Beauty, The Price we Pay for

Bhakti has declared war on my eyebrows. Steadfast and relentless, she is a woman on a mission. A mission to rid my eyebrow of every seemingly superfluous hair (and some non-superfluous ones as well: even the best get carried away). I may writhe and flinch constantly in agony (you try having your eyebrows plucked... it HURTS) but she remains undeterred. Almost as though feminising me is the sole purpose of her existence, her ticket into heaven, her contribution to world peace. The assiduousness with which she inflicts pain only slightly milder than that experienced during childbirth is truly awe-inspiring.

Let no errant hair be spared!

May those over-enthusiastic follicles be pinched into submission!

Then of course, like any artiste/mass murderer worth his salt she inspects her work and flamboyantly invites others (me, barely conscious) to as well. What emerges from this lengthy PRO-CE-DURE are two emaciated (and/or dainty depending on your perspective on things) eyebrows, mere shells of their former hirsute selves. The poor unsuspecting fools, cruelly robbed of character... Sigh...

I slide off the executioner's chair and flail around helplessly till everything stops coming at me in pairs. And stare intently at the scene of the crime. No visible scars... but what of the ones I carry in my heart? What of the stinging sensation that lingers on my still tender skin? The pain I must carry on face for the rest of my life... or at least the next 20 minutes.

I am instructed to surrender an obscene sum of money into the hands of the owner of this torture chamber. As I mull over the irony of paying someone to be mean to you in the interest of aesthetics I proceed to do what any self respecting woman placed in a similar situation would.

First, I blame my mother.

Then, I blame men.

Mumbai

Lovely Building #1: Mosque near Marine Lines Station

Kandeel #1: Girgaum

Bandra Station: Makes for an artistic picture, but sometimes I wish everyone would just stand still and pose

Bandra Talao: Smells of Poo

King's Kite Centre, S.V. Road: I am deeply in love with this store and can't help but smile whenever I pass it. Am also informed by the owner (a lovely man, easily engaged in random conversation) that a visit here brings good luck.

Bandra: Eunuchs line up for Diwali bakhshish (you go girls..)

Kandeel #2: Kalbadevi

Chogle Building (View from): There's a lovely church next door. Once believed to enjoy the alliegance of the largest

Catholic congregation in Mumbai.

Chogle Building: "Stairs". This unimaginatively titled piece has met with rave reviews (N), much gushing and hysterics (also N) and is widely considered (by both N and me) to be one of my finest pictures yet.

Lovely Building #2: Deutsche Bank office near VT

Shamrock: Flowers on the terrace, M's

Shamrock: Ancient lamp, A's

Shamrock: Guitar, N's

Shamrock: Window sill, Mine

Kashmir

Pahalgam: View from "Betaab" Valley.

Pahalgam: Beetle most bashful

Sonamarg: Thajewas Sanctuary. They let people in.

Back waters of the Dal Lake

Dal Lake as viewed from Nishat: I'm such a tourist

Nishat Bagh: Didn't quite get what I was going for, but I still like this one.

Gulmarg: Painting in the cards room of Highlands Park. Was so tempted to steal it!

Nishat Bagh: Kids celebrate three days of Eid by taking a dip. Mum wonders why I'm taking pictures of young boys in swimming trunks.

Hotel Centaur: Spooky

Dal Lake: Shot from the garden of Hotel Centaur. I love this picture. Partly because its the only aspiring national geographic picture that I actually got right. But mostly because it marks the moment I learnt to adjuct the focus on my camera. Hee hee.

Baisaran: View from the bottom

En Route to Sonamarg: Sindhu river

Shalimar Bagh: Chinar leaves "frozen in time" (actually suspended in supremely mucky water)

Shalimar Bagh: Wooden ceiling panel.

Afarwat: Frozen cobweb. Mum says I have an eye for the disgusting.

Gulmarg: It posed, I couldn't resist

Gulmarg: "Kahwah" at Highlands Park. Mum and I decided to stick to chai in the future.

Dal Lake: On board the "Pakhtoon", flanked by "Helen of Troy" and "Queen Elizabeth"

the lady on my left is barking (loud) instructions into her helpless phone. her son needs to get from bhayander to mahim. the instructions are clear (loud). the son appears to be lost (an idiot). the instructions are repeated (loudly).

the gentleman on my left is barely there. he is old and quiet and frail. he appears to have lost
most (if not all) of his teeth. this must have happened years ago but his face is still struggling to comes to terms with it. it just droops sadly.

the opthamolmologist (a most unpronouncable doctor) is punctual...
he wears glasses (almost as if to prove a point)...
disappears quickly behind a (frighteningly) spotless white door...
has his spotless (but not quite frightening) nurse call me in...

