maybe's a nice word

A Series of Unfortunate Events

2009-07-01T19:23:00.003+05:30

They made me move out of my perfect apartment. Some high-flying company decided that their executives needed the house with one red wall more than I did. The landlord's compliance was purchased with a princely sum of money. The roomie and I looked around for a week or so. It made me realize certain things all over again:

1. Moral policing is a landlord's definition of value addition.
2. This whole metropolis thing is a sham to disguise mindsets which are narrower than Slimfast powered waistlines and more medieval than all the assorted K soaps.
3. If you're unmarried, your virtue (?!) is to be guarded zealously by conducting random checks on your household, for your safety of course.
4. If you're single/non-Hindu/slightly independent of mind, you should live on the street.
5. If you don't believe that owning a house makes people demigods, you should live in the gutter that flows by the street.
6. In your house hunt, you will say 'uncle' more times than you have ever said in the rest of your life.
7. Wine shop owners are not appropriate landlords. After a while, the fumes go to their heads.

Let me decode it for you. We fell in love with a beautiful, fully furnished place owned by aforementioned wine shop guy. After packing for two days, hiring transport and moving in, the guy hectored us for an hour for having 'itna zyaada saaman'. Then he proceeded to humiliate a friend who had come to help us because he happened to be male. The same night, we moved to another place where the landlord was easier to live with simply because he doesn't live in Mumbai. So if something seems too good to be true, it is, really.

One more of my teeth has decided to go to the Great Big Mouth. Of course, the process of its demise is exceedingly painful and equally expensive. To top it all, I'm supposed to be churning out creative ideas to garner new clients while my head feels an electrocuted, overly tuned guitar wire.

She came to visit me for barely three days, out of which one day went to the dogs because I was travelling on work. Woe is me for ever imagining that work related travel could be interesting and fun. The work is interesting, yes, but the travel is an exercise in wishing you were elsewhere. Of course, there are also moments when you discover new facets to your personality. Like the moment when I shut up two loudmouths who weren't letting the other participants talk, simply by being politely rude. Now that was fun.

At one research trip, I managed to lose my glasses for almost three hours. Three hours of blundering my way through a blurred world, trying to convince myself that I could conduct a serious group discussion wearing sunglasses. And some people should really stop with the 'Tough Love' pep talks. Unless you've walked a mile in my shoes, or seen the world with my very poor eyesight, skip the lecture.

And then, Michael Jackson died. I mean, is it funny to someone up there?

And yes, I really meant every word of the post title.

Here We Go Again

2009-05-14T00:27:00.005+05:30

Over the last couple of months, I've been very detached from the blog. I've preferred reading to writing, and not just out of laziness. I even mulled announcing that the blog and I are on a break, but I couldn't do something so self important and keep a straight face. It's not that I've finally run out of things I wanna say or write. It's not even that I'm too busy (it's never that. If you wanna do something you'll make the time). It's just that the 'what to say' has been overwhelmed by the 'how to say it'. I'm trying to get over that, so here it is.

We met a year and a half ago, driven by mutual curiosity elicited by somewhat deft wordplay which filled up the minutes we spent at work, glued to our screens. We read each other and wrote to each other with a level of intimacy that only very close friends share. We were both addicted to the catharsis of blogdom in a world that spun either too fast or too slow for our liking. He wrote like I wanted to write, and what I wrote gave him pleasure. We had windows into each others' minds long before we met. Of course, the real world is different, and it contains the very real possibility of turning virtual friendships into quietly shushed embarrassments of the past.

But we did meet, and it was so easy that we never noticed the shift. It was simple to be friends, simpler even to be more than friends. A relationship was forged during midnight rambles about philosophy and vada pav, the weight of family expectations and the hilarity of existential angst. We met everyday, without fail, and we never forgot to share a few laughs. I moved to a new place so he could visit without encountering the unpleasantness of a landlady. We fell into a pattern where I always got my way and he always gave in, where I bullied and he let me, where I tried to get him to read Harry Potter and realized the strength of passive resistance. Our friends started referring to the two of us as a collective noun, and we never felt any danger of losing ourselves.

Love is deceptively easy to get used to, especially when it's the kind of love you've unconsciously been holding your breath for. So I've gotten used to the smell of the skin just above his temple, the quick smile that always manages to overlook my instinct for world dominance and the voice that is meant only for me because if anyone else hears it, it'll be the joke of the century. He's gotten used to my hectoring and shrillness, my impulsive demands and my thorough conviction that I am always better and always right. Now we've gotten to a point where we're pretty much unlivable without the other. Of course, this means that he now has to move away.

It's not the most difficult thing in the world. It's not that we can't make it work, or that we 're entertaining any doubts about what we want to do with our lives. It's just that I'm tired. Tired of change announcing itself on me. I could probably get him to stay, but of course I won't. I would never grudge him the opportunity he's been waiting for all his life. But emotions are never absolute, and being happy for him would be so much easier if I could pack myself in his suitcase. I know I shouldn't be this way, but I just am. I'll stop.

Just as soon as you explain to me how to have Friday night dinner with a phone and how to get Google Chat to give me a hug on Sunday evenings.

Borrowing Others' Words, Coz I Don't Have Any

2009-04-08T17:15:00.002+05:30

From Professor Dumbledore.

If you ever have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember Cedric Diggory (or what I take to mean keeping your eye on the long road).

From The Mask.

I can take off the mask anytime I wanna. I just don't wanna.

I've never been good at being cryptic or mysterious. But this isn't the time to spill my guts. All I can say is that I really, really, really don't wanna. And it's driving me crazy.

I wanna crawl into a dark little burrow for a while. Any suggestions?

25 Things That Hardly Matter

2009-03-15T13:50:00.003+05:30

Just because I don't like writing on Facebook.

1. Right now I'm playing fetch with Ramprasad, my Facebook pup.
2. Whenever I read about Madeline Bassett in any of the Jeeves books, I get more convinced that she was written because Wodehouse found Anne of Green Gables ridiculous.
3. Mosquitoes did not let me sleep all night, so I read the Deathly Hallows book for the nth time. Harry Potter is an inexpressible comfort to me.
4. I find all doctors sinister, even the friendly, white haired 'Family Doctor Uncle'.
5. Masakalli makes me feel like I could fly.
6. Today I discovered that poppy seeds are called khus khus in Hindi.
7. The most ridiculous thing that happened to me recently was when I was huffing and puffing away on the treadmill. As it is, treadmills make me feel unco-ordinated and nervous. To add to that, my gym plays crappy remixes all the time. The icing on the cake was the woman next to me, loudly exhorting everyone to 'Shake it Daddy'.
8. I'm deeply convinced of the innate decency of Gregory Peck.
9. I feel embarrassed when other people do stupid things, even in the movies. I look away because I feel like I'm watching something indecent.
10. Yesterday I washed and dried all the detachable parts of my fridge, taking neat freak to a new level.
11. I'm so used to PVR that I find that all other cinema theatres smell funny.
12. My trainer recently told me that my life is doomed because I never played any sports in school. He has told me this everytime I've worked out with him. Now I wonder how many muscles I will benefit by socking him on the jaw.
13. I think that the term 'White Lies' takes the cake as far as racism in language is concerned.
14. Somehow, the knowledge that Hermione Granger is played by an actress who is a straight As student in real life feels right.
15. I can't believe how large a number 25 is.
16. I don't know if I'll ever have kids, but I've got names picked out.
17. I still write letters, old fashioned pen and paper ones, to the two people in the world who write back. I love it.
18. I have a couple of giant regrets, a few of which I plan to address by getting back to academics someday.
19. Boredom and idleness make a fascinating cocktail. That is my poison.
20. Dating someone younger to me has made me realize that age does matter, just not in the ways we think.
21. If I had to think of one word to describe how I'd like to feel, that word would be Sufiyana.
22. Dave Barry is my Monday morning ritual.
23. The best thing about the aftermath of Delhi 6 is the number of people I've discovered who are in love with Delhi. Thoda sa resham, thoda khurdura, a slice of the same ancient soul in all of us.
24. Tomorrow I have to tell my client that she lacks professionalism and courtesy, without offending her. I'm looking forward to it.
25. Mangoes are God's way of making up for life.

Clickety Clack

2009-03-01T22:30:00.004+05:30

You know, there is always that moment. The one where things clear up in your head with a resounding click. The click may be a perky one or a gloomy one, depending on the subject of the epiphany. I've had more than my fair share of those during my life.

The day I saw Aamir Khan on screen for the first time, when I was about four years old. Click! Barbie was a mere crush, this is love.

