She first realised she was dead when she heard the sound.
Someone was clapping.
Even before her eyes opened her mind registered everything. No one had clapped in front of her for ages.
Not in the hospital room, where she lay with 16 bones in her body broken.
Not in her job, where she worked eight hours straight with only a lunch break.
Not in her marriage, that ended two years back.
The last time someone clapped so loudly was when she was 15 and dancing.
The red top, the black skirt, the red shoes with the small white socks.
Her partner, in black pants and a blue shirt, and a black tie.
They were laughing and spinning, their faces flushed with all the dancing, and the excitement, and the warmth of the heater in that cold winter evening.
The music was blasting out of a two in one, and the man sang about dancing in the dark.
They looked at each other and laughed when the song stopped. Out of breath and slightly giddy. But he didn’t let go off her hand, and the minute the next song started, they jumped right in.
Laughing and spinning again. This time she couldn’t even remember what the song was, all she could remember was the way her legs moved, her hands crossed, her feet slithered and bumped and tapped. And it felt like they were one.
That’s when she heard the clapping. All the people around, clapping, like they could feel it too.
Like they knew, she was free. Never to be trapped, never to caught, never to be beaten.
Now as the nurse unplugged the monitor that had fallen silent. As she removed the clipboard that hung at the foot the bed. As she picked up the sheet to cover bed number 12's face, she noticed the smile.
A tiny smile on a dead face.
Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes That call me on and on across the universe Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe
lyrics @ the beatles. picture @ http://www.ehow.com
It’s true. You learn it the hard way, through tears before you sleep, through tears when you wake up, through tears when you stop to breathe, that sometimes love just aint enough.
First, don’t blame me. Blame this guy, he started it.
Second, if you’re about to eat or generally belong to that strange community of people who are squeamish when it comes to crap and pee tales, kindly exit left of stage. Go read amitabh bachchan’s weirdo blog.
Now to get to the point, with great relish.
Years back, I went on my first trek to Nepal. Of course I knew nothing about trekking. And like a lot of people thought reading the Lonely Planet was enough preparation for traipsing along the kali gandaki and walking from an altitude of 827m (pokhara) to...freaking hell...hold your breath 3800m (muktinath).
Anyway, to cut a long and sorry story short, I realised trekking was a misleading word. They should call it breaking. Like I’m going to break down and cry when I have to climb 300 steps cut into the mountain. Or my knees are going to break and roll off the next time I’m skidding downhill while the raging river waits gleefully underfoot.
Or my nerves are shot and at breaking point. Or give me a break, I’ll never say I want to go climbing again.
Yeah, I think let’s go breaking to Nepal kind of sums up my trip.
But here’s the interesting bit. While you’re wandering spaced out, battling to breathe as you endlessly climb uphill, you realise that bathrooms are the last thing you care about.
Of course they don’t exist. Not just on the trail. But also in the tiny villages.
Yes, some have electricity, and music playing, and hot soup, and of course some good stuff to smoke. But bathrooms, chances are they have one bathroom for the village. And of course unless you’re in the habit of waking up really early, it’s probably lot easier, for your eyes and your nose, to just duck behind some bushes on the trail.
So one day, after a very earlylunch of dal bhaat, which in itself is such a huge luxury at that altitude, we’re getting ready to set off again.
We have a large, large hill to climb through the late morning and afternoon.
Perhaps it is the sight of that hill, perhaps it is the hot dal bhaat, but I feel some movement in the lower abdomen. I tell everyone that I have to potty before we leave. Just then the other girl in our trekking party says she can feel it too, and maybe we should go together.
By now we’ve reached a stage in our relationship where we can amicably sit next to each other in the open and do potty while chatting about inconsequential stuff.
So we set out to find a bush or a rock we can duck behind. But there’s nothing. All trekking paths seem to converge here. There’s deep gorge on one side, and a steep mountain slope on the other.
In the meantime, the dal and the bhaat are sending urgent signals to every part of the body. We have to potty now.
Just then we spot an abandoned house set against the slope. We scramble up. There’s a clearing in front of the house where we can squat while the house can hide us from all the trekkers below.
Oh, what a relief. We blink back tears of delight, and sit down to do our business, and are politely discussing how Mick Jagger probably came down this same trail, when the door of the abandoned cottage flies open and a man steps out.
Turns out the abandoned cottage is not an abandoned cottage.
The man is in a rage. And can I blame him. Two women shitting on his doorstep.
He gesticulates wilding and yells away. We just look up in shock and then start laughing helplessly.
There is no turning back now. We can hardly hop our way out of this. The man after a minute of rage realises the same thing and stomps off.
We do our business quickly, and leave. Without even a thank you note.
