Tuesday, March 31, 2009

ode to the those who vandalise the road

Hey you pedestrian

you with the hand out

I want to drive up real close

And yank your brains out


I want to hear you S C R E A M

When i run over your little toe

I want to hear you yelp

When you see me next time


You don’t know

The green light means go

Not for you but for my car

You don’t see that at 60

It’s difficult to brake

Only becoz you stuck your stupid hand out


I want to be

I want to be

I want to be

The one that takes your hand out


Like lemmings you flood the road

You chat on the phone

You walk like you got nowhere to go


I want to be

I want to be

I want to be

The one that squashes your toe tonight.

You dither on the edge

You totter on the sidewalk

You see me inches away

And that's when you sprint down my path.

I curse

I swerve.

I honk.

And that's when I swear to myself

 I want to be

I want to be

I want to be

The one that gets to bite your head off

Monday, March 30, 2009

yeah. it was money that drove us apart.

He is balding, exceedingly well dressed, and given to laughing in an abrupt shriek.

And he is also extremely suspicious of me.

And I find myself nervously waiting for him tonight. Wondering if as usual I’ll let him down. Or will he be happy when I produce my last year’s Form 16 A with the flourish of a child whose showing her father a report card full of A’s.

He calls. My heart lurches.

“ I’m sending N. I’d also like you to know that N will be handling your case from now.  I will be there in the background, but N will be your contact person.”

My heart sinks to my bangkok chappals. I know what it means. My CA has finally declared open war on me.

It started with the incredulous looks he used to give me.

“ What you lost your form 16? The duplicate copy?”

Then the way he recoiled with horror.

“ You have not made any entries in your cheque book? Not even a single one?” (at this point he dropped his head in to his hands)

Next we proceeded to cold looks.

“ See, without your co-operation it’s like trying to navigate a ship with the help of a camel.”

The fact that I burst out laughing and told him I had also lost my pan card, probably only added to the strain in our relationship.

Of course, I never thought it would come to this. That he would ignore me. And then, just pass me off like some discarded housing society file to N.

It hurt.  But at 10.30 pm on 30th march, as N chases me to my house to sign my tax return, I suspect our relationship is now beyond repair.

My CA secretly wants to dump me.

Friday, March 27, 2009

In these times of slow down...

It is advisable to switch from single malt to old monk. You could even pass of as retro cool.

It is not advisable however, to stop tipping the lady who does your Brazilian wax.

drawing the line

There are some places where men and women just don’t mix.

Some years back I worked in a place where they had a common loo for men and women. It was a nightmare. Not just because we were three women to thirty guys but because I learnt that holding your pee till you get home is pretty torturous.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a pee trooper. I have peed behind a solitary rock in the hills. I have sneaked up and peed behind people’s tents, homes and once even got caught doing so. I am also proud to say I peed in the men’s loo at the manali bus stop. And at every halt on road trips to Nepal, Bakhali, Manali, Mc Leod Ganj, Goa, Coorg, Pondicherry... I held my breath, I squatted, I peed.

But, the office loo. That’s a different story. First of all, like every other woman I’m a pro at the hover over the toilet seat, with your bum in mid air and pee technique. But what if you feel crappy in office? How can you get your bottom to rest on the same spot that countless men have liberally sprayed and splashed?

And ya, I tried what you are thinking. Put up countless posters and send numerous mails asking them to please try and pee into the pot. Begging them not to consume too much beer in the afternoon, because a frothy toilet is not an indication of a clean, shampooed toilet. But no, men will be men. And the drizzled loo, with soggy shoeprints and little bits of curly hair sticking to the toilet rim continued. And we lost the only seat that matters in men-women politics – the toilet seat.

So it is possible that the experience has left me scarred. Which is why I so dislike unisex parlours.

Really, how can it be soothing or relaxing? The same towel that fat man is using to steam his pimple and white heads off, will sooner or later land up on your face. And is the cutter they are using to cut some black toes with nails that have turned green and warped going to be used on you?

