long live bhabhiji. long live anglaish.

So depressing.

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

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

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

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

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

Bored Trivia 1: http://www.themanwhofellasleep.com/starfacts.html. In case you want porn stars to help you with your general knowledge.

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

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

Kahani Mein Twist 1: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Savita-Bhabhi/19710074981

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

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

Goment for government. What a waste of alphabets really.

Bijness. Ya, we mean bijness ya.

Piarents. Spell it like it is. Adarniya piarents.

And finally, the world loves labhars.

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

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

So the MET department predicts heavy rain for today.

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

How do they do it? Every time without fail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, I moved house. Yabba dabba doo...it is done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen to that then.

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

And blog gore: who’s there?)

bladderdash

Has it ever happened to you?

You’re sitting in a conference room. A meeting is on. You’re wearing a light sleeveless top, and open shoes. It’s just a little cold. Then slowly the cold starts to creep in to your toes and you feel the urge to pee.

You are sitting right at the end of the narrow room. So you stand up, while someone is presenting. Then in the most unobtrusive manner you try and make it to the door. Unfortunately, just about everyone in your path is leaning back in their chair. So when you have to pass the entire room is a symphony of creaking, shuffling, squeaking as people move their chairs. All your chances of a quiet exit are ruined.

But that’s okay, everyone has to pee right?

Anyway you finish your bladder business and you take your seat, setting off the squeaking, shuffling, shifting again.

You are so relieved that the stupid business is over that you drink some water. Then sip your stone cold tea, slowly getting back in to the presentation. As you keep listening to the person talking, you absently minded, and also because you’re just a little bored, keep taking sips of water. And then suddenly you realise your bladder is feeling a little full, AGAIN.

You panic, and steal a look at the cell phone screen. It’s been only fifteen minutes since you went peed.

Damn. You can’t go to the loo again, so soon. Through all the creaking, shuffling, shifting. So you push the glass away. And try and concentrate on what’s being said. But now your toes are feeling cold again. And you know what that means. Your colleagues are going to think you have urinary incontinence.

So you squeeze your thighs together, and practise highway-highway. Which is trying to pretend you are on a highway where there is no loo. But then the thighs are beginning to quiver. And even if there is no loo on the highway, you can always use the bushes right?

So now you’ve lost all track of what’s happening in the meeting. Five minutes have passed. You cannot hold on any longer. Your toes are ice. And you are just beginning to wiggle in your seat, with your thighs jammed together. The guy in the neighbouring chair is beginning to wonder what’s up with you because all this is getting magnified by the soft repeated squeak-squeak of your chair.

So you get up and start to make your way to the door. The same noises but this time some folks are looking just a little surprised. It’s like “wait a minute, weren’t you the one who just went.”

Anyway, when you have to go, you have to go.

And you come back. And you settle into your seat. And you push the water away, and you try and keep your feet warm by constantly rubbing them against each other, studiously avoiding the stares the person on the right is giving you.

But your mind and your bladder, they went drinking last night, and decided to ruin you. And the staff at the hotel, and the guys who set the agenda for the meeting, they are all part of the plan.

Because just as you’re thinking I’ve got it all covered, my bladder is empty, someone announces, “ Okay, we’re taking a five minute nature break. We start again at 12.35 for the next three hour session.”

And as everyone files out of the room, you’re frantically gulping glasses of water.

But with my luck, yesterday, the water only kicked in at 1.30. And then 1.45.

how rabbits will save a civilization

I saw this post on kadambari’s* blog @ http://kaddu.blogspot.com/. And I left a comment. But there was so much more I wanted to say.

Here goes

What do you do? You get slapped, beaten, persecuted, because of the colour of your skin. You are told they hate you because you block corridors, and hang out together. At other times they say you stink, your food smells funny, and the curry you make should be smashed on your face. They accuse you of studying too much, working too much, not saying no to crazy timings, extra work, or less pay.

All the things you uphold as good - study, work, honesty are thrown at your face as they twist your arm, and yell, “ Blacky, Paki, Curry or whatever the dirty word going around for brown skin is.