And ya, PS: I never went back to catch up with him.
Tomorrow: the best cake in the world. how to keep a relationship going. And the most fantastic music from the early 80’s. Yeah baby.
The last time I did that, I just donated ten thousand bucks to the down the drain fund.
This gym is supposed to be very good. Bipasha, Ranbir, Imran, Deepika go there.
And that’s really not helping me. Because they probably invest more in liposuction and tucks than on their gym membership. Yeah, yeah I know. Grapes are sour and all that, but really dude, just take a look at Bip’s chest. It has grown over the years.And no, I don’t think it’s just “bacchi badi ho gayi” growth.
Damn. Why doesn’t it happen to me?
Anyway, sorry to digress.So now the point is what on earth am I going to wear to the gym. The yoga place I used to go to was full of auntyji’s except for a few driver -gadi -lana-ladies. The auntjis wore salwaar kameezs andthe driver gadi lana ladies wore track pants with matching T-shirts and solid diamond rings.
I doubt if Bipasha comes to the gym in an old salwaar kameez.
I have nice tracks. Not the furry ones with Bebe on the ass. But really neat black reeboks. And I have a cupboard full of old faded T-shirts.
But I’m worried. I don’t have a glossy shiny pony tail. I don’t have Brazilian work out gear. And I don’t have Mac make up for the gym.
They might think I’m the woman who comes to dust the place.
Such weighty issues on my mind.
On the other hand, let me tell you about airport. This new band. They played a debut show at Del Italia. And they are brilliant. All Hindi stuff mainly, but the singer Arijit Dutta has a voice that’s so groovy.
You remember things like train journeys, playing cards with friends, sitting in a bus and watching the rain, being deliriously in love when he sings. He hits the sweet spot, that boy.
A introduced me to death cab for cutie. I’ve loved them ever since. Even though at times i find them over sentimental. But then I think, what the hell dude, there are times I need over sentimental.
So if you feel the same way, I’d like to introduce you to I will follow you into the dark. If you are going through any shit, it’s guaranteed to make you cry. And I find that huge hiccupping sobs usually leave you feeling pretty good about yourself.
And, while I would slot Twilight the movie into accidental comedy classification. I am blown by the soundtrack of New Moon. Maybe it’s because there’s another awesomely sappy song by Death Cab for Cutie there.
I had Richie Valen and Shakin Stevens in a loop on my Ipod.
I could twist, turn, shake and sing along.
And I hoped that I’d get invited to lots of Christmas parties.
It’s the 4th of December. And I have nada.
Will someone please please invite me? I promise not to drink up all the booze or the punch or whatever it is you serve.
And will not eat more than one helping. Even if there’s cake soaked in rum.
And I will dance. To La Bamba, This Ole House, Peggy Sue, Jailhouse Rock, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, Do you Love Me, Summertime Blues...
Just invite me okay. If it helps I can even get my own bottle of rum.
just figured that someone landed on my page while searching for bhabhi ji. sure, this is what i always wanted. be the landing ground for pimply pervs.
By the way, did anyone read the nationwide survey on women’s preferences on male facial hair?
It made front page news on the Times Of India. The Newspaper of India. Those magnificent people who gave us Lead India and Teach India.
Well, the front page article went on to state how women in India prefer clean shaven men, by a huge number. No smooches for mooches. The most we’d like is neat stubble.
Now, I was wondering why it made front page news. I mean it is a bit strange isn’t it. Then I thought maybe this year they’re doing Beard India.
But it turns out that they are much more devious than that. Because a day later the front page of the Mumbai Times carries a huge promotional bit on the launch of a new Gillette Razor. And two wannabe actress types are going around convincing men to shave because women like them chikna.
Aah. The penny drops.
The Times Of India is doing what they do best.
Selling out.
Anyway, that apart, this post took me the longest time to type. I fell off the bed and twisted my arm. And typing with the left arm is still okay. Try scooping a fried egg with it.
So Dying To Marry A Rich Guy has been burning up the phone lines with me.
She wants to quit working, wear kitten heels, and stand in a 5 star lobby and dial her driver.
She’s asked her parents to find this guy.
And then she calls me and wails about marrying a man her parents find. And sleeping with this stranger.
So I like this girl. She’s sassy, funny and level headed.
But ever since she’s turned into Dying To Marry A Rich Guy, all I want to do is shake her hard till her teeth fall out and her brains fall into place.
I have no patience for this. You want a rich guy. Then please spare us the how will I sleep with him, and will he be a Mensa graduate, and even I have some self respect.
Just go ahead and say Fuck it, he’s loaded and that’s all I care about.
