually hail for about twenty minutes. Anyway, the bus that we were on apparently thought it was the Ark, and the conductor thought that he was Noah himself. He was bodily working more and more people into an already bursting bus. Therefore, obviously, on our way out, we had to shove, nudge and push people who were shoving, nudging and pushing back with equal vim. A lady of indeterminate age made a bid for my seat while I was still in it, making me assume my indignant voice and say,"May I make my way out, if you please, lady?" at which she went "Tch tch beta..."....The nerve! Any way, we're back, and my advice is, do not move here if you don't own a car. May not sound very profound now, but one day when you're stuck inside a tiny tinpot bus, with the smell of wind (not the breezy kind, the oh-my-god-who did that kind) and with a million people dying to sit on your lap, you'll remember my wisdom.

Pak Conversations - V

2007-02-07T18:15:00.000+05:30

So, Multan.

We were a little worried about how much sightseeing we would actually get done, considering that our guide was as familiar with Multan as he would be with Amritsar probably. We were also a little apprehensive because the nuns had informed us that someone from the Intelligence Bureau had called the Convent the previous night, asking about our plans (worried, meaning, A and I were worried, T was concerned, R was apprehensive, and P was the aspen leaf trembling in the wind). Anyway, after another exceedingly polite breakfast, we set out to explore Multan with our inadequate guide and a little bit more helpful guidebook.

We were on our way to the Fort area of the city when we spotted THEM on motorbikes behind us. Two nondescript looking men who became conspicuous because they had to keep their eagle eyes fixed on us while appearing nonchalant and maneouvering their bikes. Not easy. Anyway, initially we thought it was amusing, and we even looked back and smiled at them. Big mistake. Suddenly they went ahead of us and stopped our car, asking if we were Indians etc. Then we learnt that the Multan Police and an official from the Intelligence Bureau were to be our guides for the day. In between, of course, P and R had almost gone apoplectic, and my stomach had started its usual wild savage dance. We composed ourselves, however, and reached the Fort area, where we met the five policemen(!!) who were to stay with us for as long as we were in Multan. VIP treatment is not all that its cracked up to be. But it is better than getting lost in a foreign country with a geographically challenged guide.

So, we first took a look at three dargahs at in the Fort area; the dargah of Shahrukh-e-alam, that of Bahaudddin Zakaria and that of Tabrez. At the risk of some part of the readership snoozing off, let me enlighten you. Multan is one of the seats of the Suhrawardy sect of Sufism, while Ajmer is the seat of the Chishti sect. The dargahs are splendid, with exquisite inlay work in lapis lazuli, a sea of shimmering blues. The cops ensured that we got free chadars, free memorabilia that we didn't really want anyway, and that we met two kinds of people--- one kind who overwhelmed us with their absolute sweetness (like the old man at the dargah of Tabrez who couldn't believe that people from THE OTHER SIDE had come to visit, like it was a testimony to the power of the saint himself, and the wizened old beggar who hid his outstretched hand behind his back when he learned that we were from India where all the other great saints rested...awwww) and the other kind who asked in surly tones why non-believers should be let into the dargahs, and gave us the chadars etc with pinched faces and hostile eyes. I didn't mind. It is a part of the baggage that history has handed down to us, and that we refuse to let go of so consistently. Perhaps it would be a bit too much to expect everyone to be able to forget all that and be pleasant. Oh, and the dargahs had their very own minstrels, and the most wonderful music.

The fun really began when the cops took us shopping. We first went to the Hussain Agahi Bazaar which is supposed to stretch over some 28 miles (or kilometres, I forget which). The thing is, they were very nice and courteous cops and all, but they still suffered from one problem--they were men. Hence they expected us to go into one shop and buy everything and be done with it. They discovered that five inveterate shoppers from India did not give up easily. Poor things. They began to tire after the first couple of shops, even as we were getting lost in a delightful array of cottons and silks. After about an hour of this, they shepherded us out of the bazaar to a shabby little restaurant called Multan Food City for lunch. Now the thing with eateries in Pakistan is that they serve chicken by the kilo, instead of by the plate, and one of their rotis equals three of ours. So we asked for a half plate of chicken and they gave us a whole chicken and a mountain of rotis. We started ploughing through, when cop # 1 started expounding on the virtues of Islam, and how a man could stay unwashed for 20 days, but if he said a certain verse of the Quran, he wouldn't stink. I mean, I was uncomfortable, not only because of the tremendous inappropriateness of the conversation but because I had a mad urge to laugh and start talking about deodorants. P was making polite noises and the rest of us were concentrating on getting the darned chicken down our throats without choking.

