The Straitjacket Diaries

Wherein I Speak Ill Of The Dead

2011-07-25T08:47:00.006+04:00

Since the news broke about Amy Winehouse's death, all I've been hearing (aside from "Back to Black" on a constant loop) is how she's the newest inductee to the infamous 27 Club: the group of uber-talented, super-messed-up rockers who all not-so-mysteriously popped it at age 27. This clique includes the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison - all personal favourites of mine (hell, who DIDN'T have a Cobain poster hanging on their walls and "Heart-Shaped Box" on repeat in the mid 90s?).

But everytime I think of their deaths - drug and alcohol fueled to the last - I lament not the loss of human life (cold as that sounds, it's true - they brought it upon themselves) but the unbearable waste of all that talent. All that power and energy and genius - gone. Snuffed out. Because they couldn't stay away from the needle, or the bottle, or whatever the eventual implement of their death may have been (to be fair, it was a shotgun in Cobain's case).

I'm not the first person to ask this over the ages, and I won't be the last, but what IS it about these artistic types?? Why do they have such addictive personalities? Sex, drugs, booze, gambling - is it too much money too soon? Excessive time on their hands? Greater opportunity? Less willpower? Does injecting something in their veins give them the added push to create the magic they do? Whatever the reason, obviously they never heard of "Just Say No", and end result: the world is deprived of decades of musical bliss because these coked up idiots couldn't get their shit together enough to ensure they didn't OD.

Honestly, ya morons. Join a 12-step programme. Pain and suffering and addiction may be good for your art, but your untimely death isn't.

R.I.P.

2011-07-24T09:41:00.003+04:00

"...And I tread a troubled track
My odds are stacked;
I'll go back to black."

Apparently, you did. Rest in peace (if you knew what that was), Amy Winehouse.

Dead at 27 - what a sad, stupid waste of all that talent.

The Perils of Being Unable to Say No:

2011-06-22T10:44:00.002+04:00

1. Unable to Say No to Food

- When one of your best friends is pregnant and goes through mad cravings, you run to the supermarket with her in 50-degree weather.

- You try cucumber sticks with peanut butter, carrot sticks with nutella, goats’ cheese with EVERYTHING.

- You gain more weight than she did during her pregnancy.

2. Unable to Say No to Friends Who Are Leaving

- You go out every night with them.

- You go out every night with them and do mad shit that ensures you look like a wreck in the morning (and throughout the day…week...nevermind), but have a blast doing said mad shit.

- You log in late to work every day for a week as a result of only getting to bed at an hour that is both too late and too early to be sane.

3. Unable to Say (a Loud, Rude, Vociferous) No to Guys Who Ask You Out

- Your polite refusal is taken as a sign of weakness.

- They keep pestering you, even when they have a chickie baby on the side (honestly, am I the only one who sees something wrong with that???)

- They eventually turn into psycho loonies who make up mad shit* about you.

(*not to be confused with the more pleasant, enjoyable mad shit referenced in point 2. This mad shit is all bad and bound to earn someone a kick in the nuts).

4. Unable to Say No to Shopping Expeditions

- You get to a point where you’re scared to look at your bank balance.

- Your shoe collection could make Imelda Marcos say: “Whoa there, a little restraint please!”

- You cannot open your closet door for fear of being buried in the fabric avalanche and not being found for a week.

5. Unable to Say No to Books

- Your overflowing bookshelves make your closet look pristine in comparison.

- When an idiot at a club tries to strike up a conversation using the lame-ass line “You know, the dress you’re wearing is the druidic colour of healing!”, you’re actually in a position to say “Um – no, lameass – that’s green, not purple.”

- You can quote William Shakespeare and Pablo Neruda alongside J.K. Rowling and Charlaine Harris, but no one else gets that and you just sound pompous anyway.

So, lesson learned: the new word that I will wear out, and I mean really wrestle down to the ground and make my bitch, is “No.”

Life’s too much bother otherwise.

My Wishes For NV....

2011-01-12T12:31:00.002+04:00

....the week before her wedding.

As fiercely as I cling on to my old friends, I’ve come to learn that it’s possible to love the new ones just as much, and want the very best for them always: whether or not you know all their history, their journey, their mistakes and their triumphs.

I can’t lay much of a claim to knowing what true romantic love is all about, and descriptions and best wishes and sweeping hand gestures (that ALWAYS knock over a few wine glasses) don’t seem to do the emotion justice. And marriage – well, never had a clue, doubt I ever will, so how can I know what wishes I’m bestowing on this friend of mine? However, Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVII has always seemed to be the best way to put a voice to my ineloquence. From the moment I first read it, I thought “That’s what I want someday,” even if the thoughts were half-formed and shooed away as wistful and longing. But, for the people who have found that love….

So, for you, NV:

“I do not love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
Or arrow of carnations that propagate fire;
I love you as certain dark things are loved:
Secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom and carries
Hidden within itself the light from those flowers;
And, thanks to your love, darkly
In my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where;
I love you simply: without problems or pride.
I love you in this way because I know no other way of loving

But this: in which there is no I or you.
So close that your hand upon my chest is my hand;
So close, that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.”

I hope your love, your wedding, your marriage, and the life after is all of this, and so much more. All the very very best to you and AM :)

Apparently I Was One Of Those Angsty Teenagers

2011-01-10T15:35:00.001+04:00

My God, I could not be a BIGGER cliche. How disappointing. Looking through my old stories (Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger fanfiction, how I miss thee), I came across a poem I had written at the ripe old age of 19. It positively drips with love scorned and world-weariness. Sheesh. How pretentious we are at that age, how we think we know EVERYTHING and have been through EVERYTHING and NO!ONE!UNDERSTANDS! I'm quite embarrassed by it, actually!

Of course, chances are I'm going to stumble across this blog post in 10 years' time and think the same thing :)

For anyone who cares, here's the melodramatic goodness:

Waiting and hoping,

Watching and praying;

Replaying the words

Of the rubbish you were saying

To make me forgive you,

To make the lies true;

To make me forget

My trust in you.

Mumbling and cursing,

Smiling and rehearsing

My most genuine fake smile

To keep your lips from pursing

At how childish I'm being;

How naive I am for not seeing

Through the half-truths you told me

To keep me from leaving

When I could have walked without getting hurt;

When I could have left without feeling like dirt:

Walked all over by you

Like I'm not even worth

A proper kiss,

Or a promise you'll miss

All that we had

All eternity, then this:

Nothing.

As Ever...

2010-12-01T21:08:00.003+04:00

... Bombay was superb, sublime...beyond words, even.

I'll attempt a few, but maybe next post, when I'm over my homesickness and the horrible wrench of missing A.H. and N.M. and all the others. I honestly can't wait for that old-age home we're all moving into in our 80s ...at least we'll all be together!

Who, What, Where, When, Why, How

2010-11-09T21:17:00.002+04:00

It seems everyone I speak to these days has hit a bit of a wall….not so much a dead-end as an obstacle in the road. On the way to where, though? That’s what is relatively unknown. Why are we doing what we’re doing? Is this really what we’re going to do forever (or at least till retirement beckons)? What else is out there? Is this really all there is to life?

I’ve always found it unbearably pretentious to question the why and how of our existence. Sure, answers would be nice – but we’re here, we’re healthy, we’re loved, we’re happy – we should be grateful. All this “What is the meaning of life” business is best left to philosophers and drunkards at 4 a.m. Of course, they tend to wonder about it on a larger scale. As ever, my musings are more self-involved :)

I’m down with the programme – we’re born, we go to school, we go to college, we get a job, we get married, we have kids, we have grandkids, we shuffle off this mortal coil and people boohoo for a bit until they pop it too, and pretty soon there’s no one left who remembers us. If we’re lucky, we’re memorialized in a family tree some great-great-grandkid will create for a school project, or we’re a name scrawled in a few books handed down in the family. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, because I know that in some small but significant way, there’s a piece of us that gets carried forward in time, and even if it’s not recognized or acknowledged, we definitely lived.

But how did we live? Right now, where I am…I want more. Okay, I’m working, I’m doing an MBA (and I’ll probably do another after this), I have a loving family (touch wood) and an amazing set of friends (thank you). Life is routine – good, but routine. But what am I doing that’s going to leave a mark? Is it egotistical to think I can leave a mark? Is it enough that I attempt to be a good human being (and hopefully, maybe, succeed some of the time)? Is it possible that there’s something more out there? Should I be satisfied with okay when there’s a possibility that amazing is around the corner? What if there’s nothing around the corner?

I think what bothers me more than the status quo is not having any of the answers.

Random Musings on a Sick Day

2010-11-04T09:47:00.001+04:00

- Is the world really a better place for beautiful people? Do more doors actually fly open, more red carpets get unfurled, more dollars pour into their bank accounts? Or is it simply that people with a modicum of self-assurance (that may or may not come from beauty) make things happen the way they want, rather than waiting for things to happen to them?

- Ever noticed that the people you love will always be beautiful, no matter what? And the more you get to know them (and the more you learn how amazing they are), the more beautiful they become to you?

- Why so much musing in the beauty vein? I don’t know…I suppose I was indulging in the rather rare occasion where I happened to glance at the mirror for more than 5 minutes, and for the first time since adolescent insecurity faded over a decade ago, I was wondering what people see when they look at me. Is that too self-involved? Um, yeah, actually, it definitely is…but anyway. I had an acquaintance tell me the other day that his friend is in love with me, and my first thought was “Why?” He certainly doesn’t know me well enough to appreciate my completely batty personality, and my looks are nothing to write home about…not bad enough to shatter mirrors, but nowhere near traffic stopping quality. And in a country filled with gorgeous women (most of whom are my friends, and whom I therefore cannot hate, damn my luck and scruples), I sort of pale in comparison…okay face (mouth a bit too broad and lips a bit too pouty and eyes a bit too sleepy), okay figure (leaning far too much towards the curvy end of the spectrum but balanced out, somewhat, by a decent height), okay hair (always mussed now that it’s been hacked from hip-length to shoulder length). I’m no serene belle imbued with grace and elegance (multiple instances of my donkey-laugh, tipped-over chairs – with me in them, involuntary somersaults down stairwells and inexplicable instances of tripping over my own feet have seen to that). I mean, in short, I’m kind of a disaster. So my only conclusion about friend-of-acquaintance is that he’s looking for a quick boink and thinks the L-word will help his cause. Sigh. Fool.

- On a completely unrelated note, my mother’s rather good at darts. I was quite shocked when we went to a nearby pub for lunch and she expressed an interest in the game…and then proceeded to thoroughly kick my ass. Who is this woman?

- I also tried to teach her how to play pool. It is now referred to as The Incident We Will Never Speak Of Ever Ever Again. Ever.

- Skiving off work under the pretence of a sick day is MUCH more fun when you’re not actually sick. Who knew? (Well, I suppose everyone except me…must work at being less conscientious and more…useless? I don’t even know the correct terminology).

- My beloved Bombay beckons once again! In eleven days (264 hours, or 15840 minutes, or 950400 seconds) I’ll be back on putrid B’bay soil, inhaling the toxic fumes and possibly contracting cholera from the disease-riddled water. I actually can.not.WAIT.

- The fact that I’m worrying at all about the pollution and water is just proof that I’ve gotten soft living in this place. The thought would never even have entered my head a few years ago, as I chowed down on sev-puri and frankies at Churchgate station, washed down with mineral water of dubious origin (and purity) at a stall that would most likely be gone in a few hours. Ah, youth.

I'm Sorry

2010-10-28T09:09:00.001+04:00

It’s hard to grieve the loss of someone you’ve never met. But there are some people you know you would have loved - simply because they come from, are a part of, people you love.

My 2 month old niece (my cousin V’s daughter) died yesterday morning, and I haven’t been able to reach him on the phone…well, of course, who’s going to bother with something as mundane as the phone at a horrible time like this? And even if I did get through to him, what on earth would I say? Everything is so inadequate, so inconsequential, so bloody futile… the words would just be ridiculous platitudes and would make no difference at all.

Growing up, my cousin V was an endless source of amusement and fascination for me…he’s 14 years older than I am, and, at the age of 5, when I first saw him sitting on my terrace early one morning in Madras, in all his mustachioed-dishevelled-engineering-student glory, I ran screaming back into the house with shrieks of “Mama, Dada, thief! Run!” Poor guy, I must have been the most annoying (and shrill) little tagalong cousin in history. But he gamely attempted to teach me my multiplication tables (using toothpicks, no less), and how to crack a walnut shell between a doorjamb and savour the nut (dusty though it was), and took me for my first bus ride (first memorable public transport experience, in fact), and my first time riding pillion on a bike (I’m pretty sure my eyes were squeezed shut the entire time)…and was, in general, the most patient cousin in existence. And the nicest, really.

So it sucks beyond measure that God would let such a crappy thing happen to such a great guy. No one should ever, ever have to lose a baby…and how much worse when you’ve had a chance to hold her, and love her, and name her, and change her poopy diapers.

I’m so, so sorry, Cousin V.

Why I Love Cassandra Clare - Part 1

2010-10-12T16:06:00.005+04:00

It's all down to lines like this: "Let me give you a piece of advice. The handsome young fellow who’s trying to rescue you from a hideous fate is never wrong. Not even if he says the sky is purple and made of hedgehogs.” ~ William Herondale in Clockwork Angel, Book 1 of the Infernal Devices Trilogy.

I'm only on Page 19 and already I've found 84 things I absolutely adore about this book!

All I Need Is A Stormy Day

2010-10-06T16:08:00.005+04:00

Did anyone else like blowing off school/ college/ work on a particularly grey, blustery, rainy day to stay home with a good spooky book and a mug of hot chocolate (or a can of coke, in my case)? There's NO sensation that compares to being indoors, warm and dry and snug, while a storm rages outside and the sea and sky are pewter meshing into graphite, until they are indistinguishable from each other. And to indulge in a ghost story while the howling wind and rattling windows provide the soundtrack? Bliss. Geez, I sound like I belong in the Addams family. But anyway.

This is where I lived when I was in Bombay:

A gorgeous apartment on the 14th floor with a sea-facing bedroom. It was breathtaking during the monsoons, and if you opened the windows at opposite ends of the flat, you created a wind tunnel with force to rival a jet engine: I loved it! So you can understand my fascination with abandoning everything else when it rained and curling up on the window seat with 'Frankenstein' or 'It' or 'Pet Sematary' or even 'Edgar Allen Poe's Short Stories' or 'Ruskin Bond's Ghost Stories from the Raj'. Where I'm going with all this rambling is that after almost a decade I managed to stumble across a book that invokes the same delicious little tingle down my spine and makes me look over my shoulder for shadows:

Rosemary Clement-Moore's 'The Splendor Falls' is typically categorized under the Young Adult Section, and why not - the protagonist is a teenage girl dealing with loss, love, jealousy, ghosts and magic. But to describe it so is to make it sound trite and predictable - and there one would do it a gross disservice.

In Sylvie Davis, Clement-Moore has managed to create a character not too many may be able to identify with initially - I mean, seriously, a ballet prodigy who has travelled the world and now finds herself unable to dance ever again at the age of 17? Beautiful, wealthy, world-weary at that age? Difficult to relate, and rather difficult to like - sardonic (I often like that, don't get me wrong, but I generally prefer my sarcasm without a side-order of bitchy), self-involved (okay, I can kinda relate there, obviously), self-pitying and singularly uninterested in anything but ballet (something I've never been interested in, having all the grace and elegance of a doped-up hippopotamus). But her connection to her deceased father, her awareness of the shortcomings in men, her love of the earth and life itself and her internal struggle to stay sane (and prove her sanity to herself, if no one else) make her grow on you - like an annoying roommate you start liking after you read her diary and find out she worries about the size of her butt too.

And the town, with its old-world beauty, down-South homey-ness, and busybody neighbours seems like it could be any town in any country, and that's where one starts feeling a pull: the place, the people, the stories that could be in your neighbourhood, your family, even.

But the real beauty in this book lies in the simple decriptions of chilling places and events: life and loss through the Civil War, floods and yellow fever creating a ghost town, an old prison echoing with the remnants and revenants of past cruelties inflicted, a lover being murdered, a scorned woman killing herself and being doomed to repeat the cycle for eternity, a cold broken man murdering a child. And through the centuries, the Davis family homestead where the very walls seem to hold their breath to stop the gasp of fear, and the woods outside pulsing with magic and misfortune and memories of loss. And superimposed over it all, the very believable and identifiable emotions of greed and teenage complacence. The tone and cadence of the story never veer into maudlin or overly dramatic, always striking the right balance of intriguing and downright creepy - enough to keep your attention from wandering without rolling your eyes and thinking "Seriously? We're supposed to buy this crap?"

The only grouse I had while reading this book is that I live in a desert country where rainy days are few and far between - a little grey light and moaning wind would've set the stage perfectly to go with the shivers down my spine.

Things I Have Recently Learnt About Myself: Part 4,782

2010-10-03T13:11:00.003+04:00

- It’s amazing winning a shitload of money during the weekly poker session, but it sucks to take most of it off one of my closest friends.

- It’s gratifying to know my friend hates winning money off of me too. Abby, you’re sweetheart.

- It’s SUCH a turn-off when guys talk about their new Porsche / Ferrari/ Lamborghini/ Any fancy-schmancy car 5 minutes into our first meeting.

- It’s also a turn-off when they refer to said car as ‘baby’. Just massively creepy.

- It’s possible to miss my little brother so much that my heart physically aches. And still possible to remind myself that he’s having the time of his life, so I HAVE to be upbeat instead of mopey when I talk to him. Even if I can’t bring myself to walk into empty room now.

- It would be kinda interesting to have an all-vampire episode of ‘Glee’. And they could cover the songs from the ‘Nosfaratu’ musical, or ‘Lestat’, or even- OOOH, the musical episode of ‘Buffy’. Please, Mr. Producer/ Director/ Writer, hear my plea?

- The thought of a brand-new as-yet-unread book will get me through the toughest, crappiest, most horrible-no-good-very-bad day at work. And if it happens to be the new Charlaine Harris, MaryJanice Davidson, Kim Harrison, Kelley Armstrong or Janet Evanovich? Even better!

- I have fantastically pathetic taste in the men I choose as eye candy. This was brought home to me when I bumped into one piece of candy a few days ago and thought “Ew. On a scale of Cough Drops to Godiva Hazelnut Truffles, he’d be a chocolate laxative pill: ergo, so far below the lowest point on the scale, I don’t know what I was inhaling when I thought he was cute.” If hindsight is 20-20, I have Superman’s X-Ray vision.

- I love saying “Ergo.” Why? Dunno, just do.

- I am ADDICTED to fashion blogs! fatsandchints, highheelconfidential, purplepeeptoes and, of course, fashion bombay. And to supplement my daily fix, I’ve taken to trawling Yahoo’s OMG site for their weigh-in on various celebrities’ outfits at appearances. It’s madness, I tell you! The next thing you know, I’ll be watching Joan Rivers on ‘Fashion Police’. Oy vey.

- I love saying Oy Vey, even though I’m about as far from Jewish as a person can get. Why? Dunno, just do. Must be a hangover from a childhood spent religiously watching ‘The Nanny’.

Confessions

2010-09-19T13:08:00.007+04:00

Growing up, and attempting to be a tomboy (not very successfully, though…how many tomboys had waist-length hair and were scared to climb up to the garage roof?), I’d rather have submitted to Chinese bamboo torture than admit I had the soul of a romantic. Actually, I’d still rather go through that. And ‘soul’ and ‘romantic’ might be pushing it a bit… it’d be more accurate to say I have the reading preferences of a mushbucket.

