cool is a scary thing

It’s that time of the year again.

When my bloody jeans get so tight that they could pass off as jeggings or heggings or whatever ugly name they’ve given stretch jeans.

Anyway, the highpoint of Christmas was to discover that we are such a liberalised society. Yes, dahling, will you please light my menthol while I let my mind get as broad as my ass.

It started with Vidya Balan and Rani Mukherjee in what was supposed to look like a hot kiss, on the front page of Mumbai Times.

Dude, really, why?

First, they don’t have the guts to do an actual lip lock. This is a cheat faces at an angle kiss.

Second, even if they did, would we want most of the population throwing up their breakfast. I mean it’s as bad as seeing Nirupa Roy smooch Reema Lagoo.

Really, who wants to watch jaded auntie’s kissing. And that too while publicising a movie based on the Jessica Lal murder? What’s the connection? It’s not Thelma and Louise ladies; it’s a true story of how a girl was murdered.

Wake up, and get your publicity right. And oh by the way, I read they did the same “mock lip lock” at the IIT Mumbai Festival.

Even Savita Bhabi has better taste.

The next revelation came on Christmas Day. Yeah, it did. At a tea party. Where I was introduced to R, and told she’s D’s partner.

Now partner is such a loose word. It could mean they work together, they are a couple-but don’t want to say they are a couple, they have had children together but now have other partners...etc etc.

The possibilities are endless. The girl sensed my confusion and said, “We are business partners. That’s it. We started our company together.”

I smiled and nodded. Okay, point noted. Partnership details duly registered.

Till an hour later, when I popped into the balcony to say bye, and she was lounging in her partners lap.

Uuuf.

This is so confusing. Is lounging on the lap the new air kissing? business meeting? conference calling?

How will I ever be up to date? Gotta go look for a shop that sells menthols.

stay off the ta-ta's

I love pictures taken in this light. Reminds me of Sofia Coppola's Virgin Suicides. The opening sequence.

And, I’m just going to stop hugging women.

It’s just gross. Especially when they are really close friends, and the break the unsaid “hug from the side rule.”

Eeeew.

For the sake of those who might ever meet me, here are a set of hugs we can indulge in and one we can’t.

Side hug: my right arm across your shoulder, your left arm across mine. Very good.

Lean-to hug: push your face forward, lightly drape arms around extended neck, kiss cheek. Wonderful.

Hello darling hug: body at an angle, sides touch, one arm sort of around back, kiss cheek. All good.

And finally:

Full frontal hug: aka boob to boob hug. No. Never.

I don’t want your lady lumps touching mine. Not at any cost. It feels strange. Like jelly meeting jelly. And it reminds me of being terribly sea sick.

And while we’re on the topic of women, here are two I’ve been meaning to write about.

Ma Baker. Who bakes the most awesome cakes ever. I’ve licked crumbs, hidden the last piece, lied about it being over and would want it to be the last thing I ever eat.

Check out my friend finely chopped’s post on her. And if you want to eat some sinful stuff this Christmas call her at 9967023174 or mail her at gia.fernandes@gmail.com

And finally Yoga Nut. Dude, if you like yoga, you are gonna love Shameem. Stand on your head, become a crow, from the shoulder stand jump down and then back up, turn upside down in a wheel and walk like a crab. Most mornings for an hour I go back to feeling as happy and free and crazy as I was as a kid.

ping to the pong

harami has such a nice ring to it.

sorta like salami.

which i think i'm obsessing over. since i hate getting food cooked only for myself, and have been eating poha with salami all of yesterday and today.

anyway, back to harami. which has a lovely feminine equivalent. not in terms of meaning. but in spirit.

sort of the ying to the harami yang.

i present to you *drumroll* kameeni.

broodstock - part 2

The wedding of the season got called off.

DDLJ, the cousin thanks to whom I was being forced to squish myself into fishtail ghagras and gota shoes, decided to call off her wedding last minute.

Actually the calling off was pretty filmi. Her parents are going to give cards and sweets to the boy’s house. Apparently that’s tradition. The first set goes to them. When the phone rings, and DDLJ tells them, “Turn around, I’m calling it off.”

The reason cited was ‘he was too laidback.’

Well, whatever.

The sad part was that it left many of my aunts with wardrobes that threatened to burst. First DDLJ was to marry in summer, so everyone had bought chiffons saris. In keeping with yash chopra tradition. Then the to-be bride and groom had an accident while coming back from a weekend trip. Which in itself caused a lot of raised eyebrows, “Accha, they had gone for the weekend to Jaipur? Bhaiya, no one tells us all this. We thought she was working that weekend!”

Yeah, she should have just sent engraved postcards to all the relatives. “Dear Masi, just to inform that that since we both stay with our parents, and it’s really difficult to have sex in peace, we’re off to Jaipur for a debauched weekend. See you when I get back. PS: let me know if you want anything from there.”

Anyway, so after the accident, the wedding got pushed to winter. And the aunts took the blow on the chin. They packed away their new chiffons and like industrious ants got down to buying silks. Of course new saris meant new shoes, new bags and even in some cases new jewellery.

The phone lines went crazy. As did the shopkeepers of karol bagh.

But finally they were ready for D-Day.

And then this. Cancel, kaput, nada.

Till the Big Boy came down. The reason Big Boy and his whole gaggle came down was because they were tired of postponing tickets and cancelling them. And in the bargain losing money. So they decided to hell with it, even if there’s no wedding, let’s just go have a family reunion. I was duly informed, and pretty thrilled. No wedding pressure, no fishtail ghagra, just fun with the yash chopra cast and crew.

