the files of agent green glass

nuff already

2011-06-13T14:45:00.000+05:30

Fuck, fuck, fuck. All I can think about is why didn’t I buy the Husain sketch?

It was going for a lakh five years back. Not a particularly pretty sketch. Just a small charcoal squiggly thing which I think one of his grandkids did at school and he signed for a lark.

I should have broken the bank and bought it.

But as usual, my middle class desire to watch my Post Office account grow at the speed of a snail shitting, dashed all my dreams.

Things could have been so different now. I could have been racing up and down the streets yelling, “he’s dead, he’s dead.” I could have been rolling in money, stuffing it into my mattress, stitching it into my shower curtains.

Sigh.

Then there’s the wonderful Baba Ramdev. What the fuck dude. This is embarrassing for those who do yoga and believe in it. The man wilted faster than the cabbage in the McDonalds burger.

Just about seven days and he’s in ICU. Hello, what happened to the million kapalbhathis? And years of tapasya? Gone in a wink i guess.

And finally, I prefer my news from a channel that is crisp and to the point. Which is why I would recommend catching India TV’s latest offering: Osama Sex Machine Tha.

Very informative.

freak

2011-06-08T17:54:00.002+05:30

Seriously, after spending most of my adult life wondering how to wear eye-shadow, i’m now clearly becoming a pro at it.

It’s scaring me.

Will I start to crave Louis Vuitton bags?

Will I go to Jamuna Pai for little jabs to restore my wrinkles?

Will the Kareena yoga lady be on my speed dial.

Will I only eat stir fry and shitake and teppanyaki?

Will I go for opening nites and nibble on cheese?

Will I be a dahling? Or a luv? Or a simbo?

tripping on videokaaran

2011-06-07T15:10:00.007+05:30

“We’re screening a movie.”

“It’s a guerrilla style docu, about a die-hard rajni fan.”

“We’re screening it at the BMC pipeline.”

“Meet me at PikNik hotel, Saki Naka.

Dude, I don’t know about you. But that was it. I mean the only thing missing was the smugglers and the on-off lights.

This had all the promise of an adventure.

So Z and I hoofed it all the way from Parel to Santacruz and then while pleading with our auto driver to cut lanes and lights, to Saki Naka. We were late. By about an hour.

But P kept saying, “It’s cool. We haven’t yet started. People are still finding their way.”

Finally we reach Saki Naka. And yeah, never have I so looked forward to Saki Naka. Ten minutes of getting lost, asking for directions and we make it to PikNik.

P emerges from what looks like an interesting beer bar, and leads the way. Around the corner, a really short walk, a sudden turn, a short flight of steps. And now I know why they haven’t started as yet. It’ll take a guide to get here.

And thank god. Because it’s amazing. What looks like movie-set caught in a time-warp. A single track unused railway line. Silent tin and brick shanties on one side. Neat and tidy, with plastic buckets and folded clothes hung over doorways.

We stand on a brick platform, the railway line running alongside. The road is above us. In the distance we hear traffic, a car goes by. Here, the only light is from the single bulb of a tea stall. A woman pours strong, sweet tea. People talk, some laughter, cigarettes are lit, introductions made. And Z looks at me with a big grin. The evening is turning out far better than we ever imaged it to.

Then, we start to walk. Under a bridge, water dripping down the stone walls. Bright colours on walls. We walk past houses, women making rotis, kids hunched in front of computers in the community centre, men just returned from work, washing their feet. We walk on the living, breathing track.

And I start to think how appropriate all this is. The docu, on an eccentric, wildly intelligent, unconventional hero. Sagai. Part owner of a tamil video parlour in the shanties of Chembur. Film lover, rajni devotee, astute and devious in his observations of the cops, the ‘system’, with mad opinions on blue films, reading women and slasher films.

And his story, his love for films set here.

We reach the BMC playground. Chairs, a projector and a white screen. We all settle down. Some on the floor, some on chairs. The barbed wire of the playground reflects on the screen, and then the docu starts.

I’m hooked. It doesn’t just bring alive Sagai, it brings out everything that pushes me to understand that he’s probably so much better versed in his understanding of films, because of his love of the medium. He leaves critics, the world movie buffs, the hindi movie retro tripping yuppies far far behind This is rare because it is so genuine.

And I laugh at all his radical ideas, his friends, their trippy conversations. Their reading, their interpretations. And I feel sad. For the video parlours that are closing. For folks who love the movies, but find it increasingly difficult to afford them. And finally, like Sagai, I’m left hopeful.

And somewhere through the docu, Z turns to me and says, “this is the most perfect evening.”

And I realise yep, it is.

Thank you Projector Friday. Thank you Jagan. And yeah, thank you Sagai.

(PS: The movie is so worth your while. Call jagan the director, beg, borrow, steal a copy or a screening. And watch the trailer here.

Also if you live in Mumbai, catch the awesome Projector Fridays for the most fun, the most out-of-the box stuff. You can check them out here.)

no men were harmed in the making of this post

2011-04-07T00:09:00.000+05:30

Okay, I’m back.

And thank you anon, for your concern. But no I’m not dead.

So on to more interesting matters. Like my morbid attachment to reality shows. In fact the worse they are, the more I’m addicted to them.

And my deep insightful research has thrown up some interesting things. Like how, at the moment, they all seem rather preoccupied with the male genitals. No, make that preoccupied with causing damage to the male genitals.

Take vela boys. Where they have three guys, in their early twenties dressed in school uniforms. They each stand facing a line of giggling school boys of around six. When the anchor hysterically blows his whistle, a giggling school boy flies at one of the boys and kicks him hard in the groin. The guy lets out a muffled “oiteri”, jumps two feet in the air, doubles up in pain and then stands manfully, awaiting the next kick.

This continues till it looks like their eyes will pop and they will most certainly need the services of an ambulance if not undertaker.

Of course the little kids are slowing warming up to the task and throwing themselves into it with well aimed kicks and little shrieks of joy.

Oddly entertaining it is.

Then there is Roadies. Where they subjected the boys to a Brazilian wax. Worse, the Brazilian wax was performed on them while they were standing. Imagine, legs apart, can’t see shit because your head is sticking out of a little wooden hole. And suddenly you feel a knife with hot wax start to slide around your inner thigh.

Oh yeah, pardon me while I throw up my dinner. And faint in front of the TV now.

a chance to work in your chaddis

2011-02-03T19:16:00.003+05:30

hola.

i'm so fucked at work.

and you can help me.

i'm looking for someone to manage a facebook page. the person needs to know how to use social media, and more importantly facebook. so how do you create tabs, tags, engagement, involvement. and keep the page fresh and zingy.

you can work full time at rickshaw.

or you can freelance for us. and thereby work in your chaddis.

get in touch with me at agentgreenglass@gmail.com. and we'll take it from there.

till then i'm going back to slowly dying, under a mountain of work.

bye.

modern talking

2011-01-24T22:51:00.002+05:30

Preschool in a grumpy lady’s living room. Which overlooks my office kitchen window.

Eh Tanay?

New bag men?

What your mother is getting too rich or what?

Clothes store. Two accented women.

What?

Buy it.

But my arms look fat?

No...ya...maybe...

Yes or no?

Yes.

Shit, I really like it.

Then buy it.

But I look fat.

No, no, you don’t.

You sure?

Totally.

La Senza Trial Room, girl on phone.

Giggle. Idiot. Giggle.

What will you tell your mother, why am I there?

Giggle.

Oh god. Then she’s going to know for sure what we’re up to.

Giggle. Idiot. Giggle.

And by the way, does anyone apart from me remember modern talking. okay, i do. because i thought they were really cool. i obviously had very little knowledge in the cool department, because i spent a lot of time singing cheri cheri lady and brother louie. and actually thought you're my heart, you're my soul was the coolest song anyone could ever put on a mix tape for me.

i was a cool, cool girl.

alpha calling beta

2011-01-15T14:56:00.001+05:30

“ We’re moving to Hasimara.”

And in twenty days the house was boxed up. The carpets were rolled and wrapped in sack cloth and tied. Dad stencilled our name and destination over the large wooden crates, including the one that held our prized possession, the fridge.

I said bye to all my friends. And the trees in our backyard. Jamun, Guava, Ber, Imli, Mango, Lemon. Specially the guava tree with its white smooth limbs, and roomy perches between branches. I sat on it every day through my summer holidays, pretending it was a tree house.

I even went to the corner of the garden, the spot we always avoided. It contained a huge mound with a number of holes under the banyan tree. The cobra family lived there.

They were pretty peacefull, apart from having bitten and killed the poor tailor who had been cycling home at night. But then his cycle tyre ran over one of them. And after he got bitten, his relatives took him away to the village outside, where they made him lie in a mud pit and poured milk and ghee over him. Obviously not very effective in treating cobra bites.

Sometimes I would see a cobra slithering away towards the dense bougainvillea hedge we had around the house. Sometimes they would sun themselves on the steps behind our bathroom door. And since my mom insisted that after a bath, we must open the back door to dry out the bathroom, it was always a bit of an adventure. I usually unbolted the latch with a noise loud enough to wake up the dead, and then stamped around for a good five minutes, before flinging open the door and running in the opposite direction.

The cobras must have laughed their heads off.

My friends, three boys who lived in my lane, decided that they’ll give me a farewell gift. Four of us were the Mystery Solvers of Kalaikunda. Yeah, that’s what we called ourselves. And we wore raincoats as disguises, and constantly chewed on blades of grass while we discussed what new mystery we could solve. And we spent our time shadowing unsuspecting people on our cycles. Which was always a bit of a letdown because sooner or later they would realise four kids on cycles, wearing mismatched raincoats in peak summer, were trailing them. Also, the shadowing invariably ended on a rather sad note, at the puncture repair shop. I don’t know if it was the roads of Kalaikunda or our second hand cycles.

Anyway, so my goodbye gift was a grand old British bunker. Actually it was an abandoned old British bunker which had been discovered by one of the boys while cycling back from school. It was on one end of a huge parade ground. And covered with mud, stones and thorny bushes growing inside and outside it. And now that I think about it, probably many cobra families as well.

So on my last day, we cycled to the abandoned bunker and I was allowed to enter it first. We spent a happy hour fighting our way through the thorns and undergrowth to go into a dark, damp bunker that smelled strangely like the entrance to the kalaikunda sewage. After reassuring ourselves that nobody had stashed dead bodies in there, and there was no foul play, just a foul smell, we emerged, donned our raincoats and trailed a lady with a kid in the pram. We were sure it was a chopped body she was carrying in the pram.

When she turned around and waved to us, and asked if we’d like to see the baby, we fled in disgust. It was the best farewell I ever had.

some days i'm a hipster

2011-01-13T12:16:00.003+05:30

i should have been a milliner.

some people loves shoes. some love make up. me, i love headgear.

read the signs shyamalam

2011-01-07T18:13:00.002+05:30

The year holds promise.

Seven days have gone by.

And on third day as I sat at Salt Water Cafe waiting for someone, a kindly waiter gave me my tea and croissants. Then he gave him his kitchen order pad and asked for my number. I thought it was for Wi-Fi security measures. Then he said, “Please your name also.”

Something about the way he said it made me ask him why.

“Because I want to make friandship with you. You are very pretty.”

On the fifth day I discovered a marvellous invention by Gmail labs. In case you are kind who loves to mail when drunk, it is the perfect application for you. It makes you to solve math problems before you can hit the send button.