In what was an extremely rare occasion in my life, a couple of weeks ago I had dinner with 7 women. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had that many female friends in my life. But I digress. During the course of the evening we all ‘fessed up to our guilty pleasures – ‘Gossip Girl’, ‘Glee’ and, of course, Romance Novels. Guilty on all 3 counts for me. I’ll go into my Chuck Bass and Mr. Schu obsession (not together, ew….although, can you imagine Chuck Bass singing? Sacrilege!) another time, but ah, romance novels…

A friend’s mom got me hooked onto them when I was 15 (prior to that I just devoured Sweet Valleys, remember those? Gawd, what with the teachings in those books, it’s a miracle I didn’t turn out to be a sociopath/ kidnapper/ psychotic loon/ boyfriend stealer…oh, wait, nevermind). I was bored out of my skull after the Class 10 board exams in Delhi, and at that age where I wanted to go out and party but wasn’t allowed out past 10 p.m., so I turned my already-voracious reading appetite into something of legendary proportions (out of sheer desperation, I even read cookbooks. But I never tried out the recipes, of course. That would’ve involved people eating my cooking and dying horrible painful deaths). Then Aunty M, ignoring my upturned nose and disdainful expression, lent me The Christmas Special Bonus Edition 3-in-1 Mills & Boon (I kid you not, they actually fit all that in the title page). And that was the beginning of the end for me… forever after I would expect men to have a tough exterior with a soft heart (like baked alaska?), a cleft chin (face ass!), a strong jaw, eyes like melted chocolate/ summer skies/ leaves/ glaciers/ insert-cliché-here. And be at least 6 feet tall (yeah, that hasn’t worked out too well for me in the past. The last guy? An inch shorter than me. Aiyo). Never mind the fact that I hardly had an alabaster brow or a heaving bosom (not at that age, at least).

Anyway, my absolute favourites, without a doubt, were the ones where the protagonists started out positively loathing each other and then, bam! Ended up in love. As a romantically-challenged (read: deprived, stunted, innocent) 15-year-old, I couldn’t quite fathom HOW they got from hate to love, and the whole sexual attraction thing was mystifying in the extreme, but man, it made for entertaining reading! Sometimes I wonder if that basically screwed me up for my early romances, because I have to admit to being attracted to guys I argued with a lot (but I think that had something to do with the fact that they matched wits with me. At least in the past. Nowadays, I just get annoyed). And I expected (and got) a lot of drama in relationships (which is why it’s SO much easier to live the life of a nun now). But the one thing that I’m ashamed to admit prevailed over the years is the dream that there would one day be a man who’d sweep me off my feet, be as besotted with me as I was with him, and we’d live happily ever after. Shocking, I know, since I’ve always stridently proclaimed that the last, absolute LAST thing I wanted or needed in my life was a man. Not that I lied…I’m happier without one, especially of the caliber I generally meet. But oh, to meet one who’s like a romance novel hero? And not gay? I’ll take that!

I read somewhere recently that romance novels have warped women’s ideas of romance and their hopes and expectations of a man. I kinda agree with that, since I now expect all men to be assholes who are secretly good guys. Turns out, I’m only half right.

Here We Go Again

2010-08-24T10:25:00.002+04:00

It’s Raksha Bandhan again, and, although we don’t celebrate it in our family, I’m back to taking stock of all my memories of my baby brother. He will, undoubtedly, roll his eyes in embarrassment at my ooey-gooeyness and tell me to get a grip. These are things I have resolved to do:

- STOP calling him ‘baby’ brother. Well, at least not in front of his friends.
- STOP crying everytime something amazing happens in his life – academic distinction,great A – Level results, being accepted to University.
- I WILL NOT cry when he goes off to college next month.
- I WILL NOT pepper him with a barrage of calls, messages and e-mails, and I will let him settle in and make friends and get a bit of distance, as every teenager should learn to do when they leave home.
- STOP lecturing him on all the possible dangers and risks of being a stranger in a strange land, and instead encourage him to look forward to everything he’s going to experience there.
- STOP looking at his old baby pictures. I have GOT to get with the program…I’m 27, he’s 18 and he’s not going to automatically revert to the adorable 2-year-old in the photo just because I miss carrying him around.
- I WILL NOT go into his room and sit glumly on his bed when he’s away, missing him awfully.
- STOP tearing up everytime I write these mushy posts (it’s the hormones or something, that’s it).
- STOP writing these mushy posts (especially in the office).
- I WILL probably end up breaking each and every one of these resolutions ages before he leaves.

Please, God, if you could reeeeeeeeaalllllyyyy slow down time for the next month, I promise to try and be a better person! Or a less weepy one, anyway. I know my brother would be eternally grateful for that.

Happy Rakhi, baby.

Freeeeeedom!

2010-08-17T13:37:00.001+04:00

Exams are D.O.N.E!! Bring on the clubs and the alcohol and the mindless celebration of the end of a month of slavery and VERY little sleep.

Oh wait, it's Ramadhan. Okay then, celebrate next month. Sigh. At least no classes till October.

That's What Friends Are For....

2010-07-29T13:49:00.000+04:00

I kinda pity N.M....he's a harmless soul really: very into cars, bikes, hiking and busty women. I think he often wonders what crime he committed to be cursed with a best friend like me. Especially since we've started mailing back and forth every day at work, and he's forced to endure (practically daily) tripe like this from me:

I'm really bored and I don't know what to do:
If I get any bored-er I might eat my shoe.
There's piles of paper and work to be done,
But it's almost the weekend; I want to have fun!

Alas, however, I must get home and study:
Exams and assignments are nobody's buddy.
Somebody remind me why I'm doing this degree?
Oh yeah, it's all greed, I wanted more money.

Well, if nothing else, this has helped pass the time:
Boredom is alleviated when I'm penning a rhyme.
To you, my friend, who puts up with my shit:
Thank you for understanding when I'm being a twit :)

You see what I mean? He's a gem, a prince among men with the patience of an angel, a sweet soul doomed to hell purely because of his acquaintance with me, and it's beyond me how he's gone all these years without killing either himself or me!

So here's to you, N.M. I'm safe in the knowledge that you never read my blog (or read anything other than a t-shirt on a particularly buxom woman, actually), so I can be as sappy as I want!

Escapism

2010-07-26T13:28:00.004+04:00

I got back from Bombay over a fortnight ago, but I still can't bring myself to write about my trip. Why? Because it'll mean I'm not there anymore .... leaving this time just felt harder than ever. No particular reason why, except that nowadays I welcome falling asleep at night because I get to delve under the covers and pretend I'm in bed in Bombay, where I belong more than anywhere else on earth. Anyway, to counter the aforementioned bit of doom and gloom, I'm recycling an old piece of crap I wrote, ohhhh, 4 years ago. Ah, for the age of innocence :)

A novice's guide to the game
Checking out a member of the opposite sex is a time-honoured, prolific and surprisingly tricky pastime. Time honoured because, well, please, you so know that your great-great-great-great-great granddaddy stood in those ballrooms and watched the waltzing women, waiting for their voluminous petticoats to flutter and expose a thrilling one inch of ankle. La, what a shocking charlatan that woman is, I saw her ankle. Prolific because, as with a lot of things, you can do it anywhere, anytime, any how, in a variety of ways, and the playing field is huge. They ain't kidding when they say there's a lot of fish in the ocean! And I've always rather wondered who the 'they' is who keep saying things. But I digress. Ah, yes, and surprisingly tricky because you don't want to get caught. Unless, of course, you do want to get caught.

As with every other species, human beings have their hunting grounds, and of course, the predator and the prey. This is probably one hunt, though, where the predator and the prey intermingle fearlessly, and often exchange roles as well. There's a secret (well,okay, not-so-secret) language of nudges and winks and lascivious stares and hisses of "Psst! Hottie at 3 o'clock!" Sometimes, of course, the guerilla warfare can get a little confusing. A friend and I were sitting on a hot summer day at Leopold's and I was delighting in a chilled glass of coke while she was delighting in the scenery. Said scenery was a beautifully proportioned German hunk-extraordinaire, and she was getting her jollies watching the movement of his manly throat as he guzzled beer (sad, I know, but we were socially retarded.) To get my attention, she whispered "Pssst. 4 p.m." I, of course, promptly checked my watch and was rather nonplussed, since it was barely noon. Then, again, she said "No, no, 4 p.m." Ah, that made more sense. Cute guy. But whose 4 p.m.? Hers or mine? Giving up on that, I simply swivelled around in my seat till I was faced with a vision that made me go "Hubba hubba". But quietly, of course. And I made a mental note to learn whose side the time zones actually referred to, because we passed quite a blissful, but confusing, hour exchanging hisses of "3 a.m." and "9 p.m." which always culminated in us just giving up and blatantly looking around till we spotted the quarry. Of course, the highlight was at the end of the hour, when the aforementioned German hottie paid for his beer and, before leaving, strode up to us to whisper in his sexy accent: "It doesn't matter whether it's a.m. or p.m., it's just 4 o'clock. And it's more effective if you speak softly." Really, I've never used the time zone technique again.

Another time I was out with my friends at some pub or the other that seemed to have a wonderful assortment of the most magnificent women. For the guys, of course, it was like a box of chocolates, and for me, well, I was just watching the fun (and letching maybe just very little). As women walked past., the boys would mutter "8" or "9.7" or "6.5", an archaic and offensive rating practice amongst men that is nonetheless highly amusing. More amusing, in fact, when one woman heard my friend T.K. say "5.8" and, in a fit of temper, sloshed her drink all over him and said "In your dreams, I'm definitely a 9". Lesson number 2 is the same as number 1: always keep your voice down.

Now, as I've said before, there's an art to this game. Sometimes you don't want to get caught checking out the goods, and sometimes you do (don't play innocent, we all want to get caught sometimes. Isn't it just totally worth that knowing smirk and twinkle in the eye?) Me, I play it rather safe. Never approach men in pubs, or anywhere, really, but I sure do look. Only once, I remember, at Jazz, did I see someone I might actually want to approach, but of course, propriety (and the fact that I'm a total chickenshit) forced me to play it safe. Lots of heavy eye contact, a little toss of the hair (that famous attention-grabbing move of women the world over), slight pout to the lips (damn, where's the lipgloss when you need it?), a little spark of satisfaction when he looked at our table. The boys were frowning in disapproval (of course, it's alright for them to indulge in such games, but I have to be protected. Bah. Hypocrites.), but they did concur that he was looking in our direction quite a bit. The final triumph,I could see, was about to come about, since he had just risen from his table and was coolly sauntering over. I was getting ready to play it coy, maybe accept a drink and haggle over whether or not I'd give him my phone number, when he stopped in front of my friend N.K. and said: "Do you want to dance?" Lesson 3: acquire gaydar, or gay radar. Really. It helps.

While not every person is a willing participant in the game, it does tend to suck you right in. Pretty soon, you'll find you're even checking out men with your mom. Of course, this is a little...er...what's the word...different. Mom and I were at the CCI once, ostensibly swimming but in actuality checking out the ample goodies on display. I spotted a specimen that redefined the term six pack, and was telling mom in hushed (yes, I had finally learned to whisper) tones just how attractive I found the physique laid out a few chaise lounges away. Flash forward a few days, and we were at the CCI again, meeting mom's friends for lunch. The next thing I know, in walks Mr. Hotbody, and, wonder of wonders, he's the son of one of mom's friends. So we're introduced around, and my mom (dear sweet soul) winks at me and says to the guy "Oh, it's you...my daughter couldn't stop gushing about your...what did you call it, sweetie? Six-pack? Yes, that's right. Wow, you must really work out a lot." Lesson 4: Tell your mother nothing. NOTHING.

With the help of these few lessons, I hope others will be as enlightened as I am to the ways of this sometimes treacherous, often perilous, always entertaining game. All the best to everyone out there - to the men, may you find women whose drinks won't stain when thrown at you. To the women, I hope you're more attractive than your male friends.

My Only Thought

2010-06-30T13:03:00.000+04:00

...Is that this time tomorrow, I’ll be in Bombay!! As N.M. soooo sweetly and soooo graciously said: “No sleep, no peace, no rest, no alone time…no sleep!” I can’t wait!!

Plus, H.T.’s getting married! Chronicles on one of our own getting shackled…er,hitched… to follow (sure to be filled with biased observations due to my enduring Peter Pan complex).

BUT! Bombay!!

I Won, I Won, I Won!!

2010-06-22T13:41:00.005+04:00

...Though not at poker, sadly, where I'm continuing on a month-long losing streak. Sigh. BUT! Even better! I won the competition being held by FriendsOfBooks for Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's new book: Confessions of a Listmaniac. Eeeeeeee. Okay, so I'm being all fan-girl here, but I can't help it... I've followed her blog for..oooh 4 years now, and then loved her first book, You Are Here, and now I'm one of the 3 winners selected to get a signed copy of her new (and undoubtedly hilarious) book. Say it with me: Eeeeeeeeeee!

The competition involved listing the things we love (d) and hate (d) most about being teenagers. After straining to remember that far back, I was able to come up with a few pros and cons of teenage-dom: hardly a set list, but what came back to me with the most startling, laugh-inducing, pain-in-the-chest-in-a-good-nostalgic-way clarity. With a few additions, here's what I wrote:-

LOVED

- The excitement that came with a crush, and the thrill of seeing the object of my affection, however fleetingly!

- Meeting with friends in corridors in the too-short time span between the school buses arriving and the assembly bell, and catching up on what we missed in each others’ lives in the past 16 hours (6 hours, if you count from when we FINALLY got off the phone).

- How EVERYTHING was of vital importance!

- That the little things mattered the most: the biggest concern was whether or not I'd pass maths; the main goal was to ensure my skirt was at JUST the right length to make melook good and not incur the teachers’ wrath; the highlight of the day was when my crush talked to me and didn’t even bat an eye at his friends’ hooting and catcalling.

- The ability to talk on the phone for 5 hours straight and still feel that there was plenty more to be said.

- The single, everlasting moment before my first kiss.

- That "being there for each other” and ”having your back” and ”unswerving support” weren’t just random terms, but actual qualities prevalent in a circle of friends.

- Sleepovers at friends' places and sneaking out for parties - is it just me, or did it make the party SO much more fun knowing you weren't supposed to be there?

HATED

- The double-standard and labeling that was prevalent when it came to romance…no matter how much they did, the boys were studs; no matter how little they did, the girls were sluts.

- Getting my period and having to wear a white uniform in summer…talk about constant fear!

- That popularity mattered so much to some people that they’d treat those who were different (too tall, too thin, too fat, too pimply, too brainy, too poor) with extreme cruelty.

- How easy it was for teachers to judge students only based on marks and not personality, efforts, extra-curriculars…

- The people who'd gossip for the sake of it, with no basis or regard to truth: so at the age of 15 I had a random girl in the school bathroom, who had no clue who I was, telling me of my own purported exploits - boob job, threesome with 2 guys at a party, sleeping with the Head Boy. On the plus side, her face when I introduced myself was PRICELESS! :)

- How emotions were so extreme that a break-up felt like the end of the world (maybe that’s not just a teenage thing, though).

What about you? What did you love and hate most about being a teenager?

I Should Have Saved The Title For This Post…

2010-06-07T13:10:00.001+04:00

… instead of using it here. Ah well, I’m not the weather bureau, and hence couldn’t predict that I’d want to recycle my witticism (scant and obtuse though it may be) for commenting on Cyclone Phet, which I lived through unscathed. Having survived 2 cyclones now with minimal damage (I don’t think a leaky bedroom window and TV transmission disappearing for 2 hours counts for much), I have to say this one was definitely milder than Gonu…rained on and off for a day-and-a-half, infrequent wind gusts, and a death toll in the low (mercifully) double-digits (may they rest in peace).

I think it’s just that all the ongoing construction in this place is disturbing the flow of the wadis (dry river beds) and playing havoc with the natural drainage system of the land. Or could be that before this, the land never saw the need for natural drainage, what with being a desert region and glimpsing rainfall once a year, if that. Whatever it is, the place floods up quicker than a stoppered bath-tub, and all activity virtually ceases, with work shutting down, schools closed and international exams cancelled (CFA – boy, are people unhappy about that!).

How different from Bombay, when, far from shutting down, the city would exult in the torrent! Even then, we’d trudge through to college (yay for living town-side and not in the suburbs), go sit at the CCI or get soaked on Marine Drive (of course, gorging on hot buttered corn or pakoras all the while). None of this stay-home-off-the-streets-avoid-bridges stuff. And really, what’s the point? Two days later, and we’re back to 50-degree scorching heat.

Makes me long for the unrelenting week-long downpour of a good old Bombay monsoon.

Enough With The Waterworks Already

2010-05-27T13:05:00.001+04:00

The moons are perpetually aligned wrong, or something, because whenever there is an important moment in my brother’s life, I’m always PMSing – and therefore terribly prone to blubbering at the drop of a hat. At least last night I wasn’t the only one (blubbering, I mean).

My baby (he hates that) brother graduated from high school last night, and for the first time I understood how the phrase ‘bursting with pride’ came to be coined. From the moment we walked in the gates and introduced ourselves as his family, the staff and other students beamed at us and commended us on the “wonderful man that he is.” My mind boggled, and I swear, the words were on the tip of my tongue – he’s not a man, he’s a little boy! But he didn’t look it last night, in his cap and gown, with his degree in one hand and the prize for ‘Highest Academic Distinction’ in the other.

I know this is like flogging a dead horse, and just re-iterates everything I’ve said here, but I can’t help it. He’s grown up too fast, he can’t be 18 already, he was just heading off to ‘big boy school’ yesterday, just crawling backwards last week! WTF? And in September he’ll be headed off into the wilds of…well, God knows where, but still…away. He’ll be away. From me. Oh crap, let me go get the Kleenex.

Honestly, I don’t know how parents deal with their kids growing up. Kudos to my mom and dad – they’re running through less tissue than I am.

Beautiful Dangerous

2010-05-17T13:38:00.005+04:00

Is it just me, or is Slash & Fergie's "Beautiful Dangerous" the ultimate stripper song? Very 80's nostalgia (G'n'R, of course) or Coyote Ugly-ish. Undeniable gorgeous guitar riffs, though. Of course, that goes without saying when it's Slash. Deep, it ain't. But definitely a fun song!

I don't know who you are now:
Mystery drenches my brain.
I wanna jump deep into your mouth,
Cuz something tell's me it's gonna rain.
.
I hear the drum rolls thumping,
And my heart starts jumping,
And that's when I spit on the floor...
Now my head's exploding,
And your gun is dirty,
So I'm guessing I'm on a roll.
Well it's a fine time,
Looking for a wine time, man,
And you said "baby you ready to play?"
Well come right on this rollercoaster,
Cuz it aint over, it aint over.
.
Now we're on this planet,
I'm in love with all your dangers (dangers)
We can live foreverI can be your favorite angel (angel)
Beautiful dangerous....
.
We acted smooth like rain...
Save all flame that we'll light.
You can be sick, I'll be nasty...
Cuz sometimes it's more fun to fight.
.
I hear the drum rolls thumping,

And my heart starts jumping,

And that's when I spit on the floor...

Now my head's exploding,

And your gun is dirty,

So I'm guessing I'm on a roll.

Well it's a fine time,

Looking for a wine time, man,

And you said "baby you ready to play?"

Well come right on this rollercoaster,

Cuz it aint over, it aint over.

Now we're on this planet,

I'm in love with all your dangers (dangers)

We can live foreverI can be your favorite angel (angel)

Beautiful dangerous....

Would You, Really?

2010-05-09T13:56:00.002+04:00

Want to be immortal, I mean?

This isn't anything to do with my aeons-old vampire fetish, but rather a book R lent me to peruse while I was sick and recuperating at home last week: The Book of Skulls by Robert Silverberg. I'm not a die-hard science fiction enthusiast, but despite being tagged under Sci-Fi Masterworks, I'd classify this book as more occult and mysticism, with a lot of study-of-human-nature thrown in.

The premise is this: 4 boys in their final year of college set out on a cross-country trip to Arizona to locate a sect shrouded in secrecy and mystery: The Brotherhood of the Skulls. According to ancient but reliable texts discovered by one of the boys, the Brotherhood offers the gift of immortality to those who seek it, but with a few catches: those questing immortality must present themselves in groups of 4; they must stay the course of the initiation without informing the outside world; and of the 4 only 2 will survive "for the price of life is always a life". Sinister stuff, no? Half the book is comprised of their journey there, and the thoughts of each one - I loved how the author alternated between each boy and allowed us a detailed (and often disturbing) travel through each one's psyche.

The book had me alternating my views on whom I wanted to live or die, and I think that disturbed me more than anything - playing God even in that small measure, judging and weighing each of those fictional characters' lives and decisions and flaws and failures. Stupid, I know, but the tone of the book is such that it makes you question so many, many things - including yourself. Brilliantly written. Any book that gets me to question beyond who, what, where, when and why deserves all the awards and accolades out there.