The thousandth time that my elder sister was beating the crap out of me, while I was retaliating with all my might, but with little effect. Click! There are some battles you can never win.

The time I was watching Roman Holiday in SKT's house. Audrey Hepburn woke up, looked around at Gregory Peck's modest apartment, and asked in her regal tones, "Is this the elevator?" Click! Girl crush.

After three years of reading blogs, scrapbooks, walls and suchlike, click! Very, very few situations in life merit the use of an exclamation mark.

The first time I met A, after three days wondering what I would do if he looked like a paunchy kind of yeti. Click! I'm superficial, and he's not Sasquatch.

The time I spent a whole evening at an awards show, looking at the brightest stars of the film industry. Click! It's boring, they're boring. And it's painful how much I don't care.

Yesterday, when I was spending my day off squatting in the bathroom shampooing my stuffed dog Chandu. Click! I'm so very old.

The first time I tried to write a post and drew a complete blank, about three weeks ago. Click! People change.

Comprehension Refuses To Dawn

2009-02-12T17:19:00.005+05:30

It's something that has happened everywhere that I have ever lived or visited. It's something conducted with stealth and co-ordination akin to a secret service operation. It's something everyone does, and everyone knows that everyone does this, and yet we all do it in secret. If we see someone doing this openly, we try to persuade them to do it under some sort of cover so that it is not seen by others. And I have never understood why.

I'm referring to the act of putting underwear/innerwear out to dry. People who have otherwise had a very evolved outlook on life have advised me on how I should cover underwear with a towel so that people from outside can't see it hanging with the other drying clothes. It is most puzzling and it throws up certain questions:

1. Why are people embarrassed about underwear?

2. Is it shameful to wear underwear or to go without it?

3. If it is assumed that wearing underwear is a desirable quality in people, isn't washing underwear necessary for reasons of hygiene?

4. Since washed underwear cannot be worn while it is wet, should it not be dried?

5. If wearing and washing underwear are respectable pursuits, why is drying it a covert activity?

6. Why does it reflect on the respectability of a household if drying underwear is as visible as other clothes?

7. Wouldn't the sight of drying underwear reassure you that the nice family you were visiting believed in both wearing and washing their underclothes?

Tangentially, let's look at the concept of underwear itself. It is being used, rather brilliantly I believe, by the Pink Chaddi campaign to make a point about loose, forward, pub going women like myself to the Sri Ram Sena, the self appointed guardians of my womanly modesty and yours. It's bright, it's fun, and it has had quite an impact because of the very nature of the campaign. It has also evoked some inexplicable reactions among some other well-wishers of Indian women.

I read a post by Sagarika Ghose of CNN IBN arguing that this campaign would somehow render the whole argument against this kind of corrosive moral policing frivolous. Some others have called it vulgar, a brash idea brought to life by a few westernized apostates, something a 'truly Indian' girl would never do. I have difficulty understanding these arguments. Why should this campaign prevent other less 'frivolous' engagements with the issue from coming to the fore? If anyone genuinely wishes to make a point, chaddis are not going to drown out his/her voice. Let's face it, most of us did absolutely nothing to address the issue before the inventive chaddi brigade. And it is equally restrictive and dangerous for us to undermine someone else's debate because it does not go along with what we construe as serious.

The reason I believe that this campaign was necessary was that I didn't see anyone else doing anything remotely meaningful about it. Apart from a few newsroom discussions and indignant editorials, nothing happened. A few men were arrested and let out on bail, so that they could begin making threats again. There was a gaping chasm, a complete absence of the meaningful debate that is supposedly being threatened by our frivolous underthings.

As for the argument that most of the 'real Indian' women cannot relate to this sort of action and that it is not representative of that constituency, the loose and forward pub going woman is as much of an Indian as the exemplary woman of Pramod Muthalik's fevered imagination. This may be a campaign by a miniscule elite educated and westernized section of Indian womanhood. But since it is this very demographic and its way of life that is under such vicious attack, isn't it only fair to expect a response out of it?

So yes, the next time you come to tell us that we belong at home, that you get to decide how we should live our lives, the next time that you froth with indignation at our way of life conveniently before major elections, we will treat you with the contempt that you so richly deserve. We will throw at you the humble chaddi which, for all its disrepute, has more reason to be proud of itself than you do.

Her Story

2009-02-02T15:00:00.004+05:30

Once there was a little girl. She was a fanciful kind of child, and she liked nothing better than to listen to her grandmother spinning yarns on lazy afternoons. At one such session, her grandmother abruptly interrupted her story and admonished the little girl for shaking her legs while sitting. The little girl protested, "But Dad does it too!" Grandma replied that it was alright for him because he was a man. The little girl could not understand how she knew, but she knew instantly that Grandma was wrong. Maybe it was because she had heard her Dad tell one of her aunts who had tried to sympathize with his son-less state that in his eyes, each of his three daughters was as good as ten sons. The little girl kept shaking her legs.

In time, the little girl grew up to become just a girl. She started noticing that people on the streets looked at her differently when she walked on the road. Their eyes followed her, bothered her, made her feel like she was under some kind of spotlight. She hated every instant of it, so she decided to cover herself up and make herself invisible. She wore clothes which could have accommodated her twice over, she wore dull colours, she did everything she could do make herself invisible, and yet they never stopped looking. She envied her friends who wore shapely clothes and riotous colours, but never had the courage to follow suit.

Then came a day when that selfsame grandmother told the girl to wear jeans, because they flattered her more than the gunny bags she usually wore. The girl realized that she need not be ashamed if people looked at her. She wore colour, and she was happy. She wore well-cut clothes, and she was pretty. She felt sorry for all the women trapped in the faraway realm of Talibanistan, who were beaten in public for showing the teensiest bit of skin, as though their very physical existence was somehow shameful and needed to be hidden. She felt secure and thankful for the country that, for all its lascivious eyes, did not seek to put her away in a corner, deny her being and make her feel like she was less of a person than any man.

The girl grew into the woman who laughed aloud without fear when she found things funny, earned a living through her own hard work and also earned the luxury of doing what she wanted in her free time. When she had her first drink, it was not really a momentous occasion, mostly because she had never thought of this as something proscribed to her. She danced when she was happy, and her friends danced with her. She held hands with the one she loved, because it made her heart sing. She was free, unfettered and proud. She was the daughter her Dad had been so proud of.

Then some people decided that the woman was not how she should be. She did not hide her face anymore. She did not cower at their sight anymore. She did not cast her eyes down when they spoke to her. And she spoke back. She made them feel less sure of themselves, no matter how many times their mothers told them that they were special too. They could not deal with her, so they beat her up. They hit her, shamed her and laughed at her. They pushed her back into the box and labelled it culture, because most people had no idea what culture was. They felt secure because she could no longer undermine them, could no longer make them feel less.

Some people saw her in the box labelled culture, and came towards her. She looked at them hopefully, because they looked like they had power in their hands. They looked at her for a moment, refusing to meet her eyes. In that instant, they betrayed her. They talked in serious voices, while shutting out the sound of her voice. They quickly agreed that she belonged in the box-labelled-culture. She was less than a person, she had no mind, of course she didn't know what was bad for her. She would drink her liver into oblivion if given half a chance, she would corrupt the spotless minds of the boys on the streets by holding their hands and the country would descend into chaos if she didn't bring up another generation just like the one that had shamed her.

And the woman was silenced. Her country turned into a repository of culture, a culture of silence at the pain of death. She trained her daughters to keep quiet, stay out of the way and never talk back. They were told that shame was their raiment, that honour resided between their legs and not in their conduct, and they were too base, too stupid and wicked to preserve it without the instruction of their fathers. The colour went out of life once again, the country withered into a cultured shambles, and she still kept quiet. She heeded every instruction of the guardians of the box-labelled-culture and she had no need to think ever again. After all, she was a woman, not a person.

It need not be so. Go over here and sign up.

Can Life Get Better?

2009-01-25T02:11:00.003+05:30

You guessed it. I'm happy. Sharp (and sweet) of you to notice. Let me tell you why.

Mohit Chauhan's singing into my ears words penned by Gulzar. Some I understand, some I don't. But I know them all. The strange rhythms of a graceful, earthy language, further spurred on to dance their strange dance by a music effusive as sunrise, seductive as sunset. And yet another movie on Delhi! Ah, happiness.

It's past two in the morning and I'm writing a post. It can only mean one thing. I've got an internet connection for that most beloved of laptops, The Sexy Beast. He's over two years old and has lost some of his sheen. But now he looks distinguished, war weary and thrillingly familiar. In short, he's yummier than ever.

