The novice

Lost & Found

2008-08-05T22:23:00.000-07:00

Sheer bliss. 16 years later. Over the moon. Didn't ever think if I dig my grave deep enough I might hit a treasure chest.

Now to hang on to the treasure with my life...

V'day starts early

2008-02-14T05:03:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday we spent a fking bomb and went for this Mickey Mouse magic show with an ex-colleague of N's( quite a bomb herself) and her son. The cherub, Chrish ("My name is Chrish, with a C," he insists), all of 6 years, and G hit it off at first sight like long lost loves; clinging on to each other like nothing's business. After the show, and a cute photo session, we decided to go and have pizza at Pizza Hut and hang around for a while. The kids had to be taken to the restroom first which we mothers dutifully did, and sent them off to refresh ourselves a bit. From the loo I could hear Gubs wailing at the top of her voice and was feeling most embarrassed. So I rushed and asked her "What's the matter, Dahling?" Still wailing, she replied: "I want to sit with Chrish alone, far away from the parents"!!!

Amen.

XXX Rated

2008-02-14T01:08:00.000-08:00

3 unscrupulous women
3x pegs of vodka
3x the voices & vices
XXX rated revelations
3x excited gesticulations

1 broken glass.

Dead woman rising

2008-02-05T02:40:00.000-08:00

Dear Life,

Fascinated as I am by your irrepressible energy and innovative means of meting out surprises, must admit, sometimes you do bog me down. The last few months have borne witness to the myriad “situations” (largely sticky) I have been thrown into and the flurry of emotions I have fought, overcome or given in to. And every time I thought it was over and done with, there was a brand new set (or a modified version of an existing one) to deal with.

You give and you take.

You love and you hate.

You tide and you ebb.

You kill and you save.

You have your balance sheet to match, I understand, but at what and whose cost?

So, just for the record, your surprises don’t surprise me anymore. Your curses don’t bother me anymore. Your blessings don’t touch me anymore. For:

Like a bird on the wire,

Like a drunk in an old midnight choir

I have tried in my way to be free.

Rare luxuries

2007-07-12T05:44:00.000-07:00

Life's so full now, I hate any semblance of space in the crowd. Baba, Ma, N, G and I. When all of us are in the living room together-- N 3/4th out of the bean bag, sprawled on the floor, G on top of him, I in my sloth bearish (most lyad khawa) posture on the futon and Ma and Baba, the only semblance of propriety, on the chairs - it an mela-esque atmosphere. I ain't complaining, because, I don't have the same luxury when I visit them in Calcutta. So loving every minute of having them around.
Baba's been with us for a month now. Ma arrived a couple of days back. Baba flew down. Ma prefers the good old railroad. No amount of persuasion to get her on to a plane works. Her feet are too well grounded, I say. The train, wonder of wonders, arrived 10 mins before scheduled. She has come with one 24" VIP, a medium-sized red kit bag, a small overnighter, her trademark Guess shopper in which she carries her water bottles, a couple of plastic bags and of course her handbag. The suitcase has wheels so weight doesn't matter. But the red kit bag just can't be lifted. "what's in it, Ma?" "Oh just some stuff I thought you would need," she said, as a hint of embarrassment escaped her voice. Knowing my Ma, that was a really "loaded" answer.
Since she arrived on a weekday, I chose not to ask any more and got on with my daily chores before leaving for work. Ma quietly began pottering around revealing bits and pieces of the treasure she had brought from home and beyond. First, korapaaker jolbhora taalshnash shondesh (sorry non-Bengali readers, it is inexplicable, hence ethereal), white mishti doi (since I abhor the "lal" variety), a bag of "potol"-- some 2 kilos of it. A packet of Dalpuri'r pur, a watermelon, 2 cucumbers and before she came out with more, I left for office. On my return, I am asked what i want to eat. Aahh the bliss of being brought a glass of water, or even being asked about food-- I had quite forgotten about it. While I wallow in the attention, I look around for new additions to my kitchen. None that catches my eye. Very strange, I say to myself in the most Poirot-esque undertone. I wander leisurely in to the guest room and Voila! The flap of the red kit bag lies listlessly on the floor revealing stacks of "potato". Yes Potato -- in medium and small sizes. "MAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" I don't try muffling such screams, I don't believe they should be. "Ki holo?" She comes running. "Eta ki korecho?" "Egulo Doshghora'r chasher aloo," she says with the most unabashed smile (Doshghora is a pristine little village in Hooghly district where my Ma hails from. It's my Transcendental world). She's brought FIVE kgs of home-grown potatoes!
I know these days we pay for every morsel of our existence and hence "home-grown" or "from our farm" are rather romantic feudal concepts. But, I, dear friends have a long lineage of "landlords", commonly (de) recognized as Zamidaars in Bengali. That too, both from my paternal and maternal side. Despite the feudal system and landlordship being abolished now, needless to say, my parents revel in the lineage and have their own ways of reinforcing it in GeNext, much to our disdain. The above is a perfect case in point. But to carry Five kilo of potatoes as a separate luggage? Jeees!
I was too dumbstruck to take the conversation any further, even though Ma picked up her favourite refrain " Aar joddin achi, toke diye jai...erpor toh aar keu debey na." Thank God for small mercies to the last bit!
And let me tell you here, Ma comes from a different planet altogether. Ask her for a grain or a chaff and she'll get the whole paddy field for you. But very few people really honour the worth of such women. Sadly, including self.

Losing out

2007-05-15T03:17:00.000-07:00

Life has its own ways to reward and punish. Even though I know we only reap what we sow and how we sow it.
I've had my share of rewards. Now it's time for punishments.

Rot in Hell.

20 minutes

2007-04-14T04:59:00.000-07:00

Walking down alone, along the deserted pavement by a busy roadside at 6pm.

The clickety click of the three-inch heels; kicking up a little dust with every step. Licking on my favourite Kwality Walls Orange stick icecream; humming “It’s my life” and feeling the gentle evening breeze softly caress my tired face.

Never knew a walk back from office to home could be this blissful.

I love my evening walks these days. I have 20 minutes all to myself. To walk the way I want. Eat what I want. Let my thoughts wander where they want. Weave my dreams out of incoherent thoughts. It’s my space, all mine. It’s my life.

Poisoned

2007-04-09T05:30:00.000-07:00

You want me to be my vivacious self, the one you fell in love with many moons ago
You want me to be chirpy, and listen to the music in my heart
You want me to be happy, and glow in my ebullience
You want to see me alive again.

But that's not possible anymore. The poison, it is spreading.

Maybe in afterlife.

Digging deeper

2007-03-13T23:19:00.001-07:00

Sitting opposite each other against a tangerine orange sky and watching the melting sun set into the unfathomable depths of the Ganges. The backdrop as enigmatic as our being there just then is inexplicable. Unspoken words, impregnated sentences. Uncomposed music, building into a crescendo. Unblemished bodies, erotic with desire. Uncalled for tears, unbound happiness of a nubile nymphet.

Grave digging

2007-03-10T18:58:00.000-08:00

You have been playing havoc on my mind lately. After all these years since we parted amicably and promised to let our mind, body, heart and soul R.I.P. You who I chose to set free over him who I loved.
You were a man of so few words and even fewer actions. He was more vociferous.You loved discreetly. He dared to love.
You stimulated, he titilated. You played on my mind, he played with the tits and tush. You let live, he was alive and spontaneous. You were conspicuous by your absence, he was overwhelming (sometimes even overbearing) with his presence. You wrote me long mesmerising letters, never mentioning those fateful words; he told me, at least twice a day and wrote them in bold in every card, note and letter.
You cared, appreciated, encouraged and understood. He loved, lusted, demanded, misunderstood. I chose him over you. A momentary lapse of reason? Or a moment's pragmatism? Still wonder, why you play havoc on my mind after all these years.

Mindgames

2007-02-28T21:49:00.000-08:00

I love living in mind. Weaving tales of romance, lust, longing and desire ; tales of fun, frolic and mysticism; tales of loneliness and despair, in the dark crevices of my warped mind. Tales I read out to myself, listen to wide eyed and mesmerised and then, live out, line by line, on my mind's proscenium. Lives I wish I had but would rather prefer to preserve as dreams, for as a friend rightly said, reality can never match up to them.

Sorting out

2007-01-09T03:22:00.000-08:00

Excuse me while I figure out my life.

I realised in the interim that less than a year's blogging has given me more friends than I could've found in a lifetime.

Heartfelt thanks to each one of you who has been around in some way or another.

New year, new look

2007-01-02T01:20:00.000-08:00

HERE'S TO A DELIGHTFUL, PLEASANT AND HAPPY NEW YEAR

Just thought I'd try a fresh look; start the year refreshed and relaxed. And hope its pays to dream. At least sometimes.

Small talk

2006-12-11T20:43:00.000-08:00

Guys, this one is for you, to balance out my sisterhood post. For all of you having problems choosing a sexy Christmas present for your wife/girlfriend. Here's help.
Now go, splurge on her!

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood

2006-12-11T00:46:00.000-08:00

Weird place this blog is. When I first started out, rather warily as a novice, it was only to comment on Urmi’s blog. Yes, it was that specific. Because, all these years that I’ve known her (sorry can’t really give the numbers, I’m severely mathematically challenged), we’ve only verbally interacted or at most chatted. So I had no clue just how well she wrote, when she deigned to write, that is. Purpose clearly defined, I had to set up a personal blog since, madam wouldn’t allow anonymous comments on her’s.