So Big boy and gang arrive. I call them. I can hear the whole family at the back with much shrieking and laughter and “how much ice in your drink”.

I tell Big Boy I’m arriving on so and so day, and why is everyone behaving like they’ve gone crazy.

He says, “Because I’m getting married. In India. In February.

Oh bugger. Fishtail again.

tuesday bitch

Gosh. Rishi kapoor is so upset at how sonam and deepika behaved on coffee with karan.

Who the fuck is rishi kapoor? Some chubby actor who wore sweaters till he was 50.

Why is he upset?

Coz the girls said his son needed a stylist. And was not really sexy. And broadly hinted at him being a cheating boyfriend.

So, daddy dear is mad. The girls have insulted the kapoor khandaan.

Well, daddy o, i suggest you let your son fight his own battles. If he can fight villains, and woo chicks in flicks, why the fuck can’t he stand up for himself in real life?

And kapoor khandaan? What is that? The first family of some filmy folks who ate a lot of ghee and shoved all their generations into films.

Which also reminds me, that I have not had butter in two months. And jam as well. Both are part of project ‘no junk in the trunk’. Which mean mc booty cannot fill up my jeans any more than it already does.

And since I’m all filmy today, have any of you guys seen Saif Ali in the Taj Mahal tea ad. Dude, that face is crumbing faster than the poor monument. The cheekbones are out, the cheeks are swallowed up and the huge big nose is all I see. Any more surgery, he and his nose can team up for a double role.

Surgery always reminds me of that Ambani lady. And the monster house they’ve built. I told Z, ‘the top of the house looks like a giant open mouth, that can be seen from any part of the city.’

Z turned around and said, ‘yeah, let me gobble up all your money, and yours, and yours.’

So true.

Oh. And I heard they’ve put a mc donald’s in their mansion. See, that’s the problem with being a third world billionaire.

It all boils down to an alu tikki.

oooh see how hip and cool we are

There are times when you look at something, and you think, what the fuck is wrong with these people.

Happened to me.

I’m driving past carter road, when i see a shiny bright kiosk all the way down the stretch. It’s for a vodka named after the general secretary of the communist party of the soviet union. The same guy who made bird shit birthmarks cool.

Anyway, back to the point. So this brightly lit kiosk has a woman pole dancing. While some bored looking corporate dudes in striped shirts and ties watch her.

And the line says: Pole dancer by night, mother by day.

Waaaaaat?

And more importantly why?

I can just see a bunch of people sitting around a conference table and saying, liberated women + yummy mummy = pole dancer. But modern + traditional = new mother.

Voila, put the two the two together and you have a brainwave.

I’m waiting for the rest. Eventually they’ll probably get to my favourite Gigolo by night, Grandfather by day.

Fools who wrote it + idiot who bought it = dumbasses by night, freaking idiots by day.

big wheel keep on turnin'

My first boss was a huge guy who was scared of his boss.

And pretty much everything else. The boss’s secretary. The chief peon. The heads of the other departments. The women who ran the library like it was her dowry we borrowed every Friday evening.

Actually being scared of her I can understand. She never smiled. And Hitler looked like a jolly little man in front of her. You were allowed only two foreign magazines, and one Indian one. And if it didn’t come back on Monday, you were doomed. Salary cut. Letter to your boss. Memo’s to the super boss. No further library rights. Dirty looks that burnt through your back. And eventually little voodoo dolls that resembled you.

But back to the boss. And the skateboard.

Which came as a prop for a shoot. And then stayed on. Till one day at lunch we decided to use it. By we, I mean mostly D and I. D is a tall, skinny sardar, and I’m well, I’m none of those.

So D and I would get on to the damn thing and try and get it move like all those cool guys we saw in magazines (this is before youtube okay). And then after a couple of days of throwing our arms around like excitable windmills and going into doors and falling off, we finally learnt to stay on.

After that, whenever we got bored of working, we’d pull out the skateboard and try it all around the office. Till the boss saw us.

And freaked. He waved his hands like an excitable windmill that was having a panic attack. And lectured us. In front of everyone. On how to behave in an office. On how to maintain decorum. On how this is a professional workplace, and not a college. On how this is just not done.

Then we got called to his cabin, where he lectured us all over again.

The red skateboard went under our desk and stayed there.

Till an important prospective client came to visit our office. We were told to tidy our desk, the cleaners were going hysterical with the Colin spray, and everyone had come in their best clothes.

The client and his three cronies came walking around, nodding at everyone, till they reached our part of the office. Our boss came rushing out of his cabin to show them around, gushing and waving his hands. The client politely nodded at everyone. And then he came to our desk, where we sat huddled pretending to be brainstorming and working. We stood up to be introduced, and D tripped on his legs, and the chair fell over. Revealing a bright red skateboard.

The client, suddenly, came to life. He grinned a huge grin, and looked at us, his eyes wide and awestruck as he said, “wow... so do you guys skateboard?”

Both of us had horrified expressions on our face. D was starting to turn purple and I was just about finding my voice to say NOOOOOOO, NEVER!!! PLEASE DON’T KILL US KIND SIR.

But before I could the boss turns to the client, while simultaneously patting us on the back and with a jolly laugh says, “All the time. They keep skateboarding all over the office.”

The client and his cronies look like they’ll have an orgasm. As they coo, “How cool. Wonderful. Very creative I can see....”

D and I are rooted to the spot like rabbits, staring at the boss. Who thumps us on the back now and says, “Yes, that’s them. Very creative. And of course we encourage it.”