Meal over, the cops took us to one shoe shop and made us complete our buying from there. Imagine a city with atleast nine Bata stores and I didn't get to go to one. Then they took us to buy son halwa, which I think is overrated, and they had one entire case as a free sample, I think. There was some more shopping, believe it or not, but this isn't an inventory. Anyway, they took us back to the Convent, and very politely forbade us from leaving it at night. That night we had a very cosy little sitdown with the nuns, who had gotten us all gifts...they are so very kind. One of them was above 90, and had a memory disorder probably. She asked T when we were going back to India every fifteen minutes, and T patiently replied every single time. She was my clear favourite. One of the nuns was talking about how minorities face discrimination in Pakistan. She said that India was ready for freedom in 1947, but Pakistan was not. Its incredible how there is such a strong belief in Pakistan's separate existence before 1947, infact right through history.

Well, the next day, we made an early start and had our little motorcade taking us to the bus station. Some hapless car came between ours and the police van, and the furious gesticulation at the driver made a rather amusing picture. Anyway, we bade farewell to the cops and to Multan, and I won't pretend that I was too sorry to leave. Now i know what they mean about gilded cages, even the nicest ones.

P.S.: - You're walking, and its going to rain, and the dry leaves are rolling about, and its beautiful. Then the sun peeks out, just for a second, and there's a whole new kind of perfection. You're cold, you clutch your jacket closer, but its just an automatic reaction. Sometimes letting the chill winds touch you does a great deal of good work in taking off unnecessary loads from your mind. And then you think, "Why on earth did I let them worry me so?"

Fear

2007-02-04T23:42:00.000+05:30

I've finally gathered the courage. Now I will sit down and write up my CV. I need a job and its accoutrements, like money, and I need these things rather quickly. University will not shield me much longer, and the time will come to pay back my dues. Real fear. It is a sour feeling, like an unripe orange. Writing this stupid thing is one of the most profoundly depressing things I've done lately. I really have nothing to say, and that is sad. What do I write? Oh, hello, its me. I've only studied all my life, sometimes not too well. I cannot do anything, but will you please pay me pots of money anyway? Why do I want pots of money? Actually, that is rather personal. I'd rather not discuss it.

Let's look at an alternative scenario.
Interviewer (intimidating, handlebar moustache, bald) : - "SO!!! You want me to employ you, eh? What's your name?"
Me: - "My name? Erm.....ehehehe... Its on the tip of my tongue, really...begins with a Q, oh no, a W....something......".
Interviewer: - "You really need me to tell you if you've got the job or not? Lady, you don't remember your name!!! Do you remember the way you came in? That same route will lead you back outside. I'm telling you this so that you don't have to tax your little mind. Leave!"
Me: - "That's it! S! My name starts with S!"

Etc.

Oh lord, I don't have it in me to be an unemployed struggler. I'll cry myself blind in a week. Why, oh why, was I so bad at maths? Why did I get seduced by the liberal arts? Why didn't I study how to manage people without letting them know they were being managed, from some outrageously expensive college?

I have nightmares in colour these days....nightmares about being THE STUPID ONE WHO CANNOT MAKE COFFEE, or THE ONE WHOSE BRAIN IS ALWAYS ON VACATION, or THE ONE WHO'S POTTY, IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD. Oh my goodness, what if they make me wear T-shirts with these slogans on them?

I know what I'll do. I'm spitting in their coffees. Pthooey!

Pak Conversations- IV

2007-02-03T14:07:00.000+05:30

They say that grumpy and hormonal women do not happy posts write. Let's see.

We left Lahore the next morning, late again, but that wasn't really to be wondered at. When you have five women in a foreign country, grappling with such diverse crises as a constipated stomach due to a sudden dietary shift to almost exclusively meat proteins, to the fact that suddenly cramming all your clothes into that teeny little suitcase didn't seem quite so workable, it was a miracle that we managed to leave at all. I was jumpy and nervous, because I knew that this trip would expose my horrible secret, that forevermore, I would be known as the girl who used every single toilet at every opportunity, all over Pakistan. I had visions of secret intelligence files having records saying "11.14 am - S pees, AGAIN. We're sick of this assignment". Anyway, the journey had begun.

