F.R.I.E.N.D.S

That’s not cellulite. That’s just a permanent dent in my butt from all the times I have kicked myself over my incredible foolishness. (I woke to this thought this morning. I wonder what I had been dreaming about!)

- x -

If I were to single out any particular moment in my life when I felt truly afraid, it would have to be the following. Junior College. There were six of us, trying to decide between a movie and just “hanging around”. And I don’t quite remember how it all started, but Gunjan and Divya started discussing who knew Rahul best. Divya claimed she did; she was the girlfriend after all and they had been in the same school. Gunjan claimed he did; he was Rahul’s best friend, and his closest confidante. And then they started this rather juvenile quiz on who could predict Rahul’s likes and reactions better. I don’t remember who won that particular argument; I was too busy being appalled at the idea that people took a certain sort of pride in such possessiveness.

- x -

You know that old bit of philosophy about how you discover your closest friends in your times of greatest need? Sometimes, I think they got it wrong. Tragedy has this way of bringing out something noble in all of us, and even total strangers would lend you a shoulder to cry on if they sense you are in trouble. I sometimes think that’s because we like to feel needed. And being there for someone in their grief makes us feel heroic. It’s the people who choose to stay by you when you least need them, who’ll put up with your daily non-sense and laugh with you over all your crazy jokes, and who’re there simply because they enjoy your company, who you should hold on to. Because you can’t really laugh on your own.

- x –

Had the most amazing time last evening with the “Chutney” gang. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed. And I feel blessing lucky to have them in my life!

- x -

Discovered an interesting blog today, while I was googling for a quote from Peter Pan. Some posts made me cry. And that’s the grand thing about being a parent, I think (not that I would know anything about it!): you can’t teach a kid what you yourself don’t know. Consequently, in their attempts to teach their child to be a better human being, they become better human beings themselves!

Farewell, friend!

It has been a really crappy week. The kind that finds you wanting to murder someone, or head to the Himalayas and renounce the material life. Or do both.

Most days, I would head to work hoping that no major issues cropped up. And given the fact that I have been keeping seriously unwell for days on end, the energy levels have been at an all-time low. A day has started to qualify as ‘good’ if I merely get through it without hearing from the client or my sales team. And without throwing up.

Had a major argument (if one-sided smsese can qualify as that!) with a short-time friend. And now, I’m one friend short. Such poetry.

- x -

Some friendships deserve a decent burial (refer to last point above). Because the other person was an ok sort. Hence, the epitaph.

Billy Joel(!!!) on my playlist, because you forced me
to listen, despite the roaring of the trains as they sped by

Peter Pan

Wondering, if i were to ask you the meaning of a complicated
word, which would return faster results – you or Google?

A picture from the mall

Your silence as I cried, when everyone tried to comfort me
not knowing I’d rather be left alone

The expression on your face when I got you donuts

The frequent recharges on my prepaid phone

Our white lies

Knowing you’re reading this blog, though you’ll never admit to it

This, and other memories, I will file away in my mental scrapbook.

I hope you have preserved the memory of my last smile.

How I met your father

Kids,

Life has a funny way of almost never living up to your expectations. I mean, here I was thinking that one day, the man of my dreams will come along and sweep me off my feet. But no man came, and I was adding too much weight to be swept of my feet with ease. And then, out of pure frustration, I put up the following description on a matrimonial website, and that is how I got acquainted with the mostly-wonderful-and-sometimes-a-royal-PITA man that is your dad. And that’s also one of the ways life is so different from the way we authors interpret it: in real life, stories are allowed to have boring beginnings.

Your mom, at 25:

Dear prospective bridegroom,

Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, I’m intelligent, calm, funny, cheerful, ambitious and bucketsful of fun to be with!

Mondays and Wednesdays I may just turn cranky, sarcastic, testy and remind you of your grumpy Math teacher from Standard 9. The one with hair on her chin and a large mole on her upper lip (no, no, I don’t have any of these myself – but what’s the harm in airing your imagination a little?)

Weekends will depend. On you.

