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.

Retreat to the Hills: Revisited

(thats my papa!! second from left. the one in the nerdy glasses)

The internet is a fabulously fantastic thing.

My dad (a.k.a. "Pradhanacharya" B.K. Puri) just mailed me articles from local Hamirpur newspapers describing the heroic exploits of the sports contingent from his school... specifically on how they totally creamed the competition ("Jaypee Samirpur ne jamayee dhaak").

Its one of those district sports meets. The dignitaries are made to sit on a stage and everything, given fancy "Gaddedaar" kursis and soft drinks. I don't mean to boast or anything, but I was almost a dignitary at last year's sports meet. Of course shyness got the better of me. I opted instead for a chair along the sidelines and a steel tumbler full of water. Pooch was there too! We were both in full "fish out of water" mode.

Being stared at with such dilligence you'd think we were Martians.

The sports meet concluded with a prize distribution ceremony in honour of which everyone (except the aforementioned Martians) was dressed in their Sunday best. This was promptly followed by a jam session (genuine Punjabi songs... not the shitty Jazzy B. variety). The girls danced on one side of the field and the boys on the other end of its diameter. My dad stood somewhere on the circumference, clapping his hands (in the way that old people do) and tapping his right foot (in the way that dad's do) and ignoring all invitations from his students to join them on the dance floor (in the way that "Pradhanacharyas" do)

The stench of youth and celebration was overpowering. But in a good way.

And what celebration would be complete without a sumptuous meal? The arrangement was sort of like a langar... everyone sat on the ground (dignitaries included) on carpets under a humungous tent. And the food was so so brilliant, made more so by the lack of cutlery.

I remember stopping on the way back home to fill a bottle of water from a little stream in one little corner of a hill. That and coming close to death as Sher Singh drove us back to the Institute in his signature (bordering on Schumacherish) style. My belly was so full of food and happy thoughts I knew dinner was out of the question. Even the thought of Ghanshyam's (the cook) guilt inducing pout could not convince me to eat.

*

I'm glad my father sent me these pictures. There are so many little things I suddenly remember (eg. dirty steel tumbler, the stream of water, near death experiences. The poor man suffering from kidney stones who had to be ferried all across the hills for want of a doctor, the trip to the water source, leopard stories, ghanshyam's killer desi ghee mithai. Una - probably the world's cutest little railway station, the fire miracle at Jwala Ji, the inordinate amounts of time Pooch and I spent taking naps, that terrible Shahid Kapur movie).

And I distinctly recall wanting to preserve each of these memories in the minutest of detail.

*

Such a terrific summer. I'd just finished up with my exams, just got done having my Law term paper ripped to shreds by RS. I'd just gotten a fancy job, in a fancy bank, in fancy Bombay. I was in the process of planning a trip of questionable intentions to Nainital (so delirious with excitement you'd think I was visiting the Alps). Everything was shiny and glowy and round and complete. I wish for everyone I know to experience such bliss at least once.

*

And now here I am in Bombay. Precisely a kajillion miles away from all that. Still shiny and glowy (I am reliably informed that Bombay has improved my complexion) and only slightly rounder. And pleased as punch that despite the distance in space and time from that summer of sheer unadulterated joy its memory is enough to make me happy. All this from a newspaper article that doesn't so much as mention me, a photograph which doesn't feature my face and a trophy I didn't win.

Pleasures of the Flesh #2 a.k.a. Bad Blog Post#3

So there we were... if there were a dictionary of all the feelings a person could conceivably feel you would be hard pressed to find just what we felt. Had our thoughts been facial expressions, they’d be an odd mixture of disbelief, admiration and fear. It happens to everyone doesn’t it? When you see something so beautiful it scares you just a little?


Stuffed like sardines. Elbow room only. You can literally hear your neighbours’ breathing pick up pace when assaulted by an all too candid scene. But only just (you are perhaps pre-occupied with concealing yours?).


Oh G7, how I love you! Cold samosas, stale popcorn, overpriced coffee... all of us 48, collectively seduced by celluloid.


The screen has a row of tiny bulbs all around it. All glowy and festive. Like an absurd PG advised diwali.


Each movie hall has its own private little loo.