Of course for someone like me, that might mean never being able to send a single mail.

Now if only someone would do the same for drunk messaging.

On the seventh day, I opened the Mumbai Times. And I saw a profile shot of Amitabh Bachchan in swimming trunks and a life jacket. I stared at his spindly wrinkly legs and white saggy bottom.

Some poor guy at TOI is in so much shit. Maybe he’ll follow it up with a bald picture.

I’m telling you it’s going to be a great year. Happy new year all you guys.

cool is a scary thing

2010-12-27T17:18:00.004+05:30

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

2010-12-14T17:53:00.006+05:30

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

2010-12-07T02:01:00.002+05:30

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

2010-12-04T09:03:00.001+05:30

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

2010-11-30T15:54:00.004+05:30

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

2010-11-26T21:10:00.002+05:30

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'

2010-11-15T16:42:00.004+05:30

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

2010-11-10T13:59:00.001+05:30

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

2010-10-29T18:54:00.006+05:30

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

2010-10-20T18:05:00.001+05:30

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

2010-10-19T11:29:00.003+05:30

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.

2010-10-17T02:48:00.003+05:30

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

2010-10-12T08:57:00.001+05:30

“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

2010-10-06T14:30:00.003+05:30

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

2010-10-05T22:46:00.005+05:30

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

2010-09-22T23:07:00.008+05:30

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?

lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed

2010-09-19T10:12:00.005+05:30

This is crazy, she said.

What?

This, you dufus. The sex.

Is it?

Fool. All we’ve done is have sex. Like rabbits.

Okay, I like rabbits.

So do I

Shall we then?

Damn, you think this tottering old bed will take so much action?

Let’s break it.

She grinned. “And what will we tell my doddering old aunt?”

“Tottering bed, doddering aunt. Woman, are we gonna chat all night?”

She pulled the Tshirt off her head. “Come on, I’ve never broken a bed.”

And they laughed as she climbed on top of him. The headboard rattled. They were still giggling when he flipped her over. The old springs creaked and squeaked in protest.

They were sure the bed would give way. As they went through all the ways they had ever had sex, and then some more.

But the bed just bitched and moaned. While gradually their giggling and moaning subsided to a tired determination.

A steady long beat. Short bursts. Picking up the pace. Stop and start. Nothing worked. Finally exhausted and defeated they lay staring at the ceiling.

Hell.

Damn bed.

Yeah, like your aunt.

Like my aunt?

You know.

No I don’t.

Refuses to cop it.

What?

Shit. Don’t get pissed. She’s so old and gnarled, and stares like she’s a witch or something.

Really?

Yeah.

You know what I think. You couldn’t break the bed, and you’re fucking wanting my aunt to die.

I couldn’t? No I don’t want her to die.

Face it. You can’t break the bed macho guy.

Are you crazy? I tried okay...and anyway what were you doing?

Trying harder than you.

Fuck you.

I just did. And believe me I never will, ever again.

In the next room the old lady giggled.

The newlyweds cut short their visit to the bride’s ancestral home, and filed for divorce.

The old lady moved back to her bedroom.

picture credit @deviantart. title credit: dylan and the boy who said it was his song for me.

the romance of train travel

2010-09-17T00:30:00.004+05:30

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

2010-09-14T21:02:00.005+05:30

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

2010-09-01T16:24:00.005+05:30

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

2010-08-28T02:25:00.004+05:30

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

2010-08-10T22:36:00.003+05:30

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

maut ka kuan

2010-08-05T18:37:00.002+05:30

the well of death. i've always been fascinated by it. usually the show starts when evening turns to night. always an unsettling time. and then this deep ramshackle wooden pit comes alive. and a demon rider flies into it...

The circus gates opened at six.

The entire dust bowl of a town was standing outside. Spitting, squatting, eating cholera laden frozen ice sticks.

You could sense the excitement. They were here to watch a man die.

The one legged man and the hideously deformed dwarf, they threw back the gates. And a minor stampede followed.

The manager, a compulsive gambler, who also doubled up as the ticket checker watched people fall and scramble with a sense of satisfaction.

This was his most successful gamble.

The first act was tame. Designed to accommodate the frantic late comers. The sad clowns kicked a football. The scrawny dogs jumped through hoops. And then came the stuttering man on stilts.

The crowd started to fidget. Especially the ones in front. They had paid a premium for those seats.

But the manager was smart. He knew how to play his cards. And work up an appetite for a murderer.

So he let the crowds stew and he sent in the paunchy fire eaters. And the blind elephant who smoked cigarettes. And finally the Nepali trapeze girls.

The crowd held its breath. It wasn’t just the short dresses the girls wore or the rouge on their cheeks; it was because they knew what was going to come next.

The man who had murdered his newlywed wife. The man who had used his bare hands to twist her neck, and drown her in a tin drum. The man so driven by jealousy, and then remorse that when they found him he was holding his wife’s lifeless body and running down the streets crying. The man chased for six hours by cameras crews.

They were waiting for him.

And he was waiting for death, as he stood in the wings.

He heard the clapping for the trapeze girls. And knew it was partly because the crowds would now clap at anything. They were going to watch the beast. As he stepped into a pit and drove around it endlessly, defying gravity and fear. Faster and faster, till all you saw was a blur. The crowd would be chanting Death, death....and then, suddenly, he would emerge from the hellhole on his motorcycle, intact. Alive.

This was the Maut Ka Kuan. And he was the devil who descended into its pit every night.

The cheering grew louder. The trapeze girls must have done their upside down act, showing a flash of their white shorts.

He looked at the old motorcycle. It looked battered and bruised. Like him. Nose broken. Collarbone shattered. Ribs cracked. Legs broken, thrice. Prison was tough. But this was a piece of cake.

Because he wanted to die. That’s all he had wanted for the past eleven years when they cornered him in the food court of a mall. Tired from running with a body in his arms, blood stained and crazed.

Six years in prison. Chained and beaten every day. But not allowed to die. Not when he cut his wrist, not when he chewed a glass bottle, not when he tried to hang himself, not when he battered his head against the wall. Every time he’d be rushed to hospital. And saved.

A loud scream rang out. Followed by smaller shrieks from the audience. The trapeze girls were on their last act. Where the smallest Nepali girl pretended to slip, only to be caught mid air by her friend.

He got on to the motorcycle. And looked up. The manager was watching him from a distance. He locked eyes with him, the manager looked away.

If he knew how to, he would have thanked the manager. He knew the man felt guilty for using him. But he didn’t care. Because every night he went out on his bike into the maut ka kuan wanting to die. He didn’t hear the crowds. He didn’t see the bloodthirsty look on their faces. He just saw a pit that would put an end to his pointless life.

Five years he had come out alive every night. But he knew his time would come.

The drum roll of the circus band started. This was his cue.

They were pulling the boards off the floor where he roared in. Dressed in black all you could see was his mutilated face. The crowd went wild. He roared through them, accelerating all the time. And just when you thought he’d crash through the last of the stands he’d turn.

The ring would be bare now. Shorn off the boards. Revealing a dark deep mud pit. Wet and mossy.

He would stop the bike. Revving it. The crowd thought it was for effect. But they were wrong. He was revving it, telling death he was coming. That he would today, make sure the bike slipped and skidded, and tumbled all over him. Breaking his bones. Cracking his skull. Snapping his neck.

The only sound was the revving. The crowd was silent. The smallest Nepali trapeze girl stood on a high platform, ready to blow a horn that would signal the act everyone waited for.

He looked straight at the pit. And then, on that fateful day, he looked up. For no reason really. His eyes just moved on their own. And he saw the smallest Nepali trapeze girl looking at him. Her hand was bringing the horn to her mouth. And suddenly she gave him a small smile. And with her other hand a thumbs up.

He heard the horn. And saw her high up framed against the lights. Petite like his wife. Her fist still curled into a thumbs up. And some part of his brain gave out a signal. A tiny signal of redemption.

The horn grew louder in his ears. The crowd was on its feet. He looked at the pit, and for the first time a stray thought crossed his mind. Maybe it would all be okay when he came out of the pit tonight.

Of course the hospital declared him dead on arrival. Broken bones, cracked skull, snapped neck.

The crowd went home delirious. The manager refused to pay for his cremation. The smallest Nepali trapeze girl felt sad. Till she went for the matinee show of Kites the next day.

For some amazing pictures of the maut ka kuan go here and here. The pictures used in this post are from this illustrator and this photographer

bloody fool

2010-07-30T14:14:00.002+05:30

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

2010-07-28T15:38:00.003+05:30

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

2010-07-27T19:51:00.005+05:30

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

2010-07-16T17:26:00.004+05:30

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

Bring me in...

Friday by Goldspot hits the sweet spot always.

insole heel lifts = man's best friend

2010-07-12T21:49:00.004+05:30

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

2010-07-12T17:42:00.007+05:30

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

2010-07-09T15:02:00.007+05:30

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

2010-07-07T13:35:00.004+05:30

"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

2010-07-05T22:48:00.001+05:30

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?

2010-07-04T16:17:00.001+05:30

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

2010-07-02T20:12:00.002+05:30

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

2010-07-01T16:43:00.000+05:30

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

2010-06-11T22:54:00.000+05:30

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

2010-06-10T16:31:00.003+05:30

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.

2010-06-09T09:07:00.002+05:30

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.

wedding platter

2010-06-02T01:34:00.003+05:30

“Priti, come and meet mamiji and her two daughters.”

Priti made a face. Fucking fat cows. They had come to see her. Whether she was pretty and fair and worthy of their Jaspreet.

She pulled the roasted brinjal from the fire. And attacked it with a fork. Sooty black skin went flying across the chopping board.

“ Arreee...priti beta.....come fast.”

I wish you’d go to the grave fast you old crone.

She hated being married. Jaspreet was a different man. Gone were all the shaiyaris and the romantic long drives. Now it was all, do what mummyji and dadiji are saying. Cover your head. Say pranam. Pairi Pona. Don’t talk too much. Handle the kitchen. Show them how well you can cook. Wear all your jewellery all the time. Keep your cell phone away.

And the romantic long drives? What would dadiji think.

Bitch. Saali. Kutti. Tera gala na ghot doon.

“ didi...dadiji is calling you.”

Priti started at Jaspreet’s little brother. For one wild moment she thought of holding him ransom. If they returned her to her house, and pretended the marriage had never happened, she would let him go.

Instead she put the knife down. And slowly sat down on the floor and started to cry.

“Didi...”

Harry looked so scared, that Priti wanted to laugh in spite of her tears.

“It’s okay. I hate being married. I hate mamiji and her daughters. I hate cooking for them. And I still haven’t maloed the atta”

Harry looked perplexed. “Then why don’t you just spit into the food.”

Priti stared at him.

“You won’t tell.”

“No, I do it all the time. And anyway I like you.”

Later in the afternoon, they all started at the food. Baigan ka bharta. Yellow dal. Rajma. Raita. Bhindi.

Priti kept her face lowered. Dadiji filled a bowl with rajma, and added it to the mami’s already overflowing plate.

“ Now tell us, is she good enough for our Jaspreet?”

Mami tore a piece of the roti, dipped it into the rajma and chewed slowly.

She looked up and said, “Not too bad. This girl has a touch.” Then she looked at Priti and said, “ I can tell, there’s a secret ingredient...tell us...yes or no...”