The end lived up to my expectations, but all through the book, I kept asking myself: would I? Given the chance, would I WANT immortality? For me, the answer is no: simply because I wouldn't want to live out forever without the people I love by my side. The book (and R) expostulates the myriad possibilities : discovering new things, learning every day, mastering new crafts, greeting the dawn of new centuries - new millennia even! To which my simple answer is: what is the point of all that if you don't have people to share it with you? Give me a few good decades with everyone I love and I'll gladly forego forever.

What about you? What if you could choose to live forever? Would you?

Just Because I Need To Complain....

2010-04-26T13:23:00.001+04:00

...doesn't mean I can't do it in rhyme :)

I'd give all the money I have to just take a nap;
I think I'm coming down with the flu, I feel like crap.
There's rivers of snot pouring out of my nose,
And I feel sick from my head right down to my toes.

Phlegm has clogged up my throat and deepened my voice,
And every cough makes a tremendous thunderous noise.
My trumpet-like sneezes evoke no sympathy, no pity:
They’re so loud they make elephants seem dainty and pretty.

But worst of all is the look on my face:
Part stoner, part loner, part alien from space.
I’m blotchy and red and look like I’m holding in my pee,
Oh this cold really will be the death of poor little me.

Et tu, Shashi Tharoor?

2010-04-18T13:14:00.003+04:00

Honestly, I don't know whether I'm more disappointed that he's been accused of being a crooked politician or an unfaithful man.

Like it wasn't bad enough reading about David Letterman, Tiger Woods, John Edwards, Jesse James, Steven Seagal....

What is wrong with men? Why can't they keep it in their pants??

Apparently I Repel The Undead Too...

2010-04-06T13:07:00.003+04:00

How a conversation would go between my best friend and me if he was a vampire:

Me (terrified): “AAAAAAAaaaaaa……”

Him (holding head in pain): “Stop that screaming! I have super-sensitive hearing as a result of being an undead sex god.”

Me (terror subsiding, replaced by curiosity): “….aaahhhh!!!!....Wait. What does the hearing have to do with being a sex god?”

Him (trying to look superior, but a little uncertain): “UNDEAD sex god. And it’s one of the perks.”

Me (in full-fledged nerd-mode): “How would you even know you’re a sex god? You just came back from the dead an hour ago. Scaring the crap out of me, I might add, since I was mourning your supposed death and whatnot.”

Him (annoyed): “Gee. Thanks. That’s touching. And it’s a given. Vampires have undead sexual magnetism. We HAVE to be sex gods.”

Me (logically): “Uh-huh. Or vampires could just use their hypno-crap to CONVINCE people that they’re sex gods.”

Him (completely abandoning all pretence at logic): “Oh for…! I FEEL sexier!”

Me (moving into super-geek mode): “That’s another thing. Vampires don’t cry. Don’t pee. Don’t poop. Don’t bleed. No bodily functions, basically. So how can they …you know, get it up? To do stuff?”

Him (looking heavenward for patience): “We just can! We don’t ask questions about it!”

Me (skeptical): “Riiiiiight. Oh, wait, so if you do it with a live person, then would that person be a necrophiliac?”

Him (rolling eyes): “That’s not very original, I’m sure others have asked that question.”

Me (not giving up): “Yes, but have they gotten an answer?”

Him (grinning hopefully): “Probably not a verbal one. Maybe a practical demonstration.”

Me (rolling MY eyes): “Hmm. Yeah, that’s not going to work.”

Him (whining): “Not even with the hypno-crap?”

Me (my turn to be annoyed): “I can’t believe you’re dead and still trying get in my pants!”

Him (aggrieved): “It’s UNdead!”

Me (curious again): “And that’s another thing. How come you’re not decomposing? Why aren’t your bits and pieces rotting and falling off?”

Him (horrified): “You keep my bits and pieces out of this! Of course I’m not decomposing, I’m not some common zombie!”

Me (even more curious): “So how come zombies decompose but vampires don’t?”

Him (almost crying with annoyance): “ I DON’T KNOW!! I’ve only been back from the dead for an hour!”

Me (oblivious to his mental anguish): “If a vampire and a zombie had to, you know, do it…would something rot and fall off?”

Him (with a mixture of awe and horror): “It’s amazing that you are even more disgusting than the prospect of drinking human blood.”

Me (blushing): “Awww, you’re sweet.”

So in a fit of boredom, my friend and I were talking about my vampire fixation, and went through this hypothetical scenario. The above conversation is actually ours.

End result, he decided that if he DID come back from the dead as a vampire, he’d kill me just to shut me up. And wouldn’t drink my blood, because he’s pretty sure there’s something seriously wrong with me.

Hmph.

The results of boredom at work

2010-03-29T13:07:00.004+04:00

Oh the pain, oh the woe!
Oh the sprain in my little big toe!
Oh that I must wear such heels!
Oh that style matters more than how it feels!

But truth be told it is my choice:
For sensible shoes are not so nice;
So my shoes are pretty and dainty and jewel laden -
And stab me more than an iron maiden!

Oh that I choose to eschew
Ugly, but comfortable, flat-heeled shoes;
Ah, that beauteous straps and laces adorn
Shoes that are leaving me bleeding and torn.

So my beautiful and deadly stilettos
Are forcing me to walk on my tippy-toes,
And adding to my strained arch’s woes:
So the price of beauty goes.

Alright, so I'll never be Dr. Seuss, but it helped pass the time...well, the 5 minutes it took me to come up with that.

Now I'm bored again!

Today's Morning Routine

2010-03-25T13:14:00.001+04:00

(Slightly, but only slightly, different from most mornings)

Cellphone alarm goes off. Groan. Activate snooze settings for 15 minutes. Bury head under covers.

Alarm goes off. Groan. Snooze for another 15 minutes.

Alarm goes off. Glance at time, shriek at how late it is, scramble out of bed, get tangled in covers and thud to the floor. Every. Damn. Day.

Brush, shower, shampoo, condition. It’s been 3 weeks, so pull out lawn-mower style razor to shave legs and curse hairy South Indian genes inherited from father.

Scramble out of shower, slip on tile floor (at least once a week), unfortunately get glance at self in mirror and further curse South Indian genes for unwanted curves (also known as flab, fat, jelly, blubber) in unattractive places.

Glance at time, shriek again, throw on clothes, forego drying hair, jam on shoes and race down stairs.

Wolf down breakfast (something that used to be skipped earlier, but is now mandatory. Sad…used to save at least 10 minutes before). Notice that long hair has created uncomfortable wet and see-through patches on white shirt. Curse.

Race out of house, hop in car, get stuck in traffic for 20 minutes (despite work being only 10 minutes away), and stop-drop-and-roll out of car when it pulls up in front of office. Very commando-style, kinda cool. Or would be, if my heels didn’t get stuck in my trousers and send me tumbling head-over-ass.

Jam at lift button for few minutes, curse at sloth-like elevator and generally terrify the mild-mannered natives, abandon the foyer area and race up the back stairs.

Clock in with 17 seconds to spare.

Collapse at desk. Only to find computer won’t start. And when it does, the screen’s wonky. And when that’s fixed, the internet won’t work.

What’s the point of waking up everyday??

Bah.

Near-death accidents: 2. Words that would make sailors and truck drivers blush: 8. Bruises on body: 5. Colleagues/clients/IT People/other innocents scared: countless.

And it’s only 10 in the morning.

Material Girl

2010-03-22T13:44:00.006+04:00

I am currently on the ecstatic side of the mood spectrum (which generally means that either my wallet, or someone else's, is now CONSIDERABLY lighter).

That would be due to these gifts/purchases/sheer indulgences:

Strappy silver sinfully sexy 4-inch stiletto heels. Pretty, yes?

Also strappy pink-and-burgundy (they look a LOT better than they sound) stilettos (TRUST me when I say they’re worth the future varicose veins!)

The box set of Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris (the books on which the True Blood series is based…I can’t WAIT to read them all cover to cover)

The Vampyre and Other Tales of the Macabre by John Polidori (the first vampire story ever written! Eeee! Also, bit of trivia: did you know John Polidori was Lord Byron’s personal physician, and based his story on his travels with Byron?)

City of Glass by Cassandra Clare (the final installment of her Mortal Instruments trilogy about the Nephilim…I have actually read this before, in PDF format, but that can’t ever compare to the sheer joy of curling up in bed with a little Three Doors Down playing in the background, chugging Coke and poring over the angsty angelic-demonic goodness that is Jace Wayland, page by page).

Also, a friend (who is now my very best friend in the universe for all eternity, sorry N.M.) got me a six-pack of Thums Up! For the uninitiated, Thums Up is the Indian offshoot of Coke, but slightly less sweet and MUCH fizzier. Also, when I burp, it comes out my nose!

Oh happy happy joy joy! I feel like jumping up and kicking my heels in the air! But my stilettos don’t permit that…

For Those of You Out There

2010-02-25T13:44:00.007+04:00

... who need inspiration. Or a wake-up call.

In my circle of acquaintances, there is:

- A woman frustrated with her dead-end job in a male-dominated office in a male-dominated country.

- A woman steadily climbing the corporate ladder, respected and liked, and grateful to the predecessors who have paved the way for her.

- A woman whose husband has cheated on her. They're trying, everyday, to rebuild what once was, but it's a steep uphill climb.

- A woman whose husband cheated on her after 30 years of marriage. She unceremoniously threw him out, took hold of the reins of her family and her life, and is the happiest she's been in the past 3 decades.

- A woman who was accosted by a man in broad daylight on a busy street in a big city. People came to her aid as he tried to stuff her into a waiting van, but she still fears for the day when there will be no one around to hear her scream.

- A woman who has to ask her husband before spending a single cent of the money he earns. Resentful, she wishes she had gone back to work after the baby, had studied further, had chosen another life for herself.

- A woman who did choose another life for herself. And who glories in every pair of shoes or piece of jewellery she buys with her own hard-earned money.

- A woman who was forced to have an abortion 3 years ago. She still thinks about the baby, and what she would have named her, and what dress she would have worn on her 3rd birthday.

- A woman who wants a baby so badly, she's beginning to resent the woman who had the abortion, for abandoning something so precious, so desired.

- A woman who is in love.

- A woman who thinks she might have given up on love.

- A woman whose husband has never raised a hand to her, but beats her down every day with words, with gestures, with eye-rolls, with blatant disregard.

- A woman whose boyfriend adores her, wants to marry her, and can actually picture no greater bliss than spending the rest of his life with her.

- A woman who is happy and content.

- A woman who cannot remember the last time the word 'happy' crossed her mind, let alone her lips.

But every single one of them hopes. For more, for better, for themselves and for those around them.

When I read about this:

... I couldn't help but take the opportunity to tell (however briefly and however anonymously) the stories of these amazing women's lives.

Because, with everything they go through and everything they face, they ARE amazing, simply for getting up in the morning and putting on a smile for the world.

And I want to tag Nusy, Standy and JSO: so they can tell their own stories.

I Get By With A Lil' Help From My Friends...

2010-02-21T13:12:00.001+04:00

There was a time in my life (mid-teens) when lines were clearly drawn, boundaries devoutly demarcated: friends are friends, best friends are best friends, potential love interests are fleeting, and NEVER the twain shall meet. These distinctions were important back then, because all my best friends were hormonal teenage boys who had an alarming propensity to suddenly develop this mysterious thing called “feelings” for me. I eventually worked out that these “feelings” coincided with me hitting puberty and developing a decent-sized rack, so I managed to maintain a healthy sense of skepticism and didn’t let the attention go to my head (much).

Around the time I hit 20, I had a stellar group of friends and we were all quite grounded in our love for each other – it was there, it was solid, it was non-negotiable (much to the chagrin of several over-possessive girlfriends and boyfriends who came and went). If there was a time when any of us within the group suspected we might be developing feelings for each other (and you throw a group of 20-somethings together, it’s kinda inevitable), we dealt with it with a minimum of fuss and drama – things NEVER worked out (sad, but true), so we quietly went back to being best friends and promptly resumed the ridiculously comfortable camaraderie we had always shared. I don’t know whether this was a sign of the maturity we possessed (I SERIOUSLY doubt it) or simply the fact that it was ingrained in our psyches that no relationship (or lack thereof) could ever possibly be as satisfying as the friendship we shared.

I often wonder why things didn’t go better. There have been several men and women in the group who have, on occasion, suddenly seemed to wake up to the fact that maybe they felt more than just friendship. But despite knowing each other for eons, knowing every thought and feeling and PMS-induced moodswing, things would invariably go awry. When you’ve known someone for years and years, does that make it easier or more difficult to fall in love with them? I wonder if getting into a relationship when you’ve already seen the frog’s warts is a bad idea…those relationships where you keep discovering things about each other seem to work out better than the ones where you’ve seen each other in tattered boxers, or without make-up, or witnessed each others’ severe morning breath on overnight trips to Pune and Goa.

It’s been about a decade now, and all of us are in our mid-to-late 20s, scattered across the globe; some dating, some engaged, some blissfully single and some scarred by past relationships. Distance and jobs and different time zones make it difficult for us to talk everyday, but we’re all so secure in the knowledge that we love each other, it doesn’t matter. Boyfriends and girlfriends will come and go, but we’ve all stood the test of time, and bad hair days, and acne, and psychotic significant others. The days of wondering ‘what if’ about each other are over, because we’ve settled into our comfortable grooves…furniture, if you will…I’m the bean bag in front of the tv, N.M. is the sofa in the corner, D.S. is the recliner over there…etc. We’ve confidently declared that we’re all pooling in our money to buy a huge house so we can all move in together – something big enough to give each of us our own space, but small enough to keep us close together. And, of course, we’ll all be going into the same retirement home in our 80s, where we’ll terrorize the staff by having wheelchair races in the corridors.

Childish fantasy? Sure. Unrealistic? Maybe. Naïve? Definitely.

But it keeps us going. It’s our version of happily ever after.

Another V-Day Goes By...

2010-02-16T20:53:00.002+04:00

…And it’s celebrated, if not quite in B’bay style, then similarly enough: surrounded by good friends, with good conversation and most importantly, good food (sadly, terrible music, though)! The 14th saw my friends here (most of whom are either in long-distance relationships, like Abby, or away from significant others on the day, like NV and RV) get together at first a coffee shop and then a local sheesha joint to band together for a good ol’ gossip session over kebabs, burgers, pasta and sinfully gooey chocolate cake.

We’re hardly the most cerebral or sentimental bunch of 20-somethings, so I wonder if it’s the day itself that got us talking about relationships: past, present and yet-to-be-explored; marriage: NV just got engaged and the rest of us solemnly swore not to think about it for another decade; children: how many we want, whether we’ll adopt, where we’d like to bring them up. So different from the normal who-got-drunk-and-did-what-with-whom-last-weekend boredom. Not that I’m saying this should become a staple fixture in our conversations, but it made for a great change of pace.

Sometimes I look around and wonder if we’re waking up to the world more as we move further into our 20s, or actually becoming more and more self-involved. Is it the place we live in and the people we surround ourselves with that shape us (however temporarily), or is it our efforts to break away from these norms and establish some sense of individuality? Because to be honest, individuality seems to be in short supply around here.. And if we’re just sheep following the rest of the herd, what does that say about us and who we’re becoming? And what if the shepherd’s incompetent or misguided or just leading the herd to slaughter?

Argh, nevermind. I think this is just my brain’s way of telling me that relationships and personality traits are best not contemplated when I’m sleep-and-Coke-deprived.

Words To Live By...

2010-02-07T13:29:00.007+04:00

I had the profound privilege and pleasure of sitting in on a talk given by Dr. Shashi Tharoor, Minister of State for External Affairs of India, the day before yesterday (or, as he put it, a bilateral meeting of minds) and found myself utterly fascinated by how he took the everyday, ordinary, even mundane facts around us and made everyone say "Oh...yeah...didn't see it that way. Huh. Wow."

Case in point being when a member of the audience asked him how he felt about being a "misfit in the Indian political scene" and whether that made him a "target of the press' taunts and his seniors' ridicule" his response was affable and disingenuous: "I find myself objecting not to the tone of the question, but to the single word 'misfit', which implies that there is only ever one fit for everything." It's never just about square pegs and round holes, but learning to accommodate, to pare rough edges, to widen smaller niches. I love that this is something EVERYONE knows, but it takes this man to say it for people in the audience to sit up, look around at their neighbours and say "Hmmm. Yes."

His following words were even better. "As for inviting taunts or ridicule, well, something new always does, doesn't it? There will always be minds that are sluggish to accept change. And as I often ask the veteran reporters who bombard me with these questions: 'Well, how would you feel if some new reporter came in and took the job you felt you deserved, along with all the accolades and attention?'"

Is it weird to have a fan-girl crush on a politician?

Finally!

2010-02-01T13:43:00.001+04:00

I am a woman of means again! Not substantial means, mind you, and I'm not going to be gifting my friends Lamborghinis or Maseratis anytime soon (got that, N.M.?), but at LAST I got my work visa sorted out and started working!

Turns out finance companies don't deal with numbers any less than banks do...which is a fairly obvious conclusion. I'm so in the wrong line of work! Is it too late to erase the last few years of my life and sign on for an English or History major instead? I'm sure librarians get paid enough to keep them in a steady supply of Coke and strappy-little-shoes and Lindt Hazelnut chocolates, right? And really, what more does a woman need?

Although, to be honest, it might be more sensible to knock off the Coke and the chocolates - I've been going to the gym religiously for the past month and I've managed to PUT ON 2 kilos. The trainers are all mystified. The little fridge by my bed (which holds my secret stash of After-Eights, Toblerones and Patchis) explains it all, though... Then again, as my friends are always quick to point out: if I was more sensible, I wouldn't be me.

I keep trying to remind myself that I love them.

But sometimes it's hard.

"Days Go By...

2010-01-10T23:45:00.002+04:00

...And still I think of you." Okay, that's how the 'Dirty Vegas' song goes, at any rate...not entirely apropos of my thoughts right now, but I find I always have to complete the lyric. And now the song's going to be stuck in my head for the next 3 days. At least it's not Britney Spears. Argh.

I can't believe it's 2010. Over a decade of the new millennium is gone. And I'm OLD. When did this happen?? I get tired by 1 a.m., I can't drink as much as I used to (well, I only really started drinking a couple of years ago, but nevermind), I can't dance for four hours straight in four-inch stilettoes, I get exhausted after an hour-long session at the gym (but at least I'm going!) and want to do nothing but curl up in bed for the rest of the evening, and my memory is most definitely going. Plus, horror of horrors, I've become one of those crabby OLD people who keep complaining, as evinced by this entire paragraph.

Right, no more. I'm counting my blessings as of now, which, when you think about it, is also something that OLD people do...but the nice ones, so that's alright :)

- My health, which is thankfully back on track after what seems like forever. I'm still susceptible to every bug out there, and my constantly runny nose makes the Niagara Falls seem like a pesky leaky faucet, but hey, no hospitals!

- My family, who are kick-ass and quirky and fun and supportive and everything, literally everything, to me. Especially my mom, who hasn't murdered me yet.

- My B'bay friends, who like me despite the 15 extra kilos, and seem to be handling growing old a lot better than I am! Maybe because they're all guys and don't obsess about crow's feet and laugh lines as much. Or maybe they hide it really well...

- My friends in this part of the world, who are the most entertaining people I've had the fortune to meet (although some of them are definitely the most annoying, obnoxious, irritating brats I've had the misfortune to meet...well, really only D). And NV and RV, whom I meet once or twice a year, but who make me believe that there really are sensible, fun, intelligent women out there who know their own minds and aren't just...sheep. And P and T, who make me feel like I would've liked a couple of little sisters. And K, who was by far the most sane person around for the last few weeks...despite his sheesha obsession.

- My local friends, who are loud and fun and sweet beyond belief...how amazing are you guys, Queen and Standy? Give yourselves a hand!

- My sanity, which is sometimes questionable, often shaky, but always present. At least in comparison to a lot of people I've met recently.

- My life, which, when reading over the last few points, really IS something to be grateful for.

Hence, no more complaining.

For now :)

In 2010 I Resolve To...