The highways had three good things about them. They were actually wide, smooth roads, very comfortable. They were running through beautiful country, with the regulation yellow mustard fields. And the motion happily put us all to sleep, and sleep is always good. In between all the sleeping, there was an interlude where we went into a petrol pump so I could, sigh, use the facilities. At this point, A saw a camel pulling a cart full of firewood on the road. It being a Kodak moment, we had the camel on one side, and A running on the other side, screaming for the cart to stop. She finally got her picture, and two very confused Pakistani men had a story for that evening's friendly neighbourhood meeting.

The van rolled on, and we slept some more. And then we woke up to Harappa. She is something, she is. One of the world's first cities, relic to an experiment that we still haven't managed to perfect. I honestly think that the MCD guys could take lessons from the planning in Harappa. It is all that the history books say it is, and then some more. There is a desolation about it, it is absolutely quiet, but there seems to be a sense of expectancy even in that silence, as though she knows that evening will take away intruders like us and then the old friends will make their way back. I sometimes still have trouble believing that I was there, even with the pictures for proof. All my undergraduate history dreams are finally fulfilled...yay. On our way out, this group of picnickers, mostly women, asked us to join them for lunch. We were so surprised that we could only mumble a confused "No, thank you.". I wonder why friendliness takes us by surprise every time.

We got back on the road to Multan, and then we had ample occasion to regret turning down that lunch invite. It was past lunch time, there was a a collection of sundry dhabas for truckers all along the way, but we couldn't eat at these places because our guide didn't think they were 'proper', probably because they didn't have zenana sections. I really, really missed India at that point, missed the possibility of eating out in the open at a roadside dhaba. We kept driving, and thinking about food, and drooling, and cursing the guide's sense of propriety. Finally, at about six pm, we found a convenience store, and imagine how hungry we were to actually buy biscuits worth almost 400 rupees. Biscuits. And imagine how not amused we were when about ten minutes later, the guide and the driver sauntered off to line their stomachs with another one of those high protein, mostly meat meals. I'm convinced that our combined malevolence did some bad things to that man's digestive system later.

After driving for a couple of more hours, we finally reached Multan. It was late evening, and all through our drive, we saw ONE woman on the streets, riding pillion on a bike. ONE woman and SIX Bata stores. I've never been claustrophobic before, and we immediately covered our heads as some sort of safety measure. The pressure to conform, to be inconspicuous was so pressing that even our breathing must have become more muted. We were lost, maybe a little less lost than our guide. Somehow we blundered through the streets to the convent where we were to stay for the next two nights. Not only did this convent share its name with my alma mater in Shillong, it was also located in the cantonment area, where our visas expressly forbade us from going. And the place was so clearly different from Lahore that it succeeded in thoroughly discomfiting all of us. We had a quiet dinner with all the nuns, who were friendly, of course, but convent education makes one rather obsequious towards a woman of the cloth, and here there were about ten of them at the table, so imagine my state. I was stupid enough to eat an orange for dessert, so that everybody at the table was smiling politely, waiting for me to finish, and the darned orange wouldn't end. I surreptitiously passed some along to R, who was sitting next to me, saying, "Psst. Here. HELP!"

Believe it or not, eventually the orange was a thing of the past. We smiled, and smiled some more, and went to bed. It was the first time that we realised that we were in a different country, and sometimes things might get less than pleasant. I still slept soundly, because I always do, but a more sensitive person might have had troubled dreams.

P.S. Guess who's back? Its Kitkat! I'm so thrilled, so glad you're writing again. You were sorely missed, don't pull a vanishing act on faithful readers like me again, okay?
P.P.S. They are right. That was not a very happy post, but happiness grates against your skin when you're ill.

Braindead

2007-01-24T02:12:00.000+05:30

My internet cable stopped working last week. Yes, I know, bigger calamities have befallen the world. And I survived pretty well, I think. But the process of getting it fixed was so protracted and painful that it brought out my claws. I tried calling the local service provider. He told me he's show up the next day. I completed the whole rigmarole of getting the warden's permission, and the donkey did not show up for the next three days. Then I decided it was time for a little violence. I called him up again.

Me: - I'm calling from so-and -so hostel. I've been waiting to get this thing fixed for three days now. Do you intend to show up?
'Service Provider': - Oh of course. It'll be done today.
Me: - That's what you told me three days ago. How do you measure days and nights?
'SP': - Actually you see, this is not my job. I deal with collection. Please call Fool #2 at this number.
Me:- Fool #2 has switched off his phone.
'SP': - It isn't my problem
My thought bubble: - Oh, sweet, you have had it now.
Me: - Alright, I'll have to deal with it. I'll find someone who listens.
'SP': - Ehehe....I'll send someone over.
Me: - Sure you will.
I hang up. Which indicates that my temper has gone beyond the bend, because I NEVER hang up on ANYONE in the middle of a conversation.

