blimblop

Holy Compatibility Batman!

2011-02-09T13:34:00.002+05:30

B moved in sometime in December. And it would seem that 3 is indeed company. Even people as fiercely territorial as M and myself were done in by B’s charms on first contact.

I knew we’d hit pay-dirt somewhere in the midst of my first conversation with B. She asked if it were okay if she let a friend (and boyfriend of said friend) use her room for the purposes of – “Ahem, ahem” (a.k.a “Cough, cough”, a.a.k.a. sexual intercourse).

She said she thought it was okay.

M said he thought it was cool as long as they didn’t “cough” too loudly.

I said I thought it was great because… well… someone might as well be having sex. The closest anyone one in our house was getting to physical intimacy was being frisked at the metro station.

(I then launched into a slightly lengthy {and some claim plagiarized} monologue on how there really weren’t as many people “Ahem, ahem”-ing as there should be. If there were, there would be no war… Duh…

Of course to explain this hypothesis in its entirety and do justice to its various nuances I would need to write another post altogether. I’ll save that for another day.)

There it was – congruency.

Thereafter, the little doubt that remained on B’s suitability for flat-mate-dom was put to rest when B revealed talents of the following nature –

1. 1. The ability to turn pink when inebriated i.e. to be immensely entertaining.

2. 2, The ability to lose her hearing when inebriated i.e. additional entertainment

3. 3. The achieve the above mentioned state of inebriation after consuming remarkably small amounts of alcohol, making the entertainment extremely cost effective

M and I can scarcely believe how perfectly she has managed to blend into our version of happy domesticity (or lack thereof… seriously, we need an intervention. Our home is barely habitable. An army of moms would need to work around the clock for a week at a stretch to set right all the things that are wrong with our house).

As for M, being outnumbered by women seems to suit him just fine. I try to make him feel less left out by consistently keeping my room as messy and disorganized as I possibly can so as to accentuate the bachelor pad-ishness of the place. For his part M is more than meeting us half way. He patiently indulges our (read my) diatribes against men. He has been known to display great courage when confronted by women’s underwear strewn carelessly all over the place (again mine, an old habit I just can’t seem to shake off). Word on the street is he is now trying to grow a uterus.

Dear M,

Please don’t grow a uterus. We love you just the way you are.

XOXO

poem

2011-01-25T12:51:00.003+05:30

I came across a poem by one Mr. Edward Robins Richardson as quoted in my latest favourite book in the world: Me Cheeta, An Autobiography (written by one Mr. James Lever, what a guy). What a book and what a poem. I wish I'd written them both... or at least one... or at least something that compares... Eh... Bleh...

So here goes -

Let us with zest drink deep the draught

Of life, and care not if the wine

Is neither nectar nor divine

Elixir, for we have loved and laughed

Amid our tears. If we should fall

In reaching for the big brass ring,

Or if, like Ic'rus, we take wing

Too near the sun... well, then we fall.

At least we flew! At least we chose

To burn! And when our heydey cools

And we're near dust, if we were fools

To hell with it. To hell with those

Who feared to rush dream-drunk, headlong

Into th'dance! Say this, when we set

Out for the realm unconuer'd yet:

Say, They Lived. Judge us right or wrong

We drained our cups.

Its the most wonderful time of the year. Just the right amount of cold. I'm working from home... from our balcony to be more precise. In a t-shirt, my arms finally get to see the light of day. To breathe. Its been far too long.

And suddenly I don't hate Delhi as much as I did not so long ago. And Delhi seems to have accepted me too. Like former lovers who reunite and grudgingly admit how incomplete they were without each other. That home was closer than they could have ever imagined.

We drained our cups... and made our peace.

In Transit

2010-12-13T11:50:00.002+05:30

Bus, Margao to Bengaluru, Scheduled Departure Time: 6:15pm

Status @ 5:45pm

“Bus will be coming at 6:40, you can report by 6:30”

Status @ 6:45pm

“Bus is coming. Just coming”

Status @ 7:00pm

“Actually what happen is they divert the bus. It is coming by long route”

“It is coming, half an hour delay”

Status @ 7:15pm

“Bus is coming. Just coming”

Status @ 7:30pm

“Actually what is happen is bus has broken down. It is gone to garage for fixing”

“It is coming, not later than 8:30”

Status @ 8:15pm

“Actually it is only 15km away. In Verna. They are changing the bus. Transferring passengers.”

“Bus is coming. Just coming.”

Status @ 8:45pm

“What can I do madam? They are there and I am here. I’m also waiting no?”

“I am calling and calling, they are not pick up-ing”

“Madame once bus was delayed by 7 hours. I still remember, Dec 29-30^th type date. 7 hours madam, this is nothing”

Status @ 9:00pm

"*Deep sigh*"

(Roughly translated – “Earth please swallow me whole”)

The bus finally arrived at 9:15pm. Only 3 hours delay madam. This is nothing.

The journey will cost us a couple of hours in travel time. We will reach Bangalore 5 hours later than schedule. Only 5 hours madam. This is nothing.

*Deep sigh*

To a most vague and nebulous entity - Indian Standard Time...

beach bum

2010-12-10T14:54:00.004+05:30

a work in progress...

pockets full of seashells

beer bubbles in my nose

a mess of wind-blown matted hair

sand castles in my toes

precocious little crab legs

crawled out of an ice-cream cone

to make the salty solitude

seem a little less alone

i’m a royal shade of golden brown

the sea a stately blue

we’ll take over the world some day

soon as this rhyme is through

pockets full of seashells

a belly full of rum

in weight and worth, each reverie

far greater than their sum

blistering barnacles, i made a rhyme!

blame goa...

Growing Ourselves Up

2010-12-04T12:14:00.003+05:30

SB: Let’s go somewhere, on a vacation… a trip?

MS: Yeah.

SP: Yeah…

SB: Well December’s out right?

MS: Jan is going to be pretty bad for me.

SP: Everything up till Feb is horrible…

SB: Yeah March is good na?

MS: Haan, by March everything will be sorted. More or less sorted.

SP: Hmm…

SB: Hopefully?

MS: Hopefully.

SP: Hopefully…

SB: Hopefully…

Dedicated to a most beautiful flotation device called hope.

To the monastery for keeping our spirits buoyant and Glowy, for lighting up our lives.

To question marks, full-stops and ellipses.

Only in Lucknow

2010-11-26T14:09:00.003+05:30

Vikram ki sawari

Conversation

Driver #1: Haan bhai, sab badhiyaan?

Driver #2: Badhiyaan...

Driver #1: Badhiyaan...

(2 seconds of silence)

Driver #2: Aur bhai, sab badhiyaan?

Driver #1: Badhiyaan...

Driver #2: Badhiyaan...

Poetry (courtesy SS)

Unse Milne ka Chalan Varjit Hua

Ek Sada Mugdha Jivan varjit hua

Lucknow kis ghat pe Aaye bhala

Gomti ka achman varjit hua.......

Words of Wisdom

Exited young man: And I think the most important step the government should take are in the field of Health. After all, sabko pata hai - "Health is the success of key..."

bhai sahab bura mat maniye, app nihayati badtameez kism ke insaan hain...

ghaleez... jahil...

bura mat maniye.

(Spotted on a Dainik Jagran Hoarding)

Muskuraiye... Aap Lucknow mein hain...

Dedicated to SUK and VP.

Itna mat hasiye... koi dekh lega

Cups and Saucers - Half Empty

2010-11-10T23:02:00.003+05:30

Once upon a time I was rich and carried a fat wallet. Liquidity makes people do stupid things.

Boredom makes people do stupid things. Boredom… coupled with discounts, makes people do very stupid things.

The idea of a man makes women do a great number of stupid things. Undergo moderate to excruciatingly painful beauty treatment, giggle uncontrollably, stare off into space (also almost always uncontrollably) and purchase impractical underwear.

So there I was – bored, flushed with funds, thinking of men, staring at impractical underwear, which was on discount. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Whatever little good sense the years of a humdrum, middle class upbringing had given me slowly melted to a pile of gooey mush when confronted by rows of flowers, frills, bows and lace. In my defence, they were on discount. Animal prints too.

I chanced upon this most resplendent bra, it was love at first sight. A trial was hastily conducted, a card swiped, a purchase made. Unfortunately as with most objects of infatuation, impulsiveness got the better of me. In my enthusiasm I failed to spot a basic incompatibility – it didn’t fit too well.

Unrequited love… yet another instance… sob.

I tried… oh did I try. Short of actually sowing it to my chest I used every trick at my disposal. I adjusted hooks, I adjusted strap lengths. I prayed, I sent out good vibes to the universe. Nothing worked.

Only severe shrinkage on the part of the errant brassiere or a near miraculous alteration on the part of certain parts of me would do. She stared at me derisively every time I open my cupboard to reach for a change of delicates. She mocked me with her lascivious pink and purple-ness. Such awful mammaries… sorry… memories. I knew I had to get rid of her. How would you feel if you had your inadequacies stare you in the face every time you opened up your lingerie drawer?

Ever since my bra debacle I’d been on the lookout for women I could thrust the darned thing on to (figuratively speaking of course). The hunt for the bra’s rightful owner involved a fare amount of impolite “observation” of the kind that is entirely unforgivable if conducted by men. I started sizing up women : friends to start with, then acquaintances and finally on to complete strangers.

Parallel to this search, in an effort to prop up my wounded ego I embarked upon a quest to find “the one”. I promptly found “the one” not to mention “the two” and “the three”. Turns out they were waiting for me, displayed in all their glory along the length and breadth of Hill Road. There they were – colourful, absurd, remarkably inexpensive and most importantly obliging. It would appear that small women don’t need discounts.

Get rid of her I did. But we parted as friends and equals (figuratively speaking of course). I realized she was meant for bigger if not necessarily better things. And I’d like to believe that I rose in her esteem... Well thats about all I could rise in anyway. Oh well...

It has taken me 25 and some parts of the 26^th year of my life to love what I see in the mirror everyday.

I dedicate this post to what I see in the mirror everyday.

Oh and to A for taking that damned bra off my hands.

Turns out it doesn’t fit her either. Apparently her cup(s) runneth over. Eh… bleh… C’est la vie…

Pleasures of the Flesh #3: Nonsense Rhyme of Early Morning Love

2010-11-06T23:37:00.003+05:30

I wrote this a really long time ago. I was ashamed of it then and am even more so today. At first it was a question of my convent school girl propriety - who writes so brazenly about post-coital bliss? Later the sheer gooey-mushy-sugar syrupy-ness of what I’d written horrified me. Now, a year (or two?) older, somewhat brazen-er and decidedly less romantic, I am just plain and simple appalled at its quality (or lack thereof). Bleh...

But I know the person who wrote this. I know her well. She’s a good sort. The kind who’d sincerely plod through the better part of the night just to construct a plausible rhyme (and cheat only once in a while – refer to stanza 2). To paint a pretty picture with words. Because pretty pictures need to be painted. Sincerely.

So without further ado, coming to you from the pen of a slightly younger, slightly plumper and slightly more lyrical me –

The lonely Sun performs morning chores

And stealthily through the window pours

Upon a boring pair of apple cores

Wrapped tight in early morning snores

As time chides their belatedness

Inconvenienced by nakedness

The triumphant lazy tangled mess

Steers clear away of awaked-ness

An elaborate jigsaw of limbs now tired

Quietly reflects on all that transpired

Having not long ago been indescribably wired

For the hours are too short when so much is desired

Soon the universe seems to have espoused

The cause: to have this demon roused

So slothfully in its warm nest housed

Asleep... The rapture long past doused

But the beast remains a picture of repose

Twiddling its mildly intoxicated toes

(she hides in her neck his slumbering nose)

Could the elements have had the gall to suppose

They could break a spell that so stubbornly lingers

Far too long ‘twixt the skins of intertwined fingers?

I dedicate this post to Pooch. We seem to have an awful lot of conversations about love and sex and tragically little of either of the two. Sigh... If only cupid didn’t insist on being so indifferent with two charming, engaging and stunningly beautiful specimens.

Who takes care of moms when they fall sick?

2010-11-04T23:35:00.000+05:30

just a thought...

Sweet Sorrow

2010-08-03T01:18:00.002+05:30

I think "I" and me deserve an award. Heartiest felicitation, accolades.

Applause in most deafening quantities.

Nods of approval, pats on the back.

You see we just broke up... again. And we are friends... still.

We broke up once before. At VT station, on a train headed to Bangalore.

(A previous attempt to board this train had ended in disaster… I was only roughly 12 hours too late. How was I supposed to know that when the people over at the IRCTC said “8:00” they were referring to the AM and not the PM? I promptly declared myself to be the stupidest person I know. In fact I reconciled myself to the fact that if everyone had their own personal “stupidest person I know” awards ceremonies, I would feature on a lot of lists or at least receive heaps of “Honourable Mention”.

Fortunately for me the fates had decided that injury was punishment enough and spared me the insult aspect… No witnesses. Just me, "I" and the missing train).

So there we were… two hearts, slightly broken. The sheer simplicity of it would have made you want to empty your tear ducts of every last salty drop. But we were stoic little troopers, not to be done in by girly sentiment. We exchanged polite, stiff hugs and polite, stiff smiles, stiffened our upper lips and went our separate ways. Somewhere in the middle an envelope was misplaced and then successfully un-misplaced. It was beautiful.

We met roughly ten days later. Spent 3 blissful days in Goa. This was our least successful attempt at breaking up.

We broke up again shortly after. Not before a most fantastic week in Bombay (I discovered “paaya”, need I say more?). This time outside Churchgate station on a most un-extraordinary morning. We’d just taken a bike ride down Marine Drive (approaching it from Malabar Hills), which is surprisingly as beautiful in the morning as it is at night. This time unfortunately the flood gates of sorrow opened up with a vengeance… and then some. The tears of course were all mine ("I" claims certain parts of his heart are dead. Moreover he is a boy so lack of tears is apparently excusable) but the grief was shared. The proverbial pall of gloom descended on the three of us (bike, boy, myself). I was left with little choice but to wrap it around me and carry myself back to Bandra and then further away, much much further.

This break-up was the most hurtful. Probably because the permanence of broken-up-ness finally hit home. I searched long and hard for the source of this most debilitating pain. We’d never been great conversationalists, we didn’t read the same books, we wasted time on different websites. What we did do was occupy a certain amount of space in each other’s worlds. He occupied space across from me at a table in a fancy restaurant, I occupied space next to him in a movie hall. We collectively occupied a shapeless blob-like piece of space in bed. I occupied space between lunch at Mahim and a game of poker, he occupied space between lazy Sunday evenings and ghastly Monday mornings. We occupied a year’s worth of space in each other’s lives.

It’s strange how one grows accustomed to the sheer physical presence of another person. That you can learn to love them simply because they make the void around you seem a little less empty. That you can grow dependent on as complicated a piece of machinery as a human body, not for its thoughts, words and ideas, but simply because it is tangible. Because it is there.

I’ll always contend that the break-up took a bigger toll on me. I have a considerably larger void to fill. He’s 6’2”. Trust me to ruin a tender moment with a misplaced joke. No wait, that’s usually his job.

Subsequently, we broke up a few more times. Once (3 break-ups and counting) at smelly Bandra terminus on a most horribly hot day. Then in a slight alteration to the train theme, we broke up at the bus-station opposite Maratha Mandir. This time a phone was momentarily misplaced only to be un-misplaced shortly after. Anything to make a sad ending… well… less sad. We tried another variation (still in departure mode though) - the Delhi airport. And the last one (I’ve lost count) occurred the following week as we drove past Haji Ali. I finally asserted my relationship status.

“But you’ve been single all this while.”

“Yes, but now I’m single single.”

The tragic thing is break-ups no matter where they happen, no matter how many times they happen, no matter how cordial they are, are more often than not upsetting affairs.

And tonight? Well it doesn't really qualify as a break-up in the traditional sense of the word. It was more an acknowledgement of the fact that we are broken up. That we are “single single”. That we have, as per mutual agreement, condemned ourselves to being sad and lonely till we find someone suitable to occupy the space, across the table in a fancy restaurant, next to us in a movie hall.

That we will always be two remarkably interesting people, who if only momentarily added a lot of colour to each other’s universe.

Two hearts, slightly broken.

Dusks, Various

2010-04-05T12:07:00.015+05:30

Goa

Donna Paula Jetty, Panaji

As a tourist destination this one tends to be slightly irritating, given that at any given time there will be too many people and consequently too few places to park your bum. The trick is to glare at people occupying the benches till they are forced to leave (owing to extreme discomfiture). This one requires patience but is worth it as it affords a beautiful view of the Maramgoa Port.

(View from) Royal Goan Beach Club, Baga
If you visit ask for room #63. Its quite a trek up - 500 mts. uphill from the gate followed by 4 flights of stairs (I kid you not). As if the physical exhaustion weren't enriching enough there follow 3 minutes of concentrated effort to jiggle the door open (the lock is whimsical). But the minute you walk in and slide open the balcony door you know you're getting your money's worth. The view is lovely and the surroundings oh-so quiet. Tune into the sounds of nature (after the puffing, panting and wheezing subsides)- birds, crickets, waves, wind - the whole orchestra's there!

Shapora Fort

Everyone loves a cliche. Vagator beach to your left, unknown beach (unknown only to me, not the general populous) to your right. And miles and miles of ocean in front. You'll struggle to capture all the colours as the sun flamboyantly plays out its descent on the sky... and on the sea. But I say - take a shot (pun intended). The result will be disappointing but not fruitless. Unless you bought a cheap camera or are grossly lacking in talent, in which case I'd recommend taking a mental picture.

Bhimeswari

The focus in this one's a shade wonky. I blame bad lighting and extreme belligerence on the part of the subject, which wobbled most annoyingly. I stole away from the group to take this one, only to be confronted by a spotted deer. I smiled... it ran. And all I have to show for my 'close encounter' is a picture of a most uncooperative flower. Eh... Ce'st la vie.

One look at this picture and the poet inside me says - "elephant droppings". Only because there is so much of it generously distributed all over the landscape, waiting to be pointed out by bored tour guides and admired endlessly by tourists. Our tour guide proceeded to direct our attention to a rather questionable elephant footprint. Skeptics were known to later say - "I didn't see nothing. It just looked like a whole in the mud to me".

I dedicate this picture to my camera. You did everything. With little or no assistance from me.

Bordi

There is a lot to be said for people who travel 3 hours for a barbecue. Who eat, drink and dance their way into the wee hours of the morning and shrug of debilitating hangovers for a water fight and a game of cricket the next day. More so to be said of the entertainment value of playing antakshari while under the influence. "Macs" are wonderful people.

(Note: The people featured in the picture are not the "Macs" in question. They are just random people strolling down the beach who happened to be photographed by a rude tourist.)

It took us 36 hours to realise that Bordi was not in Maharashtra. Either that or our respective cell-phone companies were wrongly levying roaming charges. Thats why they say - "Don't drink and jive".

Mumbai

Band-Stand, Bandra
If you want to go to one end of Band-Stand ask for Salman Khan's house. If you want to go to the other ask for Shahrukh Khan's house. Not only are these foolproof landmarks, they may also elicit a grin from your auto driver. And if you're lucky (as I tend to be in these matters) he'll chat a bit and tell you a story.
At the risk of being pummeled into sabudana vada batter I must say Band-Stand is highly overrated. It does provide a nice photo-op at dusk though. That is if you manage to look past the scores of frighteningly affectionate couples that dot the length of the promenade, the magnitude of who's amour increases exponentially at sunset. Strictly PG 13.

Kashmir

Dal Lake, Srinangar

What I love most about the pictures I took in Kashmir is the amount of time and effort I put into them despite repeated complaints of breaching timelines and jeopardizing the itinerary. I took this one from the garden of the Centaur hotel while mum was inside hyperventilating on account of my near certain abduction by a terrorist/ miscellaneous evil person. Also because the chai was getting cold.

On the way back from Baisaran we stopped to steal some plants from a field. The "we" in question were two 50 something women, 6 CRPF commandos and me (completely innocent). The sun setting over a vast expanse of yellow proved irresistable and I stopped to take pictures while thievery ensued in the background. Of course, I was blamed for slowing the party down. Life is unfair.

For loyal followers of this blog (4 at last count, author included), this one ought to ring a bell. But then I figure if something is good it bears repetition. What better way to wrap up this post than a picture from the first day of my first grand trip in a long time. The first of many I hope.

Leaving... on a Choo - Choo Train

2010-04-01T00:03:00.003+05:30

The next time you meet someone who has just endured a 30 hour train journey – give ‘em a hug...

I wish I had the words/talent to accurately describe how tiring 30 hours of DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING can be. No exercise known to man comes close to causing as much physical exhaustion. And even the cruellest Sudoku cannot compare to the toll that idleness takes on one’s mind.

I thought I had it sorted... I mean I used to travel by train once upon a time. In addition to being invincible in every possible way (gifted at birth you see) I had the kind of temperament that was perfectly suited for combating boredom. I laughed in the face of monotony. I took to long journeys like my erstwhile landlady to glass of single malt whiskey.

There was no dearth of things to do! I could stare out the window for hours at end and not feel the slightest temptation to gouge my eyes out. I would eavesdrop on conversations (which invariably revolved around any of the following riveting subjects – rising prices, corruption in government, how unbearably hot/cold the weather is) without experiencing the urge to tear off my ears. I would read books and magazines, listen to music or just twiddle my thumbs and stare off into space like there was no tomorrow. And when all else failed – there were the naps. Ah sleep... a most calming refuge for the bored mind. If you add frequent trips to the loo, walks along the bogie and counting the minutes that pass between one chai walah and the next – well there’s hardly any time left for being bored!

Somewhere between those sanguine journeys of yore and today two irreversible developments took place –

1. I became rich (which, as I am having to painfully accept, is not exactly irreversible)

2. I got old and fussy

Between them, reasons 1. and 2. pretty much explain my inability to cope with the harsh realities of long train journeys. I’ve lost my childish enthusiasm for staring off into seemingly endless landscapes and imagining a simpler life – one look at vast expanses of depressing nothing-ness and I start to understand why so many farmers commit suicide. Agreed, the view from flights is infinitely more boring (I mean how many clouds can one admire before they all start to look the same? Provide me a view of two aeroplanes {other than the one i’m travelling in} colliding in mid-air, now that’s entertainment!!). But factor in travel time and we have a clear winner in the boredom sweepstakes –1 hour of fluffy white clouds vs. 20 hours of khet, majjan te gavan (i.e. – fields, buffaloes and cows). You decide...

And those “thrilling” trips to the loo... well they aren’t all that exciting any more. I still remember having perfected the art of relieving myself in an under-sized, smelly metal box that wobbles almost constantly. The challenge lies in doing all of this while simultaneously avoiding contact with anything inside the toilet compartment. Everything has to be nudged with an elbow, a hip, a knee or in extreme cases sheer willpower. Its the truest test of a human being’s motor skills. And as if the whole loo experience isn’t horrific enough there is the prospect of walking past and in some cases being attacked by a host of appendages dandled carelessly from upper berths... a kick in the shoulder here... a slap in the forehead there... makes you wonder how careless human beings can be with parts of their own body. Chhee...

