the deprived desi

I love ziplock bags.

The thing is they were always so foreign. and desirable.

I first saw them when my cousins came down from the states. And that was it, love at first sight.

I was envious of how casually my american relatives treated these precious bags. They carried medicines in them, make up stuff in another, prayer books and all sorts of odds and ends.

I was too shy to ask for one. Then one day I saw my aunt empty the one that carried her make up, and toss it where the pile of old newspapers used to stay stacked.

this was my chance, to own my very own zip lock bag. i'd carry my lunch in it. i'd put my make up stuff in it. i'd casually chop some fruit and toss it in to the bag. even though I didn't really like fruit back then. All this flashed through my head. and then, my other aunt pounced on the bag. she had been eyeing them too. like a hawk. and she was faster than me.

so my american cousins, as a parting gift, gave her all their zip lock bags. and my silent love for them just grew.

Over the last ten years I've managed to collect my own little horde of ziplock bags. Most have landed in my lap, when friends have landed over left over food. What they don't know is, I couldn't care less about the food, I just hunger for those bags.

Any how, now i'm helping MIAMA pack his bags. And yesterday I bought a dozen zip lock bags. So he can keep his first aid kit, the dry fruits, the lip balm...each in it's own zip lock bag.

Sometimes, being old aint that bad. at least you can afford as many zip locks as your heart desires.

sweet summer

i was eighteen that summer.

just back from college. with two months to kill.

he was twenty.

waiting to go start his training. with two months to kill.

we had to meet. we were just three people that age out there. he, his sister and i.

so, like it happens in the movies and the books, we hung out.

we went for walks. we drank copious amounts of mango shake sitting on the steps of my house. we went exploring on his scooter. and we talked and talked.

his sister at some point left us alone. so that's how we ended up spending most of the summer together. my mother was amused, and insists even today that he polished off all her snacks waiting around for me. but it was perfect.

warm in the mornings. warm enough to drink cold coffee in tall glasses with lots of ice in it. warm enough to go driving off across bad roads, stop under a large tree and watch a train roll past in the distance.

warm enough to just sit in my room under the fan, talking about friends and things we wanted to see and do. warm enough to walk lazily to the mess, and pick books from the library. warm enough to stand at the gate endlessly, talking again, until it was time to go home for lunch.

warm enough to meet again in the evening, and hang out at the kids park. to sit in my driveway, and try and fix my rickety old moped together. and warm enough for regular tambola nights.

then, finally the day when we had to leave. strange, because somehow we were on the same vehicle to calcutta. i don't remember saying bye or what it felt like. but i remember writing to him for a few months. and then slowly the summer faded from my memory.

it was the sweetest summer. i liked him. i thought he liked me too. but i never asked. and neither did he.

then sixteen years later, i speak to him this morning. he doesn't sound anything like he did. but then i really don't remember. we laugh, talk all jumbled, try and fill in the years.

i tell him we'll meet. but i don't think so. not because of anything. but because somethings are meant to stay blurred, slightly faded.

and some summers are meant to stay perfect.

damn fool things

or things we can do away with.

1. the indian judiciary.

raj walks away scot free yet again. they can't muzzle him, they can't arrest him. in case you didn't notice we live in a lawless nation.

2. the jumbled words that appear when you write on someone's comment page on a blog.

you have to fill your email id. or your blogger one. you have to type your password in. so then what's the point of having those strange alphabets that a dyslexic like me takes 15 minutes and six trys getting right. this is even when i stick my tongue out and go pop eyed with concentration.

3. hair. on the legs.

i'm sick of waiting for them to grow to a reasonable length before i can wax them, without pulling off some skin. i'm tired of waiting, sometimes for weeks. always having to wear full length stuff. because my hair refuses to co operate. i'm fed up of finally getting sick and tired of the whole thing and using the razor. yuck. i hate bristles.

4. charging.

duhhh. this is when we're cloning stuff and sending random folks to the moon. but guess what you still need to charge your phone and laptop. and if you are like me, who hates putting plug to point, then welcome to the land of beep beep hell. because every time you really need the phone or the laptop, the battery is blinking at you like an evil eyed monster. why? is it that tough to create a phone that charges using the sun or water or my breath or something.

please add shops where you have to show the bill when you are on your way out. this is specially true when your arms are weighted down by bags, and all the bored man at the door wants to do is stamp the bill. for reasons totally unkown to mankind.

there. i feel better for now.

so happy diwali. oooh....also add those mass forward happy whatever messages. darn stupid people who send those darn stupid things.

well, you know who's not getting any messages this year then : )

dancing in the dark

I’m flipping through a magazine. And i come across an article, “ ten signs that your child is turning a rebel.”
Right. Like it takes only ten signs.

Anyway, it got me thinking about my childhood, or rather adolescence and rebellion. So here’s my story.

When i was 15, my family moved to a very remote part of the country. In the middle of my school year.

So imagine, you have your friends, your best friends, you are every teacher’s pet (except the hindi ma’am), you love your school, you are marked to be head girl, the cute cultural captain has a crush on you ...
and then one fine day you’re told you’re leaving that school.

Anyway, so after my half yearly exams we move. And land up in the boondocks. Sure it’s pretty. But for some reason my parents decide to stay with some friends. Who stay miles and miles away from civilisation or even the nearest village.

