power to the pao's

It’s three nine in the morning.

A bad back is keeping me awake. I was sitting by the window staring out. And pretty much smiling as cars whizzed by.

Really, this city does not sleep. Or maybe it’s just the season and a Friday night put together. But even the promenade in front of my house had groups of people on their bikes, or clustered around their cars. Smoking, drinking coffee from the cycle coffee guys and generally shooting the breeze.

Then at three sharp the cop van slowly rolled by, asking folks to get a move on. Nothing rude, or strict or cop like. Just a general, “ okay it’s three am, let’s clear the promenade.” And the groups slowly drank up their coffees and moved on.

All easy, and civilized. And so Mumbai.

Then there are the anglo Indians. Or the catholics. Or the Christians. Or the maca paos. Or the macs. (Okay they are called this because of their love for Pao, that yummy square bun like thing, so popular here. Tip: Add butter to a hot pao, dip it in your tea, and go straight to heaven).

They had a Christmas Bazaar at the Bandra Gym today. And even non members (sigh) could buy a fifty buck coupon and enter. The grounds were packed. A salsa performance, followed by Jim reeves songs, followed by Christmas Carols, followed by Goan songs were being broadcast from a make shift stage. And a large square of stalls formed the centre.

Christmas cakes. Cookies. Brownies. Aunty Maria’s chocolates and marzipan. Edna’s goan sausages. Clarrise’s vindaloo and sorbatel. Little pao stuffed with mince. Patties. Chops. The list is endless.

The place was packed, booze was cheap and overflowing. And the atmosphere was festive. People were eating, wishing each other, dancing, getting quietly sloshed.

The world was at peace. And Aunty Maria and Uncle Barry should stand for elections.

Really, maybe I’m biased because my parents grew up in Anglo Indian schools. My dad in particular had a huge number of Anglo Indian friends when he lived in Pune. Our neighbours down the street in my grandparent’s home were Anglo Indian’s. And they were for sure the coolest, the most fun loving people on that street.

But I think it’s more than that. I think the Maca Pao’s have just managed to hold on to their sense of community. And their way of life.

And more importantly, their idea that good food, good wine and good times are more important than good car, good TV, and good gold jewellery in the bank locker.

So more power to them. And more spirit of the Christmas bazaar to the world.

you are invited.

have tried to combine my favourite things - nostalgia, vela giri and design.

and voila.. here's my second blog. it's called dhinchakdesign.blogspot.com.

if you have the time please drop by, and tell me what you think.

dhayawad and all that.

the persistent pursuit of trivial things

Watch MTV roadies auditions.

They are super entertainment, especially for voyeuristic junkies like me. That apart, I’m figuring out that the difference between my youth, and the youth of today, is fame.

Yeah, they will do anything for it. Raghu, the hot guy who’s thought up the show is the guy who interviews these poor suckers. And he thrives on insulting them. You loser. You asshole. Dance for me. You’re a fucking bore. Take off your shirt. You call that a body?

Oh man, it goes on and on. And they just take it. Because they all want the fame. The camera on their face.

I’ve been thinking if anyone I knew in college would take this kind of stuff. Nope. Don’t think so. Maybe we just didn’t know what a high fame can be.

But ya, more than the music, the language, the clothes, the ambition, it’s the hunger for fame that’s been added to the equation.

And oh, the new GQ (not the Indian one), is fantastic. It’s the celebrating 20 years issue and I’ve been trying to finish reading it for the last one week. But it just will not get over.

It’s got interviews with Tony Blair. The Oasis boys. David Lynch. David Beckham. Andrew Flintoff. Eminem. Sir Alex Fergusson. And yoo hoo, Jack Nicholson.

Get your hands on it. If you don’t have to buy it, and can flick it from a friend or office, even better.

And I shall sign off with three things you should know (all dug out from the said GQ)

1.
By 2008 annual production of Havaianas had reached 105 million pairs, with five pairs being manufactured every second.

Well, that’s quite a feet eh?

2.
By controlling the enzyme regulating blood supply, the key ingredient (sildenafil citrate) enabled anyone to have sex for up to four hours. That’s how Viagra works.

Uh... actually I’m sorry I’m late...it was the damn traffic.

3.
Youporn. The youtube of porn. All free, all shaky digicam real!

Hey...why does your fiance look so familiar? Where have I seen him ya?

can't say it any better

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."

- Robert A. Heinlein

like microwavable popcorn

Should write.

Can’t write.

Am writing.

Slight explanation on the above:

What’s the point of a blog if you don’t write.

But too many things keep cropping up. Work. Social life. Interesting movies. And the terrorist attacks which keep intruding in to my sleep. My space. My newspapers. My conversations.

However, I’m going through a phase. Stories that were stuck are cropping up like mushrooms. Dusty ideas that were put in the last filing cabinet of the brain are jumping up and down.

Basically my head is popping with plots and thoughts.

Nice.

But apologies to my neglected blog.

Oh, Mama, can this really be the end...

Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of Mobile
With the Memphis blues again.
Bob Dylan

Today I don’t want to talk about terror attacks. And outrage. And anger.

Instead I want to talk about Mumbai.

You see, I first came to Mumbai when it was Bombay. And I was eight months old.

My grandparents lived here and my mother had grown up here. This was her home. And for me Bombay was always summer vacations. So for two months, every year, till I was 15 and till my grandmother died, here’s what I remember of Bombay.

Lovely empty streets with grand buildings on either side. Fiat Padminis (with fans inside) that seemed so posh compared to the large ambassadors you saw in other parts of the country. The curve of the road, when you were about to reach juhu beach. My father and I catching a bus to go to Regal to watch Superman. We never got tickets, so my dad and I made the long trip, from Sion to town, again the next day.

I also remember at least one evening in those two months, when my grandmother never cooked, and instead we ate sev batata puri from the man who walked past our house at 6 pm every day. I remember the lady who came with the cow at 12 noon. For ten paisa you could feed the cow grass. I remember learning to say “kem cho?” from the Gujarati neighbours, and then progressing to “ ramu che? (wanna play?) from their kids.

I remember the film producer who lived in the last house down the lane. Because every evening at eight, all the kids in the neighbourhood would grab their seats on his living room floor. He was the only guy with a VCR, so every evening we watched a movie. Every amitabh movie, every jitendra-sridevi-jaya pradha movie, every mithun movie, I would have seen in his house.

I remember my mother and father holding hands. This was the city of their courtship. I remember the Anglo Indian kids, all five of them. Who lived with their mother in the fourth house from us. Preeti, Pravesh, Praveen, Pramodh and Prabha. I remember them talking about school socials and dances, while I watched wide eyed and madly besotted, with all five.

