Monday, July 27, 2009

long live bhabhiji. long live anglaish.

So depressing.

A has gone outta town. Saat samunder paar and all that. And i just missed my second dance class today. Two hours on Sunday and one hour on Monday - gone. Flushed down with, ummm, okay let’s not get into that.

So now from being ahead of the class, i’ll be back to being last. Boo fucking hoo.

While on the class, let me tell you the difference between the Mac boys and the non Mac boys. Now salsa is a dance where the guy leads, where you dance in unison and all that. The Mac boys will laugh, throw themselves on the floor with gusto, and we’ll have much fun trying to get it right.

The Non Macs will blush when they have to hold your hand. Then they’ll be all conscious about not stamping on your feet. They’ll stare at your ear, instead of looking you in the eye. Dude, I don’t give a shit. I’m here to dance. Not to play footsie with you. Let’s get on with it.

Most i endure because you must practise with all kinds. But I think another time one of them gives me a limp hand, and shuffles around looking all apologetic, i’ll just stamp on his feet.

Bored Trivia 1: In case you want porn stars to help you with your general knowledge.

Which in turn reminds me, Savitha Bhabi is dead. It is a great loss. We shall observe a two minute silence.

The I&B ministry really needs to get a life.

Kahani Mein Twist 1:

For all those who are getting their knickers in a twist, Savitha Bhabi lives on. No, not in our hearts, but on facebook. Ha Ha I&B Ministry.

And finally I’m developing a new language. It’s called Anglaish. Here’s the drift. Why not spell words the way we use them. Why should we blindly ape the Brits? Down with the silent alphabets and the weird -ass spellings. Instead I present to you Anglaish. Here are a few examples.

Goment for government. What a waste of alphabets really.

Bijness. Ya, we mean bijness ya.

Piarents. Spell it like it is. Adarniya piarents.

And finally, the world loves labhars.

With that, I must take your leave to watch Rakhi ji. My mascot for Angliash. Here are some gems from her. “Mujhe log slot kehte hain”. And, “woh kya poochna chahta tha, am I a vergen?”

saturday night fever

First, some free stuff.

The Neutrogena shop at phoenix mills. If you are really sweet, and ask for free samples, they’ll actually give you some. I have enough free wrinkle-free cream to look like a ceramic plate.

Next, the scam.

I got a violent attack of projectile vomiting on Saturday night. It got so bad that a had to take me to the hospital. If the pain and the throwing up would have been any less, i would have been excited. Visiting the emergency room at one at night. Would it be like ER? Or scrubs?

Nada. It was more like the Zee horror show. The doctor was obviously the guy who came last in class, and got dumped with the graveyard shift. He made me take X-rays, blood sugar tests and shot me with pain killers when all he had to do was give me some Mucane something liquid that settled my stomach.

The other thing is those kidney shaped vomit pans. What are they thinking? That I’m going to gargle out tiny bite-sized hors d’oeuvres. I’m like emptying my entire stomach in one shot dude. Get me a bucket, not this namby pamby little thingee.

Anyway, doctor-know-nothing tried to convince a that they should admit me. Thankfully a kept saying no, let’s first get her treated, then I’ll decide. Left to myself I would have done anything then, including written out my will in doctor-know-nothing’s name.

So by two thirty the stomach ache had subsided, and I managed to swoon into an auto to get home. The hospital bill had a large Get Well Soon printed at the bottom.

Ha. Like I believe them. Thugs.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

my days in the zoo

I’m totally fascinated by trashy TV shows like Rakhi ka Swayamvar. And Bigg Boss. And MTV Roadies. And Splitsvilla. And I even tried watching Mujhe is Jungle se Bachao.

I really think deep inside me resides a leopard print wearing, hill road plastic bra strap showing wannabe. Maybe in my next life I want to hang around Lokhandwala Barista in tight track pants with Bebe inscribed across my ass.

Which is why when I got a chance to direct an item video four years back, I jumped out of my oily in the T-zone skin, and grabbed it.

The song was a remix of a popular old number. The producer was a fat man from Lucknow who I was given to believe had a long desk that housed four computers and four phones. Each computer and phone was a different company he owned. He was putting up the money because the remix singer, a rasgolla resembling Bengali was his friend.

Actually Rasgolla’s gujarati friend, who resembled a greasy Puri was the Producer’s friend. Greasy Puri was a fixer, and had somehow convinced this guy to put up the money with promises of fame, glory...and other things, of which I knew nothing.