I just realized that I need not blog from work again. Sigh (a happy one, finally).

Alexander Mccall Smith's latest has been devoured and placed alongwith the rest of my books. My library (or something like it) has finally made its way from Delhi and found its place in Mumbai.

Two more days in this extended weekend that has started so well. And Icecream has a brand new look! Arctic blue and yet warm, like the soul that this blog has preserved, quite independent of me.

And I just know that little Pinkerton, my younger sister, will tell me in a few days that Dev Patel has caught her fancy. I will rejoice at the fact that Ranbir Kapoor has finally been replaced.

I could just sing right now.

Hawa se judd, ada se udd..

I'm Inside Of A Blur

2009-01-12T19:15:00.002+05:30

And it's like travelling by Floo powder. There are glimpses, and then there are none. There is the occasional nausea and the necessary headache. But beneath it all is the fierceness of travelling by fire, the burn of it.

Firstly, I broke my mug on New Year's Day. It was filled with intoxicant, which probably explains it. Then there was Delhi, blasts of cold weather and more fun than one could possibly pack into five days. My twenty-fifth birthday, and the realization that I can never get old, because I've been old since the day I was born. My phone was off all day because I couldn't for the life of me find a charger, so my apologies to whoever was nice enough to remember and call and got irritated at finding my phone so non-cooperative.

Delhi makes me believe that I was born to buy. Socks, curtains, jewellery, shawls and if I could have, just a little more time. The friends were gorgeous, as I expected. Fun was had, alongwith scrumptious food at every possible place between Paranthe Wali Galli and The Astronomically Expensive Big Chill Cafe. I had a moment or two of contempt for modernity at Humayun's Tomb, but that is nothing really new.

At twenty five, I'm so short of what I'd wanted to be. I'm not a millionaire doing volunteer work full time, I haven't written a single word of the book that is supposedly in me, I still don't like my looks and there's just so much I don't know. But hey, atleast I still like me, I have the most wonderful friends one could ever want, and I'm in love with a man I couldn't have dreamed up. Yay.

P.S.: - I know that imitation is supposed to be a form of flattery, but I don't include copying my posts in that category. A few bloggers were kind enough to let me know that someone named Mansi was copying my posts onto her blog, which has since been deleted. She was another one of those online magpies making a srapbook of others' thoughts and giving herself credit for it. I just want to say that just because some things are so underhanded that they don't even occur to you, it doesn't mean that no one else will go ahead and do exactly just those things. I've never given advice to bloggers before because I don't believe it's my place to do so, but if all you can do is copy others' posts, you might as well delete your blog. Trust me, we'll live.

Here We Are Again

2008-12-31T13:44:00.002+05:30

So it's time for hallowed tradition to make its presence felt once more. I'm talking, of course, about my year-end list of moments, people and things that made an impact on my life. How it matters to the rest of the world is a question I choose not to ask.

1. Changing jobs and moving into the suburbs was probably the best thing I did this year. I'm so relaxed these days, compared to the nail chewing frenzy that was last year. And it's nice to have a bit more than spare change in the wallet.

2. My apartment! I love, love, love the single red wall in the living room, my cozy cane couch that's perfect for post dinner reading and the airy kitchen where I actually feel like cooking after spending last year in a dingy passageway that passed for a kitchen. I love going home these days!

3. A and I became a regular popcorn couple this year. We watched movies with amazing regularity, almost once a week. Sometimes we were spoiled for choice and at other times we watched movies so bad that we couldn't even laugh at them afterwards. However, it has enabled me to hand out my very own year-end movie awards. Hold your breath (or don't) as I present the inaugural edition of the Filmy Flavour Icecream Awards!

The Rum and Raisins Award goes to the movies that were so rich, so well done and so taut that I don't recall how much popcorn I ate while watching them - The Dark Knight, Kung Fu Panda, Wall E and Welcome to Sajjanpur.

The Synthetic Flavour Award goes to the movies that were unforgivably mundane inspite of promoting themselves as 'different' - Madhur Bhandarkar's preachy, cliched, overlong and screechy Fashion (which A characterized as the local train version of high fashion) and the supremely homophobic Dostana (I mean really, hotdogs?).

The Vanilla Award for a movie that was so wonderfully familiar to everyone who has ever lived in Delhi, coupled with flashes of humour and some good acting - Oye Lucky Lucky Oye.

The Empty Cup Award for a movie without a single redeeming feature, not even unintentional humour - Drona.

The Butterscotch Award for the one that really warmed my heart in the most surprising ways - Das Vidanya.

4. Having an apartment also meant that I bought more books than was wise, aided by the fact that a bookstore sits prettily near my favourite movie theatre. I mostly binged on Amitav Ghosh this year. I also really enjoyed Jhumpa Lahiri's latest. However, the find of the year is undoubtedly A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson, which is going a long way in undermining my deep ignorance of things scientific.

5. I'm now an aunt to a very pretty little boy who's less than a month old. It's the strangest feeling in the world, having someone in the family who's younger to me by a whole generation. I'm going to have the experience repeated twice in the coming year.

6. I met A's family after quaking in my boots for more than a year. And the waiting was much more terrifying than the actual meeting which passed off rather pleasantly.

7. It was the year of the spectacular return of belly fat.

8. I caught myself breaking into a cold sweat once when I was out on the street and a car backfired. That was the moment when terrorism became real to me.

On a concluding note, I hope that 2009 has less excitement because I really don't think my stomach can stand it. I hope the year's generally less overwhelming than this year has been, and that people can take some time off being happy. And I'm hoping for a worldwide moratorium on firearms. No harm in hoping, right?

To all my friends, readers who have lasted another year and people whom I should call tonight but may be thwarted by forgetfulness, laziness or swamped telephone networks, have a wonderful year ahead. Love and best wishes, S.

I'm A Little Irritated...

2008-12-24T14:32:00.002+05:30

...with people who use the comment space as a free advertising medium. Being a part of the ad world, I know that legitimately buying media is expensive, and I sympathize with you. But if you decide that my comment space is a good opportunity to talk about some guy's new corporate blog or whatever nonsense you're intent on promoting, I WILL report you. Just because I don't resort to word verification doesn't mean I'll let you crap over my blog. And don't tell me I'm overreacting. I've only just begun reacting.

...with the unending and progressively more moronic 'fraandship' requests. For heavens' sake, give me one single reason why I'd like to know you. A reason apart from 'I'm the height of coolness' (I DON'T @#^%$%# CARE) or 'I'm a simple guy looking for the love of my life' (Hint: It's not me), or even 'REPLY IS MUST' (Taking Fascism to Orkut will not help your cause). Why do men think that women like jackasses? We don't, no matter what Shah Rukh Khan may say.

...with my clients who seem to have a lot of opinions. Here's a sample: -

1. 'Yuletide' is a bad word and the essence of Christmas is turkey.
2. It is not enough for turkey to look like turkey. It has to 'give the feel of turkey'.
3. 'Vibrant' is a magic word guaranteed to sell flats like hot cakes. The recession is no match for the awesome power of 'vibrant'.
4. Everybody can write copy better than the copywriter.
5. Insisting on correct grammar implies an excess of education.
6. 'Waldrof' Salad is named after the mythical land of Waldrof, and not the Waldorf Hotel in New York. The only acceptable way to correct such fantastical errors is Wikipedia.
7. If I want to sell flats located in China to Indians, all I need to do is tell the gullible Indian public that China is the new Very Very Eastern India.

Whew. Vented. Merry Christmas to everyone. Spammers will be vengefully prosecuted. Joy to the world etc.

Secure At My Desk, I Write

2008-12-01T12:11:00.006+05:30

When I was around ten years old, I watched a report on the possibility of a comet colliding with earth and wiping out all life on the planet on Prannoy Roy's flagship show, 'The World This Week'. Being somewhat more indulgent of my imagination than most people, I was scared to death by the report. That night I insisted on sleeping next to my mom because, of course, that was the foolproof solution to every problem, even a daunting one like the end of the world. For weeks after watching that show, I would scan the night sky for any sign of a comet bombing the world into oblivion. With the passage of time, the terror of the comet also loosened its vice-like grip from my mind, and life went on.