And do you really want to get your hair oiled while the man on the next seat is getting his. Because he’s snoring louder than the TV, and little bits of sleep spit are collecting on the corners of his mouth.

Okay, so now I know what you’re thinking. Hey, this doesn’t happen in fancy places. All the guys are tony in Toni and Guy. And they’re all metrosexuals who don’t snore and drool and have pedicures all the time.

Still. Imagine...a hot dude is getting a pedicure next to you. I mean what? Can he smile and say something funny. No, he can’t. Because he’s getting his little toe buffed. And he knows he’s looking like a wuss. And which woman wants to have a flirtatious conversation with a man whose feet are being filed?

Okay, now suppose we overlook that. And you are a strong girl who can stomach the sight. So you settle down in the chair next to meterosexual cutie. And get ready for your pedicure. But guess what your legs are in that stage when you still have to wait a week before you can wax properly. Tan tan tan. What happens now? You flash hairy legs and even though he’s pretending to talk on his blackberry, he’s taken a quick look and in his head he’s thinking, “ Oh my god, my achar breath wali masi from Patiala is sitting next to me.”

See. It is a bad idea. Men must have their own parlours. And we must have our own. They must have their own loos. And we can comfortably rest our bottoms on ours.

The business of doing your business must be kept separate.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

when i need some sunshine

i had a bad day. no, not the fought with boss. or washed my best white shirt with my pink fab india kurta day. but a full blown greek tragedy day.

but because i'm still trying to calm my frayed nerves, i shall write about it tomorrow. when it will all start to seem pretty funny.

till then here are two photos. i saw this beauty parlour at palolem, in goa. 

look closely ... have you ever heard of a biking line? neither has lance armstrong.

heard of a mani quaver? nope, not even the slightest quaver of joy or recognition?

then how about an apple lip? right after rosy cheeks.

enjoy. and here's hoping everyone has a great day tomorrow. don't know about you, but i could sure do with one.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

name dropping just got dangerous

Nothing is private anymore.

Yesterday I heard about a site that lets you name your private parts. No, not those one’s. Just the boobs. Or nugga nuggas as the site calls them.

Also when I say name them, just a slight disclaimer if you were dreaming of a christening or a small private party with your closest friends and relatives. This is fairly simple. All you have to do is type your name in, and your sex. And jugga mugga, your boobs now have names. A personality. Individuality.

Only problem is it’s an American thingee. So it gives you names like Baskin (she’s the one on the left ) and Robbins (that’s her, in brown, on the right). And Justin and Tahima (mixed sex names is the latest among the body part set)

Anyway, so it gives me an idea. Why not start the same thing. Boob names, but in hindi. Why should we have to name them after American cities or dishes like beef chilli. We will take have our own desi version for our ...well...desi girls.

 A sample.

Machis aur Tilli haath mein ho, toh aag lag sakti hai babumoshai.

Yeh lo Gur aur Kaju . Kyun aap hi ne toh kaha tha kuch meetha ho jaye?

Plug aur Point mein haath diya toh shock se main nahi aap maroge.

And oh, I plan to customise it further. Foodies can block rasam and sambar. Celebrity spotters can have tupur and tapur. And the poetic kinds can even reserve names like rim and jhim.

There, chamiya and ramiya are in business. Any suggestions from you guys?


Saturday, March 7, 2009

men of god at work

been working. sitting in freezing conference rooms. and missing writing. 

this morning, as i drove around doing my saturday chores (vegetables, eggs, mutton, chicken, bartan manjne ka sabun), i was thinking, aah, the weekend.

and then, staring in front of me was the St Andrews Church board. I love the stuff they write on these church boards. I don't know if they do that in other cities, but in Mumbai, men of god sure have a sense of humour.

Aah. I smiled. MIAMA smiled. There's a whole weekend in front of us. And God's having a good laugh!