The client vigorously shakes our hand. We try to rearrange our frozen expressions into suitable cool faces. Maybe add a sneer or something.

And the boss and the client leave.

Five minutes later, the boss comes back and says “well done guys” to us.

And a day later, we get a new client.

And the red skateboard comes out whenever it wants. Mostly so we can demonstrate the whole incident to all our friends at work, and laugh our heads off.

But, here’s the thing, when we started our own thing, one of my partners could never understand how we could play loud music, or allow movie downloads, or people to come in shorts. But apart from the fact that you are your work, and not your clothes or your music, it still works.

And clients still walk in and look at the large Sex, Drugs and Helvetica Bold written on the wall and go, “How cool. Wonderful. Very creative I can see....”

And I still think of my boss and start to grin.

As for my partner, she’s a convert after I told her this story. Last time a client was about to walk in, she started yelling at us to turn the music up. I had to calm her down, saying its okay, they’ll still find us creative, even if we don’t burst their eardrums.

Whew. These born again's.

title credit: the one and only CCR. check out Proud Mary here.

idiots in the box

Times Now.

Excitable anchors discussing Obama’s visit to St Xaviers.

Woman 1: And the President came prepared, knowing the P word would come up.

Lead male anchor: Yes, you are absolutely right. They knew some student would say the P word, and that’s exactly what happened.

P word? What the f word happened to us saying Pakistan on TV?

And are they going to continue this in the future.

Good evening. And now for the top headlines.

The T word have said they’ll bomb some more towers in the US.

The K word just got sacked on corruption charges.

The Big B word’s wig flew off while he was dancing with the studio audience.

What can I say? I’ve run out of words.

glare bitch project

So i went for a birthday party the other night. Very la li lah.

As opposed to la di dah.

And yeah, there is a difference. La di dah is where you’re wondering if your underwear is showing through your dress because everyone looks so fucking condescending all the time.

La li lahs are like la di dahs, in that they are rich and influential, but they are also pretty fun. With or without the drugs.

Anyway so the la li lahs were all gathered in this flavour of the season khar pub. Again, that’s the difference la di dahs would die if they had to go to a place called WTF for a birthday party.

“my gawd dahling, how vulgar!”

So I decided to put my social graces into practise. Which largely consist of being extremely fake and sweet.

It is great fun, and mostly involves telling everyone you meet, “wow, how did you lose so much weight.” Of course if they are barely making it through the double door, I would skip saying that, but otherwise I say it to everyone.

Anyway, the highlight of the evening was the la di dah who had slipped into the party. She used to work at my previous office, and knows a lot of common colleagues. So someone introduces her, and I turn, all bright and happy, ready with my hello and losing weight line, when she looks at me.

And I felt like bloody Harry Potter when he was facing Voldemort.

She looked at me for a microsecond, and I knew my dress was all wrong, my underwear was showing, my hair looked liked from the 80’s, my nailpolish was the wrong colour, and so on and so forth. It just all flashed from her eyes to mine.

Brrrr. I had been la di dead!

Then she half nodded, while her lip curled in distaste, like i was a wilted piece of cabbage trying to pass myself off as fresh lettuce. And in slow motion, she turned to the person who had introduced us, broke into a huge smile and gushed "hello darling."

While i stared down at my glass, and muttered to my whisky, "wow, how did you lose so much weight?"

Instead, I should have whipped out my wand and said:

Bitch.

With unflattering balloon dress.

And fat calves.

Trantallegra you la di dah!

*sigh*

101.2

She heard that awful sound. And she begged her father not to go.

“no...you can’t go...please.”

He stood there. Torn between the tears that were streaming down his thirteen year old daughter’s face and the siren that cut through the air.

She continued to sob and yell hysterically as she held on to him. “Close the door Ma. Don’t let him go.”

Her mother stood there helpless. She had been through a war before.

Her father gently pulled away from her. She clung to his waist.

The sirens continued to pierce through the evening gloom. Yet the streets were silent. All windows covered with black paper. No electricity. Still, humid October heat. Like the world had come to an end.

He kissed her on her head. “Baby, I promise I’ll be back. You look after your mother okay.”

And before she could tighten her grip, he was gone. Out of the door.

That awful sound grew louder in her ears. Planes, lots of them, low and loud. Not the comforting ones she heard every morning and evening. These were angry and low. Very low. And then the sound of bombs. Exploding. Fire. Deafening.

She woke up. Drenched in a feverish sweat. The bed was burning.

Outside, there was a storm brewing. Clothes flapped hysterically on the line. Loud claps of thunder echoed across her room.

That’s when she popped a crocin and danced around the room. It was only a bloody dream.

the sound of mucous

Thick yellow snot

You are so heavenly

I feel purged and satisfied

Like a job well done

I stare at you

Alternating between dull green

And bright yellow

And i think

Isn’t that just pretty

You make my cold and fever so worth it

Like a drying scab after chicken pox

Like sticky eyes after conjunctivitis

Like blood mixed with dirt after a fall

Thick yellow snot

I like you a lot

nostalgia. after all it is the season dude.

I was eighteen when I landed in Calcutta. Actually landed is a fancy word. I took an army truck from Kharagpur to Calcutta. Most of my journey was spent sitting on my black trunk with my name stencilled on the side.

I knew no one. Not even the aunt I was supposed to stay with. I had been to Calcutta once before that. For a day, and totally hated it.

I have no idea why I wasn’t scared. Or even worried. I had been thrown out of the house. My sweet loving father was pissed as hell with me, because I refused to go back to architecture college in Bombay.

I had no idea what I was going to do. Or study.