2009-12-31T18:17:00.001+04:00

... Hit the gym everyday. Or at least thrice a week. Or at least enough to shed the sackful of blubber I managed to put on during my recent B'bay trip.

... Finally start on a damn Masters' Degree. GMAT - Check. IELTS - Check. So, London here I come...if you'll have me.

... Stay away from the drama. My little corner of the Middle East seems to be aspiring to be the next "One Tree Hill" or "The Bold and The Beautiful". Or, as one of my friends so succinctly put it - "It's The Hills, with ugly people." Heh. So, steer FAR away from arguing couples, couples-in-secret, cheating couples, airheaded women, psychotic women and chronic pull-a-move-but-then-blame-it-on-the-alcohol drunkards. That leaves me with about 3 friends.

... Attend as many friends' weddings as I can. After missing out on ohhhh 30-odd weddings in 2009, I'm pretty sure my friends will shift from mere verbal abuse to proper shoe-throwing if I miss anymore of their nuptials.

... And not grit my teeth when asked about my marriage plans. Which are, and always will be non-existent. It's here in writing!

... Call my B'bay friends more often. Because my recent trip just made me realize that not having them around everyday is a severe detriment to my sanity. And, as NM says, my waistline too. Yeah, I love the bastard.

... Blog more. Because there's always so much to say.

... Bitch less. But then that sort of negates the resolution to blog more.

... Hit the gym. I'm so serious about this, I'm writing it twice. I WILL STICK TO THIS ONE. I hope.

...Get my life in order. How's that for ambitious?

Happy New Year in advance, everyone! Happy partying, and I'll see you on the flipside :)

Yeah, Who's The Terrorist?

2009-11-19T20:41:00.009+04:00

Thesaurus.com states that one of the synonyms for the word "terrorist" is "thug." Although far too mild for my normally profane vocabulary, I can't think of a more apt word for, well, several Indian politicians when one sees what's been happening there:

- MNS goons slapping a member of the Maharashtra Assembly for taking the oath in Hindi instead of Mara thi

Raj Thackeray seems to be delighting in the crop of moronic Frankenstein monsters his 'Maratha Pride' tirades are generating, since he's positively cackling with glee that his political party (which will soon be along the lines of the SS, if it isn't already) is getting away with slapping a respected member of the legislative assembly for swearing in in a language other than Marathi. Why not just convert all schools to Marathi medium, have the banks conduct business in Marathi, do away with Bollywood and focus only on Marathi cinema?? (Does that have a name? Mollywood?) Let's see how well Bombay's economy does then.

- MNS warns of violence if non-Maharashtrians sit for SBI clerical exam

No, really. The State Bank of India, the largest bank in India with almost 12,000 branches, is going to take orders from a trumped-up, obviously bored, probably-never-been-laid jobless little nobody on whom they should permit to sit for their own internal recruitment exams? Really? Hell, why not say that no non-Maharashtrians can sit for the CAT exam in Bombay? Why not tell IIT-Powaii that they can only admit Maharashtrians into their hallowed halls? Because that WILL be next.

The same threat was issued in to candidates appearing for the Railway Recruitment Board exams in Bombay, and this time it was carried out...non-Maharashtrian candidates were dragged out of the centres and assaulted. Please, let's just start installing gas chambers in convenient locations around Bombay. That might be easier.

- MNS objec ts to Karan Johar's use of the word "Bombay" in his film

Shock, horror, dismay! An actor used the dreaded B-word (which will soon be as feared as the name Voldemort in the Harry Potter books) instead of the MNS-approved (more like enforced) Mumbai, and the director is threatened with "remedial action" (which, let's face it folks, is their delightful euphemism for violence) if it isn't rectified in 2 days. Obviously these are people with way too much testosterone, way too little brains and no gainful employment, if THAT'S what they choose to nitpick over.

- Shiv Sena objects to Kareena Kapoor's bare back in "Kurbaan" poster

Raj Thackeray's uncle's political party, the Shiv Sena, threatened (see a pattern here) to stall screenings of the much-anticipated movie as they deemed the poster "vulgar" and "un-Indian". Protesters actually marched to the actress' house to present her with a sari to cover up. Hypocrisy at it's best...let's cover up anything remotely sensual or connected to sex...hmmm, a country with a population of over 1 billion, and they'd like us to think ALL of that was achieved via immaculate conception??

- Bal Thackeray's objection to Sachin Tendulkar's "cheeky" comment

So the great batsman of India, on completing 20 years in the game, states that he's "an Indian first and a Maharashtrian second" and all hell breaks loose. Shiv Sena head honcho Bal Thackeray is all over him like slime on a slug about his comment. Mercifully, it appears the old dingbat has bitten off more than he can chew this time, and he's had to lie low to avoid the backlash from several groups and individuals (both Maharashtrian and non-Maharashtrian) following his bizarre combative statements to one of the nation's most beloved sportsmen.

- Jessica Lall's murderer gets parole, is seen in nightclub

Manu Sharma, for those not in the know, had been awarded a life sentence for murdering model/waitress Jessica Lall in a New Delhi nightclub in 1999 (shot her at point blank because she refused to serve him a drink after the bar had closed), and his parole plea was supposedly rejected by the Supreme Court in 2008. However, Chief Minister Sheila Dixit is defending his parole, although keeping suspiciously mum on the circumstances surrounding its apparent approval. Some politicians may like to say "well, he was caught and he's back in jail now, so the argument is moot" but I'll say it bloody well isn't when murderous rich kids can buy day passes out of prison to slurp down a few drinks with buddies.

R and I have several conversations (he calls them discussions, I call them arguments) where he slags off on various things in India, and I jump to its defence (especially if it concerns Bombay) because, whatever it is, it's home. But instances like the ones above make me lose all hope for any future India might have.

Ah, Screw It

2009-10-21T09:44:00.011+04:00

So I'm abandoning any grandiose plans I had to blog a rant about Raj Thackeray and his MNS goons and how they're going about systematically trying to ruin B'bay. Partly because honestly, I'm not the most political-minded person around, and I'd hate to get a lot of facts wrong. And mostly because I can't work up enough of a rage right now. Perhaps if I come across another arrogant-as-shit interview of his, the ire will rise and I'll quickly jot down every slow, painful way in which I'd like to see him tortured :) Oh, did you know his website proclaims him the 'King of Mumbai'? I kid you not, that's actually the slogan there. I'll pause for a moment to allow you to laugh derisively at the sheer wrongness of that.

Meanwhile, mid-unemployment laziness is getting to me. It's all very well to go for interviews and doctor's appointments, but at the end of the day, I'm left feeling like I haven't really accomplished anything. The boredom is crippling, CRIPPLING I tell you. I've become addicted to Facebook Scramble (sort of like Boggle) and apparently I'm 3rd amongst my friends, which is unacceptable, so of course I'll be playing till I'm top dog! Not to mention I've severely depleted my savings by nearly cleaning out the bookshelves of the local Borders...but I'm quite pleased with my finds:

1. Rosemary Clement-Moore

Author of the Maggie Quinn: Girl vs Evil books. Very YA, of course, and something I should've been reading when I was 16, but I've never let that stop me! Kick-ass female protagonist - something I love in any genre, fast paced witty dialogue, great supporting characters, and demons! What's not to love?

I picked up the first of her novels - Prom Dates from Hell (yes, yes, it does sound a little too young for me) and was thoroughly entertained from start to finish..so much so that I practically pitched a fit when I found out Borders didn't stock the follow-up, Hell Week. But I found a very helpful site to download it from, so all is right with the world again :)

2. Kelley Armstrong

She writes the extremely popular 'Otherworld' series, dealing with everything that I love in fiction - ghosts, vampires, werewolves, witches and sorcerers. It's amazing that I haven't discovered her work before now, but I rectified that by picking up the entire lot of her books, from 'Bitten' to the most recent one that I could find, 'Living With The Dead'. Unfortunately, her latest work, 'Frostbitten', isn't on the stands here yet.

Branching off from the Otherworld, but still in keeping with the supernatural theme, is her 'Darkest Powers' trilogy, which is again more YA but as usual with the very relatable (um, unless you count being able to raise the dead), very strong female lead. Only two of the three books have been released thus far, but I'm looking forward to the third one with an eagerness that all too clearly shows I have no life!

3. Kim Harriso n

Famous for the Rachel Morgan series, which, most lamentably, is not available here. I did however manage to pick up her first foray into YA literature, 'Once Dead, Twice Shy' and found it delved into the world of a supernatural race previously unexplored by me - the Nephilim, or angels. So we start with the premise that all angels actually act as reapers (or soul-gatherers) for their respective bosses (either the Lord or the Devil) and throw in one very human girl caught in the middle - it makes for a very different, very enjoyable read.

4. Buffy and Angel books!

Look what I found!

....any many many more! These should be enough to tide me over until the next bout of reruns! Excuse me while I do a little happy dance!

...Actually, with all this available to me, why the hell am I bored?

Apparently I'm A Shameless Praise-Whore...

2009-10-05T20:41:00.001+04:00

...since all it took was a few complimentary words from Abby to get me back to my neglected blog after almost a month. Shallowness, thy name is Namrata.

This recuperation business is for the birds, I can vouch for that...sitting at home twiddling my thumbs and going "la la la la la-di-da" is most definitely not for me. And now that I'm unemployed, there's even less to do! About the unemployment - the governing bank authority here has deemed that the banks in this country have not been giving enough opportunities to the local population, so to build up the levels of local people (the ratio has to be 90% locals, 10% expats), the banks have had to cut short the contracts of expatriate employees. Guess who that means? (Here, envision me taking a bow and then shooting myself in the head). However, the monetary compensation was well worth it, the recommendation letters are superb (they should be, since I supplied all the complimentary adjectives myself...refer to title of blog-post), and I have a slew of interviews lined up for the coming week. So really, I'm complaining for the sake of complaining. Good at it, aren't I?

Honestly, though, it's REALLY boring being at home when everyone else is at work! My mom's always said I had too much energy and too little sense to enjoy a well-deserved holiday (and I would take offence to that, but sadly it's true)...so of course I've been driving her nuts everyday by waking up and saying "What are we doing today? Huh huh huh? Where do we go? What do we do? Tell me tell me tell me!" It's only a matter of time before the poor woman cracks and murders me. She staged an act of mini-vengeance today, though, by taking me to the fish market. May I just say, ugh? Smart lady, that.

Until something exciting happens, I guess I'm just going to have to be content with watching TV and hurling shoes at it when Raj Thackeray's interviews come on. More on that turd and how he's ruining my beloved Bombay in the next post.

Whew!

2009-09-13T18:19:00.005+04:00

Final check-up with the doctor today, whereupon it was deemed that I've made a full and final, if miraculously quick, recovery. He pronounced himself reasonably baffled by the fact that it's taken my lungs 2 weeks to clear, when it takes healthier people about 6 weeks, apparently. Me? I'm not questioning why or how, I'm just grateful that I can get back to normal life! Bring on the parties! Well, okay, after Ramadan, since all the clubs will open only post-Eid.

Although I have to admit, it's just a little bone-chillingly terrifying to have an esteemed doctor tell you, and I quote: "I was worried about you when we first admitted you...we didn't think you were going to make it. We rated your survival chances quite low, actually." Yeah, this basically echoed what the head nurse told me when I was leaving the hospital (to which my response was stupefied, silent blinking), but still - it isn't less scary the second time around.

Typical me, though. Figures I'd have a near-death experience and be too spaced out to realize it.

But! I can drink Coke again! Not 6 cans a day, as per the norm, but still! Coke!

In the immortal words of Ren and Stimpy: Happy, happy, joy, joy!

Home Again

2009-09-02T11:25:00.008+04:00

There's something about being in your 20s that makes you think you're invincible. Long illnesses, long hospital stays, even longer recovery periods? That's something that happens to other people, the poor souls. Not to you. Just three weekends ago you were dancing till 4 a.m. with your friends, what could possibly happen to you now?

Quite a lot, it turns out. So it started out as a simple fever and cough (and tonnes of swine flu jokes, haha) which should have been my usual once-a-year brush with illness that lasted 2 days, as per the norm. But 2 days turned into 4, and the doctors amended their diagnosis to tonsilitis...then after 6 days that changed to the flu...and after 8 days they stood behind their desks with their masks firmly in place (I kid you not), recommending I go to the Ministry of Health and get tested for the H1N1 virus that seems to be rampant over here. So off I trotted (well, not really trotted - after 8 days of 103 degree temperature, I could just about manage a crawl) to the Ministry, where I was perplexingly told that I didn't meet all the criteria for swine flu, but to be on the safe side they were prescribing Tamiflu for 10 days anyway. Oooookay. Still no clue what I had. Then one merciful doctor took pity on me and suggested I go to a private hospital and get a chest x-ray done.

Hallelujah! Result! Severe bilateral pneumonia (in English = one entire lung filled with fluid and the the other one about 30% affected = I'm screwed = that prolonged hospital stay I mentioned above). So, I faced my first ever hospital stay (as I said, I've always been reasonably healthy, and reasonably smug about it too) with mild curiosity (too damn tired to muster up anything else) and a strong determination that I WOULD NOT USE A BEDPAN. Oh, they tried, believe me, they tried. But I stood firm. As long as I could walk (barely) and there was breath in my body (from 70% of one lung) I would go to the bathroom on my own, damnit! I won. But they got their revenge - intraveinous antibiotics and saline drips and my apparently "feeble" veins that required a new hole to be poked in my arms every day - I swear, it's cured me of ever wanting a tattoo. In fact, I think I'll be happy if I never even see another sewing needle again.

All jokes aside, it was scary. But 8 days in there, and I'm back home (and NEVER have I appreciated my own bed and home food so much!) and eternally grateful to all the nurses who checked up on me every hour and came to trade jokes and life stories and show me pictures of their kids back home and complain about various husbands and boyfriends (how? How do I end up being Agony Aunt even in the hospital when I can barely talk?). And my GOD I'm grateful for my folks, who stood by me on the critical bedpan issue and hauled me out of bed to the bathroom, saline drip and all, when I needed to go. Not to mention played endless rounds of cards with me.

On the plus side - the hospital food was surprisingly awesome. And I taught mom and dad how to play poker!

Downside - I have to give up on Coke. Or at least scale back. Sigh.

But I'm home!! And recovering!!

Go Joe!

2009-08-12T08:41:00.008+04:00

I'm in love:

That would be one of the stars of G.I. Joe - Channing Tatum. Sorta rhymes with "the man is yum." Definitely going on my list of favourites...in fact, is in serious danger of overthrowing my beloved Spike. But that just might be because I like the way he holds his gun. Heh.

So I've actually seen the movie twice, and it's undoubtedly awesome in the leave-your-brain-behind-oooh-look-at-the-pretty-pictures-and-hey-car-go-boom way, and MY GOD the special effects are mind-blowing; but as someone who religiously watched the Saturday morning line-up way back when (G.I. Joe was sandwiched between Small Wonder and Biker Mice from Mars, remember?), I was a little disappointed at the changes in the story. I mean, Duke and Baronness? Really? 'Cuz to me that's sacrilegous! And Scarlett and Ripcord, when Duke was right there?? Nonononono unacceptable! And they killed off Cover Girl! And WHERE are Lady Jaye and Flint? And I dunno...I'm a little on the fence about Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Cobra Commander:

Yeah, I'm not really seeing it...he did a good job, but for me he's always going to be the horny, lovable doof in "3rd Rock From The Sun."

I swear, there better be some MAJOR follow-through on the sequel.

Actually, as long at they have more of gun-toting Channing Tatum/Duke (and a couple more shirtless scenes thrown in), I'll just stop grumbling and drool in peace.

Continuing Work In Progress

2009-08-10T12:29:00.003+04:00

Unfortunately, D.S. and I didn't get to go to B'bay and work on our masterpiece together, and now she's in Paris (and man, I miss having her on the same continent), so the rest of this is continued with inputs from R. He read the first post here, and shook his head sorrowfully till I was afraid it would fall off. "I can't believe you've got so much negative stuff to say about men when ALL your friends are men! Surely you've met a few good ones along the way!" Cue much silence from me and glaring from him. So, at his behest, I'm updating on the different types of men found in nature (and in shady clubs), and I'm including a couple more nice guys (endangered species must always be publicized to highlight their plight, after all).

9. The Innocent Good Guy

This sub-category of male is utterly unaware of the devastating effect he has on the female of the species, and that makes him all the more attractive. He's charming without trying, sweet without being saccharine, genuinely interested in what a woman has to say without resorting to picturing her naked, and is patient without the aid of heavy-duty drugs.

Unfortunately, I rather suspect he may be a figment of my imagination. Or gay.

10. The Decent Guy

This is the guy who's mindful of what he says and how he acts around women: he won't use profanity around her, stands when she enters a room, opens restaurant and car doors for her, makes sure she's always home at an appropriate hour and is very very polite.

But, twisted as both D.S. and I are, this generally adds up to: "Yawn. Blah. Yawwwn" for us. Years of being around beer-guzzling, alphabet-belching, ball-scratching cavemen has obviously had a slightly detrimental effect on us.

11. The Knight In Shining Armour

I'm a little on the fence about this type of male: yes, he specializes in helping klutzy damsels in distress out (and God knows, klutzy is my middle name), but the basic sexist overtones always make my hackles rise. I honestly think in this day and age we don’t need a man to change a punctured tyre or tell a sleazeball in a club to take a hike. Okay, I’ll concede that when it comes to physical prowess, it may make sense to have one of these around (should a situation get ugly), but otherwise I just can’t abide by the type of man who feels a need to protect and shelter and coddle the "little woman" and treat her like fine china.

12. The Manipulative Asswipe

Extremely dangerous, this sub-species; to be avoided at all cost, and if one is too late in recognizing him, badness may ensue. Here is a man who will wheedle his way into your time, your life and your heart - and pretty much end up ruining them all. Here is a man who will cheat on you, but make you feel like dirt for doubting him (before he's caught. After he's caught, he'll find a way to blame it on you). Here is a man who'll slowly, subtly, slyly make sure you've alienated all your friends and fought with your family and you don't even realize (till it's too late) that all you've got left is him. And he turns out not to be worth it.

D.S. and I are well acquainted with this type. We hold them personally responsible for turning us into the cynics we are now. And sort of grudgingly thank them for opening our eyes.

13. The Sulker

Can also be known as The Spoiled Brat. Was obviously Momma's Little Precious who got his own way all the time, and thinks this molly-coddling is going to carry over into his adult life with all his relationships. Wake up, boy: we're not your mama, we're NOT going to pick up your socks, cook you french toast, make your bed and wash your underwear. You're obviously looking for a maid, not a girlfriend. We're NOT going to be co-erced into sex, blowjobs and handjobs when we don't want to; and we're not going to wear a trashy dress and let your boss/rich uncle/prosepctive client ogle and grope us. You’re obviously looking for a hooker, not the love of your life.

And look at us: do we look impressed by that pout you've got going on? No. That's right, you just go ahead and look sullen and surly and turn your back on us. That'll make us change our minds. Suuuure.

14. The Confused Idiot

This type of man is as much a danger to himself as he is to women - he doesn’t know WHAT he wants. He wants a fling - oh no, wait, he wants a girlfriend - no wait, a wife - no, wait, he's not ready for that commitment and he may be developing feelings for your best friend who smiled at him the other day - actually he may want to switch jobs and that's got his head in a muddle and OF COURSE he loves you; but, wait, that chick in the copy room sort of brushed up against him and while he would NEVER cheat on you, the temptation was there so maybe he's not ready…

Bah. Who needs all that? Just leave him alone, he'll end up killing himself. At least if you're not dating him, you won't have to clean up the mess.

15. The Possessive Jerk

He hates that you hang around with boys all the time; is suspicious of every friendly hug and innocent peck on the cheek; starts fights everytime you want to hang out with the guys and calls/messages approximately every 3 minutes when you’re out with them. Is also capable of being a hypocrite, as he will see nothing wrong in spending quality time with his female friends. Confront him on this, and he'll offer such excuses as: "It's a man thing" or "It's the caveman in me" or, the lowest blow of all: "I just love you so much, I can't bear to think of losing you." Don’t fall for it. He's just a Manipulative Asswipe in the making.

