Who, What, Where, When, Why, How

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

- 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

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

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

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

- 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

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.