I ended up staying for years. My dad’s family turned out to be mad. And sweet. I met cousins I never even knew existed. They got me admission forms, stood in line with me, showed me the city.

Then I made friends. K and P. One who smoked incessantly, the other who popped painkillers for recreation purposes. Classmates, benchmates. Guides through unfamiliar lanes, languages, dadas, didis, college politics, bus routes.

And then S. Love. College fests. Cards. Band rehearsals. Hanging out. Studying together. Walking around. Smoking up. Love letters.

Then I started working. More friends. Another PG. And then A.

HM Road. Bondel Road. Ballygunge Circular Road. Him and me. Walking. Talking. Drinking. Dancing. And the trips. Lots of them. To the sea. To anywhere.

And before you knew it, the city became mine.

And this time of the year, even if I’m miles away from Cal, I get all excited. Not because it’s Pujas. But because the smells and sounds of the city that gave me so much, will get transported to a little pandal five minutes from my house.

And I’ll stand there. And wonder how, without a clue of where and what I was doing, Calcutta just took my hand and planned my life out for me.

picture credit @ http://www.pbase.com/prantik

please please would you throw an oil well my way

“Hey, I have a strange request. Don’t know if you’d be interested, but my friend needs help...”

Me: Yelling into my phone over the Andheri traffic, “ Tell me...”

“Okay, so there’s this Saudi princess who’s getting married.”

Me: Still yelling, “WHAT BUSINESS????? “

“SAUDI PRINCESS who’s getting married.”

Me: “Bhaiya, taxi roko.” (Dude, I would have stopped a plane to hear this.)

“And she wants a four minute music video for her mehendi ceremony. An original Arabic bollywood song.”

Me: “And...?”

“And she’s bollywood crazy, and wants 12 top stars to feature in it.”

Me: making gurgling sounds

“Of course, for a substantial fee they have all agreed. Now my friend wants to know if you can write the song and the video.”

Me: jumping up and down in the taxi, still making gurgling sounds.

“ She wants them all to be dressed in Tarun Tahilianai. And Shahrukh said he can say a few lines, but he doesn’t have time to do a whole acting piece...hello...hello...

Me, almost hugging the taxi driver: Yes, yes, I accept...I accept...mujhe kubul hai...

On a serious note: If this blog suddenly vanishes, either she’s bought over blogger. Or I have been beheaded.

first you dish the dirt, then you diss the dirt

I studied in Kendriya Vidyalaya’s all my life.

And obviously they’ve had a deep rooted impact on me.

Because the four words that still get me every time are, “Pata hai kya hua?”

These can be punctuated with a Haw before or after the sentence for extra drama. As in Haw, pata hai kya hua? G came to work wearing V’s shirt!

Of course the Haw that follows must be backed by an interesting fact, like a return gift for the gossip. “ Haw Really? She is such a slut eh? ”

There is the more sophi (old Calcutta slang for sophisticated) version of Pata hai kya hua which is Fuck, you’d never guess.

Also four words. Also explosive.

Guess I’ve grown up.

PS: all pix unless otherwise mentioned are from deviantart.

that's not the pressure cooker, that's me

to those who are ever planning to run their own thing, i have two words for you. Ha. Ha.

its like being on a bloody roller coaster where one minute you're waving like a maniac to those sensible people who've decided to skip the ride and the next minute you're hurling puke like the girl from exorcist. who by the way has always been my benchmark for the coolest way to puke.

First sit up dead straight. Suddenly. Then swivel your head 360 degrees. Pop your eyes, shake your head a little like its gonna fall off. Make a loud gut wrenching noise. And finally hurl as hard as you can. I once tried it at the Holy Family emergency. But because i was weak from food poisoning, it didn't go too far. I only got the ward boy's sleeve. Anyway they mistook my pop eyed, possessed look for the fact that I was dying, and quickly injected me with painkillers.

Back to the point. That work is stressful. And demanding. And I'm barely holding on to my sanity.

Which always brings me back to Bigg Boss. There's a chick in there who hangs out with my versova reality show gang. I don't think they like her very much, but wannabes kind of stick together.

Anyway, she is so bloody dense. The first time she met abhi, she put her hand out and said, "Hi, I'm a lasbiyan." I think she thinks lasbiyan is someone who's biyan seen on TV or something.

Anyway, so tonight I see her teaching the bhojpuri actor english.

He: "if brakfast is in the morning, what we eat in evening?"

She: "Breakfast in morning. Lunch in afternoon."

He: "But what in evening?"

She: "Brunch."

He: " What a wonderful, you're there to teach me the english.

Time to bring on the exorcist.

lots of credit: new header pix: thanks to fancy camera work by curryspice. header pix location: thanks to generous host the knife. There, I hope they'll cook me something delicious now.

missing in action

Make up sex and break up sex have made the urban dictionary.

What I want to know is when will wake up sex get its due?

the romance of train travel

Ever since i got off the Rajdhani i’ve been thinking about it. And finally i have the answer.

The sinks on the train are designed by a mean minded midget with no elbows.

Why else would it reach my knees?

Which means you have to bend double over the damn sink. Which is not very appropriate when you have leery men, with toothbrushes sticking out of their mouths staring at your behind.

The other thing is why are people suddenly so concerned about personal hygienic on the train. The train reaches at 8.30 in the morning. I would advice lots of mint, chewing gum and maybe those Listerine tabs which create a waterfall sensation in your mouth (if smoked up, it’s a groovy waterfall). And yeah, many people might not agree, and would want to brush their teeth. Fine, that is still okay.