I remember playing dabba eye’s spy. Langdi tang, lock and key, crows and cranes, seven tiles. All on the main road in front of the houses. The bus stop that came up in front. The thrill of the double decker bus. Chocobar ice cream. Taking the night bus from my aunt’s house in Mazgoan, and passing the drive in theatre. First you smelt the creek, then you heard the distorted voices of the actors, and finally as the bus went down that long road, you saw disjointed images on a large screen.

I remember Bombay. Young, carefree. Filled with laughter, bell bottoms and endless optimism.

My memories are sepia toned. But now this city is mine. And I hope someday my kids, or your kids will remember it the same way.

13th april, 1919

It looked like any other bustling street in north India. Hand rickshaws strewn across the sides. A music shop selling tablas and sitars. Three shops that sold pictures of gods mounted in bright golden frames. Sack cloth and scaffolding covering an old building. Lost tourists fighting a one sided battle as they haggled and fought with guides and rickshaw pullers.

And then I saw the sign. A weather-beaten arch, the type face beginning to fade. It said Jallianwala Bagh.

Under the sign was a courtyard. Three doors, two cycles leaning against them. Some men on make shift chairs supervising the scaffolding, listening to their radios. And a narrow wooden door behind them.

The doors were open. I felt nothing.

I slowly walked past the door, into a narrow lane. Surrounded by high walls. I looked up to see the sky, a narrow blue strip. A green creeper had pushed its way through the cracks in the wall.

I kept walking down that narrow hemmed in path. Till i reached a sign. It said:
General Dyer conducted soldiers for firing on an innocent crowd of Indians through this passage.

Loud boots. The incessant march. Clattering over the stone surface. Left right. Left right. Filing in. One after the other. The passage is filled. The clattering is louder. The entrance is blocked.

Silent. Goose bumps. Suddenly.

I remember the lines Sarfaroshi ki tamana aaj humare dil mein hain. Bhagat singh. Udham singh. Simon go back. The rowlatt act. Everything jumbled as it all tumbles out.

The thing with history is you can bury it. In textbooks. Under scaffolding. Behind an innocuous facade.

But once it’s in the mud, the ground, the sky; it’ll always be in your blood.

serious thought to an alternate item girl career

This new year,

Rakhi Sawant will rake in 40 lakhs.

Katrina Kaif will make a cool 1 crore.

And Bipasha Basu will carry back 1.5 crores in her clutch bag.

All by shaking a leg. Okay, make that booty and boobs too.

Is it my mood or do you also feel like turning your face skywards and yelling, “ where’s the justice in this world?"

heavy stuff

Can you juice exhaustion?

Serious. I feel totally run down today. I think it’s been a combination of two weeks of partying, loafing, eating out, travelling, scrubbing, train journeys. And now finally flat out dead weight. My body refuses to cooperate. It just feels heavy and lead like. My legs are wobbly. My head aches. My eyes refuse to stay open. And I have so much work. Groan. Moan. Bitch.

So I’m wondering if I can enjoy this feeling. Be conscious of it. Don’t ignore it, don’t stress over it, just keep it...in the moment.

Think my yoga classes are going to my head.

I’m turning guru.

If I could, I would tell you I love you

I never wanted to be anything like her.

Which is sad. Because she loved me like no one else.

But love, like we all know, is just as straight and simple as a tangled mass of overhead wires over a DDA colony.

She loved me the way she knew how to. Strict. Scared. And vulnerable.

All because she never believed in herself enough. She didn’t go to college. She didn’t work. She was never financially independent. Or wildly popular.

And then she married a man, who was everything she was scared to be. He loved everything new. And he was fearless.

So again, like we all know, love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring. Well, this one made a ring that trapped them both.

She scared. He happy. She fearful. He gregarious. She friendless. He loved by everyone. And the more everyone fell in love with him, the more uncertain she became.

Because, you see, he was the only thing she had.

Then she had me.

And I sensed all her fear, all her insecurities. I didn’t understand them. But I knew I was the only one she had. To take them out on.

And I built a wall around myself. I kept her out. I blocked her from my head, my mind. I was scared of her moods, her temper, her questions, her expectations.

So I ran away. Only to return with my return ticket firmly in my pocket. With a friends number at hand. With enough money to flee at the slightest chance.

For years I battled my demons. The biggest was will I ever turn out to be like her. Sometimes I found myself using the same words as her. Or the same lines. And however innocuous they were, they chilled me. The same words? The same lines?
The same fear. I was turning into her.

Then, something changed. And two years back we started to talk. On the telephone. First short conversations. Then slightly longer. Initially a little hesitant. Then a little more confident.

They came to meet me. Yes, love is a burning thing. And it makes a fiery ring. But this time it looked like they were bound by it. Some good, some bad...but well, like we all know that’s love.

So anyway, they met me. It was a start. They met me some more. I visited them. A day, two days... and now a week.

Then today I saw dust. In the bookshelves. I saw a high cabinet that had fingerprints near the handle. I saw a toaster that looked like it had been used and then kept on the side.

And I saw her. A little more human. Not so exacting. Older. More willing to forgive. Gentler. Happy.

And I realised she’s making an effort. To battle her demons. And she’s been making one for the last two years. It’s not that easy to change. But she is trying her best.

That’s when I realised I still don’t want to be her.

But neither do I want to be without her.

Then...this is to us. And the effort we make.

to do list

daniel craig

daniel craig

daniel craig

: )

with the lights out its less dangerous

There are days like these

Restless

Itchy

Like a coiled spring

Not unhappy

Not sad

Just physical

Could

Run a mile

Dance till my heart stops

Looking for

Exhaustion

A heartbeat that stops me from breathing

Sweat

Running down my back

Just physical

Like ecstasy

Like tripping

Like dancing under strobe lights

Like hair flying

Like forgetting i’m alive

Like not seeing

Not sensing

Just knowing

This moment will explode.

I do

The next best thing.

Nirvana.

On full volume.

The drums kick start

The guitar is hard

The sound courses through my body.

Thank you Kurt Cobain.

May you rest

In the disco of my brain.

quantums of sula

So last evening i get a call from z. She tells me “want to do something crazy tonight.”

Now that’s always a great way of getting my attention. So of course i immediately agree. Turns out my instincts are sharp because the crazy thing includes free booze, free food, total timepass and a party where i will not know anyone.