The flip side. We are not easy people to host. We’re greedy, we circumvent the system, our genes are programmed to make us cunning. We start by arriving in small numbers, then we get the whole village. Everyone lives on dole, and we are well settled. Yes, we are not very civic minded, and we do tend to stick together. And if you’re a white woman, our cousins who’ve just come from the pind will probably stare at you a little longer than they should. And if they’re in a group of three, chances are they’ll even pass a leery comment or two.

But, does that justify the hate? I don’t think so. But then I’m Indian. Maybe if the firangs came to my country and started to do the same, I’d be just as mad. As it is we grumble when the rents go up in Bandra…bloody firangs, pushing the rents up.

But do we beat them, hammer them, hack them, abuse them? No, because we can’t get over them. We love their white skin.

And because, hopefully, we're not like that. I saw Gandhi the other night. And it made my hair stand on end. I had goose bumps. And I felt so proud; I could have jumped up and sung the national anthem right there and then.

This is the country of ahimsa. This is where you treat a guest like god. This is where you uphold good middle class values like want not, waste not. This is where you study like maniacs to do better than everyone else. This is where you live crazy chaotic lives and still top the happiness index !

So then what?

Then…there is only one solution – biological warfare. Reproduce like mice or rabbits or emus or whatever. And spread…take over the world. Grab their country, their jobs, their schools, their colleges, their hospitals. Make brown the new white. Just proliferate, and prosper.

They hit one of us; ten more will land on their shores. They take one job from us, we’ll take twenty back. We’ll eat them out of their homes and their countries. We will not just block the corridor. We will take over the corridor!

Whew. Scary thought though.

* thanks kadambari for setting me off!

things you learn along the way

Last week we had a house guest.

And she asked me, “ okay, so is there anything I should know about Bombay before I go out. Like what places to avoid, what streets not to walk on in broad daylight.”  That sort of thing. Just what a white girl living in Delhi, and getting her ass grabbed at least twice a day would ask.

So I though and thought. And then gave her my standard advice.

“ No, it’s actually pretty cool. Though there is one thing you should always remember in Mumbai. Pee before you leave home. Or if you’re in a restaurant, mall, coffee shop, make use of the facilities.”

She just smiled at me vaguely. Probably thought weirdo with a weak bladder.

But it’s true. If you move to Mumbai that’s the first thing you learn. I of course learnt it the hard way. The first time I was leaving work, and I felt just a little pee-ey. But then I thought home is just twenty minutes away, and if I go back to the loo, I’ll probably get caught for some work, so forget it...

Ha ha. I’ll never forget that evening. We got caught in a huge traffic jam, one truck had broken down, half a dozen traffic lights had stopped working, and it felt like everyone had left work at that very moment. Nothing moved, except my bladder which was painfully expanding by the minute.

I crossed my legs, leaned forward, gritted my teeth, tried to distract myself with thoughts of Anthony Bourdain. But no, nothing helped. The traffic would not move, there was not a single restaurant or coffee shop on that damn stretch, and soon I had tears in my eyes. A tried holding my hand, and singing a song, but nothing was helping. Only the thought of the grumpy Bihari cabbie going ballistic kept me from peeing in the cab.

Anyway, I finally made it to a Sulabh Sauchalaya that evening. And I swore to myself that it would never happen again.

But of course it did. A couple of times. The worst being when I was driving, and it was raining. Again on that same darned stretch of road. This time it got so bad, what with the persistent sound of rain on my roof and rivers running down my windscreen, that I removed my tiffin box from the plastic packet I usually carry it in. The idea was to slip the plastic packet into my jeans and pee in to it. But again, a packed double decker bus next to me, and tight jeans foiled that plan. I finally made it to the same Sulabh Sauchalaya, all teary eyed again.

Which reminds me, when I lived in Delhi, we used to pass this huge house in Vasant Vihar. And someone once told me it belongs to the guy who started the Sulabh Sauchalayas.  We always looked at it enviously.

But not anymore. Now when I go to Delhi, I’ll look at it with fondness. After all, it’s been built on my pee.

