another day in paradise*

The couple sat under a bunch of baby palm trees.
Nameless, faceless.

Turned towards each other. Still in their office clothes. Her bag behind her, his rucksack near his feet.

The after-dinner walkers, the health freaks, the dog owners, the stragglers, the fresh air seekers, the giggling friends, the boys who came to watch the giggling friends. They all passed them.

But the couple had eyes for no one else.

His arm was around her. Her face was on his shoulder. Inches away from each others lips.

This is where they came every evening. To spend an hour. Stuck to each other, wrapped up in each other. So close and yet so far.

The Baristas were too bright. The Cafe Coffee Day chairs were too apart. Movie theatres were perfect. But everyday? Impossible ya, too pricey.

So till then the promenade was where they dreamt.

She, of a cute one BHK, backless blouses, kids, dandiya parties, cooking for him.

He, of the size of her breasts.

So it continued. Some times, a curious walker, or an old man with nothing better to do stared at them. But they kept meeting. Kept hiding under the palms. Kept dreaming.

Then they got married.

And she got a one BHK in Dahisar, backless blouses, two kids, one dandiya party, and 3 meals a day that she had to cook.

He got a 34 D.

* Today is Phil Collin’s birthday. No, I don’t usually keep track of it. But the lady on AIR FM sounded particularly jubilant when she announced it this morning.

i'm so sorted (sung to the tune of Akon's i'm so lonely)

I wish I was fucked up.

Then I would be more interesting. And would definitely have more to write about.

But the one time I was really really fucked up, I hated it.

So then what?

Being fucked up, and hating it is no good, because then you’re just miserable. Being fucked up and not knowing it is equally bad. Because then everyone else hates it, and you are just a pain in the ass.

Conclusion: I don’t really want to be fucked up. But just fucked up enough to seem more interesting.

Yesh. I’m a sick person. And totally fucked up.

Yeah. Finally happiness.

some self promotion

my first interview. no, they didn't interview me. i interviewed someone, for buzz in town.

will be writing here on a regular basis. here's the link in case you want to drop in, and read some.

http://www.buzzintown.com/articles/?track_id=3609012

cheers.

wear your jeans low, and show off your Kasab's

Some days back I see an article in the Mumbai Mirror.

The crime branch has decided to auction the made-in Pakistan blankets, jackets and toiletries brought by the terrorists who attacked Mumbai on 26/11 after they are presented in court as evidence.

The articles up for auction will include toothbrushes and toothpastes, detergent powder, Bermuda shorts, shaving cream, a packet of pickle, three packets of milk powder and tissue paper.

Uh... what are they thinking?

Has the Crime Branch lost it? Or am I totally not in touch with the times?

Are there people who will frame Kasab’s chadis and hang them in their living room? Or maybe they’ll wear them for the next big party and use them as a conversation piece? And will you wash them before framing them or will you be worried that their value will decrease?

Yuck. Excuse me while I throw up.         

What about the pickle? That has a shelf life you know. And the milk powder? Give it to your kids, and watch them grow into healthy terrorists.

Would you like a spot of terrorist milk in your tea?

And the tissue? You bid thousand bucks to wipe your bum with the same paper that Kasab was using? Why? Dude, someone needs help.

What about the toothbrushes? Ooh, look, a little speck of meat is wedged between the bristles. The Crime Branch immediately declares the meat will be auctioned separately. So sorry to disappoint you sir.

Bizarre. I leave you with another excerpt from the article that had me rolling my eyeballs till they hurt.

Police believe that unlike other auctions, where belongings of the accused are sold at half or less than half the original price, the articles recovered from the terrorists may invite higher bids for their sheer infamy and association with a sensational event.

Break the bank folks.

want to make frandship?

confession: i don't like people who don't like me.

but that's still all right. the thing is, i totally don't like people who don't like me, inspite of me trying to make them like me.

And the worst is when two such people get together and become friends.

Yes, it's happened to me. Yes, you can keep saying grow up, but this is my blog. And yes, I have a way of dealing with this.

I refuse to give them the name of my tattoo artist, my dentist, my favourite stores and my broker.

Imagine then, when I saw The Man I'm Mad About (yes, thank you, he's back to being that. We spoke you see. :)) happily giving the tattoo artist's number to one such person. He of course thinks it's childish to behave like this.

But that's because the people who will not like me, inspite of me trying, and are now friends, are happy to be friends with him.

Damn. Now I will keep my yoga teacher's number hidden in my locker.

Kati toh kati. Bati toh bati.

it happened in Pune

I went to pune on a whim.

A friend was going for a night, and i decided to tag along. She had some work, which revolved around swigging neat scotch whiskey for free. Ya, more on that later.


Anyway, the point of this post is pune always reminds me of romance. Here's why.


The rogue grew up in pune. His parents lived in far flung assam (then it must have been really far flung, considering now it takes 40 hours by train.)


And the rogue, being the eldest child landed up living with his grandfather in pune cantt. His grandfather was a very social general in the army. And the rogue was a handful.


Who soon got expelled from his strict boy's school when he was discovered in the girl's hostel of the neighbouring sister school.


And that's how he landed up in a co-ed boarding school, in Pune!