I have another friend who did just that. She said she married for love the first time. And it left her with a broken heart and the resolve never to marry for love again.
So she married a rich guy, and she’s pretty happy now.
So what’s the conclusion? I have no idea. I guess to each his own.
I just wish love had some part to play here.
Or then maybe to quote the great philosopher Tina Turner: what’s love, but a second hand emotion.
I’d borrowed the book from a friend’s daughter and finished it in one go. Then someone gave me the other three. Which weren’t as hot as the first one. Dude, she gets married at 18 to a vampire, they keep trying to have sex for more than half the bookand then finally voila! She has two kids in two days and then turns vampire herself.
Yesh, someone hold up a barf bag while I throw up.
Anyway, the book is a rage. And like I said, the first one is pretty neat. Some smouldering romance, solid vampire action, potential for great music.
And then comes the movie.
Here’s how they wrote the screenplay. Let’s start with page one, then go to page 20, then straight to page 80 and then page 160 and so on and so forth.
It just keeps jumping like a flea on acid.
The hero, who has way too much foundation on his face, looks so nice when he smiles. Which is precisely twice in the movie. The rest of the time the director insisted he keep peering under his eyebrows so he’d look like a vampire. He just ends up looking like he’s holding back a fart.
The heroine never smiles. And looks more washed out than the vampire.
The production values are so tacky. It screams kanjoosi.
The special effects are the comic relief.
The story is butchered.
And the effing movie raked in 70.6 million dollars.
Where’s the justice in this world?
And, on the topic of let's make love vs. let's fuck, I'll go with what this chick suggests. Let's have sexy time I think wins hands down.
I had a crazy day. On last count, 67 calls and 21 msgs.
Bloody hell, I thought my phone would explode, or then my head would. The broker, the landlady, the internet guy, the man Friday, client 1, friend who fell off auto, dentist, grand mom, client 2, broker, mom, client 3, dentist, another friend, internet guy, landlady, client 1 – aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
At one point I seriously thought about flinging my phone out of the auto. And then when I figured I couldn’t do it, I burst into tears and called my friend and partner. Who immediately called my other friend and partner.
So partner 1 (girl) consulted with partner 2(guy). And then realising what a shit day I’ve been having, and all the running around I’ve been doing, partner 1 dragged me off to get new nail paint before a meeting.
New nail paint? Are you crazy? I grumbled all the way.
The nail paint came on. It looked nice. I stopped grumbling. And felt a little better.
And then, the meeting went fabulously. That could be because I spent more time admiring my feet, than talking. We sealed the deal on some money. And I ended the day feeling far from shit.
Not white skin as in white people. But white skin.
It does nothing to me. Nothing at all. I can’t imagine white skin the way I can brown.
Brown skin under the shower, as the water bounces off it. Brown skin in the sunshine, browned just a little more in happiness. Brown skin, with goosebumps. Brown skin under cool white sheets. Brown skin entwined with brown skin.
Brown skin, in pink, magenta, orange, lime green. Brown skin with a chilled glass of beer resting on it. Brown skin buried in sand. Brown skin with light brown sand smeared on it.
Brown skin like toast. Brown skin with beads. Brown skin with gold glinting off it. Brown skin on cool terracotta tiles. Brown skin with flipflops. Brown skin with an ice cube trailing down it. Brown skin in the summer, beads of sweat lazily tracing their way down. Brown skin in a spike lee movie.
Brown skin like chocolate. Brown skin like honey. Brown skin like cocoa.
Brown skin in motion. Brown skin in black and white. Brown skin in magic light.
This afternoon, I come back from a meeting, hot and tired, and log on to my computer.
As I wait for my mailbox to open, I also log into facebook.
A quick glance. Various status updates, some videos, pictures, the usual stuff. I’m about to switch windows and go back to my mail, when I see a black and white photo.
Not an arty black and white photo taken with a fancy 10x camera. But an old grainy black and white photo that actually looks sepia now that I’m staring closer at it.
Suddenly, it strikes me my cousin is tagged on the photo. Then it strikes me that she’s written a hysterical oh-my-god under it.
I look closer now. It is my grandfather.
Silence.
I can’t hear anything. I’m just staring at that screen. My grandfather. Some stranger has posted a picture of my grandfather.
My favourite. The one I believe looks over me. The one whose old flying license my grandmother once gave me, as a keepsake. The one, whose only picture I have stays carefully hidden in some prayer books.
A picture of my grandfather. And I discover it on facebook.
And the caption that goes with it.
“East Boroi Jam session Capt Mookerrji WM Pilot ex RAF man with so many tales, got me hooked onto planes.”
That’s how I’d like to remember my grandfather. Who died when I was thirteen.