Ownership of a laptop or i-pod only exacerbates travel woes. The railways, exhibiting a most twisted form of benevolence have provided charging points in most bogies – only there are never enough (damn the unbridled expansion of mobile telephony!) and the few that exist are either defunct or... well... temperamental. So you’re stuck with a hard disc full of FRIENDS or Family Guy or Russell Peters – whatever suits your fancy - and only 2 hrs of running time... and 28 hours of NOTHING... its the kind of frustration that makes you want to crawl into the highest berth and weep yourself to a quiet death.

About the only thing I don’t miss about flights are Flight Attendants. They scare me... I kid you not. All that smiling and courteousness? It’s just not normal human behaviour. The Train Attendants (I’m assuming that’s what they’re called) are refreshingly real – they grunt and complain and never have change for a 500. You gotta love ‘em.

In the midst of all this suffering I tried my absolute level best to day-dream about my exciting new life in Delhi... but before long the rainbows disappeared only to be replaced by far grimmer thoughts.

“First of all – I am poor again, which is never a good thing to be. Second of all I am single, which means having to find something to do on the weekends. I may even have to start reading again! Or blogging!! Sheesh... What a loser...”

“Having a rich boyfriend would go some way in solving both problems. But that would necessitate meeting new people... Crisis! And a lot of smiling... eeks. Going to places would require haggling with evil auto-wallahs... Nahiiiin!!!!”

A deadly combination of cabin fever and fear of the outside world... add a couple of large (double emphasis on the word “large”) geriatric women who take forever to navigate their bulk through the aisle and you have a neurotic on your hands.

But what is a girl to do? When she has foolishly volunteered for a life of penury. When wallet woes compel her to stop being a brat and “slum it” (3 tier AC is hardly slumming it – so i guess i’m still a little bit of a brat. Hee hee). When monetary constraints force her to trade in the comforting swoosh of the in-flight toilet flush for a rather questionable steel mug chained to a tap for fear of being stolen. Having to forego the dulcet tones of Yana’s voice as she coaches me through the safety routine on that cute little T.V. (I’ll miss you Yana... Sob). And instead, being treated to a symphony of farts and sighs and snores.

So I’m travelling on a choo – choo train

Don’t know when i’ll be sane again

In other (less dramatic) news -

I’m back home in Chandigarh with a lot of time on my hands and very little to do with it. Look forward to more gripping prose from the stables of Mademoiselle BB (ok I know prose can’t come from stables but its one of those nonsensical things you really don’t feel like deleting). Her pen is slightly fractured due to a year and ten months of bombardment by uninspiring excel spread sheets. But she’s looking to come back – newer, sharper, edgier and slightly more regular-er.

Coming attractions –

- Marry Rich or Die Tryin’

- Love, Sex aur Dhokla - The Way to a Man's Heart

- The Art of Cordial Breakups

- Cryptic Titles for Boring Blog Posts

- Book4.xls: A Labour of Love

... and much much more...

on toes

2010-01-02T17:32:00.003+05:30

ten perfect diglits

as pink as new born piglits

delectable little giblits

intoxicating gimlits

Kolkata

2009-12-09T00:08:00.020+05:30

Spot the Red Flag

Window: Gujarati Samaj

Sepia stages a dramatic comeback in my life. I love sepia!

Afternoon Nap: Cliche resistance powers hit an all time low

Exploring Kolkata real-estate #1

Park Street: Slurp

Growl: Victoria Memorial Museum

Faces

Colours

Coffee House, College Street

Nightcap

Exploring Kolkata real-estate #2

Bad picture, funny story

Baby Bling

Attack of the Red Pagdis

Asymmetry: Victoria Memorial Museum

Words Inc.

2009-11-30T11:12:00.002+05:30

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

2009-11-18T23:06:00.002+05:30

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

2009-11-11T22:57:00.003+05:30

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,

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

2009-11-08T14:47:00.002+05:30

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

2009-10-28T22:13:00.020+05:30

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

2009-09-25T23:27:00.020+05:30

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"

2009-07-06T23:18:00.003+05:30

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

2009-06-21T23:37:00.003+05:30

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

2009-04-28T22:35:00.005+05:30

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

2009-03-27T00:48:00.003+05:30

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

2009-03-24T00:03:00.009+05:30

(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

2009-03-23T22:56:00.003+05:30

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

2009-03-23T21:57:00.004+05:30

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

2009-03-22T13:21:00.003+05:30

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

2009-03-21T20:13:00.002+05:30

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

2009-03-21T10:38:00.002+05:30

(#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

2009-03-07T21:14:00.001+05:30

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.

Drone

2009-02-27T10:36:00.000+05:30

I work at a little desk. It is a very little desk indeed.

So much so that if I sneeze, my neighbour's neighbour will know. In fact if my neighbour's neighbour's desk were a country (it would be a very little country indeed) then the sexy weather girl on TV would predict "a strong gust of wind, accompanied by mild showers".

So much so that that if I poke my finger into my ear to clear out wax/mosquitoes/bad vibes, my elbow is dangerously close to the ear of the fellows I sit next to, which are also presumably full of wax/mosquitoes/bad vibes.

So much so that if I burp (this is merely for illustrative purposes, I have never in fact burped) the person who sits in front of me will know the exact composition of my meal. Or meals for that matter… Depending on the potency of the food in question, the extent of indigestion and the magnitude of my shamelessness.

So much so that if I yawn… Everyone yawns.
But then we all yawn, all the time. By the time one yawn ends another begins so its hard to pin point which one in particular set the ball rolling. In the interim between one yawn and the next we complain about yawning, have a lengthy discourse on yawning and miraculously even manage to get some work done. It is a beautiful community experience.

So much so that it is impossible for the boys who sit next to me to check out porn. Of course the virtually impenetrable "web-washer" the fine folk down at IT have installed would never allow for such depraved activities to be carried out. But hypothetically, if viewing pornography were an option, my female-ly presence would rule it out completely.

We have our pockets of gossip, us small people. We buzz, giggle, frown, dissect, digress… Did you ever think one could do so much with tiny, seemingly insignificant stories?

We sit dangerously close to the corridors of power. At times we infiltrate them only to discover that they reek of indecision.

We sit all day at our desks, making dispassionate love to our computers. Occasionally we go for walks, sandwiches, chai, fruit chaat, conversation. And on these all too rare occasions we congratulate ourselves for having taken a break.

I feel I am the littlest of all the little people. Warm and snug in my swivel chair. Hiding behind my monitor. Brilliantly anonymous. At times I chide myself for what is a clear lack of ambition in life. A blot on the otherwise aspirational middle class landscape. On others I congratulate myself for getting paid generously to do something a not altogether dumb 16 year old can. I've pulled a fast one on the establishment. I rake in the dough and am not required to check my sarcasm at the door.

“What the banker sighs for, the meanest clown may have: leisure and a quiet mind.”- Henry David Thoreau

The floor hums. With sighs, yawns, burps, gossip.

Truant

2009-02-23T12:46:00.005+05:30

Guess who Played Hookey Today?
Djiggy B has what is possibly the biggest most generous heart in the whole wide world. It is full to the brim, bursting at its seams, chock full.. of niceness.
In the world of bosses, he is an outlier..
You'd think life would be a bed of roses for his subordinates. But very few people realise how trying the lives of people endowed with pleasant bosses (we are a rare and dying breed) can be. How fraught with anxiety. Hours of guilty introspection. Sleepless nights of worry and woe.
Nice bosses pose a unique challenge for us drone folk. They are easier to like, infinitely harder to bitch about and almost impossible to lie to. And really what is life without the occasional vituperative chinwag concerning the powers that be?
I'm playing truant today, my absence blamed on a particularly acute case of the common cold+high temperature (my diagnosis: viral fever). In my defence, I did wake up feeling like my limbs were about to disintegrate into dust. And I have off late metamorphosed into a factory of phlegm and snot. But none of this is so debilitating as to necessitate bed-rest followed by a lengthy convalescence.
So I lied. And am probably going to go to hell or reside in close vicinity thereof. Because I lied to an absolute angel. Who reeks of goodness and stinks of mothers' love. Yuck.
*
Damn them Antibodies
I really despise my immune system sometimes. It is forever in overdrive. I almost never ever fall ill. And this robs me of cheap thrills such as - fainting, burning up, vomiting and the like. Not that ailment is pleasurable in of itself. But the sympathy that accompanies it is fun.
Really this being in the pink of health is highly overrated. There's never anyone rushing up with bowls full of warm soup. And no ice cold towels to douse a flaming forehead. No one stirring up tall glasses of electral. Life is cruelly robbed of a lot of drama.
Once you acquire a reputation for never falling ill things are even worse. Even a genuine onslaught of the odd case of loosies or sniffles (I am healthy, not invincible) is looked upon with scepticism. We are forced to nurse our maladies, trifling or otherwise, under the suspicious gaze of others who are not similarly gifted.
I think I'm going to start a support group.
*
Itinerary
Ok enough whining. The day is all mine and there is loads to do with it. I am after all in Mumbai. A place where it is virtually impossible to run out of things to do and/or things to stare at. I am armed with a newspaper, sports shoes, money and ALL the time in the WORLD.
I suddenly remembered the reason for my shameless fib. Here I go :)

bad blog post

2009-02-15T14:34:00.002+05:30

so there we were.. sitting quietly.. the cool sea wind blowing on our tired faces.. our lips numb with wine.. tummies full of koliwada prawn.. fatigued wallets..
the wind assaults us.. carrying into our ears a confused symphony.. traffic.. voices.. waves..
a gentle requiem for the day.. as it reaches out for its blanket and tucks itself in..
we make our to do lists.. must travel occasionaly.. must laugh frequently.. must fall in love, at least once.. or once more.. must dress up and go out for dinner.
the works in progress that we are.. there is so much to do..
and the coffee.. as it gently sips us.. swallows us whole.. we are content..
*
hee hee.. have always wanted to write a silly post like that. so thats one more thing off MY to do list. I dedicate this post to P, with whom i am deeply in love..
*
more later.. vagueness being the theme of this post.. what better way to wrap up?
*
:)

Monday Hues

2009-01-12T21:37:00.001+05:30

I am wearing a deep and sustaining shade of blue. I blame it on all the love stories I've been reading. From a collection called "My Mistress' Sparrow is Dead" (Jeffrey Eugenides Ed.). The stories are awful. Awful in that they are lovely, of course. Lovely in that they make you feel awful in so many ways. They are stories of love and then some. I think passion best describes the theme. The kind of passion you wouldn't think one could possibly articulate. The kind of misery you would never have thought could be so eloquent.
And the pain? It is the kind that you didn't think you were capable of feeling. It comes from a part of your body (some mysterious organ perhaps) whose existance you were hitherto unaware of.
(Not my pain.. Mine is bearable. Mildly annoying. Annoying because happy is the only way I've ever been. Happy is the only way I know how to be. You realise how inconvenient that is. To have to reconcile a feeling you've never allowed yourself to feel? The brain fails to process it. Doesn't know what to do. For updates on changes in my mental disposition, watch this space.)
The pain I talk of is that experienced by the characters (thankfully) in the stories. What sick pleasure writers must take in drowning their characters in such gloom. Secretly venting out their own frustration be it real. Or worse, invented for art's sake.
And as for the reader? The poor unsuspecting fool who was duped into purchasing the vile publication by an aesthetically pleasing cover page and an extremely charitable blurb. And of course the promise of experiencing love, albeit vicariously. Love, with all the smiles and hugs and caresses and holding of hands. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts. And love, with all the anger and tears. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts.
And the poor reader.. paralysed by woe. Woe is me that I will never find that sweet everlasting love. Woe is me that when I do find it, the initial sheen will invariably wear thin. That which was once such a source of simple pleasure will (one can only hope later rather than sooner) become complicated and tedious.
Woe is me, that I traded an early morning jog for an early morning blog.
*
I am suddenly feeling much better. The agenda for the day has been laid out. It will be a long one, much like the rest. But my enthusiasm inspires much confidence in my boss's sweet and forgiving heart. My inclination toward effort more than makes up for the stupid questions that stubbornly make their way through my mouth. The work, she will get done. It will take time. But it will get done. Phew...
*
I have seen more dead rats in my 7 months in Mumbai than I have in my entire life. I can roughly identify two key reasons. Either, Mumbai has more rats or Mumbai rats are less sturdy and just kick the bucket without much fuss and fight. Neither of the two prospects is particularly appetising.
The third explanation (mine favourite one) is that rats simply choose to die more public deaths. And not just because of lack of space. The whole "Mumbai has no space" thing is really done to death. And irrelevant in the context of tiny creepy crawlies and their larger, creepier and mammalian cousins. If there is space for anything in this city it is for rats to crawl into and die. No, the rats are unafraid, they are vocal, loud voluble (voluminous too).
I dedicate this post to the dead rat i saw on the way to work this morning. All set to be devoured by a nasty crow. Its death may have gone unlamented by the rodent community but it did not go unnoticed by the universe. I saw it. I was there. Just me and the odd crow.
*
I encountered an extremely bossy old lady on the bus. It amazes me how bossy the old and infirm can be. But she was more than just bossy. She was just at peace with herself. An advanced stage of realisation of self.
For one split second I wanted to be old and wrinkly. To zoom to an age when all the worries of love have been done and dealt with. An age when the stray dead rodent doesn't inspire extended musing.
*
Enough of that. The work day is well past begun. Now I am young. There is much toil on the menu. There is much love to be made. Much money as well. A full life waiting to be lived.
Us drones can be remarkably poetic at times. I blame it on the stories we read.
*
I wrote this earlier and am posting it now. Managed my time quite while in between. Yay!

Rhyme a Dozen

2009-01-03T12:11:00.000+05:30

Ti tum, ti tum, tit tum, tit tum, tit tum
And 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5

*

I picked up this book a while back- The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, by Stephen Fry. Sort of an Idiots Guide to Poetry or Versification for Dummies. It is turning out to be brilliant.

People, when they write, end up doing roughly two things. Projecting a version of themselves that they like and that they think the world would like (or like to like). And unknowingly, betraying a bit of what they really are in person. At least thats what I think.

Now I can't tell if Stephen Fry is a nice person or a truly nasty one. If he pets dogs, donates to charities. Takes pleasure in running over squirrels while driving his car. Always forgets to flush the loo once he's done. Never ever forgets a birthday. All that, I can't really tell.

One guess I am willing to venture is that he would be great fun to have a conversation with.

Everyone should read this book. I think a lot of us suffer from a secret fear of things artistic or refined. We fear that we aren't sharp enough to grasp them, appreciate their true beauty. I know I'm always slightly wary when I come across people who read books by James Joyce or watch movies with subtitles or love theatre. I wonder how and when art became the domain of a few. How some if not most of us were somehow excluded.

Or if the exclusion isn't in fact self imposed. If by giggling maliciously at what we perceive as pretensious and "pseudo", we haven't voluntarily deprived ourselves of some of the world's most beautiful music and literature. Distancing ourselves from forms of expression which are very much within the realm of our understanding, but go ignored simply because we were too scared, or too impatient.

*

Ok I'm starting to bore myself. Bleh..

*

My mother and I are considering setting up camp outside the Fun Republic Multiplex (nee Dhillon). We have in the past two days seen three movies, a number which in some cultures may be considered obscene. We are both die hard fans of the movie watching experience as a whole. The popcorn, the trailers, the post move dissection on the way down to the parking lot.. not so much the wailing babies who are planted strategically at every corner of the movie hall or the 6 ft. tall sardars who are invariably granted seats right in front of us, obscuring a minimum of 40% of the screen.

As much as I hate visiting malls in Mumbai, a trip home seems incomplete without visiting one (i.e. Chandigarh's first and until recently only mall). It is here that I am given a crash course in the latest fashion trends of my hometown.

This season, girls are sporting, among other things, painfully straight hair, big boots made of strange velvety material, skinny jeans (the trend is tragically not restricted to just the skinny girls), microscopic bags that begin and end in the armpit and the ultimate accessory- chewing gum. The boys are in fact, if its possible, clad much more absurdly. Some of them look like they've landed direct from Englaand (deliberately misspelt) with their fancy shades, fancier jackets, fancierer facial hair. With strangely pointy shoes. And topped off, of course with hair so spikey it would make poor porcupines pout (alliteration). This plumage is held in place by what can only be imagined as giant gobs of hair gel. About enough to put massive oil slicks (the kind which can jeopardise the entire habitat of assorted sea creatures) to shame.

Oh and hold your breath.. Patent leather is back..

I am so mean. I should be shot.

Eh.. Needless to say I stick out like a sore gangrenous thumb. With diseased cuticles to boot. In a sea of tight denim, hair gel, patent leather. Skinny jeans and fat wallets. Lots of style with tragically little taste.

Maybe I'm just jealous? Then again, maybe not.

Maybe I'm just a big fat snob? Highly likely.

Most people I've met have told me I don't remotely resemble girls from Chandigarh. Or rather conform to their image of one. Note the difference, its an important one. It would surprise you how different the two really are. Most people mean it as a compliment. As a dear friend recently informed me, Chandigarh girls, as per his knowledge are usually clad in red salwar kameezes and he's awfully glad to have not spotted me in one so far. Others associate girls from the city with great beauty.

Which leaves me slightly confused as to how best to react. It sort of flips the "Who am I?" thing on its head.

Who would I rather not be?

*

Existential questions apart, what I would most like to be right now is a master of the Iambic Pentameter.

The exercises at the end of the first chapter urge the reader to pen down a few lines. The only restriction is the metre. The sentences need not rhyme. They can be single or in pairs. They can be simple, silly or serious (one of each is advised). They in fact needn't even make sense.

All they need do, is lend themselves to the following rhythm-

ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum, ti-tum

Here's what I could come up with:

1. My toe-nails need post haste to be cut short.

2. Her skin is peeling off in little bits.

3. My heart is grieving quietly for you
I miss your touch, your smell, but mostly you

4. Deforestation is an awful thing.

5. The grass is greener on the other side.

Thats just a flavour of the over 20 lines the book prescribes. I sincerely hope I make the grade.

Left my favourite one for last:

The poet rhymes compulsively today
Tomorrow he may just prefer to sleep

The Bear that Wasn't

2008-12-31T23:33:00.000+05:30

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

*

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)

*

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

*

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.

*

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

*

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

*

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.

*

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*

*

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).

*

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

*

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.

*

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

*

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..

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

Happy New Year!!

Hind in Sight

2008-11-16T15:18:00.002+05:30

cute bottom is looking at me from the corner of his eye. he is gifted with the most extraordinarily powerful peripheral vision. that and the most extraordinarily attractive butt. about his other endowments, i dare not venture any descriptions, seeing as all i can see is his back side. which is not a total loss.. his bum is yum.. so i'll just give the rest of him the benefit of the doubt and continue to steadily fall for him. or just his posterior.. same difference.

so i strain against every compulsively shy muscle of my body to make my presence felt. a way must be found to make this man fall hopelessly in love with me.. or at least be mildly interested in the tiny little sliver of me visible from that inconvenient angle.

increase the volume of conversation.. but only if you have something beautiful and insightful to say. i prattle away nonetheless, simultaneously scanning my brain for something even remotely interesting. politics? haven't so much as looked at the paper in ages.. entertainment? no, watching repetitive reports of Chandrayaan in orbit do not count.. religion? God no..

evil doubts creep in.. i am hopelessly boring.. beyond any hope of remedy. and he sees through my flimsy disguise. that is if he's looking at all? something deep inside softly says- boo hoo..

no no no fool.. you must focus. carpe diem.. i mean just look at your audience. they seem mildly interested don't they now. must be all the books you aren't reading, all the movies and plays you aren't watching, all that brilliant music you aren't listening to, all the exercise you aren't getting..

sheesh.. big help you are! i see i'm going to have to go this alone.

and i manage somehow, elicit a round of giggles with some inane joke or the other.. manage to make some heads nod in agreement at exceedingly astute observation.. to shoot down an argument with a flamboyantly worded counter. and suddenly i am an intriguing person. lovely in every respect. the careful gaze of CB's bum have transformed me.

oh CB.. ever since you came into my life (3 minutes and counting) and looked at me in that special way (?) i am a changed woman.. altered irrevocably, improved immeasurably.. don't ever leave me and go.. first i'll have to recover from your loss.. and then i'll have to tolerate my own company. not the Me that you make me.. the you-less Me.. sob..

cute bottom proceeds forward.. i follow..

no i am not stalking him, we are both in line for the same thing. i only fantasize endlessly about men with whom i am mildly acquainted. but follow them around? na.. that's what the real nutcases do.. just to reassure myself of my sanity i casually shift my tractor beam like focus to other more commonplace things.. the walls, my hands, other butts (a regrettable accident), the floor, my arms.. moving briskly back to the hind in question..

alas, the bum and its owner have disappeared. fool! you should have never looked away.. so you're a loony.. swallow your pride and accept it. this tragedy would never have occurred unless common sense intervened. the same thing inside once again reiterates its stand.. boo-hoo..

*
post-script: CB left, only to stage a comeback, this time with his face in full view.. which much to my ill-conceived joy was not half bad either. i considered smiling to myself.. i ended up smiling to the whole world instead..

*
post-post-script: common sense staged quite the dramatic comeback too. which is funny because it hadn't really gone anywhere.. fortunately he was joined by a great deal of dreamy eyed optimism..

Lionesses: Of Punjab and Elsewhere

2008-11-13T14:04:00.005+05:30

The circumstances of C's exit (or is 'eviction' a more apt word) from the Shamrock house were dramatic to say the least. Purely due to the involvement of so many drama queens in a small confined space. Far above the legally permissable limit I think. There was much yelling and screaming (the word banshee pops into my mind) followed by much impolite (albeit less shrill) small talk. And more luggage than I had ever thought one person could possess. I thought I was packing impaired, till I met C. Her idea of moving house is to cram all her assorted odds and ends into a sequence of flimsy polythene bags... and pray. Luckily, even after a hard day's work I was at my good samaritan best and supplied her with a couple of airbags. Thats me you see, steady and dependable in times of adversity. Especially if the adversity involves a nice juicy fight which I'm not a part of.
M seemed angrier than I've ever seen her. And murderously sarcastic too. And adding some much needed fuel to an already crackling fire was the latest entrant into my life.. Isabel. She fought like a lioness. Against what I'm not quite certain. In fact I didn't see the point of any of it. But that didn't prevent me from deriving bucketloads of joy from all that transpired.
Being congenitally averse to inviting conflict of any sort, I feel fortunate to be thrust in the midst of it once in a while. It makes life seem more real. Fighting my own battles is something I procrastinate about and can postpone till the cows come home. In fact, most often the cows are home, done chewing and digesting, taking a nap etc. and I'll just change my mind. All the anger just drains away.
I have enough people telling me this is a sign of weakness. And maybe it is. But changing requires too much effort. Being a mouse comes naturally. Why, pray tell, would I want to mess with nature?
I think the world could do with more people like me. Who experience the joys of conflict vicariously. Unless of course all the pent up anger comes spilling out one fine day. I doubt it will. There is something so noble about remaining calm. I feel it is my unique gift to the world.
As for M and C, both deeply regret the Tuesday Night Massacre. They may have different versions of what happened but they agree on the fundamentals: Both didn't want to part ways on a bitter note. C didn't see it coming. M is as surprised. She thought Swedish people were pacifists.
I think I managed to convince both that it was just one of those rare unfortunate incidents in an otherwise simple and blissful life. M will go on hosting dinner parties, watching movies and hopefully scripting some soon as well. C will go on with her assignments, trying to change the world's perception of itself, one photograph at a time.