That’s when Priti started laughing so hard, that she had to sit on the ground, and hold her stomach, and roll from side to side.

image credit: humus101.com

hoochie coochie man

2010-05-28T14:00:00.009+05:30

I lucked out.

He plays the guitar,

Has a voice that can melt your knees,

And is now turning into a kitchen hero!

Say hello to the talented Mr a!

think. thug. thong.

2010-05-27T00:45:00.004+05:30

Abhi and I are hanging out at the promenade.

We’re watching a couple, who’ve just about starting to see each other, stumble through the awkwardness of meeting up at the promenade after work, and not having a place to go to.

She’s in allen solly for women type of pants and a shirt. He’s dressed as allen solly for men. He’s got a laptop bag on his shoulders, she’s got her large handbag.

They are walking slowly. Then they stop. Abhi and I settle back on the bench to watch.

They are maintaining a distance between themselves. Still early days, so there’s no touching just some “that guy at work is such an ass. Ha ha ha.”

She gently swinging her bag, he says something, she laughs. They’re looking out towards the sea. The moon is a sliver, perfect.

Then, the guy jumps. And stands on the raised edge of the promenade. Ass. He’s put a whole bloody drain between them. The girl is caught by surprise. Abhi and I are snorting with laughter.

He continues to talk. The girl is looking up at him, and also probably feeling weird because this man has suddenly decided that she has bad breath or BO or something. He clearly has the upper hand.

We’re wondering how long he’ll stand there. Might as well just stand across the road from her.

Then after ten minutes he jumps back. We’re so relieved. Maybe he’s made a decision, he’s gonna live with the BO or buy her a really nice deo. She looks relieved as well. This is when he should grab his chance. We’re like “ yeah, come on, touch her shoulder, put an arm around her waist .....do something.”

And he does. They start walking towards the road. He drops back a couple of steps. And quickly checks out her ass as she heads for an auto.

Men!

Then abhi says, “He’s probably wondering what colour undies she has on.”

I’m like “what? Is that what guys think when they stare at women’s backsides?”

“Yeah, you’re always wondering what she has on. And ideally it should be single coloured, or just black. If it’s those crappy pastel ones with little flowers and birds and shit on it, just run a mile.”

Wow. The promenade is such a revelation.

PS: this post is dedicated to the man who’s now a world authority on ladies chaddies.

friday dressing

2010-05-24T16:27:00.003+05:30

What a weekend. I drank far more than i should have.

Rum and coke in this heat, that too at the non ac floor at Janta.

I swear I could see my scalp glistening . My hair was so wet and stringy with sweat. And at one point I wanted to ask the waiter, for a pair of scissors, and just chop my hair and my head off.

By the way, the waiters at Janta are fantastic. They’re always grinning and saying hello. Actually even the waiters are totos are super friendly. The owner though is another story. I suspect he’s a CIA wannabe. What’s the deal with those glasses? Is he blind? Or is he an alcoholic with red eyes.

And, if you are ever at Janta, and both the loos are occupied, and you feel like your bladder is going to burst, I would suggest nipping into Pali Vilage Cafe next door. They never have tables, but the loo is always free. Maybe rich expats don’t like to pee.

Anyway, the highlight of the weekend was this:

On Friday night, we get back home very drunk. We are five of us. AP, enters the house and passes out on the sofa. The rest of us sing and dance and watch videos till about three, when we are passing out as well.

We try and shake AP out of his slumber. His driver is waiting downstairs. But he’s out cold. So after much shaking and pushing, we give up. O stays over as well, and soon three of us pass out.

In the morning, I wake up to give the dog his milk and biscuits. It’s an unearthly hour. 8am. I groggily step into the living room, followed by a jumpy dog. And almost trip over a pair of jeans. I stare at them, and then look up at AP on the couch. He’s still sprawled exactly as he was last night.

Only he seems be wearing blue leggings. I’m so confused, and my brain is a hazy swirl of old monk and madonna’s like a prayer. I think they played it at elbo room, the night before. And if they didn’t then I probably need to get help.

Any way I notice the leggings as I’m slowly wandering around the kitchen, pouring milk, getting biscuits etc. And I’m wondering why does he wear leggings under his jeans. Then, I start thinking he’s from Garhwal, maybe it’s a habit. But it rather strange in this heat though.

Anyway I also notice that he’s wearing a rather tight bright blue T shirt, which is obviously very short for him. My brain can hardly process anything anymore, so I give Milo his stuff and pass out.

Only to be woken by the feeling that someone is looking at me. It’s AP, dressed in his jeans and a shirt. He’s staring at me from the door. He can’t find his way out of the house. So again, at an unearthly hour of 9:15am I rouse myself from sleep and show him the door.

He’s mumbling something about being disoriented and I notice that he’s opened the bathroom door, the cupboards, the kitchen cabinets, all in search of the front door.

I let him out, pick up the newspaper, and shut the door. On my way back to the bed, I throw the papers on the sofa. And stop.

My blue chudidaar is lying flung on it. Slowly a weak signal starts to make its way to my brain. I walk up to the sofa and there’s my bright blue kurta.

My brain goes: ping. Then: Kaboooooom!

Those were not leggings. He was wearing my chudidaar kurta. He got up at night, took off his jeans and wore my chudidaar kurta.

I’m hysterical. I stare at my red bag next to the sofa. My swimming stuff lies in it. And last time I went swimming I changed and forgot to take the chudidaar and kurta out.

I wake up A and O. And we are all rolling with laughter. My kurta is torn. But imagine a 6 foot tall guy, waking up, fully sloshed, removing his jeans and trying to slip into a chudidaar. It must have taken him ages. And why? Why did he wear the kurta? Did he dream he was going for a wedding? Or does he get drunk and cross dress?

The mind boggles.

But I wish I had taken out the chudidaar kameez from the bag. Not because i mind losing the kurta. Or the chudidaar. Just that it would have been spectacular to have seen him in my swimsuit.

image credit: cartoonstock.com

where are my white stockings?

2010-05-18T23:06:00.007+05:30

Freaking hell.

3 days to go, and my parents will be here.

I am, as you can probably guess, in a state.

Here are sure shot things that always happen when my parents come:

One big fight: always between my mom and me. Over my clothes or hair or general appearance. Accompanied by loud yelling, sobbing, doors banging. And then my mother telling my father, let’s go back tomorrow.

One big make up: usually between my dad, mom, me, the dog and anything else that can shed a tear or two. Also accompanied by hugging and sobbing. And then my father saying, let’s cancel those tickets.

One never ending day at salwaar kameez and shoe and bag shops: usually involves my mom walking into every shop, because ‘what’s the harm in seeing everything’. Accompanied by my bored dad and an even more bored me. The day ends in loud sobbing, yelling and doors banging. My mom saying, “ You have no interest in things girls normally like.” Followed by me yelling, “ yeah, normal things, like 16 of the same salwaar kameez shops in one go.” This is then followed by my mother telling my father, let’s go back tomorrow.

One cuddle in session: usually in the afternoon. Involves a large bed and me lying in the middle of both my parents. We’ll talk about all the relatives, and the impending marriage and laugh our heads off at all the mad things we can do. Accompanied by much smothering and hugging of all my limbs by my parents. And then my father saying, let’s cancel those tickets.

Bring your own peanuts. The circus is about to start.

curses, foiled again! part 2

2010-05-11T15:48:00.004+05:30

Okay, a quick update on the swimming.

First, a big cheer to J&J, Spaz-Kumari, Sherry Wasandi, Anon and Wikipedia. Thanks to OB tampons, the swimming pool at Ramada remains unsullied.

However, there’s more to that story. And those who get grossed out by periods can tune out now. Wait before you go, just want to say, go here first.

Okay, now here’s the thing. Tampons are available in two sizes. Extra large for heavy flow and regular for well, regular flow. And all I will say is if you’re trying them for the first time don’t make the mistake I did.

I spent the day walking very, very funny. And sliding and sitting. Till a friend of mine asked to be shown the tampons. She was polite enough to stop laughing after ten minutes of rolling around in the front seat of the car, and tell me that Regular would be an easier option.

So if like me you are Tampon newbie, stick to Regular.

Why don’t they say this stuff on TV? Like the polio ads, or the Mala D ones?

By the way I think the person who coined the name Unwanted 72 is a genius. So simple. So descriptive. I have some of my own:

Maggie aka Lumpy Maida

Citibank aka Dial Customer Care and Die Waiting

Nokia aka Hang

Still not a patch on Unwanted 72. Sigh.

curses, foiled again!

2010-05-05T20:04:00.001+05:30

Damn.

Just when i had finally conquered my fear of water.

Just when I did not punch the instructor, or freak out and grab the rail till my knuckles turned white.

Just when I learnt to float, paddle, breath, bubble.

Just then bloody aunty in my panty arrives.

I’m so irritated. My period really has no sense of timing.

image credit: http://www.womanist-musings.com

sob story

2010-04-29T20:34:00.002+05:30

Last week I met S. She’s a TV actress, who used to play a simple minded chotti bahu in a daily soap.

Her character would periodically get beaten by her husband.

S said she finally quit a few weeks back because the TRP’s started to drop.

I was like so, they drop all the time. Couldn’t you’ll do something to boost them.

She said that was the problem. The channel realised the only time the TRP’s would spike was when she was getting beaten.

So for the last three weeks, all she would do was go to work and get beaten all the time.

It’s a tough life i say.

image credit: http://media.photobucket.com

let me make you an offer you can't refuse

2010-04-19T11:27:00.002+05:30

Dear people,

Just wanted to let you know that I could help you with marketing solutions, branding, events and promotions.

Now kindly deposit 7 crores in my bank account.

Yours in sweat,

AGG

next i'll forget to wear my pants

2010-04-13T21:29:00.003+05:30

It was chaotic. The dog was trying to run away, my one hand was hurting and bandaged, I had two bags in the other hand, and I was trying to find an auto.

Anyway I got home and realised that I had forgotten to zip up my jeans.

Is that why the school boys waiting for the bus were grinning at me?

Damn.

I stood in front of the mirror and tried to figure if anyone could have noticed anything. Don’t think so. But who knows. Maybe I made some kids very happy.

image credit: http://www.aliciapatterson.org (no, these were not the boys grinning at me. if they were i would have been lecturing them instead of taking photos.)

when whew doesn't just cut it

2010-04-12T11:17:00.002+05:30

I love this blog. Every time I read it, I want to jump into the car and drive off.

I love the road. I used to love flying till a couple of years back. Now of course the mention of it is enough to make me quiver like jelly. And yeah, trains are fun, because I belong to that group of people who think train food is cordon bleu stuff.

Serious tip: If you ever want to go to Kerala, and for some reason decide to take the train, please catch the Nethravati Express. Dude, Jiggs Kalra can dumpukht himself to glory when he finds out that the best chicken biryani on any side of the world is on that train. And yeah, fried bananas. Gulab Jamuns. Egg biryani, and various other bhajiyas and snacks.

Anyway, back to the road. I think I got my love for the road from my dad. Every time he got transferred, we drove from one part of the country to another. An old ambassador, my dad, mom, I and the dog.

Our longest trips were from Bidar (near Hyderabad) to Hasimara (on the Bengal-Bhutan border). And of course Hasimara to Chandigarh.