He soon made friends with a girl in his class who would cover for him and pass him her notes. She had a shy little sister, who also studied in the same school.


Anyway so the rogue's studious friend was soon found out. Some notes she had copied for him were found, and in the assembly she, the model student, was made an example off. The rogue everyone knew had no future, but she seemed hell-bent on ruining hers as well.


She cried, and her shy sister consoled her. The whole school was talking about the rogue and the studious one. Boyfriend girlfriend, haw-haw.


They passed out of tenth, the studious one never looking or talking to the rogue. In fact, the shy baby sister, used to run away every time she saw him.


Then one day, a couple of years later, the rogue came to bombay. he was handsome, could charm the whiskers off a cat and more importantly, he had found his calling. He was a pilot.


He had two days in Bombay before going off to godforsaken Assam (yes, Assam keeps featuring in this story). Two days of transit, before he reported to his first base.


What better time to try and make it to first base (sorry, could not resist that bad pun) ?


So he remembers a studious girl in his class who lived in Bombay. He looks through his trunk with his name stencilled on the side, and he finds her number in an old address book. He dials.


A girl picks up the phone. She tells him studious is now in the UK. She got married you see.


He knows that shy voice. He asks if it's her. She's surprised. And says yes.


They meet. She takes him around Bombay. She's beautiful. Tall, slim, young, a little unsure, a little shy.


And like they say in all romatic novels, the two days just flew by.


The rogue went to make his career. The shy girl went back to her job. He flew aircrafts and wrote long letters to her. She rode the bus to her office, and thought about him.


Finally six months later, he got a week off. He spent six days travelling, so they could spend one day together.


So this how they fell in love. My parents. Who got married one evening, because they couldn't stand the thought of being separated again.


Who lived apart for six months after two days of being married, because my father 'forgot' to inform his bosses. And the rules said he could not get married.


Who finally when they were together, managed a honeymoon in goa, after my dad took a car loan.


Two totally different people from two totally different worlds. And it all started in Pune.


Maybe that's why I like going there once in a while.

my yellow submarine

when you think of a city, specially one inhabitated by a million people, you think of it in colours of smog, pollution, dust.

sweat, hurry, vertical towers, they all have a shade card in my head, that's restricted to dull brown and murky grey.

yet, i find so much colour when i look away from the picture that crowds, local trains, no time to look up at the sky present.

the vegetable stalls that line the roads at khar. i can never pass them without wanting to stop and stare. or breathe deeply. or reach out and sink my hand into the wet sack cloth under which the vegetables gleam.

i've never been inclined towards the taste of red radish. but i can never resist them because i love the way they look. shy, and pink, and young. like a bunch of friends giggling together. then there are the brinjals. shaped like my happy punjabi relatives and clothed in soothing purple kaftans. like they're just back from a satsang with a trippy maharishi. and the springhtly ladies fingers or good old bhindis. fresh green and like PT Usha. Bhindis always look like they are fit and fresh enough to win a 100 meter race.

of course i just love the saag section. all jumbled and entanged. different shades of green, different textures. and once in a while the lal saag that's actually a combination of pink and red, peeks through the jumble.

the spring onions, with juicy stalks, white merging into lushious green. a cut pumpkin, revealing it's orange insides. the fat tomatoes resting on each other, red and confused. the yellow-white cauliflower like giant alice in wonderland flowers.

my,

i get high

just staring at vegetables.

moral of the story: people are weird!

taking off on a crab attack

Hello.
Sorry for being AWOL. But I was having such a great time. Going out. Hanging out. Working. Watching movies. It’s been a good couple of weeks.

And now I have the crab attack. So I turned to writing. Really, I must try and write when I’m happy. Instead of just using this as my cyber therapy.

However, it is one of those days. When I wanted to cry in the morning. And before you curl your lip and smirk, no I’m not PMSing.

It’s just that I know what the reason is as well. And I’m so frustrated by my own ability to get over the damn reason, that I hate myself, and feel sorry for my self all at the same time. Net result, weepy face.

So here’s the thing. You all know it. But I am shit scared, mortally afraid of flying. I had a bad incident on a flight some years back, and since then I am a goner. I have palpitations, stomach aches, the sweats everything under the sun when I even think of flying.

However, with all that, I have flown. Like a mass of quivering jelly, I have caught flights and been all across the world. USA, Europe (twice), Singapore, Bangkok....the works.

The only problem is the damn fear refuses to go. And if I have the slightest chance I will not catch a flight. Only because I hate putting myself through all the trauma. It ruins my holiday, or rather the days leading up to it. I feel sick, nervous, upset, angry, sometimes all of this at the same time!

So I try and catch a train. Within the country.

So what’s the problem with that? Well, the Man I’m Mad About, who henceforth will be referred to as the man I’m Mad At, doesn’t get it. He just tolerates my problem. We don’t go on holidays together because he hates catching a train. Even within the country. And when he does, it’s with such reluctance, that I feel scared to ever ask him again. I just can’t get through to him that I’m trying. And I have flown around the world only because I don’t want to let him down. But it is hard for me.

Fucking shit.

I hate this. I hate being vulnerable. Especially to those I love. Because when they don’t get it. It hurts. More than your fear does.