And I'll be here or there, hopefully everywhere, with something or the other to say..

Roar..

*
Notes:
1. C: freelance photographer, erstwhile neighbour
2. M: aspiring script writer, die hard fan of single malt whisky, Landlady
3. Isabel: Coming attractions.. watch this space
4. Me: Innocent bystander

rhyme 1

2008-11-11T21:04:00.002+05:30

'tis precious little fun to mope
when there's no one there to see
wiping away brave little tears
to an audience of... just me

making do with one's own shirtsleeves
when hankies are in short supply
to blow much reddened noses
who seem averse to running dry

i could hold my breath till i turn blue
punch my fists into the ground
but histrionics are so robbed of joy
when no one is around

to bask in well intended sympathy
holds contentment beyond measure
to watch guilty parties writhe and squirm
a harmless evil pleasure

so to my lower lip i give free reign
to quiver and pout i set it free
being miserable isn't half as bad
as some make it out to be

to go without spectators
may seem an awful curse
but when all else fails its good to know
that things could always be verse

N

2008-10-16T20:46:00.002+05:30

N is headed for another heart-attack me thinks. The reports I generate cause him nothing but anxiety. And they should. The economy is in lousy shape and our book is beginning to look like shit.

It makes me sad. And I worry constantly. What if I'm doing something wrong with the numbers? Making silly, avoidable nistakes... like that one.

But I love N. He is silent courage under fire. He always has the cutest smile on his face, like a father resigned to his delinquent children. I bet he hates his life right now. He should go home and give his wife a hug.

I sort of hate my life right now too. But only because I messed up one report that made N's performance look abysmal. In my defense, his performance was abysmal, I just made it look slightly worse by making some.. er.. nistakes.

In N's defence the economy is in lousy shape and our book was bound to start looking like shit sooner or later. But who listens to N? All they do is push him. And give him heart attacks.

N is lovely. He laughs at all my jokes. I love N.

N is only about 46 years old. Pity...

a Butter-Knife (and the answer to all of life's more pressing and intriguing questions)

2008-10-12T17:47:00.003+05:30

M's arrival was not a planned one.

No no.. correction. The entire process of his arrival was meticulously planned. Down to the very last detail. To the very last bottle and bib, the very last home remedy for assorted post natal maladies, the vary last well meaning (read: shrill) grandmother, the very last proud prospective (read: harassed beyond mere words can describe) parent.

His creation was quite another matter. That was the unplanned bit. As a consequence of a fairly pleasant weekend in Atlanta, S found herself feeling "somewhat lousy". She figured it was one of two things: gas or breast cancer. The fool.

But as far as accidents go, M is quite the beautiful one. He has ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. The softest belly and the roundest bottom. The loveliest head of hair, the smoothest and flawlessest skin. And the warning signs of what will someday be a very fetching pout.

I am reliably informed that he has other, seemingly endless charming attributes. To be revealed on closer inspection of course. But I'm quite content to admire from afar. Although M is more beautiful today than he will ever be I can't wait for him to get older. To talk to him. Read to him.

Not that conversation is a more evolved form of communication. Its just one I'm better at I suppose. One I'm more comfortable with. M will just have to wait till I come out of my shell and make up for all the hugs and kisses I haven't lavished on him.

And I'll wait patiently, for him to grow up.

*hug*

*

So much to say, I feel I'll burst at the seems. But all in good time. All in good time.

*

When is one ever sure of what one wants? I experienced a moment of great clarity today as I was leaning over the kitchen drawer. Usually I would settle for anything- a spoon, a fork. That is if I feel like upgrading from using my index finger or a Reynolds pen. But today was different. I needed to spread peanut butter as finely as possible on only the most golden brown toasted piece of whole wheat bread. I knew what I required and I was not going to budge till I got it.

A butter-knife.

If only every other decision was that simple. Guess I shall have to take life one piece of cutlery at a time.

Signs of Damage

2008-10-05T12:00:00.002+05:30

Hmm.. umm.. uhh..
*
Honestly, when i resume writing after an extended hiatus about the only thing that i am in a position to state with a reasonable degree of certainty is "Hmm.. umm.. uhh.." and other assorted, unintelligable sounds. Of course one can never let the reader know that now.. Uh uh.. not happening. The reader must be convinced that the absence was in fact a fruitful one. A much needed one. To allow thoughts to ferment inside one's head.

*
The unfortunate bit is that the whole time i've been away my head was in fact teeming with lovely thoughts: mostly happy, sometimes sad and fairly confused (no more than is usual)
Lyrical, insightful and even in grief, always somewhat funny..

And observations.. of this grand city which i now call home. So many brilliant and beautiful little things. Charming occurences that merit lengthy and detailed documentation.

But this blasted screen stares at me cruelly and i just melt into an inarticulate puddle of piss..

We are most often our harshest critics.. Who knew impressing onesself could be so difficult?
I want to send the critic on a vacation.. to some far away forgotten island where she can sit and sip a cocktail of her choice. I may even go visit her once in a while. The absence of exacting standards could potentially get quite lonely me thinks..

Hmm.. umm.. uhh..
*
I have been terribly hysterical off late. Shit happens, what can one say. And maybe thats why i'm back.. This blog was always my preferred medium for looking at myself and laughing and my assorted and many hued sillinesses.

Also a preferred medium for use of words like 'sillinesses'.
*
Hmm.. after having written several paragraphs i am now convinced that i have in fact not completely forgotten how to write. I am genuinely scared that if i stop writing, a part of my brain will just atrophy.. drop off and die. And that if i stop singing, before long all I'll be able to do is croak. Its frightening, the kind of thing that can keep you up and hate yourself a little every day.

*
I think one of the best things about living in mumbai is being able to tell people that you live here. Mumbai is an excuse in itself..
.. i'm out partying all the time, after all this is Mumbai..
.. that poor woman has lost her mind, Mumbai does that to you..
.. can't bring myself to save anything, Mumbai, so expensive..
.. i have no time to post these days, its sad. Between getting to work, being at work and getting back from work i barely get any time to breathe.. heck, thats Mumbai for you..

Which is fortunate for the city itself. Imagine being forgiven for all your vices and idiosyncracies simply because you happen to be who you are..

..its a shit hole. but its Mumbai

*
Not a fan of abrupt endings myself. But NS just walked in. He is playing distracting music. Mostly soppy love songs with 'Hotel California' juxtaposed uncomfortably in between. Think I'll wrap up. Get a little work done, flirt with him for a few minutes and head out. Into the adventure that this day is in the process of becoming..

*
About the title: long story. Tragic, but like most things also slightly funny. Ok probably only funny if you really look close, observe the mayhem and then pan out and move further and further away.. Slowly.. Slowly.

Its hard to explain. Maybe some other time..

Saturday Morning

2008-07-19T09:45:00.001+05:30

Clearly, I am over qualified for my job. Not that my present means of earning bread and butter annoys me (yet) or tires me needlessly. It's just that I see myself deriving a great deal of joy from simple things which require little or no thought.. Serious thought that is.

Like a postman. Now thats a job I would perform splendidly. Especially in Bombay. And to make it more fun the area I service should be huge…
And I should see new and exotic places everyday… Bhandup, Mumbra, Kalyan… Masjid Bunder, Ghatkopar… no these places really exist, I’m not making them up. I wish I were imaginative enough to come up with names that interesting.
I’d deliver mail… chit chat with its recipients. Maybe learn marathi or gujarati..
Hmm… yes I shall have to weather a substantial pay-cut to pursue this alternate career.
So I suppose I’ll have to marry someone really rich, having been denied blood relations to any rich people who’s death is imminent. God really is mean.

But then how many investment bankers do you know who’d be willing to marry a postman?

Hmm…

*

Thane is quite lovely. At least it looks so from the train. It’s green and hilly. And far away from anything which is even remotely familiar.
Kalyan, not so much. Lovely that is. Far? Oh yes its far. It might as well be on another planet.

*

I should wrap up… Am in Worli, need to head to Dadar. And I started from Bandra. Need I take such a circuitous route? Of course not… but I figure I should do this things as long as I have the energy to wake up early enough in the morning to budget time for such adventures. It helps that I can afford to… Monetarily that is.

*

The weekend is upon us. But my company insists on working on Saturdays as well… what a bunch of chumps.
But I’ve gotten used to it… I am in fact one whole month old in the organisation (as a much exclamatory, i.e. “!!!!” mail from HR recently informed me, HR dude, they need to get a clue).

But something must be done with Sunday… something grand…

Maybe I’ll sleep in late? That’s a start :)

all trains lead to dadar

2008-07-17T20:25:00.003+05:30

i've discovered the key to avoid weight gain.. (drumroll..)- a bad sense of direction

yes, the life of a directionally challenged person affords some advantages. even if it takes a great deal of thought to look beyond an obvious handicap, dress it up in a cloak of fanciful theories, till it comes out looking and smelling every bit the part of a virtue. seriously after i'm done with most of my flaws, they're damn near resume-worthy. seriously..

so to recap, a congenitally defective internal compass aint all that bad. it helps if you're an optimist. more so if you're a gasbag..

i leave really early for work these days. mostly because i love offices when they are empty. particularly in the morning, when i'm at my productive best. the remnants of the previous day of work being turned out. swept, picked up, discarded, packed away.

i wonder how long it will take for me to get accustomed to working in an office environment.. i who am so terribly prone to distraction. i notice everything.. before long i'll know which ringtone belongs to which phone, which areas provide the best fodder for gossip..

this too is a gift.. especially for the chronically bored (propensity toward boredom, which in itself is a virtue. i can't quite say why just yet, but gimme time.. its one of those days)

dadar station is manageable in the mornings. really, i'm not kidding. it surprises me everyday. for the longest time the very mention of the word dadar would fill me with the deepest and most crippling dread. now i've figured out how to tackle the trains. you either have to travel really early in the morning, or really late at night. and the women have it easier.

mumbai is surprisingly egalitarian i think... the city is pretty much a pain for both sexes. in some cases, easier on the women folk.

of course part of the reason i leave so early is my sincere belief that i will get at least slightly lost on the way there. i get a little less lost everyday. tomorrow, my last day at the dadar office i just might disembark at the spot and walk in the right direction and reach in record time. of course getting lost is fun too. you learn to swallow your pride (read:shyness) and ask for directions. you discover new routes to old destinations. it is an entirely fascinating way to live.

(see i told i was good)

yesterday i wondered what name to give the smell which assaults the ol' factory (bad joke intended) when one approaches dadar. a mixture of sweat and dust and pee. and add a dash of humidity. humidity has a smell too. or maybe its just a sensation. either way you can discern its presence.

but on the whole, dadar station smells of people and everything to do with them. human beings lend it its signature scent. by doing nothing in particular. just existing...

sitting, eating, walking... mostly walking... mostly briskly...

i cried bitter bitter tears in a shady alley at dadar. coming to bombay has opened up a veritable dukaan of insecurities. coming face to face with my ineptitude and more so with my fear of it. with my shameless need for people and love. and greed for the finer things in life.

but what is life if not for these things. once in a while scary things should happen. they make us realise just how strong or weak we are. and the things that really matter.

and you get the odd blog post out of it...

look forward to more unpunctuated and garbled rubbish. bombay brings out the poet, even in the most cynical of us.

2008-05-20T23:33:00.000+05:30

Ok I'm half asleep… but this post needs to be written. I'm going to dedicate it to three people…

Who also happen to be the three people who are most likely to read this… no that’s not the only reason I like them… being part of my readership merely enhances their natural appeal…

First, to P… Happy Birthday! I'm saying it now because I'll be fast asleep when the time actually comes. I hope you're having a blast. I'm guessing the revelry includes large quantities of alcohol and other intoxicants I haven't quite made friends with yet. That and loud music. To which I hope you're dancing… don't worry, you don't look funny when you dance.
Have fun old friend… and don't forget to brush J

Next, to PPP… Pooch, The Original. Tomorrow, I embark for Samirpur. Yes the "mendak" is returning to her "chhota sa kuaan". I plan to bury myself in my recently procured collection of childrens' books. To rehearse for when you do indeed surrender your body to so "noble" a cause. Ghanshyam is eagerly awaiting our arrival, about as eager as an incredibly sullen person can be. Oh and Sher 'Schumacher' Singh is coming to pick us up when we disembark! There is much mindless TV to be watched and countless naps to be taken. But it won't be the same without you. Awww (the way I say it).
Hope you're back to your social butterfly ways. I need to exist vicariously for a bit so please get a life post haste…
Also, I owe you a detailed account of my recent adventures. Shall pen them when I'm feeling particularly poetic. And I'll give you a heads up too.

And last… to Pooch, The Recent (and desperately in need of an alternative pseudonym). You vanquished the odious army of auditors without them so much as stepping on your doorstep! Hope the work gods treat you well, that all the necessary resources come flooding in without too much of a fight and that the loud lion hearted primate keeps his meddling paws to himself. Fret not the impending arrival of the long haired Neanderthal (he's got a haircut by the way). For what its worth, I think… no no correction… I know he is a fool and a gas bag and an ugly one too…
If things happen to teeter precariously on the edge of bearability, give BB a buzz. All ears at your service.

Family Portraits

2008-05-20T01:13:00.000+05:30

My father is the cutest thing. He firmly believes that any man in an old movie is either

a) Al Pacino
b) Richard Burton
c) (and this one serves for all cases where a) and b) fail) Charles Bronson

In fact, I wonder if, you were to line up the above mentioned thespians, would he even be able to tell them apart? I bet he'd say that Al was Richard and that Richard was Chuck. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if he insisted that all three were Charles Bronson.

Of course, every blonde woman is always Goldie Hawn. Unfortunately, my dad can never remember her name either. So he just refers to her as "the woman from that movie.. er.. you know.. arre vo vaali.. that one.. the one about the... haan the one we saw in Vizag… Neeru (seeking desperate help from my mother who is by now struggling to control stubborn fits of laughter) das na".
We all just understand.

Any woman with hair colour other than golden is Elizabeth Taylor. And there are simply no arguments entertained. You could go blue in the face insisting otherwise. Really there is very little that good ol' illustrious Liz did not achieve in her acting career. According to my dad, Liz Taylor starred in, among her other breathtaking performances… Forrest Gump (as Tom Hanks's mum), Gone With the Wind (as the formidable Scarlett O) and even some musicals like An American in Paris and Singin' in the Rain. But not all musicals mind you. The ones with blonde women are invariably starring "the woman from sound of music" alternatively known in my house as the "doe a deer vaali movie" co-starring Al Pacino/ Richard Burton/Steve Mcqueen… you get my drift.

Any man who so much as skips or courtesies in a movie is Gene Kelly… any man who is even remotely funny is Steve Martin. Clearly my dad's knowledge of movie stars transcends all time periods… all genres… all logic.

These days he's starting to get adventurous. Limited information tends to be his Achilles heel. Any young looking person is met with an inquisitive "Is that Tom Cruise?". A recent phenomenon (observed on too few occasions to be documented with complete accuracy) concerns short, funny looking men who are most probably "Dustin Hoffman kya?". Strangely enough most short, funny looking men in old movies do turn out to be Dustin Hoffman (a.k.a. "the man from Tootsie with the funny nose"). But if the Hoffman connection is not made, chances are we fall back into the whole Al/Richard/Charles quagmire again.

But there is hope… if not for accuracy than at least for variety in the mis-identification. Clint Eastwood and Marlon Brando feature sometimes. It makes for hours of breaking-your-head-against-the-wall fun.

My mother on the other hand is really with it. She's up to date with the Russel Crowes, hugh Jackmans, Brad Pitts and George Clooneys of the world. Basically all hot men… name one and she's likely to at least remember… the name (come one she's not super human or anything). In fact she absolutely drools over Eric Bana and letches shamelessly at Mathew Fox. I didn't even know who this Fox fellow was till she introduced him to my world. Truth be told, I am richer for the knowledge… he is quite the delectable fox.

My sister of course takes the cake. In fact you might as well surrender the entire bakery and all associated establishments to her. If there is a man who had one dialogue in some vague indie movie which was seen by a sum total of 50 people she would know that the actor in question was the third cousin of the person who was a cameraman/ choreographer/ designated coffee fetcher on another equally obscure film. She has so much redundant movie rubbish in her head… it’s a miracle her skull hasn't started cracking at the schemes. She is a mutant I tell you…

Now I watch as much E! News as she does… perhaps more (I watch repeat telecastes sometimes… yes I disgust even myself). But is it my fault that I lose interest immediately after the daily round-up of Paris Hilton's capers has been dispensed with? Is it? Is it?

*

I seem to have hit a good spot with this one. When in doubt, write about family. That shall henceforth be my dictum.

As in most things, family tends to be a reliable bet. Even if it is exploits such as finding a muse worthy of merciless caricaturing.

Yes… Ridicule, begins at home

Comeback Queen

2008-05-20T00:48:00.000+05:30

Ok I have to get back to this before time renders me incapable of ever contributing to my blog again. I'm not even going to bother coming up with a dramatic opening sentence or a grand subject… or anything for that matter. Just proceed in small baby steps. And much like a baby whose first few utterances are warbled and incoherent, I'm counting on my cuteness and pudginess to carry me through.

What the hell… lets be reckless and go crazy. No spell checks either..

*

Come to think of it my blog themes were never that grand to begin with. So lets recap… I've written posts about pimples, saris, and water shortages. Countless ones which indirectly address the question of men and one extremely acerbic one on pigeons. Yes I snuck a few in there that could qualify as "meaningful", but really who are we kidding?

And this extended hiatus? Its not like opportunities to write did not present themselves. I have in fact spent the better part of the last month doing next to nothing. In fact the quantum of the nothing that I indulge in seems to grow with every passing day. And its not like there were no worthy subjects for documentation. I mean I did take what could possibly be the last set of exams of my life… I am now (almost, one can never be too cautious) a post graduate. Life has in fact changed FOREVER!!! (caps and exclamation mark for dramatic effect… also picture me with eyes stretched to twice their size). So lack of time and fodder weren't to blame… perhaps it was just good old fashioned laziness.

But even when some things are a habit and even if they are no more unpleasant than anything that’s fairly pleasant (apologies for that sentence, I'm still warming up the engine) once they get suspended for a bit… its just really hard to pick them up again. Like my jog. It annoys me that I stopped going for one in the evenings regularly. And curiously I live next to a nice park and quite enjoy running. But I just can't get myself to adhere to the routine again. Bleh… (apologies again… but I couldn't find any other place for the mandatory minimum of one "Bleh…" per post)

A small caveat to the loyal fan base (two people at last count, both curiously referred to as "pooch" for various reasons… my lack of creativity being the main culprit… hee hee). Don't get all excited about the comeback. First, I am as prone to sink back into laziness as ever. And second, even if I do take to this regularly, there's no telling what I'll write… quality may be seriously compromised. I mean zits and irritating birds are one thing but if I'm seriously strapped for ideas I may resort to writing about… oh I don't know… IPL? Khali? Lizards? (no wait… I've done that… damn it).

*

While on the subject of Khali, lets get off it as soon as possible (parumpumpush… that was a post joke drumroll for the uninitiated). I saw the great man himself on CNN IBN tonight. And there I was thinking the channel had taste… bloody capitalist sellouts…(inside joke). Just the sight of him… or the fact that so many people actually give a shit… I don't know exactly what it is that made my stomach churn. I had the strongest possible urge to vomit. And that’s that.

*

The last time I wrote was the night Pooch (the original) and myself were leaving for Samirpur. That post, having been swallowed up by my blog into its deep, dark recesses, was read by all of one person. Of course it met with satisfactory reviews. But one can never be too sure when the readers are nice people who happen to be fond of you.

And funnily enough day after, I depart for Samirpur again. This alone puts a giant question mark on whether this post will be followed by another. The only computer with an internet connection is in my father's office, access to which fraught with obstacles… try the most exhausting flight of concrete steps followed by a long painful walk. But boredom has been known to make me do strange things. Trudging to the comp in question is likely to be the least of these.

*

I wish free time were a marketable commodity. Now don't all you economicsy types start off on explaining the whole leisure-labour tradeoff to me. I'm serious… if there were some way in which I could trade some of the free time I have right now for the time I won't in the future… now wouldn't that be spectacular? I'm talking a grand interetemporal exchange of 'velaness'. I have gallons and gallons of leisure at hand and absolutely nothing to do with it.

And that just kills me. Eats me up completely. Irritates and annoys me. Bothers me no end. Makes me think all sorts of deranged thoughts and go completely to pieces. Write terrible blog posts… and unapologetically to boot.

*

Ma left today, for Bangalore. She has left father and daughter in each other's company for a sum total of 15 days. I wonder if we'll survive. Something tells me we'll manage pretty well. My dad and I tend to get into each other's way a whole lot less. He's more resigned to the fact that I'm incapable of conversation. I think he just needs the physical presence of his children around to feel that there is 'raunaq' in the house.

Also I seem to have inherited the worst habits from him. At least all the ones that irritate my mother. The propensity to hoard mountains of unnecessary things, an aversion to all things related to domestication such as bed making, room clearing etc.

While my mum pesters, my father sort of lets me be. And sooner or later things get done… beds get made… rooms get cleared. Of course its usually later than sooner that such happy developments occur. And more often than not when things reach critical mass.

Yes, papa and I should do just fine…

*

Ok I should about wrap up now. I may exhaust my treasure trove of blog-worthy topics. I can't believe I've gone and written so much. And I can actually think of some more not entirely boring things to write about. I'm not entirely pleased with tonight's outcome but its early times yet. There's one thing that strikes me every time I don't post for too long- this is always easier and more fun than I remember it to be.

Blimblop may in fact be back in business

Nor any drop to drink

2008-03-30T16:16:00.002+05:30

The better part of the Delhi metropolis seems to be in the grip of a devastating drought. There’s word on the news of people foraging around for precious water to meet basic needs (no, by basic I do not mean laundry… think more along the lines of drinking and cooking). Given that the mighty State Government has very few options but to grin and bear it, there is little that the tiny Kingdom of Tsango can do to insulate itself from the sorry state of affairs.

Now, all of us down at Tsango are a fairly resilient lot quite accustomed to all nature of adversity (not to mention perfectly at ease with the prospect of a suspension in all bathing/washing-laundering/cleaning related activities). All would have been well had it not been for the tremendous stupidity of other Queens (96 of them at last count) of the wider AGSHW area. A pressing lack of sense… civic, common or any miscellaneous variety. For they live in an advanced stage of denial and or indifference. A world where come hell or high water (or lack thereof) clothes must be washed, floors must be swept and swabbed, hair must be shampooed (AND conditioned, lather…rinse…repeat…lather…rinse…repeat). While the rest of the world and all its mere mortals struggle to subsist, this insensitive lot can’t digest the thought of having to survive one day without washing their precious undies. And all the drones who do their bidding must go about their assigned tasks mechanically… the malees must water plants, the maids must polish the stairs. Life goes on as if noting at all happened. Its enough to drive anyone stark raving mad.