These trips lasted for a week to ten days, depending on the distance and the number of temples my mom spotted.

The thing with a road trip is you are the master of your destiny. Flying and taking the train is all dependant on someone else’s skill or whims. (yup, the trains in Bengal sometime stop near the engine drivers house so his tiffin can be dropped off)

So on one road trip, there are four of us and a dog. The three guys can’t drive, which is making me pretty happy, because there’s no fighting for the wheel.

We’re on our way back to Mumbai, the highway is empty, CCR blasting. Then at a small dabba, a truck pulls in front of me.

So now he’s in front of us. Not going fast. Just chugging along, and refusing to give me room to overtake.

Usually I have a lot of respect for truck drivers and they’ll always indicate if you should overtake or not. The guy refuses to do either and keeps swaying in front of me.

I have no choice but to bide my time. Till the road widens and I peek out from behind the truck. The coast is clear. I accelerate hard, pull out from behind him and start to overtake. I’m just about to be level with him, when I see another huge truck coming at me, from the opposite side.

There’s no time to pull back, there’s no time to try and sharply careen out of the way. There’s only one thing to do.

We cross. At one point I’m between both trucks. My feet are still on the accelerator. I don’t move the wheel an inch. And then, we’re out.

The boys don’t talk for two minutes. Then it’s a babble of voices. I’m trying to stay calm. We’re all taking at the same time. And then finally, they tell me both the trucks were inches away from us, and how did I stay so calm?

I smile, and tell them my dad was a fighter pilot. And I must have inherited some genes from him.

It’s only a month later, when we all meet up again, that I tell them the truth. I saw the other truck, I figured we’d just have to drive through, so I held on to the wheel for dear life and I shut my eyes tight till we came out through to the other side!

PS: And yes, I now treat trucks with the kind of respect you’d show to Donald Trump’s bank balance.

that's amore

2010-03-26T14:46:00.006+05:30

Nice butt, he thought.

Actually very, very nice butt. Firm, and just the right size. And of course the squats were helping. A butt that juts out just a little from the hips looks even better.

The face he couldn’t see.

Why don’t people work out in front of the mirror, he thought.

Still, this was as good a view as any. And the track pants were nice too. All snug and dark. And the T-shirt had a small patch of sweat near the back. And with every squat it lifted just a little to show a nice firm back. All brown and tanned.

“ Come on great butt, turn.......”

And it happened. Their eyes met. He was embarrassed at being caught staring, and after a second of panicking that his face must be all flushed, he relaxed.

Great butt was grinning at him.

He grinned back. Finished his last stretch, and walked across.

I’m Pawan.

Hi Pawan, I’m Amit.

when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore: courtesy dean martin

mujhe pyaar ho gaya

2010-03-25T23:33:00.005+05:30

where have i been?

why didn't anyone tell me a man this hot plays cricket?

and yeah, wait till you see him in the film we shot.

uuuf. gimme some air.

crunched to death

2010-03-24T19:45:00.004+05:30

I went to the gym today. And decided none of that namby pamby cardio for me, I’m going to do some weight training.

Okay, the weight training was triggered off by some serious weight gain issues. I’ve been eating like a bloody pig that’s been on ecstasy and dancing all night. Bheja, biryani, rum and coke have been my staple diet for two weeks.

And anyway, I’m thinking what’s the big deal. I do yoga. I do belly dancing. Dude, I can crunch my stomach anytime.

So I land up at the gym bright and early at 7am. Secretly hoping it will be empty. But a mind boggling number of nut jobs are already there, fully into it.

So I gather my courage and step into the ring, with my trainer for company. The rest is all a lesson in complete humiliation. She’s yelling at me the whole time, bitch. I would have joined the army if I wanted someone screaming into my ear, “ Go, go, go, kill yourself, pick that weight, now lift your arms, look straight, chin up, oh yes, you can, even if you die.”

Every single person around knew this was my first time. Because I looked like roadkill. I could barely get myself off the ground by the time it was over. I was staggering up and down the stairs, my vision blurring over with sweat and pain as the trainer bounced along and yelled, “ Run faster baby faster...”

Baby?????

Who the fuck are you calling Baby lady? And get your screaming face off my ear, before I bite it.

Nope, I didn’t say anything liked that. I was too wiped out, too beaten to even whimper. So at the end of it all when she barked see you on Friday morning, all I could say was, “thanks, I’ll be there.”

And now, some strange muscles in my stomach hurt. And my arms have died, and left my body. I shall be having a condolence meeting this evening for the said body parts. With butter bheja and rum and coke for company.

image credit: http://www.offthemarkcartoons.com

sucker for saliva swapping

2010-03-23T17:56:00.001+05:30

I just love being kissed. There is something so so nice about having someone kiss your face off.

The thing about kissing is that there are absolutely no strings attached. It could lead to sex or it would just lead to laughter. It could be deep and meaningful. Or it could just be a way of saying, “ hello, happy to see you.”

Err, that’s it. End of post.

Image credit: famous dude

he's the man

2010-03-17T21:00:00.003+05:30

So in the middle of all this chaos, i find an island of serenity.

Emotional atyachar on Bindaas.

Starring Raja Choudhary and his current girlfriend. I’m sorry I can’t remember her name, her bling earrings and red halter bra under a formal strapless dress momentarily stunned me.

Anyway, being momentarily stunned is not new to me. When Bigg Boss was on two years back, I must declare that I had a crush on Raja Choudhary. Ya, ya, gasp all you like. But the thing is he was hot in a cave man meets dim-wit way. Which sometimes is pretty appealing to me.

Anyway, back to Raja. Needless to say he was more than willing to jump the bait. Who by the way was posing as young journalist. And of course he never even guessed she was out to trap him, not even when her friend, who happened to be passing by, landed up and opened the conversation with “ Chalo, hum ek game khelte hain.”

The said game was spin the bottle. Obviously this happens to Raja all the time. Because he never batted an eyelid. I mean when’s the last time a stranger walked into your house, grabbed the bottle of sprite from the fridge and sais, “ Hi, I’m Sanju, shall we play spin the bottle.” In your dreams.

So Raja was caught in the act on camera. His blingy girlfriend with too much lipstick kept trying to squeeze a tear out, while shaking her head and saying, “ He is so bad ya.” Bad!!!! Is that all you can come up with blingy lady?

But, here’s the catch. I still think raja is cool, and he has no idea how cool he is . Listen to this. He’s describing someone’s relationship to this chick.

In his words: “ Those two have different relation. Whenever they need each other, they do the needful”

Aah Raja, my erudite hottie!

a working romance

2010-03-10T22:28:00.001+05:30

I’m back.

Just to tell you how utterly romantic it is to start your own thing.

The first day you move into your own cozy little office, with four plates and six glasses, and three employees.

And then you realise that the AC doesn’t work. And the wiring has exploded. And the internet man forgot to tell you his mobile number is blocked. And there’s no maid to wash the dishes. And your employees can hardly be expected to do the same. And you remembered everything, except a dustbin. Which is why after five hours the office smells like Juhu Beach.

Bloody hell.

And you know what makes it so dreamy.

That I call six internet providers to ask them if they’ll give me a connection. And all six say they’ll get back to me promptly. In four working days.

The sixth one is rather considerate. I think that’s because he can hear me frothing in the mouth. And suggests that I call MTNL.

Now here’s the romantic part.

I call MTNL. A lady picks up the phone. I tell her I want an internet connection. She pauses. To complete the cross stitch table cloth she’s making. Just when I’m thinking she died, she gives me a toll free number. I tell her I can’t call that number, because I’m calling from a cell phone.

She’s rather considerate too. And tells me, “Then first you apply for land line, then call and get internet connection.”

I swear this is true.

And not the romance part.

Big Fat Psychotic Gathering – Broodstock part 1

2010-02-20T14:27:00.003+05:30

“Wear a ghagra choli. All the girls will be wearing one.”

This is Delhi in end January. The temperature is dipping lower than Mahima Chowdhury’s neckline.*

I state the obvious. “And freeze my ass off?”

My aunt looks at me like the goo that got stuck to her slipper when we walked the streets of Karol Bagh in search of the perfect matching gota purse.

She turns to my mother, pity written all over her concerned face “ Hai N, teri beti badi practical hai.”

Practical? Its 4 degrees, you can get pneumonia if you wear any less than two sweaters and she wants me to go to a wedding, at a mehrauli farmhouse, in a skimpy ghagra choli.

This is two years back. I never went for the wedding, which is good because the couple split up in five days anyway. I would probably have spent more time in hospital for frostbite.

Now the thing I was dreading the most is happening. My brought up on a staple diet of dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge cousin is getting married. And the same masi called me yesterday. You could hear the glee in her voice all the way to Vaishnodevi.

“ Fishtail design is the latest. And we kept your pneumonia in mind, the wedding is in August.”

Freaking hell. Twelve days of wedding frenzy, hundreds of relatives, non-stop havans, sister of the bride in a fishtail ghagra choli.

I’m getting ready to channelize my inner Karan Johar.

*please watch Kudiyon ka hai zamana. and don't blame me for suicidal tendencies displayed after that.

lau diwas in a rickshaw

2010-02-10T23:48:00.002+05:30

all franships to you! (and if you can't see this video here, please go to the rickshaw page on facebook..yeah, i'm pimping!)

no time to blog...

2010-02-09T00:08:00.005+05:30

... heck, no time to even do my upper lip.

i haven’t written in ages. And i had sort of promised myself that this blog would not be an update on my life.

But, i changed my mind.

And this post is going to be just that.

Actually this post is going to be about the stuff you don’t know about yourself. So in February last year, if you had told me I’d give up my job, and start my own thing I would probably have snorted in your face.

Me? Nobody in my family has ever run a business. I’m a duffer in maths. I have as much patience as the amount of hair amitabh bachchan has. (On his head okay. Yesh...I think I’m going to throw up. I see disturbing visuals in my head) I can be extremely blunt. I cannot say no. I stress over small things. I’m a creative person not a business person. yada yada yada.

And now, I’m all of that. Give or take some. I have a business. Which I absolutely totally love. I don’t really see it as a business though. Sure, I want to make money. But I see it as something that’s freed me. I can make less money than I did, but be so much happier. I carry no angst, suffer no idiots.

And, here’s the thing, I always worry that I don't think about things. I just sort of peer down this cliff and say, “ooh, what’s that thing at the bottom”, and jump. I don’t analyse my life or my actions. I don’t do swot charts. Or weight the consequences.

And we have a really tiny office. Six chairs. Funky wallpaper. An office boy, sorry man, who talks with marbles in his mouth. And our first employee today.

I have no idea how far this will go. And it doesn’t worry me. The only thing I know is some days I wake up and realise that I don’t have to go to an office. But I have to go to my office. And I sort of just laze in bed for five more minutes and grin my head off. And stop myself from pinching me.

Gosh. I think i’m going to get my period. I would never write such a sappy post in my right mind.

rockstar

2010-02-04T08:07:00.002+05:30

My friend ,the celebrity, goes to the golden temple.

She and mom get there early in the morning. Heads covered, feet dipped in the cold water outside, they step onto the freezing marble, and start making their way around the temple.

“Aithe aao ji...pehle a dekho.”

(Come this side ji ... first see this)

They turn. It’s a pimply, gangly Sardar boy. He must be 20. He’s waving his long limbs pointing to the right.

They politely smile and keep walking on.

