Words Inc.

I don’t think I will ever muster up enough words (energy, ambition, enthusiasm) to last an entire book. The very prospect of making the transition from paragraphs to pages bores (scares) me. However, I would like to contribute to the world of literature in my own little way. We at blimblop do hereby announce the sale of our services as “Sentence Writers”. We are willing to part with a choice few of our beautifully crafted lines of prose for a nominal fee. So whether you are a) an aspiring writer, b) an established one or c) any miscellaneous variety poised uncomfortably between a) and b) I think you will find our products immeasurably valuable.
Our sentences are versatile and can be customised to accommodate, among other things – rhyme, music, graphic sexual imagery (extra charges apply), jokes, inappropriate language AND long complicated words that only those appearing for the GRE can comprehend.
Best employed in the no-man’s land between one dramatic scene and the other (i.e. the parts that no one reads anyway) or between one twist in the tale and the next (i.e. stuff that never makes it to the blurb) our sentences can slide in unobtrusively between the protagonists’ multiple moments of cathartic self realisation (the more the better) adding considerable girth to your labour of love without necessarily detracting from its worth.

And as if the advertisement isn’t persuasive enough thus far, we are enclosing some illustrations of the creative talents of our editorial team. No one does a simile or metaphor quite like us. First 5 callers get one+one free!
- My helplessness disgusted her. She looked at me pitifully and offered to help. Her words had the forced sincerity of a prostitute’s orgasm.
- Who knew smiles and polite laughter could be so tiring? You’d find more charisma in a head of organic certified lettuce. It was exhausting just to look at him.
- She knew she had made a major boo-boo. The challenge of concealing her embarrassment made her cringe and wring her hands in agony. The very hands that had committed a faux pas as inconspicuous as J Lo’s bottom.
- How mind numbingly boring that town was. A lively conversation was as elusive as politicians in mid-term.
- Everyone tried to talk him out of it. She was a woman of loose morals with a history of infidelity. Expecting her to be loyal was like expecting a banker to be imaginative. (inside joke)
- Their intentions were noble. But there is only so much you can do with someone who has the latent sex appeal of a Zoo Zoo. All efforts to beautify her were to no avail.

We have expanded our creative repertoire with a recent foray into dialogue composition. For eg.
- “Everything has collapsed”, she cried out in exasperation. “I should have known better than to hand over the reins to someone with the intelligence levels of senior management”

.So go on... script that Pulitzer worthy book of yours, craft the storyline, pour in the hours and squeeze out the emotion. Whatever it takes – Blood, sweat, tears, repeat doses of illegal narcotics etc.
Just leave the uncomfortable silences to us. Such trivialities are best outsourced to those adequately equipped to handle them. Isn’t capitalism beautiful?
*
This post is dedicated to anyone who thinks sentences are delicious.
And to PPP on account of being deliciously left-of-centre. Also on account of being delicious.

Girl Next Door: Take Me to your Mother

So about a year and some months ago a nice young man enquired whether or not I was single. Of course he didn't pose this question DIRECTLY to me... that would be too brazen and this man is far too NICE. He chose, as all incurably NICE people would, to find out from a supremely efficient and only very rarely inaccurate medium called "the grapevine". Of course there is only so much information that aunty gossip can get you. Particularly when the subject of your interest is as mysterious, enigmatic and intriguing as Belle Blimblop. But mostly because in the two weeks of Management Trainee orientation I spoke to as few people as is humanly possible and succeeded in making precisely 1 and a 1/2 friends.

Aaaaanyway... the doggedness (and NICEness) with which the investigative small talk was conducted, though touching in its innocence was utterly disappointing in intent. It turns out the NICE man was drawn to me neither for my mysteriousness, nor my enigmaticness and least of all for my intriguingness. When asked to elaborate on the qualities that so endeared me to him he was known to say - "She has a pretty smile" and later "She seems sweet" and later still - "She's very 'take home'". It was in the midst of this sickeningly saccharine "Sooraj Barjatya"ness that my prospective suitor went on to say - "You know I'm 27, and my family feels I should start looking".

Eek..

And again.. Eek..

You can imagine what this did to my dreams of being the hottest Mem in Mumbai. My estimation of my own sexiness plummeted to obscene lows. My unsuspecting parents, fretting over the prospect of finding spouses for not one but TWO highly non-homely daughters: little did they know that my "Renuka Shahane" charms were already at work, attracting NICE young men. Hmpf...

*

This post is dedicated to the use of “ness” behind every adjective and SAYING THINGS IN CAPSLOCK FOR EMPHASIS.

*

That one experience may not be much to go by though. Just the other day a male friend asked when I was planning to "settle down". The conversation went as follows -

Gtalk: VKK is typing

VKK: so when are you planning to settle down?

Gtalk: SP is typing

SP: why? Are you interested?

Gtalk:

Several minutes of silence later

Gtalk: SP is typing

SP: So, ARE you interested?

Gtalk: VKK did not receive your chat

I'll take that as a sign that all is not lost. I shall now proceed to resurrect my injured oomph.