16. The Stoner

With this type of spaced-out man, you will always be ignored for the joint or the bong or the syringe; and the person he will be happiest to see is his dealer. Never date a guy who's more into the wacky tobacky or the happy pill than he is into you. Your ego will NOT be able to handle being second fiddle to crushed, dried leaves.

Off the top of my head I could come up with a dozen more categories, but in all fairness I would like to get out there and see if there more nice guys I could include in the line-up :)

Warning: Sappy Post Ahead

2009-08-05T09:00:00.003+04:00

I've never really celebrated Raksha Bandhan (for the uninformed and the non-Indians: a Hindu festival celebrating the bond between brothers and sisters) with my brother Mahesh… my family isn't given to really celebrating a lot of religious/symbolic occassions, which has always suited me just fine! But every year, I like to take stock of my memories relating to my baby brother, and as much as I know he rolls his eyes and sighs and huffs, he enjoys it too :)

- I remember being 8 years old and having my parents tell me that we were going to have a baby in the house soon. I also remember asking if I could have a terrier puppy instead.

- I remember telling my friends about it, and saying I wanted a little brother. I also remember their sage advice at the age of 8: God works in mysterious ways, so ask for a sister, and He'll give you a brother.

- I remember Dad collecting me from Smallie's house after school and taking me to hospital to see Mom and then you: scrawny, yet bigger than all the other babies; squinting in the glare of the hospital lights and so impossibly adorable that it hurt my chest to look at you.

- I remember sneaking into Mom and Dad's room every night to look in at you and make sure you were still breathing. Of course, this turned out not to be such a good idea when I had chicken pox and passed it on to you at the tender age of 2 months!

- I remember how you'd only crawl backwards; run full tilt but never walk; eat only chicken-stew and rice till you were 6; fight with me only about what to watch on TV and who got the last can of Coke (the parents got us our own TVs, but there's STILL never enough Coke!); come to me with your homework and report cards before going to Mom; ask me about friends and boyfriends but remain unfazed when I teased you…the good, calm, quiet boy as opposed to me: often loud, occassionally obnoxious, rare but explosive temper.

- I remember you just waiting to grow…first to be taller than Mom (easily achieved at age 11), and then me (age 14) and finally Dad (you're 17 and 6'4" now, a good 4 inches taller than him. Happy?).

- Now every day there are new things to file away in my brain's memory box labeled "Mahesh" : you being so excited (but playing it cool) about being on the basketball team; your first kiss; the first time I took you out with my friends (who were dating and VERY affectionate….oh, your scandalized expression!). You're the sort of baby brother who asks "Who are you going out with?" and "When will you be back?" and "Is THAT what you're wearing?" - something even Dad never did! And then you quietly open the door for me at 3 in the morning when I forget my keys.

- I saw you browsing through college admissions sites the other day, and I ruffled your hair and just walked past…then went and sat in my room and pulled out old photo albums: the embarassing ones, with you as a baby with your head sticking out of the bucket you had climbed into; the time I put a whole bunch of flowered clips in your hair; the time we went to Jaipur and you and I were squinting into the sun, pulling funny faces at the camera. There's pictures of me carrying you, and making faces at your smelly diaper, and us jumping into bed to watch Jonny Quest together. There's you with the cast on your arm when you broke it: how you enjoyed bashing me over the head with that plaster! There's pictures of you sitting on my lap when you were tiny enough to carry, and there's ones of me sitting on yours because now I'm the tiny one.

I must be PMSing. I'm actually crying as I write this. Bah.

I love you, you doofus.

Fictionally Speaking...

2009-08-02T14:46:00.017+04:00

… I get around a lot. I have a male harem. Young, old, in-between. Hot, fugly, in-between. American, British, Cuban, who cares? Age, religion, country of origin and sexual preference are no concern…that's the nice thing about fantasizing about movie stars/literary characters/TV vampires…you don't let little things like their boyfriends get in the way…unless you decide to lust after the boyfriend too (but so far I'm a little too tame for that).

Top 10 Men For Whom I Would Most Definitely Give Up Being A Nun (which, let's face it, I practically am right now. Except for poker. And Coke.)

1. Spike

Mmmm, how do I lust thee, let me count the ways…Spike has definitely been the most enduring of my crushes. Something about the platinum hair, British accent ("Bollocks!" sigh), six pack, black-painted nails and leather duster, snarky-exterior-with-soft-centre just called out to me. Oh, and the whole being-a-vampire-and-loving-the-slayer-even-without-a-soul-and-then-getting-a-soul-for-her thing. Not even finding out that James Marsters (the actor who portrayed him) was American, brunette and (sadly) human could temper my adoration. And don't even get me started on the epic line "I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it". Pure yum.

And did I mention the six pack?

2. Mr. Darcy

EVERY woman who's ever read 'Pride and Prejudice' has put the book down and squealed "He loves her! He loved her all along! Eeee!" Or, okay, maybe that was just me. But really…stiff-upper-lip, stern, reserved Fitzwilliam Darcy's verbal sparring with Elizabeth, his "rescue" of Lydia (can't say I agreed with everything, but I suppose it was the times)….how could anyone not love this man? And no, R, he isn’t a pansy.

I preferred him to Edward Rochester in 'Jane Eyre'….very broody and dashing, yes, but the mad wife locked in the attic just got minus marks from me.

3. Michael Moscovitz…

…from 'The Princess Diaries', or Jesse from the 'Mediator' series, or Rob from the '1-800 Where Are You' series, or Will from the 'Avalon High' series, or Cooper from the 'Size 12' series …all of Meg Cabot's heroes seem to have that Byronic, Darcy-ish quality that is so damn appealing. Most of all Michael Moscovitz, though…the way he puts up with Mia's various neuroses, the lop-sided smile, the lingering scent on his neck that sends Mia's senses reeling….no matter that I'm well into my 20s, I still love reading these books purely for Michael's no-nonsense, pragmatic approach to romance and Mia's sensory-overload reaction to him. And all the neuroses, most of which I sadly manage to identify with. It's like Ally McBeal all over again.

As for Jesse…who cared that he was a ghost? One 'Querida' from him and I think my spine tingled as much as Suze's did. Rob may have been a felon, but his intensity and regard for Jess always appealed to me, even when he was just ruffling her hair or putting his motorcycle helmet on her. And Will …okay, granted, the whole reincarnation-of-King-Arthur thing is more of a stretch than usual, but just the description of the timbre of his voice, the blue of his eyes..and the book interspersed with lines from 'The Lady of Shallot'...mmm. Oh, and Cooper Cartwright, with his ever-present stubble, and constantly rescuing Heather, and eschewing a boy-band career to be a private detective and live in his gay grandfather's New York brownstone, and always bringing Heather fried chicken and cheese and milkshakes…

Whatever world Meg Cabot was inhabiting, where she found these men? I want a one-way ticket there.

4. Angel

The original broody vampire-with-a-soul, skulking in the shadows and looking all tortured. Can't say I much fancied him in the 'Buffy' realm (except when he turned evil as Angelus…mmmm boy, there was just something about him that oozed sex appeal then. On a side note, I should probably get my head examined). But in his series set in L.A., he really came into his own with the shades-of-grey universe he constantly seemed to tightrope through. And he actually developed a sense of humour! So important when battling the denizens of hell on a daily basis, while also dealing with psychotic sires/exes, potentially demonic babies and your own sordid past over 253 years. Of course, as Angel, he does face that pesky curse that has him living virtually like a monk…

But hey, at least he isn't a 117-year-old virgin vampire. I swear I can't think of anything more lame than that.

5. Morelli

I would lump both of Janet Evanovich's sex-god characters in one paragraph, but that would be doing them a grievous disservice. I give you (actually no, I don't, I want him all to myself) Joseph Morelli, precocious kid - turned horny rebellious teen - turned horny dangerous felon - turned New Jersey Cop who has eyes only for Stephanie Plum (the protagonist in the Numbers series). Ladies and gentlemen (if you're interested), Janet Evanovich paints a mind-numbingly sexy picture of Morelli as 6 feet of hard muscle with a gun strapped to his side, genuine Italian temper mixed with bedroom eyes that sound yummier than tiramisu… and he loves dogs. And he doesn't shy away from the L-word! How perfect is that?

6. Ranger

A.k.a. Carlos Manoso, a.k.a. Super Bounty Hunter, a.k.a. the other man in Stephanie Plum's life (and just HOW lucky can one woman get? I know she doesn't actually exist, but I'm still insanely jealous of her!). A strong, silent, black-clothed "whisper on the wind", he's ex-Navy and possibly still-mercenary, and has his own moral code that may or may not mesh with the current legal system; but he does what it takes to keep Stephanie safe, even if is means assassinating the various psychos who find their way to her apartment. Very prone to planting tracking devices on her, replacing the dozens of cars she manages to get blown up and occassionally backing her against a wall to kiss her senseless. Cuban-American with mocha-tinted skin, black hair and unreadable black eyes. Again with the muscles and the guns, but he's a man of few words and gestures, and, according to Stephanie, the only time she knows what he's thinking is when his tongue is in her mouth.

I could live with that.

7. Diesel

I WISH Evanovich would feature him regularly in the Numbers series instead of limiting him to the Between-the-Numbers novels, but I guess Stephanie's love life is complicated enough without the constant presence of a knee-tremblingly seductive uber-bounty hunter who's alternately boyish, persuasive, playful and dangerous.

And he has dimples!

8. Jace Wayland

What is it with me and tortured, lost boys (I foresee years of therapy ahead)? Cassandra Clare's character from her 'Mortal Instruments' trilogy bears striking resemblances to her characterization of Draco Malfoy in the Draco trilogy she used to write way back in her pre-published-author fanfiction days. And I love them both. Both fighting the nature-versus-nurture battle against evil fathers, both battling their own demonic blood, both flippant and angry and cat-like and adept with swords and words alike.

The platinum hair, steely eyes and insolent smirks don't hurt either.

9. Eric Sinclair

MaryJanice Davidson is another one to give the chick-lit world a monster to drool over: Eric Sinclair, Armani-clad King of the Vampires. He's 80-odd years old, cool, suave, detached, loyal and savage when it counts; but still human enough to weep over his Queen's body when he fears she's dead. Also have to admit that the fact that he buys her Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks is a big BIG selling point. And he's not gay!

10. Eric Northman

I just realized there's a disturbing number of vampires on this list…but I can’t help it. Charlaine Harris's character in the Southern Vampire Mysteries is pure sin personified, and he knows it. While his arrogance and cock-sureness (in every way possible) could be a potential turn-off, his bafflement over his purely "human" attachment to mortal waitress Sookie Stackhouse, however, makes him just that little bit more adorable.

And he looks like a Norse God, but that doesn't matter much, right?

The nice thing about me is, I may be certifiably insane, but I don't mind sharing :)

I Wish...

2009-07-29T09:32:00.003+04:00

... I could write like this...but I think that prodigious talent and honour lies only with Maya Angelou.

One of my favourite poems by her: In And Out Of Time. Enjoy.

The sun has come,
The mist has gone:
We see in the distance...our long way home.
I was always yours to have,
You were always mine...
We have loved each other in and out of time.

When the first stone looked up at the blazing sun
and the first tree struggled up from the forest floor...
I had always loved you more.

You freed your braids...gave your hair to the breeze;
It hummed like a hive of honey bees.
I reached in the mass for the sweet honey comb there....
Mmmm...God how I love your hair.

You saw me bludgeoned by circumstance;
Lost, injured, hurt by chance.
I screamed to the heavens....loudly screamed....
Trying to change our nightmares to dreams...

The sun has come,
The mist has gone:
We see in the distance... our long way home.
I was always yours to have,
You were always mine...
We have loved each other in and out
in and out
in and out
of time.

Sigh. I want.

Cupid's Helpers

2009-07-27T11:44:00.002+04:00

So I was sitting around with D, A and Abby at A's place last night, catching up after A's fortnight-long vacay in the UK. As was usual, the subject turned to R and me, and why it is we've been "dancing around each other for the past 2 years without doing anything. It's frustrating!" Direct quote there. Now, A and Abby have girlfriends, and were offering long-winded, experience-backed reasoning of why it is that at the age of 26, I should be in a relationship, or at least "enjoy being young and fool around a bit!" D was more succinct: "Just get on with it already, Zulu!"

Against my better judgement, I decided to indulge them and went about collecting pearls of wisdom on how and why they thought R and I should get together. And all I have to say is "Oy vey!"

- According to D: "Well, it's pretty obvious you belong together..I mean, he discusses poetry and shit with you! I never discussed poetry with anyone except my English teacher…although, okay, I didn’t want to date him…hmm…nevermind."

- A and Abby: "Neither you nor R are the type to have flings, and you guys, you know, gel…I mean, he's a liiiittle less dark and broody with you…so why not?" Can't argue with logic like that!

- All of them: "What's the harm in trying? It doesn't work out, c'est la vie…nothing ventured, nothing gained…carpe bloody diem, sieze the day (or something else)…jump on him already," and other assorted cliches, delivered in true, inimitable boy-style.

Now, how to go about it:

- D and A: "R's a little reserved, no? So you have to send out hints, but be subtle."

- Abby: "Flash a little cleavage!"

- D and A: "No! No bazookas. You'll scare him off!" Bazookas. Hah. I haven't heard that since I was in 10th grade.

- Me (playing devil's advocate and inadvertently screwing myself): "But R likes…you know…voluptuous women."

- All of them: "Oh, okay, then you fit the profile." Boys! Bah. "Anyway, nevermind all that. You have to be a bit more out there. Flirt a bit. Laugh at what he says. Sort of casually rest your hand on his arm." I wonder what chick flicks they've been watching. "Call him and tell him you're in the mood to go out for drinks, just the two of you. Badmouth the rest of us if you have to, but make sure it's just the two of you!"

- Me: "Uhhh..how?"

- Them: "SUBTLY!" That didn't really help.

This went on for a couple more hours, with positive re-inforcement via long-distance phone call from A's utterly sweet girlfriend as well. And several more tips along the lines of "Bat your eyelashes…but try not to look retarded" and "Laugh more…but can you do something about those teeth??" until eventually it was decided that if I didn't comply with their wishes, I would (sometime in the near future) find R and myself locked in a convenient room in V's place after being sneakily presented with Viagra-laced drinks.

But, they sweetly stressed, that was a last resort.

I love my friends, but they scare the bejeezus out of me.

Because I'm Bored...

2009-07-21T12:44:00.005+04:00

…and trying to avoid the most yawnariffic work in existence (i.e. cleaning up the negligent messes of past RMs and actually creating records of old customers), I'm going to put together a short catalogue of song lyrics that I love.

Why? As they say in South Indian parlance: "Simbly." (R, that's for you. Be good and I might spell 'Mississippi' next).

1. "And it's been a while since I could look at myself straight,
And it's been a while since I said I'm sorry.
And it's been a while since I've seen the way the candles light your face
And it's been a while…but I can still remember just the way you taste…"

No prizes for guessing: "It's Been A While" by Staind. I love that this is one of the most evocative songs I've heard - deals out a good dose of profanity and still conveys a lot of the helplessness and frustration of love.

2. "On the streets where you live, girls talk about their social lives -
They're made of lipstick, plastic and paint;
A touch of sable in their eyes."

I don't actually know why I like the opening lines to Bon Jovi's "Runaway". I think as a kid, the words made me think of Barbie (who used to freak me out), but even though the words are supposed to be more bleak, I always ended up picturing a gaggle of happy, giggling girls. Bah, brain.

3. "The dawn is breaking;
A light shining through…
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you."

Come on, how can anyone not love Howie Day's "Collide"? I think there's something in me that responds to lyrics that refer to the simple sensuality in relationships, anything mentioning touch, smell, taste…or, you know, could be I'm a total sap (but ssshhh, that's supposed to be a secret!). And seriously, the part where he sings "I somehow find you and I collide"….sigh.

4. "She is everything and more:
The solemn hypnotic.
My Dahlia, bathed in possession
She is home to me."

What is it about rock/metal bands that are capable of penning the most vivid love songs? Slipknot's "Vermilion" is, in R's opinion, one of the most perfect break-up songs (no doubt due to the plaintive refrain "I won't let this build up inside of me"), but I think it's the perfect I-love-her-with-such-intensity-I've-been-locked-up-a-rubber-room-with-a-straitjacket song.

5. "The miles just keep rolling as the people leave their way to say hello.
I've heard this life is overrated, but I hope that it gets better as we go."

Okay, 3 Doors Down is always solid gold, but "Here Without You" is unarguably one of their best songs. Sweet, simple, sad = perfect. If I had time, I’d put down the lyrics for "Landing in London", "When I'm Gone", "Let Me Go" and "Kryptonite" too.

6. "Take me to your heart, feel me in your bones;
Just one more night and I'm coming off this long and winding road."

The Limp Bizkit medley of "Home Sweet Home/Bittersweet Symphony" is one of the most relaxing songs I can think of, mainly because I doubt Fred Durst's voice has ever sounded more mellow or hypnotic. And boy, can I relate when he sings "My heart's like an open book for the whole world to read; sometimes it's nothing that keeps me together at the seams."

7. "I feel just like I'm sinking, and I claw for solid ground;
Pulled down by the undertow: never thought I could feel so low."

Sarah McLachlan's "Full of Grace" has the inexplicable ability to reduce me to tears when I'm in my PMS-induced emo stage. But, to be fair, that's when I listen to all her songs: "Angel", "Adia", "Fear", "Building a Mystery" and "Silence" have been time-of-the-month favourites since I hit puberty. No, I don't know why; but I will admit that's when I also listen to Tori Amos, Fiona Apple and Jewel.

8. "Baby I've been here before; I've seen this room and I've walked this floor -
I used to live alone before I knew ya.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch, but love is not a victory march -
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."

It may seem blasphemous to most, but I prefer Jeff Buckley's version of "Hallelujah" to Leonard Cohen's. I don't know whether that's because Buckley's voice sounds more tortured or because the video I saw was picturised on the season 1 finale of The O.C. (yes, yes, I'm a hopeless child), but either way - the words to this song never fail to send a shiver down my spine.

Lord, there are so many more that should be on this list. Alanis Morisette's "Forgive Me, Love" and "Ironic", Tori Amos's "Love Song" and "Winter", everything by Metallica, Aerosmith, Matchbox 20, Creed, Sade, Guns N' Roses, newer stuff like "Hey There, Delilah" by the Plain White T's and older stuff like "Unforgettable" by Dean Martin….way, way too many. I'd have to devote an entire blog to that!

What are your favourites?

Work In Progress

2009-07-15T11:01:00.003+04:00

A long time ago, when we were still in college, D.S. and I had been spending a lazy afternoon at the CCI poolside restaurant when we decided to put together a book. A most useful book, we agreed delightedly, pooling our vast knowledge of our male friends and our limited (but still horrific) dating experience. A book that would teach women to identify the different types of men (cue the light shining from Heaven; the beatific, self-righteous expressions on our faces; the calls for our canonization…). Imagine the good we could do, educating the poor unfortunate women of the world on the various categories of dickheads out there!

Unfortunately, we never really got past scribbling a few titles and pages in the art book that used to be my ever-present companion back then. I must've chucked it somewhere in the series of moves that occurred thereafter, but I think I might be able to recall a few of the jewels we penned:

1. The Arrogant Bastard
This type of male is surprisingly common (one would expect the advent of the Empowered Woman would have squashed them into extinction, but no such luck). Good for a laugh, or the satisfaction of deflating his outsize ego, but no good for anything long-term. Unless, of course, you want to end the relationship by knocking him down with your car (I can swear this has almost never happened).

2. The Sneaky Bastard
From the same family tree as #1. However, while it's possible to ignore #1 with a roll of the eyes or dismissive snort, #2 has practically made a career out of telling women what they want to hear, and, most importantly, not getting caught. He will wine, dine, lie and cheat all with the same effortless panache (and boyish grin) that got you to fall for him in the first place. Good if you follow the "What I don't know can't hurt me" school of thought (also known as the Ostrich "bury your head in the sand" policy), but honestly, we'd hate to see you give Sneaky Bastard the satisfaction of falling for his honey-coated words. Especially when he's going to recycle the same crap with 10 other women (at least he's doing his part for the environment). This sub-species is also known as the "Will-say-anything-to-get-into-a-girl's-pants" man.