Nothing tops my favourite list like “not know anyone”. I don’t know about you, but i have this thing for parties where i will not know people. Always thrilling. Always brimming with possibilities. Never give your real name. Never state your correct occupation. Talk to only those whose faces you like. No boring polite conversation only because tomorrow you will feel bad that i ignored you. And best of all, you can keep bumming cigarettes off strangers without having to worry about them doing the same to you later.

Anyway so then B calls. And I relay the news to him. He decides to join us too.

The party is being hosted in a lounge bar by the sea. It’s by a company that’s having this splash out james bond party for its super exclusive customers. And the girl who’s invite we are piling on to, only knows z. The stage is set for madness.

Needless to say we are the life of the party. We drink like a small lake between us. I, who have been off alcohol, start with rose, move to white wine and then sometime much later realise I’m drinking the red stuff. We storm the gambling tables. We cadge cigarettes off people. We comment on everyone’s clothes, boobs and wigs.

And then we hit the dance floor.

Well, I’m sure the party was a success. And I was very drunk. Because at some point when I was pleading with the DJ to play “one shong, one laast shong”, some strange men came up to me and said, “ Thank you for the danshing!”

They thought we were being paid to do all that stuff.

Damn. I have a new career.

(PS: too hung-over to tell you guys about the characters at the party. That shall be my next post. Mr ill fitting wig man, Miss can’t keep your boobs in your shirt, Miss nice skirt from lokhandwala, Mr airline guy who’s wearing a feather boa across his neck. And Miss is that a man or a woman! And they thought we were being paid to entertain them???!!!)

patterns on the wall

when you lie

i see

blank walls

with marks

where pictures hung

a matteress

resting against

the walls of moving van

plastic packets

old newspapers

empty bottles

scruffy door mats

all left in the landing

i see

silence

wet eyelashes

a tap that drips

a clothesline that's empty.

when you lie i see

my life without you

and i make myself believe you.

the deprived desi

I love ziplock bags.

The thing is they were always so foreign. and desirable.

I first saw them when my cousins came down from the states. And that was it, love at first sight.

I was envious of how casually my american relatives treated these precious bags. They carried medicines in them, make up stuff in another, prayer books and all sorts of odds and ends.

I was too shy to ask for one. Then one day I saw my aunt empty the one that carried her make up, and toss it where the pile of old newspapers used to stay stacked.

this was my chance, to own my very own zip lock bag. i'd carry my lunch in it. i'd put my make up stuff in it. i'd casually chop some fruit and toss it in to the bag. even though I didn't really like fruit back then. All this flashed through my head. and then, my other aunt pounced on the bag. she had been eyeing them too. like a hawk. and she was faster than me.

so my american cousins, as a parting gift, gave her all their zip lock bags. and my silent love for them just grew.

Over the last ten years I've managed to collect my own little horde of ziplock bags. Most have landed in my lap, when friends have landed over left over food. What they don't know is, I couldn't care less about the food, I just hunger for those bags.

Any how, now i'm helping MIAMA pack his bags. And yesterday I bought a dozen zip lock bags. So he can keep his first aid kit, the dry fruits, the lip balm...each in it's own zip lock bag.

Sometimes, being old aint that bad. at least you can afford as many zip locks as your heart desires.

sweet summer

i was eighteen that summer.

just back from college. with two months to kill.

he was twenty.

waiting to go start his training. with two months to kill.

we had to meet. we were just three people that age out there. he, his sister and i.

so, like it happens in the movies and the books, we hung out.

we went for walks. we drank copious amounts of mango shake sitting on the steps of my house. we went exploring on his scooter. and we talked and talked.

his sister at some point left us alone. so that's how we ended up spending most of the summer together. my mother was amused, and insists even today that he polished off all her snacks waiting around for me. but it was perfect.

warm in the mornings. warm enough to drink cold coffee in tall glasses with lots of ice in it. warm enough to go driving off across bad roads, stop under a large tree and watch a train roll past in the distance.

warm enough to just sit in my room under the fan, talking about friends and things we wanted to see and do. warm enough to walk lazily to the mess, and pick books from the library. warm enough to stand at the gate endlessly, talking again, until it was time to go home for lunch.

warm enough to meet again in the evening, and hang out at the kids park. to sit in my driveway, and try and fix my rickety old moped together. and warm enough for regular tambola nights.

then, finally the day when we had to leave. strange, because somehow we were on the same vehicle to calcutta. i don't remember saying bye or what it felt like. but i remember writing to him for a few months. and then slowly the summer faded from my memory.

it was the sweetest summer. i liked him. i thought he liked me too. but i never asked. and neither did he.

then sixteen years later, i speak to him this morning. he doesn't sound anything like he did. but then i really don't remember. we laugh, talk all jumbled, try and fill in the years.

i tell him we'll meet. but i don't think so. not because of anything. but because somethings are meant to stay blurred, slightly faded.

and some summers are meant to stay perfect.

damn fool things

or things we can do away with.

1. the indian judiciary.

raj walks away scot free yet again. they can't muzzle him, they can't arrest him. in case you didn't notice we live in a lawless nation.

2. the jumbled words that appear when you write on someone's comment page on a blog.

you have to fill your email id. or your blogger one. you have to type your password in. so then what's the point of having those strange alphabets that a dyslexic like me takes 15 minutes and six trys getting right. this is even when i stick my tongue out and go pop eyed with concentration.

3. hair. on the legs.

i'm sick of waiting for them to grow to a reasonable length before i can wax them, without pulling off some skin. i'm tired of waiting, sometimes for weeks. always having to wear full length stuff. because my hair refuses to co operate. i'm fed up of finally getting sick and tired of the whole thing and using the razor. yuck. i hate bristles.

4. charging.

duhhh. this is when we're cloning stuff and sending random folks to the moon. but guess what you still need to charge your phone and laptop. and if you are like me, who hates putting plug to point, then welcome to the land of beep beep hell. because every time you really need the phone or the laptop, the battery is blinking at you like an evil eyed monster. why? is it that tough to create a phone that charges using the sun or water or my breath or something.

please add shops where you have to show the bill when you are on your way out. this is specially true when your arms are weighted down by bags, and all the bored man at the door wants to do is stamp the bill. for reasons totally unkown to mankind.

there. i feel better for now.

so happy diwali. oooh....also add those mass forward happy whatever messages. darn stupid people who send those darn stupid things.

well, you know who's not getting any messages this year then : )

dancing in the dark

I’m flipping through a magazine. And i come across an article, “ ten signs that your child is turning a rebel.”
Right. Like it takes only ten signs.