My co-director was a south Indian pavam guy, who desperately needed a break and a film on his showreel.

Rasgolla was to star in the video. We needed a item girl to partner him, and save the video from being the stuff nightmares are made of. So we started with auditions, where our assistant would stand in the corner of a small empty room holding a two-in-one, while various women danced, slithered, shook, heaved to the song. After two days of doing this, we finally narrowed it down to a girl with dimples and a mop of curls.

Just as we were about to confirm her, the producer landed up. He sat next to the assistant on a stool. Wearing his dark glasses, and sweating copiously into his polyester shirt, and looking like someone I would not want to run into in a dark alley. No, actually I would not want to run into him even in broad daylight. My co-director showed him the girl’s audition. I noticed some head shaking and nodding. And then co director comes to me and says, “ he likes girls with straight hair.”

That should have told me something. Like get out of this while you are alive. Or still have your sanity intact. But I’m a fool who cannot read signs. And wants to be a leopard print wearing wannabe in her next life.

So I stuck on. And we changed the girl. To one with straight hair. Then, we get set to find the choreographer. Rasgulla has his heart set on one. Some guy who cheoreographs all Salman’s movies. Dude, have you seen Salman dancing? Like moving his feet, not his shirt?

Anyway so baby Sallu arrives. And she’s a woman who only knows two steps. One, throw yourself on your partner and both simultaneously heave your chest. Two, lie down, throw yourself over partner and roll...together.

Okay. So that’s what we do. We hold rehearsals for hours, where Rasgolla and Straight Hair roll around the dirt floor all day, while Baby Sallu runs after them yelling A one, A two, A three...A fantastic!

Errr? What exactly are we doing there? I don’t know about the others but I’m too stupefied to move. This is better than any reality show I’ve seen.

Especially the day Rasgollas wife arrives at the rehearsal and Rasgolla begs Baby sallu to give them some other steps so the wife doesn’t see them rolling around from one end of the room to the other. But the wife isn’t stupid and she spends two hours glaring at Straight hair, who keeps filing her nails. Rasgolla of course suddenly pretends like Straight Hair and he have nothing to do with each other.

Anyway, so now we’ve decided to go to Kerala for the shoot. The producer is coughing up just enough for us to travel by train. The rumour is that he and Straight hair are checking into Kumarakom Lake one room!

While, the rest of us are staying at Brother’s Hotel. Ya, that’s right next to Mother’s Hotel. I kid you not.

Everything is a mad frenzy. The dress designer is called. She’s fixer (Greasy Puri’s)friend. Or so he claims with a wink.

Rasgolla wants red corduroy pants with a white tie up shirt and red corduroy jacket and boots! And he gets it. The girl of course does not need so many clothes. She gets a rhinestone bra panty with a transparent white cut up kaftan!

We decide they’ll be floating on a raft in the backwaters as they lip-sync the song. Only problem is we have no money for a set designer, so we hire two guys who do small ganpati mandaps ka decoration.

What happened next?

The raft looked like a fucking matchbox. The ganpati guys had carried plastic flowers and diwali lights with them. So now imagine a floating matchbox that looks like a el cheapo mandap with lurid plastic flowers trailing behind it.

The horny mallu men almost caused a riot when we shot. We of course had no money for police protection. So yours truly was beating the men back with a stick, as they tried to swamp the rhinestone bra panty clad item girl.

The item girl was unaffected and insisted on smoking throughout and strolling around in her bra panty set.

The minute Baby sallu started yelling a-one, a-two...we realised the raft was a bad idea. Because by the time they did two rolls they were almost in the water. So for the rest of the video they just lay on each other and we rolled the camera from side to side.

And finally it rained...and the camera got wet. Two large lights fused. And it was evident to pretty much everyone that this video would never make it to Cannes.

I for one have never been happier to have fat drops rain on my parade!

pic credit:

for once a post that is not about me

Got an award. From ani_aset @

And the award has a list of rules that i’ve got to follow. Usually i’m terrible at this sort of thing, because half way through the rules i get bored and abandon the whole project.

But that’s not going to happen because this is the only way I can tell a whole bunch of bloggers how fantastic they are. They are observant, funny, sensitive, not afraid to share what they feel, and most write so damn well that it worries me. Ya, ya, I still haven’t told you’ll how competitive i am.