My memories of him are of this crazy happy man who adored me, and talked so much, and sneaked out for cigarettes on my cycle.
My memories of him are also full of the crazy stories others tell me. How he flew people through storms. How he ran away and signed up for the RAF.How he could drink anyone under the table, and still fly out first thing in the morning. How he and my grand mom spent the night in the car, because a Royal Bengal tiger blocked their way, and my grand dad was only concerned about flying out, in the first light.
And then this picture. And the caption. And the fact that this is how a stranger remembers him too.
Facebook. We call it social media. A networking site. And today, whatever you call it; it made my day, like no other.
*that's my grand dad. centre stage, with a drink in his hand. yes, it is a family trait!
This is a telephone conversation I had last evening.
Me: Hello.
Extra chirpy lady voice, sounding like she’s just popped acid: Hello. Welcome to ShittyBank. To hear this message in English, please dial 1, to hear it in Hindi, please dial 2.
I press 1.
Acid lady: We have a new menu. Please listen carefully. If you have a savings account with us, please dial 1...
Me: yes, yes.
And I punch 1.
Acid lady: To payments dial 1, for loans dial 2, for blah blah dial 3 and 4, for loss of card dial 5...
I frantically punch 5.
Acid lady: For credit card loss, dial 1. For ATM card loss, dial 2.
I’m torn between 1 and 2. I’ve lost both. Finally I press 1.
First Kenny G plays into my ear. Then another voice tells me this call might be recorded, and then acid lady is back as she talks about home loans and credit cards.
In the mean time I’m having a seizure. Is she connecting me to another machine? Or a person? Or the crime branch?
Finally: Good evening, welcome to ShittyBank. How may I help you?
Me(hysterically relieved): hallelujah, it’s a person. Yes, please help me. I’ve lost my credit card and my ATM card.
Space Cadet: Sure, no problem ma’am. Can you tell me where you lost it?
Silence. What are you, the CID? If I could, would it still be lost?
Me: No, I don’t know where I lost it.
Space Cadet: Okay, can I have your ATM card number.
Me: But I’ve lost it you see.
Space Cadet: Can I have your T-Pin number?
Me: uuuu...I never remember those.
Space cadet: Can I have your thousand digit customer number?
Me: uuuu...not really, don’t remember it.
Space Cadet: Can I have your name?
Me: Yes, sure, it is .......
Space Cadet: Sorry ma’am, can you repeat that?
Me, cursing my parents for the long and complicated name: It is .......
Space Cadet: .......(making up his own version of my name)
Me: No, no, wait I’ll spell it.
I proceed to spell my name. Space Cadet, it dawns on me, is slightly deaf. Though why they would choose that as a qualification in a call centre candidate is beyond me. The only conclusion I reach after ten minutes of playing N for Nagpur and S for Simla is that someone who listens to these recorded conversations is selling them and making millions.
Finally after ten minutes of covering all the godforsaken cities in the country. By the way, I took way too long thinking of O for Ooty. Tip: Keep India map handy while talking to bank.
Space cadet: Thank you Miss.....Now can I have your surname.
Me: Oh no. It’s rather long. M for Manipur and so on and so forth.
Finally, after another ten minutes, we’re done with that.
Space cadet: Your card has been blocked. Anything else I can help you with?
Me: My ATM card.
Space Cadet: For that I’ll have to transfer you to another department.
And before I can protest, acid lady is back.
To cut a very long story short, I called ShittyBank five times that evening. Sometimes Acid Lady would trip me by asking me for T Pins. And when I didn’t punch them in, she would, in a acidic sort of way, say, “This call will be terminated.”
I spoke to four call centre executives. Answered the same questions over and over again. Spelt my name dozens of times. Got disconnected five times. Burst out in tears. Calmed myself by holding the dog and sobbing. Called again.
It took 45 minutes for my cards to be blocked. The confirmation email I was told could take ten minutes to two days to reach me. Why? Are they sending it through a pigeon that they just interned?
However, if you’re still reading this, here’s the icing on the cake:
Me(meekly and on the verge of fresh tears): And I would also like to change my address.
Marbles in her mouth Lady: For that you have to write a letter to our Chennai office or use internet banking.
Me: Letter? To Chennai? As in post? No, I’ll just use the internet banking.
Marbles Lady (gleefully): You should have done it earlier. I just blocked your card, now your internet account is deactivated.
Me (weakly): Which means?
Marble Lady: Letter to Chennai Ma’am.
Even Old Monk could not sooth my shot nerves.
picture @ www.hiddenstreamsproductions.com
The King, appropriately belts out All Shook Up for me.