Now, suddenly, I realize that a comet collision sounds like pumpkin pie compared to what people keep doing to each other in this seriously strange world. When bombs go off in a crowded pre-Diwali market in Delhi, when people going about their business are blown to bits in Ahmedadbad, again and again and again, when Jaipur and Guwahati show the geographical spread of the new and efficient method of controlling spiralling populations by simply getting rid of a large chunk of people and when Mumbai's movers and shakers find that their distinguished lives are as much at the mercy of an unknown bullet as are those of the ordinary families trying to catch a train to be home for Eid. A shake of the head, a few pithy comments and condolences, breaking news spattered with blood, strategic thinkers and lobbyists on the news, muttering at dirty politicians trying to extract mileage. Life goes on, and the ones who have been hurt shed a few tears in the process. India is a soft target, Indians have notoriously short memories, and we all wear pretty yellow Post-its on our heads labelling us 'Muslims' and 'Hindus' and 'Jews' and 'Westerners' so that the next gunmen can pick out which ones they want to target next time. These days even the other side wears labels like 'Islamic terror', 'Hindu terror' and terror of other denominations, because maybe they kill people differently from each other. Time isn't really the greatest healer, apathy is. We continue doing our mundane jobs while somewhere another young man is taught that ending our lives arbitrarily is the way to set everything right in his world, to end the cycle of poverty, misery, misunderstanding and ghettoisation that he deals with everyday.

Who are these people who play with us so? Why are they so easy to 'brainwash'? Why are there so many of them willing to kill? How desperate are the lives of those who pick up guns to settle scores with unknown, uncomprehending victims of their rage? When you make people believe that a shortcut exists which will take care of all their problems rightaway instead of telling them that it takes hard work and years of it, to build schools and generate jobs and start businesses, to pave roads and build houses and make women feel a degree of safety on the streets, to give children an unblighted childhood and to make life what it should be, you create a bloodthirsty race of terrorists who are themselves too scared of their own reality and seek quick fixes for everything. Well, wake up and look around. Things won't change because you jump on a boat with a bag full of bullets and dry fruits with frenzied visions of martyrdom in your eyes. Every life that you take is an intricacy of nerve and vein, bone and muscle, complex beyond your imagination, something you cannot even comprehend, let alone give back. And yet, it takes you not a moment to tear it apart. I fervently hope that you live, with the crushing weight of possibility held by each life that you snuffed out so casually. I hope the guilt never leaves you alone, not even for a moment.

I look at the pictures on the screen, showing the very spot where I met A for the first time. I feverishly read every news update, in between assuring the relatives and friends that I'm okay. I wonder if I've been spared this time so that there's fodder left for the next strike. I wonder if I can ever feel safe again, even if I could insist on sleeping next to my mother. I wonder if I'll ever get my voter ID and actually do my bit instead of wondering how people like this keep getting elected. In the meantime, there's always next time, and life goes on.

Update: - Thank you for all the thought you put in your comments, it was a good exercise to read and debate all of your views with myself. However, this particular gem of a comment gets my vote as the final word. It made me crack up so loudly that I was the cynosure of all eyes at work for a while today. Please do read it.

And She Hit A Ton

2008-11-25T18:41:00.005+05:30

Much in the fashion of Rahul Dravid, who seemed to achieve the feat merely by still being around, as opposed to spectacular flamboyance with the bat. So after two years (ack! I forgot!) and a month, the blog finally has its hundredth post up. On this momentous occasion I'd like to thank:

- my office for the wonderful (and free, for me) broadband connection.
- my office for the work that bores me to tears and urges me to blog instead.
- my office for the frosted glass panel near my cubicle which doesn't allow others to read what I'm writing.

Of course, I also thank all those of you who read my rants disguised as cotton candy. I am especially thankful to the ones who actually comment, because let's face it, it's nice to be acknowledged. I don't understand why people get defensive on the subject of their blogs by insisting that they write only for themselves. Sure we write for ourselves, because we (or atleast I) sure as heck need this outlet for whatever kind of gratification that it affords us. But we also write for an audience, and not to acknowledge that very audience is like saying that we breathe because we like to exercise our nostrils. Sure we do.

I've decided not to ramble too much with this post, so let me just write about a few things that made me laugh recently.

Incident 1 - Coffee Shop, The Boy orders an espresso without realizing exactly what it is. So he decides on a mnemonic to remember it for the future.

Me - You ordered an espresso again? You did the same thing yesterday and then had to send it back. How come you forgot so quickly?
The Boy - From now on I'll remember.
Me - How?
TB - E for 'ektu' (a little), E for espresso.

Incident 2 - I met A after more than a year. She's in the country briefly for research, and we met for coffee on Sunday. I whined (as expected) about how stupid some clients are.

Me (really on a roll) - I mean, he's the CEO of a multi-crore construction company and he's dumb as a brick!

In another first, I leave the field open to you with a very generic, and therefore problematic, question. But I'd really like you to answer the question, so atleast give it a shot.

Do bloggers make good authors?

They Tag Teamed Me!

2008-11-11T17:20:00.007+05:30

Really, they did. Kitkat and Skaty really want me to answer this particular questionnaire, so in the tradition of friendship and other pally feelings, answer them I will. But first, the rules:

RULE #1 People who have been tagged must write their answers on their blogs and replace any question that they dislike with a new question formulated by themselves.

RULE #2 Tag 6 people to do this quiz and those who are tagged cannot refuse. These people must state who they were tagged by and cannot tag the person whom they were tagged by. Continue this game by sending it to other people.

(Note the imperious 'Cannot refuse'?)

1. If your lover betrayed you what would your reaction be?
I'd cry quite a bit, and then stop crying and try to get over it. I would probably write a scathing post, but my vendetta wouldn't extend further. But I would take really, really long to get over it. I'm horribly slow at getting over bad things. And I'd wonder endlessly about the woman unlucky enough to be on the other side of the scenario.

2. If you could have one dream come true which one would it be?
Teaching history (preferably to undergraduates) and writing a book by night. But lately I've been assailed with a serious amount of doubt as to whether I'll ever be able to write something worth reading, and further if it'll be good enough to get published without getting me crucified.

3. Whose butt would you like to kick?
Rabid hate-spewing right wingers, Himesh Reshammiya and some of my clients.

4. What would you do with a billion dollars?
Save up about half of it to invest if and when the markets recover, buy a nice house for myself and one for my sisters, alongwith one in the hills for all three of us, immediately go back to studying and get my Ph.D so I can start a teaching career, and make some serious donations to organizations fighting global warming and providing any kind of aid (educational, legal, medical etc.) to women and girl children. Oh, and I'd buy the boyfriend his dream camera so he could spend his time developing the one talent he truly loves.

5. Will you fall in love with your best friend?
I sort of did. With one of my best friends (they number about half a dozen).

6. Which is more blessed: loving someone or being loved by someone?
Loving someone helps you know parts of yourself that you'd never have known existed. It's a benediction to be capable of such intensity of emotion and self discovery. But being loved is a balm that renews the soul at every moment. Without having received love of some kind, it is difficult to give love. I conclude that the question is rhetorical. :)

7. How long would you wait for someone you love?
It would depend on why they would want me to wait. If the reason held weight in my opinion, I would wait. But the waiting would be subject to my strong streak of impatience, so I'd probably whine a lot.

8. If the person you like is secretly attached, what would you do?
I'd wonder why he's 'secretly' attached, and in the process I'd get over him.

9. If you could root for one social cause which one would it be?
Women's causes and the upliftment of the girl child. Also, I'd like to possibly modify the process of adoption and make it as free of hassles as possible.

10. What takes you down the fastest?
Reminiscing about past hurts and pains. I can never seem to stop myself.

11. Where do you see yourself in 10 years' time?
Hopefully studying and writing, still blogging about randomness and making it possible for my family to live their dreams too. And maybe organizing a blog meet of people I like to read, luring them to attend with the promise of good food.

12. What's your fear?
Being stuck in a hospital for a length of time. I hate those places.

13. What kind of person(s) do you think the person who tagged you is/are?
I love them both deeply. They are a part of my consciousness, of who I am, and will be a part of my unchangeable truths no matter where I go or what I do. So, yes, they're very nice.

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married and poor?
I'd be married and stretching the meagre finances because I think that the journey depends on who you're in the boat with.

15. What is the first thing you do when you wake up?
Look at the time and wonder if I can possibly sleep for ten more minutes (and the answer's always yes).

16. If you fall in love with two people simultaneously who would you pick?
I don't have the ability to make such a huge emotional investment twice simultaneously.

17. Would you give all in a relationship?
I'd wonder at the quality of the relationship. I'm not a big believer in 'giving all'. You need to hold on to yourself as well, because you're not a unidimensional lovebug. You're a lot of people, and a lot of people need you to be you. Does that make any sense?