Once into blogosphere, like a toddler in playschool, I started discovering the wonders of this world. Since I’m also seriously technically challenged, I made Urmi’s blog my centrepoint from where I could branch out to read several others, most of whom were nameless heads, some merely names and some pseudonyms. To me of course, except for Urmi, no one really mattered. I simply dropped in to read good writing, because I couldn’t write to save my not-so-blooming life. I soon realized, it wasn’t all that easily to be an objective, emotionally uninvolved, casual reader. There were people out there who seemed like they read my mind, wrote about things that affected me, made me happy and even terribly annoyed me. Hellooooo. This is the kind of emotional bonding one feels for people. Not inanimate objects like a web log, for Heaven’s sake!

Upon some introspection, I realized, there were some blogs I got badly hooked on to. And these were the ones where I found some similarity with either my life or the way I thought about certain things in life. And, much to the utter surprise of some people who claim to know me rather well, they were blogs written by women. (I did read the men, too, so stop raising your eyebrows, right now!)

It must’ve been the subconscious, which unfortunately I still don’t seem to have any control over (damned, where are my powers of wizardry?). In spite of staying away from typically soppy, bitchy and opinionated women in real life, I was being drawn to mellifluous, pellucid, vitriolic and rather conceited posts! Damn! Damn! Damn!

But they were fun. To read and to comment upon. And thank God for the comments, that I developed a kind of familiarity with some of the people I read. Dawn of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood!

M(tread softly upon), being among the first such. Again, I’ve forgotten when I first read her, but it was an instant liking for this mysterious woman, who seemed to read my mind just too spookily well. Every time I read her, it is as if I know, I realize a little bit more about myself. I don’t know why or how, but somewhere along the way, she felt a similar closeness and we bonded, like reunited old friends. Or was it like siblings? Naaaaah! (Holding hand down and telling self, “Don’t get carried away, not just yet. Long way to go.”) Ok Clarification. So M’s a doc, she knows a little bit about psychiatry (you know, must have been part of her medical course) therefore, she just knows how the mind works and writes about such things fluently. And I, the emotional fool, like many others, only am drawn towards such spontaneous outburst of emotional feelings. Right M? (Winks)

Then there’s Princess B(itch). Let’s just say she’s just too much fun to ignore. She’s too old to be my daughter, and too young to be my sister, really. But the babe has just the kind of spunk and sweetness-tinged vitriol that excites me. Oh and yes, there’s something about the bandwidth too. 440MHz, Love?

And, finally a few months back, Urmi directed me to a certain lady who shared her surname, she told me. And was it a pleasure to discover Missus Em or what? A self- proclaimed dinosaur but with the zest of a twenty-year old. Not a glitch between the heart and the head in what she writes and how she writes it. The mistress of pickles, Lali emanates a warmth that can melt the most frozen person. For me, of course, she’s now my dictionary, encyclopaedia, agony aunt, my personal therapist, friend, sibling all rolled in to one. Phew, that lady knows how to juggle her roles, alright!

I can’t really say what Urmi means to me in a paragraph or even a whole book, so I’ll desist. Suffice to say, she’s a part of my existence.

Apart from Urmi, these are people I have no qualms sharing a bit of my personal self with and vice versa. These are my much needed girlfriends who I can virtually go off on trips with, fall back on or look up to. We each have minds of our own, we agree, we disagree, we agree to disagree on issues, we whine, crib, bitch, pat each other’s backs, we sympathise and empathise with as well as choose to ignore attention seeking behavioural disorders. We have the panacea for each other’s ills and we serve as an elixir of life. And of course, we share our little secrets of a happy, healthy and long youthful life.

Small pleasures of life

2006-12-01T03:12:00.000-08:00

It’s amazing how sometimes we’re overwhelmed by the simple pleasures of life. Like a few words of reassurance, a compliment, a look of the eyes that tells you it’s one of genuine concern, a squeeze of the hand, a kiss, a hug or even a phone call.

It’s a pity that we often overlook them in our daily grind and look for more expensive means to tackle our depression, insecurity, self doubt, self pity, and the works. And thanks to our myopic vision, the psychologists, marriage counsellors, education counsellors, and whathaveyous are having a field day out there.

Relationships and marriages are the worst sufferers. They are falling apart like nine pins because neither can take the stress at work and obviously they don’t have the patience or tolerance to hear each other out amicably once back home. The war’s given up even before it’s begun. They agree a third party intervention is essential to sort their personal matters out. And sharing confidential information with third parties always come for a price. A rather hefty one at that. But no worries, there’s enough disposable income to waste on the quirks. One’s pain and loss provides vicarious emotional and financial pleasure to another.

“Am in love” is a phrase that has been duly replaced with “Am going steady” “or am in a relationship”. Being in love, feeling the warmth of his/her presence, wallowing in love, blinded by love are all passé and one runs the risk of being branded an emotional fool. It’s all about a “workable relationship” now. Will it or won’t it work. Simple.

Move aside heart. Step in head. Don’t dream about those never-ending walks into the sunset or the cosy rain-soaked cuddle. Stay awake and just do it. (Ok , Ok, I know you do much more. Good for you!)

Don’t just plunge in and say “I love you.” Think of the kind of “investments” you need to make and the various “exit plans” you must keep handy before saying “I Do”.

Alas, why didn’t I think of these ever? Haven’t made any investments, nor do I have an exit plan. Just plunged into the deep end and swimming my way through. Is my future doomed? Or am I just being an incurable romantic?

At the risk of all those rotten tomatoes landing in my comment section, I'd still say: People, save that money, take some time off to sit down and look into each other’s eye, hold that hand, smile, hug and kiss. And, when you are miles away, just call. Priceless ways of working wonders on that mind and heart.

PS: For those of you who think I’m being extremely nyaka, go screw your happiness.

Censored

2006-11-26T23:27:00.000-08:00

Something inside this head has snapped. And it isn’t a very nice feeling. The world and its inhabitants seem a distant lot. To hell with it.

Detachment rules.

MOS code

2006-11-21T04:12:00.000-08:00

Liz Hurly’s reportedly carrying 13 outfits for her wedding while Lindsay Lohan changed thrice at a friend’s b’day party. These are celebrities and their tantrums. Then there are dappers like my N, who need to change with the times of the day, especially when on a holiday. You’ll never catch him in the same clothes throughout the day. And, it’s not just for the photos, because he’s rarely in them, preferring to click us. Sample this. If we’re going out for a long weekend, which means max three days, N necessarily carries at least 9 shirts/t-shirts, 2 pairs of jeans, a pair of cargoes and a pair of cool linen chinos. Need I say what size of suitcase I need to carry if it’s for 7-10 days?

These are people suffering from Multiple Outfit Syndrome (MOS). They just can’t be happy with what they wear. The Adman that he is, N’s extremely brand conscious and nitpicks while shopping for his clothes. Oh, and it can’t be just the brand. It has to be the right colour combinations, the cut and the style. And of course, he knows best, the long and the short of them. And funnily enough, the man has a body that fits into a 38, a 40 and a 42 size with equal panache. Ok, I’m talking about the casuals here, the branded formals are almost always 40. But if he falls in love with something that he must own, size doesn’t really matter. He manages to fit in, and the snugger, the better.

The story was quite different a little more than a decade ago. (P sits down with her coffee, to tell a long story. )

When we first started dating, or let’s put it this way, when I left him no option but to date me, when he was this bespectacled JUDEan , the norm was a full-sleeved semi-formal shirt, properly tucked in to a pair of jeans or semi-formal trousers. I’d never, yes, never seen him in a half sleeved shirt, torn jeans or any thing else that could be remotely considered cool and casual. Dressing down for him meant at most, a kurta and jeans!

You know what they say about a man being known by the company he keeps, right? So it was my schemes and his brain. A lethal combo that drove him all the way to MICA and, that my friends, was the turning point of this match. In two years, there emerged an ad rookie. Beau Brummel knew all about brands and their case histories, how to position, manage and market them. I gradually found out, he even wore some brands on his sleeve. The man had fallen prey to his own profession and with age, the sense of dressing has acquired a style and class that is most often envied more than it is admired.

The wardrobe which used to have only whites, off whites, pale and pastel shades, solids and checks, now has almost every hue and shades of them from a dark purple to an ultra marine blue in checks, stripes, geometric patterns, floral prints and other weird and stylish prints. Oh and the sleeves have gotten shorter too.

In trousers and jeans, he’s moved over from the staid pleated to the flat fronts, chinos and the cargoes. I see there are courdroys, frayed, faded but not tattered jeans, cargoes with 6-8 pockets ( haven’t tried figuring out why he needs that many) and white linen trousers, which I firmly believe look more like pyjamas, but am told, it’s the ‘in’ thing. Sigh! In short, he hates admitting it, but considers himself quite a Candy man, and knows more about men’s fashion than even my Dad, now!

Ladies and gentlemen, in the last few years, he’s spent a sizeable fortune on clothes and needless to say that he occupies, 3/4ths of the three wardrobes, with G and I just about managing to wrangle a couple of shelves each.

But recently, the man’s not been fitting into his pants, thanks to a bulging paunch. Considering he’s a teetotaler, don’t ask me where he got that from. Something he’s always hated and the only thing he’s been particular not to acquire all this while. He’s been complaining about it for sometime, but of course the fat annual fees at Talwalkar’s is only accumulating interest for the gym, because Beau Brummel has absolutely no time to indulge in such luxuries, bijee man that he is. For the first time today, I heard him resign to fate, caressing his little potbelly, “I hope this is truly a sign of prosperity.”

Inshallah! Amen!
I hope so too, Dude.

Wingdings

2006-11-17T01:09:00.000-08:00

G wants wings so she can fly. Green wings (Environmentalist, that she already is), to be precise. This emanated from a conversation that went something like this:

“Mumma, see mermaid" (pointing to its picture on her fancy glass).

I smile and give a pseudo-excited look with a ‘Hmm’ while trying to shove a spoonful into her mouth.