* as a sort of leave behind, here's something i found on http://natknits.wordpress.com. clearly, some people need a lot of help: dude...this is not the ocean...no, no...we can not find pomfret here...

part theory of relativity, part john lennon

The best kind of relative to have would be a gay uncle.

This is how I imagine it would be. He would be plump, with plump manicured hands and feet, great taste in food, music, movies and wine.

He would also have a nice apartment in Juhu, somewhere near Prithvi actually. Maybe even in the Janki Kutir lane. I’d live with him and we’d discuss men and movies while rustling up a chopped salad and blueberry cheesecake for dinner.

Of course we’d both be going to catch the last 9.30 play at Prithvi. Me with my set of friends, he with his. And yes, all his friends would be terribly bright, and witty and arty and bitchy!

There would also be days when we would just sit for hours in compatible silence, reading our respective books. His apartment would always be neat, and everything in it would be dark wood and chattai.

And of course he would be just the person you’d want to take shopping, discuss your boyfriend problems with, plan a dinner party with, or even take your boss troubles to.

In fact staying with gay uncle Gagan would be the most suitable arrangement till I fell in love and moved out or got married.

We’d miss each other terribly. Considering that I would have moved to Milan.

To paraphrase John Lennon:

You may say I’m a dreamer

But I’m not the only one

I hope someday

Every girl 

will have a gay uncle Gagan.

men, mister, master and other musings

I just spent the whole day reading a book borrowed from an eleven year old girl.

So there I was sprawled on the futon, my legs on the backrest, as I gobbled up a vampire love story, Twilight by Stephenie Meyer.

The book is a pretty racy read, though in parts the lovelorn bits were too much. Even though I know those are the parts making young girls swoon.

But the point of this blog is to wonder what makes us, as girls and women, go weak in the knees. I remember reading Nancy Drew at eleven. And she had a boyfriend. But there was no weak in the knees about him. He was just a wholesome American boy who did everything Nancy said.

Then I remember Pride and Prejudice. And Mr. Darcy. The first character in fiction that I fell in love with. I adored his aloofness. His air of mystery. The misunderstood man. The man who could be so sarcastic and yet you would want to fling yourself at him.

Then came Karan Kapoor. The Bombay Dyeing Man. And suddenly every young teenage girl was softly singing dream lover while looking into the horizon. Dream Lover had no time for nonsense. He would sweep you of your feet, without your permission.

Then I read this book...and my mind is ticking. It’s the same thing. A vampire who been there, done that. Lived in millions of cities, through thousands of centuries. And now falls in love as a teenager, and spends the entire novel saving his mortal woman.

 Say what you may, women don’t change. At the heart of it all they want a masterful man.

Sure, I don’t mean he should bully me around, or dictate who I meet or what I do. Yesh

But...haven’t you ever been swept away into a kiss that you didn’t realise was coming. Or had your hand grabbed and taken to places without you having a clue. Or just the way a guy has asked you something or said something, or taken charge. No hesitation, no can I, is it okay... just full on confidence. And you are like wow...you are my daddy!

That’s really it. Warped as it may sound. Sometimes a guy just has to be masterful enough for you to feel like a silly girl who’s got this daddy guy who’s going to manage it all.

And you start unconsciously reacting to that strange complex feeling right from when you’re eleven to probably when you’re sixty.

So men, there’s a lesson here. And a disclaimer. The woman has to feel that about you. And you got to gauge when she does. Do not try it if you ain’t hundred per cent sure. Many masterful men have got kicked in the balls!

drawing the line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The business of doing your business must be kept separate.

power to the pao's

It’s three nine in the morning.

A bad back is keeping me awake. I was sitting by the window staring out. And pretty much smiling as cars whizzed by.

Really, this city does not sleep. Or maybe it’s just the season and a Friday night put together. But even the promenade in front of my house had groups of people on their bikes, or clustered around their cars. Smoking, drinking coffee from the cycle coffee guys and generally shooting the breeze.