Going Psycho: Same shit. He’s a leech. And now he wants to know everything about all my friends, my past loves, my work. Bloody hell, I think he even checks my sms’s.
Me: Gasp. Fuck, drop him. Hot potato dude.
Going Psycho: Ya. Really I want to.
Me: So?
Going Psycho: But he’s like nice to have handy. Like when I’m bored and in town, and want to go for a movie. Or coffee. Or just some slow evenings someone to hang with.
Me: Okay, so you just want to hang with him.
Going Psycho: Ya, but its too late now. He’s in my house all the time. And he’s stuck to me. I don’t want him around all the time. How do i do this?
Me: so let’s get this clear. You are asking me how to tell a guy that you don’t want him around all the time, only the times you are bored and want someone to go for a movie with.
Going Psycho: Okay. If you put it like that, ya, I guess.
2.
Feeling blue calls me, out of the blue.
Feeling Blue: Listen if you like a guy, and want him to sleep with you, how do you get him to do that?
Me: Um, just tell him that. Chances are he’ll be happy to oblige.
Feeling Blue: Fool. I can’t tell him that. He has to want it.
Me: Oh, well, then does he want it?
Feeling Blue: I don’t know. I want him to want it.
Me: One sec, are you asking me how you can get a guy you want to sleep with, to think that he wants to sleep with you, and it was his idea in the first place, that sort of thing?
Feeling Blue: Ya, will you just help, or are you going to be technical about it.
And I will try and save you all the pain by telling you that unless you want to watch Hannah Montana meets Karan Johar, and they tell each other touching tales about Bambi the deer, stay away.
Sid is a typical Mumbai guy.Right? Then how come I’ve never met someone like him, not because he’s rich and aimless. But because he’s the world’s greatest ass.
He meets a girl. Who he shacks up with. And even when she’s quivering and making constipated cow like eyes at him, he doesn’t grab the chance. Forget sex, not even a fucking kiss.
Oh, and the chick. The whole first half I thought she was a lesbian. Because she keeps insisting,“Don’t get the wrong idea, hum sirf dost hain.” Dude, that went out with Salman saying “Ek ladka aur ladki kabhi dost nahi ban sakte.”
Anyway, for three hours, all you do is watch these two losers as they boil eggs, and make pasta, and sleep in separate beds. What, is this a bloody Disney movie? Sleeping beauty meets Cinderella?
Oh, but wait, we have come of age. There is one scene. Where after days of sharing a one room flat, and making moony eyes, they finally tumble into bed together . To do what? Cuddle and sleep. Are these people in class two? Yesh, I could be sick.
And that bit, where he wears her nightshirt because he’s missing her.Dear lord, is this man for real? A woman wearing a guy’s shirt – sexy. A guy wearing a chick’s shirt, freaking hell, he’s been dancing at the rainbow parade.
Anyway, at the end of the movie, M tells us the director is gay. Maybe that explains it. Why the girl doesn’t choose the dishy Rahul Khanna over Ranbeer. Why Ranbeer doesn’t ever make even a half hearted attempt at a move. Why Konkona, who by the way, plays the girl, wants to be just dosts!
And finally, did you know, that...gasp... after a three torturous hours, the guy and the girl, realise they are in love with each other and then....we have......gasp...a passionate kiss on the forehead.
I want my money back.
picture @ http://buelahman.files.wordpress.com
The Band with Who do you love? I kept thinking this song would be so appropriate for the previous post.
Actually they never gave her any of the regular wards. Of course they were polite about it. As polite as you can be at a god forsaken government hospital.
“Nurse, only emergency ward hain.”
She never asked why.
That’s because she knew. She knew from the look on the patients face when she first went up to take their temperature. She knew from the giggling behind her back at the nurses’ station. She knew from the drunken whispers of the ward boys at night.
She had never been pretty. And by the time she hit her thirties, her face had started to turn against her.The prickly hair that grew under her chin had started to multiply rapidly. The boils that came only in summer, now refused to go.
Her eyes became smaller, her nose bigger, and her hairline started to recede.
She had given up looking at the mirror some years back. She had also given up the thought of finding a man.
She looked at the other nurses. How they flirted with the doctors. And she ached to be held, to be caressed, to be made love to. Once, lonely and crazy from being on a ten hour emergency night shift that included four accident victims and two dead bikers, she had tried telling the ward boy that she was available for anything he might have in mind.
The fellow laughed hysterically. And said with her the only thing he had in mind was to run the hell out of there.
She never tried again.
Till that warm humid night.
When they brought him in. He was nineteen, and beautiful. And he had just chopped his thumb off. His hysterical parents had brought him to the hospital.