But what about the ones who must brush their teeth, then scrape their tongue and finally make loud retching noises. This is all in the passage sink, while the queue behind them gets longer and longer. It’s like the louder you make those half burp-half retch-half gagging while removing the decaying yellow coating from your tongue sounds, the cleaner you are. Sometimes I think if they could hold up the coating like a trophy they would be happy. But since they can’t they have to outdo each other with the noises.

“There you pathetic passengers, did you hear that, my tongue is so fucking clean that if I make another noise, my tonsils would probably pop out. I’m a fucking rockstar.”

And this is true irrespective of gender and age.

The other thing. The water coming out of the tap is a sorry trickle. Which means it takes ages to just do the whole brushing your teeth routine. Then there are folks who’ll take out their free paper soap and carefully wet their face and neck. And then start to lather the paper all over their skin. But the damn paper doesn’t lather. So now the queue has gotten even longer.

At which point a few ambitious ones will cut in with a “ excuse please” squeeze their brush under the tap and start to brush their teeth while standing in line.

The rockstar of hygiene is still lathering the non-existent lather. And after ten whole minutes will start to wash it off. The face, neck, behind the ears, and finally wet the hair till its dripping its dandruff into the already clogged sink. And by now the ambitious ones have toothpaste drooling from the sides of their mouth.

You know what’s the most fun part. That the breakfast trays are being ferried through this mass of spitting, belching, drooling, retching morning ablutions.

Which is why I prefer the mints.

PS: Now for some real rockers. A and his band just recorded their first three songs. They’re up on reverbnation. Click here to go to their page.

picture credit deviantart.com. as usual. coz i'm too lazy to look anywhere else.

one track mind

He hated America. Not because of the food, or the cold weather or the office where everyone seemed impossibly professional.

But because everyone preferred closed shoes.

The winters were so long and so cold. That sometimes he had to go months before he saw a pair of feet apart from his own.

He craved to see a pair, with thin straps running across delicate feet, small perfect toes with short half moon nails, painted red. Smooth soft fleshy feet, well creamed, well cared for.

But it rarely happened.

In fact his first winter, he had been so driven to despair by closed boots and fur lined ankle highs, that he had actually thought of walking into a parlour and asking for a pedicure.

After all if you had a thing for teeth, you’d hang out at the dentists. And so if you liked feet, then the best place to see them would be at a pedicure parlour.

But he lacked the courage. Plus he knew it would be frightfully expensive. Not at all like home.

So then, this was his salvation - home.

Every year he made two trips to his parents’ home in Mumbai.

And the first thing he did on arriving was to book himself on the Rajdhani to Delhi, AC second class.

His parents thought his head office was in Delhi. In fact his father even asked him a couple of times why he had to take the train, why he had to go to Delhi within a day of arriving, why he had to go back to Delhi a second time before his holiday ended?

But Prem managed to evade all his dad’s questions with some vague mumblings of seeing the country and systems overload.

The truth of course was that the Rajdhani had an abundance of feet.

Prem had it all worked out. He’d board the Rajdhani in the evening with his little overnight bag, and two magazines. Then he’d wait for them to bring tea and snacks. He’d finish his tea, ignore the snacks and wait.

By then passengers would have settled down. Shoes would have been removed, toes cracked, introductions made. The free newspaper read. And finally lulled by the rocking movement of the train, most passengers would put out the bedding given to them. And then curl in for a quick pre dinner nap.

This is what Prem waited for. A whole year dreaming about this moment. When he would get up from his berth, stretch and then slowly take a walk down the train. Through the five AC II bogies and the nine AC III ones.

There, stretched out on lower berths, upper berths, side berths, peeking from under dull khakhi coloured blankets, enveloped by bright coloured Patiala salwaars or then bright blue denims would be feet.

Painted red, brown, silver, pink. Long, short, square, round nails. Some with anklets in silver, some covered in mehendi, some creased from walking too much.

Prem could have spent his life as a ticket collector on that train.

And then one day, the inevitable happened. He was just finishing his tea. And trying to fend off the inquisitive aunty who had the lower berth to his upper, when his eyes fell on his dream feet.

Warm honey brown. Not too small. Perfect long toes. Freshly applied bright red polish on short round nails. Thin silver anklet loosely falling over perfect soles.

He knew then what love at first sight meant.

“Beta, why are you not having your samosa. It’s very good.”

“ Thanks aunty. I’m not hungry.”

“ Aree, have have. In US you must not be getting samosas na.”

Prem nodded and hemmed. And started to sweat.

He couldn’t let this go. In his 32 years he had never seen a pair like this. But what if she was married? Or had a boyfriend? Or....

And then the blanket stirred, the feet withdrew. Prem thought he’d stop breathing. Next the feet swung down, and she jumped off her side berth.

“ Beta, what about the ladoo. It’s from Ghasitaram. Very safe.”

Prem just nodded. The feet landed on a pair of black sandals with thin straps.

That was the sign he was waiting for.

And just as the aunty asked him if she could have his ladoo, he turned to the girl with the most perfect feet and asked her if she would marry him.

Fortunately, Simran being a huge fan of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, found nothing odd in the sudden proposal.

She just asked him three questions. 1. What you do? 2. In US? 3. Joint or single?

On learning that joint was out of the question, since his parents lived in Mumbai, she said yes on the spot.

Thanks to auntyji’s efforts, more ghasitaram ke ladoos were rustled up by the train staff, in celebration.

On their honeymoon, they went to Simla. Of course they took the Rajdhani from Mumbai to Delhi. She sat at the window seat admiring her rajasthani design mehendi.

He finished his tea, pushed the snacks towards her and said, “Let me just go stretch my legs a little.”