Anyway, it got me thinking about my childhood, or rather adolescence and rebellion. So here’s my story.

When i was 15, my family moved to a very remote part of the country. In the middle of my school year.

So imagine, you have your friends, your best friends, you are every teacher’s pet (except the hindi ma’am), you love your school, you are marked to be head girl, the cute cultural captain has a crush on you ...
and then one fine day you’re told you’re leaving that school.

Anyway, so after my half yearly exams we move. And land up in the boondocks. Sure it’s pretty. But for some reason my parents decide to stay with some friends. Who stay miles and miles away from civilisation or even the nearest village.

Anyway, two months later, my father has to move again. And my folks decided to separate for a while. However, since I have school, they decide to leave me behind. And actually I'm pretty excited about escaping the omnipresent parental eye.

Only problem is I hate the school. And most of the school hates me.
They label me fast. And not because I’m a great sprinter, but because I hang out with the senior boys.
They label me USA, (ya, remember this is a school in the boondocks. USA means all the bad thngs a girl can ever be)because one day I go for a walk with the guys to a canteen like shack behind the school.

So here I am. 15 going on 16. No parental supervision. Living with some people who were sweet but had no idea what to do with me. And going to a school I absolutely could not fit into.

And without even knowing it (see, that’s where the ten signs would have helped), I decide to turn rebel.

So I start by moving to the back bench.

Then I start to defy the teachers. I back chat, I make fun of them, I talk with a different accent every day. I laugh when they tell me to leave the class.

Next, I start to respond to a senior who’s been giving me the vibes. I hang out at the bike stand with him. I walk to the cigarette shop with him. And one day, in the middle of the school day, I decide to take him up on his offer and go for a bike ride.

Well, the whole school is agog. My woolly guardians have no clue about any of this. So when on my birthday I ask them if I can ask my friends over, they readily agree.

I don’t know what they expect, but they definitely look a little worried when my friends roar in that evening. Five senior boys who look much older than me. Luckily my smoke screen girl friend, also turns up. And two of my classmates. The tallest boys in class, who share the back bench with me.

We tell woolly guardians we’re going for a walk.

The senior boys have vodka bottles in their jackets. I’ve never really had a drink before that. But what the hell, it’s my birthday, and there’s no one to tell me what to do.

So I take a few glugs and then some more. Soon we’re all singing and pushing each other. Everyone is high. We go back, eat, and go for another walk. This time we drink rum. My two tall back bench classmates refuse to leave my side. I smoke two cigarettes, cough till tears roll down my eyes, then throw up. Drink some more rum, and throw up some more. Somehow I make it home after that second walk, ( my trusting guardians are fast asleep) get to my bed and pass out.

Point is that was really my first rebellion. I had many more moments in those four months.

In retrospect it seems stupid. Even dangerous. What if something had happened? What if those senior guys had tried something?

But back then, things were different. Thankfully.

And ya, there’s a another reason I say trust the universe. For in those four months, when there was no one to keep an eye on me, there were two boys. Who sat in the back bench with me. Who always managed to hang around me. Who somehow kept me out of trouble. And made me keep like someone cared.

I never kept in touch with them. I was so determined to get that phase behind me. But they were, for all purposes, my rebel phase guardian angels. Two tall, gangly, always on the verge of failing, 16 year old back benchers! Ha!

.... .- ...- . | .- | .--. .-.. .- - . | --- ..-. | ..-. .-. --- --. ... | .-.. . --. ... | --- -. | -- .

the other day someone called me a dilettante.

and boom, it was like a moment of clarity. because that's exactly what i am. a lover of all things, art, culture, sports. The only catch is it's always like an intense but fleeting love affair. One month at the most, and then, okay what's next.

you see, in my head i'm sort of like a character from a book. in fact the closest i've come to saying aah that could be me has been Olivia Joules in Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination.

It's not a great book, if you don't like that sort of thing (far out plot, poison, secret service characters, shady Osama like guys, international playboys, drugs, beheadings and a loony female who's out to save the world from things she hasn't figured out as yet)

But back to me. So in my head I'm sort of like Olivia Joules. Which is why I believe that it is of utmost importance to know a little bit of everything.

For example:

I learnt to tie nine different types of knots from a book called the Dangerous book for Boys or something like that. On the premise that someday I might be holed up in a medieval castle, and might have to tie a knot around the bedpost to slither down the tower. It would certainly help if the knot stayed, hence the nine different types of knots. Oh ya, also tried to learn morse code, but got kind of bored after dit dit dah.

I learnt to jive, watlz, salsa and do a mean cha cha cha this summer. again, maybe when i'm on an international mission through morocco and need to attend a ball, nobody can fault my manners or my dancing skills.

Then there's a bit of yoga. Some painting. decoupage. I've been learning to strum a few chords on the guitar. I'm trying my hand at gardening.

Then in November I move on to bharatnatyam. And horse riding.

After which my list includes learning some magic tricks (already know two super card tricks), vedic maths (you can not be a secret agent and count on your fingers). being able to identify poisonous snakes and name them. I also really want to learn carpentary, welding and operating a sewing machine. And riffle shooting.

hair cutting. 5 gourmet meals. 6 mean desserts. Crochet. Photoshop (yeah, I know, shame on me). Reading and writing two languages.

The list continues. People collect bone china, stamps, gadgets. I collect things to learn.

The life of a secret agent is tougher than you think.

(ps: the title of this post is in morse code. go to http://www.scoutnet.nl/~inter/morse/morseform.html to break it)

remind me, how old am I?

i hate partings.

not the one's in your hair, but the tata types.

so naturally these days i'm a bit down and out. and when i start to pms, that will become an understatement.

but, the thing is, the man I'm mad about, who will henceforth be referred to as MIAMA on this blog is going to climb a mountain. He's going to be gone for three weeks. Minimum.

To a neighbouring country, where the flights are dicey and telecommunication is not very good, unless he carries a satellite phone. or a homing pigeon.

So I'm not going to see his mug every morning and evening. I'm not going to sleep knowing that he's right beside me. And I'm not going to be able to call him any time I feel like.

I'm happy he's going. Because we must all do our thing that gives us joy. But I am, though I'm trying not to, a little worried.

Then there's the car I'm mad about (CIAMA!) . It's been with me for seven years. And I'm in a serious committed relationship with it. But now, it's sounding wierd. After the last servicing, the engine doesn't sound like it used to. They changed the horn, and I can hardly recognise the sound. And now I know it has to go.

And then to top it all, this morning, when I'm driving to work, the damn FM station decides to play sad love songs. The depressing mopey kinds.