“Mermaids fly in the water?” (never imagined, but worth a thought now)

“No, Baby, they swim under water.”

“Then, only birds fly?”

With a ear-to-ear grin, I say “Yeesss”. (Hoping I had sealed the Q&A session and could get on with the never-ending dinner.)

“Why do they fly?” (Oh no!)

“Because they have wings.” Then a quick quiz, “What else can fly? Tell me, tell me.”

“Plane (With a very distinct Duh, Mumma! look). You can also fly, Mumma?”

“No, I don’t have wings.”

“Why don’t you have wings?”

(Err ummm…) "Because God didn’t give me." (Ok, P, gerrout of the Standard mode and get a wee bit more creative now, willya?) I need to be very careful what I tell G, because, the Resident Lawyer decides to catch us off-guard and cross check every once in a while on certain circumstantial arguments provided to her. And the midget has an elephantine memory. So God help you if you retract or tweak your arguments.

G, very authoritatively, “Tell God to give you wings and me also(sic). OK? I want green wings. You get blue and Puppa will take red! OK?" (shaking the index finger at me)

"OK, Dahlin'!"

Wings in myriad hues to take us all where we want to go. How I wish, such wishes were granted. Philosophy was never my cuppa, so instead of indulging in it, I’ve been wondering how to grant G her wish, indulgent Mom that I am. The first thought was to call the Fleeting Fairy for a solution. But she has exams and papers to deal with. Then I considered my very own, 911, the Lilting Lark. But she, I thought would be busy making pasta or solving her anagrams. So wracked my utterly non-creative, useless brain for a change. But alas! I don’t have a green dupatta to make-do with. (Digression: In fact, my wardrobe is devoid of green. I hate the colour as much as I hate the smell of a rose.) So for now, I settle on the wings of poesy (the oft-recited nursery rhymes) and take her on flights of fancy either on Alladin’s magic carpet or on the Prince’s pristine white horseback.

Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax are waiting in the wings with the broomsticks.

(P.S.: I just realised, our blogs are becoming very incestuous)

Passion fruit

2006-11-15T22:07:00.000-08:00

The dancing Toots has revived many a fond memory and I am not sure, I like it. I don't like it simply because I miss it. Once upon a time, it was a passion. The term passion, and its adverb passionately, often express a very strong predilection for any pursuit, or object of taste -- a kind of enthusiastic fondness for anything. -- Cogan.

It wasn't just strong, it was almost a compulsion, a very thin line separated the obsession from the passion. I haven't a clue why my insightful (almost psycho, she just knew everything) Ma admitted me to a traditional Bharatnatyam dancing school the same day I started pre-school at two-and-a-half years. But since then, except for a brief break due to a stomach injury, I have trained in Bharatnatyam for 15 long and painful years; every Wednesday, come rain, sunshine, high fever or whathaveyou I'd go on my weekly pilgrimage to Mastermoshai to exercise my skills in Bhava, Rasa, Tala and Natyam - the core that comprise Bharatanatyam.

Mastermoshai wasn't a very hard task master but a sweet old man who knew and recognised talent. Once I’d grown out of the initial infatuation for the jingling sound of the ghungroo, as a toddler, he initiated me into my first mudras and the first steps of Aduvu. From that day onwards, I happened to be his blue-eyed girl. In the early years, it was more the enthusiasm to learn something new, a little about peer pressure and a fancy dream about being a star performer, someday.

I wouldn't just go to class to learn the steps, it was not just about dancing, but observing the others ( the seniors, really) and making mental notes of improvising certain postures, because the mudras and the aduvus were sacrosanct. They were what comprised nritta, that is dance in its purest form. But it was natya (the dramatic art, a language of gestures, poses and mime) and nritya (a combination of nritta and natya) where one had the scope to develop one's skills as a dancer. That's where my greater interests lay.

With each passing year, as I progressed from Alaripu to Jatisvaram (thanks Lali) and mastered more complicated steps of Shabdam, Varnam and Padam it was more about internalizing my ability to express happiness, anger, sorrow, fear and the works. I realized, they all happened rather naturally. I could do the various steps in my head ten times over while Ma was screaming her guts out at me for not living up to some expectation or another. I could break into Jatisvaram when I was depressed and I’d soon feel better.

By the time I had flexed every muscle in my body and used every part of my face to delineate Tillana, dance had become more a way of life, a spiritual expression of corporeal angst.

I've been on stage since the age of 4 or maybe younger, I don't remember, and from the photographs I recall now, I'd always be centrestage, which meant all eyes would naturally be on me and that I guess impelled me to know, to learn and to imbibe every step that much better.

It’s been over 15 years now since I even attempted a mudra or an aduvu. Years ago, back then in the Jurassic age of classical dancing, I was a bit of a puritan (and a snoot), even as a child, since I looked down upon those gyrating movements that were passed off as dance in Bollywood flicks. Over the years, I have grown immune to the Karishma Kapoors, Kimi Katkars and more recently Rakhi Sawants and Isha Koppikars of the world. But, today, I am forced to do the same shakin’ your booties stuff at sundry discotheques or parties as they do. I don’t like disappointing friends. So I stand amidst the crowd and shift in my shoes.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against modern dance, as long as it has tala, laya, that is it’s rhythmic and graceful. But alas, even those basics are often not there. The TV show Nach Baliye is a classic example to the point. There are couples with two left feet, who can’t dance to save their lives and yet, they are there on stage, making royal fools of themselves, shamelessly so. I feel angry when I see such stuff.

Before anger consumes me, I should end this long rant. But, let me tell you, “I could’ve danced all night, and still have asked for more.”

VGLDSW Day

2006-11-09T01:26:00.000-08:00

Ladies, beautiful ladies, good looking ladies, very good looking ladies, smart ladies, damned smart ladies, I am reliably informed that today be International Very Good Looking Damn Smart Woman's Day. So come my bevy of fellow VGLDS women, let us virtually gather here to celebrate our special day.

Dress code: Sexiest dress in your wardrobe- noodlestraps, strapless, backless, halternecks, mini skirts, shorts, the works. This is your chance to flaunt your booty and show it all. (Oh yeah, the mothers of 1,2 or more, do tuck in those tummies with a good fitting corsette, honeybuns.)
Accessorise self adequately. Get those Louis Vuitton, Liz Claiborne, Prada, GAP bags and shoes to match your dresses. (yeah, yeah yeah just go, ransack the guy's wallet, his money, credit cards et al.) Oh and please, do get the right tone of foundation. White, patchy faces look ghastly.
Once you are here, we can start comparing notes and check out who's the smartest of us all, ok?

Cuisine: Men and booze. We shall make steaks, sizzlers, sausages and mince meat of them and wash them down with vodka (orange-twist, anyone?), bloody mary , tequila shots and sex-on-the-beach.

See you soon, babes!

Men: good looking, smart or otherwise, you are requested to escort the aforementioned women and patiently await their return in your respective cars (Do hire the best looking ones, please, if you don't own one yet) .

I have company

2006-11-06T23:38:00.000-08:00

I have just too many things craving for my attention; too many ideas dying to be shaped into something remotely readable and too many people seeking my company. And here I am just not knowing how to handle such celebrity status vonly. First, I try to prioritise my work, then the people I want to give company to and finally try sorting out the ideas. The work, has to be done, there isn't an option there. The better half and best quarter must be given ample quality time, so the ideas can play "Me first" and chew my brain till I find some time for them.
For now, of course, all eyes are on the newest member of my extended family. My good friend R gave birth to this bonny 3.8 kg dude on Nov 2. A cherub he is, with swollen pink cheeks, a saintly smile and chinky eyes. A mini monk now, till the tail grows ;) In the meantime, a raging debate has ensued in the confines of the hospital room on who he resembles - "the lower half of the face is like R's Mom, the upper half like S" was one line of thought. The other authoritative line was "looks just like S" (including the height. S is a six footer and the baby's really tall,too) And amidst all the argument and counter-argument, our man sleeps peacefully without a care in the world. He might as well finish his quota now, before the world descends upon him.

G's most excited about R'baby (the whole family's identity revolves around my friend R- R'mashi, R'kaku, R'mamma and so on). She of course wanted a baby girl, so her initial reaction was " Naaa, it's a baby girl!" and she insisted on referring to R'baby as "she". After some patient explaining, she agreed to accept 'him' and play with trains and cars with him and initiate him into the world of SPD, Pokemon and Spiderman. She was busy choosing gifts for the baby at the toy shop the other day - dinosaurs, rattles and such like. Now we must visit R baby everyday to monitor his daily progress. The most delightful part of my daily routine, the only one i really look forward to, apart from meeting G after a painful and gruelling 11 hours, everyday.

R'baby hasn't yet been christened. But he was born in the wee hours of the "Don". Like it or not R, I did warn you, if it's Nov 2nd, it just has to be... the one and only... Bad Shah! (evil grin)

Birthday bumps

2006-10-31T02:57:00.000-08:00

I took G to a birthday party on Saturday. An old college friend’s son’s. Needless to say then, it was a gathering of probashi bangalis at the town’s hottest party spot, Pizza Corner. I’ve mentioned before, I love their party organizing skills. Nothing short of impeccable. Long live outsourcing! So, while the friendly pizzaboys and girls conducted the games for the kids and handed out the winner’s gifts, the accompanying parents huddled together to talk shop.

There was a clear divide between the hep Bong and not-so-hep non-Bong Moms. There was that Cosmo-educated Mom who looked almost ready to replace the cover babe from the magazine; the seasoned jean-clad mother of two, with a figure those 22-year olds would die for; then there was the non-Bong Mom in sequined capris who first wanted to know where my hubby worked, based on which she’d decide how snooty she would be next time she met me on the road; there was the paavam, trying-to-be-hep Amma and finally, there was the quintessential Bong Ma.