But he’s pretty persistent. Now bow your head here, look up there, take Prasad from there, say your prayer here... he’s decided he’s not going anywhere.

They are polite, and because it’s a place of worship they don’t tell him, “buzz off fuck face” and bear with him. Though my friend says she was totally irritated with him. Every time she and her mom take pictures he wants to stand with them. She’s trying to stay calm and zen.

Finally after two and a half hours of having him plastered to her elbow, they reach the exit. At which point she firmly turns and says, “ Chaloji, thank you very much.”

He grabs her hand, my friend is startled, and before she can react he says, “ Manu singer bannna hai.” (I want to become a singer)

My friend is rolling her eyes in her head. This happens to her all the time.

She feels bad for the tall, lanky, pimply Sardar of 20, and kindly asks him, “ Who is your favourite singer?”

“ Miley Cyrus ji.”

My friend chokes. He continues.

“ Mai Miley Cyrus da bada fan hoon. Mainu kuch advice do te mai bhi miley cyrus banoo.” (I’m a big fan of Miley Cryus. Give me some advice so even I can become Miley Cyrus)

She looks at him, frantically wondering what to tell him. A sex change operation? Blonde hair? Barbie? Ken?

When suddenly it hits her.

“ Tusi kabhi give up na karna. Aur roz mandir zaroor aana.”

(You should never give up. And pray really hard)

here it is, rockstar by miley cyrus. oh dude!

the simple truth

2010-01-27T16:35:00.003+05:30

Have you ever been to Bengal?

The countryside?

Dry in summer. The earth, still green but beginning to show signs of wear and tear. Little cracks on the ground.

Ponds on the side of little village roads that run for miles. Through dry patches with shrubs and lone trees.

The smell. Heavy in the air. Mangoes mixed with cowdung with smoke with open sky.

Far away, a young boy walking a cow.

Small clusters of village houses. Hibiscus growing wild. Wet earth mixed with cowdung mixed with fish mixed with yesterday’s fermented rice.

Last night, five bauls, or wandering minstrels came to our house. All of them were wonderful.

One was the famous Paban Das Baul. Who made me want to weep with joy when he sang Tomar Dil Ki Doya.

But two, they touched my heart in a way nothing has in years.

One was blind, the other was the someone I saw, and felt I had loved all my love. Kanahi Khepa and Deb Das Baul.

When they sang, I felt like someone had put me on a conference call to god. Their voices were pure, unspoilt, innocent and so beautiful.

They call themselves Khepa, as in mad. Beautifully, happily mad. To wander around singing. About god, nature, the universe.

And the thing is, I never had a role model. Or someone I wanted to be like. But at this ripe old age, it dawns on me. Kanahi Khepa and Deb Das Baul. They are what I want to be all my life.

Khepa. Akdom khepa.

(that's kanahi khepa in front and deb das baul behind him) And here's a video of deb das baul singing last night)

la lee lah

2010-01-20T21:58:00.009+05:30

somedays i find everything so beautiful.

then i tell myself, "stop it you shallow person."

gene pool with a twist of lime

2010-01-18T15:09:00.008+05:30

Continuing from you can write a book about us:

When I’m unwell, here’s how my grand mom will react.

“Put Boroline.”

Boroline???? For heaven’s sake I have fever. Get me a doctor.

But no, my grand mom is convinced Boroline is a wonder drug that works for aches, pains, fever, toothache, gas, alien landings, you name it.

This is how my mom will react:

“Drink milk. Don’t I keep telling you to drink milk? But you will never listen to me, because I’m your mother.”

“ Milk? But what does it have to do with my eye infection.”

“ Don’t argue with me. Drink milk.”

So that’s my mom’s cure for everything. And if symptoms persist, fruits, almonds, ghee get added to the list. Sometimes they all have to be dunked in the milk.

And finally here’s my dad.

“Have a drink, go to sleep.”

“But dad the doctor gave me antibiotics.”

“Okay then add some hot water to your drink.”

Now you know why I always wanted to be like my dad.

walk the talk baby

2010-01-12T12:18:00.005+05:30

You have fifteen days to 26^th Jan.

In these fifteen days, you’ll have conversations that run like this,

“ you know I always wanted to join the Air Force.”

“ Remember, the 26^th Jan parade on TV, and how we used to watch it. Now it’s just a holiday ya.”

“I changed my profile picture to the flag.”

“Those Army guys, at Siachin, they’re doing a programme on them.”

Get my drift? In turns you’ll feel warm and fuzzy. In turns you’ll feel all cynical and grown up.

Because somewhere that’s what it’s become. Just another holiday.

So here’s what we’re asking you.

Stuff that cynical grown up into the laundry basket for a minute.

And think.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be part of a meaningful movement this 26^th of Jan. Not one where you write placards, or light candles. But one where you can actually change the future of this country.

We feed 6,00,000 underprivileged children one hot meal every day. This meal is served at the municipal school they study in, and is very often the only way to convince their parents to send their kids to school.

One hot meal. For which the parent sacrifices sending the child to wash your car or sell flowers at the signal. One hot meal. Which is probably the only nutritious meal the child has in a day.

One hot meal. That brings a child to school every day.

And all it takes is Rs 700 for a whole school year.

So here’s what we’re hoping for. If we can get thousand people to donate Rs. 700 in the next fifteen days, then thousand more kids can go to school this year.

And 26^th Jan will never be just be another holiday for them. Or for you.

To donate, you could use the internet payment gateway at www.middaymeal.com or call 022 40366866. Or send a cheque addressed to Nanha Munna Rahi Hoon, ISKCON Food Relief Foundation, 19 Jaywant Industrial Premises, 63 Tardeo Road, Mumbai 400 034. You could even call Seema at 9820842453 and have a cheque picked up, if you are in Mumbai. JUST IN: you can also drop a cheque at the rickshaw office in bandra. the address is flat 102, dheeraj grand, 15th road, bandra west, (the lane between mini punjab and bombay blues. look out for shaibaan restaurant at the start of the lane). we're up and about from 10 am to about 7pm. in case we're out, slip the cheque under the door. and we'll have it sent to School equals Lunch.

this is a message from a charity i support and work for. They are School Equals Lunch. And this is how they introduce themselves. We’re passionate about feeding children. You are more than welcome to visit our kitchens or call Seema at 9820842453 to know more, or even visit our website (www.middaymeal.com). We’d love to show you how much thought and effort goes into cooking that one meal. Whether it’s a different Khichdi for every weekday or the steam cooking kitchen we‘ve introduced, we’d love to share our passion with you.

quick shameless plug

2010-01-08T12:30:00.003+05:30

so we decided to do something for mankind.

and here it is. notes to the young man about town. from mentalie and i.

if you'd like to be of service to a greater cause, feel free to contribute. write in to either of us, and we'll put it up (ahem, if we like it). and yeah, it would be nice if you could avoid long drawn sob stories about your ex. or the guy in class 2 who never looked at you.

you could write a book about us

2010-01-06T19:16:00.005+05:30

Serves me right.

First I insisted dad get an internet connection at home. Then I taught him skype.

Now he’s on facebook. And has sent me a friend request.

I accepted. Reluctantly. Because I can imagine my parents lovingly scanning my page, reading into every comment made there, looking at all my photos and then analysing all my status updates.

Actually my dad isn’t the problem.

My mom is. She thinks privacy is a white woman who lives in another continent.

I remember hurling accusations at her as an infuriated teenager, after discovering she had read a letter that got home before I did.

“You have no right to read my letters.”

Her reply was always one of the following.

“I have every right, I am your mother.”

“Your letters? Remember, I am your mother.

“Don’t make those ugly faces and yell at me, I am your mother.”

How do you win a battle like that?

By learning to be sneaky. I remember a school crush sending me twenty four love letters on valentine’s day. I remember the number not because they were sweet or so well-written, but because I had to tear all twenty four into tiny shreds and flush them down the toilet bowl, while my mother banged at the bathroom door and yelled, “What are you doing inside for so long? Open the door, I’m your mother.”

She still tries it. Like if I’m changing, and she refuses to leave the room. She’ll stare at me, then I’ll stare at her, rather pointedly.

“Do you mind, I’d like to change.”

“So...I’m your mother...you can change in front of me.”

No, I can’t. Because you are checking me out with microscopic laser vision. What underwear am I wearing? Does my bra have underwire? And of course, is it washed properly?

Now she’s going to be on facebook, courtesy dad.

I’m already thinking of the possible scenarios.

“ Why are you wearing that awful silver hair?

“Because i like it. And I think it looks fun.”

Fun? You look like a clown. Don’t your friends tell you that?”

“NO”

“Well, then take it from me, and I’m your mother, and I’m telling you: you look like a clown.”

Gosh. Dreadbook is an idea I might be able to live without.

meet the weepies

2010-01-03T16:44:00.002+05:30

Is it just me?

Or is it true that Aamir Khan is hoping to do a Meena Kumari.

Really, what is with him? I love that actor. Right from the time I watched QSQT and for weeks after that moped and wished I’d fall in love as violently.

But his last two movies. All he does is fucking cry. Weep over dyslexia. And before you start telling me dyslexia is a serious issue, let me tell you I suffer from it, and it’s made me quit architecture. But I’m not going sobbing hysterically into my fake Ed Hardy T-shirts every time I meet another dyslexic.

And then 3 idiots. Oh my god, there he was weeping again. It started well. With him being this march to my own drummer guy. Even though I kept wanting to yell out to him and say stuffing your hands into your pocket and mincing around on your heels doesn’t make you seem like a 22 year old, it makes me think your underwear is real tight.

But never mind, Mr Khan is fabulous. I so fell in love with him in Dil Chahta Hai. I’m willing to live with his tight underwear. But this constant weeping, dude, no, it is not metrosexual. It not method acting. It is not guy with a soft heart that he hides behind a biting exterior. It is fucking irritating.

And that bit where Madhavan has convinced his dad, and Sharman has got his job, and then they both come to tell Aamir this. Well, guess what he does. He leaves Kareena standing there, while he hides behind a pillar and bawls his heart out.

Whaaaaat? When is the last time a friend of yours got promoted and you hid behind the photocopy machine and cried your eyes out. Or a friend told you he’s going to try and become a DJ, and you shut yourself in the car, and sobbed your head off.

Really, the scene would have worked out way better had Kareena just given him the number to a good therapist.

Anyway the other strange thing is that the testosterone virus seems to be catching.

Now Chetan Bhagat is crying foul. Why? Because his name is not top of the credit list and right at the bottom. After the extras.

Of course, the fun part is not about him crying foul, but how he’s doing it. He claims he has no problem with the credit thing, but his fans are upset. Wait, don’t start laughing as yet.

And then he claims he’s bringing this up, because his mom went to see the film in a hall in Delhi, and when she saw her son’s name come right at the end, after the extras, she burst into tears, and was so hurt that she had to leave immediately. Which is why Mr Bhagat is upset.

Not because he’s dying to get credit for a blockbuster, but because he can’t stand to see all these people hurt and upset.

Yesh.

First we just had the new Meena Kumari to contend with, now we even have the martyred Nirupa Roy to deal with.

across the universe

2009-12-25T13:25:00.004+05:30

She first realised she was dead when she heard the sound.

Someone was clapping.

Even before her eyes opened her mind registered everything. No one had clapped in front of her for ages.

Not in the hospital room, where she lay with 16 bones in her body broken.