18. What's eating you now?
Boredom and irritation at the workplace and the severe lack of time to read the lovely books lying at home.

19. Do you prefer being single or in a relationship?
That's like asking if you prefer to breathe with the nose or with both nostrils. You live each phase of your life to the best of your capacity, and do the best you can, whether single or in a relationship. How you are should not change alongwith your relationship status on Facebook.

20. Tag 6 people...
I hate this part. But,
Pinkerton (who will probably ask me for money to visit a cybercafe).
RK (who is a prolific non-poster).
Probe (who is very lazy).
Gits(who is proud aunt to two nougatty nieces now).
Doubletake, Doublethink (who hates tags).
New Age Scheherazade (who I suspect has renounced the world of blogging).

I expect you to sucker yourself at the earliest. Thankee.

Weird Chronicles - IV/ My Bestselling Dream Diary

2008-10-31T16:39:00.006+05:30

It is said that dreams are manifestations of our subconscious aspirations, desires and experiences. If that is true, my subconscious is alarmingly flamboyant and completely certifiable. On Wednesday morning, I woke up breathless from a nightmare that I was being forced to marry Annu Kapoor against my wishes (no offense to said Annu Kapoor, of course). I managed to avert the catastrophe by getting into a taxi to run away from home, only to discover that my co-passenger was my 76 year old ex-landlady who was rushing to a concert to obtain Falguni Pathak's autograph. This was actually the most realistic part of the dream.

I'd thought that the dreams to come for the next few days would have a hard time living up to this gothic scare-fest. But then, my mind loves a challenge. So when I snoozed away on Wednesday night, I was blissfully unaware of the explosive blockbuster about to unfold within my head.

In the dream, I was living in Paris, except it looked just like Shillong. Ironically, my dream self was swaddled in lovely woollens while my corporeal self sweated in out in Mumbai's humid heat. I was at work one day when she called. She is a classmate from school whom I haven't seen or heard from in donkey's years. Neither were we ever exceptionally close in school. Let's call her Lizol, since it has some phonetic similarity to her real name.

Anyway, Lizol called me and begged me to meet her for a cup of coffee. She pleaded that she really needed my help with something personal, and if I refused she would have no one else left to go to. I was more than a little puzzled, but I agreed because coffee sounded harmless enough. We met in a quaint little bistro which was furnished with charming umbrellas and smelled like cake (yes, my nose dreams too). After a little chitchat, Lizol got to the heart of the matter.

L - "I wanted to see you because I'm facing a really serious problem."
Me - "Yes I kinda figured."
L (choking up a little) - "You see, I've been married for six years and I think that my husband has recently started seeing someone else."
Me - "....."
L - "I contacted you because I want you to follow him around for a couple of days and get me proof of his affair."
Me (choking a lot) - "But why me? And why d'you think he's having an affair?"
L - "Well, coming back late at night smelling of strange perfume and ALWAYS snapping at your wife are pretty telltale signs, no? And I want you to deal with it coz you'll be more careful than a professional detective. Personal touch and all."
Me (with grit and resolve) - "No."
L - "I'll pay you potloads of money."
Me - "Okay."

So the next day, I went on my mission, equipped with a thermos full of tea and a magazine. I followed the errant husband to work in my grey Santro (?!) and waited outside the whole day. In the evening, I followed him as he bought a bunch of roses and drove all across Paris-Shillong to the distant suburbs. He stopped outside a music school and a woman wearing a tutu and carrying a violin case got into the car. They drove on and on, before entering a large estate full of teeny tiny cottages and a small cafe. They then went into the cafe, as did I. I sat at the table next to them while they coochie-cooed their way to oblivion. The woman asked Lizol's husband as to how he came to know about the cottages. He told her that a friend of his had frequented the place for his own indiscretions and was, in fact, coming to meet them and give them the key to his cottage. He suddenly pointed to the door and said, "There he is!"

I turned around and, wonder of wonders, it was Ajay Devgan! Not Ajay Devgan as he looks now. Here was the Ajay Devgan of the longish hair and the seedy action movies. He came and joined the runaway couple and told them about how he had used the cottage zillions of times without the media being any wiser. Then L's husband asked him who he had come here with. He replied,"Sonali Bendre, of course."

Ignoring the fact that my eyes were almost falling out of their sockets by now, I followed L's husband and his paramour discreetly and took lots of pictures of them going inside the cottage. I was waiting outside the cottage when I saw another car come into the estate. The strange thing was that the car was being driven by a very giggly Lizol, accompanied by three guys from my erstwhile Class VIII Maths tuition class!

By this time, I was confused and irritated in no small measure. I took pictures of Lizol with her gang and left in a huff. I called her and asked her to meet me the next day. When we met, I accosted her at her own adultery and asked why she was then so indignant about her husband's affair. She replied, of course, that she wasn't having a secret affair for fun but to teach her husband a lesson. How that would happen if she kept her affair a secret is anyone's guess. I asked her how she found out about the cottages. She replied, "From my good friend, Sonali Bendre."

The highlight of the dream was my long lecture to Lizol about how Ajay Devgan and Sonali Bendre were ruining lives left, right and centre by their libertine handling of their cottage keys. I shall not reproduce the lecture here. Anyway, I concluded by demanding that she pay me my due and apologize for wasting my time. At this she laughed, a shrill, pealing laugh, and deposited a cottage key in my hand before leaving. I turned over the key in my hand and saw engraved upon it the name of the cottage.

Unfaithful.

Disclaimer: - This post does not attempt to slander Ajay Devgan, Sonali Bendre, Lizol or her husband(s). It just makes me wonder how many things are going on in my head that I have absolutely no inkling of.

The Sky Is Blue

2008-10-21T13:32:00.002+05:30

Yes, that about sums up my experience these last few days. I had my little sister Pinkerton and her friend A over to Mumbai for about ten days, and then I went back to Shillong for about five days for my cousin's wedding. Family matters were high on the priority list, but mostly I was just soaking up the pleasure of having familiar faces around me. One thought kept nagging me the entire time - am I on the wrong track? Sure, living on one's own and earning a living sounds like the right thing to do, but what do I have at the end of the day? When was the last time that I lived in a house that was truly home? It's humbling to see that inspite of all the years away and all the monumental changes that have taken place over the years, at home I'll still be given a cup of tea and breakfast before I'm done brushing my teeth and my clothes will wash themselves before I even realize it. The endurance of these bonds, of family, community and familiarity seems more powerful when you see it after ages of living on your own.

What is it about home and nomads? It is a certain kind of wistful magic that weaves itself into my being every time I go back. I want to stay back forever, even though I know it's impossible, or maybe because of this knowledge. I keep telling myself the usual things about how I'll never get a well-paying job or be able to buy a house, about how I'll soon be climbing the walls with boredom. But then the mean, contrary part of my brain starts telling me to think about how the weather is always glorious at home, how I'll get to eat all the exotic things that aren't available anywhere else, about how transport is ridiculously cheap and comfortable etc. Then I have to make the mistake of looking at the sky which is gloriously, unbelievably blue, at the clothes flapping on the clothesline, at the small roads winding down the hills and the houses with their homey tin roofs, and I'm lost. It seems a fitting punishment for me to be a homesick nomad, the punishment for my biggest weakness - dissatisfaction.

The worst thing about these trips is the sick feeling I get in my tummy when I'm about to leave. It makes me wonder whether I'll ever see these things again. Why must people be human? There's a reason why cows are generally less stressed out. My plan is to become more bovine with everyday, with eyes that are glazed with contentment and a brain fossilizing so quickly that it has no room for thought. That's my mantra from now on - happiness lies in the ability to be a cow.

Retracing My Steps

2008-09-18T16:57:00.005+05:30

I've been thinking a lot lately about my cousin M. With less than three years' difference between us, she and I had always been very close, from the time we were both toddlers. She was my first playmate, my first actual friend, and I loved spending time with her. Part of it was some sort of hero worship, because she was funny and pretty and everyone around us, young or old, really liked her. As a kid, these things put me quite in awe of her. The good thing was that she remained sweet, cheerful and completely unaffected by all the renown she was getting for being some sort of singing prodigy, exceedingly good at art and good at most things in life.

I remember her telling me that she was convinced that Vivekananda was her grandfather, because she thought his name was Vivek Kanungo, which matched with her surname. I, of course, was thoroughly convinced. She used to live across the street from my house, and everyday after school we spent our time playing and coming up with elaborate games. On weekends, her mum used to give her a bath in the courtyard while I used to stand at the gate with my arms stretched out wide so that no one could see her from the street. Such naivete seems almost precious now that I remember it.