The conversation of the hep lot essentially veered around the recently released movies, aka Don, Dor and Devil Wears Prada. (I swear I didn’t make that alliteration up!) and there was actually someone who hadn’t seen the original. So obviously she “quite liked” the new Don as did her kids. Thankfully, everyone else acquiesced the remake was F’all (ok so this is my language, because they were all prim and propah, unlike me). And that SRK sucks. I was impressed muchly by such sublime intelligence of the most superfluous Moms. Coincidentally( ok, so there isn’t anything called coincidence, big deal), none of us have watched the other two. Promptly, Yours Truly floated the idea of a Mom’s Day Out to catch both the movies. Sadly, both have gone from the theatres, but seeds of a MDO have been sowed (evil grin), nice and deep into the kitschy crania. And while they were planning the day out, I picked up sound bytes of “No, now they hab pheeneeshed that, they hab staarted counting huwith their phingaars.” I turned around to see her animatedly showing how to count with the fingers to the other equally engrossed two Non-Bong non-hep Moms. “They are now counting backwards, sebhen, seex, phaibe, phour, like this…” The hep Moms too caught the drift of the conversation and giggled and smirked condescendingly at their neighbours, faces conscientiously turned to the wall. In the meantime, talks moved further on to homework and such like which I chose to ignore to save my sanity.

Amazing though, hep Moms or no, the boys all go to the same school, the most renowned school in this city of soon to be has-beans.

As for self, felt quite out of place, honestly, since I belonged to neither group and had only a pretty Cinderella-esque daughter to dote on, while I mentally noted points for this blog. Whattosay, I’m just lovin’ it. To be at your service, that is.

Holiday Hullaballoo

2006-10-29T23:17:00.000-08:00

Holidays are the most anticipated few days of our lives, no matter which stage of life we are in. Of course, the connotation of a holiday has evolved over the decades quite disproportionately with our disposable incomes, but we shall not grudge that, shall we?

As school kids, summer and pujo vacations, more than the winter one, were the few months of freedom we desperately longed for. And of course, planning for a vacation was the only topic of discussion at the dinner table or during a drive to a boring relative. At that stage, the execution of the plan was of course, the parents’ dull job and I was happy to have accomplished mine by merely suggesting a preferred locale. Not that I always got a chance to do that either. But never really cared much as long as I knew I didn’t have to stay home in Calcutta for at least 10 of the 30 days! And those were the best days of my life! (Please note that we were angels as kids, never demanding such things like a resort with swimming pool, AC, TV etc. during a holiday). So whether it was closer to home in Darjeeling, Kalimpong or Hazaribag or a little further off to Agra, Nainital or Ranikhet or even Goa, I have wonderful memories of each vacation. Over the years, of course, I started getting bored of accompanying them on holidays so summer holidays were invariably pilgrimages to cousins in Delhi (yes, 5 weeks of the scorching summer were spent in utter bliss at the then happening places. Don’t ask for details please that was 20 years ago!!)

I stopped going on holidays once cousins left Delhi and life found other excitement in creatures such as boyfriends. Vacations were the only time when we could find friendly alibis in even our worst enemies and go for movies or spend time together over never ending games of Scrabble (yes, in those days life wasn’t all about ball games, you see, so we were happy to indulge in sundry boardgames) or Boggle( again, very mind boggling stuff!)

Post marriage, holidays have been great fun. Family holidays have been few, in fact just that one to Goa and another Down Under. But we have a close knit group of friends who we go out with and so far, touchwood, each one, whether it was to Gadiara (West Bengal) or to Bangkok, has been a riot. The reason I’ve enjoyed myself to the hilt, I realized, is because I wasn’t the one planning any of these holidays! One of the friends was with Thomas Cook so we really just had to land up at the destination and the rest were very well taken care of. Tension-free, adulterated fun is all that mattered.

This time it’s a little different. The friends have decided to descend upon us, in namma Bengaluru. And from here, they want to go on a “holiday” together. Having been made hosts, we’re expected to organise the tours and sightseeing plans. And to be the perfect hosts, all bookings must be done well in advance to avoid any disappointment, especially since the period of travel is between December 22 and 26. They couldn’t have chosen a better “peak season”. So the last few days have been spent on surfing the Net for the best possible package since someone wants the forest, another wants the hills, and yet another the beaches! Never had to contend with such variety. South India does provide all these and more, but to chalk out a route map and then book the hotels all within a given budget? The Planning Director has been very proactive, especially since they are, strictly speaking, his friends and their respective wives. But there’s been some shared responsibilities, especially the hotel surfing and booking. The route map’s chalked out, thankfully, and no, we’re not pandering to everyone’s tastebuds. Just not possible. They get what we give. And I’m just short of going completely bonkers. The more the options, the more the confusion. If the photo on the net is decent enough, a phone call proves just how inefficient the service will be. Not only do I not want to go on a holiday, I don’t even want to play host now. But for the sheer fun of it, I don’t want to miss out on it either. So let’s just go on a holiday guys, and the more unplanned and adventurous it is, the better it will turn out, trust me on this! (pleading, with folded hands).

PS: This is my first post on my recently acquired new toy: a laptop. Thanks to my company, they thought I needed one to work from home. Ya right! They have no clue of the work I’ll now be doing from the cozy workstation. So there, my Angels, satiate those curious minds;)

Time Will Tell

2006-10-18T01:13:00.000-07:00

Time heals. And can some wise soul please tell me just how? Is it a balm or is Time the doc with the magical hands that every patient desires to touch and feel? If he's a doc, has someone bothered to check his credentials? So far, He hasn't healed any of my wounds. Not those my parents inflicted, neither those the sons of bitches caused, not the ones so called friends imposed and certainly not those that were meted out in the name of love. These wounds keep oozing pus every once in a while and those mental band-aids soak, so I change them and stick on fresh ones. But for how long?

Can't I be stricken with selective amnesia, at least?

There are theories and there are theories on Time the healer, the ravages of time, on wasting it and managing it. Have you ever stopped to think just how controversial they all are. If it's a healer, why does it plunder, in the first place? If it is wasted, then why bother to manage it? No seriously, I'm as boggled by the theory of the healer as by spiels on how to manage time effectively so you can fit in the world's chores and yours and yet hit the bed at midnight with a smile on your lips and a rush of adrenalin in your body, ready to take on the same circus next day and the day after.
How long, just how long can I keep the facade going?
Time will tell, I guess.

Do Not Disturb

2006-09-29T01:17:00.000-07:00

I’m thoroughly enjoying my new found status of a superwoman. So, I’d appreciate if you don’t come looking for a new post here, every once in a while. Writing posts, sadly, isn’t part of my joblist, nor can I wangle time out to write one for your reading pleasure.

However, if anybody needs tips on housekeeping, cooking, taking care of a three-year old (and that includes feeding, changing clothes, cleaning poo, doing jigsaws, practising writing numbers and alphabets, reading stories) and managing a full time job, look no further.

I shall be happy to dole out free advice. Come be my guest, till I post again.

Shhh...

2006-09-06T01:23:00.000-07:00

Secrets. We thrive on them. Nothing makes us lonelier than our closely guarded ones. Sometimes there’s more fear than delight in them. But the sinful pleasures of a secret are rather delectable. So we all have some to give us company in our various moods.

As kids, the excitement of sharing the silliest of secrets far superceded our wisdom to lock it up in the chest and lose the key. The Secret Seven series added gallons of fuel to the untamable fire. And we used to have our “secret” meetings in attics or on terrace tops, which sometimes entailed dangerous trekking. But our fluttering hearts then knew no fear. The “secret” plans hatched for no intimidating purpose, were rarely ever implemented, because it was the process that mattered, not the outcome.

In our adolescence, the secrets became a tad graver as we learnt to distinguish between the silly and not so silly things in life. Accordingly, we chose to share or not to share them with our buddies. Of course, the “best friend” knew of them all. Secrets were usually about the dudes we were eyeing, or secretly wished to date (Of course I didn’t know a thing about it then!) and such like. The first boyfriend was a well-guarded secret from parents. The clandestine meetings held, romantic billets exchanged and sundry phoney-calls were secrets only close buddies knew of.

As social dynamics change and age catches up with us, I realize we have more secrets to keep rather than to tell or share. Some our own, some shared with us for safekeeping.

Within a given social circle again, there are grades of secrecy. Some are family secrets, best kept away from prying neighbours and snoopy extended family members; a slip of tongue and you’ve had it. There are other secrets that are shared for the sole purpose of it spreading like wild fire which n. no of fire engines cannot douse. (To hell with the world!)

Then of course, there are those that must necessarily be kept from the spouse. And please don’t jump at me with lectures on honesty in relationships and whathaveyou. Go, Look into any man's heart you please, and you will always find, in every one, at least one black spot which he has to keep concealed- Henrik Ibsen. You do ogle at a goodlooking hulk or a hot chick when travelling, walking, jogging or at the gym and now you even have your virtual toyboys/sugar daddies (thanks Lali). At times, for a fleeting moment, certain sinful desires do flit across your mind. It’s only human. You don’t have to go and talk about it. Some things are best not told to the significant other. Hence, they too qualify as “secrets”. I’m only promoting peace, if you get my drift. If you have to share it, come tell me, you'll feel far lighter;)

Personally, I’m the most generous person on earth and a good samaritan. Therefore, I believe in sharing my wealth, be it intangible stuff like information or tangible goods such as my money, rather than keeping them. Besides, as the great Mr Shaw said, The only secrets are the secrets that keep themselves. So why to take tension only?