i sneak a look at myself from the corner of my (one healthy and fully functional) eye...
my eye (the other one) is obscenely swollen...
like a chudail from some low budget (e.g. Ramsey Brothers type) horror movie...
like someone involved in an animated bar brawl...
like a victim of domestic violence...
my eye is twice its normal size... the other one ceases to exist... i am a cyclops... muaahahaha...
it also itches and hurts a bit... and i'm getting late for work... and the hospital smells of a strange cocktail of medicine, phenyl and sick people... and i want my mommy... (sob)

i prepare myself for the worst.
doctor: don't worry it'll go
me: oh ok...
doctor: the eye is perfectly healthy, its probably just an infected eyelash follicle.
me: aaaah ok...
doctor: in some cases aggravated by excessive dandruff
me: oops...

so not only do i have to deal with looking like a circus freak i also have to digest the ignominy of a highly unglamorous condition. sheesh. i can almost feel a kick in the bum from my pubescant self. she's grinning past the pimples and saying - you thought you'd gotten rid of me didn't you? muahahaha...

next stop... chemist...
i struggle with the prescrition...
the shop boy struggles with the prescrition...
the chemist struggles with the prescription...
doctors can be so inscrutable on paper...

and now it decides to rain... i have never been more in need of an umbrella/hug than ever before...
instead i have a swollen eye and Dr. D's hieroglyphics.
*
i dedicate this post to my mommy. i really did miss you today.

What Goes Around

If there is such a thing as Karma, I think its safe to say that I'm covered.
*
A long long time ago, I awoke from a deep deep sleep to find something black, round and prickly attempting to navigate its way up my leg. At least thats what I think it was trying to do. Somewhere along its adventure the said creature stumbled upon the crook of my knee and decided to take a pit stop. At least thats what I think it was trying to do. I don't know much about insects but I imagine if I were one and if I had embarked upon a journey to conquer the leg of some disgusting bi-ped and if I needed to stop and catch my breath I would make sure I do it in the crook of someone's knee. There is something soft and inviting about it.
So anyway...
So there I was staring past the mess of hair that had tumbled on to my face while I was asleep, staring through the dark, my vision assisted by the giant floodlights in the hostel garden and mostly staring through sleep (rather, trying) at this black, round and prickly thing lying lazily in... the crook of my knee.
*
170 people from my company got fired last week. Last Friday to be precise. Some of them new, some experienced. Some young, some old.
*
Too sleepy to care. I grabbed it, wrapped it in my palm, threw it on the floor, went back to sleep.
*
Every day subsequent to Friday has been unbearable.
We take long chai breaks to discuss our predicament. The tragedy that has befallen the sorry lot that is us. It helps a little. But not much. The conversations are predictable and the chai is too sweet.
*
A broom and an old newspaper is all it took. It didn't really put up much resistance as I scooped it up and deposited it into an old flower pot. Beetles can be like that.
Extremely dull, yet highly obliging.
*
Tuesday, we all went out for drinks to commemorate one year of work. It amazes me how people my age can be so incredibly negative. How they can endlessly rue the consequences of their decisions. How they can let this relentless mulling and brooding turn their hair grey and their tummies soft.
Wednesday, we went out to celebrate a year of earning money. Of being all grown up. And we behaved like absolute children.
Thursday, I took everyone out to celebrate one year of my being in Bombay. With salmon and wine. Gnochi and such like unpronouncable things. B sipped from his glass and made polite conversation. M played around with her fish and predicted my imminent rise up the corporate ladder. I waded through his ("please don't forget to make mine") extra creamy pasta and tickled me most inappropriately. N was consumed by a basket of warm bread. It was lovely.
*
But why stop at the beetle. I once let a family of pigeons take over my balcony for the better part of two months, while their putrid progeny made their painfully slow progress from egg-dom to being full fledged birds.
And no one was the wiser. Not even the maids, I'd barred them from cleaning my room. Don't know why though, they'd have been most approving. They always refused to dispose of pigeon eggs. "Paap chadega" they'd say.
*
So I still have my job, still have my money, still have my Bombay. I must be doing something right. Right?
*
N swept it out of her room using her trusty rubber chappals. B preferred the services of a rolled up Sunday Times. Neglected by all and sundry it decided to take refuge in my nondescript little hovel, the least glamorous of the Shamrock suites. I deposited it at the window and wished it well.
*
I dedicate this post to the Messrs. Moon. To C, because the office has never been, nor will it ever be the same without him. And to M of the moon shaped head who turned two today. If I ever end up writing stories for you I promise to make them better than this post.

An Ode to the Corporate Whore

This was written for me by a dear friend. Someone I love with every fibre of my being (that includes both neutrons and neurons: inside joke).

The little girl who scratched her nose

candy pink bows on striped toes,

here is a bedtime tale,

of a little girl with credit card woes

and her travels and travails

a difference, she wanted to make

data entry, she deeply scorned

no for an answer, she would not take,

her wallet, be suitably warned.

but how to do it? where's the right space?

confused, she scratched her nose

wherever it is, it's certainly not *here

bereft of poetry, reeking of prose

*here stews with credit card data holders

it pays but does not play

those blessed men, an intel chip on their shoulders

just type away all day

there's no talk of woolf or plath

none of the indonesian election

no insight into meanings of life, or this path

or of Vallejo's latest collection!

is it too much for a girl to ask,

for a conversation that's not about sales?

is it too much, a gargantuan task

to move a little away from retail?