Still, some part of scary me must have been effective because the guy did send a technician who told us that all the wires had been eaten up by squirrels. I used to find them cute and cuddly. Now I see a demonic glint in their rapacious eyes. The wires were replaced, but my connection resolutely refused to work, and I had by this time crossed all limits of exasperation. So I called the customer service guys at the main service provider.
Me: - Seven whole days it has been. Let me tell you one thing. If you cannot provide service, please shut shop. Just because you have a monopoly on campus doesn't mean that you can do whatever you please. Nautanki samajhke rakha hai? We have better things to do than to wait around all day for your engineers to show up. Please do one of either: do not give cause for complaints, or have the grace to respond quickly when they occur. And please inform the local guys that they aren't doing us a favour.
[Note to reader: - I always conduct these conversations in my sweetest, most reasonable voice. It makes retaliation tricky. Therefore, if I'm too polite to you, you'll know that I'm really mad at you].
I probably ruined that techie's day.

Anyway, it worked. The two engineers who showed up discovered that the previous blockhead had joined blue wires to orange instead of joining wires of the same colour. He also discovered that our local man has been giving two connections in the space allotted for one. So my connection got fixed, and the company was informed about the creative permutations and combinations that 'SP' has been using on the sly to make a quick couple of hundred bucks.

Hah....Don't mess with me.

Among other things,

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why
I got out of bed at all...
The morning rain clouds up my window,
And I can't see at all,
Even if I could it'd all be grey
But the picture on my wall,
It reminds me that its not so bad, its not so ba-a-ad.

And A-a-aiiiii want to thank you,
For giving me the best day-hey of my laa-i-aaife
And o-o-oh, just to be with you
Is having the best day-hey of my life....

Dido. Dang it, you're a woman.

Actually, it doesn't matter. Marry me anyway.

Pak Conversations - III

2007-01-19T20:07:00.000+05:30

How went the next day in Lahore? Something like this.

In the morning, on waking up, I kept telling myself,"You woke up in Lahore!" over and over again, but it stubbornly refused to sink in. I felt like I was cheating myself for some reason, not being able to fully comprehend the fact of my being in Pakistan. Strange, but for about the first three days I couldn't believe that I was technically a foreigner.

Anyway, at breakfast I discovered that Pakistani butter and cheese are YUMMY, creamy, soft, golden, the works. I had three pieces of toast, and I actually hate bread! Our wonderful, eversmiling caretaker took us down to meet an old gentleman who had taken part in the freedom struggle and had been a companion of Gandhi at Wardha. He was lonely, and more than a little bitter. He spoke impassionedly for about twenty minutes on how we were lucky that freedom was more real to us in India, whereas all designated 'freedom fighters' were still watched by the government over there, and how he still came in to work everyday inspite of being over ninety years old. I felt awkward, shamed somehow. I didn't feel like telling him that freedom in India is only if you don't push the bounds too far, that a lot of times it is the illusion of freedom that suffices. But I figured that ninety is not a good age to get disillusioned.

The car arrived shortly, and we made our way through the streets of Lahore towards Jahangir's tomb. They tell you Lahore is like Delhi. Well, maybe, some parts of it are, but it is much more beautiful. A canal from the river Ravi runs through the city, and fountains light up the night. Hmm, well, this was still morning. The drive was enough to show the striking contrast between the rich and the poor in Lahore. The place where we stayed was clean, sparkling, open. It was lined with spacious bungalows, swanky shopping malls etc. We crossed these old colonial era colleges like Acheson College. They were breathtaking to look at, immense colonial buildings and campuses, and one college had these manicured lawns interspersed with quaint little white park benches. I had visions. Never mind. Even administrative buildings like the General Post Office were housed in beautiful British buildings. They even had their own version of Connaught Place. But on crossing into the old city, we saw the cloistered buildings with their little balconies, the clustered shops, the bad roads and the masses of people. I don't know what charmed me more.