After my family moved to a nearby quarter complex, our interactions became less frequent, except for those three odd years when we commuted to school and back together. We used to get the princely sum of two rupees for the bus fare to get back home. We always walked instead. It was a long walk, atleast a half hour long. We spent the money on roadside aloo chaat, the dirtier the better. One rupee was saved to buy sweet lozenges in case the chaat proved too spicy. We were quite the resourceful team.

On our walk back home, we discussed the impossibility of God, the perverseness of God in creating boys, the shapes hidden in clouds, the way our shoes squelched when we walked in the rain, how Shillong was doomed because of pollution, the fascinating polka dots made by mud on our white socks in the rain. What strikes me now is how these conversations were held with such seriousness, punctuated by the sound of our huge umbrellas tapping on the ground. We could have been a couple of miniature British adults on our way to the pub after a hard day's work.

The inevitability of growing up did put thousands of miles between us as I moved away and she stayed put. We met when I went home on vacation, and there was no need to reconnect. It was always there, what we had, the bond forged in childhood that had transcended time.

The last time I went home, I learned that she was engaged to be married. As I write this, less than a month remains for the wedding. I would have been happy for her had she not told me the precise reasons for the wedding, none of which had the slightest relation to love, or the longing to be with someone, or even companionship. She's a stronger person than I am for walking down this road, and this time I can't keep her company. I hope that eventually she is happy, and the ones who 'love' her do not manage to completely wreck her life. I feel a strange sort of disloyalty in thinking these things. I really wish that I could toe the official line and make merry at her wedding. But things are hardly ever as simple as that.

So, M, I don't think you should get married, but I know you will. I hope that you get everything you want, but I pray you get what you need more. And I wish I could honestly say that I'll always be there for you. Such things don't happen; we hardly even manage to keep in touch. But maybe when I go down the corridors of our memories together to a time when we were both truly happy, I hope to believe that this sort of unqualified joy will find its way back to you. And I believe that whatever else happens, we will always be the ones who can see roast chicken in the clouds, surrounded by mounds and mounds of vanilla icecream.

Luck and love, S.

Why I Laugh In My Sleep Sometimes

2008-09-04T15:56:00.004+05:30

Yesterday I was dreaming about these actual conversations I had with seemingly normal, rational people. I remember each of these conversations really well, mostly because they were so dazzlingly stupid and they have the potential to entertain me even now, years (or months or days) later. And because very few things in life can make me laugh when I'm asleep.

Conversation One (with a cousin who is a software engineer, God save her soul. It happened when I was in second year of college).

Cousin: So you're studying history.
Me: Er..yes.
C: Why?
Me: Eh?
C: As in, what's the point?
Me: What's the point in software engineering?
C: It's relevant today. What I do makes a difference. How does it make a difference if you study about dead people?
Me: *mouth open, jaw slack*
C: I mean, what is the use of studying the past when you can't do anything about it?
Me: It may surprise you to realize that you've been studying history all your life.
C: No, no, I was very glad to get rid of it after Class X.
Me: All history isn't called 'History'.
C: Huh?
Me: Everything that you learned in your course; every sum, every code, every theorem, every formula - that is the history you studied. Without it, every generation would have to start at zero. We would need to rediscover gravity, heliocentrism, DNA, the fact that certain chemicals smell like rotten eggs, over and over and over again. You spent four years studying the history of software engineering. I'm studying the history of people. My learning is relevant because I can perceive this and you can't.
C: But how is studying a formula history?
Me: Because someone before you created that formula which is why you're using it today. And everytime you use it, you are using the past to understand your present.
C: Doesn't make sense. I still think history's useless.
Me: You'll be your children's history. I hope they don't feel the same way about you. I'm going to bed.

And I went to bed, angry as hell.

Conversation Two (with a random 'family friend', after I'd opted for Humanities after Class X).

FF: So, you're going to be the next engineer in the family, aye?
Me: What?! No! I'm studying Humanities.
FF: Humanities? Oh you mean Arts. But why? You did well in your exams. Why Arts? You won't get ANY jobs.
Me: Please don't worry about me. Plenty of 'Arts' afflicted people manage to make a living.
FF: All nonsense. In the past it happened, yes. But now there's no way it can happen. In fact, all schools and colleges are going to shut their Arts faculties in two or three months. And why is your dad allowing you to do this?
Me: Must be nice to have all the inside information about school management decisions. And my dad's 'allowing' me coz it didn't occur to me to ask his permission and it didn't occur to him that I needed it.
FF: Change your stream while you can. Computers are the way to go these days.
Me: Okay, thanks. Now can I get some potatoes please?

Again, I was angry as hell. But then I considered the circumstances and realized that I shouldn't be mad. After all, he was a fifty year old grocer, not known for temperance or wisdom. Being a newlywed at 50 must be hard on the brains. And he did manage to run his grocery business into the ground.

But what made me laugh in my dream was wondering how a conversation between him and my software engineer cousin about the reasons why crazy kids study Arts might go.

Excuse me while I nap. The hilarity awaits.

A Walk In The Clouds

2008-08-16T16:30:00.002+05:30

Quite literally.

When you are so grounded in your life that you forget what exists beyond it, the biggest thing in your life becomes scheduling baingan ka bharta for Saturday night dinner. It's not half as bad as it sounds. It implies that I'm cooking my own meals now, which makes me content. It also means that I can enjoy spending time at home, which is essential for my peace of mind. The problem with contentment, however, is that it makes you stop yearning for the other things beyond your spectrum. So you decide to do something contrary. Take a trip to a hill station in the rains. You know it'll pour the whole time. That it will be cold enough for you to say 'The cold is in my bones, IN MY BONES, MAN!'. But that doesn't deter you either. Your enthusiasm envelops not only you, but your roomie (Roomie), normally sane close friend (RK) and The Boy (A). You and your motley crew will now take a trip to a tiny hill station with no cars or any vehicles whatsoever, where you walk to get around. Or ride a horse. A hill station with no paved roads, only mud paths. Paths that become slush in the monsoons. Ah, finally, a challenge.

You wake up late, but not too late. Rush through the bathing and the getting dressed and leave the house, only to be surrounded by a gang of extremely effusive dogs, all ready to become Best Friends Forever at six in the morning. You finally catch an auto and switch to a taxi midway, reaching Dadar station without further incident. While the boys go to buy tickets, you stand and wonder why there are already a zillion people at the station. And then you realize that the train is at 7.03, which isn't too far away from 6.57. So you run, jump down the stairs, look around wildly for the first class compartment, all the while being obstructed by all the Israelites fleeing Egypt. The boys in the meantime are already in the correct compartment, yelling and waving you over. You and Roomie run, push, shove and exhale, and get into the first class. Except is the first class ladies only. You jump out again and put your feet onto the correct compartment just as the train begins moving. The resulting adrenaline rush makes you woozy for twenty minutes.

The train ambles along. It's cool and there's already a chill in the air. Increasingly random conversation between sleep deprived adults is punctuated by 'I need to pee' and 'I'm hungry'. Then the green fields and the hills come into view. Faraway hills with threadlike waterfalls making their way down. You stand at the door and sigh, the same sigh usually reserved for Shillong. And there's a hug; momentary and brief, but warm enough to leave you smiling for three minutes. And then you wonder why people stare when you smile.

The station is reached, and the walk to the cab is laced with crisp vada pav. Then as the cab makes its way up the serpentine road, you notice waterfalls on all sides of you, even splattering some of the raindrops on to your arm. The taxi stops at the car park and you enter the town where time stopped a hundred years ago. You begin walking, and it rains, rains, rains. Mud in your shoes, and you're one with the rain. There's no difference between you and the water anymore. On the way to the hotel, you buy the long plastic sheets and sombreros favoured by the locals. At the hotel, there's steaming tea and breakfast. And lots of rounds of Uno, where you lose because you just don't remember to say Uno at the right time. Then there's lunch and a protracted argument which ends in you sending the boys to the market to buy you shorts to wear when you go trekking. You haven't packed enough clothes, you see. In the evening, you're all wearing shorts, plastic sheets and sombreros. The companionship in being silly together is wonderful.