I’m an extrovert and love to talk. I’m also a voracious reader and you can expect more books in the luggage that will eventually accompany me, than clothes. I’m a strong believer in preserving family bonds, so ill-treating your parents or mine will never be cool with me. And I also have strong womens’ lib-ish tendencies, so you will be expected to share some of the household chores. In a 30 – 70 pattern. Ok, I was just kidding. I’m no slave-driver! 40 – 60!

I’m not too fond of travel (Nat Geo and TLC do just fine for me!), but if travel we must, I generally like to go exploring in our own country. And I absolutely love the Indian Railways (2 tier AC of course. And the Rajdhani and August Kranti rock! So think of all the post-marriage costs this bride will save!)

I’m also not a foodie and my idea of fun is definitely not to sample the delicacies at every newly-opened eatery. And I hate conversations about food. So if you are a foodie, here’s the hint to quit!

Domestics: Coming to the really important part, my internal metabolism is set somewhere between ‘ho hum. will get it done’ to ‘REDEFINING SLOTH!’. Household chores will eventually be done, and with astounding thoroughness, but the emphasis is on the word ‘eventually’. I cook pretty well, in my humble opinion: my adrak-chai is world-famous in my family. But you may not grow a sambhar belly on my cooking!

Career: I’m a writer by profession, so you will often be called upon to read large blocks of text, and make appreciative sounds. And live with the fact that I think I’m a reincarnation of Jane Austen. And that I hope to enter Indian politics one day.

Bu that, in a peanut shell, is me.

Owner of a lonely heart

I had a foreboding about reading the Sunday newspapers. V-day is next Monday, you freaks! Why torture us singletons so well in advance? Why remind us that Cupid’s arrow is as off-mark when it comes to us, as the CBI is with the Aarushi murder case? Gruesome analogy, I know, but equivalent, nonetheless. And I swear I don’t have insider information. On the murder case, I mean. About my own love life, I have theories. Yes, you do form theories when you are 25 and have been asked out for the grand total of ZERO times. And have had your own tentative displays of affection cruelly stamped out for about 3 – 4 times. I feel like the scientist looking down on his invention and wondering why in hell no-one understood its miracle, life-altering properties and why the folks at the Board To Approve Scientific Inventions wouldn’t grant him a listen.

Maybe no-one understands that my unruly hair is actually a display of my glorious curls, or that my aloofness is prompted by an extreme shyness of strangers (and sometimes contempt – it’s a thin line, but you’ll know which side you are on!), and that my bossiness is a call to all the Petruchios out there. But no point in grumpily ruminating about how things could have been. I have a made a decision – it’s called a matrimonial profile. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, manage your horror – because if you had cared a fig, you would have done something about me by now!!

Said profile will also be posted sometime in the near future for the entertainment of my loyal readers.

And sympathy is what we need, my friends

If you’ve met me in public for even the briefest time, you’ll know I have a deep-rooted fear of most non-human living beings. In fact, this fear has been the source of considerable amusement to my insensitive-to-trauma friends (and it’s shocking how many of those there are! Insensitive friends, I mean, not the traumatic episodes). One time, as I was walked down the street with a friend, he paused to point at every creature we came across and ask, “Dog there. Scared? Cow – scared? Oops – crow. Scared?” And this I found pretty annoying. So here’s a clarification. Almost all four-legged creatures: yes, scared. Especially dogs. Among two-legged creatures: most ok, but crows and chickens not ok. And bats. And fat pigeons that might be feeling a bit nervous. All insects are fine. Oh, and I like horses – I think horses are nice.

Many have tried to pull an analytical number on me in their attempt to rid me of my phobia. And so they would ask about any childhood animal-related trauma. But really, unless the trauma also resulted in partial amnesia, I don’t remember any particular event that triggered my fear of the furry. And yes, furry humans are a no-no too! Only two incidents really come to mind that may have had some impact, but I really doubt it.

Incident 1:

I was probably 7 or 8 years old and was spending the afternoon at my grandma’s home, one among a series of “row-houses”. Her house is located somewhere towards the end of the line. The cousin (a month elder to me) and I were merrily playing about, doing the nonsense things little children do. Somewhere in the middle of that row was the home of a fiend Doberman, and both the cousin and me stood observing as the maid led him on a leash for his daily rounds. As maid and dog made their way towards the other end of the row, the cousin, stupid and sadistic as he is, decided to tease the animal. And so he started making funny barking sounds and generally tried to attract the animal’s attention and infuriate it. The trick worked.

