The Bear that Wasn't

I dedicate this post to my Mum, who unbeknowest to herself has made the end of this year survivable. With her obsession for feeding me, disciplining my nani, bitching about the maid, her secret hatred for minority communities and the not so secret loathing of Amir Khan's newly acquired.. sickeningly perfect muscles.

And to my Father, for his obsession with ULIP, PPF, EPF and other acronyms that I should ideally be familiar or at least vaguely acquainted with but am tragically not.

And to the bear, that has been declared to not be a bear, but wants terribly to continue to be one.

To D,
The world is hateful, and you are the bravest woman I know.
Love,
Your chicken-shit sister

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Brilliant books by brilliant authors scare me. They pose a great dilemma. Half of me wants to zoom through it at warp speed and assimilate all the loveliness in one gulp. The other half wants to be patient, re-read every sentence, twist and turn it around and memorize it.

Some sentences are so brilliant that unbeknowest to myself, I end up doing both. Rushing to the end just to feel its brilliance like a giant (but pleasant) kick in the bum. And then catching my breath, to stare long and hard and close at the line(s) of prose in question.

To dismantle it in my chubby hands and re-mantle it in my brain.

(Re-mantle is not a word to the best of my knowledge. Just humour me and I promise to do this again)

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oye lucky lucky oye.. oh lucky lucky oye..
someone please get this song out of my head..

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This post is also dedicated to Magga, who unbeknowest to herself, has for the past 5 months (and counting) been harbouring a criminal. A seemingly model tenant who has quite beknowest (see I told you I'd do it again) to herself, been smuggling all sorts of contraband into the establishment. Examples to illustrate- stale Bembos's burgers, staler mango smoothies. Foul words, fouler moods. And oh-so many bottles of wine.

The delinquent in question has successfuly managed to conceal a 2 foot camera tripod within the premises of her den. That and the most prolonged case of the blues. The tripod lasted 3 days, the pout lingered on for three months.

And the riff-raff.. The constant traffic of cronies she's given shelter to from time to time? Lets not even go there.. A South Indian bombshell, a delectable pooch, a sibling (a.k.a Ursa Major) and a monkey precisely 6'2" tall.

All this treachery while being fed on a healthy diet of interesting conversation and roast chicken. The ungrateful wretch.

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This post is also dedicated to the bombshell, the pooch and the monkey.

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The bear that wasn't.. Tooodle Ooh Too Too.. Wasn't a bear at all..
Yes thats much better..

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I beg the reader to not accuse me of relentless pseudery, what with the allusions to all sorts of members of the animal kingdom (bears, monkeys, dogs.. I believe a chicken also finds mention). I'm mostly slipping in secret messages to myself in the fervent hope that I myself will remember what all the references refer to.

Pseudery is in fact a word. I read it in a book. An absolutely delightful book by Stephen Fry.

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If I could ask any three famous people for a hug they would be-
1. Stephen Fry: For bringing poetry back in to my life for a brief and refreshing bit.
2. Shrek: Ok so he's not really real. But hypothetical hugs are so much more fun when the prospective hugger is big and cuddly. And green.
3.Daniel Craig: *blush*

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I'm still working on which three famous people I'd like to have dinner with, which lucky one I'd like to be stuck on a deserted island with and which celebrity I will name my child/dog after.

I saw 15 minutes of a documentary on Britney Spears. So that's one name off the list(s).

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This post is dedicated to the word "unbeknowest". That and plural(s).

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We went to watch a movie today, my mum and I. There are so many things I love about watching movies in Chandigarh. Firstly and most importantly, I think the city houses the only multi-plex cinema that still screens advertisements of Vico-Vajradanti and Vico Ayurvedic Cream.

Second, is the version of the national anthem that they screen before the movie. The anthem is picturised on soldiers at the Siachen Glacier. It is the kind of thing that makes you want to join the army or marry someone in the army or make your kids join the army or marry someone from the army etc. The kind of thing that reduces people like me to a blubbery bag of salty tears.

Jokes apart, it is a beautiful rendition of the national anthem and really stirs something inside me.

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There has been an awful lot of blubbering off late. I blame the hormones. When in doubt blame hormones.

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I spent the first half of the movie convincing myself that if I did not write a post soon, my brain would explode into millions of tiny little pieces/peices. That and the horrifying prospect of forgetting how to spell. All this fear therapy was briefly suspended for when the songs came on. I realised a while back that I only go to watch Hindi movies for the songs. The story line, dialogue etc. are purely incidental (which is sort of how some movies are made in the first place).

I am deeply indebted to Jos for helping me come to terms with this ugly truth. To embrace this handicap, accept it as a gift, storm resolutely out of the closet..

And sing along..

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The second half of the movie was slightly more hectic.

I spent a fare amount of time trying to shield my eyes from being visually assaulted by the lead actor's bulging pecks. I swear they seemed to burgeon with every passing minute. I had the almost uncontrollable urge to reach into the screen and deflate them somehow. Maybe ascertain the location of secret valves through which air was being cruelly pumped into his tiny little frame, testing the durability of his skin and the seams that hold it together. I was banking on the songs to come to my rescue, but there too I was to be granted no respite. The bulge came back to haunt me all over again.

About the only thing that was more irritating was Jiah Khan, who I am convinced is the most annoying little twit to have ever graced the silver screen.

This post is dedicated to the person who reads it through and through.. every last bit. Its about time I dedicated it to myself.

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This post is dedicated to Gargoyle. For refusing to cave to Dabba culture. For making the 10 hours spent at work survivable. In your never ending quest for funny pet names, may you find great success.

For your quiet amusement at my inexplicabel hatred for Shobhaa De. Wait till I give you the lowdown on Amir Khan's abs (clearly the theme of this blog post) and Jiah Khan.

And also to A, may your run of bad luck cease post haste. And to Bose, may your store of gossip never cease. Certainly not post haste.

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Apropos of nothing this post is also dedicated to R. I don't think I will ever be 'Lamba'sted quite the way I was on that fateful day (I'm tempted to say day(s)). I know you are a nice person, I really do, but the mouse in me is really glad to have turned in her Placement Cell shoes.

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Although a shade darker than its prequels, I quite like the third edition of Pirates of the Caribbean. Especially the bit when all the pirates are swept up by Keira Knightly's motivational speech (and not just because she is pretty) and decide to fight. Its the kind of thing that makes you want to be a pirate or marry one and so on..

Apologies for the drivel. It is much cold here and I cannot sleep. Am slowly losing the ability to construct meaningful sentences.

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If I take all the emotions I have felt over the course of the past year and try to cram them into a bag, well lets just say it would be an awfully large bag. Its not just the variety but the extremes which surprise me. Extreme happiness, bliss even and also a fair amount of glumness. Deep, debilitating fear and surprising amounts of strength and courage. Contentment and impatience. Being loved and being lonely. Industrious and shamelessly lazy. The depression of having bungled some things up and the joy of success.

About the only thing I regret feeling is Boredom. I think it is an entirely despicable way to be, bored that is. So I shall attempt to make a rather ambitious New-Year's resolution. To not permit boredom to come and ruin a perfectly full and beautiful life. To never ever accept boredom as a sad but necessary side effect of being alive.

I really hope I succeed. My sanity, among other things, is riding on it.

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At long last, this post is dedicated to a fool. A peddler of humble wares and big stories. Who is full of "Gup" and even fuller of gas. Who promises to look me up the next time he is in Mumbai and flirt with me away from the watchful eye of his girlfriend. Unbeknowest to himself, he made my day.

I will be there, in my sunday best, to keep boredom at bay and find fodder for more blog posts.

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Happy New Year!!