The Queen (she of Tsango, not the other thoughtless witches) of course being of the conscientious (God bless MS Word, else I’d never have been able to spell that blasted word) sort felt it her moral duty to educate the dumb masses. Alas, like most visionary thinkers she is misunderstood in her own times. She must be content with posthumous recognition.

So she swallowed her pride and budding activism whole and retreated into her quarters, which albeit overrun by sexually hyper-active lizards and pigeons with steadily precipitating intelligence quotients is still, after all, home.

*

There is much that needs attention. Some, like the unwashed plates and bucket full of dirty clothes shall have to wait till the liquidity crisis abates. But there are term papers to be written and exams to be crammed for. Conversations to be made, with Mona, Bob and of course with Thin Air. There are Georges (Clooney) to be ogled at and an old forgotten Kingfisher to be consumed. Naps to be taken (much oversleeping to be done) and movies to be watched on a doddering old laptop. An entire life to be lived in the confines of those four walls.

*

My apologies to the Duke (he of Puke) for paraphrasing much of the content of a series of vituperative messages into this post. I’m sorry you had to read this twice over.

*

A lizard climbed into the fan’s regulator about 45 minutes back. And it is yet to surface. I can posit a few explanations. 1) Overcome by exhaustion after a day of scurrying around, she decided to take a nap 2) Subsequent to her daring venture into the dark recesses of the electrical appliance, she has been electrocuted…her charred remains only to be discovered eons from now 3) The inside of the regulator is in fact the scene of THE MOST happening party for miles around. All of the famous reptilian P3Ps are there shaking their tails and booties and sampling scrumptious 6 legged hors d’ oeuvres…

Yes I have a lot of spare time on my hands, but if you’re reading this, well then so do you. So there.

The Whole 5 Yards

2008-03-29T16:23:00.002+05:30

It takes 3 minutes to tie a sari almost perfectly. Subsequent attempts at ensuring complete perfection can take upto an additional 57. My solution to the problem, like my solution to most problems, is to dilly-dally till the absolute last moment. To finally get down to the complicated process of drapery when you have little or no time to be fussy about the outcome. Somehow, not having the luxury to redo things makes you do them well the first time over. Either that or you just have to grudgingly be satisfied with the effort.

But a sari is almost as trying to keep on that it is to put on. There is the painful question of what to do with the pallu. Sure at first you feel all grand and princess like when you flap it around, like those deliriously happy women in the sari commercials. I always feel a bit like a super hero myself, with my one shouldered cape. But the charm wears thin faster than you can say… oh well… just about anything that doesn’t take too long to say. From then on in it’s quite the nightmare. Conventional wisdom (i.e. passed down from generations of mothers) says the left arm (on which the palla rests) must never budge from the strict angle of 45 at the elbow. Not even if your arm muscles spasm or threaten to give way or just get bored of assuming the same position for hours on end. The said piece of cloth must be pinned firmly (but delicately so as not to rip the fabric) to the left shoulder and let loose, extending over the arm reaching the left wrist.

And then there is the prospect of having to navigate your way through a cruel world, which insists on installing obstacles in your way. Tip toeing through puddles which will magically materialise or manoeuvring around mounds of rubble. Stairs, by far the most worthy of adversaries must be scaled repeatedly. I don’t know what the rest do. I just bunch up the pleats and march on steadfastly giving the whole world a fairly generous peak at the frills at the bottom of the petticoat. All this must be done gracefully.

And all this must be done on high heels. Because flats are out of the question: its an unwritten rule. Even if it means that 20 minutes into having worn them, the entire weight of your body rests precariously on your toes. Even if the pain renders you dangerously close to passing out.

So lets recap… you have this impossibly tight string around your tummy cutting of the blood supply to everything south of the waist (or waste lands as Akka would endearingly refer to our bellies as). You have about a dozen overlapping pleats, which must be planted right in the middle of your gut. The gut of course has to be sucked in tight unless you want to look like you’re well into your second trimester. There’s the palla that must be tamed and the sandals that must be worn and borne. The brassiere strap that must be prevented from making an embarrassing appearance. The pebbles that creep in between your toes and move further on cruelly piercing your sole. And if you choose to leave your hair open you’re in for one hell of a picnic. For there is only so much nipping and tucking that the free and mobile right hand can do. Meals are impossible. I for one have never been able to master the art of one- handed eating, this despite years of attending weddings without adequate seating arrangements. No matter how scrumptious the meal, the sari clad me would just prefer to go hungry.
So breath held, arm aching, toes screaming for reprieve. Oh yes, and don’t forget to smile!

*

Ok the griping notwithstanding the end product of all this misery is actually quite beautiful. I’ve never known a woman to look anything less than her aesthetically pleasing best in a sari. There is something so incredibly feminine about the experience that almost makes the unpleasantness recede into the background.

*

There is something marvellous about living in a girls’ hostel. I could just stand in the courtyard and yell, “Help!!” and help would in fact appear. Sarees materialise from thin air, sandals will drop from the heavens, bangles and all nature of jewellery and accessories will be instantaneously matched, some generous souls would even offer the services of their ironing skills. The whole world turns out to take a peak and almost unfailingly tell you that you look more gorgeous than you ever have. And you believe it because somehow, they always mean it.

Everyone is captivated by your beauty and the whole process of your metamorphosis. There is no envy or malice. Just a feeling of awe at having been in some small way a part of the creation of unparalleled loveliness.

*

All the recent farewell-ing that I’ve been through is not without ugly side effects. There is the realisation that youth is steadily slipping through your fingers. That you can’t really post pone growing up any more.

I feel like such a geriatric… bleh…

Partying is Such Sweet Sorrow

2008-03-24T04:35:00.002+05:30

i don't want to sing... and i don't want to rhyme... and i most certainly don't want to sing any of my rhymes...
i don't want to click/scan/mail any pictures... and i don't want to come up with any creative titles
i don't want daily updates and minute by minute schedules in my inbox
i don't want to listen to anyone's goodbye speeches... and i don't want to fill out any more testimonials... i don't care what people want to say about me to me... either that or i don't want to care... same difference
if i have to eat one more piece of sethi's chocolate trufle (how does one spell that word??) cake i'm going to puke

i wish IM and her army of annoying hyper-excited and compulsively-enthu trolls would just quit trying to 'involve' me and just leave me ALONE

... damn i needed that. i suppose after 5 straight years in the brown pastures of North Campus such things are bound to happen.
either that, or my sudden bouts of curmudgeon-liness are a sign of age. i prefer not to think about that

the end

Itchy and Scratchy

2008-03-23T11:20:00.000+05:30

The Khujli Wala Chuha

The Khujli Wala Chuha is a creature christened by the stupendously creative KB, the Maharani of Lucknow. The rodent is a manifestation of all the pent up frustration and anger inside the members of her court and kingdom (Court Jester NL, Head Concubine SY, Man at Arms APJ and her dog Xena to name a few). Of the urge to want to assuage all the burning questions inside their heads, to rid themselves of tedium and tension. An advanced state of unease in which all you can do… is scratch. Scratch your head, scratch your belly, scratch your behind. Scratch the insides of your brain in search of answers…scratch just to dull the itch.

The Khujli Wala Chuha (henceforth, KWC) Syndrome seems to have the nation in its grip. It has spread its tentacles all the way to Bengaluru, where a hapless DP Devi is struggling to come to grips with the fallout of a sequence of seemingly ‘rash’ (pun intended) decisions. When the malaise first surfaced, it compelled her to dump her boyfriend, quit her job, relocate to a new apartment. And now that all the dumping, quitting and relocating has finally been done, the rat has re-surfaced and opened up a veritable ‘Doubt Ki Dukaan’. Brave decisions are hard to go through with and harder still to live with.

It seems to have well near crippled the Duke of Puke, NS (alternatively, the Earl of Pearls) as he presides over his increasingly uncertain territory. ‘The powers that be’ have not been kind. First, they isolated him in the most desolate and inhospitable of places. Then they issued proclamations that proved well near impossible for the Tribal allies to swallow. All hell threatens to break lose and needless to say NS is scratching around furiously for solutions. Attempts to achieve a mental calm include pandering to the vulnerable bellies of friends, family and dog and recourse to hours worth of mindless reality TV. The things life makes you do.

And what of Shehzadi Samra PKH? Valiantly battling the temptations promised by the corporate world and struggling to suppress the desire to breakfast at the American Diner on a daily basis. In an attempt to eke out a literary masterpiece, one that doesn’t prove too costly for the kingdom’s treasury.

And of the 4 (of the famous 5), who are readying themselves for the onslaught of Evil Exams. How they fester and writhe as D-Day approacheth!

Yes, all is not well in the hearts and minds of the Queen’s allies. She can only hope that a deadly combination of ‘cheer up tom-foolery’ and ‘frequent change of subject’ therapy are some source of solace. Or at least that her amateurish attempts at psychiatry don’t cause irreparable damage.

*

As an aside, I wish to say that KB is a marvellous person. I’ve never ever known her to be upset or at least visibly so. In fact her cheerfulness grows exponentially in times of adversity. She has proved a worthy ally indeed.

2008-03-22T02:51:00.002+05:30

Tomorrow, (or rather today) is holi. I’ve always disliked the festival, don’t quite know why. I only ever once truly enjoyed the festivities but not enough to want to give it another shot. I think I was just born a boring geriatric. I hope to sit this holi out as well.

But this year I have a valid explanation. My family is not celebrating festivals this year. I hate to have to call it an ‘excuse’ but if I were honest I’d have to admit that that’s exactly what it is. I haven’t denied myself any other opportunity for revelry. I haven’t activated the ‘excuse’ enough to warrant it being called a ‘reason’ rather than an ‘excuse’.

I’ve used it selfishly to avoid situations that I think are bound to be unpleasant.

*

I don’t know what I hate most about the fact that C died. Whether it was the place, the time, the circumstances or simply the fact that she died. I suppose it’s a bit of everything.

I hate that she had to die. Because I saw no reason why it absolutely had to happen. Very few deaths make sense, but this one was damn near incomprehensible. Could anyone find a reasonable reason as to why a 23 year old should die?

I hated it because I actually liked C. Not in the way one is obligated to like relatives but because I thought she was genuinely likeable. I mean if I had met her one fine day through a common friend or if we happened to be assigned adjacent seats in school without any prior knowledge of each other or some such random thing… I know we’d have gotten along. But then most people got along with her and liked her too. I’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t.

She used to laugh at almost all of my jokes. In fact she laughed at most everything I ever said. I could say, “the sun rises in the east” and I know she’d at least crack a smile. And the others laughed when she did, even the ones who didn’t really see the humour in the situation. I suppose it made them comfortable to join in once they were assured that underneath all the words I usually over-embellish conversation with, there was in fact the kernel of something funny.

I hate that I wasn’t there when it happened. That I was so far away. In a sense insulated from all the heartbreaking goings on. But this was the most stifling form of seclusion ever… I couldn’t feel a thing. Only guilt, that too for being unable to feel anything else. Guilty for not crying enough, for actually packing in a few hours of sleep, for eating good food, wearing nice clothes, taking a long walk, watching tv, breathing. Guilty for not having been a part of the indescribable pain that death can cause. Other people were there and they weren’t even family. People who were confused and upset and hurt and angry. While I sat miles away… feeling guilty.

And I live in a constant state of guilt. For not having been there, for not having called, for not visiting. For eating good food and wearing nice clothes and taking long walks and watching tv…and breathing.

And the thought that with every passing day, my memory of C resembles the real her less and less.

*

I can’t help but think of that day without thinking of R. He is the nicest person in the world and I am utterly undeserving of him or his niceness. I think a part of me loves R just for those 45 minutes. For humouring my tears.

And thenceforth, for humouring just about everything I have dished out. The long winded theories, the moronic philosophising. The forgotten birthday and several unmade phone calls.

I wonder what purpose certain people serve in my life. Have you ever known anyone you’ve wanted to remain acquainted with simply because they were there? Not because of their intelligence, conversational ability, endearing traits, good looks. But because they happened to, at a crucial point in time, make you feel a shade less sad and lonely.

*

The summer just got crueller as it went along. But I remember this one day, after a sequence of several bad days, I managed to cheer myself up for a split second. I was in a cab on my way to a wholesale market called (if my memory serves me right) Masjid Bunder. MK was pleased as punch to host someone from the GO on his daily route. He spoke like an excited little child on the phone, giving me directions.

It all suddenly made sense: It is so incredibly easy to make people happy. And the world really is better off with more happy people than sad people. I know… I’m a lot happier being happy than I am being sad. Everyone is striving hard to move toward a state of happy. Not the ecstatic jumping around kind, just quiet contentment. And I can help.

I had the strongest urge to be a source of joy to the world. To swallow cynicism up whole and let my idealistic self spread happiness, even if it came at the risk of embarrassing myself, at the risk of working too hard or the risk of wasting too much time.

Some things are worth it.

(I really believe all this stuff so if you think I’m insane, go ahead)

*

I don’t know how long that urge persisted. Moreover, I wonder if the way I am allows me admit that it did, guiding everything I have done since then. I doubt I’ll ever really make peace with my good intentions for the world. That I’ll ever be entirely comfortable with them (enough to say it out loud). Even as I speak, I feel like such a self indulgent fool.

*

I remember having this conversation with E six million times over, till we knew it backwards and forwards.

How dare we let ourselves complain? Do we really deserve the right to complain about anything? We have homes and families. We have clothes to wear and food to eat. We may not have too much money, but it is more than enough to keep body and soul together. We have the use of all our limbs and assorted appendages. A fully functional brain. We have the lives that many people aspire to live.

Life is in fact perfect, barring minor inconveniences.

And the bouts of sadness? For them we must budget time. Time for being human. For hurting. And time for healing.

*

I’m really wondering whether or not to post this. Being honest is difficult. And being honest can be terribly disconcerting too. Especially when you realise that you had the capacity to do it with such ease… to be so recklessly forthright. That it caused you so little discomfort.

*

Dear C,
I miss you.

Love,
Me

Valuable Lessons: 5 years in the life of a DU victim

2008-03-17T21:59:00.002+05:30

Fodder for thought

We don’t exert sufficient leverage. We are a bunch of hopeless pushovers. We let companies run rampant. We are willing victims of the machinations of manipulative HR personnel*. We are the epitome of pathetic subservience…

RL accuses the placement cell of being a docile cow

I believe his exact words were,

“… so what does that mean? Is the placement cell a cow?”

????

Moooo…

Moooo

*We are also equally manipulative, but that’s another story…

*

The Write Stuff: Words of Wisdom

How do I get myself into these messes? My enthusiasm (or was it joblessness?) will be the death of me. Somehow I managed to have myself appointed as a member of the Editorial Board of the hostel magazine (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered). A sad little publication, read by very few outside the circles of those who end up compiling it.

If you’ve ever flipped through one of these things (i.e. emotionally blackmailed into reading it by a friend or just unimaginably bored, those were the only two instances I could think of) you’ll notice the first few pages being hogged by flowery clichéd “messages” from “dignitaries”. Well, somehow the onus of collating that riveting section fell on my shoulders (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered... is it just me or does everyone see a pattern to this?). The magazine could simply not go to print without stirring words of encouragement from:

1. the Provost
2. the Resident Tutor
3. the Chairman of the Someortheothersham Committee (a.k.a. SCP)
4. the distinguished member of Wastefultothepointofredundancy Committee (a.k.a. PBN)
5. the Pro-Vice Chancellor (he does after all have a swanky office in the Vice Regal Lodge and all)

and lots more…

I’m really thankful to 3. for exercising his imagination and writing something sweet though not altogether profound. I’m equally thoughtful to 4. for not writing anything at all and giving us an extra page to play around with. 1. and 2. opted for recycling their last year’s messages word for word. 5. however proved to be a challenge, at least his peon did (I never actually did meet 5., in fact I’m beginning to wonder if 5. even exists). He asked me to imagine what I would like 5. to have said and just submit that for his signature since “voh bahut beezee rehte hain”. To channel my creative energies and compose something suitable.

I twiddled my thumbs for a bit and took a leaf out of 1. and 2.’s book, re-submitting the Pro VC's epistle from last year's edition. It was the most creative shortcut I have ever taken.

*

The Form is Dead, Long Live the Form

I recently filled out the last university examination form of my life. As usual I went about it in my trademark style, leaving it for the last possible day. It was however a marked improvement from the previous time around, when I actually had to cough up a fine for submitting it two days late. DU loves extracting money from its hapless victims and I have proven to be more than obliging on several occasions.

I don’t really know why I procrastinate with form filling and such like official procedures. I mean I procrastinate about most things, but to forms I’m well near allergic. Something about all those blanks to be filled, boxes to be ticked, signatures to signature, numbers to fill in… they just give me the heebie jeebies. I’m always paranoid about messing it up (destroying it to the extent that no amount of over-writing or that gooey white correction fluid can rescue the damn thing) and having to ask for another one.

I think I’m just terrified of being subjected to admonishment from disgruntled office staff. I hate to generalise, but I’ve never known office staff to be anything but disgruntled. At least Pande Ji goes about inflicting public humiliation it in a funny, genial way. Some folks down at Stephen’s (Vasantha, the evil banshee who presides over the transcript racket and who could forget the "Fat Lady", who spends her days yacking, yawning, scanning the DT, taking inordinately long lunch/tea breaks… she occasionally works too) could damn near reduce you to tears.

Usually, just the thought of having to submit office paperwork is enough to give me sweaty palms, sleepless nights etc. I’ve never applied for a re-evaluation or to take an improvement. And not just because my academic performance did not merit such action. But because of a deadly cocktail of fear and laziness.

Surprisingly, this last form was a breeze. I filled it up in less than ten minutes without having to double or triple check any of its contents. Pande Ji gave me two thumbs up for a superlative performance (“placement sahiba, dus mein se dus number se utteern ho gayin hai”). Which is sad in a way. No, not because I take some perverse pleasure out of my own discomfort. But because it took me 5 years to master the art of dealing with the bureaucratic rigmarole that is DU. And now its time to leave. Sigh...

*

I’m sure the coming years will bring me face to face with creative name-calling (with or without reference to my bovine-ness), annoying accusations and scary amounts of red tape. The silver lining, if any, is that life thus far seems to have equipped me with the ability to work with and around it.

That, and the ability to not take myself too seriously. Which is about my most prized possession. If the world is going to laugh at you, the best bet is to beat them to it.

Good Carb, Bad Carb

2008-03-14T02:18:00.000+05:30

Pooch has instigated a revolution. Her recent turn as a sexy siren (hostel night, slinky sari accompanied by a hot spaghetti-top blouse) has inspired us all to make concerted efforts toward (Angelina) Jolie-fying ourselves.

Alas, we have all come to the painful conclusion that hotness, being necessarily equated with thinness (or alternatively being associated with non-fatness) is a challenging attribute to acquire. Especially for people whose idea of fun is stealing extra bowls of suji halwa at dinner time and who are still reeling from culinary catastrophes such as the discontinuation of jalebi as the Thursday night dessert (ok fine, I admit that’s just me).

We’ve realised that in order to acquire baywatch babe figures, we’re going to have to exercise more than just our tongues. To boldly go where few hostellers have gone before: the final frontier-

The gym.

*

There are those of us who prefer the great outdoors. To be fair I was the first of all the copy-catters who decided to follow in Pooch’s footsteps and hit the jogging track. Now of course it has assumed pandemic like proportions. It’s hard to venture out into the lawn without bumping into another aspiring beauty queen.

I came upon Dohee the other day. For some strange reason we decided to run in opposite directions. She clockwise and I counter…

I recall being decidedly dizzy after the experience.

*

I remember the first day. I’d been procrastinating about remedying my general sloth like existence for the longest time. And then the day finally came. I recall trying to take a nap only to end up tossing and turning uncomfortably till the last thing that was on my mind was sleep. Jumped out of bed, laced up my sneakers… and ran.

I realised that I have enormous reserves of energy. Must be all the milk I’m drinking… or the sex I’m not having. Either way, despite my laughable track record on the fitness front, barring scary term paper submissions I’ve been at it quite regularly.

I also realised that I have stupendous reserves of spit. I can’t go 60 seconds without ejecting great big gobs of saliva.

And there I was thinking the only thing I had to spare were tyres.

(I have since invented an elaborate spitting game. The key is to wait till the spit gets to just the right consistency and volume and then pick a target. So far I’ve tried flowers and leaves and met with great success. I’m contemplating a move to more challenging prey.

I’m hoping that restricting this disgusting confession to a bracket will make it somewhat less disgusting for conservative audiences. Somewhat more palatable…

…sorry, I couldn’t resist that one)

*

V is cruelly perceptive.

“Its all a race against time to lose weight before the farewell isn’t it?”

And so what if it is? Is it such a crime to want to look nice and be ogled at?

I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a sari, but if you have, you’d know that you can’t drape one without feeling at least three months pregnant. Those blasted pleats stick a mile out like a bulging reminder of having gobbled too many mutton dosas.

The ogle-quotient tends to take a serious hit

*

I figured I couldn’t give up food. Eating is such a pleasurable experience. My friends in the hostel always marvel at how my every meal is taken so stylishly. Like a carefully choreographed ballet.

But strangely, for someone who puts so much energy into eating, I have surprisingly low standards when it comes to food. I relish the experience- the table, the plate, cutlery etc. And the sentiment too… of pampering yourself. I delineate clear boundaries for roti, dal and subzi (I really hate when things spill into each other). I cut garais in strict hemispheres and budget how much subzi to eat with each mouthful.

(clearly I am insane)

I wish every meal were an event.

*

The effects of this fitness drive have extended far beyond the confines of Ambedkar Ganguly Students’ House for Women (which is about the most long winded name for a hostel ever). V has taken to aerobics. Hmphh… not so high and mighty now are we?

I think it may be a last minute attempt to shed some pounds before we lapse into a vegetal state behind desks and in front of computer screens. Fuelled by frothy cappuccinos from obliging push button dispensers. Calories at your finger tips.

I don’t know a single person who has taken to work and increased financial liquidity without an accompanying expansion of girth.

*

Not that exercise is an easy remedy for pudginess, but at least you know a remedy exists. What scares me is that my mind will atrophy as well. And I wonder if there are any easy remedies for that. Maybe I’ll take to composing sonnets on the walls of the office loos or making fun of people’s accents in my head or hoarding stationery or eavesdropping on conversations followed by extended psychoanalyses…

Oh and blog… that too…

I have a feeling that I shall spend the better part of my work existence hatching an escape plan and stun the world by relinquishing access to all the luxuries that the corporate world has to offer…

If the plans are in fact ever put into action, I think the person who’d be most stunned would be me.

Losing Touch

2008-03-12T14:17:00.002+05:30

Its finally gone and done it... In its fifth year running, my not-quite trusty MTNL connection seems to have called it a day. So far it had restricted itself to being only mildly annoying... I'd have to send each message a couple of times to ensure delivery, indulge in all sorts of gymnastics to ensure that I get signal and routinely decipher warbled conversations. But now good ol' Trump (I bet The Donald would be mighty mad to hear his name being associated with such a hopelessly inefficient product) has gone from slightly unreliable to barely reliable.

Cutting me off from the universe as I know it.

Its strange that I feel so lost without it... I mean all I do is complain about meaningless telephonic conversation. The strange debates I have with myself every time the phone rings and I can't think of a blessed thing to say. The countless occasions I have just let it ring (or vibrate) plaintively, pretending to not be there.