In a matter of seconds, but what seemed like extreme slow-mo to us, we saw the animal break free of his leash, turn around and come bounding for us. Now, the animal was at one end of the row, the cousin was somewhere at the middle, and I was at the other end, close to the gma’s house. I would have said I froze in fear, and was rooted to the spot in horror; only, that would be an insult to my gazelle-like reflexes. As soon as I saw the animal charging at us, I made a few short graceful leaps to safety (gma’s house) and pulled her heavy iron door after me. But what happened in the next few seconds continue to have a very dream-like quality. My cousin, who undoubtedly was seized of similar herd instincts, came rushing in after me. I remember watching from the bars of the gate as he came running, seized with terror and on reaching the gate, banging at it and yelling at me to let him in.

I spotted the dog only two houses away, howling in mad rage and all set to tear into my cousin within seconds. As my cousin banged and pleaded, I was seized with sudden indecision – whether to worry about my own safety or that of my cousin. But in a remarkable triumph of good over evil, I finally opened the gate a little bit to drag my cousin in and banged it firmly shut again. And just as I slid the lock in place, the creature was at the bars, pushing its paws in, murder in its eyes. That, I think, would be traumatic enough to inspire a lifetime hatred for dogs. But the odd thing is, I was never really the one in danger. My cousin should have been the one to be affected for life. Remarkably, the very next week, he was spotted sitting on another stray (no doubt imaging he was a warrior returning home on his horse after a victorious battle).

Incident 2:

First day of college (JC). I remember making my unsure way from Churchgate station to KC, thinking gloomily about the pink top that I had worn, one that I had hastily picked out after mom made some last-minute criticism of my original choice. Pink. Huh. I kept stealing glances at the sky, watching out for any flamingos that may suddenly swoop down, mistaking me for a mate. The impression is so vivid that to date, I rarely wear pink. Maybe that’s also one of the reasons my sub-conscious urges me to watch out for flying things that may suddenly sweep in out of the blue and start attacking me.

Wish Freud were around!

Up on melancholy hill

Aha! A Byronic hero – so that’s who I am!

- x -

Imagine a large ballroom – monstrous chandeliers, blinding light, women in their sequined best, tinkling glasses, music, dancing, celebration. The hollow laughter of the truly bored. Sometimes, in my head, I see myself in that room. Only, I’m trying to escape. Desperately. If only I could find someplace quiet. Where I could pause to gather my thoughts, kick off my heels and run away from the madness.

For some time now, there’s been this sense of loneliness that has been gnawing away at me: not that of a romantic kind, but simply of an intellectual kind. There is no one to speak to. With who you could simply be yourself, without being condescending, jaded, mean, mysterious or simply frivolous. Usually, this need for intellectual stimulation is fulfilled by my colleagues at work, which is why my time from Chutney continues to be among my most-cherished memories of work life. But I have come to be surrounded by people with lesser experience, who expect me to be the fount of all human wisdom, or by others who are plain indifferent. Actually, that’s not right. I do meet people who can talk and who do talk, and who are quite interesting in some ways. But they often lack the breadth of the true conversationalist: they are good to talk to about certain things, but you are doomed if you are the kind that likes to switch topics the way others would switch TV channels.

I suppose my state of being is best described by the following lines from Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged”:

“Have you ever felt the longing for someone you could admire? For something, not to look down at, but up to?”

I know I have.

This. And That.

I don’t want to remember my past through the foggy and often deceptive lens of my own memory – I know I will forget some things, conveniently mis-interpret the context of others, and forget just what I felt while I was still living the moment. And so, blogging helps. Even if my efforts in that direction are erratic. Because I know I will return to these posts some day, to remember the person I was. And perhaps, to fondly exclaim, “What a time! And oh, what a life!”

- x -

You know a person is a foodie when every time they eat, they eat to discover.
You know a person is the child of a foodie when every time they eat, they eat to remember.