His uncle who had gifted him the gleaming fake Swiss army knife was also there, berating himself for his thoughtless gift. The uncle was carrying the thumb in a plastic bag filled with ice.
Of course they flinched on seeing her. But their grief had made them numb, and they didn’t even ask for another nurse. They begged her to please do something. Sow his thumb back. Call the doctor Nurse , please, save our son. It is true isn’t it, that the thumb will survive in ice. Tell us it is.
She hooked him up on the bed. Told them she’d call the doctor, and that they’d have to wait outside. Then she took the bag with the thumb, and walked to the cold storage room.
She stared at the thumb in the clear plastic. A strong thumb, not too fleshy. She took it out and held it against her cheek. And slowly moved it down her face, across her neck. It felt like a caress, rough and cold, but manly.
She moved the thumb down the swell of her breasts. And that’s when she made up her mind.
“ Sorry, spoke to Doctor. He says nothing can be done. Our Operation Theatre has been shut for a week. And the thumb can only be attached fifteen minutes after being severed. It has already been one hour.”
But nurse...the mother’s wail filled the air.
“Sorry. You have to take him to the next hospital for stitching, or the hand might get gangrene, and it might spread. Go fast”
They left in a babble of confusion and crying. The next hospital was in the next district. And in their hurry, they forgot the thumb. The thumb that was of no use now.
She reached home just as day was breaking. She opened the rusty fridge, and took out a steel tray full of ice. The thumb was placed in a sparkling blue soap dish, next to her bed.
She hummed to herself. Happy that she had two men, one who couldn’t take his eyes off her.And now another, who couldn’t keep his hands off her.
The eyeball, in a glass, on top of the old TV, followed her as she went about making tea and humming her little song.
absolutely love this song. how to save a life by The Fray.
You wake up to the sound of the drums. Not harsh and loud. But beautiful, like a call to jump up and run out and welcome the day. The beat grows and spreads. Gradually down the street, till it reaches your house.
You smile, as you open eyes, your head still on the pillow.
Then you hear a babble of excited voices. Young, old, middle aged, as they pass your window. You straighten yourself, and peep out. Orange flowers on trees, a slight nip in the air, and women dressed in red, and brown, and white and gold. And men, suddenly taller, also dressed in silk and cotton.
Then, the smell, that lovely smell. That envelopes you, and settles all your fears and tells you you’re safe, you’ll always be.
And suddenly it dawns on you. At nineteen, this is your first Durga Puja. And even before you can realise it, you’ve been swept away.
Every year where ever you are, the smells, the sounds, the voices will come back to you. And you’ll feel happy for no reason.
And this is the first short story i wrote. It is not about the pujas, but just about things I remember around it.
The maid sat on the floor. Bent over a boti. a steel dekchi, battered with the constant scrubbing it was subjected to, lay on the newspaper.
Ranu checked the stove in the corner. The rice was coming along fine. She turned her attention to the gas. One burner had a round shallow kadai. The potols stuffed with kheema were just beginning to brown. The other burner had a large kadai on it. Its handles had turned black with years of use. Ranu frowned. The maid never bothered to scrape the handle with a knife. That's all it took. No point telling her anything. Maids were hard to get these days. And of course no one could be like Suti Mashi.
Now those were the good old days. Suti Mashi ran the house as if it were her own. Of course she also drank at least one litre of milk with her morning tea, but look at how much she worked. The floors would shine, the kadais would sparkle and the way she cooked. Cubes of kumdo. Small tangra mach in tomato gravy. Slivers of baby papayas. And small florets of gobi cooked in a tangy mustard paste.
" Hoye Gache." (It's done)
Ranu looked at Chayya. And thought, " Chayya. Now days, even their names are fancy."
Chayya returned her gaze with one of her own. And drawled, " I can't use this boti anymore. Why can’t you get a nice knife and chopping board. Like the Mehtas upstairs. They even have a micro..."
"Never mind what they have, Ranu snapped. " They have no idea how to cook or cut their food."
Chayya shrugged sulkily and got up. She clutched her knees while doing so. And twisted her face in pain. Ranu noticed it all. “Playacting. She can just go to those Mehtas. They are vegetarians. Let’s see her stuff herself with rice and fish curry there."
The mustard oil was hot. Ranu held the steel dekchi in her left hand. Fat pieces of Katla bedecked in turmeric and salt lay glistening in it. She waited patiently. If it started smoking, the smell would disappear. If it wasn't hot enough the fish would stick, or even worse break.
This was the moment she knew by heart. That magic moment when with a deft hand she would slide the pieces in. One by one. The oil would sputter, threaten to spill all over her. But she was ready. With another slice. And yet another. Together they would catch the oil by surprise. The hissing and spluttering would stop. And that lovely aroma of frying fish would fill the house.