Not in her job, where she worked eight hours straight with only a lunch break.

Not in her marriage, that ended two years back.

The last time someone clapped so loudly was when she was 15 and dancing.

The red top, the black skirt, the red shoes with the small white socks.

Her partner, in black pants and a blue shirt, and a black tie.

They were laughing and spinning, their faces flushed with all the dancing, and the excitement, and the warmth of the heater in that cold winter evening.

The music was blasting out of a two in one, and the man sang about dancing in the dark.

They looked at each other and laughed when the song stopped. Out of breath and slightly giddy. But he didn’t let go off her hand, and the minute the next song started, they jumped right in.

Laughing and spinning again. This time she couldn’t even remember what the song was, all she could remember was the way her legs moved, her hands crossed, her feet slithered and bumped and tapped. And it felt like they were one.

That’s when she heard the clapping. All the people around, clapping, like they could feel it too.

Like they knew, she was free. Never to be trapped, never to caught, never to be beaten.

Now as the nurse unplugged the monitor that had fallen silent. As she removed the clipboard that hung at the foot the bed. As she picked up the sheet to cover bed number 12's face, she noticed the smile.

A tiny smile on a dead face.

Images of broken light which
dance before me like a million eyes
That call me on and on across the universe
Thoughts meander like a
restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as
they make their way across the universe

lyrics @ the beatles. picture @ http://www.ehow.com

greetings!

2009-12-24T13:42:00.000+05:30

still life

2009-12-21T08:39:00.004+05:30

You and i

Drowning

I can’t reach you

The doubts in your head

The sadness in your eyes

Dragging you

Away from me

The wounds in my heart

The tears in my eyes

Pulling me under

I can’t breathe

I can’t taste the salt on my face anymore

I can’t see the light

I can’t tell if that’s your hand

Looking for mine

If it’s just an illusion

As my lungs burst

And my heart

Stops.

It’s true. You learn it the hard way, through tears before you sleep, through tears when you wake up, through tears when you stop to breathe, that sometimes love just aint enough.

picture @ http://www.d-yee.com

my business is your business

2009-12-18T23:04:00.005+05:30

First, don’t blame me. Blame this guy, he started it.

Second, if you’re about to eat or generally belong to that strange community of people who are squeamish when it comes to crap and pee tales, kindly exit left of stage. Go read amitabh bachchan’s weirdo blog.

Now to get to the point, with great relish.

Years back, I went on my first trek to Nepal. Of course I knew nothing about trekking. And like a lot of people thought reading the Lonely Planet was enough preparation for traipsing along the kali gandaki and walking from an altitude of 827m (pokhara) to...freaking hell...hold your breath 3800m (muktinath).

Anyway, to cut a long and sorry story short, I realised trekking was a misleading word. They should call it breaking. Like I’m going to break down and cry when I have to climb 300 steps cut into the mountain. Or my knees are going to break and roll off the next time I’m skidding downhill while the raging river waits gleefully underfoot.

Or my nerves are shot and at breaking point. Or give me a break, I’ll never say I want to go climbing again.

Yeah, I think let’s go breaking to Nepal kind of sums up my trip.

But here’s the interesting bit. While you’re wandering spaced out, battling to breathe as you endlessly climb uphill, you realise that bathrooms are the last thing you care about.

Of course they don’t exist. Not just on the trail. But also in the tiny villages.

Yes, some have electricity, and music playing, and hot soup, and of course some good stuff to smoke. But bathrooms, chances are they have one bathroom for the village. And of course unless you’re in the habit of waking up really early, it’s probably lot easier, for your eyes and your nose, to just duck behind some bushes on the trail.

So one day, after a very early lunch of dal bhaat, which in itself is such a huge luxury at that altitude, we’re getting ready to set off again.

We have a large, large hill to climb through the late morning and afternoon.

Perhaps it is the sight of that hill, perhaps it is the hot dal bhaat, but I feel some movement in the lower abdomen. I tell everyone that I have to potty before we leave. Just then the other girl in our trekking party says she can feel it too, and maybe we should go together.

By now we’ve reached a stage in our relationship where we can amicably sit next to each other in the open and do potty while chatting about inconsequential stuff.

So we set out to find a bush or a rock we can duck behind. But there’s nothing. All trekking paths seem to converge here. There’s deep gorge on one side, and a steep mountain slope on the other.

In the meantime, the dal and the bhaat are sending urgent signals to every part of the body. We have to potty now.

Just then we spot an abandoned house set against the slope. We scramble up. There’s a clearing in front of the house where we can squat while the house can hide us from all the trekkers below.

Oh, what a relief. We blink back tears of delight, and sit down to do our business, and are politely discussing how Mick Jagger probably came down this same trail, when the door of the abandoned cottage flies open and a man steps out.

Turns out the abandoned cottage is not an abandoned cottage.

The man is in a rage. And can I blame him. Two women shitting on his doorstep.

He gesticulates wilding and yells away. We just look up in shock and then start laughing helplessly.

There is no turning back now. We can hardly hop our way out of this. The man after a minute of rage realises the same thing and stomps off.

We do our business quickly, and leave. Without even a thank you note.

And ya, PS: I never went back to catch up with him.

Tomorrow: the best cake in the world. how to keep a relationship going. And the most fantastic music from the early 80’s. Yeah baby.

fat chance i have

2009-12-11T13:49:00.002+05:30

I’m going to join a gym.

The last time I did that, I just donated ten thousand bucks to the down the drain fund.

This gym is supposed to be very good. Bipasha, Ranbir, Imran, Deepika go there.

And that’s really not helping me. Because they probably invest more in liposuction and tucks than on their gym membership. Yeah, yeah I know. Grapes are sour and all that, but really dude, just take a look at Bip’s chest. It has grown over the years. And no, I don’t think it’s just “bacchi badi ho gayi” growth.

Damn. Why doesn’t it happen to me?

Anyway, sorry to digress. So now the point is what on earth am I going to wear to the gym. The yoga place I used to go to was full of auntyji’s except for a few driver -gadi -lana-ladies. The auntjis wore salwaar kameezs and the driver gadi lana ladies wore track pants with matching T-shirts and solid diamond rings.

I doubt if Bipasha comes to the gym in an old salwaar kameez.

I have nice tracks. Not the furry ones with Bebe on the ass. But really neat black reeboks. And I have a cupboard full of old faded T-shirts.

But I’m worried. I don’t have a glossy shiny pony tail. I don’t have Brazilian work out gear. And I don’t have Mac make up for the gym.

They might think I’m the woman who comes to dust the place.

Such weighty issues on my mind.

On the other hand, let me tell you about airport. This new band. They played a debut show at Del Italia. And they are brilliant. All Hindi stuff mainly, but the singer Arijit Dutta has a voice that’s so groovy.

You remember things like train journeys, playing cards with friends, sitting in a bus and watching the rain, being deliriously in love when he sings. He hits the sweet spot, that boy.

I’m a groupie, in grubby track pants.

follow you into the dark

2009-12-09T11:41:00.004+05:30

All the times he leaned over and hugged me

All the times he woke me up, covered with kisses

I never knew how many times

Till he stopped.

sigh.

A introduced me to death cab for cutie. I’ve loved them ever since. Even though at times i find them over sentimental. But then I think, what the hell dude, there are times I need over sentimental.

So if you feel the same way, I’d like to introduce you to I will follow you into the dark. If you are going through any shit, it’s guaranteed to make you cry. And I find that huge hiccupping sobs usually leave you feeling pretty good about yourself.

And, while I would slot Twilight the movie into accidental comedy classification. I am blown by the soundtrack of New Moon. Maybe it’s because there’s another awesomely sappy song by Death Cab for Cutie there.

Here’s Meet Me on The Equinox. At the moment it rocks my socks folks.

what ya?

2009-12-04T15:58:00.007+05:30

I learnt to jive.

I had Richie Valen and Shakin Stevens in a loop on my Ipod.

I could twist, turn, shake and sing along.

And I hoped that I’d get invited to lots of Christmas parties.

It’s the 4^th of December. And I have nada.

Will someone please please invite me? I promise not to drink up all the booze or the punch or whatever it is you serve.

And will not eat more than one helping. Even if there’s cake soaked in rum.

And I will dance. To La Bamba, This Ole House, Peggy Sue, Jailhouse Rock, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, Do you Love Me, Summertime Blues...

Just invite me okay. If it helps I can even get my own bottle of rum.

just figured that someone landed on my page while searching for bhabhi ji. sure, this is what i always wanted. be the landing ground for pimply pervs.

some stoop. some fall.

2009-12-01T23:21:00.003+05:30

How is Milind Soman still so hot?

*sigh. Dreamy sigh*

By the way, did anyone read the nationwide survey on women’s preferences on male facial hair?

It made front page news on the Times Of India. The Newspaper of India. Those magnificent people who gave us Lead India and Teach India.

Well, the front page article went on to state how women in India prefer clean shaven men, by a huge number. No smooches for mooches. The most we’d like is neat stubble.

Now, I was wondering why it made front page news. I mean it is a bit strange isn’t it. Then I thought maybe this year they’re doing Beard India.

But it turns out that they are much more devious than that. Because a day later the front page of the Mumbai Times carries a huge promotional bit on the launch of a new Gillette Razor. And two wannabe actress types are going around convincing men to shave because women like them chikna.

Aah. The penny drops.

The Times Of India is doing what they do best.

Selling out.

Anyway, that apart, this post took me the longest time to type. I fell off the bed and twisted my arm. And typing with the left arm is still okay. Try scooping a fried egg with it.

Some sympathy would be nice though.

who can tell - part 2

2009-11-30T00:57:00.002+05:30

So Dying To Marry A Rich Guy has been burning up the phone lines with me.

She wants to quit working, wear kitten heels, and stand in a 5 star lobby and dial her driver.

She’s asked her parents to find this guy.

And then she calls me and wails about marrying a man her parents find. And sleeping with this stranger.

So I like this girl. She’s sassy, funny and level headed.

But ever since she’s turned into Dying To Marry A Rich Guy, all I want to do is shake her hard till her teeth fall out and her brains fall into place.

I have no patience for this. You want a rich guy. Then please spare us the how will I sleep with him, and will he be a Mensa graduate, and even I have some self respect.

Just go ahead and say Fuck it, he’s loaded and that’s all I care about.

I have another friend who did just that. She said she married for love the first time. And it left her with a broken heart and the resolve never to marry for love again.

So she married a rich guy, and she’s pretty happy now.

So what’s the conclusion? I have no idea. I guess to each his own.

I just wish love had some part to play here.

Or then maybe to quote the great philosopher Tina Turner: what’s love, but a second hand emotion.

picture @ www.fineartamerica.com

who can tell?

2009-11-25T23:59:00.004+05:30

The oracle sat in the train. She had always known she’d get the side upper berth.

She still had a few hours before she’d have to clamber up. No point asking the young boy opposite her to exchange his lower berth for her upper one.

It was destined that he would refuse. Just as it was destined that he’d pass the exam he was going to give with flying colours. Unfortunately he’d lose his seat to a quota candidate. But he didn’t know any of that just yet. And he was busy on his laptop, not even bothering to glance at the fat Punjabi lady in a loose salwaar kameez in front of him.

The oracle felt a burp rising. She opened her bag and pulled out some churan.