The people next to me... how I wish they would find an alternative venue to express their affection for one another. The idea of discretion is obviously alien to their culture. They seem to have a terrible amount of ground to cover during the short span of the movie. They are all passion. And all arms and legs. Its like sitting next to an extremely fidgety octopus. One that makes annoying “puch puch” sounds.


So there we were... we felt our heads swell with ideas. Stuffed to the brim with the stuff of other peoples’ dreams. And to the dreams of these others we entrust two hours of our lives. We argue, make love, start a revolution, become a legend and die. All 48 of us.


And on our way home, just before the magic wears off we all make a little movie in our heads. Mine never gets beyond the opening score. But there are those who have plotlines in place, dialogues penned down, lighting, camera angles... maybe even the odd award acceptance speech.


*


This post is dedicated to Gargoyle and the erstwhile Duke of Puke.

Bon Voyage

I have had to handle way too many farewells during the course of my short Mumbai existence. Everyone seems to leave sooner or later.

First it was Jos. How dare Jos leave?

So I reach Bombay, establish contact, actually manage to corner Jos into meeting me on a regular basis. So Jos plays along, is all obliging when it comes to the rendezvousing, gleefully stringing me along. I taste blood. Jos packs Jos’s bags and leaves. Cheated, betrayed... oh Jos... how could you?

And the mass exodus from work? Don’t even get me started... Am, Sh, K. Now Gargoyle... maybe later even Shr... its too tragic. Everyone seems to have other plans. Bigger, better things to do. One can’t help but feel all left behind.

And now that I’m making a list i might as well add- S, S, ChK. Ok so we weren’t exactly bum-chums, but that shouldn’t restrict me from bringing them up as illustrative examples should it?
More departures are in the offing. B is trying hard to prolong his Mumbai sojourn but the people over at the visa office might have some reservations. He too will soon leave. As will G. And Pooch? My partner in crime, apple of mine eye... she’s all but got her boarding pass in hand. Do these people not realise the extreme inconvenience they are causing me by just up and leaving? Inconsiderate bums...

Now AA is leaving too... which brings the count of interesting people at work dangerously close to zero.

I wish i had the means... the powers of persuasion to convince everyone to hang on in Mumbai for just a shade longer. Why doesn’t everyone appreciate how fantastically brilliant this city is? This lack of perspective seems endemic particularly among people i like. Or is it just that i notice their departure? Zillions of people have abandoned ship but i’ve only been pained by the few casualties that effect my life, make it seem slightly emptier.

(I really don’t wish to process this thought further. Not intending for this to be a particularly insightful post. Just felt like indulging in the odd rant)

Too many parties. With chips and alcohol and songs and a few polite laughs. Too many “fare thee well” presents. Too many last speeches and pictures.

Go ahead, evil people... leave. Leave me to my feigned indifference and my well disguised pout. Leave me to my “so bad at keeping in touch” self to be a sullen spectator to so many “do you remember what so and so used to do/say” conversations. Leave me to my Bombay, without so much as an escape route. And not too much to escape from.

*

13/03/09

Yesterday was Gargoyle’s last day at work. It all happened so fast and i had so much bloody work that i didn’t even have time to grieve. Or for one last extended cup of coffee. Sad.
The best thing about our friendship was that it was a secret. No one knew. We went about our work, noting the idiosyncrasies in people around us, and exchanged notes over long long lunches. We discussed ambitions, dreams, crises and Goa. Books, alcohol, sex, food and movies. Men and women. Boredom, fear, love, marriage and friendship. None of them particularly remarkable conversations. We’re neither of us great thinkers and between the two of us we are only one and a half opinionated people. But there is great joy to be derived from the commonplace. Much juice of life to be squeezed out of it.

My usual sun shiny disposition will sooner or later bamboozle me into believing that every exit makes room for something new and interesting while preserving the charm of that which is gone. Writing this post has helped get me half way there. The other half depends on how soon the “new” and “interesting” manifests itself.

Pleasures of the Flesh

Buses have become my preferred mode of transport. For the former half of my Bombay existence, I was loathe to travel by anything other than trains. I’ve grudgingly had to admit that a bus would be the more convenient way to get to work. With time comes great patience, so the traffic jams don’t bother me quite so much now. With time (and a little bit of money) also come I-pods which make the aforementioned traffic jams bearable.

I have withdrawal pangs now and then.

