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.