At Jahangir's Tomb, we were asked to cover our heads by a rather hysterical man. The veil gives a very strange feeling. I didn't really hate it, maybe because I knew it was temporary, and it did help in cutting out the cold a little bit. Anyway, the tomb was exquisite, but the maintenance was nothing to really write home about. The place was under restoration, so maybe it'll get better. Again, my old ghost caught up with me. Panels, ceilings, pietra dura on the tomb, lightning scarred trees all caught my fancy. These people had really awesome ideas about use of space. In this world of shelling out big bucks for matchbox sized 1 BHK apartments etc., its just soothing to think of a time when a despot could say,"I want my tomb to encompass all this land as far as the eye can see", without worrying about brokerage fees and the rest. We walked across the complex to the very dilapidated tomb of Asaf Jah, Noorjahan's father. It had been been stripped of all its marble by Ranjit Singh to be reused in the Golden Temple in Amritsar. A similar fate had befallen Noorjahan's tomb which lay separated from Jahangir's tomb by a railway line of colonial vintage. These places were in a bad way. I was in a Shelleyesque, 'Ozymandias' kind of mood already; it made me sad to see how grand visions are reduced to glorified rubble, and how a lot of empire building is just denuding the past because it isn't our own past.

Enough of tombs, it was time to eat. We went to a little lane in an old market whose name I never found out. The little lane had a little restaurant, and we sat upstairs in the 'zenana' section. Quite a change from Bundu Khan, but I was not complaining. Details of food- chicken qorma, chicken biryani, haleem, pizza sized rotis and sesame seed covered nans, gajar ka halwa (which I learned to love that day), shahi tukda and some other dessert (dates in golden sugar syrup) whose name I can't recall. Appraisal- YUMMYLICIOUS. Cost to pocket- minimal. Bursting at the seams, we rolled out onto the street, and from a street vendor I bought a pair of the rattiest looking gloves I've ever seen. I still have them, they're tougher than they look. The next item on the agenda was the Lahore Museum, where I discovered that I'm an utter fool for museums. The only reasons we left in less than an hour were that they were closing, and nature was issuing urgent summons to R and me.

However, valiantly ignoring nature for the moment, we made our way to the walled city area to look at Wazir Shah's mosque, which still retained most of its colourful splendour. Blues, greens, yellows, reds, symmetry, crazy man screaming at me even though my head was covered, it was a complete experience. The artistry of it has to be seen to be believed. What also took me a while to believe was the sight of a couple cooing what I presume were sweet nothings to each other inside the mosque complex. I think they would been very glad to have been in JNU right then.

Now came the most important bit--the walled city is a shopper's paradise.....I maintained some semblance of control, and bought only one exquisite shawl as a gift for SKT, and three sets of cloth for the sisters and myself. Congratulating myself, I walked carelessly into the lair of my nemesis.....the shoe seller. End result- four pairs of exquisite jootis at throwaway prices (Rs.70 INR each). What a way to lose one's resolve. And a pleasant side effect was that nature stopped calling. The therapeutic effects of shopping need to be seriously studied. No, it isn't over yet. We did some more shopping at the beautiful Anarkali Bazar. I actually bought cheap knockoff sunglasses, which says a lot considering I can't even wear them yet, but I continue to be optimistic. That's how knockoffs should be done, the chaps at Sarojini Nagar should seriously take lessons. This was my first encounter with the Pakistani shopkeeper. He is utterly charming and his strategy is ingenious. Let me demonstrate.
Me: - Too expensive.
Shopkeeper: - I'm not doing my shopkeeper routine with you. This is a special rate because you are our 'mehmaan' (guests) from the other side.
Me: - Erm....
SK (looking crestfallen) : - We were hoping that you would buy this and think of your brothers on this side fondly when you're back home...but if you can't afford it....
Me/Sucker (looking completely shamefaced) : - Alright, I'll take it.
My wallet: - You moron...not again...
No wonder they love Indians.

Then the highlight of that night....Food Street...rather, Bliss Avenue, as I like to call it. The street is lined with chairs and tables, and softly illuminated buildings on both sides. What did I eat, you ask? I did not eat, I consumed. The best fried chicken in the world, crisp, succulent, subtly spiced...the best fried mutton in the world, similarly described, some exotic bird whose slaughter is banned in India, chicken in gravy. pizza sized rotis again, chicken tikka, mutton tikka, and sweet, sweet phirni. The food is cheap, the portions are humungous, and the taste is beyond divine...I'm hungry again.

It was finally time for the day to end....with ecstatic reviews of all the shopping, with satisfactory 'ooh's and 'ah's from the comfortable companions, midnight snacking on phirni and tikkas, and moaning about hurting tummies. All in all, perfection with a few specks of dust on it.