3. The Idiot
This type of male emulates #2 and thinks he's smart. Unfortunately, he misses the mark by a couple of miles. He'll try to pull the same sort of scams as the Sneaky Bastard, but screw up by trying it on two sisters. Or worse, two best friends. Honestly, don't men know that women talk? All women? About everything? Boy, if we can meet a woman for the first time in the ladies' room of a club, ask for a tampon and then go on to discuss cramps, blood flow and clotting, what makes you think we're not going to talk to our best friends about the shady moves you're trying to pull?? Idiot.

4. The Bore
Not a bad soul, this kind of boy, but is incapable of inducing anything but giganctic yawns. We don't like to pander to stereotypes, but he will most probably be a rich boy who likes talking about how fast his Ferrari goes and how much money he made on some random trade. Yes, yes, the sound of vrrooom and cha-ching may be an aphrodisiac for some women, but we prefer to think that good conversation doesn't need to include mentions of his stock portfolio or constant name-dropping of which CEO he jet-skis with on weekends.
On the other hand, give us a good old-fashioned nerd any day. They're fascinating, the little geeks, and the way their words just stumble over one another in a rushed garble? Adorable.

5. The Hunter
A slicker, more badass version of #1 and #2 and has the ability to be oh-so-appealing. He will tell a woman what she wants to hear and actually mean it (for the moment) and give her what she wants : the flattery, the meaningful looks, the witty conversation, the comfort, the spark. At least, until he gets what he wants. Then it's hasta la vista, baby. He got bored once the chase ended. Sadly, this type of man is rampant across the globe, luring in unsuspecting women. The only way to protect yourself is if you're just in it for the chase too (not something we'd recommend. We have souls; that's what differentiates us from the sex-crazed animals otherwise known as men).

6. The Best Friend
He knows your moodswings, has seen you without make-up, has coaxed you out of post-break-up trauma and he puts up with your insanity with a smile on his face. He'd be perfect boyfriend material, if you could just get past the ick-factor when it comes to kissing him. Do that, and you're golden.

7. The Good Guy
A dying breed, being hunted to extinction by marriage-minded madames who snap up the darlings in the embryonic stage. Or, they're being corrupted through the all-pervasive evil of the Arrogant Bastards, Sneaky Bastards, Idiots and Hunters. If you manage to find one, treat him well - he may just be the last of his kind.

8. The Perfect Man
Exists in theory; let us know if any of you actually stumble across this specimen. We suspect he might be a myth, or a rumour put out by the men of the world to keep us women interested: you know the whole saying about kissing a lot of frogs before you find your prince? The promise of a perfect man (who may or may not exist) ensures that a LOT of frogs get kissed….

I can't remember the rest, but I think D.S. and I might be meeting up in B'bay next week (and possibly staying at the CCI). No doubt we'll be able to pool together a few more years of (bad) experiences and come up with more chapters for the book.

My "Get-Up-And-Go"....

2009-07-14T14:44:00.002+04:00

....got up and went. For a hike. Over the edge of a cliff.

Meaning, "writer's block".

Plus, I'm up to my eyeballs in proposals (of the banking variety) and it's not rare for me to wake up from a less-than-sound sleep spouting off names and account numbers of overdue customers and classified loans.

God, even my nightmares are boring. No wonder I have nothing to write about.

Baby Steps

2009-07-03T12:08:00.003+04:00

So, we still have a long way to go. And there's bound to be a lot of crap that's going to be heaped on the Delhi High Court by various moral police/religious leaders/major hypocrites. If my pessimism radar is right, there'll be a lot of gay bashings, probably even murders, masquerading as "protests" and "preservers of the Indian way". God knows in the past there have been enough horrific incidents like this.

But still, I can't help feeling proud that the Delhi High Court has legalized consensual gay sex. It's a minuscule step coming after decades of hypocrisy, conformity, ignorance and misrepresentation of homosexuality. I, for one, have never understood why people made such a hullabaloo about bedroom matters anyway...it gives me the heebie-jeebies thinking that the Government has a say in the manner that citizens conduct their sex lives.

Yeah, it's a tiny step. But it's there nonetheless.

Although I have to say, I'm a little disappointed that B'bay hasn't come out of the closet yet. At least legally.

The Bloody Life Lessons Just Keep Coming

2009-06-30T08:20:00.006+04:00

What I learnt from this weekend's debauchery:

1. Substitute beer pong for vodka-and-mango-juice pong, and I'm not half bad!

2. Never dance with D when he's had too much to drink...he'll try to kiss anything: me, a grandmother, a man in a dress...as long as it's vaguely female-shaped, it'll do. Blearghhh.

3. Boys are idiots (this is, of course, in direct correlation to Point 2).

4. Tattooed men are yummy (well, I always knew this. But this one I met reminded me of the fact. Kinda Dave Navarro-ish, but less grrr).

5. Apparently, pour enough alcohol in me, and I am capable of doing something I don't normally do...like giving a guy my number when he asks for it. I never do that...bah. No, really, in my world, that's a bad.

6. No amount of alcohol can get me to overcome my inherent and intrinsic grandmotherly traits. So, while I am sloshed, I will be looking after the equally (if not more) sozzled boys: making sure they don't get involved in brawls with white chicks, short guys and bouncers; listening to romantic woes and dispensing advice; pulling up guys' pants when too much underwear (and a bit of butt) is flashing; playing wingman (wing woman? wing person?) when one of the guys finds a hot chick, and in general just being as close to 65 as I can get. Bah again.

7. I am shockingly ignorant when it comes to slang words for male/female genitalia. And also that I'm the only one my age who uses the word 'genitalia'.

8. Jägerbombs basically ensure that I get no sleep for 36 hours.

9. I'm making up for my teetotaling college years by ruining my liver now. Well, no more...detox detox DETOX.

10. And, as you can tell by the last couple of posts, I pretty much swear by Wikipedia.

Jumping On The Bandwagon

2009-06-27T12:06:00.004+04:00

It seems every networking site, every blog and, of course, every news site, has fans bidding their own personal farewells to Michael Jackson. I can't say I was a fan of his later work, but I adored every album from "Off The Wall" to "Blood On The Dance Floor:HIStory in the Remix", and the album "Dangerous" was played on constant repeat when I was 11. Don't even get me started on how I'd drive D.S. mad by playing "Give In To Me" a million times over when I was 18 and rediscovered a passion for Michael Jackson/Slash collaboration songs...

Goodbye M.J. May your death be more peaceful than your life. It's been a priviledge and a pleasure rockin' with you all these years.

In other news, Farrah Fawcett finally succumbed to cancer. Poor, beautiful girl...she wasn't my favourite of the original Charlie's Angels...that was always Kelly, who seemed more kick-ass to me. Man, it sucks to wake up from a night of debauchery and read of all these known names dying.

Although, as my friend pointed out with a shrug...why write about this? We're not consciously mourning the other hundreds of thousands dying every day in the world, are we.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm more of a hypocrite than I like to think about...or just disgustingly shallow.

In The Past 24 Hours, I Have...

2009-06-23T13:43:00.006+04:00

....Fought with my Risk Manager;

....Skipped the gym (but I went the day before!);

....Eaten the best pizza EVER, loaded with extra cheese and eggplant and zucchini and roasted chicken and sundried tomatoes, sprinkled with chilli flakes and chilli oil, each mouthful the PERFECT bite...mmmm;

....Witnessed an Indian boy at Karaoke Night, thinking he was black and rapping like Pee Wee Herman just learned to talk street. No...just...NO;

....Lost my temper;

....Been confused;

....Been comforted;

....Had the most inane, insane, evil, chaotic, flat-out-crazy-fun conversations imaginable;

....Received impromptu sex-ed lectures from at least 4 different friends (for no reason whatsoever);

....Hung out with NV and RV, whom I will miss HORRIBLY while they are away;

....Crept into not one, but two shady, seedy, utterly disreputable dance-bar type places and been both scandalized and saddened at human nature;

....Realized that I'm most definitely not cut out for that much-talked-about planned visit to a Vegas strip club;

....Stumbled into bed and stumbled out again after what felt like only 10 seconds but was actually 4 hours (I think I might be getting old. 4 hours of sleep used to tide me over for a WEEK when I was in college);

....Been an unreasonable grouch all day because the restaurant screwed up my order for 6 Cokes by bringing me..erm..NOTHING, so I've had NO sugar and NO caffeine and NO sweet Coke-y goodness and I swear I'm dying....

....Goofed off at work by writing this blog;

....Fought with my Risk Manager.

Don't you love it when life comes full circle?

Staying Out Till 3 a.m....

2009-06-23T08:15:00.003+04:00

...when you have to be in at work at 7:45 is NOT a good idea. ARGH with the headache and the bleary eyes and the NO COKE IN MY BAG. Double argh.

I don't even have the energy for exclamation points.

More complaining later.

Father, Forgive Me For I Have Sinned...

2009-06-21T12:10:00.006+04:00

....Obviously, by the way my weekends are going, it's not too far a logical leap to say I'm turning into an alcoholic and a compulsive gambler. But, can I just say that kamikazes are the yummiest, most diabolocial things ever invented? Taste like lemonade, but 7 or 8 of them and I'm rendered insensible for the rest of the night...fun! As for the poker...I think I may want to take up permanent residence at A's dining table...won 41 rials (a little over Rs. 5000) and won a hand with 4 Aces...oy, what a rush! Pity the other guy, though, he lost on a full house with Aces and Jacks.

....Got a facebook message from I.P. asking me what's been up, seeing as how he hasn't heard from me in ages. Is it ridiculous to feel a little guilty? I've always been manic about keeping in touch with my B'bay friends, and I just counted back and realized I haven't spoken to him for over 2 months...that's not long in the normal world...but in the cozy, crazy little world I inhabit in B'bay, it's an eternity. Right, making phonecall pronto.

....Crap, just realized I haven't spoken to N.M. in ages either. Crap, crap, crap...feel guilt trip coming on, considering I've been either playing poker, table tennis or just been, you know, flat-out-incoherently-sloshed the last few times he's called.

....Despite the best of intentions, went to the gym only twice in the past week...but it wasn't my fault! The trainer sent out an SMS saying he was sick!! Nevermind that I saw him at a movie on Tuesday night and at the same party I was at on Thursday....

....Will probably end up going only twice this week too, since Mother Nature has seen fit to curse me and actually have my period show up on time for a change. This makes it 2 consecutive months...I don't think that's EVER happened to me. See, this is why my uterus is christened Dorothy....somewhere over the rainbow, indeed.

....I've had Kelly Osbourne's version of "Papa Don't Preach" stuck in my head since morning, and I'm driving my colleagues MAD by belting it out in my can't-carry-a-tune-in-a-bucket voice. God, that's FUN!

Welcome to Hell, Circa 1815

2009-06-16T14:46:00.005+04:00

So, having read about this on several blogs recently, I felt I had to spread the word (to all of 2 people who read my blog. But hey, even if those 2 people tell 2 people who tell 2 people...you get the idea). But something has to be done...it's one (horrible) thing to have men hold us down...but a woman aiding and abetting in the suppression of other women? Won't stand for it, just won't.

For anyone who's confused: The Principal of Dayanand Girl's College in Kanpur, India, says this: "Girls who choose to wear jeans will be expelled from the college. This is the only way to stop crime against women."

Might I offer my congratulations to her on the as yet unheard of and unseen levels of idiocy that she has achieved. I would have thought it impossible for anyone to be as obviously blinded by ignorance as she is; but of course she is a living, breathing example of how intelligence can suffer the consequences of too much inbreeding.

And let's just ignore that crime against women occurs in many ways, shapes and forms - all equally insidious and all meant to break a woman's spirit...but then, she should know about breaking spirit; she's undoubtedly one of those people who would say "You got what you deserved" if a molested woman came to her for help.

There's an e-mail address for people to send feedback: contact@dayanandgirlspgcollege.org

Drop the dear lady a few lines and let her know what you think of her edict. I did:

Dear Principal Meeta Jamal,

How can you call yourself a woman and still openly state that the only way to stop crime against women is to suspend the girls who choose to wear jeans to college? Are you honestly telling us - us women who comprise at least half the world's population; who number at least 3 billion; ALL of us who've faced eve-teasing, catcalls, harrassment, lechery and abuse - that we ASKED FOR IT BECAUSE WE WERE WEARING JEANS? I recommend you take a long, hard look at the newspapers. Most of the rape victims in India are actually villagers in saris. Perhaps you feel they would have been "more raped" , if possible, in different attire?

Perhaps you might want to concede to oversimplification of a huge problem, madam. The problem isn't girls who choose to wear jeans or shorts skirts or halter tops - it's the perverted men who have women (!) like you giving them an excuse. Because that's exactly what you've done: given them an opportunity to say "But she was asking for it because of the way she was dressed…even other women admit it." It will undoubtedly boggle my mind until the day I die (and most likely on that day I will be clad in a pair of low-slung jeans) how you got to be principal of a woman's college when that very statement you uttered places you, mentally, nowhere above my uneducated kaamwali-bai who thrashes her daughter for wanting to wear a sleeveless top. You've quite effectively spat on your own gender by making them feel ashamed of something that is no fault of theirs…and here I'm not talking about dressing provocatively or even "going around" with boys (no doubt you also feel that a woman who dates is just a cheap harlot asking to be raped). I'm talking about men's attitudes and disrepect towards women and the suppression of our gender being nurtured for millennia by people too ignorant, too uneducated or too scared to know better. The Women's Lib movement was supposed to take care of that. Congratulations on single-handedly setting it back a few centuries.

I've included my name and very sweetly decided to forego a few choice epithets.

Honestly, she should resign. And have a sex-change operation. She's a disgrace.

Things I Realized In The Past Week

2009-06-14T09:00:00.003+04:00

So the last week has been an eye-opener for me. The earth-shattering (okay, I'm prone to exaggeration) revelations just kept coming:

- I went to the gym precisely once during the week. Now, I never worked out when I was younger; didn't start, in fact, till about 2 months ago when A and V practically dragged me kicking and screaming to a circuit training session (and the fact that I had put on 12 kgs had very little to do with it). And now, shock-horror-dismay - I actually like it. And feel guilty when I don't go. I've turned into one of those people. The next thing you know, I'm going to start obsessively worrying after my 4th can of Coke. And laying off the Lindt Hazelnut. Bah.

- I attended a friend's birthday celebration. Queen's cousins and friends planned a surprise gathering at her place; and man was it loud, fun and crazy. I've never hung out with the women of this country very much, but I have got to do it more often... can't think of the last time I had that much fun. Oh yeah, the revelation: nothing really new, but - I miss female company. Good female company, of the non-bitchy-non-whiny-non-complicated variety.

- I met the coolest woman ever. Hello, Standy!

- I suck at beer pong. Like, pathetic does not even begin to cover it.

- I have led a very sheltered life. Okay, not really a revelation there, I kinda knew this. But I was at A's place on Friday and we were winding down post-poker with drinks (and the yummiest, cheesiest, most satisfying food at 3 in the morning - Doon School Maggi noodles...mmm). Listening to A, V and D discuss various drink-and-hormone-fueled escapades made me realize 2 things: I canNOT down vodka and wake up hangover-free; and I have not yet begun to live. Cheers guys, here's to getting out a bit more and being able to contribute to the crazy stories.

- I miss my previous colleagues way more than I thought possible. Dropped in at the old office to wish Queen and met a few of the old work buddies and the old boss for a bit. Felt all warm and fuzzy, in a way I just don't at the new place. Then bumped into S.B. from the old office at Rock Bottom on Thursday night and shared a laugh over Kamikazes. Yeah, there's no one to do that with here.

- I actually miss R, who's away for a while. Was semi-lucidly expostulating to A on Friday that there actually is a biiiig difference between a potential love interest and a best friend (in my books, anyway). R is very firmly in the latter, but that doesn't stop me from missing nice long chats about the Watchmen and Alan Moore and Arthur C. Clarke (and he puts up with my vampire fixation too!)

Let's see what this week brings. With V in town for a fortnight, and NV and RV here for a while, it's bound to involve copious amounts of alcohol, at the very least. Better hit the gym again...

...My morning Coke can looks like it's frowning disapprovingly at me. Sigh.

Ego Trippin'

2009-06-07T09:17:00.001+04:00

Do you ever wonder how you have the courage/will/patience (insert as applicable)

… to fall in love again after being so badly burned?
… to send that MBA application in one more time after being rejected for the last 2 years?
… to trust a new friend, when the last person you trusted blabbed everything?
… to wake up thinking that today will be better than yesterday, and tomorrow better still (because it can't be any worse)?
… to allow yourself to look forward to that phone call that always seems to come a little too late?
… to be coldly sarcastic with your Risk Manager, rather than slamming the stack of proposals down on his oily head?

Sometimes I think I'm going to let my ego get the better of me and buy one of those 'Supergirl' coffee mugs.

I don't drink coffee, but that's not the point :)

The Beauty and The Prick

2009-06-01T08:29:00.002+04:00

One of my best friends, D.S., is this beautiful, amazing, kick-ass, intelligent and fascinating woman (and if I sound like a girl with a crush here, bear with me, I love the chick) and yet she still manages to get dicked over by a guy who's so blatantly not worth it that it boggles the mind.

What pisses me (and our other friends back in B'bay) off is that we should've SEEN it somehow…instinctively just known that he was an idiot. Where was my cynicism? Where was N.M.'s go-slow-approach? Where was A.H.'s caution and sixth sense? But no, when we met him, we were ALL taken in by the niceness, the goofy sense of humour, the effort (endearing) to get on our good side because D.S. is important to us, and we're important to her, no negotiations there. One of our own had found love, found someone who could be an extenstion to our group, instead of taking her away from us. So we tried, and he tried, and we all got along and cue the Disney happy-ever-after music, yes? No. After 3 years of togetherness and overcoming parental objections and age differences and insurmountable odds and discussions of marriage, it goes like this: The Prick ends it with a phone call, announces his engagement to someone else on facebook, and D.S. is…actually, D.S. is being stronger than I would ever have thought possible.

I think this post is going to be in honour of D.S. actually - I don’t think I talk enough about my friends, just blather on about myself. But I love showing off about D.S. When she got a 730 on her GMAT and got into one of the best B-Schools in the world, I couldn’t wait to tell EVERYONE…I'm so proud of her! She's lost over 20 kgs of weight over the past few years through sheer determination and (in my lazy-ass opinion) an unhealthy commitment to the gym; as a result she looks sensational in the black wrap dress I saw her in last weekend. She's topped most of the exams she's ever written, or at least cleared them with flying colours (and I always wondered what that meant. What do colours flying have to do with exam marks?). She's witty and incisive and funny and snarky and has men drooling like puppy dogs at her stiletto-heeled feet. And, as I said before, she's incredibly, unbelievably strong.

This is a woman who was there for me when I went through a hideously bad break-up. She cried for me because I couldn't (or didn't know how to, or wouldn't give the guy the satisfaction of seeing me) cry. She went out partying with me pretty much every night of the week if I wanted to (because loud music meant neither she nor I would think about how me breaking up with my boyfriend irrationally led to her losing one of her good friends too). She let me hold her hand in a death-grip when I saw my ex with another woman, basically confirming everything I'd worried/feared/grown paranoid about for 3 years (makes me wonder if 3 is some sort of ill omen…I know of waaaaaay too many relationships going kaput at the 3-year mark. Actually, thanks to her, H.T., N.M. and A.H., I think I managed to get through the whole post-break-up period relatively unscathed and have turned out as normal as I am right now (which most people will testify isn’t much!) Coincidentally, H.T., N.M. and A.H. were there for her too after The Prick ended things with her. We love you guys, have we ever said that?) This is a woman who polished off an entire saucepan of rasperry-jello-and-apple-vodka (we were trying to make jello shots, but there were no ice trays) with me while we watched 'The Grudge' at A.H.'s place in Pune, and then fell about laughing with me 'cuz I wouldn't go to the bathroom alone. Hell, she's put up with my vampire and Coke addiction for 8 years now, and that drives most people insane!

I'm rambling….I tend to do that when I feel strongly about something. What I'm trying to say is this: I need her to read this and know, know with absolute certainty, that there are people who love her, and there will be people who will see her for how truly sensational she is. People so far better than The Prick that it will boggle her mind, because she will wonder at the 3 years she absolutely wasted on him when there was something so much better out there. And until then, if she insists on being too big a person to hate The Prick....