Even Chayya would come and stand beside her. She would nod her head from side to side. Ranu knew that nod. It meant no one could do this like her mistress.
Ranu smiled and said, " Aajke tui amader shonge khabar kha." (Today, you eat with us.)
And finally, I wanted to put up a song (Good Morning Blues - Van Morrison, the skiffle sessions) because it is one of my favourite blogger ka budday. But I still haven't learnt how to put up a MP4 on the music player. Damn. Still, it is the thought that counts and all that jazz. Sorry blues!
Shakira is not human, she’s an alien. Then next time you see her dance, watch in slo mo, and you’ll see her cockroach like tentacles are what she uses to hypnotise you so you think she’s shaking every part of her body in different directions. Actually she’s just standing around regurgitating some vile green shit.
I am a medical marvel. There are muscles in my body that simply do not exist. I tried and tried to locate the ones that would help move my hips in one direction and my ribs in another, but after an hour and a half and many rotations I came to the conclusion that I’m joined in the hips with my ribs. They refuse to separate.
I have also located some new muscles. Which at the moment are singing in pain. In fact there is a full fledged concert happening in my body right now, and I have a VIP pass to the pain and ache area.
It is possible to dislocate your bum. And your hips. And your ribs. And your boobs. Or at least it is possible to feel like that.
And on the topic of boobs. If you are the kind who without blinking would have only one answer to the question The Most Significant Invention In The History Of Mankind Is...(drumroll) Padded Bras, then here’s a tip. Wear a padded, push up, lift off and anything else it promises bra when you belly dance. Because if you don’t have anything to heave and lift, it is positively depressing when the teacher keeps yelling “come on, you, lift and drop” and you meekly whisper, “but I am!”
The shimmy. Just when you get to the point where you’re congratulating yourself because your bum is shaking like there’s an earthquake under it, beware. That shake is being caused by fat flying around, and that is not the shimmy. The shimmy is when you start to feel strange muscles in your abs and your chest contract, till you think you’ll pass out.
And finally, I most definitely must have been dropped on my head as a kid, because I woke up thinking wow, I had such a great time last night. So I’m recommending belly dancing to all the women who’re reading this. (the problem with recommending the same to the guys is I keep having visions of hairy belly’s, and might never be able to sleep in peace again).
And yeah thank you V and E and M.
image@fichman israel
And so today we’re playing the Alien Anthem featuring Ten Headed Tentacle Waving Hypnotiser.
So S asked Y to buy her a pair of slippers from Bangkok.
Y bought the slippers and sent them back through Z.
Z walked up to me at work and said, “I got you your funky slippers from Bangkok.”
I was like, “What funky slippers?”
“The one’s Y bought for you. They are beautiful. Purple silk.”
Me, I got all teary eyed. Really Y was too sweet. Just because I’m leaving she got me purple silk slippers. And we’re not even best friends. So I sniffed and prepared my thank you speech.
The next day Z hands me the slippers. And they are fantastic. Purple silk with crazy gold lines. All kill bill.
I stare at them all day, and sigh. And think really, I must be so fantastic, and everyone must love me so much. Sure, they don’t always show it, and most of them think I’m a bitch, but now that I’m leaving, they must be sad.
In the evening, just before I leave for home, I dump my bag and the slippers on S’s desk, before popping in to the loo. (apologies to Sulabh Sauchalaya, my old friend)
I come out of the loo, to see S eyeing the slippers.
Just as I’m about to gush, she says, “Where did you get them from?”
“Bangkok. Y, the sweetest thing on earth bought them for me.”
“That’s strange. I gave Y money to buy me the same slippers. I even drew my foot size for her, and gave her a reference picture of the slippers.”
Silence.
I clutch the slippers. I’ve stared at them all day. Tried them on my feet all day. S is staring at me in shock. She’s been waiting for them for days.
Anyway, we both wail and cry for fifteen minutes, and then S finally lets me have the slippers because I’m leaving, and I use that as my trump card.
But, it doesn’t end there.
The next day Z is teary eyed. She’s discovered that she made a mistake; she was to give the slippers to S.
Y is fuming. “Why did you give the slippers to that bitch? And who asked you to give the slippers before I got back from Bangkok. I bought them, I should have given them”
Z protests. Then she asks me to return the slippers.
I laugh, and flatly refuse.
Y sails in to her some more. Z is so upset. She cries on S’s shoulder. S and I laugh. Y stops talking to me. Z promises that she’ll get someone she knows to get the slippers for S. Y is not happy with the compromise. And stops talking to Z as well, who by the way has stopped talking to me. I laugh at them every time they pass, and wave my pretty slippered feet around.