Had dal-baati-churma for dinner. Very nice. Mom made. After some emotional blackmailing from me, because I was fed up of being served sweet dal and watery “shaak” every day by our Gujju cook. When we employed the cook, we were only thinking of the immense “favor” we were doing Mom by relieveing her of kitchen duties. What we hadn’t factored in was the drastic down-sizing effect it would have on meal variety. Because my mom’s one of those foodies who loves to cook: her attention to detail and her infinite patience in getting the “authentic” factor right makes her cooking really exceptional. And right from my growing-up years, I have been used to much variety in my food. So in a typical week, I would be sampling tomato rasam made in the lead “shombhu” (weird utensil that she sourced from some shop in the South, because it imparts such an authentic flavour to the rasam), sindhi kadi [with drumstick and kamal kakdi (lotus stalk) in it, even though we would refuse to eat them], pindi chana (with tea-leaf as an added ingredient), gatte ka saag (recipe straight from our friendly marwari neighbours) and gujju osaman (extremely watery dal with groundnuts thrown in for crunchy effect). Yes, that much variety. I kid you not. Contrast that with our situation today: the only “choice” we really have is between dal (toor / moong) and kadi. Sigh.

- x -

The food talk reminded me of a news article I read about Lady Gaga the other day, which further reminded me that I still hadn’t seen pictures of her in the much-criticized “meat dress”. Yes, I seem to have slept through it all. So I just googled the images. And came across the one below. Question really is, who’s the bigger freak?

And life goes on..

Air India employees are understandably pissed with the guy’s attitude. But I say, way to go!! Finally, we get a PSU head who has the guts to call a spade a spade. He seems to have the vision, all right; whether that translates into an actual turn-around of our failing national carrier, remains to be seen.

**

My twitter account has been blocked. Ostensibly because I sent spammy messages about some breast enhancement pills. Sigh. Die, blue bird, die.

**

I joined driving class, and thought it was progressing well. Then, cousin comes along, and decides to give me ‘kin-ly’ driving advice. Cousin’s idea of teaching me driving is to park the car on a slope and asking me to a) start the car, b) drive up the slope till we reach relatively flatter land and c) change gears while I did a) and b). Suffice it to say that the lesson proved to be a harrowing experience for all involved. Note: slopes aren’t quite the ideal learning ground for beginners. And bludy hell, its tough, you know – managing the clutch, the accelarator and the gears all at one go, while making sure the car doesn’t just slide down and crash into the vehicle behind you. And ever since, I haven’t even attempted driving my car – confidence levels are that low. Damn the cousin.

**

Someone just pointed out I type weird – using only one finger from both hands. But my typing speed is pretty good. So how does it really matter?

**

Also, currently reading (trying to read, actually) Salman Rushdie’s ‘Shalimar, the Clown’ and Arvind Adiga’s ‘The White Tiger’. For some strange reason, both books are proving so, so hard to read. Rushdie’s excessive use of complicated-sounding English words is a total turn-off (fine, man, we all know you can write – can you now please focus on the story?), while in Adiga’s case, he just over-does it, you know.. I wish I could put it better, but its that annoying way of writing, when authors get so carried away with their own intelligence that they just never get the hint and bludy move on. The heart longs for some Khushwant singh. Time-pass guaranteed.

Anni’verse’ary

Happened to read in this morning’s paper (Mumbai Mirror, no less) that Alfred Tennyson’s 200th birth centenary will be celebrated in August this year. That mention of Tennyson brought nice childhood memories to my mind (apart from the old confusion about whether the ‘Lord’ was a title that ought to be used before his name, as in Lord Alfred Tennyson, or whether it was actually a part of his family name, making it Alfred Lord Tennyson): memories of poetry contests in school that I would participate in despite my poor recitation skills. My choice of poetry would have charmed any scholar of English – Tennyson’s ‘Blow, Bugle, Blow’ and Walter de la Mare’s ‘Lord of Tartary’, carefully picked out of a much-cherished and well-preserved book of poems (a hand-me-dowm from my grandma) – poems chosen not merely for the sentiment they conveyed, but also for the ease with which I could recite the verses without making a prize ass of msyelf.

I go back to poems every now and then, though I am primarily, as are many others, more prose-oriented now. It’s a lost art these days, poetry, both the reading of it as well as the writing. And its a pity really – especially when you see the works of great minds snatched out of context and quoted only on greeting cards and valentine days – the genius of the poet being used to mask the utter lack of originality of the lover.