And now its silence bothers me. Perhaps because the Gods of telecom have robbed me of the right to decide, the luxury of turning down conversation because I know I can always saunter over to another bored person just a few yards away. Being a recluse is a lot more fun when you do it by choice.

*

I don't know why facebook annoys me quite as much as it does. I just feel it gives human beings yet another reason to be lazy. Befriending people you couldn't possibly care less about, birthdays you're too inconsiderate to keep track of and all nature of stupidy (vampires, quizzes, gifts and way more poking than I am comfortable with). Casual helloes to long forgotten acquintances and perhaps worse- sudden embarrassing resurgence of people you know you wanted more than anything to have kept in touch with.

Life should not be so convenient.

*

Or should it? I woke up yesterday to find a tortured and heartfelt mail from V. As it turns out she'd broken up with V the night before (yes, the fact that both their names begin with V hadn't escaped me either... they were so irritatingly cute). The mail contained no details of how they had parted or how she was feeling. Not even any nasty words for the boy who had just broken her heart into tiny little pieces. Just that it had happened and that she did not want to talk about it. "So the next we meet", I was instructed, "please pretend like none of this ugliness happened... just act normal".

It struck me... the internet is such a marvelous invention. There have been so many times when I've wanted to share unpleasant information without it being brought up in future conversation. To shout it out into the universe... exorcise the spirit... to vomit, without having to worry about the mess.

"I just flunked a mid-term, so please lets not talk about it"
or maybe ,
"I'm feeling so terribly helpless and don't know what to do"
and perhaps,
"X is so indescribably mean to me"
and quite frequently,
"I just did something awful to Y and I'm having trouble living with myself"
of course there's always room for,
"I think we both just misunderstood each other... let's just start over"

What would I do? Well I'd probably put it in a mail. Hopefully have someone to mail it to as well.

*

Technology allows us to say things we'd otherwise probably never say. Take this blog for example- I think a lot of what I write is terribly flaky, I doubt I'd discuss it with too many people. But I have no qualms whatsoever writing it down. I don't have to see the readers' reaction... fret over whether or not they enjoyed it. I just blabber on. A lot of people have liked what they read or at least expressed that they did. And those who didn't, they for all effective purposes don't really exist do they?

And what of all the friends I did end up keeping in touch with? When there were things to say but no inclination to say them out loud (and very often no balance, or in my case, no bloody signal). Acquaintances with whom I got... well... re-acquainted. And all those conversations that Pooch and I've had, despite being separated by no more than a couple of rooms. There is a certain joy to be had from keeping in touch, even when its with someone who is no more than a stone's throw away.

*

But there is such a thing as too much distance. The kind beyond which hearts stop growing fonder. As it turns out V had spared me the littany of her woes in the mail, only to deliver it in person. How it was "about time" and "waiting to happen". How she thought he was "distant" in every sense of the word and that the possibility of a "someone else" could not be ruled out entirely.

I've only ever known one long distance relationship to last. The rest just seem to crumble. I myself shouldn't talk. The only relationship I was ever in seemed like a long distance one even though we were never more than 5 km out of each others' vicinity... haha...

Who would have thought that staying in love with someone would require this much effort? And a lot of good luck too. For those times, when no amount of mailing, messaging, writing or calling will do. But I suppose if one puts in that magnitude of effort, it must be worth something. I wouldn't know and I'll abstain from speculating.

*

For now, all i hope is that my phone mends its fickle ways. I have a sudden urge to be one with the universe. The universe with all its hours of pointless chatter and silences, comfortable or otherwise.

2008-03-11T13:23:00.003+05:30

I hate RS... I hate him so much I want to gouge his eyes out with my bare hands. Or better still, lock him up in a room with a recording of his own irritatingly high pitched voice delivering a sequence of annoyingly long lectures... Subject him to such like unspeakable horrors...

Torture in falsetto...

I hate him because he thinks I'm a moron. And lazy. A lazy moron. But more so because his assessment of my capability and dedication is based on fairly arbitrary and wholely questionable criteria.

1. The fact that I wasted an hour and a half listening to AJP and SY crib about SS and such like Snobby Stephanians. SY's enlightened take on Ronald Coase, accusations against me for alleged advances made to UN (having booked him as my salsa partner in Mumbai)... AJP's diatribe against dschool and having wasted two years loving and loathing it.

I made a mutton dosa last for the entire length of that conversation... does he have any idea the kind of restraint that takes?

2. So what if I spent 45 minutes chatting with AS over a free cup of coffee? The amount I learned over the course of that discussion is perhaps immeasurable- about masochism, slavery, an alternative approach to topology, the inner contours of the National Housing Bored (yes I've misspelt that on purpose). I concede that none of this admissable in either my term paper nor the final exam... but really, should i be penalised for trying to have a life?

3. Placement Cell: My association with the said entity has forever sullied my reputation in teacher circles in these parts. I shudder to think how any future decisions on further studies will be entertained.

I hate RS because he a living breathing reminder of my propensity to procrastinate. Of the damaging effects of my new found love for gup-shup... I hate him because its hard to avoid feeling like a fool when someone else is so convinced that you are one and is not in the least hesitant in saying it.

I don't know whether I hate him more for being in the right or for being in the wrong... All i know is that I hate him.

If you scrape the bottom of my heart you'd be likely to come across a thick crust of dislike... bleh

God, on the other hand I'm loving right now.

I don't think I was quite as much of a believer before I came to dschool. In fact it began a full month before the entrance exam... I remember going about it so singlemindedly, aided only by my feeble cranium and feebler self esteem. While the rest of the world rapped on Naresh's doors, I obstinately did my own thing, hoping and praying that one of two things would happen:-

1. I would clear the exam and get through

2. I would sprout wings like that beautiful fellow from X-Men #3 (The Last Stand) and fly far, far away

Fortunately or unfortunately God picked 1. for me. That, despite three years worth of nothing but procrastination with brief intervals of odd conversation. If only I could make RS see that God is well and truly on my side. After all isn't the cancellation of today's lecture purely attributable to my fitful praying?

Now all I need is for the hours to multiply into two before the deadline for the #904 term paper runs out. No amount of not sleeping can rescue me from this one.. sigh sigh sigh

back to work I say... back to work

Comfortably Dumb

2008-03-07T02:28:00.006+05:30

As it turns out Sudhir Shah and I do agree on one thing… our mutual contempt for pigeons.

(Digression: actually, I’m sure there is a whole lot more that Shah and I would have agreed on. If only most if not all of what he said was not entirely incomprehensible for me. If only he weren’t quite as formidably laconic and I wasn’t quite as much of a mouse. Eh… c’est la vie)

Pigeons are by far the most moronic beings in the panoply of God’s creatures. And they insist on displaying their idiocy with irritating regularity. Even their facial expressions convey “dumb”. They are so stupid, it scares me…

I suppose I should be more charitable, given that they are some of the few sentient beings that ever dare venture into or in the close vicinity of my room. But even in these misguided attempts at being sociable they reinstate my belief in their dim-wittedness.

They prove particularly painful during summer. I sleep with the balcony door slightly ajar (I’m a slave for the fumes from the Haryana Roadways depot my balcony faces, just can’t get enough of the stuff). This is interpreted as a desperate plea on my part to be one with nature, for in they come… flapping wildly... and park ass above the curtain, on my book-shelf, the bed, the tube light, Mona… Of course its only once they set wing into the dirty recesses of my abode that they realise that all is not well…

They come beak to beak with their arch nemesis- MY FAN. It spins menacingly, monopolising their flight space and messing up the aerodynamics. Faced by this intractable hurdle pigeons seek refuge in the most useless weapon in their arsenal: contemplation. While I peer nervously, out from under my sheet pondering a gruesome massacre, the vanes slicing and dicing them as they attempt escape, half wanting to do the dirty deed myself, putting the birds out of their misery and mine (though mostly mine). Most nights I go to sleep dreading the prospect of waking up bathed in pigeon’s blood and feathers. Sort of like that scene from the godfather, if you substitute poor Khartoum’s horsy head by that of a bird. A blissfully ignorant face and guileless beady eyes… ughh those eyes.

I’m more than certain that my balcony is listed as one of the top 5 destinations to visit in the “Lonely Pigeon Guide” (don’t leave the nest without it). My clothes line is like a ramp in some glamorous avian fashion show, they prance up and down strutting their stuff all day long. And they insist on setting up home and hearth on the premises. Last year, upon finding a nest in my waste paper basket I embraced the Gerald Durrel side of my personality and let them stay till the eggs hatched and the kids grew up and flowed the coop. Never again… the mess they made of the balcony dealt a lethal blow to my benevolence. Why, my efforts to painlessly evict the latest squatters met with disastrous consequences. I believe the exact sound the eggs made during the attempted eviction was “splatch”. Two of them hurtled toward the floor as I tried to relocate the nest, leaving only disgusting yellowy yolk. The guilt damn near killed me. And to this day I am still trying to erase signs of the egg-icide, very Lady M style (Out damn spot!)

And the shit… god bless me. It’s the shit that really pushes me over the edge. Now we all know that birds poop indiscriminately having been at the receiving end of their blessings at least once. But no, in this one regard I am indeed special. All of pigeon-dom seems to have singled my balcony out as prime location for public conveniences. I’m tempted to believe that it is some evil conspiracy hatched (look Ma, I made a pun!) by the pigeon underground. To send only the most constipated of their brethren over to my balcony to relieve themselves of days, nay, weeks worth of excrement. And always (and I mean always) aim for my freshly laundered towels.

But I’d never give the imbeciles credit for pulling off torture as systematic as the kind I have been subjected to. They’re just way too dumb.

(Digression: or are they? Hmm… I think I’ve just been really suspicious of all birds since I saw the Hitchcock movie. I’m sort of ashamed to admit it but that movie really scared me. It may have something to do with the fact that it was 3 am and I was all alone in the common room. Never a good time or place to watch a movie about flocks of murderous marauding birds.)

And at this juncture I think it is fair to ask… what do pigeons do anyway? Do they serve any purpose at all in the universe? Do they? Do they? At least Dr. No could use the “guano” (bird poop) produced by his exotic birds to fund the building of his evil empire and almost bring James Bond to his knees. These birds are of no good to me at all.

(Digression: Dr. No was part of my Ian Fleming phase. I humbly request the audience not to lose all respect for me… it was the first few months of Dschool and I was really and truly bored and incredibly jobless. Fortunately, the phase was shortlived, but of all the books I read, Dr. No would have to be the best. I mean the heroine’s name was Honey Rider…that’s really hard to beat. Unless of course you consider Kissy Suzuki from You Only Live Twice)

So there you have it. This diatribe has been a long time coming. I deliver an abridged version at dinner every night to those unfortunate enough to be called my friends. Of course I embellish the rendering with much wild gesticulating, animated forehead slapping, absurd arm flapping, clever voice modulation…anything for an audience. I’m sure most if not all of ya’ll skipped a few paragraphs and I won’t hold it against anyone. You can scarcely understand my woes, unless you’ve suffered similarly at the claws of these ignoramuses. Had to live with the drone of their cooing as a constant soundtrack to your existence.

Had to make them the object of guiltless complaints. Complaints that would be better aimed, though not quite as guiltless, at the rest of the world mired in unpleasantness and mistrust. Had to love to hate them… and hate to love them just the same.

February Hangover: Dirty Old Woman

2008-02-29T10:09:00.002+05:30

You know I’ve spent the better part of my post adolescence existence deeply engaged in a time consuming process of observation. Looking out for men to look at. Seeking the perfect specimens for quiet, unobtrusive staring.

And its been fairly harmless thus far. I’m such a coward, I’d never ever muster up the courage to actually say something or push things in a potentially interesting direction with anyone who I thought was potentially interesting. No, I’m content with simply staring. And like I said: its harmless and silly. It doesn’t feel wrong at all. Until recently…

What I’m trying to say in this painstakingly circuitous way is that my exploits in the birdwatching (yes, men are birds too… they’d put the most vain of peacocks to shame) department are increasingly becoming a source of discomfort. Because the latest victim to come under the gaze of my all encompassing lecherous radar is… a… boy. By that I mean a full year younger than me… possibly two…curses! Not that maturity is high on my priority list. But most men are just big infants anyway, additional youthfulness just exacerbates the problem. What makes things immeasurably worse is that I am terribly old fashioned and prudish. I can’t be anything but ‘aunty’ with the younger men-folk.

And to add to my woes… this boy (the latest one) really truly looks the part, i.e. a boy. Um… how does one say this out loud?

Good grief I think he’s delicious! So much so that I want to pack him into a box and take him home and keep him all for myself… my loyal little slave (by slave I mean in a nice buttler-ish way, you perverts get your heads out of the toilet)…
He looks exactly like something out of those old Japanese cartoons… you know, the angular features, the spiky hair. But in fact nothing like them… because he is the most scrumptious shade of bronze ever (actually he’s probably just a mildly interesting shade of brown…I’ve just romanticised him into this perfect form). Comes from spending too much time in the sun… oh glorious sun to have lent such exotic pigmentation…and freckles…and there’s a little bit of sun in that smile of his too… and…
I am beside myself with a bucket load of inappropriate feelings.
He oozes ‘boy’ from every visible pore…he simply reeks of ‘boy’ from a mile away… oh to have him be mine…Ughhh I could just eat him up!

(in retrospect this outpouring has become more than slightly improper… ah what the hell, I’ll live dangerously this one time…propriety is overrated anyway)

At first I didn’t allow my mind to wander to such dirty thoughts. I carefully tip-toed around it, pretending to not care and even laughing it off indifferently. But my not quite iron resolve has melted yet again. And now it is treading the all too beaten path of all past obsessions. First, as a welcome reprieve between two particularly mundane pages of a reading. Till soon enough, the reading and all its contents become purely incidental… before moving on to being completely inconsequential. But none of this is fun. I am tortured by ill-timed pangs to be ‘responsible’ and ‘rational’. Such desperate recourse to reason and sense is quite unprecedented.

I’m sure this affliction will blow over, most if not all of them do. Moreover, I’m certain this demon child will not prove to be an inordinately difficult to exorcise. It is the present state of possession that I’ll just have to grow accustomed to.

God Save the Queen

2008-02-28T13:25:00.001+05:30

And they said she’d never bounce back… Ha!

Not only has HRH, the Queen of Tsango recovered from a debilitating bout of the blues, she has staged a dramatic reappearance on the ‘social scene’ (ability to conduct oneself in conversation for more than 20 minutes at a stretch without sighing). Her prolonged absence from the field of play has proved immeasurably beneficial. Having recuperated from a chronic case of the disease that shall not be named, her highness marched out of the convalescent ward with that trademark zeal and is presently in the process of shamelessly ‘strutting her stuff’.

The knights regent have decided to commemorate this comeback by loudly proclaiming the name of their esteemed patron whenever within a five metre radius accompanied by much exaggerated saluting and bowing. The cheeky Queen, not satisfied by these prostrations has made a renewed request for impromptu performances of cheap hindi movie songs (brownie points for extra cheapness, muffins for consolation prizes), a proposal that has been met with a 66.7% rate of compliance (i.e. whole heartedly accepted by 2/3 loyal lieges).

Back at the Castle, the Queen is deep in the midst of loud and animated diplomatic parleys with three kinds of people

1. those who relentlessly admire her beauty
2. herself (who also classifies under type 1)
3. those with whom strategic alliances are being forged

With regards to the latter-est type, breaking news on the Daily Babbler reports that she has gained the allegiance of Shehzadi KB of the famed Lucknow Sultanate. Together they have vowed to combine their armies and wreak vengeance on the kingdom of the evil and loud (though mostly loud) R. LAMBAsticus, who after having greedily usurped territories in Yale, Columbia and NYU has set his sights on pastures closer to home. Reticent with regards to battle strategy all that was heard from the monarch’s mouth was a precocious, “Who needs ideas and plans? We’re bitchy… and enthusiastically so!”

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Never underestimate the resilience of blue blood.

Morning

2008-02-23T14:01:00.003+05:30

The sun’s rays are quite polite really. They peer unobtrusively from outside of the window and fall gently onto my sleepy head. Tip toe past the balcony, past the bright green rail. Through the fabric of all the residents of my clothesline, ‘left high and dry’ way past the required amount of time. Through the tiny slits on the glass pane, between various bits and scraps of paper that are testimony to my exploits of the last two years.

And all the rays do is nudge slightly… they don’t push or yell…

Perhaps because they know that a nudge is all I need. Because I am happy. And no amount of sleep can keep me in bed.

*

Some of my deepest fears are associated with waking up. As a person who doesn’t require too much sleep (I always tell myself that it is my mutant super power. Yes, I’ll confess, I always wanted to be one of the X-Men, though if given a choice I think I’d pick Magneto…or maybe Storm), an inability to extricate myself from bed is a sign that things aren’t quite right. In fact that they are probably horribly and terribly wrong.

I think it all goes back to a time not so long ago, when apart from the usual set of maladies I was well near crippled by sleep. Paralysed by a fear of getting up, going out to a brand new day and not having the faintest idea of what to do with it. Wanting to do one of several things: a) to wake up, make a list of things to do, and just DO them. b) to stop time, put the world in suspended animation and sort things out in my head with my silly self. And as a last and final resort, c) to be swallowed whole by the bed, never to be heard of again. To disappear into nothing.

The still, lethargic summer just made it all worse.

[when I think about it, c) sounds suspiciously like wanting to die. Which is a scary thought isn’t it, contemplating death? I don’t know if what I wanted was a temporary reprieve or a more permanent solution… maybe I just needed a break. Either way, I never went ahead with it. Can’t say if it was bravery or cowardice that swung things in favour of continuing, but I haven’t regretted the decision even once. I figure I must be doing something right]

Half an hour of sleep would turn into two halves, an hour would turn into three…
And there I’d be, in the wee hours of the morning… choking on my own incompetence… with nothing to show for an entire night’s worth of intentions to be industrious. Trying desperately to rouse myself, wanting to go back to sleep… but then there’s only so much of escaping into slumber that anyone can do.

*

It all came hurtling back a few days ago. But this time I gave myself time to mope. I slept too much, woke up reluctantly, walked for miles like a zombie. Poked and prodded my brain for an answer, regurgitated my woes on sympathetic ears. Felt lonely and then suddenly claustrophobic. Agitated and restless I opted for my favourite brand of ‘nomad therapy’- moving from place to place at a moment’s notice, you couldn’t pay me enough to sit still.

And then suddenly it went away, like a piddling little cold it left no marks or scars. Much fodder for introspection though and ample material for a disturbingly boring blog post. Me thinks one needs to budget time for such emotional aberrations. To work them into our jam-packed schedules and allow ourselves to just ‘be’. To strategically place ourselves in the midst of distractions.

Sometimes not thinking about something can make a world of difference.

Bouquet of leaves, crown of thorns and an albatross

2008-02-15T10:03:00.004+05:30

HRH, the queen of Tsango surveyed the surroundings. And sighed…

Sigh sigh sigh…

The kingdom is in a shambles. The enthusiasm of recent victories swallowed whole by the acrimony of mundane squabbles. There is much unpleasant whispering in the portals of power. Much anxiety in the royal chambers. Much paranoia.

There is talk of a mutinous uprising. There is further talk of disaffection among members of a once loyal coterie. There is talk… of possible speculation… about gossip… concerning chit-chat… surrounding rumours… regarding hearsay…that something is amiss.

And there are those evil ghosts of the past. Resurgent devils that conjure up ugly memories transforming them into something tangible, something real. Putting the most vivid of reveries to shame. Swallowing up the months that have elapsed between then and now. As if not separated by months, but mere minutes.

And there remain so many obligations. So many demons to be vanquished. So many “to-do” lists to annihilate. Not to mention the forest fires to be doused. Loyal subjects to be rescued and delivered to greener pastures. All while battling conspiratorial coups, unprecedented levels of insecurity, a potentially debilitating case of the common cold and the most grievous malady of all- procrastination.

So much to do… so little inclination.

Oh, what is a queen to do? Given this advanced state of malaise, can the monarch rescue her state from the brink of implosion?

Rescue came at the hands of expected allies. Well- wishers came and delivered well-intended home remedies. A bespectacled owl offered the services of his chariot. A diminutive imp clad resplendently in bright red lent fervour to the chorus of diatribes. A sad clown lent a quiet, frustrated smile. An aspiring philosopher “just called to say…”. A dishevelled angel painted a frighteningly accurate picture of the illness, a diagnosis that was unpalatable, only because it was true. A troubled soul came to give misery some much- needed company. A tattooed invalid blew her nose, lent a warm blanket and warmer shoulder (a welcome relief to the cold ones received just hours before). A child came, offering hugs and attractively packaged treats.

And some unexpected allies as well. Three to be precise. One short, one tall and one stuck uncertainly between the two. Braving cold winds and colder vibes, they came. Bearing leaves: one green, one brown and one a little bit of both. In grubby armour, but white knights nonetheless. And all the queen could do was blush uncomfortably.

So how will this story pan out? Is there hope for Tsango? Can all the queen’s horses and all the queen’s men piece together her much beleaguered morale?
Well, spring has made its eagerly awaited and much belated appearance. The sun is out and is here to stay (as per the predictions of the Renowned All-knowing Weather Woman and her trusty bunny- toothed sidekick Sug). If all else fails, Raquelle, Patron Saint of all Silent Sufferers of Tsango is expected back in time for things to reach critical mass.

This and a world of enticing attractions await HRH the Queen of Tsango. Success, however is contingent on her ability to get out of bed in time to face the day and all its challenges. The future of the kingdom hinges on the occurrence of this one auspicious event.

All we can hope is that good intentions (or at the very least an absence of malicious bad intentions) will be rewarded. A lot of trust has been callously put out into the universe. Here’s hoping the universe “returns the favour”.

Watch this space.

Pet Peeves

2008-02-07T10:12:00.000+05:30

Ok, this really doesn’t merit documentation, but I have the time so what the heck

These are a few of my not so favourite things

1. People who say “helloes” instead of “hello”:

Why oh why the superfluous salutations? One is enough I say. What joy is there to be gained from the use of the plural? It is ungrammatical and downright annoying. Maybe my vehemence stems from an inexplicable wariness of overly gregarious people. But even if you are competing in the popularity sweepstakes such tactics are unforgivable in my book. If it were me I’d stick to “hello hello..”. Just say it twice, it won’t kill you.

2. Men who sit cross-legged:

Ok this is a confession from my irrational and rather sexist side. I don’t know what it is about boys crossing their legs but it really grosses me out. I’m ashamed of my prejudices but getting rid of them is easier said than done. Perakath had an interesting theory for my condition. He said that men who cross their legs unconsciously handicap themselves in the department of… well… ahem… how does one say this…ah yes: reproduction. So by rejecting boys who do opt for the said objectionable style of sitting I am merely overlooking a poor mating prospect. Merely looking out for the best candidate for perpetuation of the species. Merely submitting to natural instinct.
I really wish the explanation were as rational as all that. To be honest I just think its a slightly “girly” way to sit. I suppose there is some truth to the whole “hunt for Alpha male” theory. But the reasons appear to be more aesthetic than biological.