PS: i’m on the rajdhani to delhi. And i wonder why they don’t serve ladoos any more. and those lovely feet aint mine. they are from deviantart.com.

feeling groovy

a cancelled trip to the hills.

a trip to goa that almost happened.

a trip to greece that never did.

and then, heavy rain, storm warnings, the dicey konkan railways.

so this morning when i got up and saw the sun had come out.

can you blame me for going so fucking loopy with joy.

see you guys on monday.

picture credit: deviantart.com, place i'm going to stay and girl with the dreadlocks.

if i was a colour, it would be a mottled purple

What the fuck is the difference between house and trance and techno?

No dude, don’t get me wrong. I like the stuff. You can stomp your feet and bob your head like crazy. But it all sounds the same. Slightly trippy, and always surprising to hear lyrics.

What the fuck is an ecopolitical spiritual mentor?

Yup, he sent me a mail. And I don’t know how to reply. Do I address him as Cosmic President. Or Leader of the Union Territory of the Universe.

What the fuck is with sports?

They fine the Sri Lankans for not letting Sehwag make his hundred. What should they start doing now? Overthrowing as soon as a batsman reaches 70. And then the Chelsea team have their underwear getting cut on a regular basis. Not by lingerie models, but by a prankster. Really, can you support a team that’s racing around in holey undies?

What the fuck is with these idiots?

Today we see two snakes getting jiggy with it in the park. And there are twenty autos, and 6 school kids, and at least fifteen sundry people craning their necks to watch because it’s a good omen. Dude, you try having sex while being watched by thirty devout people.

The only good omen here is that the snakes didn’t come racing out to bite everyone’s head off.

What the fuck is with you and me?

Yes you. Are we good? Or are you avoiding me? And in case there’s any confusion, I’m talking about you A.

And finally what the fuck is with blogger meets?

90% population came because they they could meet some chicks. Or are hoping to make money off their blogs. Or get a job. Or because they probably have their parents pickled in a jam jar in their fridge. Or then because they “just love writing. It is my passion.”

Barf. What the fuck is with this week i'm having.

sick

You call my name.

I toss restlessly in my sleep.

I’m sick.

I think it’s a dream.

But you stay in my head through the day

I want to ban you

To remove you.

To turn stone deaf.

To your pleading. To your calling.

But I’m sick.

And I don’t have the strength.

And the brownies in the fridge win again.

picture credit: deviantart.com

bloody fool

I cut my hair. Snipped the length and the curls out.

And realised two things. I feel compelled to be cool at the salon. I also feel compelled to be cool at the doctor/dentist/tattoo parlour. Anything that involves pain or doubt or scares me, I behave strangely masochistic.

Dentist: “ I’m gonna need to extract two teeth.”

Me (tonsils shivering): “ha, ha, extract four.”

Doctor: “You will now be wheeled into the OT”

Me (head spinning): “ Sure. No worries, just knock me out cold.”

Hairperson (should it be barber/hairsylist/hair dresser/hair manager): I’m going to cut about 5 inches off.

Me (cold, nervous palpitations): Yeah, yeah, just chop it all off.

And so on and so forth. As you probably realise this leads to alarming consequences. Like I’ve been visiting the dentist for over three years regularly. And he’s probably changed all my teeth, and I don’t know, because I’m in a spell.

So my haircut is also a result of this moronic behaviour. It’s the worst length ever. Just about covering my neck with a few stray curls at the bottom. Sort of like those male Kathak dancers.

I hate it.

PS: if you are a male Kathak dancer who’s reading my blog, well, big cherry hello, how are you and that sort of thing.

you got me singing

To my big bum,

Apologies. For years I hated you. You reminded me of nimmi masi, baby masi, jojo aunty. Nimkis and nankhatais for tea.

Florid salwaar kameezs. Shopping for lizzy bizzy material at elko market in the hot summer.

You also reminded me of uncles. Called Bobby and Jolly. And cousins called Sonu and Monu.

I was always worried. You would give away my genes. My love for yellow daal. Palak mutton. Methi alu. And parathas with amul butter.

I know I probably hurt you by deliberately wearing stuff that concealed you.

And loudly proclaiming that my dream was to be like those boys whose jeans hung off their backsides.

But now, that’ll never happen again.

Yes, THE dress opened my eyes.

So please forgive me.

Yours thrilled to bits with you,

Agentgreenglass

picture @ deviantart

nicotine high

You know it just struck me. After a conversation i was having.

Probably the reason I hate flying now is because I don’t smoke anymore.

Revelation. Rock fell on my head.

See, it was like this. I had a job where I flew a lot. Lot of international flights as well. Okay, mostly to Singapore, but that’s international too okay.

Anyway, so I’d catch the Singapore Airlines flight that departs at an unearthly hour of 11.50 or something. But more than the wine on board, or the movies, or even Singapore, it was that cab ride to the airport that did it for me.

I’d rush home from work. My red suitcase (bought especially when I took the job!) would always be out. And by then I pretty much had a readymade list of things to shove into it. Packing would take fifteen minutes. Then I’d have a 10 minute shower, change into my most comfortable jeans and top. Wear a jacket (the flight can get freaking cold, and those inadequate blankets are like tissue paper), my soft red converse shoes, spray perfume (always Issey Miyake those days).

Kiss the boy. Kiss the dog, and wheel my bag out.

I’d usually find a cab down the street. It would be raining, wipers waving in all directions. Settle in and sink back.

Watch headlights, bright lights, hoarding lights flash by. Take out a cigarette. Goldflake. Light it.