Anyway, so i’m tagging you’ll...because without you guys the internet wouldn’t be as much fun.

First the rules:

Link the person who tagged you.

Copy the image above, the rules and the questionnaire in this post.

Post this in one or all your blogs (All? Clearly, not everyone has horrible working hours and a mind numbing commute)

Answer the four questions following these rules.

Recruit at least seven of your friends on your blog roll by sharing this with them. (I’m changing a rule here, so sue me). Just pass the damn thing to all the people who you think have fabulous blogs.

Go to And leave the URL of your post there, so it can be added to the master list ( No, I do not know why there is this complicated mechanism, but well, if you want to do it, be my guest)

Finally, the questions:

The person who tagged you: ani_aset

His/her site’s title and URL:

Date when you were tagged: July 18th.

And now...drum roll...presenting my top of the pops... in no particular order...

1. Blog gore is inventive (read Cock Raj), perceptive, and random. And writes a whole lot better than he gives himself credit for.

2. He’s brilliant. And has made me laugh out loud many times. And there’s great music on his blog.

3. Aah. Sharp. Observant. And has a way of making you feel you’re standing there, seeing everything she sees, feeling everything she feels.

4. My delhi blogger friend who’s sharper than my Ikea knife set. And she’s funny and ironic.

5. Okay...more wit, more irony, more angst. Thank god for her.

6. Her posts are like short films.

7. Always feel like smiling when I read her stuff. Maybe that’s because I get all nostalgic...aaah...youth!

8. Freya is waaaay cooler than i ever was. Or will ever be.

9. for his doodles. That really ought to be published.

10. check out her conversation series. Fabulous.

GoGosh. I think I’m way over my mark of seven. So I think I’ll just include a few others. Mentalie at who’s sassy and crazy, and I wish would write more often.

CleClem at The first blog I ever followed. He made me fall in love with Bandra all over again. And wish...I was Mac!

And, so many blogs I’ve left out. Only because I’m now bored of this whole exercise. My apologies... but if it isn’t about me, I get bored really fast!

Just one last thing. Ani-aset, thank you : )

Monday, July 20, 2009

warning: long rambling post ahead

Marie Marie is coming out of my ears. And I cannot wipe the smile off my face.

Dancing is my release. And it took a bunch of panic attacks, four months of thinking I’m losing my mind, a chance encounter in khar, a cab ride, a gift, Justin Timberlake’s Sexy Back and Fat Boy Slim’s Because we can and two Mac men to show me the light.

Rewind: To the year 2004.

I was a stoner girl, who was happy and oblivious. Happy because I loved A and S, the dog. Oblivious because I didn’t really know much about myself. And I know this ‘in touch with yourself’ sounds like hippie crap, but bear with me.

Anyway, so smoking up was a huge part of my life. And it made me feel like we lived inside a cushioned ball. Point is, I’d been smoking up since I was nineteen, so gradually the cushioned ball just got bigger and softer and more blurry and silly and happy.

Till I started to get paranoid.

At first it wasn’t much. Just a general feeling of too many lights on the street, cars whizzing by, loud honking – that jumpy feeling. Then it started getting worse. Every time I was stoned I used to feel I can’t breathe. Ya, ya, I tried the deep breath into a paper bag. It didn’t help. And then the windows...if they were open I’d always feel I was going to fall off.

But I didn’t stop. I even hid it from A. Dude, what would he think...I’m such a wuss?

And ya, getting stoned was a way of life. We watched TV, talked random shit, giggled a lot, all my friends smoked. How could I just stop?

Then I quit my job. And started writing TV soaps. Which was all new and exciting...till I realised how brain dead it actually was. And just as the realisation was hitting me, the dog S died.

That, i think, was the tipping point.

The grief. The not knowing how to share it with A. The job I didn’t like. The loneliness. The smoking up. The no food, just wine during the day. Somewhere it all caught up.

And I decided I had to quit smoking there and then. So I quit the grass, the hash, the Goldflake, the vodka, the wine. And I went from 100 to 0 in 4 seconds.

The next four months were hell. I had panic attacks all the time. My mouth was forever dry. I felt I was losing my mind. I could find no words for A. I could not read anything more complex than an Archie Digest, because everything else would set me off. I could not leave the house in fear of fainting or being overwhelmed by panic, noise, light. My hands shook all the time. My feet were sweaty. I couldn’t go to a restaurant, a movie, a friends place. Nothing.