Darn. I really need to get my big girl underwear out.

for the sax of the heyvans and the gods

i like raja choudhary.

for those of you who know who he is, and have passed out in shock, please... go smell some smelly socks.

for those of you who are wondering, who the fuck is raja, let me enlighten you. he is the guy, (note: not a guy, but the guy) on Big Boss, the desi version of Big Brother.

He is also Shweta Tewari's estranged husband. And at this point in case you are wondering who the fuck is Shweta Tewari, it really doesn't matter, because this post is about Raja Choudhary.

Okay, let me further your tellywood knowledge. Shweta Tewari is a serial saas bahu'er.

Back to Raja Choudhary. He's an alleged wife beater. His claim to fame are serials like Your Honour and Daddy Samjha Karo. Never heard of them? Well, neither has anyone else. (And I just saved you a google search).

But I love him. Right now he's on top of my cool guy charts. For starters there's his english. Please refer to title: for the sax of the heyvans and the gods. This gem was uttered by Raja during a fight with a female contestant. Another sample: you should shame on you. Don't try to play a games.

Okay. So that's the funny part. There's also his whole attitude of being the trouble maker in the show. He needles people, provokes them into losing their temper. And sometimes loses his, big time, till you think he's going to get into a fist fight.

But I still like him. In fact I think he's hot, in a sort of very desi cave man way.

Disgusting. There really is no accounting for taste.

~ we both know what memories can bring.

they bring diamonds and rust. ~ joan baez

I love this song. It makes me terribly nostalgic. Not for any person. But for the whole concept of love, and how doomed it really is. So well, I wrote a story about it. And now I present to you, my version of diamonds and rust.

She stared at the letters in her hand. She knew every word written inside.

Promises of love. Dreams he saw. Conversations he had. His friends. They were all there, in these letters.

She blinked as she looked up. The house was silent. U was in the bath. She could hear the shower.

The windowless kitchen was bathed in a fluorescent yellow light, from the new eco saving bulbs they had switched to. As usual, everything was perfect, in its place. The pretty jute basket with onions and potatoes. The set of knives on a wooden block. The sauce, the pepper grinder and butter dish in a tray. She noticed them all, carefully bought, well looked after. This is what she had always wanted.

She looked down at his letters again. Yesterday she met the woman he was serious about.
She hadn’t wanted to. Oh, some part of her was curious. Would she be thin? Fat? Pretty? Smart? A bitch? But she was scared; he had never asked her to meet any of his girlfriends before.

At dinner she knew why. He was serious about this woman. It was the way he looked at her. The way their heads touched when they scanned the menu. The way he said her name. Even though they tried hard not to give it away. Not to let any of their feelings for each other leak out, she could feel it.

She smiled brightly through it all. Laughed at how they must look. The ex and the present all having a good time together. This is so nice. Why can’t more people be civilised about this sort of thing?

When the gooey chocolate arrived, and she was just beginning to feel the tiredness sweep through her limbs, he looked at her, and said, “ Sleepy? Let’s go, I’ll ask for the bill.” She felt her heart stop. She still loved him. Even after two years, countless days, drunken nights, flings, a marriage....

He was saying something. She looked up. “ We plan to get married end of this year. Her folks are coming down from agra...”

That was it. She always thought that the day she tore his letters she’ll have a grand party. Call all her friends. Laugh and sing till the wee hours of the morning. Because it would be over. She would be healed. He would be forgotten.

And the letters... she imagined a bonfire. Dropping a lit matchstick into the pile, and watching them go up in flames.

But it was 8:15 on a Tuesday morning. And she’d have to start getting breakfast ready. U would be out of the shower any minute now. And she’d miss her ride to work.

So that’s how the letters ended up. Like her feelings for him. Jumbled up in a dustbin, in the kitchen. Soaked with egg shells, onion peels and wet tea leaves. .

scary shit

why is it love so difficult? when does it turn in to a habit? when does it release you? when does it drag you down?

when do you say enough? when do you say sorry? when do you ask for another chance? when do you decide there will be no other chance?

when do you think you can give it all up? when do you think you have the strength to walk alone? when do you think you still have the love to have another go?

xs, s, m, l, xl, xxl

i went to the mall today. and i suffered from mall glaze.

it's the state of too many things. clothes. shoes. underwear. underwire. tops. tie ups. someone stop this madness.

really, does this happen to you? you walk in feeling like a kid in a candy store, and half an hour later you're feeling slightly sick and disoriented. like you just ate up half the store.

how many things can you try? how many times can you pull your jeans off? how many things can you lug around in that tie up basket? how many racks can you tug and pull at?

this is what happens to me. after a while i start feeling hypnotised. then everything starts to look the same. then i don't know which aisle to head towards. then suddenly, i don't even know what i was looking for in the first place. then my arms start to ache. then it feels like "why are they playing such loud music.". then finally i realise after four hours all i've got in my basket is a stupid T-shirt.

okay. so maybe it's not that bad. but the point is it very nearly is.

because i'm a child of limited choice. when i was growing up there was just one shop, with one surly shopkeeper. everything was packed in cardboard cases. and everything seemed frightfully expensive. so you tentatively pointed to two, or at the most (gasp, you bold thing) three things. surly showed them to you, you tried them, and that was it. puja/diwali/birthday shopping over.

the only place your eyes threatened to glaze over, was in the sari shop. i remember dreading being dragged on those expeditions with my mom and her sisters. but even that was civilised. once the shopkeeper had sized you up, you were offered bar stool like chairs, cold drinks and water in steel glasses magically appeared, while the obliging salesmen draped themselves in sari after sari.

it was like a fashion show, in drag.

there were other options too. like tailors. so you carried across your cloth or cut piece, usually a birthday gift. and then you pored over patterns and designs. my mom's tailor used to get second hand catalogues from abroad. no wonder i spent most of my growing up wearing prissy high neck blouses with lace and ribbon. like an old british maid. still, it was a world of limited choices. because my mom made all the decisions, the only thing i could choose was the cold drink i could have at the tailors - rasna or campa cola. actually even then my mom would have the last choice, " No ice."

whew. never thought i'd say this. but if i see my mom's tailor now, i'd probably run to him and throw my arms around him, and say, " from tomorrow you will be my shoppers stop, my pantaloon, my inorbit, my oberoi mall, my hypercity....."

my first brush

apologies for not having written in days. but i've been really happy and busy.

and that just proves my pet theory that if you are unhappy you have lots to write about.