As she sucked on her churan, and felt her stomach slowly secrete the juices needed to digest her evening samosa, she looked around.

The mother with her two sons. The oracle knew this was the summer holiday where the husband would cheat on his wife. The wife fortunately didn’t. And cooed away on the phone, while the boys pulled each other’s hair out.

The oracle's eyes slid over the boys, nothing interesting, nothing spectacular, till they rested on a girl on one end of the berth. A magazine open on her lap, the girl’s head was against the glass as she dozed.

Kleptomaniac. And rabble rouser. From college politics to party politics. This girl would treat her friends and enemies alike – with ruthlessness.

The oracle shivered. Maybe it was the AC. Why did they always keep it so high?

She wished she had bought a Filmfare. Sure, that Kareena Kapoor would finally marry a fat Punjabi industrialist, but at least it would have been time pass to read about her and Saif declaring their undying love for each other.

The oracle belched, and looked around the compartment. Wife beater. Dead at 42. Spinster. Bright future. Lakhpati. Car accident. Guilty. Three marriages.

“ Madam, dinner?”

The oracle, her reverie broken, looked up.

“ Uh...khane mein kya hai?”

“ Rajma.”

The oracle sighed. She knew she was beaten. How could you tell what Rajma would do? Especially after Ghasitaram ke do garm samose.

Gas ya acidity?

The oracle had no answer.

image @ http://waverleykitchens.ning.com/

how to fool millions and make millions

2009-11-25T13:11:00.004+05:30

I went to watch twilight last evening.

I’d borrowed the book from a friend’s daughter and finished it in one go. Then someone gave me the other three. Which weren’t as hot as the first one. Dude, she gets married at 18 to a vampire, they keep trying to have sex for more than half the book and then finally voila! She has two kids in two days and then turns vampire herself.

Yesh, someone hold up a barf bag while I throw up.

Anyway, the book is a rage. And like I said, the first one is pretty neat. Some smouldering romance, solid vampire action, potential for great music.

And then comes the movie.

Here’s how they wrote the screenplay. Let’s start with page one, then go to page 20, then straight to page 80 and then page 160 and so on and so forth.

It just keeps jumping like a flea on acid.

The hero, who has way too much foundation on his face, looks so nice when he smiles. Which is precisely twice in the movie. The rest of the time the director insisted he keep peering under his eyebrows so he’d look like a vampire. He just ends up looking like he’s holding back a fart.

The heroine never smiles. And looks more washed out than the vampire.

The production values are so tacky. It screams kanjoosi.

The special effects are the comic relief.

The story is butchered.

And the effing movie raked in 70.6 million dollars.

Where’s the justice in this world?

And, on the topic of let's make love vs. let's fuck, I'll go with what this chick suggests. Let's have sexy time I think wins hands down.

rant in my underpant

2009-11-21T12:08:00.006+05:30

Fought with milo.

Burst into tears.

Made up.

A ignores me.

Think he’s worried i’m behaving

Like a ticking time bomb strapped to a see saw

I grumble about the TV being on

And the fridge that’s empty

No energy to fill it

Domestic goddess is long dead

Two people call

They mean money

No energy to call back

Business goddess is feeling blah

Stomach hurts

Shoulders hurt even more

The bath soap that I usually love

Felt like a blob of used paneer today

The class I have at 1 noon

I don’t care, i’m not going

All this

And it’s only 11.30 on a Saturday morning.

Pee fucking em ess.

and why do people say

let's make love

morons

say it like it is

feel too shy to say let's fuck

let's have sex

then say let's make out

just please

let's make love is so pahargunj

it's something richard bach

or yanni would probably say.

lame brain.

picture @ http://www.lipsticktracez.com

tears

2009-11-18T18:40:00.002+05:30

half a day

spent with my parents

in a strange city

i watch them get dressed

i say goodbye to them in 20 mins

leaving them alone

to think of me

to miss me

i know

that's all they'll think of

they have no idea i know.

they think i'm working

but i'm thinking

however difficult your relationship with your parents

it is so difficult to say good bye

i will try

not to cry

but it breaks my heart

to say goodbye

i said this before

and i say this again

can't live with them

can't live without them

sigh.

vanishing point

2009-11-10T23:46:00.001+05:30

Violence was in her blood

Her father hit her mother every night

Her mother slashed her wrist once every week

The barbed wire around their house sagged with the weight of their yelling

And their screaming.

Then her mother died on the kitchen floor

And her father disappeared in to the night

So when it was her turn

She laid her cards carefully

The red skirt. The white shirt

The demure eyes

The long silky hair

Every man fell for it

The boys, the roving eyes,

The older men, the hungry, the tired, the jaded, the fired

Who could resist her?

She played them

Listened to them

Looked up to them

Fucked them, loved them, cooked for them

Then one day

When they least expected it she put a knife to their heart

And carved it out

They were found

In hotel rooms, in car parks, in lonely apartment blocks

The cops thought the killer was a man

Which girl could pin down a guy twice her size

Which girl could cut through muscle and bone

Which girl could take a bleeding heart and disappear

But she had inherited two things

Violence in her blood

And the knack for disappearing in to the night

So for all you know

She’s the girl

Who sits beside you in the train, in the bus, in the shared taxi

And in the second refrigerator she bought from her diwali bonus

Lie seven hearts

Mottled and cold, in seven zip lock bags.

overheard over the weekend

2009-11-10T09:23:00.004+05:30

Saturday. Late lunch at cafe.

The next table has a girl and a guy sitting across each other. She’s leaning towards him, he’s settled back, leaning away, in to his chair.

Girl: Wow. New year? That is such a cool plan.

Guy: I know, it should be a lot of fun.

Girl: It’s fantastic. You guys will have such a great time.

Guy stuffs his face with bread and says hmmmm.

Girl: I wish I could go too. You know I love the beach.

Guy tries to smile politely through a mouthful, nods head and goes hmmmm.

Sunday. At V’s place.

Guy: Are you busy? Got any ads?

Girl: No ya. Not so busy. Ads...One woman called me. For an underwear shoot.

Guy smiles nervously.

Girl: I said okay, what’s the money. She said fifteen thousand. I said no way honey.

Guy: Good ya.

Girl: Exactly. She said it’s only above the waist. So I was like listen that is my best part. You don’t get great boobs for cheap.

Guy laughs. Takes a quick sip of his drink.

fly on the wall @ http://www.spunangel.com

ricky don't lose that number

2009-11-05T16:04:00.004+05:30

Last night i spoke to you

On a long distance call

Across telephone wires that don’t exist anymore

And you sounded

Sleepy and stoned

And like you had sung a lot

And i remembered

A morning by the beach

You turning to talk to me

And your brown eyes

For the first time those brown eyes

Without glasses to cover them

Unguarded. Unkept.

Brown eyes that made me feel sleepy and stoned

And like i had sung a lot

My breath stays suspended

And if there is a moment

When you know

That you are falling, free falling, drowning, plunging

Without a safety cord

Without a security blanket

Without a thought

Without a moment of hesitation

Then it was that moment

I fell in love with you

It’s been some time now.

But every time I hear you sound like that

I hold it close to me

Like warm popcorn in a dark movie hall.

I don’t believe in the future

Because i can’t see it

But i believe that your voice

Will always do this to me.

picture credit @ www.designsponge.com

title credit @ steely dan

it's been a hard day's night

2009-11-05T00:51:00.005+05:30

I had a crazy day. On last count, 67 calls and 21 msgs.

Bloody hell, I thought my phone would explode, or then my head would. The broker, the landlady, the internet guy, the man Friday, client 1, friend who fell off auto, dentist, grand mom, client 2, broker, mom, client 3, dentist, another friend, internet guy, landlady, client 1 – aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

At one point I seriously thought about flinging my phone out of the auto. And then when I figured I couldn’t do it, I burst into tears and called my friend and partner. Who immediately called my other friend and partner.

So partner 1 (girl) consulted with partner 2(guy). And then realising what a shit day I’ve been having, and all the running around I’ve been doing, partner 1 dragged me off to get new nail paint before a meeting.

New nail paint? Are you crazy? I grumbled all the way.

The nail paint came on. It looked nice. I stopped grumbling. And felt a little better.

And then, the meeting went fabulously. That could be because I spent more time admiring my feet, than talking. We sealed the deal on some money. And I ended the day feeling far from shit.

So then it proves my theory that:

a. a. I’m a cheap date.

b. b.Sometimes nice nail polish is all it takes.

c. c. My partners are way wiser than me

skin

2009-11-04T00:35:00.004+05:30

I have no idea why anyone would like white skin.

Not white skin as in white people. But white skin.

It does nothing to me. Nothing at all. I can’t imagine white skin the way I can brown.

Brown skin under the shower, as the water bounces off it. Brown skin in the sunshine, browned just a little more in happiness. Brown skin, with goosebumps. Brown skin under cool white sheets. Brown skin entwined with brown skin.

Brown skin, in pink, magenta, orange, lime green. Brown skin with a chilled glass of beer resting on it. Brown skin buried in sand. Brown skin with light brown sand smeared on it.

Brown skin like toast. Brown skin with beads. Brown skin with gold glinting off it. Brown skin on cool terracotta tiles. Brown skin with flipflops. Brown skin with an ice cube trailing down it. Brown skin in the summer, beads of sweat lazily tracing their way down. Brown skin in a spike lee movie.

Brown skin like chocolate. Brown skin like honey. Brown skin like cocoa.

Brown skin in motion. Brown skin in black and white. Brown skin in magic light.

And no, I have not gone back to smoking up.

sepia coloured happiness

2009-10-27T23:09:00.003+05:30

This afternoon, I come back from a meeting, hot and tired, and log on to my computer.

As I wait for my mailbox to open, I also log into facebook.

A quick glance. Various status updates, some videos, pictures, the usual stuff. I’m about to switch windows and go back to my mail, when I see a black and white photo.

Not an arty black and white photo taken with a fancy 10x camera. But an old grainy black and white photo that actually looks sepia now that I’m staring closer at it.

Suddenly, it strikes me my cousin is tagged on the photo. Then it strikes me that she’s written a hysterical oh-my-god under it.

I look closer now. It is my grandfather.

Silence.

I can’t hear anything. I’m just staring at that screen. My grandfather. Some stranger has posted a picture of my grandfather.

My favourite. The one I believe looks over me. The one whose old flying license my grandmother once gave me, as a keepsake. The one, whose only picture I have stays carefully hidden in some prayer books.

A picture of my grandfather. And I discover it on facebook.

And the caption that goes with it.

“East Boroi Jam session Capt Mookerrji WM Pilot ex RAF man with so many tales, got me hooked onto planes.”

That’s how I’d like to remember my grandfather. Who died when I was thirteen.

My memories of him are of this crazy happy man who adored me, and talked so much, and sneaked out for cigarettes on my cycle.

My memories of him are also full of the crazy stories others tell me. How he flew people through storms. How he ran away and signed up for the RAF. How he could drink anyone under the table, and still fly out first thing in the morning. How he and my grand mom spent the night in the car, because a Royal Bengal tiger blocked their way, and my grand dad was only concerned about flying out, in the first light.

And then this picture. And the caption. And the fact that this is how a stranger remembers him too.

Facebook. We call it social media. A networking site. And today, whatever you call it; it made my day, like no other.

*that's my grand dad. centre stage, with a drink in his hand. yes, it is a family trait!

music video?!