Its hard to imagine why and how anyone would miss the mad early morning scramble to board a local train. There is an insane amount of running involved. Pushing and shoving is almost a given. And the odd toe squashing can never be ruled out (why must we have ten toes???). Once inside there are more battles to be waged. Scouting for seats which are likely to empty first and strategically placing yourself in close proximity to the same. This is made infinitely harder by people who constantly fidget with their belongings as if ready to take flight at the very next millisecond but stay put nonetheless.

But there is one thing that makes up for all of that. Its what I call “smoosh”.

It is on these very obstacle race-esque local trains that I came closer to understanding why men love women so much. I was both delighted with my clever little discovery and surprised that it hadn’t hit me earlier.

Women are incredibly soft.

They have soft arms and soft shoulders. Soft bellies and bottoms. Soft hips. Soft cheeks. And even the most overworked ones have an element of soft in their palms.
[There is some softness in the chest area as well but I think that’s been done to death by the men folk. Some men derive a great deal of mirth from the notion of women being soft headed as well. Idiots.]

I vividly remember some sleepy mornings when i’d struggle on to the train all bleary eyed only to gleefully sink into a collective embrace from fellow travellers who unbeknownst to themselves were providing me with a safe envelope in which to transport myself to work. A generously padded cocoon if you please. Had it not been for the trains i’d have never ever been acquainted with the “smoosh”.

For all the men reading this, i guarantee it is every bit as wondrous as it sounds. As the train chugs along, stops, starts, it is filled with ever more women, more packets of softness. Its impossible to not collide with the “smoosh”.

I’ve been meaning to write this for the longest time but didn’t know exactly how to go about articulating it. I’m tempted to type the word “smoosh” repeatedly, but me thinks that would be mush too mush.

Bus rides tragically do not afford such pleasures of the flesh. Because buses contain men, some of them smelly and none of them even the least bit “smooshy”. And then there are the creeps. There is nothing more despicable than someone trying to get a bit of “smoosh” without the consent of the “smooshed”. Call me old fashioned if you wish to.

Thus ends my altogether too long (and perhaps graphic) discourse on train journeys. I may have reddened some cheeks along the way. But its hard to not write about something that hits you like a bolt from the blue. Especially for one who loves to write about things of little or no consequence.

I feel my discovery has made me just a pinch more sympathetic to the cause of men. If I were one, I’d want to “smoosh” a woman everyday.

In other News

17/03/2009

Some days you come home really itching to write. Something... anything... even if you have nothing of any particular significance to say. You just feel like writing long winding sentences with multisyllabled words. Sometimes you feel like composing the odd silly rhyme. And slowly, out of nowhere a post is born. It sort of pops out of your ear like an extremely determined gob of wax. The ear belonging to someone with a somewhat questionable concept of personal hygiene of course.

See... there i did it again. Went on for a solid 82 words about nothing at all.

This post is dedicated to N for the brief but enlightening discourse on ear wax we once had.

And to I. I am glad my use of words with more than 3 syllables pleases you. I am just as pleased to have e-st-a-bl-i-shed an a-ss-o-c-i-a-ti-o-n that goes beyond mere a-q-uai-t-a-nce. Also, you own a bike, which is an extremely endearing quality in a man.

And further to Raquelle. I am struggling for a way to link you up to the contents of my lousy little post (186 words ... 187... and... 189... counting... 190!). Apart from the obvious fact that i love you. Oh what the hell... to Raquelle... because i love you.

*

So like i said. There are some days. This is not one of them. Today, as a matter of fact i have a million things that merit detailed documentation (and not simply because i think so). My life has become a tad more eventful of late (That may have a lot to do with the fact that i have resumed writing about it. Lets ignore that hypothesis for a second). I would love to wax eloquent about my recent exploits but i imagine that my readers are about as pressed for time as some of my bosses pretend to be. So i shall present what we in the analytics world quaintly refer to as a “Snapshot”. Trim the fluff, dispense with the gory details. Salient features only. And my mortal enemy: Word-limit.

1. And then came the rains
A) Event Description: A mean person from work screamed at me today subsequent to which i cried.
B) Key Highlights: My boss who claims to have never gone beyond shaking hands with female colleagues put his arm around me (in a non-creepy way) in order to stem the flow.

2. Onslaught of gadget brat-ism
A) Event Description: Recent improvement in liquidity situation has led to mild extravagance as evidenced by purchase of laptop and i-pod. Next in line are speakers, wi-fi and possibly a camera.
B) Possible Mitigants: Procrastination
C) Key Highlights: My laptop is fluorescent green.