and that brings me to my next best pet theory. there are two types of unhappiness. one is delicious - because you know it's shortlived, or because you know that it's not really such a big deal. like for instance a trivial fight, a break up with someone you would anyway have broken up with. it's emotional cleansing. you can cry, have an outburst, gather all your friends, grab lots of sympathy, shop a lot, and wake up smiling two days later. these unhappy moments are meant to be juiced.

the second unhappiness is the serious kind. your spouse/lover/friend leaves you. someone you love dies. that kind of thing. you get the drift right? the kind that leaves you feeling someone just wrenched your gut out, and you takes days, and weeks, and months and sometimes years to get over it.

anyway, my first brush with unhappiness was when i was in school. i liked this guy. ya, right ... what else could cause unhappiness when you are 15. his name was AZ. sorry about the initials, fat chance that he's reading my blog but anyway....

point is AZ was tall, handsome, soft spoken. had lovely brown eyes. a super sexy accent ( his folks had just moved back from Botswana). and he was two years senior to me.

so in class eight, i spend all my time drawing his name all over my school books. i craned my neck during assembly every morning just so i could see him. i decided the water cooler that was closest to his class had the coldest water. i sat in the scorching summer sun, watching the school cricket team in action. sometimes, i was the sole spectator.

and i thought no one knew.

then in class nine i realised everyone knew. my whole class used to try and push me on to him, when we passed his class in assembly. everytime he walked past my class, there would be wild cheering and hooting. and to my utter mortification we landed up being in the same damn Ashoka house. By now, not just my class, even his class knew. My famous crush has gone around the school.

End of class nine. last day of school. Everyone is delirious. saying bye. eating golas. Throwing ink on each other. There's chaos outside the school. Buses are honking. Those of us on cycles are waiting for friends. That one day, no one is in any hurry to leave.

Suddenly, in slow motion, I look up from my cycle, to see AZ walking towards me. My first reaction is to flee. Just jump on my cycle and get the hell out of there. But I'm frozen, rooted to the spot. He stops right in front of me. Looks down at me, and smiles. My heart stops beating. Then kickstarts with a loud noise that should make everyone around me jump.

I can hear giggling from behind me. No one says anything. Finally he says, " Hi...I'm A. " As if I didn't know. I know his name, his surname, his favourite colour, his pet's name, his house address, his two sisters, his favourite sport. But just then, my ears are ringing, my face is a horrible mottled red, my fringe is poking into my eyes...and nothing is coming out of my mouth. So I continue to grin.

He says, " I thought we could be friends." I can feel someone poking me in the ribs. It's my best friend, S, who's in class eleven. She pokes me again. I know I have to say something now...anything....

" Hi, I'm S. And I'm really late. So I'll see you later."

And I turn my cycle and ride off as fast as I can. My friends catch up with me five minutes later and they are shaking with laughter. They pull me off my cycle and we roll around by the side of the road. Them clutching their stomachs, me my head. I can't believe I could have been such an ass.

So it goes on.
Class tenth. He comes to see me in my class. I jump out of the window. My class is on the first floor, I break my hand.

I'm running down the stairs. Suddenly I see him and his friends at the bottom. I miss two steps, and twist my ankle.

Finally he calls me and my best friend S to his birthday party. I don't go. Not just because I'm shy, but because my mom would grill me, and my face would be a dead give away.

But S goes. And things are never the same again. Because a week later she tells me that she went to his party, because she is in love with him. And she told him that, and now.... here's where the unhappiness bit comes in .... they are going around. boyfriend girlfriend. in love. together. a & S. he tall, she tall. me on my cycle.

I come home. and sit on the dining table, and eat my lunch, and open my books and study. And then when it's really hot and the even the fans can't muster up the enthusiasm to keep going, my parents go to sleep. and i lock myself in the bathroom. and i cry and i cry.

and that summer day, i have my first brush with unhappiness.

booked and hooked

you know that happy feeling? the one when you think okay, i'm still the same. i'm me.

i got that feeling today. found a book, i couldn't put down. ate with it in front of me on the breakfast table. fought the urge to bunk work so i could just loll on the red futon with my legs on the window sill, while i devoured it. had to resist the urge because the red futon lies all rolled out. damn.

took a cab to work. only so i could read the book. kept going to the loo at work, so i could sit on the pot, seat and lid down and read my book. read my book at lunch time. read my book between meetings.

flung myself on the bed and started reading, as soon as i walked in home. and now...just when the murderer is going to be revealed i'm dillydallying. prolonging the moment. pretending i have better things to do. looking for chocolate all over the fridge. sipping water slowly.

and just when it gets too much, like i'm going to burst, which is right about now, i'll jump back into bed and grab that book!

so cool, it's scary

sometimes it's just hard to be cool.

most times i don't even think about it. but then someone will say something like " oh you are just so cool." and then * silence* followed by *thud*. I just don't know what to say then. Should i crack a joke. should i chew gum and shrug my shoulder and say "whatever". should i look totally disinterested. or should i start a conversation about an obscure japanese designer.

most times i just go silent. while my mind wrestles with the pressures of being cool.

Ps: I'd like to add an emoticon here ... but i'm not sure if that's cool!

the sound of silence

experiment: no talking today.

i started at 9 am. then realised i should have started at 9.30. because how on earth was i going to tell the maid what to cook for lunch and dinner.

so after ten minutes of hand wringing and pointing to all the food in the fridge, i decided to write in hindi. voila... she understands hindi. managed to convey what to cook. then realised i hadn't cross checked with other members of the family, one of whom is down with a bad cold. the other one is 85 and loves eating junk food. getting her to agree to eat what i had suggested for lunch, that too by way of furious scribbling and gesticulating...whew. it took me about 15 minutes.

finally out of the house. no byes for a change. just a hug for everyone. in the car. no yakking on the phone. felt strange, but nice.

then i got to work. carrying a notebook. the first page of which said - I'm experimenting with silence. Can't talk. Can write.

Needless to say, it caused much amusement in office. I, strangely was enjoying not talking. I listened to everyone talk stuff, crib, discuss - without interrupting.

But here's the funny part. Most people when they'd talk to me in my silent state, would use broken sentences. It's like they could not use complete sentences when talking to someone who would not talk back.

At least three people spoke loudly to me. It's as if I was suddenly dumb...and deaf!

Then people tried rushing up to me and saying, " what happened to your car. Oh my god!" Maybe they were hoping I'd screech and go hysterical. Maybe they were hoping to win the beer that was being promised if you could get me to talk.

Finally at 1 pm, I broke my silence. Because it was making everyone focus too much on it. The thing is I enjoyed it. My head felt lighter. Things just skimmed over me. I still don't think I'm cut out for a ten day vipasanna retreat as yet.