Cell-o-feign

2006-08-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

I think I'll just cease to exist. Too much I don't know about. And the more I get to know, the more amazed I am.
Mobile phones now have a new kind of cover I'm told. And guess what the covers are known as? Hold your breath ( Yes Lali, do your pranayama :P)! Condom Covers.
So much info packed into those two words.
Did you know, your cellphone was male, did you? No, I didn't either. But now I do.
I now also know:
Why we women just can't do without one;
Why we are oh sooo emotionally and physically attached to one;
Why more often than not we are so busy fingering, smooching and caressing one;
Why we just can't take our eyes off a goodlooking one;
Why it invariably dies on us just when we have some interesting gossip to pass on;
Why we can never find it, just when we need it;
Why we get so irritated with their ringtones;
Why we get bored of one so easily;
Why we need to change one so often;
Now I know!

Just how much can it really cover up? All that MMS'ing prone to spreading STD, eh? Iye maane, what next?

Dangling conversation

2006-08-22T01:50:00.000-07:00

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high….Where words come out from the depth of truth…

I’m no patriot, thank you. I have a habit of taking words at their face value and making them suit my purpose. These words are just some of them. I’m told I have a tongue sharper than the sharpest knife and a mind so transparent that you can see through it. Hence, I call a spade a spade, a bitch a bitch and an ass an ass, sometimes with a smile on my lips, sometimes gruffly and at other times with a straight face. Hello, I am an extrovert. What did you expect? Some interpret it as tactlessness, others think I’m too brusque while there are still others who think I’m conceited, hence condescending; and my fistful of really close people, don’t think, they know. They know me for what I’m worth, thankfully.

Unfortunately, the number of people I cannot hold in my fist is an overwhelming majority. The miserable sods! More often than not, my humour falls flat on them, they choose to misunderstand me and then fabricate vicious yarns that are delectably pickled as they trickle down from one to another, irrevocably complicating matters. And all this post a personal chat or some such.

But this is the age of virtual communication. And most conversations are happily left dangling. People talk to near, dear and loved ones through Skype, as much as we chat with total strangers, through MSM &Yahoo messengers, over Gtalk or in virtual chatrooms! They, in fact, talk, chat, flirt, even fornicate online these days! (Fuck leaky condoms, someone tell those latex manufacturers, it can't get safer than this!) They have the license to avoid, ignore, scream at, kiss, hug, and even kill:P just by keying in the right words, with little or no emotional scruples whatsoever and no shelf-life. So, if you are mad at someone or totally in awe of another one day, you can kiss and make up or boot the infatuation out the next day. There is hardly anything personal in things virtual. And, the intonation of written words is easy to misinterpret. If the way you talk can stir up a hornet’s nest, imagine the damage that a written word can cause, if misinterpreted.

It’s happened with me. Something written in good humour has been taken to heart and nasty emails have landed in my unsuspecting mailbox, only to screw my Monday morning. It must be my inability to use words correctly, or my vanity. I don’t know, I just say what comes to my mind, you like it or not. I can’t say something and feel/do another. I wasn’t born Janus, so where do I get another face from? Hyprocrisy isn’t a word I take to very kindly. I am what I am. Don’t talk to me if you don’t get my sense of humour, or if you can’t withstand my honesty. The choice is yours, just like I have the right to approve or disapprove with your point of view. So let’s just:

… sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In The Dangling Conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.

Memoirs of a Lifetime

2006-08-18T05:28:00.000-07:00

Calcutta’d been on my mind for the past few weeks. The change that resident Calcuttans have been propagating and visitors have been singing paeans about had to be experienced first hand. But more importantly, I had to meet the people, who still find the city so eminently livable and wouldn’t dream of leaving it for any other bilious coloured pasture. So there I was on an extended weekend.

I’m back now from the most hectic but lovely trip to Calcutta. From the moment I landed, till I was ready to board the flight, again in just 72 hours I think I have lived almost three-fourths of my life with people I’d never met before and would surely have died a deprived woman, if I didn’t make the effort this time round. Oh and must add, I’m very glad certain self-important people stayed away thus saving me a whole lot of impolite and unsocial behaviour.

Sunday evening with Lali and Rimi (and please ignore her comments about my looks, she’s just a myopic child) was by far the longest and the best, on hindsight. The dark chocolate icecream, tempered with some juicy gossip rendered a divine flavour, to put it mildly. In fact, so much so that I didn’t even feel the agony, of holding the most delightful conversation in impeccable English without interspersing sentences with kancha bangla khistis (err..sorry Lali dear, am going to desist explaining that for you;) Mustn’t taar my reputation, after all:P) And honestly, what’s an adda session without lapsing into profanities:P ?

The next evening, which was supposed to be a full fledged blogmeet was almost washed out, but for the locational proximity to the Khiladi No.1 and his accomplished actress. Discussions on Tamil film actresses and common acquaintances were sufficiently spiced up with Potato wedges in sour cream dip, chicken fingers and roast chicken sandwich. Toots was guileless enough to confess ( you little hog, u;)) she could be bought over with food, so I ensured they ate, while I nibbled and listened intently to most interesting nuggets of information, which I have been sworn to secrecy about;) Hence, you die a deprived lot!

There were other non-bloggers and my regular friends who made my stay immensely enjoyable. I was so engrossed in meeting people that I actually forgot to gorge on the rolls and phuchkas, people. Urmi says, she’s prolly going to disown me for “forgetting to eat” if I don’t kill myself before that, that is. However, I didn’t forget to go and collect my little pickle gift from Lali, which I shall savour till my next trip, whenever that maybe. Thanks dear.

As you can see, I really couldn’t care for the makeover or metamorphosis the city has gone through, but there are some people there, I would love to go back to, over and over again.

Coming of Age

2006-08-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

I have certainly come of age. Bone degeneration has set in, so says my Ortho, who's been treating me for an excruciating back and neck pain for the last few weeks and my physiotherapist makes it a point to psyche me out every morning with the possible fatalities if I don't follow the doc's advice, while she's giving me the rubs ( I admit the men make far better physios, though I had the pleasure of his rub just for a day:P).

But it's my evil little G who makes me feel really out of place these days. She educates me about the ways certain things are done, such as folding and keeping her clothes and things in order, switching on the TV and the accessories to put in a Chip & Dale CD for her exclusive viewing pleasure, and follows it up with a sweet reprimand "Tumi jaano na?"(Don't you know?). She wants to help me in my chores, prolly because she senses the effort that I need to put in even to beat an egg. "I want to help you do the 'gulgul', Mamma". The resultant mess of course is none of her business to clear up. But she wants to be carried and shown how the omelette turns out. I love the proactiveness, especially since the other half avoids the kitchen like the AIDS.

She's also my in house fashionista. Not only does she know what matches with what, right from her undies to the clothes to her shoes, she also makes sure both N & I match up to her style before we leave the house! The other day I wore one of my weird mix adn match ensembles to work (a magenta short kurti with just a simple turquoise blue floral embroidery along the V neck and turquoise blue block printed churidaar with a turquoise printed chiffon dupatta), which she didn't see as she was away at school. But when she went to pick me up from work, which is part of her daily evening routine, her first exclamation on seeing me: " Eta ki porecho? (What are you wearing?) Eta ki match kore? (taking the dupatta inher hand and pointing to my kurti) Of course, I thought it did and told her so quite nonchalantly but was promptly glared back at and told "Na. Tumi kichhu jano na." ( You know nothing) Indeed! If only I knew what is to follow. Like a wet cat I mewed and accepted my ignorance about all things fashionable. Did you even know how to wear your undies when you were three years old?

The icing on the cake came last night. N came in really late and after the initial excitement, both father and daughter plonked themselves on the bed, exhausted. N, as is his wont, started irritating her by calling her sundry silly names. Unperturbed, the toddling young lady shot back at him with "Hey Sexy"! and shut him up for good. I hope N won't ever try eve-teasing again, at least not three-year olds!
As for me, I age humbly.

Bundle of contradictions

2006-07-26T01:32:00.000-07:00

It's been quite a while now and I assume no one's missed me. So I won't get into explanations. But if you insist, Lalita's pretty much put the reasons together, much better than I could have. The world's been busy with blasts, wars, roadblocks, oh sorry, blog blocks, public neck rubs, a prince in the pit, an unrequitted lover stabbing his lady love 36 times and confessing his crime, and the MSM was there to write about all this and much more to pander to the average taste buds; while I tried to figure out where I fit in to these scheme of things.
Fortunately or unfortunately for me, I don't fit in anywhere. That kind of leaves me pretty much orphaned and a destitute. I live in the midst of the madding crowd, but in my own little island comprising of my one and a half people. So my posts are essentially about my life, or my extended life that includes my four and a quarter friends. But one doesn't feel the need to talk about or write about it always because I assume my two and a half readers wouldn't be interested in what's bothering, motivating, inspiring or irritating me, though they may want to be a part of my happiness. But then again I assume too much, as a wise friend tells me.
The bottomline is, I don't want to write for the heck of writing and subject the world to more misery, not unless I am sure I have content I'd like to share with the world and I know the world would enjoy reading it. It is a different matter that most of the time I wonder whether I should or should not write, in the first place.
And, as I have mentioned in an earlier post, I'm horribly, terribly technologically challenged, so I haven't a clue about site trackers and whathaveyou to tell me what brings readers, if they bring any at all, to my site. So I am eternally suffering from a lack of ideas. Therefore, the best excuse is to sayI suffer from a writer's block. That conveniently takes care of my mental as well as physical disabilities. So I happily get away with it.
And right now I realise, that I am happily contradicting what I said at the very begininning, that I shall not get into explanations.
But that's how I am -- a bundle of contradictions.