3. The Single-Mingle Phenomenon
A) Event Description: Extreme boredom coupled with unexplained proliferation of men has led to experimentation with the phenomenon casually referred to as “dating”.
B) Key Highlights: Facilitates fulfilment of long cherished ulterior motives such as date dissection and gossip. Excellent way to explore new restaurants in Bombay.
C) Outlook: Hazy.

4. White man’s burden
A) Event Description: Have established closer ties with Gora neighbour.
B) Key Highlights: Gin and tonic. Oh the conversations are great too.

I’m tempted to go on but it wouldn’t be much of a “snapshot” if i did. Be prepared to read detailed versions of points 1 through 4 in addition to exclusive coverage of “NK: The Andaman Exploits that almost never were”, “The Global CEO is coming: How power-point ruined a perfectly good weekend” and of course the evergreen “Goa Chronicles” (contingent on my actually going there).

Hopefully i will very soon exhaust my store of existing nonsense and aspire to lead a slightly more interesting life. Till then its just going to be more mundane rubbish. But then again my life at present is handful enough. And if i manage to pull together some 643 words to describe it on a daily basis then i suppose its all good.

Bad Blog Post #5

(#3 & #4 are on the comp back home)

So there we were... 5 fairly unimportant people. 4 of us squeezed tight in the back of a cab. One of us (i.e. me) up front with the driver.. and well.. not much else. I have all the space in the world, while everyone else's bums are scrunched beyond description. Funny thing about bums though isn't it? No matter how inconvenient the seating arrangement the hind quarters always make do. Almost defying the laws of physics. Matter disintegrates into some hidden dimension and/or space is created where there previously was none.

(I have nurtured this theory for the longest time. And by some strange cosmic coincidence, so has G. My feelings are mixed: somewhat relieved that I'm not the only one who spends a considerable amount of time pondering such potentially life changing questions. And also slightly robbed of the idea. Funny thing about ideas though isn't it? You always wonder whether yours is crazy enough to not be replicated in any other brain.)

We laugh... constantly.. from point of departure to destination. At ourselves, at work, our bums and bad mallu/tam/surd jokes. Our bellies full of assorted garbage we rumble along through the suburbs in our grand chariot.

The driver loses the way.. We laugh. He has in fact never really been in possession of "the way" and has conveniently chosen to keep this choice bit of information to himself. We laugh some more..

We make our to-do lists.. Must do this more often. Must eat, drink and be merry (G) for in the long run we are all dead (S). Must resume early morning jogs (the suggestion promptly followed by laughter). Must treasure the little moments. All this drunkennes without a single drop of alcohol.

We are one of us chubby, one of us tall, one of us tiny, one of us incomprehensible. The 5th is me and well I'm just me. We are all of us sleepy.

And then the journey comes to a close. We exchange warm goodbyes and awkward hugs. The party breaks up into 5 fairly nondescript little blobs.

*

I dedicate this post to the driver. For agreeing to accommodate the lot of us and braving our squeels and complaints. We managed to get home without a scratch. He escaped with minor injuries.

bad blog post #2

So there we were, in a fancy restaurant, stuffing our faces. Bringing shame to our respective families - the obscene amounts of food we consumed at warp speed.. makes my stomach churn just to think about it.
Pausing between bites to 1) breathe 2) shovel more grub into our mouths 3) complain about our work/bosses/lives and the extreme inconvenience of not having everything go exactly the way we want it to. If only the universe would respond to our every beck and call. Our every teensy weensy whim. Our ever so microscopic fancies. Now is that too much to ask? Hmm?
The butter-iest of naans.. the kind that go straight to your hips.. and stay there indefinitely. Greasy greasy chicken.. the kind that augments the circumference of your belly ever so sneakily.. Sweet fresh lime soda.. the kind that climbs up your nose and makes you sneeze impolitely.

We make our to do lists.. must find sense of purpose.. must not let existential crises become a habit..

And our discontent.. it swallows us whole.. Makes us feel all funny inside..

We blame the chicken..

*

I dedicate this post to U to whom I should like to outsource my life post haste.

And to Pr. For being 'attentive' in the face of extreme boredom.
That and the (several) glasses of wine. More later.