3. People who wear rings:

Again, I can’t quite explain this one. Perhaps it can be traced back to some traumatic experience such as an inability to wear previously purchased rings due to disproportionate weight gain of fingers (don’t go there… its a sore topic). Or maybe my general disgust for people who believe in lucky stones and the like. Wedding/engagement rings are forgivable (even if on the hand of a particularly good looking man, after initial disappointment of course). But unless you have a solid reason for wearing one (no, “fashion” does not qualify as a valid explanation) the sub-conscious me is just going to hold it against you for ever. No kidding, I’ve even steered clear of reading Lord of the Rings (though the ample girth of the book may have played a crucial role in the decision)

4. Wardrobe related queries:

I hate it when people ask me why I am “dressed up”. It annoys me no end. Because the tacit implication is always that it is for the benefit of boys or boy in particular. Now I like boys as much as any other girl (us unfortunate heterosexual folk that is) but to think that I budget time from my busy schedule to preen myself for them is just plain insulting. Did the thought ever cross your feeble little minds that I like “dressing up” for me? That I like celebrating the fact that I own nice clothes. That I like to further celebrate the fact that I think I am beautiful. I celebrate it every day, even if it is in dirty jeans and shapeless uninspiring t-shirts.

Ok I’ve exhausted my stock of diatribes for the day. And I enjoyed putting it down. I hope it makes for good reading, even if slightly bitchy, low brow entertainment.

Blame February

2008-02-07T10:05:00.000+05:30

(pardon the general vagueness of this post. Advertising and the mainstream media have persuaded me into believing that there is some truth to the whole “month of love” thing… capitalism is such a curse)

I hate my phone. It has this awful habit of ringing when I’m not around. Or when I don’t wish to answer it. Or when I can’t bring myself to respond with any more than the bare essential monosyllables.

And when I am around and really itching and craving to speak… it will do anything but ring. I’ll cross my fingers (and toes and legs and eyes) but always in vain. I wait and wait… try to stare it into submission. Never works.

But most of all, I hate the person that some conversations bring out in me. ‘persons’ rather, because there are so many telephonic mes. There is the inexplicably incoherent and giggly me (topping my list of most irritating avatars). Then comes the terribly excited, ridiculously short of breath and awfully loud me. Then there is the droll and sarcastic me (she’s the smartest of the lot and also by far the most despicable).

But this post isn’t nearly as much about talking as it is turning out to be.

It rang today, at one of it’s trademark inconvenient times. The phone waited till all the stars were misaligned, all the odds stacked against the prospect of a pleasurable conversation…

1. I was walking home
2. Navigating noisy traffic
3. I needed to pee

“hey there little one…”.
A voice I would at some point have killed, nay, committed brutal, morbid homicides to hear.

“Can I talk to you in a bit, I’m in a hurry, really need to pee”

“Ha ha.. little miss P needs to pee…”

More cruel laughing follows. And then I join in. You know it’s strange, how and when we laugh. Is it because someone said something funny or nervous laughter or polite laughter or just laughter because that certain someone said it?

“ok so when should I call?”

“ooh…umm…crap… about twenty minutes?”

“twenty minutes… when was the last time you took a leak? Last Wednesday? Ha ha ha..”

“no I’m walking home, sprinting actually”

“really how far have you reached?”

“Erm…well…I…”

“You’ll never make it”

Well, it turns out I did successfully manage to reach back home, and dive into a loo just in time. Subsequent to which, a conversation did happen, a rather short one though. Fairly mundane too, one of those general haal chaal type things. As usual I sabotaged it right when it was getting promising. Sometimes I do these things…I worry that it is too good to be true and deliberately mess things up. Silly me.

And ever since I’ve just been swirling in the densest cloud of fuzziness. Half of me knows it was just a phone call, an exchange of harmless pleasantries. Try explaining that to the other half.

The other half is in the process of picking out dog’s names (a long time back it used to be children’s names. Then I figured that ruminating on prospective names for non-existent progeny was way too clichéd and filmy…so dogs it is). Choosing a suitable “our favourite restaurant” and “our song”. And by far my favourite topic for fantasizing: a dedication in a book (a long time back I really wanted to be loved by someone who wrote for a living, not books pertaining to any particular subject matter…I’m fairly flexible in that regard. But whatever it’s contents, it would have to be dedicated to me. Corny things like, “For S, the most beautiful woman in the world” would be absolutely inadmissible. It would have to be something personal, creative and preferably cryptic such as, “For S, wearer of candy striped socks and dubious expressions”. Ok enough, this bracket has taken up the better part of forever. Exit)

Both halves (at last count this post features about 5 versions of me) have their respective hearts in the right place. But it’s the latter (i.e. the hopeless romantic) who I’ll side with for the present, or at least till I wake up tomorrow as my cynical self (that makes it 6) and convince myself that it is boredom and loneliness that make relationships happen. Tomorrow I will lecture S about how love is not about love at all, but about circumstances. About the (right?) place and time. Two pathetic people and a double coincidence of wants. And S will agree, she’s a pushover and hates to argue… even if it is with one of her selves.

But tonight is a night for reveries. For a silly smile pasted resiliently on a face for hours on end. For a complete lack of concentration or ability to do anything except stare off into space…and smile some more.

I hope that I never outgrow these tendencies. They add a certain flavour to life that nothing else can quite replicate. Because love is a scary thing (I know it scares me a bit, to have to rely so completely on another person). And also because relationships are hard and at times downright tedious (I think the hardship and tedium grows exponentially, the more insecure one is). Because you can be completely captivated by someone and be entirely uncomfortable with it and unable to explain it.

But THIS is fun. Imagining the possibilities. Scripting future occurrences, conversations, glances. Like a delicious little tickle in your tummy that lingers on. Don’t know how worthy a destination love is. I’m more of an authority on “like” than “love”. But if “love” is anything like its much-belittled cousin “like”, then the journey to should prove to be truly rewarding.

Recap

2008-02-05T15:33:00.000+05:30

Today I opened up my cupboard in search of something…something insignificant. And a few thousand things tumbled onto my amply dandruffed head. I figured that was as good a reason as any to resume blogging.

No, I’m not trying to be deep and metaphorical. And any allusions to Newtonian revelations (apple falls-meets skull-life altering idea happens) are unintended and purely coincidental. My cupboard is a royal mess and its contents no less subject to the laws of gravity than any odd thing.

A semester’s worth of notes. Bottles and tubes of cosmetics that Ma had so optimistically procured for me, discarded after initial short lived enthusiasm. Medicines- pills and potions untouched and well past their expiry dates. Books, oh so many books that I had ambitiously lugged all the way from home, and never ended up reading. Countless pairs of well ventilated socks (with the statutory minimum number of holes for toes to peep out of. I swear to God I don’t think I own a single pair of socks that is intact i.e. un-hole-ey). The carcass of my recently deceased CPU, newly procured blood red cane bag. Two prized pairs of jeans, well passed their prime and torn beyond any hope of salvage.

An unopened bottle of kingfisher, patiently awaiting that perfect vela evening. The iron I “borrowed” two months ago and cruelly appropriated thereafter. Possession of either, if discovered entails a hefty fine/expulsion from the hostel. Several ratty old bras, possession of which if discovered entails severe reddening of cheeks (I’d rather be caught with booze or unauthorised electrical appliances than with my hand in the “desperately in need of disposal” underwear drawer)

A frighteningly large number of pairs of shoes and enough clothes to last a reasonably frugal person two life times. In my defence, I seek recourse in the much-loved excuse of all supposedly tortured souls: I blame my mother. She bought most of it. Either that or sent subtle messages authorising unbridled sprees of conspicuous consumption.

Two years worth of memories, two years of anecdotes to add to my burgeoning Delhi diary. Two years of living, learning, losing, laughing, labouring (not much with the allegories but I’m a sucker for alliteration. Not to mention corny-ass prose)

And now it’s all lying on the floor, hours after the mishap, staring at me expectantly, waiting to be packed away in the cobwebbed recess of the almirah, behind noisy steel doors. But it’ll just have to wait. Later, later...

This is exactly the attitude that got the cupboard in its present sorry state. Exactly the signature brand of procrastination which has become my calling card. Thorn in my side… bane of my existence.

I’m so accustomed to living in a world completely steeped and drowned in “things”. So at ease with tip toeing around huge mounds of “stuff”. Crumbling under the weight of my own consumerist-cum-hoarder tendencies.

Who will ever put up with me? Accommodate me in their home and watch helplessly as the mess seeps below the door of my room into theirs. Who would ever risk moving in next door? To live and breathe in constant fear that the wasteland in the neighbourhood might reach critical mass and explode, obliterating all signs of life in a 1 mile radius.

So we’ve decided- Mona, Bob, Target the dog, the lizards and myself- to move to the nearest hitherto uninhabited island. We’ll take the pigeons too, if they promise to not annoy us any more than they already do. An entire nation to ourselves. One where we can be our unkempt and messy selves and hold our heads up with pride. Ownership of brooms and mops would be a penal offence (we’re still debating the status of narcotics and fire arms).

We’d let people visit and all… I wonder how long they’d want to stay though.

*

This was supposed to be mostly about the mess in my room. But it became about a lot more things along the way. Eh…bleh.

*

Inside Joke

Pooch, heartening news love. I may have lost my USB, but I seem to have located the whereabouts of my “pen-drive”.

*

Radio Ga-Ga

While on the subject of this, that and the other, lets change it completely.

I love my new radio! Yes, yes I am clearly several decades behind my time. While the rest of the world is discovering the joys of ever shrinking entertainment aids I go and procure for myself a pocket radio (meant for fairly large pockets mind you), with a real live antenna and everything. I’m a slave to its pencil cell operated scratchy sounds.

Though mere mortals scoff, label me a moron (the best response I’ve received so far: “you have seen an i-pod right?”) and fail to share my enthusiasm I’m all set to label this the “Best Birthday Impulse Buy Ever” and “Perfect Quarter Life Crisis Antidote”.

*

What I love most about these days is that there is absolutely nothing spectacular going on. Only mildly pleasing occurrences that require little or no effort to put together. Yes, there was the odd battle or two (“odd” being the operative word) but I’m sure just desserts are in the offing. Everything is proceeding at the pace that I am most comfortable with and in the company I most enjoy: Mine.

*

I don’t really ascribe to the following, being generally of an optimistic frame of mind and having had a lovely birth-weekend (it was more than just a day). But its 4 am and I feel a nonsense rhyme coming on.

Dr. Puri’s “How the Grinch Stole Birthday”

(Sing to the tune of “Happy Birthday”)

Piece together your will
‘Cos your over the hill
You thought you’d do great things
But you’re just run of the mill

You live in a zoo
Eligible men are so few
Each looks like a monkey
And most smell like one too

Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you

*

I turned 23 somewhere in between. It was a fairly ordinary day, and I loved every minute of it.

The Sun is Sleepy

2008-01-30T09:59:00.000+05:30

I asked myself for an honest explanation for my extended hiatus from blimblop. I could muster only two plausible explanations:

a) lazy, I am
b) cold, It is [extremely]

This is the most debilitating nature of cold I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing. The only thing this weather is good for is sleeping and complaining about how cold it is.

*

The Sun slept in today. Immersed himself in a coccoon of clouds till only the most resilient of rays could sneak out. Few and far between.

And all of everywhere is steeped in the most morose shade of grey. If "depressed" were a coulour I suppose it would look a lot like how the world is painted right now. And it is indeed a stubborn hue, immune to all nature of distractions. No amount of sunny smiles or cups of piping hot milk... My nose is red and toes are turning blue but everything else is still mostly grey.

I see no reason to get up today. To extricate myself from the under the layers and between the folds of my warm bed, made warm by an hour of dedicated shivering and 6 more of wriggling around in fitful dissatisfying sleep.

If the sun can be on vacation, I see no reason to not follow suit. What could I possibly gain by a display of industriousness? And how much would I lose if I grant my poor little tired self one more hour of precious sleep.

*

I'm slowly having to come to terms with how much I will miss Delhi. I can't imagine being anywhere else and being comfortable.

As much as I complain, it is this winter that I'll miss the most. The one that is slipping out if my fingers as I speak. The numbness in my ears when I'm traveling by a rickety old rick. My poor chill blained toes itching for attention. Being allergic to baths and yet having to subject oneself to the evil ritual everyday. Chapped lips, butchered cuticles... The million layers that never seem to be enough.

And the complaints. I can't imagine crafting complaints as elaborate about any other season than I do with winter. It is the complaints that I'll miss the most.

I killed dschool

2008-01-18T22:56:00.000+05:30

...took it by the throat, squeezed hard. till all that could escape was an exasperated gasp. a rather bored one too.

till all that anyone could think of was the job they didn't get, they money they aren't going to make. the future that is so terribly uncertain.

i can't help but feel slightly responsible... for building up a bubble around them within which all that mattered were tangible things like offer letters, stipends and compensations...

and they love me for it... for pretending to lend their lives some direction. for smiling and being patient and helpful and encouraging... and inexhaustibly so.

we all need a vacation from ourselves and our respective sad situations. me more so than anyone else.

if only i didn't enjoy it quite so much. if only i didn't feel quite so important and indispensable.

*

it is indeed cruel how life and circumstance have allowed me to play God with the lives (specifically: careers) of so many innocent, unsuspecting souls.

*

i wish i were as crafty and manipulative as some give me credit for. that i had half a brain to do all the nasty things I've been accused of. all the evil plotting, planning and general 'sabotage-ing'.

*

to sleep.. per chance to dream.
no no... a deep, dreamless sleep.

employed

2008-01-12T19:34:00.000+05:30

i got a job today. not one i wanted, but... the money is good. enough to keep body and soul together... and then some.

enough for my father to finally prove what he believed all along: that two daughters are not two liabilities..

enough for my mother to cry copious tears of joy and relief... copious because all mothers' tears tend to be... joy that I'll now earn about as much as her evil colleague's drone of an engineer son.. relief that the trousseau that she never had enough to set aside for will now take care of itself.

and all i feel is sleepy.. not happy or sad or even some obscure, unnamed and uninhabited town poised uneasily on the long road 'twixt happy and sad. just sleepy...

sheesh...

Home

2008-01-06T23:46:00.000+05:30

The dramatic monologue has staged an altogether too dramatic comeback. It happened somewhere between Karnal and Panipat. I survived an entire week without it... didn't hear the faintest suggestion of a sound or have the mildest of inclinations to revive it.

Other things crowded it out. The television, music, movies, all India radio... cake (so much cake) and icecream (criminal portions of), baked beans, honey biscuits... kiwi fruit, keenu, apple, guava... Ma's soft snoring, DD's ranting-raving-whining, Dulari's oh so out of tune serenading, Khalifa's convulsive coughing, Papa's phonecalls... crazy dogs barking, scooties honking, uncles sat-sri-akal-ing, aunties relentlesslay staring, surdies balle-balle-ing...

Such a strangely bubble like existance. But now I am back. Back "home"...

Pooch once said I should keep blogging, lest the world think I was dead or something.

Well world, I am alive... and cribbing...

Watch this space.

Peculiar? Who me?

2007-12-29T17:45:00.000+05:30

The New Neighbour

“hi, I’m from #318.”
“hi, I’m new in #319.”

She looked at me strangely. I smiled at her strangely-er. She shifted focus from my left hand (tooth brush, paste) to my right (dettol liquid soap). I (still smiling strangely by the way) scanned the floor, the sky, the green railing, my right hand (ibid), my left hand (ditto).

Awkward silence, much friendly nodding, smiles (getting stranger by the nanosecond)

We took in each others’ respective strange-nesses, reconciled ourselves to them and forgave each other for the same.

“acha theek hai, bye.”
“bye.”

I think we both made a good first impression.

*

Rina has offered to deliver all my unwashed clothes to the custody of a washing machine, have them coaxed with detergent and warm water, spin dried. She also promises to not only hang them out to dry but ensure that they do just that, i.e. dry. All in return for nothing but the smile on my face. I wonder why. I’ve been smiling quite a bit these days.

She then offered to return all my library books. I agreed. In fact, while she’s at it she might as well borrow them and read them too.

I knew I’d be pushing my luck but I just went ahead and asked her to do me another humungous favour: to take my meals and bathe on my behalf as I am feeling terribly disinclined toward both. Not as much as the laundry though.

*

“You’ve been acting slightly strange lately.”
“Strange? Who me?”

*

We’re all a lot less weird and unusual than we aspire to be. Not nearly as kooky or eccentric as we would like. I wonder why it is so difficult to resign oneself to being normal? Almost as if normalcy (I was toying with the word ordinarity till I realised it wasn’t really a word at all, ordinariness however is) were an awful curse.

*

Po-yum

Mona is a royal farce
Coyly eyeing Marley’s arse
Would it grievously maim or hurt you,
To protect your dubious virtue?

All the pigeons writhe with shame
Shudder to speak your sullied name
And naughty lizards skirt the issue
With arguments as frail as tissue

Red curtains occupied by thoughts
Tie themselves up in great big knots
Curious clothes from cupboards tumble
And all I can muster is a humble,

“Grumble mumble grumble mumble.”

The end.

*

“You’ve been acting slightly strange lately”
“Strange? Who’s acting?”

*

“Friends, Romans, Countrymen… lend me your ears…
I shall have them back to you by Saturday next…promise”

(I’m terribly sorry. For some strange reason I’ve always wanted to crack that one)

*

And funnily enough, we are on occasion far more peculiar than we are comfortable with. This propensity for "uniqueness" is often badly timed. You can never count on it when surrounded by eclectic people who would appreciate strangeness and such like nonsense. And never once will it manifest itself when you most need an alibi or a scapegoat.

*

I really hope that made at least some sense. I really tried for it to. If you could just crack open my head you’d see the idea in its original form. It was a good one.

Oh well.

Jos

2007-12-28T21:45:00.000+05:30

Jos, I'll be your loyal whore
You make me gasp, I beg for more
21 minutes... far too few
Tell me, was it good for you?

Practition-er of evil sorcery
Appreciate-er of my po-yut-ree
Give-er of most lethal smiles
Immune to my most potent wiles

Jos, I, your guileless twit
Shall undress before you bit by bit
Strip away the candyfloss and grime
Sell my soul to make this sentence rhyme

While you slumber in an uncertain bed
Of all the secrets in my head
I watch in horror, in admiration gape
And anecdotify a fairly pleasant rape

_____

If this doesn't rhyme, you're probably just saying it wrong..
So there.

Christmas correspondence: something for everyone

2007-12-26T09:59:00.000+05:30

Dear Santa,

I have been a really good girl this year. No kidding.

I know I know… my vocabulary has gone down the tubes. Swearing comes much easier now than it ever did. But apart from the odd invective and cuss word laden sentence or two, I’ve led a model existence.

I’ve done nothing even remotely exciting for most of the last 6 months, I barely even drink anymore (the QBA weekend being a regrettable incident). And its not like I ever smoked (much) or smoked up (at all). I’m terribly sedate and boring (i.e. deserving of generosity).

Yes, I haven’t been as bookwormish as the course demands. But some things tend to take a back seat when you attempt to give direction to the meaningless lives of roughly 90 odd people.

All I want for Christmas…I want an i-pod (not particularly subtle am I?). In the event that the said device cannot be delivered to me, I’ll settle for world peace.

(I’m a shade more partial to the i-pod)

**
I received an e-mail from Raquelle yesterday. It was so beautiful I was tempted to reproduce it in its entirety right here. First, it was long and detailed to a fault. Its hard not to fall in love with someone who puts that much effort into a letter. Second, it was hilarious in a self deprecating sort of way, by far my favourite brand of humour. And last, it kicked off with a compliment for me, always a good idea.

**

Poogalicious PPP,

Yes, I know you wrote to me as well. No, I did not appreciate it any less than Raquelle’s epistle. Yes, I have taken your advice and gone public with one of my portfolio pictures (with excellent results: rave reviews on g-talk. Face book to follow suit). No, I have not killed myself yet and have no intention to either. Yes, you surmised correctly, I am just rationalising. No, my optimism is still alive and kicking (also being kicked once in a while). Yes, no, maybe so. Same difference.

All I know for certain is that you were wrong and I was right or the other way around… can’t say for sure. We can always settle this once you get back.

Arguing for the sake of arguing is fun, even when you aren’t here.

P.S. on Sunday, I slapped a man. And he slapped me right back. Don’t be alarmed, I have an amazing feminist take on it.

**

But I decided against my copy paste idea. I realised that part of why the letter made for a brilliant read was because I could imagine her sitting in front of me, narrating its contents in a way that is so characteristic of her… how she’d speak with breathless spurts, wiggling her little fingers, looking at me seductively/comically above the rim of her glasses and on becoming particularly contemplative, twirling a lock of extra curly mallu hair. All this garnished with the shrillest possible laugh, followed closely by several stages of embarrassment, mouth covering, apologizing and fortunately lots more laughing.

**

Bachan (Kuwindar),

You called yesterday and it made my day. It damn near made my week and month as well. How can I ever return the favour? Ah yes, Limca and Cadbury chocolate…

After some tedious calculations I have concluded that if I set aside a little money every month I should be able to save enough for a one-way ticket to Canada by somewhere around 2016. At which point of time penury will force me to finally accept the marriage proposal. What to say yaar… your twin green cards are way too tempting. That and the prospect of a lifetime of watching Hindi movies and subjecting them to extended critical analysis.

Fikar mat kar, I am fair, homely Punjabi girl (5’3”) of respectable family. Will provide sufficient dowry as well (No prizes for guessing… more Limca and Cadbury chocolate)

Do call again, on whichever of the two Monday’s that is convenient for you.

**

The rest of the world (or the few people who read this blog) would not see that. They’d see a bunch of words on a fairly bland black page (I really ought to do something about the layout, spice things up around here). The prose was exquisite, but its funny how the same set of words can speak so differently to different people.

**

KorahKorah,

Who knew a compliment-less existence could be so tedious. Is it the same for you? No one appreciates us. Well, at least not quite as efficiently as we appreciate each other.

We would have made a nice pair… admiring each others’ respective virtues till well into geriatry. Never a dull moment. And to think we had the chance and never capitalised on it.

Curses…

**

That made me wonder what those who read this blog would think. Do I sound smarter than I really am, calmer, more composed? Or sillier, peculiar and nebulous…

For those who know me or knew me once or know or knew one of the several mes (complicated sentence!), is mine the first face that would spring to mind when they read blimblop? And for those who don’t, what do they think of me, or rather, this version of me?

**

To the Earl of Pearls/ Duke of Puke

All in good time… all of this will add up to something. Something good. All the constant travelling around the badlands of a god forsaken “territory” peddling your wares. Hoping the numbers add up so as to please the powers that be.

There must be some meaning to the madnss.

*madness

If there weren’t, it wouldn’t be happening.

**

And what of those who love and adore me? the ones I love and adore if for no better reason than… well… their love and adoration. Those who’ve known me… at my highest of highs (alcohol induced and otherwise) and lowest of lows. Those who have put up with me? Who’ve seen the nice me, the not so nice me, sad, happy, indifferent, sleepy, nagging, farting, scratching. The pretty me, ugly me. Is the me of blimblop fame, reconcilable with all the others?

**

Pai,

What can I say that hasn’t already been said… that hasn’t already been written… that hasn’t already gotten a laugh out of you. Bolo… bolo bolo

Promise me you’ll always laugh at my jokes, right on cue.