But a little silence once in a while, it's nice. Like rearranging the furniture in your head.

they're sharing a drink called loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone

Mumbai. Crowded. Teeming. Packed with possibilities. People. Things to do. Pubs. Theatre. Work hard, play hard.

And then the other Mumbai. Lonely. A vacant seat beside you. An empty apartment. Distances. Pressure. Keep smiling. Look bright all the while.

It’s scary. At eleven thirty on Saturday night my friend, let’s call her X, called me. She sounded like her voice was coming from far away. And all she said was, “ I think...it’ll be nice if you could come home...now.”

My heart sank. All the guilt I felt came rushing back. I had seen X spiral down and down for the last few months. And I had been so wrapped up in my own life that I had hoped it was just a phase.

There have been times when I’ve known this is not looking good. But I just haven’t been able make that connection. You see X and I used to be every close. We’ve been together through many ups and downs. Some times we’ve held on to each other. And sometimes we’ve been in the background, but always there.

Then something happened. And it wasn’t the same again. I knew things were not okay with her. But I couldn’t figure why she would not tell me. Or why she’d just try and brush it off, even when her eyes told me she was lying. I thought about talking to her, but then thought no, she needs her space...give it to her.

But sometimes people don’t need space. They need you to barge in on them and pull them out. Just grab them by the armpits and drag them out of the darkness.

So that night I knew it was my only chance. Not just to get X out of there. But also prove to myself that I wouldn’t let her down.

Anyway, that night I got X home. And this morning when I woke up and walked in to see her in the living room, bright eyed, tea on the gas, pottering about – I knew she’d be okay.

So I’m wondering. Sometimes you just need to talk. To tell someone what you’re feeling. But then we’re so pressurised – if you are not happy, you are a loser. So sometimes you’d rather lie, and try and pretend all is okay. In the bargain, getting more and more isolated.

And then sometimes you just want someone to hug you, to hold you, to tell you it’ll all go away. But then again you think, I’m a grown up adult. I can’t ask for that. The pressure to be strong, independent – sometimes does it get too much?

Finally as friends. You know when I was younger I never though about things like breathing space, barging in, not intruding. So why do I do it now? You are my friend, I think you need help...to hell with politeness...let me just help you, whether you like it or not.

Anyway I know X will come through. We made lists yesterday. And she’s already recognised how she’s feeling, and started taking the first steps to doing something about it.

I’m glad. Because I’ll be watching her closely. Ready to barge in this time.

life in plastic, it's fantastic.

Okay so we all know Barbie is a bitch. And she lures little girls into being thin and unhappy. And if she were a real woman her vital statistics would be 40:18:32.

Question to pervert designer: Did he think she could totter around on plastic stilettos with boobs the size of that? I bet Barbie has a bruised nose all the time.

Anyway, the point is today I learnt something even more fascinating about Barbie. Obviously the guys at Mattel have very interesting conversations in their conference room. Because after many months of research and much stress, they decided *tan tan tan* that nipples were a no-no.

Can you believe that? The stress, the anguish, the thought that goes into these things. I can just see those harrowed people at Mattel cancelling their vacations and burning the midnight oil till finally they could find an answer that would change a million lives:

“Barbie will not have nipples.”

But then life is full of challenges. And here’s another one those brave people at Mattel faced, “What do we do with Ken’s bulge?”

Should they show it? And how much? Would it like “Oh, but Ken’s got a great heart at least” or would it be like “ ooh Ken, you are happy to see Barbie.”

But of course how could little girls, who were being spared the trauma of nipples, be exposed to the evils of the bulge. But then, if Barbie had breasts, Ken couldn’t be all smooth and enuch types either.

So then more stress, more anguish, more cancelled vacations, till finally they had their answer. Ken would always come with his pants on.

Whew. The world has been saved. All’s well that end’s well.

Except for Ken and Barbie. Rumour has it that they’re breaking up. She’s sick off trying to have sex with a guy whose pants can’t come off.

you have sex. and then you want me to coo at the result?!

So lot of people i know have been having babies. And some of these people have been kind of upset that i haven’t gone to see their babies.

The thing is i don’t see the point in going to see little babies.

There’s not much you can do, except say a few stock phrases. 1. aaw...he/she is so cute. 2. oh, he/she is beautiful. 3. isn’t he/ she lovely?

Sometimes you can innovate. And say things like, 1. ooh...he/she is a big baby. 2. my god...he/she has so much hair. 3. he/she has lovely eyes.

That’s it. Conversation over. Then you’re just wondering when is it polite to leave. Because their house is looking like a hurricane just ran through it. The parents are looking pretty wrecked themselves. In fact at times they look so manically happy to see human company, that you want to run away even faster before they imprison you in their kitchen. And ya, the slightly sour odour of baby puke and pee are coming in your way of enjoying the samosas they’ve put before you.

You want to leave. And you know the poor tired parents want you to leave too.

So what’s the point? I’m usually wary about cooing over a baby too much, because if he falls sick the next day, the parents are going to be like, “ It was her. She has bad nazaar.” The next time you go over they're scared to bring the baby out, or then you’ll suddenly spot at least one kala tikka on every body part.

So what’s the point? It’s not even like you can say things like, “ hey, you baby looks even uglier than your husband.” Or then, “ ooh, he/she looks just like your driver. Because people get kind of touchy about these things. And if they have parents/in laws hovering around in the background, you can never tell. The samosas might never show up.

Now if it was a new car, it would make sense. At least I’d get a ride. Or we could compare features. If it was a new house, there are a million comments you can make. Or if nothing else you can ask for the broker’s number. (I’ve noticed that always makes new owners very happy. Why, search me!) And before you think I’m a child hater, if the kid was old enough to respond, it might even be fun. But a tiny little thing that can’t even recognise its own parents... what’s the point?

