Girl Next Door: Take Me to your Mother

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

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

Eek..

And again.. Eek..

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

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

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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.

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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)

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Me: I saw a cute boy on the bus today

U: Another one?

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

U: Ok. Who is he?

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

U: So why are you so excited?

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

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

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

U: Bu...

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

U: So what comes next?

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

U: And then?

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

U: And your boyfriend?

Me: Oh he's amazing...

U: Huh?

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

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

Dear Ovaries,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Respect,

BB

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

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

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

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

Issued in public interest

Beauty, The Price we Pay for

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

Let no errant hair be spared!

May those over-enthusiastic follicles be pinched into submission!

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

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

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

First, I blame my mother.

Then, I blame men.

Mumbai

Lovely Building #1: Mosque near Marine Lines Station

Kandeel #1: Girgaum

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

Bandra Talao: Smells of Poo

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

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

Kandeel #2: Kalbadevi

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

Catholic congregation in Mumbai.

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

Lovely Building #2: Deutsche Bank office near VT

Shamrock: Flowers on the terrace, M's

Shamrock: Ancient lamp, A's

Shamrock: Guitar, N's

Shamrock: Window sill, Mine

Kashmir

Pahalgam: View from "Betaab" Valley.

Pahalgam: Beetle most bashful

Sonamarg: Thajewas Sanctuary. They let people in.

Back waters of the Dal Lake

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

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

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

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

Hotel Centaur: Spooky

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

Baisaran: View from the bottom

En Route to Sonamarg: Sindhu river

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

Shalimar Bagh: Wooden ceiling panel.

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

Gulmarg: It posed, I couldn't resist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Goes Around

If there is such a thing as Karma, I think its safe to say that I'm covered.
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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.
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170 people from my company got fired last week. Last Friday to be precise. Some of them new, some experienced. Some young, some old.
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Too sleepy to care. I grabbed it, wrapped it in my palm, threw it on the floor, went back to sleep.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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So I still have my job, still have my money, still have my Bombay. I must be doing something right. Right?
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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.
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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.