Fortune Teller - II

2006-07-10T05:21:00.000-07:00

First I was told a pleasant surprise awaits me. Considering it's been a heartbreaking Sunday for more reasons than I had anticipated and, of course, the bloody cynic that I am, I paid no heed to it. As the day progressed amidst silent tears, a tought battle to reconcile with the untimely demise of a very dear relative and final proof-reads before putting the magazine to bed, I was informed I have an unusual equipment for success and that I should use it properly. The mind boggles at the possibilities.

Corrigendum

2006-07-04T21:45:00.000-07:00

This one's via email from a friend. But we know how our Indian newspapers are, don't we?

These four classified ads appeared in a newspaper on four consecutive days. The last three hopelessly trying to correct the first day's mistake.

MONDAY: For sale - SK Shah has a sewing machine for sale. Phone 2555-0707 after 7PM and ask for Mrs Mani who lives with him cheap.

TUESDAY: Notice: We regret having erred in SK Shah's ad yesterday. It should have read, "One sewing machine for sale cheap. Phone 2555-0707 and ask for Mrs Mani, who lives with him after 7PM."

WEDNESDAY: Notice: SK Shah has informed us that he has received several annoying telephone calls because of the error we made in the classified ad yesterday.The ad stands correct as follows: "For sale - SK Shah has a sewing machine for sale. Cheap. Phone 2555-0707 after 7PM and ask for Mrs. Mani who loves with him.

THURSDAY: Notice: I, SK Shah, have no sewing machine for sale. I smashed it. Don't call 2555-0707 as I have had the phone disconnected. I have not been carrying on with Mrs. Mani. Until yesterday, she was my housekeeper but she quit.

Fortune teller

2006-07-03T03:00:00.000-07:00

I hate these vague fortune tellers. Some wise man or whoever, tells me that "This is the time to try something new." Something new? (All excited and perked up at the thought of landing a plush job that will be make me rich and famous) Like what? But of course, nothing elucidated. The sentence doesn't even end in a fullstop. So how do we interpret an open-ended sentence like that?
Try on a new dress, sport a new hairstyle? Check out the new stylish bags or the shoes at all the friggin' malls? Try walking backwards when actually moving ahead? Sit on my desk and put my PC on the chair and try typing with my toes? Try making dosai with tissue paper, water and Jasmine oil(that's as innovative as they can get here)? Have a relationship with a gorilla? Replace the nouns with the verbs and the adjectives with the adverbs to invent a brand new language?
How about a new job instead, Dude? One that pays phenomenally to just sit around, chat, blogsurf, and sometimes even post. But of course, no one needs a nincompoop, a dimwit and a psycho running amock polluting their workplace. So what the eff is NEW?
Maybe I should just put up a brave front and walk into some editor's room, hold him by the collar and scream JOB WANTED in his face. For I'm also told Fortune does favour the brave. Hrrmph!

Comm Comm

2006-06-27T01:14:00.000-07:00

The population of desperate males has suddenly shot up much like our Indian stock market. And the products of their intellectual masturbation are to be seen all over the sundry Net communities - Hi5, Orkut and now Zorpia. Was dragged into the last one by the Fairy and boy o boy! Is it infested with weird creatures so eager to make "nice friendship".
Sample this: Hi Priyadarshini, How r u Doing. Hope this mail finds U in Great Spirit & Cheerfull mood. I would love to have ur friendship . I am Rakesh, I am from Bangalore, I work as software engineer in Bangalore. I am 5'9" height, well build, very sportive, fun loving, loves to enjoy my life always, loves to appreciate & respect others feelings,I'm jovial, Humurous. I love travelling, beaches, Music, dance. I am basically sports freek, loves to play lots of sports like soccer, tennis & cricket. I am presently staying alone in bangalore. I wnat to convey that UR Profile is really very attractive .I feel U r very creative & passonate abt life, & I am also the same. I am eagerly looking forward to our nice friendship. pls keep in touch, I Hope to have u as my friend . U can also mail me at my personal ID dashingblue007@yahoo.com Keep in touch Priyadarshini. I am looking forward to cherrish every moment of our nice friendship. Pls feel free to call me on my mobile 98453-67225, i would love to speak to u . Take care Priyadarshini. Lots of Luv, Rakesh ( UR Admirer ). Mobile : 98453-67225

Now this is what I call a real gogetter! I have absolutely no clue what makes my profile so very attractive, considering there's no photo and almost nothing said about m'self. And, he feels I'm "creative and passonate"...FREEK[sic]! Where the eff did that come from?
Some dashing dude, this one!

I'm being subjected to another kind of mail, too. I've been invited to join the kay-matrimonial group. Please note kay is a shorter version of Kayasthya. (How keeewwl!) Boy, they've even found out my caste! Says: More Than 25000 kayastha comunity[sic] Marriageable Bio-Data of Brides and Grooms From different kayastha Sections. I mean how do these search engines assume stuff like unmarried or divorcee or married but still interested in an EMA. Talk about intruding my privacy. For those of us happily married, despite all the happiness, I don't think we'd ever wanna go that route again (at least not unless we've settled for a nice fat multi-crore alimony from the present one and signed a contract with the prospective one on the same, before walking down the aisle:P).

But as N argues, look at the brighter side of things. "Even at your age and with your hideous looks, people are interested in you," he says.

To Sir, with Love!

2006-06-21T00:28:00.000-07:00

Dear JAP,

Your wish is my command. So this is handpicked (ok ok, so it's Netflicked, whatever) just for your boorish pleasure.

Hope much joy comes,

Yours truly.

The Narcissist

2006-06-20T04:36:00.000-07:00

The face it says a million words
Those eyes, that smile
Camouflage the chronic pain that corrodes the soul
Those lilting words that seldom make much sense
Yet inspire a faint ray of hope.

There's something in that face
that still weaves magic
A twinkle in those moist eyes
that lights a thousand arabian nights
And laughter in that crescent smile
that muffles the inconsolable wails of a widowed dimwit.

That face it still beckons
To share a smile and talk awhile
To dream the dreams that never were
Before saying the final goodbye.

Bag It!

2006-06-13T23:34:00.000-07:00

Shoes and bags are things I could live and die for more than food and clothes, really. But sadly, I'm in a profession that doesn't allow me the luxury of splurging on designer shoes or bags. So I satiate my desires windowshopping. But hail the internet! The innumerabel options that it has a knack of throwing up. And how thoughtfully so.
Now I don't need to just drool and ogle at those designer bags. Look what I found!
I'm looking fr something similar for shoes too. Watch out for this space!

Brick In The Wall

2006-06-13T01:22:00.000-07:00

G started "big school" yesterday. Since she loves going to school and has been a star at her play school throughout the last year, she's really been looking forward to experiencing the "big school". She had remembered one of the kids from the "Admission Day" and having spotted her in the crowd, was only too thrilled to go and reunite with her. They talked shop animatedly while we parents hung around waiting to be called into the respective classrooms. At last when it was time, the motley crowd trouped to the respective sections alloted to our kids. 60 kids per 20x10, accompanied by parents. The chaos is best left to your wild fertile imaginations. G was happy to be lost in the crowd with friend and that kept me happy. Class was dismissed within an hour and we were all relieved to get back to a life of veritable sanity.
Same routine today. Only it's weaning away session. So parents please leave kids at the classroom doorstep and vamoos. Easier said than done of course. By the time G and I reached the classroom I could hear howling sounds. G is most disturbed by such sounds, except when she's doing it herself and despite being an out and out extroverted friendly child, she suffers from stranger anxiety at times. So my super heroine (she was playing ring-a ring-a roses all this while with sundry other heroes and heroines, as we were waiting for assembly to get over and enter the classrooms) gets all jittery with butterflies doing the salsa in her stomach and refuses to let me go. By this time there are 58 of the 60 kids in a classroom bawling inconsolably and G's so perturbed that she thinks that 's the way one has to react. So she joins the choir! But I notice the most dreadful change. The smile in her eyes is replaced by a fear that will take a long brainwashing session. I could empathise with her since my patience was also wearing out as the bawling grew louder. I mean 60 kids, at even 1 decibel each, was way beyond the sound level my eardrums could endure and here there were brats stretching their voice chords well beyond the permissible limits. And there were two middle-aged teachers with an assistant ayah to help pacify the lot. 3 of them for three score? Fat chance!
I didn't know who was more lost...the kids or the teachers.
I just know I was disgusted. And here I thought I was putting my daughter into one of the so-called "good schools" in Bangalore. They were just psyching the kids out in the torture chambers. No wonder the kids start hating school as much as the teachers hate the kids forever. I mean there should be a limit to being greedy and making money. But as a friend rightly points out, there's absolutely no limit to being greedy, even if you are in a supposedly altruistic profession such as teaching.
Why can't they have 20-30 kids in a class which they can manage instead of bundling 60 of them and then dealing with the howling lot as if they were bloody lost kids in a Kumbh Mela? That's because they are born sadists with a mission to traumatise tots. They revel at the sight of tormented souls and take immense pleasure in further tormenting them, mentally if not physically, and psychologically for sure. They'd probably have withdrawal symptoms if they saw the kids happy and laughing from day one!
A friend's daughter told her yesterday she hates going to school because the teachers don't look happy when they come to class. I felt the same today. Why can't they at least have fresh young pleasant looking B. ED graduates, who can gell better with kids, rather than have unsexed, frustrated and sad looking middle aged women to handle more than a handful of grand children? The above might sound sexist, but kids naturally endear themselves to pleasant faces, I know from experience. And most kids these days go to a montessori school before moving on to a regular school. At the montessori, they have about 15-20 kids, each one of whom is paid individual attention and treated like human beings. The transition to a regular school then becomes traumatic for the sheer size and inhuman treatment.
Kids hate being cooped up in a room full of strangers, even if the strangers were all the same size. They should be allowed to mingle in the open and get familiar with each other, before being cooped up inside the four walls. Don't the monsters know? Even if they do, I guess they choose to ignore it, 'cause it doesn't suit their style. Huh?
I asked G after school why she cried, when she was such a brave girl and always liked going to school. Her reply ad verbatim: "Mamma, the silly kids were crying. I got scared. So I put my hand in my ear and I also cried." I did tell her she wasn't silly, so hopefully tomorrow is going to be a better day:)
I knew it was a ripple effect and also know these "experienced" teachers will tide over these teething problems with great panache. But at what cost?
We are helpless mortals. Even if we do raise our voices, and tell the teachers to leave 'em kids alone, we can do precious little to change the system. What's worse, we Indians survive DESPITE our goddamn schools and the education system.
So, we only hope the monsters who suppress our children and turn them into unthinking robots die and go to hell.