2009-10-20T16:03:00.003+05:30

traveling wilbury's - she's my baby

vocals: a

visuals: agg

this is what we have come to

2009-10-15T14:17:00.002+05:30

Just in case you thought Mera Bharat Mahan, this is the reality.

We are fucking lab rats to the world.

We have no environmental laws, we have no waste disposal policies. Instead we have tankers that spill oil and fuel on our shores, we have illegal ship yards, we have toxic paints, pesticide filled colas, shit, garbage, poachers, lead or arsenic(take your pick) in our water.

And now ladies and gentlemen I present to you BT Brinjal. Of course, we are open. We are on sale. 24x7. Don’t you know, we’re Indians, always ready to help the world. Be our guest. Rape our land, screw our people.

And of course, don’t you also know we are the most corrupt country in the work. Grease my palm, butter my bread. I’m a politician. I’m the GEAC. And I’m here to get rich quick.

Fucking bastards. Nothing has made me this angry in a while. Not even the terrorist attack. They came from outside. But you see, the war we wage is inside. Here. In the system. That is so rotten. That it is willing to make lab rats of an entire country.

This is not a democracy. It is just a bleeding sorry excuse for a country.

I tell you, bharta, bhaja or bagara – the only way I’d like my brinjals from now was if they were stuffed with the arms and legs of every politician in this country.

I f it rattles you, in any measure, please go to two fabulous blogs. Here and here

first my cards, then my mind.

2009-10-14T08:16:00.005+05:30

This is a telephone conversation I had last evening.

Me: Hello.

Extra chirpy lady voice, sounding like she’s just popped acid: Hello. Welcome to ShittyBank. To hear this message in English, please dial 1, to hear it in Hindi, please dial 2.

I press 1.

Acid lady: We have a new menu. Please listen carefully. If you have a savings account with us, please dial 1...

Me: yes, yes.

And I punch 1.

Acid lady: To payments dial 1, for loans dial 2, for blah blah dial 3 and 4, for loss of card dial 5...

I frantically punch 5.

Acid lady: For credit card loss, dial 1. For ATM card loss, dial 2.

I’m torn between 1 and 2. I’ve lost both. Finally I press 1.

First Kenny G plays into my ear. Then another voice tells me this call might be recorded, and then acid lady is back as she talks about home loans and credit cards.

In the mean time I’m having a seizure. Is she connecting me to another machine? Or a person? Or the crime branch?

Finally: Good evening, welcome to ShittyBank. How may I help you?

Me(hysterically relieved): hallelujah, it’s a person. Yes, please help me. I’ve lost my credit card and my ATM card.

Space Cadet: Sure, no problem ma’am. Can you tell me where you lost it?

Silence. What are you, the CID? If I could, would it still be lost?

Me: No, I don’t know where I lost it.

Space Cadet: Okay, can I have your ATM card number.

Me: But I’ve lost it you see.

Space Cadet: Can I have your T-Pin number?

Me: uuuu...I never remember those.

Space cadet: Can I have your thousand digit customer number?

Me: uuuu...not really, don’t remember it.

Space Cadet: Can I have your name?

Me: Yes, sure, it is .......

Space Cadet: Sorry ma’am, can you repeat that?

Me, cursing my parents for the long and complicated name: It is .......

Space Cadet: .......(making up his own version of my name)

Me: No, no, wait I’ll spell it.

I proceed to spell my name. Space Cadet, it dawns on me, is slightly deaf. Though why they would choose that as a qualification in a call centre candidate is beyond me. The only conclusion I reach after ten minutes of playing N for Nagpur and S for Simla is that someone who listens to these recorded conversations is selling them and making millions.

Finally after ten minutes of covering all the godforsaken cities in the country. By the way, I took way too long thinking of O for Ooty. Tip: Keep India map handy while talking to bank.

Space cadet: Thank you Miss.....Now can I have your surname.

Me: Oh no. It’s rather long. M for Manipur and so on and so forth.

Finally, after another ten minutes, we’re done with that.

Space cadet: Your card has been blocked. Anything else I can help you with?

Me: My ATM card.

Space Cadet: For that I’ll have to transfer you to another department.

And before I can protest, acid lady is back.

To cut a very long story short, I called ShittyBank five times that evening. Sometimes Acid Lady would trip me by asking me for T Pins. And when I didn’t punch them in, she would, in a acidic sort of way, say, “This call will be terminated.”

I spoke to four call centre executives. Answered the same questions over and over again. Spelt my name dozens of times. Got disconnected five times. Burst out in tears. Calmed myself by holding the dog and sobbing. Called again.

It took 45 minutes for my cards to be blocked. The confirmation email I was told could take ten minutes to two days to reach me. Why? Are they sending it through a pigeon that they just interned?

However, if you’re still reading this, here’s the icing on the cake:

Me(meekly and on the verge of fresh tears): And I would also like to change my address.

Marbles in her mouth Lady: For that you have to write a letter to our Chennai office or use internet banking.

Me: Letter? To Chennai? As in post? No, I’ll just use the internet banking.

Marbles Lady (gleefully): You should have done it earlier. I just blocked your card, now your internet account is deactivated.

Me (weakly): Which means?

Marble Lady: Letter to Chennai Ma’am.

Even Old Monk could not sooth my shot nerves.

picture @ www.hiddenstreamsproductions.com

The King, appropriately belts out All Shook Up for me.

even confucius wouldn't know what to say

2009-10-10T01:15:00.002+05:30

Going Psycho discusses her guy, Gestapo with me.

Me: so, how’s it going with him?

Going Psycho: Same shit. He’s a leech. And now he wants to know everything about all my friends, my past loves, my work. Bloody hell, I think he even checks my sms’s.

Me: Gasp. Fuck, drop him. Hot potato dude.

Going Psycho: Ya. Really I want to.

Me: So?

Going Psycho: But he’s like nice to have handy. Like when I’m bored and in town, and want to go for a movie. Or coffee. Or just some slow evenings someone to hang with.

Me: Okay, so you just want to hang with him.

Going Psycho: Ya, but its too late now. He’s in my house all the time. And he’s stuck to me. I don’t want him around all the time. How do i do this?

Me: so let’s get this clear. You are asking me how to tell a guy that you don’t want him around all the time, only the times you are bored and want someone to go for a movie with.

Going Psycho: Okay. If you put it like that, ya, I guess.

Feeling blue calls me, out of the blue.

Feeling Blue: Listen if you like a guy, and want him to sleep with you, how do you get him to do that?

Me: Um, just tell him that. Chances are he’ll be happy to oblige.

Feeling Blue: Fool. I can’t tell him that. He has to want it.

Me: Oh, well, then does he want it?

Feeling Blue: I don’t know. I want him to want it.

Me: One sec, are you asking me how you can get a guy you want to sleep with, to think that he wants to sleep with you, and it was his idea in the first place, that sort of thing?

Feeling Blue: Ya, will you just help, or are you going to be technical about it.

tap, tap...the sisterhood will always be crazy.

measures of distance

2009-10-09T09:55:00.003+05:30

when i wrote my first short story, i decided to write a series of shorts based in a kitchen. it was supposed to be an experiment, so see how i could negotiate the physical space of a kitchen and set different emotions in it. The idea was also to do just a quick slice of life and out.

over the years, I ended up doing only three. the first one about kitchen dynamics, and the third one about boredom and infidelity.

This was the second in the series.

The kitchen was her favourite room in the house.

She hardly ever cooked there. They always just ordered in. Specially over the last few months. Her new job left her so tired.

Yet she loved her kitchen. She loved the jars of spices. All old recycled bottles that once held jams, and sauces. Now filled with turmeric, chilly, coriander, cumin. The tall bottles had the everyday spices. The fat squat ones, the mismatched ones, those held spices that were used occassionally. Jaiphal, saffron, vindaloo masala, chaat masala. They stood ready inside her small kitchen cabinet. Like soldiers waiting their turn.

She pushed the bolt back, and opened the window by the kitchen sink. Morning light flooded the room. The gas was silent. The sink was empty. Three plastic water bottles stood huddled in a corner.

She sighed. She missed him. She missed his padding into the kitchen, newspaper in hand. His sleepy eyes. The way he put the saucepan on the gas. day after day.

Then it suddenly struck her. She had stood near him, getting breakfast ready, or reaching out for something. or just feeling his warmth beside her in that small, tiny kitchen. And she had never noticed how he made his tea. Did he boil the water first. Did he measure it in his teacup before pouring it into the saucepan. Did he first pull out the tea and the sugar from the cabinet. Or did he do that once the water started to boil. Her eyes stung.

She stood there and started to cry. A small wail first and then a big gut wrenching howl. When did this happen to them? When did they just stop noticing things about each other? When did they let this huge distance creep up between them?

She suddenly longed for that tea. That sweet milky tea that was brewed and boiled till it threaten to spill over the saucepan.

But she didn't know how to make it. If it was the water that went first. or the milk and the water. Or did the sugar go in at the beginning. or was that right at the end.

* so here is an idea. if any of you guys are game, and would like to take this forward i could start a blog called kitchen tales, and pass it on to everyone who wants to take part. then, you post your story, your take, on the blog with your name, bloglink etc, and you can even crosspost it on your own blog.

Just thought it might be fun to see what kind of stuff we get, within the confines of a kitchen. let me know if anyone is up for it.

wake up shit

2009-10-07T16:36:00.003+05:30

Last night we went to see Wake Up Sid.

And I will try and save you all the pain by telling you that unless you want to watch Hannah Montana meets Karan Johar, and they tell each other touching tales about Bambi the deer, stay away.

Sid is a typical Mumbai guy. Right? Then how come I’ve never met someone like him, not because he’s rich and aimless. But because he’s the world’s greatest ass.

He meets a girl. Who he shacks up with. And even when she’s quivering and making constipated cow like eyes at him, he doesn’t grab the chance. Forget sex, not even a fucking kiss.

Oh, and the chick. The whole first half I thought she was a lesbian. Because she keeps insisting, “Don’t get the wrong idea, hum sirf dost hain.” Dude, that went out with Salman saying “Ek ladka aur ladki kabhi dost nahi ban sakte.”

Anyway, for three hours, all you do is watch these two losers as they boil eggs, and make pasta, and sleep in separate beds. What, is this a bloody Disney movie? Sleeping beauty meets Cinderella?

Oh, but wait, we have come of age. There is one scene. Where after days of sharing a one room flat, and making moony eyes, they finally tumble into bed together . To do what? Cuddle and sleep. Are these people in class two? Yesh, I could be sick.

And that bit, where he wears her nightshirt because he’s missing her. Dear lord, is this man for real? A woman wearing a guy’s shirt – sexy. A guy wearing a chick’s shirt, freaking hell, he’s been dancing at the rainbow parade.

Anyway, at the end of the movie, M tells us the director is gay. Maybe that explains it. Why the girl doesn’t choose the dishy Rahul Khanna over Ranbeer. Why Ranbeer doesn’t ever make even a half hearted attempt at a move. Why Konkona, who by the way, plays the girl, wants to be just dosts!

And finally, did you know, that...gasp... after a three torturous hours, the guy and the girl, realise they are in love with each other and then....we have......gasp...a passionate kiss on the forehead.

I want my money back.

picture @ http://buelahman.files.wordpress.com

The Band with Who do you love? I kept thinking this song would be so appropriate for the previous post.