But I can only shake my head sadly and sigh.

(The following few verses remain my favourite for various reasons – either because of the emotion they inspire, or because of the context in which I first came across these lines.)

Happened to read in this morning’s paper (Mumbai Mirror, no less) that Alfred Tennyson’s 200th birth centenary will be celebrated in August this year. That mention of Tennyson brought nice childhood memories to my mind (apart from the old confusion about whether the ‘Lord’ was a title that ought to be used before his name, as in Lord Alfred Tennyson, or whether it was actually a part of his family name, making it Alfred Lord Tennyson): memories of poetry contests in school that I would participate in despite my poor recitation skills. My choice of poetry would have charmed any scholar of English – Tennyson’s ‘Blow, Bugle, Blow‘ and Walter de la Mare’s ‘Lord of Tartary‘, carefully picked out of a much-cherished and well-preserved book of poems (a hand-me-dowm from my grandma) – poems chosen not merely for the sentiment they conveyed, but also for the ease with which I could recite the verses without making a prize ass of msyelf.

I go back to poems every now and then, though I am primarily, as are many others, more prose-oriented now. It’s a lost art these days, poetry, both the reading of it as well as the writing. And its a pity really – especially when you see the works of great minds snatched out of context and quoted only on greeting cards and valentine days – the genius of the poet being used to mask the utter lack of originality of the lover.

But I can only shake my head sadly and sigh.

(The following few verses remain my favourite for various reasons – either because of the emotion they inspire, or because of the context in which I first came across these lines.)

Sudden Light – Dante Gabriel Rosetti (for the romantic in me)

“You have been mine before —
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,and I knew it all of yore.”

Mercy – William Shakespeare (my grandma’s favorite – she would recite it often to us when we were kids – and I can’t quite express it, but it is a poem that appeals to the noble side of the human spirit. The poem is an extract from Shakespeare’s play ‘The Merchant of Venice’: the court-room scene where Porta defends Antonio against Shylock, the Jew, and pleads to the latter to drop his demand for the pound of flesh.)

“It (mercy) is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

……….

Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy.”

John Donne – For whom the bell tolls (long story, this, but sent to me, in context, by a person who I shall always regard as being among the most enlightened people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing)

“No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

….

Each man’s death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning – How do I love thee? (I only hope that all who read the following lines are blessed with the opportunity to feel as profound a love as these lines convey)

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

….

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.”

Woohoo!!

Guess this recent move of mine just about makes me the first jobless* person to buy a car in times of recession. And I tell you – it takes guts, people!! (And confidence in your ability to wheedle some cash out of the ‘Shek’ of Dubai in case things do go horribly wrong).

But I am (rather, shall soon be) proud owner of a Hyundai Accent – colour still being debated (black vs silver). Made the booking the day before yesterday and the bank loan should be cleared by the weekend. And I am rather proud of the achievement – to my grandchildren I can always boast I bought my own first car, and that too, at the age of 23!! Woohoo!!

Plan is to take posession of the vehicle around the first week of August – to coincide with Dad’s birthday. And I need the time gap – after all, I’ll have to learn how to drive first

* Well, the jobless situation isn’t as bleak as it sounds, really. I am supposed to join my new workplace on August 1, so technically speaking, I’m between-jobs. Makes me feel a whole lot better, put that way.

Guess this recent move of mine just about makes me the first jobless* person to buy a car in times of recession. And I tell you – it takes guts, people!! (And confidence in your ability to wheedle some cash out of the ‘Shek’ of Dubai in case things do go horribly wrong).

But I am (rather, shall soon be) proud owner of a Hyundai Accent – colour still being debated (black vs silver). Made the booking the day before yesterday and the bank loan should be cleared by the weekend. And I am rather proud of the achievement – to my grandchildren I can always boast I bought my own first car, and that too, at the age of 23!! Woohoo!!

Plan is to take posession of the vehicle around the first week of August – to coincide with Dad’s birthday. And I need the time gap – after all, I’ll have to learn how to drive first

* Well, the jobless situation isn’t as bleak as it sounds, really. I am supposed to join my new workplace on August 1, so technically speaking, I’m between-jobs. Makes me feel a whole lot better, put that way.