"of course not!", the merlion squacks

little one, do not fear

development is the place to be, it rocks

money is overrated, my dear!

come join the ranks of the squalid poor

who try to do good for a living

come let us find, for swine flu a cure

come let us be (for)giving!

let us teach little children, and nurse the elderly

we can't spend, but it will be sublime

let's walk homeless puppies, let us curse the miserly

we can't spend, but we can rhyme!

*name withheld for obvious reasons

***

You'd think asking questions would be, at the very least, half the battle won. Unfortunately, as with most other things, life stubbornly insists on being: a bitch.

***

Ignoring existential questions is that much easier on the weekends.

More so if you live in Mumbai.

Particularly if you are flushed with funds.

It helps if you are beautiful (Hee hee..)

***

So this weekend I have decided to expedite the decision making process by- going to Goa. Undeniably the choice destination for all people who want to indulge in extended contemplation on a series of "serious" and potentially "life changing" questions.

Yup.. That's exactly how its going to turn out..

***

I dedicate this (rather garbled) post to Shru-J (yo-yo-uh-uh) and Big Lips.

All the queen's men

I have decided that when I grow old (it’s about to happen soon, i can feel it in my bones) i will write a book. It won’t be just any book... No siree... it will be... a masterpiece.

And it will be about Men...

Not just men in general or any one in particular. Just the lucky few who get to court me. Yes, it will be an all too detailed account of boyfriends. Of which i plan to very soon be acquiring many.
This hastily planned ambition leaves me in strange predicament. A challenge for the congenitally diffident person that is me. My track record thus far has been fairly lack lustre in the love department. Not that the few (i have chosen to be suitably vague with numbers to avoid public embarrassment, lets just say you could count them on your fingers... the fingers of one hand... ok fine two fingers) who ambled along were not nice... oh no in fact they were lovely. Its just that i feel i should have covered more ground by now. Played the field just a smidge more.

Moving swiftly along, the snail’s pace at which i have gone about boy-friending men has made the road ahead slightly rough. Time is of the essence. I have decided to rule out the younger men folk. This is in the best interest of one and all. I hardly relish the prospect of knocking on their doors years later asking for their permission to publish an “only mildly exaggerated” version of our courtship. They would all have to be older so as to kick the bucket in a timely fashion allowing me to release the book without the ever present threat of defamation charges. That way i can bask in the glory of my superlative literary achievement in the winter of my life. And most importantly decide who gets to play me in the motion picture version (coming eventually to a theatre near you).

Yes older men it is. Younger man with a good sense of humour is also permissible.

So to reiterate. I will write a book. It will be deeply insightful (aren’t i always?) and really really funny.

There have to be a minimum of at least 10 men, else its no fun at all. And though the likelihood of falling for the same kind of man is high, it would be preferable for them to be very very different. We all secretly wish for our lives to be richly peopled. I confess i’m no less immune to this sort of day dreaming than anyone else.

Unfortunately, having to make room for >=10 men in your life (on a sequential basis, multitasking was never quite my thing) necessitates punctuation of the script with at least 9 break ups. But in this too there must be variety. Some tearful and tragic, some dramatic and confrontational. Some mature and amicable and others... well not quite.

Yes... detailed, eventful and funny to a fault. Not to mention frequent wardrobe changes.

I am still undecided as to how the saga will pan out. Whatever will happen to our protagonist? I’m too much of a girl to avoid ending it all with the one closest to perfect man coming and sweeping her off her feet. Predictable, yes i agree... but its a good bet the audience will lap it up. I know i would.

Will he be pretty? Will he be rich? Que sera sera...

*

I remember a very long time ago, being very certain about the 3 qualifying criteria for being this man.

1. Should help me cross the road (and i don’t mean figuratively, i’m genuinely very bad at crossing roads)

2. Should laugh at all my jokes (non-negotiable)

3. Should display qualities (bare minimum of one) that causes a rumbling in the tummy. Mere display of interest or even mild affection (virtually impossible to not reciprocate) must under no circumstances be permitted to substitute this. This last one is the killer. Loosely translated that means “the guy must be hot in one or the other way. Under no circumstances must you like him simply because he likes you”.

Somewhere in between a few questionable additions were made only to be replaced by other no less absurd ones: must be Russian, must wear spectacles, must be Rahul Dravid (it was true love i tell you) ... must be scruffy and or well dressed... must be a good dancer... must be a wallflower. (When i am particularly angry the demands veer towards the materialistic... must own car, must know everything about income tax saving investments etc.)

Barring the frequent deviations, the 3 points more or less cover the basics. Frills (ownership of vehicle(s), deep knowledge of income tax saving investments) are welcome but not mandatory. In love these sacrifices can be made i suppose.

So that’s that. The broad outline of my love life and a brief character sketch of its prospective cast. A highly plausible (though not necessarily probable) story set against the backdrop of 3 seemingly innocuous conditions.

And an entire lifetime (minus some 24 years) to write it.