The first drag. Windows down. Crisp night air. My perfume mingling with the breeze. Wet hair flapping.

Nothing. But me and the night.

Me about to embark on a journey. Adventurous. Mysterious. To a land where no one knows me (And yeah, at least twice with no dollars in my wallet, because I left them in my office bag)

And the night. Warm, barmy, and in cahoots with me.

It always felt like a movie that was about to start.

That’s it then. Next time I have a flight to catch, I’m gonna smoke myself a honey dew.

PS: greygrasshopper and i are talking. And we lapse into bong. Pagol na pajama is a phrase used. And i laugh as i write it. So descriptive. Are you mad or are you a pajama? it's funny.

japs, ocd's, monkey men - just another friday

The Japs to the rescue.

My ‘have I shut the front door and locked it’ OCD was reaching Al Burj heights.

Everyday I’d leave home and then start to fret. Is the door open? Did I close it? Maybe it’s open? Of course it’s open!

I was worried, either I’m becoming senile or Parsee.

Then my friend Bangkok Chic told me the Japs have a cure for it.

You shut the door. And then repeat thrice - I’ve shut the door. I’ve shut the door. I’ve shut the door.

It’s working just fine.

Except this morning, when I was at my second I’ve shut the door, I noticed my neighbour. I smiled and repeated the third, “I’ve shut the door” and she rushed into her house. With unnecessary haste I must add.

That apart, we have to take some clients out for dinner tonight. Two of them are okay. The third is an insufferable ass. He’s supposed to be the in-house creative guy at the client’s office, and the only thing creative about him is the way his hair grows out of his shirt and wraps itself around his neck like the clingy arm of a baby monkey.

Yesh.

Drinking with an enemy monkey. The things you have to do to make money.

Today is Friday, it is my day to live a simple life

Put on my make-up, dress up in colour

Maybe you might see me down here

Could you come along, bring me in

Could you come along, bring me in

Bring me in...

Friday by Goldspot hits the sweet spot always.

insole heel lifts = man's best friend

I knew what I was getting into.

Big Hollywood blockbuster. Big Hollywood stars. Adventure rom com.

But still when the goo splatters all over the room, you’re so unprepared for it.

And it was crap. Knight and Day.

You know Hollywood just has to stop copying Bollywood. It’s getting too much. I might just have been watching Hrithik Roshan and Priyanka Chopra in some mindless stunt filled movie.

And that too without any songs. Dude, whoever made the movie, yeah dude, you, I’m talking to you. Why didn’t you add a few songs? Like one in a nightclub. Right after they dodge bullets, would have fit perfect. And one when she needed to distract the bad boys. A nice item number there would have been super cool.

Anyway, Tom Cruise looks smoking hot. Though when he took off his shirt, I was repulsed. It looked totally plastic. I think I now know how it would feel to touch silicone boobs. Or something like that. That’s how his chest felt. Like you’d bounce off it if you went to snuggle up there.

And Cameron. She needs botox. Or gummy tape. Or whatever the procedure is to tape her saggy face skin in. She’s got a good body, there’s no doubt about that. But yeah, the fine lines are not fine anymore. They are like marker pens.

And in case you think I’m being a bitch, remember I blew up 1300 bucks for four of us. And that’s not including the popcorn, the hotdogs, the frankies, the sev puri, the dahi puri, the ice cream and the soda.

In case you are a glutton for punishment and insist on going for it, here’s the most enjoyable part of the movie. Watching how cleverly they’ve made Tom Cruise stand on a bar stool every time he’s in a shot next to Cameron Dias. Either it’s that or really low angle shots.

Egos are entertaining.

And I’m not going to tell you the story, coz there really is no story. Pah!

shaaktiman - a tribute

my dream is to make a living by making things. maybe someday it'll come true.

till then here's what i made over the weekend. a tribute to my hero shaaktiman. and the dreadful comic book i love. shaaktiman aur ladaku ladki (shaaktiman and the fightercock chick).

even i'm beginning to think i'm obsessed with underwear

No no no.

You cannot wear pillow cover like chaddis under your track pants.

You have red nail polish, a size zero figure, the Swarovski encrusted cellphone, bling blanging off your bangs, and then you turn around. And what do I see?

Stuffed chaddi in bebe syndrome.

It makes your ass look like two parts. saggy bottom, and stuffed bottom.

And then there’s my yoga teacher.

A contortionist.

Who also wears tight cream coloured pants with a chaddi that could be turned into a lifeboat for six, in case of flash floods.

I tried telling her about going Hilton. She almost choked on her Shirshasan.

Then I told her about thongs, and she told me never to wear them when I exercise because its heat producing.

Heat producing? Heat producing?????

Don’t know about you, but Greenpeace be damned.

I’d embrace global warming over meters of chaddi.

uummm...welcome to planet earth

"fuck, what is wrong with this man?" Indignation and coyness both mixed in her voice.

I'm discussing some work with AS. Both of us look up.

Her eyes are shining. " He's so weird." She's staring at her phone.

We stare back at her.

She grins this big grin and says, " I've hardly known him. We just met at a friends place. And then he messaged me this morning."

We're now super curious. Work has been abandoned.

I'm impatient as usual. "And..."

She continues. "... and now he's sent this message. LOL it says."

AS and I are wondering if we heard her right. Plus she is prone to rambling at times.

" LOL? Can you believe that? what is wrong with him?"

Now AS can't take it. He says, " What's wrong with him writing LOL?"

Her eyes become like saucers. " Lots of Love? Why is he sending me Lots of Love?"