And mentally I was a wreck. I kept thinking my family would commit me to an institution. And I could trust no one.

Anyway, I got better. All thanks to many people. But this post is not about how I got better. It’s about now.

Cut to cab ride, 2008: I am suddenly seized with this urge to dance. All because the cabbie is playing some hopping chamiya music. And I decide, What the love dancing...and you don’t have an Ipod....only because you think oh my is so expensive...move your ass woman...go get

I get off the cab. Walk into shop and say, “ Ek Ipod dena.” I don’t get the Ipod just then (sorry to ruin a dramatic moment), but when I tell A this story...he gets me one the next day. I’m telling you, I owe this man biggggg time.

So there starts my affair with Sexy back and Because I can. And dude, I sure can. I have no clue if I ever had that much rhythm, but suddenly I discover I have the moves. Or maybe it’s just the size of my booty. More to shake. Whew, at least a big bum has some use.

And then I dance and I dance. Till A and I enrol in dance classes. More providence here, because this is not just any dance class.

This is run by two Mac guys. One is huge and has a belly. But slithers on the dance floor. The other is from the hills and is full on flamboyant. But the class is fun, and boisterous and unstructured, and full of laughter.

So after a gap of about a year, when I felt the rains beginning to make me feel like smoking a nice cigarette (not the joint, that’s over. The nicotine, that’s not as easy though), I began to wonder what to do. Also, I have changes in the job to cope with, a new house...and ya, the rains. What is it with rains and smoking?

So I just went back to dancing. No partner, no agenda, just the dance floor. Dance till I am exhausted. Jive for an hour, salsa for another. Quick, quick, slow. Turn and dip. Twist and shout.


Dance when you’re broken open.

Dance when you’ve torn the bandage off.

Dance in the middle of fighting.

Dance in your blood.

Dance when you’re perfectly free.

And ya: The picture is from photobucket. The poetry is Rumi (who else?!). And darryl and saby who run the fast forward dance class are just what the doctor ordered if you have the blues. Or too much energy. Or even two left feet. Check them out at

Thursday, July 16, 2009

much of a muchness is too fucking much

What the fuck.

Have you seen the latest tweet? Have you seen the video on MGR’s 3rd mistresses’ fourth cousin? Have you checked the facebook video of the guys who are in the driving challenge? Have you been to the page of the famous blah blaher who sprouts deep insightful shit about deep insightful things like nostril hair? And don’t tell me you haven’t seen the latest “I thought they were all dead” band’s video. It’s all over the net. And oh...while you are at it...also go see that fantastic dead poets work that’s been recreated by a visually impaired artist. And still haven’t caught that fabulous speech given that that cool stoner guy. And when are you going to check out that amazing community idea that the guys who get paid a lot thought of.


Because there is just too much shit going around. And yeah, I admit, it is all interesting. Okay, most of it is. Some of it is just cool to know so I can say, “ wow...did you see that...genius dude.”

But I have a frikking life. And only 24 hours to live it. And I also have work, and a commute, and some peeing and crapping and showering and brushing(twice a day at least) to do. Also some dressing, and some eating. And ya, large chunks of working. And yeah, phone calls...I have to take them okay...try not talking to my folks for two days. And a love life. And some bits of TV watching. And three books to finish. And pet-the-dog time.

So where’s the bloody time to keep abreast with this information overload that's spilling out of every laptop faster than PC Sarkar can change his bedsheets?

Stop, get me out of here. Take my dark circles, my good man, and let me go free. Please.

Push it through the doors

cause in between the lines

I'm gonna pack more lines

so I can get them in

too much - dave matthews band

Friday, July 10, 2009

gayab toh nahi

dearie fraands

i'm in the lands of narender chanchalji. jinki mai bahut badi fans hoon.

yahan bahut enjoy kar rahi hoon. the delhi mein i'm meeting chaat walas, doodh walas and many rickshaw bhaiyas.

but i'm sads because narenderji meri friendship request nahi le rahe. the jagrad king of the dalhi is not meeting me.

bas...with this tamana in my mind, i'm here for few days. the internet is also waaary bad. so please ... maaf karo me. i'll be back on tuesday.

tab tak ke liye...enjoys all you cools people.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

your guess is as good as mine. and let's not even talk about his.

So the MET department predicts heavy rain for today.

And guess what, it hardly rains. In fact, the sun comes out and sniggers at them.