I think it’s the samosas.
Next time I’ll ignore the baby, and go gaga over the samosas.

hundred bucks to get high

i just got back from the matinee show of rock on.

i liked the movie. inspite of the predictable storyline. and the obvious resemblance to dil chahta hai. really, in the end, i was hoping they would do something different. anything. like the band gets electrocuted during the final performance. or arjun rampal would get too close to one of the blower fans that were so obviously positioned to make his hair fly. i was hoping his head would get sucked in. and instead of us sobbing over luke kenny, it would be arjun we'd be sad to see go.

but alas, no such luck. though it wasn't that bad. farhan akhtar has hot. steaming hot. so that kind of made up for the thin storyline.

the other good thing was i came out of the movie hall bouncing. now i don't know if that happens to you. but if i see a movie about rock bands, i want to come out, shake my curls, move my head and jump up and down.

i want to leap on to a stage, or even the top of a car, and burst into song. the auto feels like a packed stadium. my elevator feels like a rehearsal hall. and i want to curl my lips, throw my fist into the air, tear through a riff ....

get the drift?

it happens to me all the time. if i watch a movie about racing, i'm dying to get into a car and drive fast. everything feels good. the electric lamps, the snaking roads, i can feel the pedal under my feet, the wheel in my hands.

if its an action movie, i kid you not. i want to jump across aisles. hurl my self off stairs, leap across cars, skid down the hall.

maybe i'm crazy. because this lasts for about two hours after the movie, sometimes even a whole evening or day.

maybe it happens to everyone. does it?

dirty linen

i always pee in the shower.

have you ever...

A friend, usually a woman has walked up to you. And exclaimed, “ wow...nice bag/shoes/top. Where did you buy it from?”

Have you ever looked like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights for a minute. Then blinked rapidly and said, “ Oh, a tiny little shop behind my house. So tiny, that they don’t even have a name ya.”

Or a variation, “ Oh... just off one of those shops... what’s the name...that one...next to Mc Donalds, or was it KFC. Or...maybe Barista.”

Or then, “ This old thing. It’s been in my cupboard for ages.”

I’ve done it many times.

Liar. Liar.

Q & A

Always fall in love with someone, who loves you more than you love him?

I saw this on sex and the city last night. And i remembered a similar conversation a friend, M, and I had few months back. We both discovered our mothers had given us the same advice.

I think it stinks like the sulabh sauchalaya on tulsi pipe (how i know that is another story. Something to do with traffic and a failed attempt with a plastic packet) First, it goes against all my romantic notions. Not the Sulabh, but the question posed on top. Two, how do you measure this love equation?

What if you slowly start finding yourself falling more in love than you want to? What if the balance starts getting disturbed? It’s no longer 20-60, it’s now inching towards 50-50 – gosh, what would you do?

Start reminding yourself how weird he looks when he snores. Stop laughing at his jokes, and instead concentrate on the blackhead he has on his nose. Hope that he gets a cold, and you can catch him with snot running down his mouth?

Really. It makes no sense.

And what about anticipation?

He calls, and you yawn. He writes you a letter, you forget to open it. He wants to take you out to dinner, you’d much rather watch a rerun of Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki.

How sad is that. No waiting for calls. No has he messaged me. No dying to see him. Just ho-hum, I’m in love with him, but not as much as he is.

So then the answer is, it’s much more fun to be in love and be slightly manic about it. It ensures you’ll wear better clothes. Wax more often. Do your eyebrows like clockwork. Listen to sappy songs like “ You’re beautiful” and actually resist the urge to throw up.

And then there's always that ... if you’re madly in love and are just a little insecure, you’ll at least try and suck your stomach in.

Don’t know about you. But that’s incentive enough for me. : D

friends and s

I have this notion of close friends.

We must share similar interests. In movies, or books or music. Or we should have similar backgrounds, the way we’ve grown up. We should hang out once in a while. Go to movies, dinner, meet up in the evenings. Talk work, talk shit, that kind of thing.

And most people i consider close friends fall into this slot.

But the thing is, there is no one i work with who seems to fall into this slot. Of course i have friends at work. But in my head they are work friends. Meet them at work, hang out, chat...and that’s it. I don’t hang out with them after work. If one of them left or got another job, i’d probably miss them for a day or two, and that’s about it. Life would happily go on.

but today, i realised all this close friend- office friend distinction aint that easy. and that's mostly coz of of s.

s and i work together. in fact we work as a team. and it's been like that for over two years now. we hang out together at work all day. we crib, we cry, we laugh. we talk about our childhood, our relationships, home, love, friends, parents. and now we've reached a stage where we can complete each other's sentences.

don't get me wrong. there's nothing faintly romantic about us. he's just the opposite of me. we don't have the same taste in food, music, books or movies. we never meet outside work, or for a movie or coffe or anything. we stand at opposite ends of the spectrum as far as our political views are concerned. in fact we have nothing in common, except we both love sweets and design blogs.

but ... that's just it. inspite of all this, we can't do without each other. if i go on leave, he's so glad to see me back. and if he goes on leave (which is hardly ever, told you we are different), i'm like "office feels so boring". we stand up for each other. we look out for each other. we know what the other person loves, fears, wants the most. and ya, if one one of us wears something new, the other one would notice straight off the bat. actually i wouldn't. but then told you, we're different.

then - we must be friends. not office friends, not close friends, not home friends. just really good friends.

so s, this post is for you. my most unlikely-to-be-my-friend friend!

size musings

two things.

first i bought a new top. olive green. well, we are talking agent green glass here. so it's olive green, with tiny straps. And it shows off my shoulders and my collar bones. which i have come to the conclusion are my A listers on the body parts scene.

i knew it was the find of the month, the minute i wore it to work. " you look hot!" was the general feedback. tra la la. shopping successful. point to be noted - from now all tops should show off the above mentioned body parts. though in practise this might be difficult. because i'm a notoriously impulsive shopper. and even worse, a compulsively impatient one. i have been know to buy a top i like, in three colours. which somewhere at the back of my head is positively a very non-fashionista thing to do. sigh.

second thing. my lack of boobs.

all tops that highlight the shoulders fortunately do things for the boobs. maybe they play with light and shade or something, but they manage to create an illusion of boobs. which makes me happy. because i'm convinced that though i can take on J Lo in matters of the derriere, there's no hope in hell for me in the boob department.

then yesterday, when i'm wearing my hot top, i read an article in GQ by a man, who is now fast becoming my most quoted man, on the pros and cons of silicon boobs. he talks about how his flat chested (really i hate that word. how about reasonable breasted?) girlfriend got silicon implants.

and the verdict was that they sucked. okay...now this is sounding like thinly veiled porn. but his point is they don't feel squishy and real. they just stay hard and plasticy. and refuse to move and fall around and get squashed...and you get the picture. so finally he realised that big boobs don't make a girl. and she went back, got the silicon out, and they are all happy... and squishy i guess.

so i'm thinking, big deal. why make a mountain out of a molehill. let me enjoy what i have. at least i can wear halter necks, tie ups, little scrappy things, bikini tops and tight T-shirts without worrying about how lopsided i'll look.

and the silicon story, well that's a weight off my chest.