Anyway, two months later, my father has to move again. And my folks decided to separate for a while. However, since I have school, they decide to leave me behind. And actually I'm pretty excited about escaping the omnipresent parental eye.

Only problem is I hate the school. And most of the school hates me.
They label me fast. And not because I’m a great sprinter, but because I hang out with the senior boys.
They label me USA, (ya, remember this is a school in the boondocks. USA means all the bad thngs a girl can ever be)because one day I go for a walk with the guys to a canteen like shack behind the school.

So here I am. 15 going on 16. No parental supervision. Living with some people who were sweet but had no idea what to do with me. And going to a school I absolutely could not fit into.

And without even knowing it (see, that’s where the ten signs would have helped), I decide to turn rebel.

So I start by moving to the back bench.

Then I start to defy the teachers. I back chat, I make fun of them, I talk with a different accent every day. I laugh when they tell me to leave the class.

Next, I start to respond to a senior who’s been giving me the vibes. I hang out at the bike stand with him. I walk to the cigarette shop with him. And one day, in the middle of the school day, I decide to take him up on his offer and go for a bike ride.

Well, the whole school is agog. My woolly guardians have no clue about any of this. So when on my birthday I ask them if I can ask my friends over, they readily agree.

I don’t know what they expect, but they definitely look a little worried when my friends roar in that evening. Five senior boys who look much older than me. Luckily my smoke screen girl friend, also turns up. And two of my classmates. The tallest boys in class, who share the back bench with me.

We tell woolly guardians we’re going for a walk.

The senior boys have vodka bottles in their jackets. I’ve never really had a drink before that. But what the hell, it’s my birthday, and there’s no one to tell me what to do.

So I take a few glugs and then some more. Soon we’re all singing and pushing each other. Everyone is high. We go back, eat, and go for another walk. This time we drink rum. My two tall back bench classmates refuse to leave my side. I smoke two cigarettes, cough till tears roll down my eyes, then throw up. Drink some more rum, and throw up some more. Somehow I make it home after that second walk, ( my trusting guardians are fast asleep) get to my bed and pass out.

Point is that was really my first rebellion. I had many more moments in those four months.

In retrospect it seems stupid. Even dangerous. What if something had happened? What if those senior guys had tried something?

But back then, things were different. Thankfully.

And ya, there’s a another reason I say trust the universe. For in those four months, when there was no one to keep an eye on me, there were two boys. Who sat in the back bench with me. Who always managed to hang around me. Who somehow kept me out of trouble. And made me keep like someone cared.

I never kept in touch with them. I was so determined to get that phase behind me. But they were, for all purposes, my rebel phase guardian angels. Two tall, gangly, always on the verge of failing, 16 year old back benchers! Ha!

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

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)

remind me, how old am I?

i hate partings.

not the one's in your hair, but the tata types.

so naturally these days i'm a bit down and out. and when i start to pms, that will become an understatement.

but, the thing is, the man I'm mad about, who will henceforth be referred to as MIAMA on this blog is going to climb a mountain. He's going to be gone for three weeks. Minimum.

To a neighbouring country, where the flights are dicey and telecommunication is not very good, unless he carries a satellite phone. or a homing pigeon.

So I'm not going to see his mug every morning and evening. I'm not going to sleep knowing that he's right beside me. And I'm not going to be able to call him any time I feel like.

I'm happy he's going. Because we must all do our thing that gives us joy. But I am, though I'm trying not to, a little worried.

Then there's the car I'm mad about (CIAMA!) . It's been with me for seven years. And I'm in a serious committed relationship with it. But now, it's sounding wierd. After the last servicing, the engine doesn't sound like it used to. They changed the horn, and I can hardly recognise the sound. And now I know it has to go.

And then to top it all, this morning, when I'm driving to work, the damn FM station decides to play sad love songs. The depressing mopey kinds.

Darn. I really need to get my big girl underwear out.

for the sax of the heyvans and the gods

i like raja choudhary.

for those of you who know who he is, and have passed out in shock, please... go smell some smelly socks.

for those of you who are wondering, who the fuck is raja, let me enlighten you. he is the guy, (note: not a guy, but the guy) on Big Boss, the desi version of Big Brother.

He is also Shweta Tewari's estranged husband. And at this point in case you are wondering who the fuck is Shweta Tewari, it really doesn't matter, because this post is about Raja Choudhary.

Okay, let me further your tellywood knowledge. Shweta Tewari is a serial saas bahu'er.

Back to Raja Choudhary. He's an alleged wife beater. His claim to fame are serials like Your Honour and Daddy Samjha Karo. Never heard of them? Well, neither has anyone else. (And I just saved you a google search).

But I love him. Right now he's on top of my cool guy charts. For starters there's his english. Please refer to title: for the sax of the heyvans and the gods. This gem was uttered by Raja during a fight with a female contestant. Another sample: you should shame on you. Don't try to play a games.

Okay. So that's the funny part. There's also his whole attitude of being the trouble maker in the show. He needles people, provokes them into losing their temper. And sometimes loses his, big time, till you think he's going to get into a fist fight.

But I still like him. In fact I think he's hot, in a sort of very desi cave man way.

Disgusting. There really is no accounting for taste.