*

Child Marriage and such like startling trends:

Why the tearing hurry to wrap up the nuptials? Search me. For the life of me I can't understand why people would want to get married at the age of 24. For the benefit of the ignorant I wish to use my blog as a platform to point out a few inalienable truths that I hope will make them think twice about marriage:

1. Women do not have to stop having babies at the age of 27. They're popping out healthy little bundles of joy till well into their 30s.

2. You needn't be married to have sex. God approves of naughtiness if conducted responsibly and WILL NOT PUNISH YOU.

3. Marriage is forever. Say it with me - FOREVER

(ominous whisper) ONE person, the same person - every single day

(ominous whisper+echo) for for the the rest rest of of FOREVER (FOR-E-VER)

*

Me: I saw a cute boy on the bus today

U: Another one?

Me: Yes! Only this one is really actually cute...

U: Ok. Who is he?

Me: I don't actually know him stupid..

U: So why are you so excited?

Me: Because I might see him on the bus tomorrow and the day after and the day day after...

U: And that is a good thing because...

Me: Because... because he carries a cute brown backpack, wears vertical striped shirts and is attractive in a yuppie sort of way and could very possibly be the love of my life...

U: Bu...

Me: And he lives in Bandra... IN BANDRA! Thats where I live!! We may be neighbours!!!

U: So what comes next?

Me: Not much. For now I shall just admire him from afar and try to stare him into submission..

U: And then?

Me: Then we'd go for coffee and icecream, lunches and dinners, movies and plays, lonavala and goa..

U: And your boyfriend?

Me: Oh he's amazing...

U: Huh?

Me: Tell me about it. Such an inconvenience no?

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber: An epistle of love for my wayward ovaries

Dear Ovaries,

For as long as I have known you, you have caused me nothing but agony. In fact, had it not been for the aforementioned trouble I'd have scarcely known you existed within me. Is that the only way you could think of to let me know you're around? A simple "hello" would have sufficed.

So anyway, o1 and o2, I don't quite know how to explain this to you without feeling bashful but... see the thing is... women menstruate roughly once a month. Not twice a month, once in two months, always and/or never. The deviations from this simple schedule that you so gleefully indulge in may serve to make life interesting once in a while. But by and large it makes sense to stick to the 28 day cycle. And though the process is bound to be icky and unpleasant there is no law that compells periods to cause excruciating pain.

At first I was angry, livid even. I mean aren't ovaries just supposed to know these things? Were mine just plain ignorant? Of all the reproductive systems in all the bodies of all the women in the world, they had to end up in mine... Sigh.

Extended reflection made me realise that I may have been unreasonably harsh in my initial assessment of the matter. I figured... we're all human right? After all, it did take me some time to wrap my head around calculus. And periods can be complicated.

I know you're job isn't made any simpler by the cysts (eeeeewww). Its a hereditary condition. Just one of the things I inherited from my mother along with beauty, crippling indecisiveness and the propensity to cry at the end of movies (even happy ones). But guys, work with me. Try. Its not as hard as it looks.

Oh and there's more. The disorder is usually set right after the first pregnancy so you needn't misbehave forever. I secretly think its a cleverly crafted conspiracy to sabotage the whole women's lib idea: impregnate all of them on the promise of curing PCOS, immobilise them and laugh maliciously as they waddle around like cranky penguins. But, love it or hate it, that's the only sure fire cure.

So ladies, we're just going to have to lump it till then (the "then" in question being far far away). It might help to keep a calendar so you know just when to kick in and just when to lie low. Oh and watch this amazing thing I found online. I wish they'd shown us this back in school rather

than sending in that scary nun with her horror-movie like documentary on abortion, chock full of graphic imagery that left us all scarred for life. Things would have made sense. Or at least more sense than they did anyway.

Anyhoo I guess its about time I wrap up this little note. Take your time (just not too much ok). Please know that I love and treasure you and shall do everything in my power to grin and bear it.

Respect,

BB

*

Polycystic Ovaries Syndrome (PCOS) is caused due to the formation of several follicles or cysts (far in excess of the usual number) within the ovaries which may result in irregularities in a woman's menstrual cycle and imbalance of hormones released by the ovaries. The condition could manifest itself in the following ways: Irregular periods, weight gain, acne, hirsuitism (if you don't what that means; look it up) and in extreme cases - infertility.

What I hate most is how a condition borne from a decidedly female part of a woman's body can strike at the very root of her femininity. Make her less of a girl. Sophisticated people call that "irony".

PCOS is not a disease and is in fact surprisingly common. Treatment is symptomatic and varies with the severity of the disorder. I'm lucky, all I need to do is take a few pills to set things right. Except that I had to spend a small fortune on medical consultation, blood tests and sonograms. The unpleasantness was mitigated to a large extent by the fact that my radiologist turned out to be quite cute. But there's is only so much you can fancy a man who asks you to drink a whole litre of water, then instructs you to lie down on your back and proceeds to rub some gooey thing on your belly.

The "Public Service Announcement" tone of this post was not quite intended. But if anyone does come across this while reading up on PCOS please note: If you have those awful little things inside you then you are NOT A CIRCUS FREAK and that you are still ALL GIRL. So there..

Issued in public interest

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.