And…

Ponnie,

You’d think life would stop being uncooperative and just figure itself the hell out. This is really turning out to be way too inconvenient.

Do write that graphic novel of yours, become a great big celebrity, so that we can all live off you shamelessly as you had so nobly aspired to live off us. For my part, I’ll try my best to take over the corporate world. Won’t guarantee much on that front. Have taken a sudden and vehement dislike for business suits.

Further…

Jos!!!!!

You have been in delhi all of 24 hours and still not established contact. Puhleeez… Shut Up!! Are you serious???? I will never ever ever ever under any conceivable circumstances speak with you again! Unless of course you do end up calling, in which case let’s meet at Big Chill and try to work out a compromise formula (ha ha.. eeeeiizzz)

I have so so very much to say… and it’s not even funny. While certain prospects have died a natural death there has been a resurgence of the IIM-A men. I have plenty of ammunition to make you writhe and squirm and squeel. Do lets meet.

**

and I wonder if the people with whom we spend so much time will forget what we’re like unless we keep meeting them and calling them or writing to them. What instance in your acquaintance defines the image of you that they will carry with them when a more reliable reminder is hard to find? A shared joke, a deep, dark confession, a fight, unpleasant words. A song, a giggle, a poem, a piece of advice. An idea, a comfortable silence?

**

Mathu,

Can we urge the government to re-engage your father with R.A.W., retirement notwithstanding? And move ya’ll back into the beautiful house on Tughlak Lane. So that we can decorate Christmas trees in perpetuity. Show up with our grubby selves and pretend to be of some use, while secretly eyeing the martinis and steaming hot appams. Then we’ll invite Jatty to do his stellar Rajnikant impression and laugh till our tummies ache…and then laugh some more.

Can we not grow up for just a little while longer? Have another one of those “I don’t quite know where life is going and what I’m going to do with it” conversations without actually having to worry where life is going and what we’re going to do with it.

I’m sure you can do something about it. You’ve got connections, haven't you?

**

Merry Christmas to all… and to all a good night.

Best,

Me.

Winsome, Lose some: From One Ms. Understood to Another

2007-12-23T09:18:00.000+05:30

Dear Rakhi,

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again (and once more if it pleases you) - the universe is unfair. I know defeat and disappointment have this annoying habit of bringing everything in their vicinity to a grinding, screeching halt. Till you feel like the very air you breathe is in suspended animation and it is a struggle to simply respire. And that the most valiant of attempts to swallow one's pride can lead to the most crippling cases of indigestion.

But we must be strong, you and I. We are resilient and beautiful women and we must not let the world so much as think otherwise. The key is to suck it all in… not give the slightest indication that anything is amiss. Because in good time all will be well. While the wounds take time to heal on the inside, all the world should be able to see is a smile.

And if “upsetness” becomes a shade harder to handle, my advice: start a blog…

But I digress. If at all by a bizarre twist of fate you do end up reading this (yes, I know the chances of Rakhi Sawant reading this lie somewhere in a miniscule radius around nil) know that I am your soul sister. I feel a strange kinship with you. Agreed, I’m not a sexy item girl (unless you count the video we made at the Christmas party, which bordered dangerously on pornography) and I’ve never had plastic surgery (unless you count the time I had my front two teeth rebuilt after breaking them on a roller coaster at Appu Ghar). I’m loud and ridiculous to only a select few while the whole world sees that side of your personality. But we have one incontrovertible thing in common. We are both fools.

Fellow fool, our brilliance is lost on an unappreciative audience. Your charms and my words are wasted on a world that thinks it knows better. That would settle for what is obvious, safe and convenient.

In your grief, know that I am right there, grieving with you, albeit silently. I tried my best to cry, but all I could muster up after much effort, much extended reflection on sad and morbid things and countless attempts at facial gymnastics (the last of which usually works like a charm) was a cough followed closely by a giggle. I figured my inability to summon tears could mean one of two things, a) That years of watching mindless TV shows and being exposed to horrible images in movies have turned my heart to stone, b) That I wasn’t altogether shattered by the situation in which I find myself. I’m inclined to the latter explanation but either way, you’ve shed tears copious enough for the two of us. So rest assured that universal equilibrium has not been disturbed.

Rest assured also that we will survive our respective catastrophes. If for no better reason than that we have precious little say in the matter and no other choice but to survive. “Hardship build character” and you know you can never get enough of that (character I mean, not hardship. I’m sure there is an upper cap on the woes that one person must shoulder in a lifetime). And of course “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. We’ll emerge like Samsons from this fight. The strong Samson, with his long locks intact, before that dastardly Delilah’s devious delinquency (I am a sucker for alliteration).

Today we shall mourn. We will take our poor injured little hearts, sow up the torn bits and glue the rest together. And come night time, it will be as if nothing at all happened.

And tomorrow, as my other friend Scarlett likes to say, “…is another day…”

Best,

Me

2007-12-22T17:29:00.000+05:30

It had all the ingredients for a perfect day. That was of course before it actually began.

[Apologies to readership (yes, I mean all 4 of you). I had really meant to make this light and chirpy. But I’m exhausted and the sentiment that comes most naturally to this state is melancholy. As I see it, I might as well indulge my gloominess while I have the luxury of time to describe it at great lengths. In the coming month, I see myself as too busy to even complain.]

I had meticulously planned every precious second leading up to when I would finally relinquish some tedious tasks and slip away quietly into my own company. And then the world would be my oyster… I had a destination in mind, I had a plan. To immerse myself in a sea of strangers.

[There is something strangely comforting about being in close proximity to people you have never met and don’t know. They acknowledge your existence but never for long enough for it to matter. You’re an insignificant blob that serves little purpose other than warming the seat next to them in the metro, being an obstruction when they’re in a hurry to get past you on the footpath and a potential source of entertainment if your conversations (with others or yourself) can be eavesdropped upon.

And most importantly, they don’t ask questions. They ask for directions, they ask for the time, they ask for you to shove yourself out of their way… all of which can be satisfied with mechanical and fairly dispassionate responses]

I woke up on the right side of the bed, that too in time for an excellent early morning shower. I decided to debut a recently acquired kurta… a perfectly resplendent shade of pink. I wore the prettiest of smiles. I looked quite beautiful, if I do say so myself.

[And what the hell… I’ll just go ahead and say it myself. There is only so long that one can wait for someone else to notice.]

Work was to wrap up early, which is just as well because I had lined up recreational pursuits for the evening. And the weather Gods were on my side too, today was the one pleasant day in December. It had all the ingredients of a perfect date with… myself, arguably one of my favourite people.

[I laugh at all my jokes, am very attentive to my needs and extremely patient with my bouts of indecision. I also always notice when I’ve lost weight, never forget my own birthday and if I had the money I’d buy myself flowers frequently. I’m the person I most like making conversation with (much to the embarrassment and bewilderment of people who catch me in the act). In short, I’m a good catch, for myself]

This is the part when I describe how my plans for the day went horribly and terribly awry. But I’d rather not do that. Let’s just say that it wasn’t an altogether perfect day. Most things went wrong; some slightly wrong and others immeasurably. Unpleasant things were said about me and to me; some slightly unpleasant and others… well the others just hurt…plain and simple. If it wasn’t for my stubborn pride I could have wept.

I settled for a long walk home and a stop at Nirula’s en-route for a cup of coffee.

[I usually just go there to use the conveniences. But the place looked really empty this evening. And given that all of DU has shut shop for the winter, their numbers are likely to take a sizable hit. I don’t know why but I felt bad. Like I had to make up for all the lost business. That and shamelessly using the loo on an all too regular basis. Even if it means consuming super sweet and milky Georgia coffee]

Close of work was unexpectedly delayed and my grand plans lay in tatters. But I can’t help but wonder if I deliberately sabotaged an opportunity to enjoy free time. I could just have put my foot down, said, “enough” and just marched off.

Maybe I’ve grown tired of myself and would rather be engaged with these odious tasks rather than spend time with me. Perhaps I fear solitude because all I do with it is dwell on the 6 million things that still need to done and the 6 billion things still left to be worked out.

I enjoy my own company less and less these days and it makes for a difficult proposition. Because it is easy to be alone, with no one around but myself. In fact, most times it comes naturally and voluntarily. But now, I don’t want to be with myself either.

And that can be quite lonely…

Apocalypse Now, or somewhere around the corner

2007-12-21T08:52:00.000+05:30

It amazes me, the stuff that passes for news these days. Yesterday I walked into the T.V. room to discover that news channel ‘X’ had declared that the world was coming to an end (I kid you not). In no less than 5 years mind you.

“…paanch saal mein pralay aane vaala hai!”

In the midst of helpless giggles, rolling on the floor and general merriment we all realised that we, at the ripe age of 22, must ready ourselves for certain death and destruction. Reconcile ourselves to not having done any of the stupendous things we were otherwise intended to do. That we’d have to pack what would have been a lifetime’s worth of life and living into 5 years…

We also realised that none of us had boyfriends…

It amazes me how many if not most conversations eventually wind themselves down to this very subject. Whether it’s a comparative analysis of the merits of facebook versus the now jaded appeal of orkut or a vituperative diatribe against the steadily deteriorating quality of the laddoos we get for dessert. Whether we discuss movies or clothes or music or the weather…stock exchange fluctuations or UFOs. It somehow always becomes about boys… or lack thereof.

The discourse that follows has several clearly defined stages:-

1. Whining: This stage is not content specific. It’s more of a voice modulation thing… nasally and sing song sounds are its defining characteristics. But it is easily the most versatile of all the stages spanning a wide spectrum of themes e.g. frustration, boredom, confusion, loneliness, horniness and advanced cases of frustration, boredom, confusion…etc. Serves to spell out the problem in it’s entirety.

2. Introspection and General Speculation (a.k.a the “what could the reason be/could it be me?” stage): This is the preliminary dissection stage. May see the proposal of several plausible hypotheses and an attempt to discern the true reasons for solitude. We’re all still fairly rational at this point (or seem to be).

3. Denial I: Talk of the nature of “all men we know are either blind, gay or taken… there couldn’t be a more logical explanation”. The point is to highlight as many possible and even remotely convincing arguments to illustrate that one’s single status is nothing more than the successful outcome of an evil conspiracy hatched and put into action by the collective efforts of all forces of nature and miscellaneous troublemaking elements.

4. Transient Hopefulness: This stage features a sudden inexplicable mood upturn. Side effects may include efforts to enumerate prospective targets at whom feminine wiles should be strategically aimed for desired result: instant boyfriendification. A listing of worthy candidates. The duration of this stage is a function of the supporting environment. If you’re in dschool it can be wrapped up in a matter of seconds. In dschool sufferer lexicon we refer to it as “temporary and short-lived insanity”.

5. Denial II: Best captured by statements of the form “I don’t really need a boyfriend, I mean who has the time anyway?” or “I really value my independence and a man would constitute a drag on my autonomy” and better still, “I’m still young, there’s plenty of time for all that stuff”. This stage is actually a bit of a conundrum. Some say it exists other deny it vehemently. Some say the reasons are true and others rubbish their genuineness. Further investigation required.

6. Realisation and Much Lamentation: The keen eye alone can distinguish this from stage 1. Tell-tale signs include loud exasperated complaining and griping about how all the men in the world are indeed, “blind or gay or taken” and how we are all destined to die lonely spinsters only to be mourned by our faithful legions of domesticated felines and fowl.

7. Exhaustion and Collapse: (Title self explanatory)

As our short and seemingly miserable lives draw to a much dreaded close I see us performing the above sequence with far greater frequency than is normally observed. Perhaps the need of the hour will help snap us out of inaction and one of us will actually do something about it. Take the bull by it’s horns and actually manage to ensnare some unsuspecting fool. Snap a good catch from the allegedly plentiful sea.

As for me, I think I’ve sweet-talked myself into an advanced stage of apparent indifference. When it comes to a choice between complaining about the void in my life as opposed to the scary prospect of actually doing something to remedy the situation, the former wins every time. Blame it all on a potent mix of laziness and insecurity that lead up to the most chronic case of inertia ever.

If the impending apocalypse makes for a pressing enough need and I don't have the luxury to wait for a knight in white shining armour on his noble steed, I suppose I’ll just settle for one of the 4 horsemen…

Winter, and not quite discontent

2007-12-19T21:53:00.000+05:30

I’ve lived up north for most of my life, barring the first 8 odd years. Yet, my cold resistance barrier remains pitifully low and seems to dwindle with every passing winter.
Delhi isn’t the kindest of cities, weather wise. Though most people loathe the summers, I find them to be fairly survivable. It’s the winter that truly gets under my skin. The winter is when I start to complain (even if only to myself).

This horrid season does have some redeeming features though. And there are some choicest few things that are best if not better enjoyed during the winter. I thought I’d put together some kind words for winter. The past few days have allowed me to indulge in the few pleasures it affords.

Coffee

At first d-school was unsurvivable: I loved that I was there, just hated most if not all people who were there with me, I loved the course but hated the way it was taught. I seemed to have a whole lot more time on my hands than most of my classmates and just had nothing to do with it. It killed me. Because I hate being unhappy and the only thing I hate more is being unable to bring myself out of unhappiness. And I was drowning.

It was then that I hatched my famous “conspiracy against d-school”. That I would survive it with a smile even if I died in the process. And the effort damn near killed me too.

The first and most reliable weapon in this crusade was the coffee. I’d force myself into the canteen’s jam packed interior and then further into its deep dark recesses to where it’s source lay. I fell deeply in love with the man who served the coffee, always (and I mean always) with a kind word to say and a smile. It became my “thing”. I’d look forward to it from the moment I woke up and every minute of lectures that I plodded through took me one minute closer to it.

But it was the winter that made the experience truly blissful. Somewhere in December, arguably the best month in these parts. I’d sit on the ledge with my cup of coffee (and never ever without a spoon) stir and stare… stir and stare…stir some more and stare some more. Observe social formations in d-school, people arguing animatedly, flirting coquettishly, talking about great and significant things with great and significant gesticulations, boys engaged in bird-watching, other people having coffee.

Suddenly I began to belong. And for the few moments the coffee took to finish, everything even remotely unpleasant ceased to exist.

People who’ve observed me in this state often tell me that I looked so detached, almost as if I’d attained nirvana. They’ll never know how close to the truth they are.

*

(warning: the following text contains uncharacteristically corny content. I suppose it’s a question of taste, but given the choice I’d skip it. Either that or read it and criticise it mercilessly. Proceed at your own risk, or mine)

I finally found a use for my great big balcony this Saturday. I picked up a book, aimed my chair toward the sun and read.

I was warm and snug, in nothing but a t-shirt and thin pyjamas… no socks. Twiddling my fingers and toes and soaking in the glorious sun. To be fair I was so caught up in how perfect that moment was that the poor book was purely incidental to the situation. I couldn’t for the life of me concentrate on its contents.

I’d keep tuning in and out, preferring my reveries to the story as it unfolded. Not that I didn’t like the book. I thought it was lovely, beautifully written. The protagonist sounded like an interesting person, someone I’d like to meet and have a conversation with, but not quite like to know. Someone I could see myself falling in love with and never forgiving myself for.

But poor Merseult lost out in the end. My day dreams had people I know or would like to know, people I’ve met, seen. People with faces I’d recognise and voices I’d like to hear. People I love, few whom I momentarily I hate and some that I’m fairly indifferent about.

…despite being sidelined, the moment was still mostly about the book.

(ok I know that sounds contradictory and stupid, but its sort of hard to explain).

Somewhere in the middle of all this I couldn’t help but think: This is the life we all aspire to lead. Curl up in the sun and just read a book. Not because it will earn you an extra mark or get you a better job. Not because it contains valuable lessons to be learnt. Not even because you’ll remember it at a later point in time and reflect on how it altered your life. But simply because…

Except that it is impossible to sustain without engaging oneself in the trappings of real life. Studying, working, making money… Until these means to the end become ends in themselves.

And then I started to think of these real live things and grown up worries and concerns.

I didn’t quite enjoy that bit… and I hate that I can’t blame it on the winter either.

*

Hot showers: there is that split second when boiling hot water touches skin. I feel like I’m beginning to thaw. And soon everything around me is enveloped in a cloud of steam.

But I won’t go on about this one. First, because the steam never takes to too log to cling back on to the walls and trickle down to the wet cold floor making it wetter and colder. Second, because no matter how pleasurable the experience there is the altogether abhorrent prospect of having to return out into the cold.

Third, and most important, is that I’ve managed to bore myself and haven’t come an inch closer to disliking the winter any less than I had started out.

I can’t imagine why anyone would read this thing diligently. Usually, that thought doesn’t stop me, I can go on for ages with or without an audience. But this time even I can’t see the point of reading this and that’s never a good sign.

Must be the winter… froze my poor little brain and every last shred of creativity in it.

Bleh…

2007-12-17T20:07:00.000+05:30

21:55

i am the queen of dschool.

so much drama in the course of one night!

...the doors are thrown open at an ungodly hour at my one command (and some wimpering and pouting and general appearance of helplessness on my part, those poor chowkidars always think i'm up to no good). the generator leaps into action at the snap of my finger. i am here, all alone, in the dead of night... and it is all mine. i'm tempted to laugh one of those evil laughs.. the loud and throaty kinds.. straight from the belly. this would be the best possible time.. there's no one around to hear

________

7:14

i woke up today and made a bold and beautiful decision. swallowed procrastination whole and finally got around to thinking...

and i felt beautiful all day. what a crazy day it's been.

i must be really fortunate to be able to make potentially suicidal decisions. to bully myself into believing that its the right one.

i'm half asleep and barely coherent even to myself

________

23:54

we just got done dancing with our own shadows. pooch is drunk. drunk pooch just read me the paper. now drunk pooch is telling me how alcohol is the best thing ever invented. pooch is going back to bombay tomorrow and i hate that. i hate that everyone is going home soon...

i hate that i got caught up with work and missed christmas carolling...

now we've both lapsed into helpless delirium..

no i'm not drunk... just sleepy

i love drunk people.. they laugh at anything

-

2007-12-17T15:57:00.000+05:30

Pooch said it would make for a good read. I was sceptical, but went ahead anyway. Albert Camus…

I have these silly little thumb rules when it comes to reading. I usually try my best to steer clear of very famous and renowned, nobel laureate type writers and/or authors whose names I can’t pronounce. I think I’m secretly (and well… now not so secretly) scared that I won’t understand what they’re saying.

And I know where the blame for this should lie in entirety. Mrs. Datta (yes I’ve associated bongs with unpleasantness for quite some time now), the librarian back at CJM. I once picked up a copy of “Needful Things” by Steven King, probably for no better reason than that the blurb sounded interesting and exciting (blurbs can be truly evil and misleading, I have since learnt to exercise greater caution). I read it from cover to cover and when I went back to return it a week later, she asked how it had been. I answered, “It’s ok I suppose, I didn’t like it too much”. What I actually wanted to say was that I had hated it. I thought it was perverse and boring.

Mrs. Datta of course took vehement offence even with the milder version of my critique. She retorted saying that I didn’t know any better, that it was a beautiful book and that I was not mature enough to appreciate it. I hated her more in that split second than all the people I had ever hated till that point in time (which in retrospect could not have been too much. I was 13 and far less vindictive and prone to hate back then). Not because we had a difference of opinion and not even because she had cruelly dismissed my right to even harbour an opinion of my own. But because for a split second (before the above mentioned hate-filled split second) I thought that maybe, just maybe… she was right.

I think such people should be shot. Twice… just to make sure.

*

Winter School:

Some people I know failed to understand what I thought I would gain out of attending the few lectures that I did. True, I can scarcely grasp more than ten minutes worth of every presentation. And to be honest, roughly twenty minutes later I can’t even pay attention. But I subjected myself to it nonetheless.

I know several people who would kill to be in dschool, many of them are my good friends (in fact I’d probably kill to have some of them here as well). And several others who would kill to have access to such a sea of information, even if they tune out after 20 minutes much like my silly, all too distractable self. Then why not even try? I figure I’ll learn something, gain something, even if it is a confirmation that economics isn’t exactly for me. It’s a remarkably simple logic and I hate that so few people get it.

Then there’s the other school of thought that believes that you can’t really gain much until you sign up for it, volunteer to help out and generally hang around. Dwip (who has a genuine volunteer badge and everything) told me it would be a great opportunity to meet with great people, Kaushik Basu per say. Now this is where I’m a shade perplexed. Say I did meet Kaushik Basu… whatever would I do. I wouldn’t for the life of me know what to say.

“Um… hi… we referred to your textbook for a course in development last semester. Made rather unimaginative use of it too. And though I’m not in a position to comment upon the exposition etc. I thought your use of prose was absolutely delightful…”

Or perhaps, “…there is this book you’ve written with the worst possible name called “Economic Graffiti: Economics for Everyone” (ok I may have got this wrong, I read it a long time back) which is general lay-man gyaan but for some bizarre reason is housed by the text book section of the library…”

Better still, “I read an editorial by you a while back (back when I used to read the paper) about airports and airlines and flight delays. I honestly thought it was really stupid. I think you should stick to what you know best”

It’s like this one time I met Birju Maharaj, in the flesh. He smiled benignly and I… well… just stood there. That’s what I don’t get about celebrity worship. You can love and admire a person for who they are and what they do (not that I particularly love either of the two people I’ve mentioned, admiration I suppose is there) but what do you say or do when you finally meet them?

You know that famous question: if you could invite any three famous people to dine with you… who would you call? I can’t ever bring myself to contemplate an answer without facing the terrifying prospect of drawing a complete blank when it comes to conversation. How can you be sure that uncomfortable silences are any less uncomfortable in the company of famous people?

After much deliberation I think I’d invite Camus and Steven King, if only to confirm whether or not my understanding of their work was accurate. And contingent on their response, I’d invite Mrs. Datta… if only to gloat.

i m blu

2007-12-16T21:16:00.000+05:30

I have the strongest possible urge to weep. My computer is dead. My hard disk collapsed and is now beyond resuscitation. And gone with it is the music from my life and the few movies it housed. I am sad beyond consolation.

(No I’m not being dramatic, this really has upset me and I am enveloped in the most genuine and stifling blanket of melancholy)

Now my desktop held more importance in my life than any machine could. In fact given my severe allergy to all nature of gadgetry and technology in general, it is a wonder we (the comp and I) ever got along. Because it wasn’t just a computer, it was a time capsule of sorts. Three years of college memories: pictures, documents… scraps of this… bits of that. It even had the first few unpublished posts of a prospective blog, which were never brought to light for fear of public embarrassment.

But what I’ll miss the most is the music. Carefully collated by several (ok at least one)generations of seniors who were benevolent enough to pass it down to me (or rather pai, to whom the comp actually belongs). I miss having a constant soundtrack to life. I miss my meticulously prepared play-lists, one for every mood… and my favourite one of all titled “rainy day”.

I’ll miss how the comp invariably reminded me of the pleasant and not so pleasant aspects of my Hudson lines existence. Breakfast at Tiffany’s… ponnie’s treatise on the urban discontent of the 1950s, Casablanca… my missing the point completely, Dirty Dancing… “nobody puts baby in a corner”, Love Actually… everyone suffering giggle fits, while one amongst us cried the bitterest tears of heartbreak (not me, my turn came much later… but all in good time), Shrek 2… a head leaned against my elbow, I knew for certain I was in love and was loved…

How I could never ever catch the climax of any movie, I’d simply fall off to sleep.