Oooh. Not only does she ramble. But she also lives under a rock.

and he knows the colour of my heart

I just finished seeing pedro almodovar’s All About My Mother.

I bawled my eyes out.

How can a movie, something you watch with a thousand distractions. Something you know has been made, manufactured. With actors and actresses playing parts. How can a movie move you so much?

Of course it’s my own fear of death.

My love for dark colours, slow camera movements.

My fear of anything dark, mingled with my love for anything hopeful.

Still, how would a man sitting in another country, who’s never ever met me. And will never even meet me. Make a movie in a language that I don’t even understand. And yet move me so much?

the gentle sex? are you bloody crazy?

Funny how women size each other up.

Hmmm...white shirt, just a little too tight. Slanty eyes. Purring around the sofa.

Bitch.

Long legs. Crossing them, delicate anklet.

Maniser.

Husky voice. Can you get me my smokes from the table?

Slut.

Classified. Case closed. File shut.

Then you meet again. And she takes a look at you, and says, “You’re just getting hotter by the day.”

File reopened.

mourning the metal mouth

two years, two and a half months.

and this evening they were yanked, cut and tugged out of my mouth.

i couldn't stop grinning.

now...i'm missing them.

the braces made me look odd.

and i miss that.

and now i'm worried when i wake up in the morning, boing, my teeth will all be out and crooked again.

really, doing campaigns for stress pills is clearly working wonders for me.

immaculate examination

I had a hostel reunion the other day. And met M after ages.

She’s a certified nut job.

She was seeing this guy in the hostel. And could never make up her mind if she wanted to sleep with him or not.

Every Sunday she’d come back from spending the day at his place, and the first question I’d ask her was, “So?”

The answer would always be no.

Obviously the guy was trying every trick in the book. And M was running out of excuses.

So finally, it boiled down to this.

One evening she came back hysterical with laughter. Apparently things got really hot and heavy. And then she suddenly realised she didn’t want to go the whole hog. And she didn’t want to hurt his feelings either.

So in the middle of him tugging at her jeans she has a brainwave and yells stop. The poor guy stops.

M looks at him and says, “ I’ve taken a mannat. You can’t touch me below my boobs.”

The guy is horrified. And of course, in the hostel we’re all collapsing with laughter.

What kind of mannat is this?

Dear God, if you make me pass my exams, I’ll only let him touch my boobs and nothing else.

Anyway M passed with flying colours. And the guy ended up marrying her.

There must be a moral to this story. Or a song that sums it up.

PS: Here’s what i’m thinking. I’m going to write every day. For one whole month. Let’s see how it goes. If you see the number of unfinished craft projects scattered around my house. Or rather hidden in the deep recesses of the huge storage cupboard which I deviously got made for exactly this purpose, you shall realise that I’m not very good at being consistent.

season of sentiment

When it rains i revisit old books.

Some weekends when it’s stormy and afternoon is turning to evening, I lie on the futon and read all all my favourites.

Mandrake. Bahadur. Alexander Frater’s Chasing the monsoon. The Mahabharat. Bill Bryson’s Notes from a small country. Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley Series. Biggles. Pearls before Swine. Philip Roth’s Goodbye Columbus. And of course liberal doses of Feluda.

Everyone has comfort food. I have comfort books.

two plus two is fucking five

Phone conversation with Mentalie:

Me: are you free on saturday? shall we meet some fellow bloggers?

Mentalie: eh? can't hear you? Who should we meet?

Me: Arre, fellow bloggers....spaz kumari ...

Mentalie: who? Can't hear you properly.

Me (screaming): ...arree... AND SAALE BHEHNCHOD YA.

I hear a gasp from the back. It's our new accountant. A nice Gujarati man. It's his first day. And I think his last. Because he just shifted his chair away from me. And is now furiously discussing something with my partner as I write this.

Damn.

its free. its free. i swear its free.

Do you have parent prices?

I do.

So I walk into a store at phoenix. And see this super t shirt. Thin cotton, summer print, nice wide neck, and hallelujah, it gives an illusion of boobs (yeaaah!).

And it costs thousand bucks.

So I buy it, and then have a mild heart attack. Because my mom is waiting outside. No way can she know this plain cotton T-shirt costs thousand bucks. And no, I don’t think the fact that it's cleverly designed to give me nice tata's (term learnt from watching Beverly Hills 90210, where they spent most of their time tanning their tata's) is going to have her holding my hand and jumping with joy.

So I race out of the shop, and nervously clap my hands in glee and tell her everything inside was at a fifty per cent discount.

My mom’s eyes light up, and she says, “let’s go back in then, let me buy you some more stuff.”

I have another quick heart attack, before I mumble something about feeling faint with hunger. That always works with my mom. Immediately we turn around, and my mom spends the next hour trying to feed my face off.

But the point is I have to keep doing this. Those awesome wedges, only five hundred bucks. That fancy underwear, ha ha, don’t tell me you didn’t hear of their massive clearance sale. I cleaned them out, bought everything for four hundred bucks. And those mango pants, just six hundred bucks.

This time I had decided, “what the fuck, I’m a grown woman, why do I need to do this, I’m going to tell my mom what things really cost.”

And then I did it again.

It’s not like she’s going to freak out, it’s just that it will terribly upset her middle class values. If it costs more than thousand bucks, it should not be cotton, ideally must have ruffles, and cannot ever be a t shirt. A salwaar kameez for thousand bucks is worth it, but a t shirt never.

And underwear, let’s just say if she ever found out what it cost, she would probably drag me to la senza and demand that they refund my money, there and then.

Yeah. I think I’m a lot safer being a super bargain hunter in her eyes.