...I'll do it for her.

Murphy's Law

2009-05-19T14:28:00.001+04:00

Why is it that…

…I'll be dying of boredom the entire week, when I'm raring to go…and a pile of work drops into my lap an hour before the weekend begins.

…I make the best friends in the world…2 weeks before either they or I leave the city/country/continent.

…The guy I crushed on for a year realises he feels the same way…7 years after I've gotten over him.

…I can dance like seduction personified when no one's watching, but the moment even one eye swivels towards me - I spill my drink, step on someone's toe, trip over another someone's leg and end up with a bruise the size and shape of Texas on my butt.

…For lack of anything better to do, and tired of channel surfing, I'll watch some crappy movie through till the end. Only to flip the channel and realise I missed my favourite Buffy episode on rerun (mostly anything where Spike is shirtless. Or says "bloody hell". Or blinks.)

…I can down a six-pack of Coke and function just fine…but the guy I'm crushing on steps into the room and I let out the most almighty, unladylike, Homer-Simpson-esque, ear-shattering burp.

…My period may be delayed for 6 months sometimes, but it'll come without fail the day I'm wearing white capris. With white lace underwear underneath that. My uterus hates me.

Played more poker….

2009-05-17T09:32:00.004+04:00

And the run of luck is over…went from 15 rials down (which is about Rs. 1,950/-) to barely recovering my 5 rial buy-in. MUST NOT PUSH LUCK.

Oh, who am I kidding. I don't listen to myself any more than I listen to anyone else!

Sitting at work and CRAVING Coke. I'm trying to go a day without one. It's not working out well…have pulled out a tuft of hair and my desk now looks as though the creature from 'The Grudge' has been shedding all over it. Great, a bald spot to add to all my other woes.

On the plus side, going to Dubai this weekend!! Will meet D.S.! Some best friend I am, haven't even met her since October '07….Looking forward to the general insanity that ensues when we meet up. Plus whole bunch of college friends there to catch up with…including Married Ex. One would think it would be weird, but the simple fact is his wife is such a sweetheart (and a genuine one, as opposed to the keep-your-friends-close-and-your-enemies-closer-I-secretly-hate-you-you-utter-bitch-who-had-my-husband-first variety) that meeting the both of them is an unparalleled pleasure…it's amazing hanging out with a couple who's happy and in love and secure and just so fun!

Need a little change in life. I love this place with its quiet, sleepy life and 99% friendly people…but I swear I'm in a rut. Sunday to Thursday it's work and the gym and the occassional meeting up with the guys to play pool or poker. Weekends it's clubbing (at the 3-4 good clubs there are here!) and getting drunk and discussing who did what with whom while drunk. And more poker.

To quote a terrible old pop song: There's gotta be more to life….

Alphabetical list of reasons why I am a total spaz:

2009-05-13T13:21:00.007+04:00

1. A cute guy smiled at me in the crappy office cafeteria. ::Snap:: went the plastic spoon and ::whumpf:: went the chicken manchurian and hakka noodles all over my new white shirt. The front of which is now neon orange.
2. Boobs…or rather, my inability to keep them in place (although, thankfully, they are always covered. Pam Anderson I am not). Jogging bras don't help when I'm exercising, and I've given myself AND the 18-year-old on the treadmill next to me a black eye on more than one occasion.
3. Coke…cola that is, and my…shall we say…affinity for it? Affection? My friends would say it was more of an obsession. But I'm getting better! I only drink 2 cans a day now (5 on weekends), and my memorabilia is down to 1 Coke-can replica glass pencil holder, a t-shirt, and a porcelain thimble with the Coke logo. I'm practically normal!
4. Dopey eyes that have caused more than one boss to look at me suspiciously and say "We conduct random drug tests here, you know…"
5. Epiphanies in the middle of poker sessions. When I'm not even drunk. So I will then expostulate about random insanity when, y'know, all anyone wants is for me to shut up and put in my 2 rials.
6. Food…any and all food…but especially Bombay food in Bombay restaurants surrounded by Bombay people…
7. Girls…well, the lack thereof in my life at the moment. Not that I swing that way (most of the time). But female company would be nice. A girl can only take so much of being around a bunch of guys with their …hysterically rude jokes…lack of bitchiness…amazingly yummy cologne…maybe I'll retract my complaint…
8. Hee-haw…my friends' description of the way I laugh. Which, I suppose, is better than being told to go swing from a tree with the other howling monkeys (by the guy I'm crushing on, no less)
9. Idiocy…especially when it comes to men. But I've learnt my lesson…never date anyone who is a combination of the following: shorter than me, thinner than me, with a bigger ego than me (well, bigger than the 7 continents combined).
10. Juvenile pursuits. But I can't help it if I'm a 26-year-old who still occassionally likes to re-read her Sweet Valleys (and Archies) and watch Jonny Quest (and Tom & Jerry) and eat orange ice-lollies (which are sooo passe, Galaxy Chocobar premiums are THE sophisticated ice-cream to suck on, dontcha know dahling?)
11. Klutziness….refer to points no. 1 and 15
12. Lameness in general, which would be why I am making this list…
13. Men and my complete inability to understand them, even when ALL the close friends I've ever had have been guys. But no, they'll do something asinine, as they are wont to do, and everytime it'll shock me!
14. Name…my name, I mean. It miiiight have been the height of cool when I was named more than a quarter of a century ago (although I doubt it) but now you throw a rock and you'll hit 20 chicks with my name. Don't even get me started on my nicknames. They bring to mind a fat boy, an African warrior tribe, a Baywatch alumnus and a teddy bear. What any of them have to do with each other, I'll never know.
15. Over-the-top hand gestures when I speak. You'd think it would be impossible to be narrating a story and knock over an entire refridgerator. You'd be wrong.
16. Poker…and my utter inability to play it safe. So in the past couple of weeks I've won big. But will I take my money and spend it on shoes like a sensible woman? Of course not. Sensible? What a strange word in an alien language…
17. Queens…drag queens to be more specific. Anybody else but me out there who finds them strangely…interesting? Not like that, but just…I wonder what they look like in the morning, and are they happier not being actual women, thereby missing out on PMS and horrific cramps?
18. Ringtones…I HATE cellphone ringtones…those things should be banned! They're SO annoying (yes, even the one that plays "Sweet Child O' Mine"). What, I ask you, is wrong with putting it on vibrate mode??
19. Spike. The love of my life. You know, bleached-blonde-six-pack-sporting-"bloody hell"-saying-leather-wearing vampire from Buffy the Vampire Slayer? I heart him.
20. Telling myself that I CAN lose 5 kgs. When, on a zillion-calorie-a-day diet, it clearly ain't gonna happen.
21. Understanding the basic mechanics of anything to do with technology. Yeah, I don't possess that.
22. Vampires. Love 'em. Not that I'm a wanna-be-Goth-with-far-too-much-eyeliner or anything that random, but if it's got anything to do with Buffy, or Angel, or Anne Rice, or Laurell Hamilton, or MaryJanice Davidson, or Charlaine Harris, or God help me, even Stephenie Meyer...I've been there done that and bought the t-shirt :)
23. Wanting to be a librarian…but liking money and expensive shoes faaar too much to actually go ahead with it.
24. X…man, this is a tough one. X-treme fear that all my lovely guy friends will end up with horrible girlfriends and wives who will make it their life's ambition to keep me away from my friends (as I already see happening with some of the married ones)? No? Too paranoid? Damn, I shoulda put that under 'P'.
25. Yennada? Yepdi irka ma? Spell 'moon' with a yem-yo-yet-another-yo-and-a-yem-after that. I may be half-South-Indian, but man it's SUCH fun to rip apart a southie accent!
26. Z..z…z…uh, I dunno….'zaps' is 'spaz' backwards. That should tell you loads about my state of mind!

I'm Going Home, Back To The Place Where I Belong

2007-12-17T21:52:00.001+04:00

So, other than the fact that I luuurve Chris Daughtry (something about the bald head and the gravelly voice and ..um...I think that's it....my taste in men was always pretty suspect), this is all about the fact that, this time on Friday, I'm going to be in Bombay, baby!!!

It's just so strange...I've lived across quite a few cities in India (and now one teeny-tiny one in the Middle East), but there's no place quite like Bombay (yeah, I'm physically incapable of saying Mumbai. Just ain't gonna happen). And, freak that I am, I have an itinerary of EVERYTHING that has to be squeezed into the 2 weeks that I get in my precious city...but then again, knowing my friends, I can pretty much rip up that list right now. Not that I'm complaining, mind...I'm getting to see this lot after a year now, and I miss the days when we all, as my mom puts it, "Lived out of each others' pockets". Christ, in some ways I think it's great that we've all grown out of the phase where meeting each other was as essential as breathing, but on some horribly selfish level, I still want that closeness....well,okay, the closeness is still there, but sometimes, geographical proximity would be good! This whole cross-country nonsense with Oman and Dubai and Bombay and Sydney is just....yucky (yeah, I topped my class in English, can you tell??)

Okay,so melancholy aside, these are the things I absolutely HAVE to do once I'm there:

1. Go to Leo's - And as much as I know the boys are going to grumble...they can stuff it.Leo's is tradition! Leo's is home! Leo's is comfortable and I've been away for a year and I'm the princess and I have to get my own way (there's a little foot-stomping and pouting going on here. I have to practice if this is going to work on them when I get there).
2. Pig out at Britannia's - Mmmmm God, mutton saali boti and chicken berry pulao and caramel custard.
3. Pig out at Trishna - Crabs. With butter and garlic and pepper. And garlic naan. And Hyderabadi daal.
4. Pig out at any place that serves a decent saada dosa with non-sweet sambar and, oooh, medu vadas! And fried idli! Crap, I miss good Indian food...even though there's a massive Southie contingent in this country, not one fucking place that serves a decent dosa. Bah.
5. Pig out at Bade's - Because I miss leaning against a car at three in the morning, winding down and eating boti and naan.

Yeah, I know food features prominently on this list...but seriously...is there ANY place more reknowned for gastronomic pleasure than Bombay? (if there is, please tell me)

6. Frequent Hard Rock, Toto's and Zenzi - The former two for the music and the latter for the eye candy, both male and female. I tell you, I really missed out, living in South Bombay all those years and neglecting the 'burbs. Obviously all the droolworthy men are there (at least, I'm hoping).
7. Spend time with A.H., who will have plenty of tall tales filled with drunken debauchery and devilry, which will no doubt keep me entertained for a good week.
8. Find a woman for N.M., or at the very least keep bugging him about the fact that I get more action than he does.
9. Try and find out conclusively whether or not I.P. and N.P. are, in fact, gay, and if so, WHY THE HELL WON'T THEY JUST GET TOGETHER ALREADY. 'Cuz, seriously? They need to be locked in a room. Or clubbed over the head. I'll gladly volunteer.

And that is a fraction of my very ambitious itinerary. Somewhere in there I have to squeeze in Christmas, New Years', and an exam (which I'm trying really really REALLY hard not to think about, but it just won't go away!) and visiting cousins and exes and their wives and fiancees... But, whatever, in 91 hours, I'm hooooooooooome!!!

2007-06-03T20:02:00.001+04:00

"Are you married?"

The three most despicable and over-used words in this part of the world.

So, I've been in the middle-east a little less than three months, and I lost count of the number of times I was asked the dreaded question after about, oh, 47. Apparently here, if you're female, 24 and not completely bleargh, there's no earthly reason you shouldn't be shoving out Baby #4 as you read this. The shining moment for me, of course, was on my first day at work, when, while I was surrounded and Spanish Inquisitioned by a gaggle of abaya-clad secretaries, one sympathetic soul asked : "You cannot have children, yes? That is why no man will have you?" I WISH my reply had been to slink down in my seat, close my eyes and attempt to teleport myself to some distant and not-so-patriarchal location (a la Hiro Nakamura...don't you just love 'Heroes'??), but sadly, I chose the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar approach. You know, the whole "The world is changing" blah blah blah and "Women are independent and happy without a man" yada yada yada.

I might as well have been trying to teach Osama bin Laden the chicken dance.

So back to the Question-That-Shall-Not-Be-Asked (only by me, it seems). I have been asked that at job interviews (because, dah-ling, don't you know, a diamond ring is the working-girl accessory out here), at clinics during visa-related check-ups (why can't they just come right out and ask if I'm sexually active instead of married?? I have vowed to say the word 'sex' at my next check-up and see if the doctors will spontaneously combust. Or deport me.), at supermarkets (I think they figure no married woman would consume the vast quantities of Coke and hazelnut chocholate that I do), at bars (this one I'm a little confused about. Apparently the unmarried women in bars are prostitutes. So why would any man take his wife there??), and, as I mentioned, at work. Oh, and the women I work with? They're all younger than I am, and, between the 5 of them, have 21 children. I kid you not.

You know that fear you have, when you go to a new school, that you're just not gonna fit in? Yeah, that might be the case here! Though I'm not sure whether it's because of my "radical" opinions or my Sex and the City shoes.

But really, even back home, this whole preoccupation with marriage is mind-boggling! When did it become the be-all and end-all; the cherry on the sundae; the nirvana to be attained? What happened to the fiesty, fun, I-need-a-man-like-a-fish-needs-a-bicycle women? The ones who stayed single till their thirties and then married for equal parts love and lust? Who worked till midnight and then partied till dawn? I mean, obviously not here, where it's a big step forward for the local women to leave their hair uncovered. But at least in B'bay, I thought we were moving towards that new breed of woman that said "Fuck you" to matrimony, swivelled on one three-inch Jimmy Choo (Colaba knock-off) and sashayed away to flirt with...well...I can't actually remember there being anyone to flirt with at work. Are there people to flirt with in the workplace? Most of the bosses I've had have looked like Mr. Potato Head.

Then again, maybe all this introspection is because Serious-Ex#2 is getting married in November.

Wake Up and Smell the Bubble Wrap

2007-02-27T10:08:00.002+04:00

So we're moving again.

As a kid, I went through eleven schools in the kindergarten-to-12th years, and I loved almost every one of them (there was just this one place that was an all-girls' disaster...you know, with the rampant desperation and the comparing of boob sizes. Puberty is a tough time). But I think the best time I had was at the last school I was in. I actually managed to spend 3 years there! And it was those all-important years from 15 to 17, so of course there was drama and intrigue and mayhem and men...all very Sidney Sheldon (God Bless his soul), but without the sex.

And, of course, there was the-object-of-affection . Said object was actually someone I knew this time (as opposed to his predecessors, Prince William and Nick Carter), and lord, sometimes I think back to how utterly clueless I was about such things and I want to bang my head against the wall. Oh, I managed to talk to him without stammering and stuttering (I think), but it would more or less remain at comparing English marks (how scintillating!). And, embarrassingly, I think I was rather obvious about the entire thing, you know, with the blushing and the hair-twirling and the gaggle-of-giggling-friends a few feet away. I was a reasonably attractive teenager, but gawd, so low on self-confidence, so back then all the innuendo-laced flirting that I now manage was pretty much out of the question. What I wouldn't give to have projected this calm, cool, worldly image instead of the weirdo I must actually have seemed like! But I guess something must have been in my favour, since I got my first (and second) kiss out of it...And look at that, I still have a goofy grin on my face when I think about it! I guess once a nerd, always a nerd.

I think the strange part with object-of-affection was that my relationship with him only really began after it ended. I remember (once we started talking again!) that I could finally talk to him without the what-is-he-thinking-about-me and the ooh-say-something-hilarious-so-you-can-hear-that-cute-laugh. And as I grew a little older and a lot less self-conscious and, amazingly, so much more comfortable within my own skin, it became easier and easier to talk to him about men and women and college and jobs and aspirations and moving-blues and everything else under the sun. So then he become one of those friends. You know, the kind where you can pick up the phone after six months and start yakking like you just hung up five minutes ago? Love that.

So last night when mom and I were looking at empty walls and stacked packing crates and indulging in our moving-time ritual of curling up in bed and popping the bubbles on leftover (or, well, stolen) bubble-wrap, she asked me what I hoped to get out of this move to Muscat. I gotta say, with the way things have worked out in the past, a little crush wouldn't hurt :)

Plus, it's been a long time. A veeery long time.

Venereal Disease (Well, okay, no, but it sounds more interesting than 'Valentine's Day')

2007-02-14T22:08:00.001+04:00

I have never celebrated a Valentine’s Day with a significant other (even when I was dating, there would invariably be fights on either the 13th or the 14th itself (ah, tempestuous romance of college days, how I miss thee. NOT.). But the day is still pretty damn special for me. Okay, I’ll admit, it’s so blatantly commercial that it’s difficult to see where the romance begins and the promotional schemes end. And honestly, if you’re a woman and you’re PMSing and you’re – god forbid in these hearts and flowers times – single (gasp!), the copious amount of red-heart-bedecked store fronts and ultra-mega-gigantic billboards shouting “Valentine’s Sales” and “Two-for-One Lovers’ Discount” get to be a bit much. Well, when I say a bit much, I mean only in the hitting-in-the-head-with-a-bulldozer sort of way.

Sour grapes, you say? To which I heartily rejoin: Nahhhh. Sour grapes is this woman I know, who’ll walk down Marine Drive in the evening and scowl at all the poor privacy-deprived couples and mutter about taking them out with a bazooka. Oh, or this other person I know who’ll walk into every greeting-card store and not-so-surreptitiously stick all the heart-shaped balloons with a pin and then gleefully proclaim “I broke 75 hearts today!” Um, note to self: must find new friends’ circle. But really, what I don’t get is how people don’t see the day for the corporate-sponsored malarkey that it is. I know it’s been said a million times before, so it can stand to be said again: Why should there be a separate day allotted to love and showing it? It’s a nice concept, I’ll grant you that – a special day set aside like any birthday or anniversary (and there’s no such thing as too many special days). But card companies and restaurants and TV and movies have turned it into this whole huge deal, to the point where I actually know people running around in a panic at the last minute because they don’t have a date for the 14th of February.

Oh, and since I have chronic foot-in-mouth disease, to these people I said: “So?” And boy, did I ever get reamed out. “Don’t you have a romantic bone in your body?”; “Do you want to die an old maid?”; “Don’t you know how important the day is?”; “Don’t you know how much fun it is getting all those gifts?”; “Do you WANT to be a lonely 80 year old with 47 cats?” and the like. I dunno, really. I’ve always rather liked cats, and as for dying an old maid…well, I really doubt one Valentine’s Day is going to tip the scales either way on that probability! As for the gifts….ok, yeah, I’m losing out there. But damn it, I’m a woman of the 21st century and I earn my own money (albeit not much), so I can buy my own damned Swarovski crystals (the teeny-tiny ones)!

I think what prompts most people to want to celebrate the 14th of February (aside from all the nummy chocolates and the cosy hand-holding) is the fear (or maybe despair) of being alone when most of the world is paired up. I said earlier that Valentine’s Day is a special day like any birthday or anniversary, but unlike those days, which are celebrated by family and friends and large groups of loved ones, Valentine’s Day is a day for two. It’s a more intimate day, a more exclusive one, and third wheels are not encouraged to tag along. It’s very firmly a Couples Thing. And, deep down, there’s a lot of people out there yearning to be part of a Couples Thing, especially on the 14th, when the Couple Vibe is on display EVERYWHERE. They want to walk down halls with fingers intimately clasped and play footsie under restaurant tables and gasp with delight at gifts received and seal the day with a kiss (or, okay, more).

So the thing is, what I miss today isn’t a significant other. This day is normally special for me because in Bombay it always meant going to Leo’s or out for dinner with the entire bunch and groaning over the fact that EVERY place insisted on playing “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love For You” and “Everything I Do” at least 6 times in succession. It meant looking at couples fighting and smirking to ourselves that we were footloose and fancy free and, most importantly, free to ogle without recrimination, even on this, the much-touted Most Hallowed of All Days of Love (pardon the oodles of sarcasm). It meant eventually piling into someone’s car and sitting by Marine Drive or Worli Seaface at 3 in the morning, speculating about what we’d all be doing and where we’d be, and who we’d be, 10 years from now. It meant a very real, and very visceral fear (confusingly laced with a little anticipation) that maybe next year, one of us wouldn’t be there, because we’d have found someone (someone else, someone not us) and abandoned our little ritual for the wonders of Valentine’s Day. Not romantic, no, not at all, but special in more ways than anyone can quantify.