PS :- You know the definition of a wonderful day? Waking up at 9.30 am, toast, fried eggs, tea for breakfast, long hot bath, no washing clothes, a short bus ride, making it to the movie just in time, the movie being completely worth a watch, clean toilets, good lunch, great cheesecake, a long due haircut, and the perfect black shoes. I have closely resembled a Cheshire Cat all day.

And This Is Life, My Dear

2007-01-17T23:32:00.000+05:30

So let's take a break from the Pakistan chronicles for today, for two reasons. Firstly. I'm tired and I can't be bothered to reminisce right now, because it reminds me of exactly how boring the aftermath of my vacation has become. Secondly, this entry has been made possible due to the goodness of A, who has agreed to let me monopolise her computer for some time, as my internet connection has decided that we need a trial separation. So I will write what comes easily right now, and is therefore written faster. And thirdly, what am I doing? This is MY blog, I can write whatever I want, I'm not giving any reasons for it.

Anyway, this is something that I have wanted to write about so badly since Saturday last that I've been squirming with the discomfort of not having done so. Saturday was a day that I had been looking forward to because I was supposed to attend a lecture by a visiting God of History from Cambridge. It was something that was particularly important to me because it was after a really long time that I was getting back to history, and memories of the days when I was an undergraduate and actually happy with my academic life, before I got sidetracked by superficial kablooey. Aaargh...never mind.

So in the evening we made our way to the lecture venue, and were not surprised to see the intellectual who's who of the city gathered under that roof. We were ushered in to the coffee area first, so that whoever wanted to chat up the God was given a chance to do so. I was, of course, content to merely sip my tea and giggle like a silly adolescent at the sight of the people who I'd only read so far (yes, I know, your head is exploding with the need to shout, "LOSER! SUCKER!". Calm yourself, I'm not finished). A of course had to meet the God personally since he is soon to assume a position of great significance in her professional life. She came back slightly dizzy, and we made our way back to the lecture room.

The lecture happened, and I won't tell you what it was about. Those of you who are relieved to hear that, have some respect, we're talking about a God here. And those of you who are disappointed, well, go attend the darn things yourself. While applying myself wholeheartedly to the lecture, I also noticed the following: -

1. A lady sitting in front of me, clearly an 'Intellectual Socialite' (smells expensive, nods at the right moments). She was alright, actually, except for the ROSE IN HER HAIR!!!! I mean, come on, she wasn't Salma Sultana by a long shot. And the jewellery on her strategically displayed hand was....interesting. Ahem.

2. This bright looking young man, who might have been intriguing, inspite of the clearly forming bald patch, if he hadn't insisted on surreptitiously patting the said patch all evening in order to conceal it. Of course I had to notice, how could I not?

3. A young lady, whose identity I shall conceal, and her male companion, who were having a conversation in her notebook. Knowing her, I can safely say that it wasn't terribly reverent.

Okay, well, it was good, and then it was over. Then it was time to eat, yet again. We made our way to the iconic Khan Chacha in the market of the same name, stuffed our faces with tikka rolls and whatnot. Then it was on to Barista where my companions wisely stuck to chocolate cake and icecream. I, of course, had to get experimental and order a disaster known as chocolate croissant. Let me tell you what it isn't. It IS NOT warm buttered croissant stuffed with melted chocolate. You can figure out the rest yourself. Oh, wait, the hogging wasn't over yet. We then went on to McDonald's to finish the evening off with french fries. Whoa. We sure can eat.

We hailed an auto and got on, and then the fun really began. Apparently it was one of those days where life decides to show you that variety is indeed its preferred condiment. The auto driver regaled us with the finest Bhojpuri film songs for the entire duration of the ride home, some forty odd minutes. The words I remember most clearly are 'saiyya', 'gamcha', 'uthaike', 'khatiya', 'sab kuch dikhaike', 'chumma' etc. Now put them together and see what they add up to. Exactly. Of course we giggled. Apparently it irritated the guy, who got his own back by bumping against a speedbreaker so hard that yours truly had an achy knee to show for her rather obvious sense of humour. Yet the giggles didn't stop.

The evening ends there, and would've been articulated much earlier, if only my internet guys knew what the words 'Customer Service' actually stand for.

One more thing. Kitkat has decided that she has had enough of blogdom, atleast temporarily. This post is dedicated to the first blog I ever read, and arguably one of my best reads. It was written with wit, style, humour, and above all, what I love about that chocolate covered wafer-person the most....an unending supply of sheer compassion. Okay, KK, you may hang up on me once in a while, I feel stupid being angry about it, so I'm not, not anymore. And you, www.ankitakaul.blogspot.com. You will be missed.