Restless

2006-06-07T22:22:00.000-07:00

A surprise caller. A faint ray of hope. Can I? Shall I? Once again I'm trapped in a waiting game.

I'd stopped asking, wanting, hoping, expecting. Tried to be happy with the small pleasures of life and with my status quo. The call may change all this. Again, it may just be a courtesy call. So maybe I should stop reading too much into it and go on with life. Saturday is still a long way off.

That will be the DAY!

2006-05-31T04:49:00.000-07:00

You will be famous for writing a national bestseller

You are very observant and tend to be the wallflower at parties. You are intuitive and know just how to communicate everything that you are feeling to those around you.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Life's Like That

2006-05-28T22:25:00.000-07:00

Just gotta know: The better half is fulfilling his lifelong desire of bunking work on a Monday!! If only I knew this a couple of hours ago...
No, on second thought, I shall not grudge the little momma's boy his day out with the parents. I'm better off at work!

Women in public loos

2006-05-26T05:29:00.000-07:00

This one's courtesy my good friend S. I just had to share it with you.

My mother was a fanatic about public restrooms. When I was a little
girl, she'd take me into the stall, show me how to wad up toilet paper and
wipe the seat. Then she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat.

Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, NEVER sit on a public toilet seat Then
she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the
toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh make
contact with the toilet seat.

That was a long time ago. Now, in my "mature" years, "The Stance" is
excruciatingly difficult to maintain.

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of
women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you
check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied. Finally, a door
opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall.

You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter.

The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom,
no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook,
if there were one, but there isn't - so you carefully but quickly drape it
around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the
FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance."
In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake.

You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat
or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you
discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your
mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you
would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the
one that's still in your purse. That would have to do. You crumple it in the
puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. The
door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your
chest and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet.
"Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your
precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing
altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is wet of
course.

You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom
has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered
seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even
if you had taken time to try.

You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew,
because, you're certain, her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat
because, frankly, dear, "You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could
get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose that
somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet
paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At that point, you give up.

You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're
exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket
and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to
operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands
with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women, still
waiting.
You are no longer able to smile politely them.

A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet
paper trailing from your shoe. ( Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank
the paper from your shoe, plunk it the woman's hand and tell her warmly,
"Here, you just might need this."

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and
left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is
your purse hanging around your neck?"

. . . This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public
restroom (rest??? you've got to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men
what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked
question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other
gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door.

Bongo Bodhu

2006-05-24T22:00:00.000-07:00

Amazed at myself. The "other" parents are here and I'm at my incorrigible best. (I don't like the word in-laws for its menacingly wicked connotation. After all the horror stories I hear from friends and family about the lot, I consider mine demi-gods).
Cooked fulkopir dalna and kassa mangsho last night and scored some brownie points on the very first day. ( Bapi is the quintessential Bangal with very sharp taste buds and very little appreciation for anything good. So, when he compliments my cooking, especially kassa mangsho, I consider it an Oscar. Pat pat pat on my back) This morning I abandoned the bed by 7.30, made tea (one just liquor, the other with milk), served them with biscuits and while they sipped on the hopefully well made tea(no effusive appreciation, so just assuming), I packed N's and my lunch of left over mutton and rice.
Hold your breath. Then I decided to cook at least one course for the lunch I won't be there for. So Mochar ghonto it was! Did take some tips from Mamoni, but that was just to make her feel good;) Some tricks of the trade.
Before leaving for work, ensured a fairly decent breakfast of toast, omlette, milk and bananas was ready to be served.
The quintessential Indian bouma! Let me enjoy while this lasts!
Anyone needs expert advice? You know where to reach me.

PS: I forgot to mention that in between all this, I even ironed N's shirt, which he wanted to carry to office (and change into before a new business pitch later today) and ensured G brushed her teeth before nibbling on food.

Good Morning!

2006-05-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

Announcement of the morning: A fairly important visitor will be dropping in, so I'd appreciate if you could keep your workstations clean.

Rustle rustle rustle of paper( love the sound of crumpling paper), a pronounced hustle and bustle all over office, stashing scrap paper in bins and magazines into the already overstuffed drawers, cleaning the tabletop with a piece of paper....there, spotlessly clean and all dressed to kill the visitor!!

The case of the vanishing VIP

2006-05-23T22:14:00.000-07:00

I hate VIP visits. Not just because it throws public life completely out of gear, but also because personal plans go haywire, thanks to professional hazards, delays, traffic ( we're talking Bangalore here, people) and of course the VIP's whims and fancies!

Having quietly moved away from MSM, I thankfully haven't had to be a part of this chaos for a few years now. Until I finally bit a bait (yes yes kicking myself for it) and volunteered (out of sheer curiosity) to be a part of it. Once the VIP's itenarary was wangled out of the horse's (or was it the hippo's?) mouth, a press meet followed by cocktails and dinner was the first "event" agreed upon. After all, the VIP had a very very hectic schedule that involved travelling from one end of Bangalore to the other end and beyond(impromptu decision). And we unfortunate in-city travellers know just how back-breaking, asphyxiating and sweaty such travel can be. But the press had to be given a time for its share of precious sound bytes, the potential exclusive interview, photo opps and the works. So it was set for post lunch (around 4?). Then along the day a slew of SMSs threatened to choke the poor cell as the VIP suddenly decided to head farther off from city limits "on work" and was quite sure wouldn't be back in the city before 9pm. (Of course we knew better than that) So the press meet was promptly called off. But gluttons and suckers for a free booze that we journos are infamous for, we still hoped the VIP could make it to the cocktails and dinner and looked forward in hope, while attending to other inconsequential assignments.
As the chances of an exclusive with the VIP grew bleaker, we quickly grabbed the only available opportunity for a dinner, yes, yes, with free booze, and happily headed home.

We do not blame the VIP. After all, the person is only an office bearer, slogging butt off doing greater good for greater people.

Lessons learnt:
1. Curiosity killed the cat
2. Never believe a VIP
3. Hope sucks and drains
4. Go get a life, babe!

PS: I'm assuming my handful of intelligent readers don't think VIP stands for the obvious. Go figure!

(Un)Made in waiting

2006-05-23T04:07:00.000-07:00

Anxiety kills.
Wait.
Hope.
Curb excitement.
Wait again.
Anguish.
Displeasure.
Raincheck later.
Exasperation.
Resign.
Albatross (hangs motionless upon the air)...

City of Joy

2006-05-12T05:47:00.000-07:00

Kolkata's just got a fresh coat of red paint and it looks every bit the quitessential City of Joy. It's party time in the Red Citadel. While citizens indulge in another round of holi, the Buddha can't stop laughing, as kudos and compliments flow in from all parts of the country. In all humility, the politico-litterateur bhadrolok just smiles and says "It's the people's verdict and I'm happy." Of course, the people are also happy. Who wouldn't be with loads of shopping malls, clean, well maintained parks, lovely roads, well organised traffic, warm hospitality and fewer bandhs? He's also happy that Kolkata's finally being recognised as a prospective industrial centre and surely welcomes "more FDI and domestic investments." But he wants to get his basics right first. Hence he has identified areas well below the poverty line (according to him 20% of Kolkata's population is below the PL) and aims to provide them with the bare minimum needs for a decent existence and is trying to take agriculture to the next level - agri business. It's like poetry in motion.
I don't understand politics, nor have the desire to, but I give credit where it's due. And will not allow personal prejudices to veil my genuine happiness. As long as I lived there,I hated it with a passion. Now that I am only an irregular visitor, it feels better. So here's to more of Kolkata. And kudos to all those who are making it rock!

PS: Now can we please have the CM put his best foot forward and play a full blooded shot to help the Prince win back his lost glory? We can't let him go down without a fight, or vanish into oblivion whimpering. The elections are over, peacefully. Now let the war begin.
Ok, so this was the whole reason for the post. Selfish? I have an agenda? Yes, go SUE me!

PPS: I still don't believe I wrote this post. It must be the weather, or excess nicotine:P

Games we play

2006-05-12T01:57:00.000-07:00

Last evening was one to cherish for a long long time.
On returning home and freshening up, G as usual insisted I sit on the floor and play with her. So it began with Recognise your Alphabets. Once she was convinced about all the shapes of the alphabets and what each denoted, we had to move on. So it was Catch Me If You Can. From the living room to the bedroom, over the bed, in a somersault, down again and into the other room, giggling and screaming all the while and finally..."cauuught you..cauught you..." Repeat same a couple of times and then plonk on the bean bag, huffing and puffing and tongue sticking out. "Let's play something else." Ummmm, ok let's play Hop Scotch. So G and I, played it on the square-tiled spartek floor, tumbling over one another. It was fun but not all that fun. So we decided to change over to Hide and Seek. Behind the door and under the bed, cramping up in the narrow sliver of space between the bed and the wall, in the loo, till we both tire out and call it quits.
Can't remember when I exercised such a lot or had so much fun playing games. We chilled out and channel surfed, and stopped in our tracks at Star Movies. It was showing There's something about Mary, surely the icing on the evening's priceless moments. So we watched, we giggled and we rolled on the floor laughing.