And now it’s gone. I’m usually not the kind to obsess about the past enough to want to hang on to it with a vice like grip. I don’t ache to get back to it or do it all over again. The past is… well… in the past, where it belongs. I just feel sad that suddenly, in the blink of an eye I’ve been denied all access to it.

I think the repairman sensed my grief. When I walked into the shop he said he’d charge me 300 rupees irrespective of whether the process took 5 minutes or 5 hours. I somehow managed to get him down to 250. Half an hour into the visit when the preliminary diagnosis was made, he said that if I had to walk off empty handed he’d take just 200. When he finally discovered that all my data was irretrievable (only to watch my face fall in helpless disappointment) he said I owed him 150.

At this point all I could manage was a sad, apologetic little squeek… two words…

“students’ discount?”

I ended up giving him a 100.

*

I shall now proceed to bury myself deep in my bed. Wrap my quilt around me till I can scarcely breathe. Only to emerge when the world is a pleasanter place. A place where everyone appreciates my sense of humour and I don’t have to eject fake laughs at other peoples’ jokes. Where I can be absolutely invisible when I don’t want to have a conversation or be observed.

When the sun stops playing hard to get. When weight-loss doesn’t miraculously reverse itself over the course of one night. When everyone gets a job and stops irritating the shit out of me with the most moronic of questions. When I acquire a legion of faithful foot soldiers who leave a basket full of the most delicious fruit at my doorstep every morning and lay down a direct pipeline that provides me a guaranteed supply of coffee… 24X7. When all the term papers decide to prepare and submit themselves without any external motivation and all my clothes decide to launder, iron and arrange themselves neatly in my cupboard.

A place and time when hard disks give you a full weeks notice before crashing…

Bombay (2)

2007-12-14T22:59:00.000+05:30

So this is how my post about bombay was originally supposed to be: long and incredibly detailed.

Everything about how I would once have never believed that I would come to hate mumbai and then finally did. Loathe it.. that too with a lethal vengeance. About being assaulted by irritating mumbai clichés at every corner- and finally being done in by the biggest cliché, the city itself. And after a day’s work, walking around aimlessly for hours and feeling stupendously silly for ever having had any good intentions. Feeling lost and lonely and so very small. About how I have come to harbour a deep dislike for anyone who has ever got a degree in human resource management.

About how mumbai has no room for anyone or anything. No elbow room either, unless your elbow is prepared to fork out 1500/- a night for the cockroach infested shoebox suite with the charming view of the dumpster.

And about the pleasanter things… because pleasant things do happen more than once in a while. We just never give happy occurrences their due.

About moronic matchmaking till 4:00 am in the morning. The pains taken to prepare the “top 5 d-school men for you” list, which in my case stalled at two and a half. Black tea at midnight brainstorming sessions and my obsession for “consolidating” the day’s events. About having to share a queen size bed with four other people, but being too exhausted to care or do anything for that matter, besides giggle uncontrollably.

About my last day in mumbai. A not entirely uneventful day. I slapped two men, got shat on by 4 birds, flirted shamelessly with an Italian furniture proprietor/salesman (the furniture was Italian, he was Sindhi) at the Prince of Wales museum and got a lovely conversation and cup of coffee out of it, before finally ending up at the Marriot with an old flame and the most satisfying piece of chocolate cake.

The 5 days I spent there seemed like a month. A lot happened, and a lot of it worthy of documentation. But by the end of it I got slightly sick of it and slightly sick of myself.

So I’ll stick to the things I can think of right now… and I’m sure the rest are bound to manifest themselves at some point of time or the other.

****

I met Jos and I realised how much I miss Jos. And I missed Jos most during the conversation I was having with Jos. I can’t remember the last time I had spoken at such length to another human being. I was so breathless and agitated. The words were hovering around my moth threatening to spew forth like vomit. And to think, once upon a time, these conversations happened all the time. How did we never run out of things to say to each other? It boggles my mind.

And the conversations were just as rushed and breathless then, almost as if we were in a race against time to put all the thoughts out onto the table. I miss having easy access to it.

****

I found myself strangely at ease with my travel companions. When did these d-school people become my friends? When despite myself did I feel it okay to let them in on silliest of my secrets?

My first crush at d-school, my irrational and vehement dislike for all but a few bongs and most people from hansraj, wanting to run away from the piles of photostats, the tests and the mundaneness of it all, desperately seeking distraction (“December will be my month, no jan, no wait it’ll be feb for sure”), my second crush at d-school… and then suddenly loving it… the classes, the teachers, the time and the coffee. Making my peace with being in the “other” college on the “other side of the road”. Falling in love with math and floundering in a sea of the most delicious notation.

I found myself deeply engaged in conversation, laughing at their jokes and what’s worse… making jokes that actually elicited their laughter, things that rarely if ever happen.

Maybe loneliness started to get to me… I caved and just became one of them. Or maybe I wasn’t all that different to begin with. But I know the kinship we formed was part magic and part the day’s nervous tension seeking release. A large portion of it got left behind in mumbai and I’m not sure if I should rejoice or mourn it’s loss…

Eh… bleh…

****

Somehow crossing state lines plays havoc with my system. My poor confused bowels aren’t quite adept at adapting to drastically altered climates, cuisines and sleep and activity patterns.

(I wish there were money to be made from sharing unnecessary and uncomfortable details. I’d be a millionaire)

also today

2007-12-13T23:57:00.000+05:30

ok, the day wasn't as fantastically eventful as i'm making it out to be... but heck i had the time. after a really long time.

*

Joy… the old black pants fit again. Something in the last few months has reversed the dangerous fallouts of a summer of binging. Relief to my father’s wallet... a wardrobe full of un-wearable clothes would else have required replacement, an expensive proposition at the best of times. And whatever would I do if the marriage proposals (three at last count) started to dry up? Perish the thought…

*

Games people play:

Nothing like some good old-fashioned bitching to snap one back into reality. As it turns out “the other AB” is quite the nasty little prick. So what if he’s a genius… that cannot prevent me from holding an immature grudge against him for the rest of forever. I can’t believe I ever considered him “crush-worthy”.

*

In conversation:

An old friend and country cousin declared me to be “very Cadbury” and “limca-licious”. I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m informed it was one. I figure it’s the thought that counts.

I was pretty quick with the compliments myself. I offered to bottle KorahKorah and sell him for 1500 bucks a pop. We’ll corner the market on charming-soon-to-be-investment-banker-mallu men.

Then I met a real cousin. We promised to meet up soon. Prospects: dim.

There was also a fair bit of yell-ery and scream-ery and general hysteric-ery..

Somewhere in the middle of this I smiled a real live smile. It was “the most well thought out smile in the history of mankind”…

*

I love contextual shit. You can state the obvious and still sound really smart and abstract.

*

My ability to churn out fake smiles, make miles of inane polite conversation and put up a more than convincing façade of being terribly and breathlessly busy inspires a strange cocktail of disgust, fear and admiration in myself. I think I should take to HR management.

*

Coming attractions (I have a 4 day weekend ahead of me)

-Eavesdropping and such like recreational activity
-The subject of Sikkim and urinating men (the doscos from hell: mighty man, kunj b and singhi)
-Matchmaking and the all important question: charsi chalega?
-More on bombay
-Some more on bombay

*

The problem with long weekends: It's a bit like tasting blood really. I'm really looking forward to sleeping in and living in a stupendously vegetal state. But, how-ever will I get used to life when it lapses back into it's normal self...

bleh...

today

2007-12-13T23:39:00.000+05:30

I had the most brilliant and beautiful of insights last night. And I was all set to embellish them and put them on display… doll them up, spit shine, fluff, gloss. But they were heavy and hung themselves with invisible string to my lashes. My eyelids had no choice but to submit.

(I didn’t even brush…)

But they, much like my own true self, turned out to be far shyer than I had anticipated and disappeared without a trace. I searched and searched and searched…

I thought they’d be lost somewhere in the swirl that was my night’s sleep, buried within the whirlpool that I had made of Dorai’s bed (*). I sleep without a pillow now, so that’s one less nook for them to hide in but my reconnaissance went un-rewarded. Wherever could they be?

I let myself out of the house unobtrusively and started marching home, preferring the walk to various available modes of public transport. If they were hiding somewhere on my person they’d most certainly be blown off during the journey(**). No, walking is a safer bet.

Tip-toed up to my perch to ready myself for the day, I must get to the bottom of their disappearance. I undress with the greatest of care, lest they slip out from the folds of several layers of cover. Pause cautiously at each button, hook and string undone. Frisk my clothes and quite ruthlessly too (I am rude, I never even took their permission, the clothes’ I mean), but emerge empty handed.

I check between pink little toes, only to find flakes of my flannel socks. That and patches of pinker raw skin, who are aspiring to be blisters. I check behind my knees, just in case they’re hiding in the soft little cave there… nothing.

I scan my hands… an unlikely destination… the fingerprints are too fine to camouflage them… then check under my fingernails, only to find the dirty remnants of effort.

I scratch my unkempt and un-feminine (***) eyebrows in the hope that they’ll tumble out…nothing.

Then with my index finger, carefully trace the path from the crusty stuff that has accumulated during the night at one corner of my right eye, to the crusty stuff that has accumulated at the other corner. The path it takes is decidedly darker than is usual. Must be the lack of sleep and worry (lack of: sleep, worry: of which there is no dearth)… no luck.

Then the left… no luck. I am now convinced that most if not all is lost.

I fear sifting through my hair because I know what I’ll uncover there (rhyme unintended)- signs of age and dandruff (mostly dandruff). And even if they are hiding there, they’ll most likely swim to freedom when next I rinse my scalp (****). But I’m still hopeful that they’re somewhere in the midst of all the tangled and split ended madness. So I optimistically exercise surgical caution through the combing process and braid my hair just in case.

I don’t bother checking my ears, I’d have heard them whispering by now. They’re sneaky but not particularly discrete. One last-ditch effort to check behind the ears turns up in nought.

For the life of me I can’t remember a single one of them and this is indeed a travesty. They were gems I tell you… sparkly and crystal clear. And now, whoever will believe me when I say that they were real?

Curses…

___________________

* or the bed that Dorai was kind enough to let me claim as my own, for the night.
** i usually prefer walking anyway. having an excuse is good though.
*** as i am reliably informed by legions of beauty parlour personell .
**** i blame those evil anti dandruff shampoos, they take away everything but the dandruff.

Bombay (1)

2007-12-11T20:02:00.000+05:30

Today was an absolutely awful day. I have said and done some truly horrible things. I always knew this time of the year brings out the worst in people. I just never reckoned that I would be one of those people.

I hate myself too much to write anything, so I'll put up something I wrote a while back, about my trip to bombay. Yes, I know this constitutes cheating of sorts, but I really just want to change the subject. Think of other things. Not necessarily pleasanter.. just other.

*

Monday, November 26, 2007, New Delhi Railway Station, 16:00 hours

Yet again I have over-packed and here I am, struggling to come to terms with my own materialism. A tiny little sherpa collapsing under the weight of the white man’s tent.

All set for another train journey, all set to meet the man of my dreams. After several failed attempts at finding love in transit I’m still hopeful, it’s pitiful really. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain… I’m having a good hair day and a not altogether bad face day too. Of course my travel companion being one of those evil skinny-pretty women poses a challenge. She’s better with conversation and card games… must haves for train journeys. But I’ve got a feeling I’m in with a chance today. If only someone interesting would present himself. My optimism never fails to astound me.

And here is how the universe rewards me. What I got- serial belchers, loud, obnoxious people and large to boot. Sort of what gene roddenberry must have been thinking when he created ‘klingons’. Not that I have anything against big people, being related to a lot of them and hence destined to become one in due course of time. I was just hoping for more… a teeny tiny glimmer of hope, a fraction of a ray of light… a little… a tittle… is that too much to ask for?

And that just takes me back to the time I did meet a “someone interesting” while travelling and did absolutely nothing about it. What if everyone is destined to get one chance for finding love during the course of a journey and I have recklessly thrown mine away?

This diffidence will be the death of me… that is if the klingons don’t get to me first.

****

Elbow room: Transit Acommodation, Sher-e-Punjab

Even if the four of us stand on four different corners of the room we can’t make it look bigger than a shoe box. And no matter how valiant our attempts we can somehow never get it to look clean.

The floor looks spotless, but only when we pile everything onto the bed. And the bed looks quite charming, granted everything is tossed back onto the floor. This ridiculous game of musical chairs is altogether too tedious. There is just too much stuff and too many of us. We’re exasperated, cranky, lazy…we give up.

I hate that I take up the most space on the bed. Not that I have anything against skinny people… oh no wait… I do

****

What I hate most about mumbai is how stupendously fruity it makes me. Too many long train/bus/auto/taxi journeys with nothing better to do than stare off into space and contemplate. And suddenly I’m a poet… a dreadfully clichéd and corny one at that.

But then I suppose that’s what I love most about mumbai. That I see, hear and smell things that make me think the most beautiful and interesting of thoughts. Delhi is home, but it never inspires any particularly strong feelings or emotions.

Having re-read the last two paragraphs, I’m quite disgusted with myself. I’ve used the three words that I detest the most (i.e. feelings, thoughts and emotions). But I’ll leave them unedited. Consider it my homage to generations of unlicensed mumbai poets.

****

Sitting on marine drive, sipping a cup of “cutting”, staring at the sea, the lights and feeling traffic zip past me… the thing that is foremost in my mind…

This is so tremendously overrated…

Really, I grew sick of the sea a long time ago. And I’ve done just about every touristy routine there is… stared purposefully, thought thoughtfully, spoken philosophically, sung soulfully… strained my ears till all I could hear was the sound of waves… eaten vada pao and bhel puri (and pao bhaji and chana jor garam and chuski and paan…) smoked cigarette(s) and watched the sun set, collected sea shells, waded into the first few feet of sea. And sadly the novelty has died a slow painful death.

I was at my cruellest best in May. Roghan Josh and I were at marine drive, feet dangling over the parapet when the subject of life came up. I proceeded to say something suitably profound post which he just looked at me with the “where have you been my whole life” look in his eyes. And then the conversation became more “deep”, “thoughtful” and yes “profound”… yuck.

So we’re in the throes of this potentially life altering exchange and all my evil, emotionally stunted brain can think is-

“This is so stupid. I can’t believe this fellow is taking me seriously, I can’t believe he thinks I’m taking him seriously. Really all this nebulous talk is such bullshit, but he seems to be enjoying it, the twerp… let’s see how far I can carry this with a straight face”

And so I did… egged him on shamelessly. Mercilessly, just to see how absurdly contemplative and insightful the conversation could get. All the time making fun of it all in my head.

I am a vicious and horrible person. How do I get any sleep at night?

Come to think of it I don’t get much sleep… hmmm…

*

I am worried by the steadily deteriorating quality of my recent posts and their decidedly suicidal tone. But for once, I think I shall let myself complain, even if I do it in an inarticulate fashion.

The day has wound down, but all the coffees (I've lost count) I've consumed today still keep me remarkably wired up (or maybe it's all the tiny little worries I've accumulated over the day). I hate this shifty-fidgety Energizer Bunny mode of existance. I know the morning will be beautiful and everything will seem okay again. It's just the night that's the killer...

Stress becomes her

2007-12-10T19:22:00.000+05:30

I have aged so tremendously over the course of the past two weeks. I discovered two white hairs in my head (rather, was informed of their presence by observers). I think I shall christen them- “mumbai” and “bangalore”.

The weather in delhi has taken a turn for the horrible. This evening was cold and bitterly so. And the worst is yet to come. I feel an evil wind making it’s way, steadfast, toward me. I am all set to be beset with the most tedious of worries for the next month and a half at least. And (audience be warned) I am also all set to be incurably whiny, relentlessly complain-y, incorrigibly bitchy and generally all variants of unpleasant.

“I” ask “Myself”: whatever did “I” do to deserve this?
“Me” (forever the irritatingly astute observer) responds: you colossal nincompoop, you raised your hand… remember?
“Myself” chimes in with an indecisive:
Woe is “Us”… whatever will we do?
No no, everything will work out for the best… there is so much to be learnt
But the madness hasn’t even begun and “We” are already exhausted… sigh sigh sigh
Ah… what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, hardship builds character, this is a truly enriching and rewarding experience.

The five of us (for the confused or those who lost count: We, Us, I, Me and Myself) are still trying to reach a consensus.

As a hapless victim of the most acute case of “volunteer-eritus” I really should have seen this coming. I’m pretty sure I haven’t bitten off too much. But who knew all this chewing could be so boring?

What is most lamentable about my current state of affairs is the sheer absence of any nature of distraction. Maybe I should acquire a hobby, learn to play a musical instrument or take to smoking or something. Surviving the first year was easy, made easier still by the tubs of coffee I consumed and the general optimism that characterizes youth (yes, to reiterate- I feel I have aged immeasurably). But this year, especially the last bit is proving just a smidge more challenging.

Academic pursuits are the most likely to prove casualty to the hectic pace that life has recently acquired which leaves me feeling more than a little disappointed with myself. And given the sad state of affairs a boyfriend seems clearly out of the question. D school hasn’t even left me with anything to lech at- the general hopelessness of the in house population being further compounded by the steadily deteriorating quality of “passers by”, “hangers on” and miscellaneous elements. Even the travelling troubadours and resident cat stranglers never fail to disappoint. And the Jats are trying so very hard to get louder and uglier, which seems virtually impossible… but never say never, I say.

The OQ (ogle quotient) here has declined to unprecedented lows… life sure is unfair.

But as always, I have managed to brainwash myself into believing that a resilient silver lining is in the offing. When this madness winds up in January, it will all be worth it. Maybe I’ll take a vacation for a couple of days, to some nice warm place. It needn’t be a grand or glamorous trip, just one that allows me the luxury of sleeping in late, taking the occasional long walk or two, reading a book and staring off into space for hours together.

I’m not too fussy about location either. Presently, there’s only one place I’m sure I want to go. Away.

post script

2007-12-08T11:25:00.000+05:30

General Somanathanus declared to one and all that my mid term submission was an exquisite piece of work. I’m really glad I wasn’t around to hear that. I can somehow never handle such situations without turning all colours of the rainbow and getting the sudden urge to hide behind my curtain of hair or bend down and re-tie my shoelaces before being swallowed up by the ground beneath my feet. But I was also slightly sad that I couldn’t bask in the glory of one of my rare academic achievements.

Dwip was the first one to inform me of this triumph. He really is quite sweet that way, enough to make me not hold his “bong-ness” against him. It was Lal who finally handed me the graded copy of my essay (after we performed a carefully choreographed sequence of bitchery about rohini’s flip-flop over the internal assessment scheme and how we were all doomed to receive the most abysmal of marks in the semester exam and that life is unfair and that we are the victims of an asinine system that rewards rote as opposed to intelligence and the world is a cruel cruel place blah blah etc etc… usual stuff). I re-read it and carefully recollected the race against time to submit it. How I took the four page printout from the placement cell printer and tortured myself for the next few days for dishonest use of it’s resources.

And all the background reading I’d done on Bangladesh, Matlab, birthspacing, child mortality, gender biases, breastfeeding. All the dust I’d inhaled in the RTL while looking up information on survey design, hazard functions, survival analysis, logit regressions, simulation exercises and all the hours I spent racking my brain over the seemingly countless and virtually incomprehensible dummy variables and zillions of model specifications till I knew the paper backwards and forwards and could recite it in my sleep. Such bliss...

At the time I was struggling to type the bloody essay out, it had all seemed like time wasted. I didn’t even reference half the papers I’d read (I don’t know why… I guess I just didn’t want to seem like I was sucking up or something). But I did enjoy it. The hunt for information, piecing the story together… my own little project, my baby.

These are perhaps 8 ½ of the most precious marks I will ever receive. In retrospect, the labour pains proved to be deliciously rewarding.

uterus for sale

2007-11-16T01:17:00.000+05:30

if this diatribe goes against accepted norms of propriety, then scrunch propriety up into a ball and toss it out the window. life is too short to grin and bear it...

i want to sell off my uterus to the highest bidder. there is simply nothing noble in this discomfort. it's messy, inconvenient and painful, at times excruciatingly so.

i wonder how those hyperactive women in the advertisements do it. why the hell are they so happy anyway? i mean it is heartening to learn that one is fertile and that one's plumbing is in order. but the monthly reminders: i can so live without them.

lest this be mistaken as the outpourings from the heart of a closet feminist, i think i'll issue a disclaimer. i'm just really whiny. you would be too if everything south of your abdomen felt like it was in a vice... if anything that is even remotely tasty is off limits because your stomach just refuses to digest it without creating the most awful fuss... and if to boot, you feel bloated enough to shoot off into the stratosphere much like a hot air balloon.

*

it gets worse

sometime last night my blanket and comatose self had a falling out and decided that separation was the only way to amicably settle the situation. of course none of this involved my consent. i wish they'd considered the wider ramifications of this solution. i woke up in the morning feeling miserable- heavy head, runny nose, scratchy throat... the works.

the universe is determined to test my limits... and i'm determined to go down fighting (determined about the fighting. the going down bit, not so much). all as long as i can do a little whining on the side...

whine whine whine

*

the last few days have been as close to hell as is imaginable for most delhi folk. what with the suspension of the water supply. and even though living in a girls' hostel entitles me to certain priveleges (i.e. the services of subsidized delhi jal board tankers) that eliminate the chance of me feeling the slightest bit of discomfort i just couldn't help but be really depressed.

i don't know why i found it so disconcerting. maybe it was the woman on the news who said that she'd been feeding her chidren bread for breakfast for the past three days, because she couldn't spare enough water to cook. or maybe it just brought back horrible memories from the flat (only the water related memories are nasty, the rest are quite blissful) of severe drought like situations during exams. or maybe it was because we were eating food in disposable thermocol plates to save water that would be used to rinse them while girls were getting their rooms swabbed with criminal amounts of water, people were taking showers, washing clothes etc.

it just made me so mad. and everytime i told the maids to stop sweeping they just looked at me as if i'd gone loco. i wonder if that's how the clinically insane feel. i'm sure whatever they're saying makes complete sense to them. it's so frustrating to know that you are completely lucid when the rest of the world thinks you've lost your marbles.

i usually resist criticising girls for being "girls" i.e. generally finicky about cleanliness and the like. i loathe crass generalisations. but that just got me thinking of whether this was a valid stereotype (not that any stereotypes are really "valid", but i digress).

even if women are the cleaner sex i can't help but think why. a friend of mine, a devout hindu and a feminist of the most vehement breed (quite unlike one compulsive fence sitter i know, i.e. me), once explained to me why women were not permitted entry into places of worship during their menstrual cycle: due to hygiene concerns, which may at some point of time long long ago been forgivable.

but what if it didn't end there... maybe we still believe that we are dirty and constantly feel the need to remedy the situation.

on a lighter note, if that is indeed true then i am the most genuinely emancipated woman i know. in my defence, i always look clean (unkempt, but clean) and rarely if ever smell objectionable...

at least not enough to have elicited complaints...

*

or maybe i'm just acting out against socially imposed norms...

*

or maybe i'm just really lazy and indifferent

*

or just really lazy