Then at three sharp the cop van slowly rolled by, asking folks to get a move on. Nothing rude, or strict or cop like. Just a general, “ okay it’s three am, let’s clear the promenade.” And the groups slowly drank up their coffees and moved on.

All easy, and civilized. And so Mumbai.

Then there are the anglo Indians. Or the catholics. Or the Christians. Or the maca paos. Or the macs. (Okay they are called this because of their love for Pao, that yummy square bun like thing, so popular here. Tip: Add butter to a hot pao, dip it in your tea, and go straight to heaven).

They had a Christmas Bazaar at the Bandra Gym today. And even non members (sigh) could buy a fifty buck coupon and enter. The grounds were packed. A salsa performance, followed by Jim reeves songs, followed by Christmas Carols, followed by Goan songs were being broadcast from a make shift stage. And a large square of stalls formed the centre.

Christmas cakes. Cookies. Brownies. Aunty Maria’s chocolates and marzipan. Edna’s goan sausages. Clarrise’s vindaloo and sorbatel. Little pao stuffed with mince. Patties. Chops. The list is endless.

The place was packed, booze was cheap and overflowing. And the atmosphere was festive. People were eating, wishing each other, dancing, getting quietly sloshed.

The world was at peace. And Aunty Maria and Uncle Barry should stand for elections.

Really, maybe I’m biased because my parents grew up in Anglo Indian schools. My dad in particular had a huge number of Anglo Indian friends when he lived in Pune. Our neighbours down the street in my grandparent’s home were Anglo Indian’s. And they were for sure the coolest, the most fun loving people on that street.

But I think it’s more than that. I think the Maca Pao’s have just managed to hold on to their sense of community. And their way of life.

And more importantly, their idea that good food, good wine and good times are more important than good car, good TV, and good gold jewellery in the bank locker.

So more power to them. And more spirit of the Christmas bazaar to the world.

.... .- ...- . | .- | .--. .-.. .- - . | --- ..-. | ..-. .-. --- --. ... | .-.. . --. ... | --- -. | -- .

the other day someone called me a dilettante.

and boom, it was like a moment of clarity. because that's exactly what i am. a lover of all things, art, culture, sports. The only catch is it's always like an intense but fleeting love affair. One month at the most, and then, okay what's next.

you see, in my head i'm sort of like a character from a book. in fact the closest i've come to saying aah that could be me has been Olivia Joules in Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination.

It's not a great book, if you don't like that sort of thing (far out plot, poison, secret service characters, shady Osama like guys, international playboys, drugs, beheadings and a loony female who's out to save the world from things she hasn't figured out as yet)

But back to me. So in my head I'm sort of like Olivia Joules. Which is why I believe that it is of utmost importance to know a little bit of everything.

For example:

I learnt to tie nine different types of knots from a book called the Dangerous book for Boys or something like that. On the premise that someday I might be holed up in a medieval castle, and might have to tie a knot around the bedpost to slither down the tower. It would certainly help if the knot stayed, hence the nine different types of knots. Oh ya, also tried to learn morse code, but got kind of bored after dit dit dah.

I learnt to jive, watlz, salsa and do a mean cha cha cha this summer. again, maybe when i'm on an international mission through morocco and need to attend a ball, nobody can fault my manners or my dancing skills.

Then there's a bit of yoga. Some painting. decoupage. I've been learning to strum a few chords on the guitar. I'm trying my hand at gardening.

Then in November I move on to bharatnatyam. And horse riding.

After which my list includes learning some magic tricks (already know two super card tricks), vedic maths (you can not be a secret agent and count on your fingers). being able to identify poisonous snakes and name them. I also really want to learn carpentary, welding and operating a sewing machine. And riffle shooting.

hair cutting. 5 gourmet meals. 6 mean desserts. Crochet. Photoshop (yeah, I know, shame on me). Reading and writing two languages.

The list continues. People collect bone china, stamps, gadgets. I collect things to learn.

The life of a secret agent is tougher than you think.