You walk through the little mud paths, up and down, this way and that. The lake comes into view, along with the monsoon clouds moving at a terrific speed all over it, and all around you, lashing and caressing. There's the spot on the edge of the cliff where you sat the last time you were here. Now it's the edge of a roaring waterfall that looks like the end of the world. It's easy to imagine that the world was primal once, before people, before friends and neighbours and dogs and goldfish and baingan ka bharta. Then you go back to the hotel, piggybacking for a minute or two. You're on holiday after all. There's some more Uno, presided over by an old monk (very old, vatted seven years ago). Then the electricity goes off and you go to sleep. You wake up after some time, and it's pitch dark. So dark that if you put your hand in front of your face you can't see it. And it hits you how much you miss that, because it's never really dark in the city, even with the lights off.

The next day they serve you the most fabulous lunch, as if to make you feel even worse for leaving. You have nothing to wear, so you have to make do with the giant pair of shorts belonging to The Boy, tightly belted up and making you look like a havaldar. Your friends are too tired to walk all the way back, so they make you ride a horse, even though the mere thought turns you to jelly. It turns out to be a better experience than you'd imagined, mostly because the horses are really docile and you're looking at the mist above the little brooks babbling away on both sides of the path. Then you reach reality again, and this time you're too cold to be emotional about it. You've just had the definitive weekend.

Favourite moment: - standing above the cliff, looking down at the end of the world.

The moment I won't be allowed to forget: - We're walking our way up to the hotel, and someone asks me for the time.

Me (looking at my watch with great concern): -"OH NO! My watch stopped at ten o'clock!"

RK: -"It is ten 'o clock, you idiot!"

Tunes In My Head

2008-08-04T10:42:00.003+05:30

Yes I still post. And has it been over a month already? It's the new job's fault, really. Don't know what they would do without me :)

Anyway, something relatively strange happened to me on Friday night. I'd been unwell in the morning, with a head that felt like a tub of mercury. Added to that, I had a typically long day fussing over punctuation and text placement. So I figured that I was in for a good night's rest. But I didn't sleep as much as a wink that night. Tossing and turning is only exciting for the first two and a half minutes. I got bored of the extremely random conversations inside my head as well. I even tried reading a truly godawful book called Tall Dark & Handsome, which was so gruesomely bad that I could only persist for ten minutes. As a last resort, I switched on the radio, hoping that music would lull me into slumberland.

So there I was, lying in bed with my eyes wide open, while my ears were assaulted with a mindboggling variety of kitsch. With nothing else to do, I started listening to the kitsch. And found some of it actually resonating within me. Pithy wisdoms in everyday melodies. The songs we hear but don't listen to. So uncool because they are popular. But so infectious that they give us headaches when we battle to get them out of our heads. So evocative of forgotten and not-so-forgotten things and people.

We're all history sheeters. Reminisces lurk around every corner of our stylishly spiralled minds. And there's always some Bollywood song to encapsulate these memories.

Like sleeping on the back lawns in LSR in third year. The smell of grass and the warmth of the sun. Watching Ankita write in her journal, or Simran reproducing Impressionist art. SKT's foot up in the air while she dozed. Or Reeju with a bag that was perenially bursting at the seams. Hum na rahein kabhi yaaron ke bin.

Or Gitanjali, Shreya and me in the first few months of the Masters programme. The most awesome trio with the shortest life span, before Gitanjali and I became leftists and Shreya became a centrist (in terms of seat preference, not the political spectrum). Akele hain, toh kya gham hain?

The hostel experience. Staying up till the wee hours, talking about absolutely nothing. Giggling while tipsy, or not. Sitting on the floor of the hall at 3 am and insisting that Absolut vodka was made out of the finest potatoes in the world. Ranjit and Bindiya, perenially setting each other off. Akhila, Tanu, Pallavi, Reeju, the four directions of weirdness. And Pia, the one who cried because I told her that just because she spoke loudly, it didn't mean that she said what was in her heart. Katra katra jeene do.

The one time we ran into RPM, to dance for five minutes after the movie. Spontaneous and awkward at the same time. Ten minutes of unadulterated fun. Pappu naach nahi sakta.

Vasudha Pande, with her luminous eyes and her easy smile. Drumming modern Indian history into my brain with the lightest of touches. Me marvelling at how suddenly economic history became so fascinating, while wondering if her glasses would actually fall of the tip of her nose someday. Ho sake to is mein zindagi bitade, pal jo yeh jaana waala hai.

My sisters and I. So exceptionally strange. Can't shut up, and can't talk either. Always wondering what the other is about. And where we're gonna land up eventually. Golmaal hai bhai sab golmaal hai.

Finally, Jaane tu, jaane tu ya jaane na. Jazz, and a smoky Chicago in the 1920s. Or in this lifetime, a boy and a girl, whiling the weekend away at Marine Drive. The boy likes peanuts, the girl prefers roasted chickpeas. He points out the crabs on the stones below, she takes enthusiastic, if somewhat pointless pictures with a woefully inadequate camera. He gives her a poem in a matchbox, she laughs because she doesn't quite know how to react. Or a day at the Hanging Gardens, where they laugh uproariously at having become the biggest cliche of them all - The Couple in the Park.

At 3 am, clarity is at its best, even in a cluttered dustbin of a head like mine. So much so that I remember every moment after three whole days. My life and Bollywood, intertwined in their uncoolness and their kitsch quotient. And the sudden epiphanies that make it worthwhile.

Don't Fight The Change

2008-06-27T13:04:00.004+05:30

So I got tagged by Skaty to tell the world at large (or atleast my indulgent readership) about ten secrets that I had otherwise sworn to take to the grave. But since I am such an adept at seeing only what I want to see, I've converted the tag into a convenient way of telling you about the Big Changes on the anvil without the corollary melodrama. Gasp, long sentence. Why do I have a sneaky feeling that if I had a sidekick named Robin, right now he would have exclaimed, "Holy Punctuation Party, BattyGirl!"?

Anyway, getting to the point, Ten Things You Don't Know Yet:

1. I've quit my job. Today's my last day here and on Tuesday I'm joining an advertising agency as a (a-hem) Senior Copywriter. And right now I'm most excited about redecorating the interiors.

2. I'm spending a lot of money to move into a nice place of my own. I'm excited at the thought of having eggs for breakfast and dry fish for dinner. Yay, me!

3. I'm fanatical about kitchen etiquette. And I hate it when people try to help me when I cook. I'd rather they just talked to me from the sides. You're right, the subtext of this is that I'm a control freak.

4. I have three times more clothes than a normal person needs. And shoes. And I can't get enough. I'm extremely greedy.

5. I've named my newly acquired stuffed toy dog Chandoo McAdams. The boyfriend quips that this is what the British called Chandu Muqaddam.

6. I'm a nag. I keep at it consistently. And don;t let anyone tell you it doesn't work.

7. I'm a big believer in Girls' Night Out, but I've never really enjoyed Sex and the City. I just keep wanting to lock Sarah Jessica in her closet.

8. The biggest indicator of whether I like a person is whether I'm comfortable telling her/him that s/he is a donkey.

9. I've never seen porn. There, it's out in the open.

10. I judge people who carry melancholy about their past sufferings like a badge of honour. Especially when they look into space and sigh for effect.

Okay, so now you know. I inflict this tag on New Age Scheherazade and Villager/ RK (just to get a post out of them). Also, Doubletake, Doublethink, Annesha (ha ha, revenge), Kitkat, Dreamcatcher and Probe (coz I'm soooooooo curious and I'm wondering if your talent for jamming your foot into your mouth transcends real life and ventures into blogdom). Now I need to pack up my desk. Good day!

Life For Rent

2008-05-28T19:31:00.004+05:30

These days I'm fervently hoping to move out of my rather squalid living situation as a reluctant paying guest (paying in many diverse and cruel ways) to a rented flat where I will live alone and be happy. The move is tantalizingly close and so I figured I'd take you through a retrospective of the various horrors who have masqueraded as my landlords and landladies and have lent themselves to vilification and some slapstick on my blog. Retribution was long due.

There was the family of losers that I lived with in my first year in Delhi. The father was terminally unemployed and habitually shrill. The mother was gloomy as a matter of principle. The children were a couple of snobs (although I never really figured out what propelled them to indulge themselves so). One of my roomies was a habitual thief who figured that I wouldn't notice if she scamped on my toiletries. All of them, all the time. She also didn't believe in bathing too much, so I don't know what she did with the stolen toiletries. The family's idea of fine cuisine was large chunks of ginger in anything and everything. Their monthly pastime was fighting with any one of the girls living there and threatening to throw her out in the middle of the night. They were so pathetic, they made me grateful for myself everyday. I suppose one always manages to find a silver lining, no matter what. I had to look really hard for it.