How do they do it? Every time without fail.

Last year, after four days of incessant rain the MET department declared they were caught unaware. A raincloud that was headed for Brazil decided to relieve itself on us. Dude, four days of incessant rain. Every road is flooded, every building has turned mossy green, everything is dripping wet. And it takes a bloody genius to realise, “ oh wait, that dark as thunder rain cloud...the one that had been building up for days... he wasn’t just resting his tired legs, he is...he is... the...the...MONSOON!”

This year they said the rains are coming, they have reached Kerala, so they should be here in four days. Guess what. Eleh po! Nada!

Then after two weeks they said, “Ummm...this is a deviant monsoon. But it has reached Goa. Should be here in two days.” Guess what again. The monsoon did not get a seat on the Konkan Kanya. No sign of it for days.

Then they declare that it will be a slightly deficient monsoon. What does that mean? It means my ass. It means some idiot who’s sitting with a three chits that says rain, heavy rain, no rain has no clue about anything, and is just saving his skin.

And oh by the way, just as they say that the heavens open up!

That brings me to my next question. What exactly do you need to study to become a MET officer? The ancient study of runes? Astrology for Dummies? ESP gone horribly wrong?

And what about the weatherman’s kids? What do they do? Can they insult dad by openly carrying an umbrella just after he says no chance of rain today?

And does his wife snigger when he announces, “ Today will be bright and sunny”

Or does she just run out and pull the clothes off the line?

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Come as you are As you were As i want you to be

Aaah. To have the internet again. To be connected to a gazillion people, creatures, crossed wires, lingering thoughts in outer space, emoticons. What a relief.

First, I moved house. Yabba dabba is done.

Second, I realised this is the longest I have ever lived in a house. Six years. I was scared that when we moved, gnarled and mottled roots would be trailing me.

But, I’m happy to say, I have not looked back once. Not in the six days since we moved. Which means sometimes things you learn in your childhood, never go away. Like for instance how to do cycle wheelies, how to tell your mom the selective truth, how to tickle your nose till you get gigantic sneezes.

And of course how to move house every two years. Not just move house, but cities, schools, friends, teachers, uncles, aunties. In my twelve years of schooling (ha ha...if you could really call it that. I love the Kendriya Vidyalayas or Central School as I like to say smugly to my convent educated friends. But the schooling, that was always a little suspect). Anyway in my twelve years of dodgy schooling, I shifted school thirteen times.

And I loved it. This is the pattern I would follow. First six months in a new school I would be good girl, studious girl, wholesome girl, teacher’s pet etc etc. Then slowly the facade would slip. And I’d start to side with the groups, usually the last bench, last in class group. Then, I’d lose interest in the same old teachers and the same old classroom, and the same old school. But because of the first six months, the teachers would not give up on me. My marks would still be good, they’d still give me benefit of doubt if I didn’t turn in my home work, or skipped a class or two.

Then... things would start to go downhill. I would pray my dad got transferred. The teachers would shake their head when I passed them in the corridor and generally – I would be on the verge of tipping in to the loser list, when voila...saved by dad’s posting and a new school. And the cycle would start all over again.

The great thing about moving is leaving the past behind. We store so much of it. And even when we get rid of it from our minds, there are physical bits that we cling to.

I found a whole bunch of cards, from my hostel days. My first instinct was to keep them. To remind me of the carefree times. But then, I realised I didn’t need to cling to them. The times were gone, but most people who sent me those cards are still my friends. And I still talk to them, mail them, and even meet them once in a while.

The other thing I found was a poem I had written when A and I were going through a really bad time. We were on the verge of splitting. And I had written this very sad, very confused, very painful poem. Again, my first instinct was to keep it. Then I realised I didn’t need to. The pain was gone. We are still together. And I’m not shy to say, that if I ever had to live without him, it would be the most difficult thing to do.

So the cards and the poem are gone. The cards are buried somewhere, the poem I tore and scattered around the old house.

It’s a new house. A blank slate. I choose to fill it with nothing except the happiness that A, Milo and I share at the moment.

Amen to that then.

(and to those who commented on my earlier blog, I’m sorry I could not write back. But well, in my old age I must be getting senti, because thank you for all the nice stuff you guys wrote. And pinku, the funny thing is I really don’t think I had a bitter lonely childhood. I just had an interesting one!

And blog gore: who’s there?)