(ps: the title of this post is in morse code. go to http://www.scoutnet.nl/~inter/morse/morseform.html to break it)

my first brush

apologies for not having written in days. but i've been really happy and busy.

and that just proves my pet theory that if you are unhappy you have lots to write about.

and that brings me to my next best pet theory. there are two types of unhappiness. one is delicious - because you know it's shortlived, or because you know that it's not really such a big deal. like for instance a trivial fight, a break up with someone you would anyway have broken up with. it's emotional cleansing. you can cry, have an outburst, gather all your friends, grab lots of sympathy, shop a lot, and wake up smiling two days later. these unhappy moments are meant to be juiced.

the second unhappiness is the serious kind. your spouse/lover/friend leaves you. someone you love dies. that kind of thing. you get the drift right? the kind that leaves you feeling someone just wrenched your gut out, and you takes days, and weeks, and months and sometimes years to get over it.

anyway, my first brush with unhappiness was when i was in school. i liked this guy. ya, right ... what else could cause unhappiness when you are 15. his name was AZ. sorry about the initials, fat chance that he's reading my blog but anyway....

point is AZ was tall, handsome, soft spoken. had lovely brown eyes. a super sexy accent ( his folks had just moved back from Botswana). and he was two years senior to me.

so in class eight, i spend all my time drawing his name all over my school books. i craned my neck during assembly every morning just so i could see him. i decided the water cooler that was closest to his class had the coldest water. i sat in the scorching summer sun, watching the school cricket team in action. sometimes, i was the sole spectator.

and i thought no one knew.

then in class nine i realised everyone knew. my whole class used to try and push me on to him, when we passed his class in assembly. everytime he walked past my class, there would be wild cheering and hooting. and to my utter mortification we landed up being in the same damn Ashoka house. By now, not just my class, even his class knew. My famous crush has gone around the school.

End of class nine. last day of school. Everyone is delirious. saying bye. eating golas. Throwing ink on each other. There's chaos outside the school. Buses are honking. Those of us on cycles are waiting for friends. That one day, no one is in any hurry to leave.

Suddenly, in slow motion, I look up from my cycle, to see AZ walking towards me. My first reaction is to flee. Just jump on my cycle and get the hell out of there. But I'm frozen, rooted to the spot. He stops right in front of me. Looks down at me, and smiles. My heart stops beating. Then kickstarts with a loud noise that should make everyone around me jump.

I can hear giggling from behind me. No one says anything. Finally he says, " Hi...I'm A. " As if I didn't know. I know his name, his surname, his favourite colour, his pet's name, his house address, his two sisters, his favourite sport. But just then, my ears are ringing, my face is a horrible mottled red, my fringe is poking into my eyes...and nothing is coming out of my mouth. So I continue to grin.

He says, " I thought we could be friends." I can feel someone poking me in the ribs. It's my best friend, S, who's in class eleven. She pokes me again. I know I have to say something now...anything....

" Hi, I'm S. And I'm really late. So I'll see you later."

And I turn my cycle and ride off as fast as I can. My friends catch up with me five minutes later and they are shaking with laughter. They pull me off my cycle and we roll around by the side of the road. Them clutching their stomachs, me my head. I can't believe I could have been such an ass.

So it goes on.
Class tenth. He comes to see me in my class. I jump out of the window. My class is on the first floor, I break my hand.

I'm running down the stairs. Suddenly I see him and his friends at the bottom. I miss two steps, and twist my ankle.

Finally he calls me and my best friend S to his birthday party. I don't go. Not just because I'm shy, but because my mom would grill me, and my face would be a dead give away.

But S goes. And things are never the same again. Because a week later she tells me that she went to his party, because she is in love with him. And she told him that, and now.... here's where the unhappiness bit comes in .... they are going around. boyfriend girlfriend. in love. together. a & S. he tall, she tall. me on my cycle.

I come home. and sit on the dining table, and eat my lunch, and open my books and study. And then when it's really hot and the even the fans can't muster up the enthusiasm to keep going, my parents go to sleep. and i lock myself in the bathroom. and i cry and i cry.

and that summer day, i have my first brush with unhappiness.