Then came the young family who rented a floor in their house to my sister and me. They were nice enough, very helpful and equally weird. They had a two year old son who looked like an angel and swore like a truck driver. His linguistic blasphemies would begin every time someone failed to give him what he wanted. I woke up on many a morning to hear him call his father a whatnot, his mother a wouldyoubelieveit and his sister a don'tevengetmestarted. So yes, deeply individualistic people.

After that, I moved into a hostel in JNU. My first roomie (who lasted a year) can be described thus: acne, body odour, shady affairs. She was obsessed with the acne on her face and spent hours examining it with a sort of horrid fascination. She spent a small fortune on all kinds of ridiculous and always disappointing treatments. She also conducted a series of affairs with men she met online (one of whom was married) and always seemed to think it necessary to share the gory details with me. She left in the second year because she hadn't really reckoned with the Need To Study Sometimes. My next roomie was really nice and we had a wonderful year together, so I shall leave her out of this uncomplimentary post.

Then I moved to Bombay, where everything bad was exaggerated in true Bollywood fashion. The first tyrant looked like a really obese warden of a Kafkaesque mental asylum. She cooked curries out of only onions, mixed in water whenever extras were needed and charged money for every little transgression like leaving the bathroom lights on. I got out of there in a month, only to land up with Cronos herself.

She's seventy-five, avaricious like you wouldn't believe, and three times stronger than I am. She thinks that half a bed and a cupboard are all you need to live, and that one should cough up five grand a month without a murmur for these extravagances. She made me spray insecticide and kerosene all over my bed, so she has most certainly taken valuable years off my life span. And she has made me resent enforced vegetarianism with a vengeance. I can't wait to get out and I hope the bed bugs teach her a lesson about the need for professional pest control. I also hope she stops talking incessantly about the flaws in the other roomies when I'm studiously trying to ignore her. I hope the time comes soon when I can look back and laugh really (and even unnecessarily) hard at her.

The rant is over, for now. Pray I don't have occasion to repeat it.

Just Because I Can

2008-05-08T20:28:00.003+05:30

R: de de da de doo de de dum de de dum
Me: tell me about it :)
R: are you looking good, and feeling fine?
Me: i'm looking alright and feeling benign
R: is it feeling benign, and not feeling fine (in the song?)
Me: it is fine in the song, i believe
R: hmm... tres bien
Me: except most days i have malignant feelings towards atleast one person
R: i seem to be getting there -- yesterday i growled at colleague, and day before i shooed away a surd boy who came to the office
Me: did you growl at him on racial grounds? or coz he was there?
R: eh.. growled at colleague cos for the 5th day in a row i was opening the door for him - turned out he was just being lazy and not pulling his access card out of his bag. today pal used his access card to get into the office
Me: my god, that is probably the saddest non issue i've heard of in a long time
R: haha... i know whats happening to me?
Me: you need a couple of real problems
R: no but see the point is when you are given an access card, use the damn thing. there is no need for your colleagues to trot across to the door every day because ur too lazy to pull it out of your bag. its a different matter if you've lost it or were never given one, or on occassion left it at home. but intentionally not pulling it out everyday because you think kind ol r will let you in warrants a growl
Me: next time just smile and wave at him and ignore it
R: now there won't be a next time -- today he used his access card. yesterday i was like "what happened to your access card? did you loose it?" and he was like "no, its with me, in my bag."
Me: arre. you should wave and smile. terrific comedic potential
R: anyway surd guy -- the kind turning 13 and with sprouting facial hair -- was coming from some computer hardware company and wanted to meet admin incharge. who was truly not in the office. he refulsed to leave and i was like "jaa... abhi koi nahi hai"
Me: okay. and?
R: and then i turned my back on him and trotted off... i guess he left after that cos its the last i saw of him... muhahahaha... i'm so evil
Me: you're just anger let loose on the streets, aren't you?
R: i have less and less patience with small things like these....
Me: ah. bombay is getting to you.
********
This conversation just made me extremely nostalgic for the days of yore. You know, yore. When access cards were not even the last things on our minds.

It Only Happens To Me

2008-04-30T19:07:00.002+05:30

There are a lot of situations that we characterize as 'filmi'. You know, when a mother tells her only son that she's made some culinary delicacy for him with her own two hands (as opposed to the rest of us who cook with our neighbours' ears), when two long lost brothers identify each other through the identical tattoos on each other's arms (who says parents don't like tattoos? They actively propagate them) or when young women are locked in their rooms and then married off to a leering goat from the nearest stable. These are situations that we believe we are safe from, simply because we are not in the movies. We carry on with our lives, cocooned in our comfortable ignorance, and we smirk every time some overenthusiatic perpetrator of celluloid melodrama claims to draw his inspiration from real life.

"Real life? HAH!', we say. "What do YOU know about Real Life?"

"Boo!", he says.

"Ooh, are YOU in for a surprise or what!", says Life.

My big surprise happened about a week or two ago. The Elder Sister called in the morning while I was pretending to work. She sounded a little bemused, as if she'd just been hit on the posterior with an airgun. The mystery behind her tone of voice was soon solved. After exchanging the usual impoliteness, she very gleefully informed me that my mother's close friend had called her earlier on the fateful morning. This lady (we'll call her NM) first made some polite conversation with the sister before telling her that she was going to visit Delhi soon. The visit was necessitated by her son's ill health. The ill health was caused by his inability to cook properly or wash his clothes or clean his house. This in turn was the result of an upbringing which thought basic survival skills too demeaning for a man-child to learn. So now this son of hers was in some amount of discomfort and she was going to visit him and shoo away the boo-boos.

So what, you ask? Well, she then proceeded to inform my sister of a meeting she had with my mum two years ago, when my mum had just found out about her illness. Apparently, my mum had requested that NM and her husband take care of me and my siblings, should the illness prove fatal. This further entailed that I marry her son (because, of course, on my own I am incapable of decisions like this).

Go on, gasp. I did, and then I fumed. My sister then told me that from the conversation she deduced that the reason this came up was because her soon is now in need of someone to cook for him, clean his house and wash his clothes. Instead of hiring a maid, his mum figured that the more economical thing to do would be to get him a wife. And who better for the purpose than poor old me who would be eternally grateful to her for 'taking care of me'? GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

First thought: "MOMMMMM! How could you sell me so short? Why didn't you just arrange for me to be tied to a cow?"

Second thought: "Dear sister, why did you not hang up on her, or even better, why did you not laugh?"

Anyway, where my story diverges from the movies is that I am not tragically locked away in my room. I will also probably never have to see the guy in my life, let alone marry him. I can also blog about my tragic misadventure. Sure, we played together as kids. Sure, our parents were friends. But unfortunately, I never was a heroine. Thank God for small mercies.

Don't Know What Anyone Sees In Anyone Else...But You :)

2008-04-04T19:32:00.004+05:30

I feel vaguely uncomfortable writing about sentiments of the mushy variety in a public domain. It feels so typical of a reality show contestant. But I'm going to write this post anyway, because it has become quite an integral part of my life, and my blog should be in the know. After all, this is where we began.

*****

Situation One - In A Bus

"Y'know what? We really should travel more. Go out for little weekend trips. I'm getting sick of the city."

"You're right. Maharashtra has all these beautiful holiday spots near Bombay. We should go to Janjira Fort at Murud."

"What's the place like?"

"It's a fort on a cliff with a sheer drop to the sea. You remember that song in Bombay where Arvind Swamy was wailing away? That song was shot at Janjira."

"Really? That place is GORGEOUS! I always thought it was somewhere down south."

"And on the way there, the road winds around the cliff so that the sea is visible from there."

"Oh, like in Italy?"

(smiling indulgently) "Yes, like in Italy."

"OOOOH, Y'KNOW WHAT? WE HAVE TO GO TO ITALY!!!"

"Let's get to Murud first."

*****

Situation Two - In A Vegetable Market

"How much for the tomatoes...hey, wait!"

"How much for the tomatoes?"

*Huff Puff* "Mr. Market Research, do you have to know how much the tomatoes cost in every single shop? It's getting late and if we finish this quickly, we'll have more time to sit and talk. Getting cheated out of a few rupees is not a problem, ok?"

"Ok."

(On the way out) "How much for the crabs?"

"SIGH."

*****

"You've stopped drinking lots of water everyday, haven't you?"

(Burning in righteous indignation) "What makes you say so?"

"Well, we no longer have to race through town finding a place for you to pee."

"Oh."

*****

On second thoughts, that was not too bad. Not even as cloying as I'd expected. It's ok to be just a girl sometimes, I suppose.