And okay, now I’m in Cal, and we’re all running up our phone bills (yeah, no more Swarovskis for me...sigh) calling to and from Bombay and Delhi and Calcutta and Dubai and Sydney. But there’s still the smirking and the speculating and god, tonnes of catching up (and all without the sappy songs in the background!). And fine, even if it isn’t 3 in the morning in someone’s car on Worli Seaface? It’s still pretty damn special.

In Which WorldSpace Should Pay Me For Promoting Them...

2007-01-24T20:12:00.001+04:00

"There's something to be said for music: it has the amazing ability to make people bond. Be it Aerosmith (my mother particularly likes re-enacting the "Dude Looks Like a Lady" dance with the vacuum cleaner, a la Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire), or Prodigy ( my sweet, 50-plus dad headbanging away to "Smack My Bitch Up") or even the Backstreet Boys (i've told my little brother I'll disown him if he tells anyone he listens to boybands and is related to me), music appeals to anyone and everyone, be they possessed of discerning taste or not. Me, I relax with the dulcet tones of Metallica and Switchfoot and Incubus and, when i'm lucky, Eminem. Or wait, actually, I think the only thing we bond over is yelling to each other: "Turn the bloody volume down!" Sheesh. Parents. Do they have to blast the Marilyn Manson quite so loud?

No, but blatant name-dropping aside, this WorldSpace thingy is a stroke of sheer unadulterated genius, and to everyone out there who does not possess one: what are you waiting for, you poor sod? Go get it! 40 channels of music to suit every palate. So one second you could be listening to "Kandukondain kandukondain,", the next it could be "Tanhayee" and then "Donde Quieras yo ire" and subsequently "Unbreak my heart." I totally lack pride in my country's contribution to the world of music, and I suffer little to no shame about it...I firmly stick to the 12 channels allocated to rock, hip-hop, r&b, country, electronica, pop, chartbusters and international hits (I can't help it..."I want to kiss your bellybutton" sounds a million times better in Spanish than in Malayalam).

And, okay, there are news channels too, but who needs gloom and doom when Beyonce's talking about being a naughty girl? Still, for those who feel the need to be well-informed at any given nanosecond ,there are umm...I think...six news channels, all droning on about world affairs, so enjoy being clued in! And yes, that includes up-to-the-minute scores for every concievable sport that's being played out there, so all you cricket/football/hockey/ice-hockey/baseball/volleyball/basketball/women's-beach-volleyball fans, go get your jollies.

And what's best about WorldSpace Radio? Entertainment value: at the end of a long tiring day, I come home to see my grouchy 110-kilo maid doing the ironing and blissfully wobbling and shaking her groove thang to Daft Punk. Ah, bless music."

So, I wrote the above piece of ass-kissing a few months ago. My maid has since left (tossed out by my mom for the 289th and final time), and the only one wobbling and shaking her groove thang is me.

I HATE ironing. Hmph.

2007-01-04T11:57:00.001+04:00

Okay, so I know a lot of people out there aren't really into poetry in a major way (or at all, really)...but this is a poem I go around stumping to just about everyone. You know how it is...you come across something so beautiful, you just have to share it with people. It's Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII: Love.

I do not love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
Or arrow of carnations that propagate fire.
I love you as certain dark things are loved:
Secretly, between the shadow and the soul;
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom
And carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers...
And thanks to your love, darkly in my body
Lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where;
I love you simply, without problems or pride.
I love you in this way because I know no other way of loving

But this, in which there is no I or you:
So close, that your hand upon my chest is my hand;
So close, that when I fall asleep, it is your eyes that close.

God, I love this one. Actually, I love most of his stuff. They're all translations into English, though, since the originals were in Spanish, but it makes you wonder...if the translation can feel like such a kick to the gut, how beautiful must the original be? His "Body of a Woman" is amazing...this one line gets me everytime: "You look like a world, lying in surrender." Gah. Oh, and his "Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines"...wow...just...wow.

It's amazing the power that words can carry...how immensely evocative they are...how, to someone with an imagination (and hoo boy, do I ever have one!), words can convey more than a picture ever could. And I've seen this power mostly in poetry and songs...Not just Neruda, but Frost, and Dylan Thomas, and Byron, and Shakespeare and...Metallica, and 3 Doors Down, and Deathcab for Cutie, and Bif Naked, and....okay, it could go on forever.

But seriously. Do yourself a favour. Read Neruda's "Sonnet XVII" and "Body of a Woman". And Ben Jonson's "Love Poem to Celia". And then listen to Metallica's "Turn the Pages". And Bif Naked's "Lucky". And Bush's "Out of This World". And Staind's "It's Been A While".

Actually, listen to just about anything that makes you smile and sit down and say "Oh." Do that once a day, and I think it'll be a whole lot better for you than any vitamin tonic or calcium tablet or iron pill.

Now if I could just sell that theory to my doctor. Sigh.

2006-12-04T13:50:00.001+04:00

Does anyone else out there find the "Fair & Lovely" ads ridiculously insulting to women? I mean, we're all supposed to buy that if a woman isn't possessed of a flawless, clear, peaches-n-cream, FAIR complexion, she is to be denied everything good in life, like a career and marriage and dates? On the other hand, if said woman is actually fair, of course she will bump into a famous movie director who will offer her the lead in his next movie. Or, well, the fair photographer will have to outshine the model at a shoot. It's the law, dahling. These ads work on the premise that unless a woman is fair, she is worth nothing - not worthy to be a wife, or a career woman, or an actress, or a model, or, hell, even a woman. I mean, the "Fair & Lovely" for men came out only recently...I guess up until now it's been acceptable if men are dark-skinned, swarthy brutes...the women simply must be angelically fair (and, if possible, light-eyed). I, for one, am rather glad that the men are facing that particular prejudice now!! Rather evens the scales...but here's the thing: why does that prejudice exist in the first place?

I think what most people in this country tend to forget is that we are from this country, and along with that we get all the trappings - for the women it's the child-bearing hips and the always-problematic love handles around the waist; for the men...well, men's greatest problem is that they are men! No, on a serious note - we’re Indians, and the majority of us are bound to be darker than the whiter-shade-of-pale that is considered beautiful. Sure you'll have your Kashmiris and Punjabis and Sindhis and the odd Bengali and Maharashtrian who's white-as-snow, but the majority of us range from cafe-au-lait to espresso on the colour scale. And from the time we're born, it seems, we're trying to rid ourselves of any trace of colour that will lead to us being remotely tagged as "dusky” or "tanned" or just plain "dark." Even "wheatish" is barely acceptable these days! Honestly, when did one start equating skin colour with beauty? And since when was beauty the only thing that mattered?

Every where we look now, we see more evidence of just how shallow our society is becoming. It's not fair to villify just the "Fair & Lovely" commercials...I've heard of a TV series on Zee TV called "Saat Phere" that deals with one woman's anxieties over whether or not she'll find marital bliss, simply because she's dark skinned. Is she good-natured? Is she fun? Is she a good human being? Who cares? She's dark! That cancels out any possible good in her, doesn't it? Look at all the other Indian soap operas...the women are primped, pancaked and pasted to look like blue/green/violet/hazel/grey-eyed vixens with fair skin, when in reality, they're at least seven shades darker. But hey, they're gorgeous as long as they're white on-screen. Stepping off the silver screen and a little closer to real life, I have friends (and sometimes I wonder about calling them "friends") who refuse to ask out women, no matter how attractive, if they're not fair. Dark women just aren't beautiful, according to them. Once, I innocently asked whether they were then saying that Naomi Campbell and Tyra Banks were not beautiful, to which their prompt reply was that they'd be more beautiful if they were fair! There's no arguing with people who can't see beyond colour. While the situation isn't, of course, of the same magnitude as the racism and Apartheid in America and Africa was, the underlying prejudice is still the same - differentiating, discriminating and judging based on something that one is born with and cannot change. And, indeed, should not want to change. All the bleach and cream and wax and paint in the world isn't going to change the fact that underneath it all, you're still a human being with major issues, and a great deal of insecurity, if you need a fairness cream to get yourself a job and a spouse and a life!

All these commercials and billboards and TV serials do is capitalise on your insecurities. And, with 99% of the masses being tuned into the media the way they are, everyone seems to buy into the idea that fair skin is the way to a better world. Forget morals and decency and a sense of humour and education and ambition. Fair skin is the way to the future! No wonder India is entering the future with one of the highest crime rates in the world. In the future, we'll probably be housing the largest number of theives, rapists, dacoits, embezzlers and terrorists in the world. But I'm sure the ads will say it doesn't matter. Just as long as they have fair skin.

2006-11-27T14:51:00.002+04:00

A while ago, I read a blog that delved into the nostalgia surrounding meetings with old friends. I've always loved using the word "bittersweet", and I think sometimes that it's the most apt word for such meetings. I met an old friend a few days ago, after two years , and heard about his plans to go abroad and his job and what he'd been up to in the two years since college ended. It was so hard to picture him in a suit and tie and dealing with clients, when I've seen him in ripped jeans and ultra-baggy t-shirts, knocking back tequila shot after tequila shot till he passed out on the bar. In my mind, at least, he'll be forever 18.

God, if only all of us could stay forever 18 and forever where we're happiest. For someone who's moved around as much as I have, I don't seem to deal too well with change...at least, change in the people I know. One of my best friends from my childhood, someone I've known since I was five and he was seven, got married six months ago. It was the most surreal experience in my life. You know you should be happy, you want to be happy; you have a smile on your face as you hear the news, but all you can remember is running in a three-legged race with him when you were six years old, both of you wearing matching red shorts and t-shirts. Bittersweet was the only thing that could come close to describing it. And he knew it too. Things, people, places, situations, even memories change irretrievably as we grow up and grow away. He still calls and we still talk a lot, but that niggling feeling of change is always there, that little curbing and adhering to propriety, which makes me sad, because God knows amongst friends we've never ever adhered to propriety! There's a different set of rules and boundaries that comes in, even if he's someone you always confided in, because he's a married man, and it's been years, and you're older, and everything grows and dissolves and changes and mutates till it makes your head hurt. And you look at this...this man, with stubble, and a leather briefcase, and a wife, and you can barely see a trace of the boy whom you made your queen when you wanted to be the king in games of make-believe. You know he's still there, but sometimes, it's hard to remember.

If life was perfect, we'd still all be in the college canteen, eating the best chinese food in Bombay and figuring out if we had enough money to go shoot a game of pool. None of this MBA, work, marriage and kids nonsense. There'd be this time warp, or a time loop, that would keep us there, over and over again, so we'd never age and never leave. Our own little Neverland, and we'd all be Peter Pan. Realistically, of course, life has to go on, and we have to make time and make way for more people and more memories and more nostalgia. It's never- ending. You keep giving your heart away, piece by piece, to the ones who leave an impact on you, and on some days, it's hard to remember which city you're in, who your friends-in-close-geographical-proximity are and who it is you miss with an ache.

The best thing, maybe, about all of this, is that they're still there. You meet or you don't, you talk or you don't, you keep in touch or you don't....but somewhere, 2 or 5 or 10 years down the line there's an impromptu meeting. And then there's the hugging and the laughing and the crying and the "Oh my God it's so good to see you!" and the little tugging at your heartstrings as you see and feel the changes, and you know that life actually is perfect, because time didn't stop, it went on and it brought you, somehow, to those people again, and you had the opportunity to use words like "nostalgia" and "bittersweet" when you looked at them and saw how they had changed so much, but not so much that you couldn't still love them.

2006-11-22T13:17:00.002+04:00

I am, it must be confessed, a great source of shame in my circle of friends. Why, you ask? Well, said circle of friends includes six men who routinely create a new definition for the words "Maximum Speed Limit" (including one mad Parsi who insists on performing ridiculously dangerous stunts on a bike) and a woman who takes great pleasure in sticking her head out the car window to scream obscenities at police officers, before she zooms smartly away while they scratch their heads in consternation. These friends of mine can look at a car and rattle off the make, year, top speed and other details that I'm told aren't at all impressive, but Greek and Latin always sounded impressive to me. And they regularly spend their time drooling over Porsches and Lamborghinis and the latest BMW Z-something-or- the-other. Me? I think most cars look like a variation of the Esteem (I'll pause now for the gasps of shock and outrage). The most I can tell you about a car at one glance is its colour (apparently, when someone says "Check out that sweet ride", they do NOT appreciate a response like "Um, Yes. Nice shade of red."). Oh, and I can't drive.

Well, alright, that's not entirely true. i mean, I do have a license. Somewhere. And I went for driving lessons.

And almost had a nervous breakdown in the process.

No, really. At the ripe old age of 19, I decided, what the hell. it's about time I learned to be mobile. And I'm sure the confidence will come once I've motored around a bit with a licensed driver in the front passenger seat. Hence the signing on the dotted line at 'Good Luck Driving Lessons.' The name should've been a sign. Now, do keep in mind, this is good old Bombay. There were no brochures on road rules, no instructors in classrooms; just a yellow-toothed, vaguely-decomposing-smelling old man with bloodshot eyes who steered me towards a beat-up old Santro (that's a Hyundai, right? Or a Honda? I always get those two mixed up) and said "Drive." To which my response was a very eloquent "Huh?" Evidently, they followed the rule of thumb: where there's a will, there's a way. In this case, my will to live causing me to get out of the way as a double-decker bus bore down on me. And thence it began: my life-long (for the past 4 years, anyway) fear of driving. From various incidents including buses and trucks zooming by at unnatural speeds and me shrieking inside the car, to a taxi (miserable buggers) ramming into me, my driving lessons were a nightmare. In fact, even though I don't drive, I still cringe when a bus gets too close to the car. As for taxis, I nurture torrid fantasies of having every last one of them taken to a high-tech dump and put into the crusher, one by one, till they're nothing but a glorious heap of scrap.

The moment I was declared legally able to terrorize the streets (I'm still a little foggy on how that happened...might've been a liiiiittle hopped up on painkillers from the cab accident...guess it improved my driving skills), I vowed never to drive again. Only to find that I had to drive home. Of course, since nothing in my life can go right, I managed to stall the car at a busy intersection, causing a sweet-grandmotherly-looking old lady to roll down her window, show me the middle finger and scream something that suspiciously rhymed with "bucking fitch." Needless to say, my license has forevermore remained in some forgotten drawer.

So while my friends are jetting around at what I honestly feel are insane speeds (I mean, just because it's the highway, do you HAVE to go at 120??), I am more often to be found snugly buckled and cringing in the passenger seat, or dozing in the backseat (even during a ten-minute drive. Must get checked up for narcolepsy). And when the discussion turns to dream cars and sunroofs and canvas-top convertibles and awesome tyres and customized rides, I stick to what I know and say "I like that shade of red."

Really, it's a wonder they're still my friends.

2006-11-20T14:15:00.001+04:00

Science has long expostulated that the human brain is a complex and wonderful machine, and I agree, though probably not for the same reasons science has put forth. I think the way the brain reacts to the five senses....now that's what is wonderful.

I find it fascinating the way a particular melody can play around in your head for days and days, making a smile spread across your face when that song comes on the radio. And how your mind can create a special significance for that song....linking it to a time, a place, a person, a gesture, a thought. A song, five minutes at the most, so tiny and inane and ordinary, that can still make you laugh and leap out of your chair and twirl like a maniac when it starts playing.

I think it's thrilling the way your eyes will watch people as you sit in the dark corner of the cafe (or bar, or restaurant, or club, or salon, or even the train).... the young mother with the gurgling child, the old woman looking at pictures of her grandchildren, the slimy man SO obviously having an affair with his secretary (hmm,yes, it's that shifty look),the world-weary teenagers three feet away who think the problems of the universe weigh down their shoulders. It's so enthralling to watch them all come and go, see their stories and their lives...and, when you can't hear what they're saying, imagine their stories - that lovely old woman in the corner may have been a cabaret dancer in her youth....and that little boy may grow up to be the president.....Your eyes will pick up on clothes and hairstyles and smiles and heartaches till the world around you becomes smaller, cozier, because everyone is your own.

Mmm, and taste....remembering the rich melting sensation of chocolate on your tongue, even when you haven't touched any in weeks.....anticipating the first bite of your favourite meal at your favourite restaurant...the first sip of cool tart lemonade when you come in from the sun... the icy trail that mint leaves down your throat ....savouring every new flavour and holding it in your mouth and your mind till you can sample it again. And old tastes dredging up equally old memories... pasta reminding you of the first ever meal someone special cooked for you. Vodka making you think back to the first time you got sloshed (and made a huuuuge fool of yourself). Lemon cheesecake making you think back to girls'-nights-out, pigging out on everything sinful and forgetting all about men (except to bitch about them, of course). Chocolate sauce taking you back to... um, nevermind.

Now, touch....that brings to mind a wealth of images. Sensations of soft silk against your skin, the scratch of wool, the pleasant (slightly sweaty from nervousness) warmth the first time you held hands with a person of the opposite sex, the encompassing feeling of a bear hug, your best friend's arm slung across your shoulder, the days when your mom would make it a point to kiss every scrape and bruise to make it better. There's magic in touch, like holding a baby and feeling a tiny, precious life in your hands. Tracing the velvet-softness of the first lily you were ever given (because your secret admirer knew you hated roses). Guiding your little brother when he first learned to walk. Grabbing your oldest friend in a tight hug before you sent him off to get married. It's said that blind people see with their hands. Maybe the rest of us could stand to learn a thing or two from them.

What's most amazing to me is how evocative smells are....a whiff of cologne can take you back to your first kiss, your favourite perfume can bring you out of a sullen mood, a dab of an exotic scent can make you feel mysterious and alluring. The smell of the sea can make you close your eyes and think of days spent with friends sitting on the promenade and watching tiny crabs scuttle on the rocks below. The rich,loamy scent of the ground after it rains can take you to another time when you and your cousins would dart in and out of the sheltering porch in your ancestral home, trying to catch the first raindrop on your tongue. And the peachy-new smell that babies always seem to carry when you smell their hair....it makes you think of every tired, over-used happy cliche in the world, like sunshine and rainbows and puppies. Favourite smells are stored away in this one tiny corner of the brain, and you're hardly aware of them until you're walking down the street and you pass the bakery. That's when you close your eyes and blissfully inhale the scent of fresh-baked bread and apple pie with cinnamon. And then, instantly, your day is perfect.

Each sense is like an intangible journal...sending sights and sounds and smells and sensations to your brain, storing a memory to correspond with each one. And, in the end, what you have is your life, neatly bound into exquisite memories that you can clearly define, and which clearly define you.

2006-11-17T20:21:00.000+04:00

Wheeee!! I have a blog! So, I've always wondered...how does one start these things? 'Cuz in my mind, it's a little like being a new student and standing in front of 40-odd judgemental teenagers and stammering and stuttering your way through: "Hi, my name is..., and I'm from..., and..." yada yada yada. Or going out with a new group of people, and there's that slightly awkward getting-to-know-you phase where you politely ask a zillion people "And what do you do? Oh, really, how interesting." At least, till everyone gets drunk...then you're instantly best friends! Sigh. If only I could ensure that everyone reading this would be a little tipsy....why is there no setting for that??

Anyway, having caved in to the strong-arming of all my friends who are enamoured of my writing (all 1 of them), I decided it's time to carve my own minuscule niche in cyberland.Do I do the intro thing now? Rank and serial number and all that? Let's see...female, 20-something, lived in all the major metropolises in India and desperately in love with Mumbai (hellooo, how can you not be??), definitely in the wrong line of work (banking vs being Paris Hilton and partying for a living), addicted to Coke and anything chocolate. Fell out of love with the real world a decade ago, so I prefer the one in my mind (you know, where I have Antonio Banderas and George Clooney in my all-male harem. Yes, it's Utopia.). Am probably not as nice as I could be, but not as bitchy as I'd like to be. Will draw on any available surface (sometimes without consent). Write about books, music, poetry, fiction, my own opinions (a LOT about my own opinions).

And that's all folks. Tune in next post for something at least remotely interesting... after all, we're past the getting-to-know-you phase now!