Wow. How will I survive without the thrills of office life.
Back to the lousy computer in office. Today is Traveling Wilbury’s day. I’ve been playing Tweeter and the Monkey Man non stop, because I absolutely love the song. And since I can not for the life of me figure out how to put the music player thing on my blog, and I can’t find the song on youtube, I’ll just link you to End of the Line instead. Which is equally awesome. Also check out Dirty World and Last Night. Happiness is not a cigar called hamlet, it’s a band called Traveling Wilbury’s.
Specially if you are dyslexic, have a deep rooted fear of math and cannot remember anything beyond the 5 times table.
Add to that some more of my dazzling skills in the arena of losing bills and receipts, and you’ll figure why I’m having sleepless nights.
Apart from my pathetic skills at cooking, sports, math, I do have a couple of redeemable features.
Like I can lie around on the futon and read all day.
And I can drive brilliantly.
And neither of the two life skills are going to help me run a business.
See, i have reason to be stressed out.
The other big problem with me is I keep thinking everything is a big production. And so one day I’ll throw myself into something, because in my head I’m playing that role. And I’ll do it with so much conviction and enthusiasm, that half way through it I’m done with it.
Eg:
One day I decided to be Domestic Goddess.
So I bought lots of things for the house, and even went to the market and bought fruits and vegetables. And decided to cook dinner. And take more interest in the maid and other such stuff.
By the time I had planned everything out and bought everything, and run all the scenarios in my head, I was so tired of it all. So I chucked everything I had bought into a box, ordered dinner from outside, and told the maid to take the fruits away from my sight.
And for three months I filed Domestic Goddess away.
My fear, Business Chick should not end up in the same boat.
PS: Okay Su, if you are reading this, do not freak. It’s a Saturday night, and I’m doing excel sheets with our costing. So you have a partner who’s trying okay. And if your mouth is starting to go dry, call me immediately!
Okay, so at some point we’ve all met someone with really bad body odour. You know the if you raise your arm once more I’ll gag and pass out variety.
And we’ve secretly told someone else, “ shit, he/she has such bad BO.” And then the follow up conversation is usually about chinese food gone bad and the fact that if you are close friends then maybe you should tell the person.
But I’m a coward and can never figure how you tell a person that. And don’t tell me you should gift them a deo. Because that’s as good as taking a spray can and writing ‘you stink’ in shocking pink across their chest.
Any way this post is not about that. This is about the visible panty line.
Two women in office. With the worst case of loose cotton panties ever.
First, if you are wearing pants, then make sure the panties fit well. And are somewhat close to the shade of trouser you are wearing. So, unless you are colour blind, no maroon panty with white trousers. And no white panty with white trousers. Try something called skin coloured instead.
Second, do not wear aunty type panties with your low rise jeans. Wear a thong, wear boy shorts, wear anything, but don’t have yards of loose cotton panty stuffing sticking out from your backside.
Third, we all know you're probably wearing a panty. But it doesn't really have to stare us in the face. So maybe you've got rid of the clumpy cotton panty, now please try and find one that has no panty line. Believe me, they are available, and will spare us all the trauma of seeing how woefully tight your undies are.
Oh and while I’m at it. Just one last thing on the bra scene as well. Frayed once-white, now-yellow bra straps are not meant to be seen. Keep them for when you are playing holi.
Now how on earth do I tell them all this, without them thinking I’m a bitch of the highest order.
Which I probably am anyway.
picture@nataliedee.com
st. germain: rose rouge. fantastic! if you don't want to drink copious quantities of wine and play poker after listening to this song, i'll change my name.
Three girls. Two just about in their teens. One younger than that.
A well meaning father who gets the girls a movie, so the parents can go out for the day.
A hot summer day. A cool living room.
The three girls scrawled on the floor, staring up at the Crown TV. With no idea of what’s going to come their way.
Then the movie starts, and in half an hour there’s a hush in the room.
Not one of them moves. The phone rings far away, it’s the parents checking on them.
But the girls are hypnotised.
They have no idea that this is possible. That chemistry is not just something they’re going to learn in senior school.
The movie gets over. The girls keep lying there, staring at the screen.
Slowly they get up, and walk out to the veranda. The sun is setting.
They stand there, looking out, still in a trance.
Then the youngest looks up at them and says, “I want to fall in love.”
The two older girls, who usually make fun of her, don’t say anything.
She’s just hit the nail on the head.
Dirty Dancing changed the way my hormones ran around. So rest in peace Patrick Swayze, and thanks for making birthday parties in my teenage years so much fun!
.jpg)