An evening wonderfully spent. Love playing Mommy, mommy!

May showers

2006-05-11T04:21:00.000-07:00

The weather in Bangalore right now is driving me crazy. Regular as a clockwork, the storm comes bursting in at 4pm, shaking the trees violently off their roots, sending the pedestrians in a helpless tizzy and dragging me mercilessly off my chair into the balcony. To excite, to impress, to palpate, to disarm and grab the vulnerable me with its odylic force into a coital compromise. An incurable romantic that I anyways am, it's only worsening my case. Sigh!

Food, good food

2006-05-11T02:51:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately for N, it's a waste to take me out, especially to eat. Before you jump at me, this is not to say, I'm indifferent to food or don't enjoy eating out. It's just that I'm not the quintessential Bengali khadyo-roshik and am such a small eater, he says it's just not worth it. I love to eat, especially continental and chinese food. And more recently, I've become a huuuuge fan of Korean and Thai cuisine. But to be true to myself, it's ever since I associated myself with N (a self-proclaimed foodie, prolly only second to U) among the many good things that he has tried, mostly in vain, to inculcate in me, appreciating food is the only thing that I have paid serious attention to. And, must admit, have benefitted from it. My food intake has also improved a tad bit but is inversely proportional to the effects on petite self. I can roll the food a little longer in my mouth, chew the lamb till I feel every spice in the juice and even ponder over every layer of the Tiramisu. I still have a long, long way to go considering a Japanese meal with Sushi et al awaits me tomorrow and a whole lot more over the weekend. But it feels good to be able to exercise the tastebuds ever so often, considering that's the only exercise I've been religiously doing anyway for all my living years. As N would love to say "I told you, if only you listened to me more often, life would be so much better." Alas Dude, God gave me a motor mouth that works far better than the ear.

PS: I'm a fairly decent cook, so that should compensate.

Everyman

2006-05-09T21:47:00.000-07:00

Man has created death. And everything else that's circumstantial in life, for that matter.

Rains

2006-05-09T05:08:00.000-07:00

It rained. I tried writing about the whole experience of feeling it on my body and from my soul. Words fail me. So I just enjoy the rains and freeze it for eternity.

Biz talk

2006-05-08T02:25:00.000-07:00

Business channels generally get their maximum viewership between 9am and 5pm on weekdays. So that's what the who's who of business do the whole day when they're actually supposed to be contributing to the topline or bottomline of the company, huh?
Now, why didn't I think of that? Duh!

Little wonder

2006-05-03T22:21:00.000-07:00

Just discovered on opening my bag: a chunk of G's colourful lego blocks.

This kid sure knows ways of getting my attention.

Miss her, immensely.

Tube Watch

2006-05-03T22:06:00.000-07:00

It was World Media Day yesterday. How many of you bullshitters in the media knew that? And those of you who did, what was your contribution to it?

Did you send that babe you've been hitting on withered flowers? OR leave a cryptic Da Vinci Code-esque message at her workstation?

Did you bullshit your way into getting an exclusive interview with the who's-who of the F**k-All world?

Did you feed the world enough crap so they'd die puking or of indigestion?

Did you snoop around for a better paying job?

Did you bitch about that babe who pipped you to the post of blah-blah-blah coz she slept with the boss while you were sleeping with the enemy?

Did you go lick your Editor's arse so you could get the next bump up soon?

What the F**K did you do then?

**************************************************************
After ages, I surfed the telly last night.

There was an information overkill on the ‘cataclysmic loss’ of Pramod Mahajan, who was showered all the accolades except the Bharat Ratna. (NDTV's Srinivasan Jain, actually didn't know whether to smile or not when posted outside the Hinduja for a "comprehensive coverage" of the deceased!) R-I-P.

Abheek Barman fumbled and mumbled and went around in circles trying to explain the impact of a fuel price hike. All this, never without that cherubic smile.

And, I learnt that 76% of the Indian population “believes” the media … from who else, but TimesNOW. Speaks volumes about the TOI-literate Indian population??

MTV was playing some nice hindi popular songs. Tooombaa enjoyed maatde;)

Stress Release

2006-05-02T22:39:00.000-07:00

The last couple of weeks have been a rollercoaster ride, to use a well- worn cliché. OED’s definition of stress as a state of affair involving demand on physical or mental energy was put to shame. It usually is this way when it’s magazine release time, but this time it just seemed never-ending. Twelve-14 hour work schedules aren’t exactly normal, and do disturb the normal physical and mental cycle of any individual, thereby proving detrimental to the overall health. (Not that my mental condition is any better without the stress, but that's a given) However, those in the media, will scoff at me for even uttering this, leave alone sympathise with me, as we can’t complain of such pitfalls of the profession. After all, we’re in it just for the love of it. Not cause it's the world's most prestigious profession, or cause I didn't get a job anywhere else, or cause it was the best way to get a quick divorce, and definitely not cause it pays to be in it (although GeNext tells me the money’s now tempting. Wish someone showed me the colour of money, too). Hence, I’ve been seeking out ways and means to relieve stress off and on and some of the proof’s been put up for public consumption as below.

Now that the magazine’s out and looking good and I have just about enough time to breathe in and breathe out while the boss breathes down my neck for the next issue already, I want to take a few minutes of your time.

Since no one acknowledges or recognises the backbreaking effort that goes in, just thought I’d give myself an Oscar for it, this time. And in true Oscar style, I’ll take this opportunity to thank a few people who have actually helped me tide through the 13 continuous days of slogging, which included fewer and fewer breaks to eat, sleep, smoke and, of course, be with my wonderful family. Oh, I promise to keep this really short.

Ok here goes. The biggest thanks to A’da for his outasight company replete with enlightening trivia, stress buster therapies, loads of fun, and, of course, for being my Shift+F7, whenever I needed help;). Sure did help me work better and more effectively. Thanks old man.

Thanks G, for being the most amazing three-yr old. She found the most innovative stress buster for me. (Digression:G stays awake for N and me to return home from our respective work places, whatever time of the night that may be. The elation on seeing us - priceless) Whenever I got home, she’d say: ” Mamma, come, sit on the floor. Play with me.” And playing meant doing the jigsaw puzzles with her, puzzles that she knows by heart and can do in less than 30 seconds sometimes! Words fail me to describe the joy it gave both of us.

And no thanks to God for helping me survive another issue, thanklessly. (I want a job that at least pays, dammit)

Oh, and U, u know, thanks just isn’t enough for u.

And life goes on...

Nuts about me??

2006-04-21T23:56:00.000-07:00

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

My Last Wish

2006-04-21T23:47:00.000-07:00

Symbolic Death Following the Death of the Main Threat

How will it happen?	You will be strangled with some piano wire

'What horror movie death would you have?' at QuizGalaxy.com

BWaaahahhahhaha

2006-04-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

Priyadarshini --

[noun]:

A poltergeist sent back in time to change the course of history forever

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

My Hidden Talent

2006-04-21T23:25:00.000-07:00

Your hidden talent is lying

You are able to lie to anyone and get away with it. Sometimes you even do it for fun. You are specifically skilled at acting and bluffing during poker. And you know that to be a good liar you should give lots of details, to be a great one you give no details at all.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Shubho Nababarsha

2006-04-12T22:37:00.000-07:00

Shokkolke janai nabarsher antorik preeti o shubhechha

Beans Gone Berserk

2006-04-12T22:27:00.000-07:00

Kannada legendary actor Raj Kumar died of cardiac arrest at the ripe old age of 77. A peaceful death to say the least. Can anyone please explain why it prompted the otherwise docile, laid back Kannadigas to burn/damage buses, cars and tyres, block roads, close down shops, petrol pumps and unleash terror in general to pay homage to the icon?

I'm still trying to figure it out as I have a train to catch in a few hours.

To Ma'm With Love

2006-04-12T02:16:00.000-07:00

From ever since I remember, she’s been my teacher.

Taught me to walk, holding her little finger;
Taught me to talk, filling my ears with the sounds of the alphabets;
filled my life with sugar and spice and all that’s nice so I could be the quintessential “good girl”;
Taught me what’s right and what’s not; (E.g Wearing jeans and T-shirt was wrong:“Boys will whistle at you”, Riding a cycle was tomboyish, hence wrong; speaking endlessly over the phone was wrong; Sitting at home practising maths was right. Ok, enough!)

Taught me manners, music, dance, art, swimming, the works;

Taught me to respect my elders and appreciate my lineage;

Taught me to love and care, irrespective of the relation to the person

Taught me to cook decently

Taught me to listen to the GenYore’s take on life

Taught me to bear and adjust

Taught me lessons other than those of history, geography, civics, biology …

Taught me to fear God and believe in His powers

Taught me that life is not easy

Taught me to strive and never to quit in life…

(I know I missed out a lot, especially those that never made any logical sense, but haven’t the time for more.)

And a lot of things she missed out, either deliberately or forgot in her busy daily schedule, I learnt myself and learnt them well. And as far as my poor memory goes, I’ve never had a difference of opinion with her. (It’s a different issue that she imposed her opinion on all others without giving anyone else a chance). I’ve always had nasty fights. And I used to hope and pray, someday she’ll shed her teacher’s robe and don that of Ma’s. The one who pampers and cuddles and plays with her only child, sometimes even spoils her and most importantly, becomes her best friend. But alas! She missed the bus and my prayers were left unanswered.

So from ever since I can remember, I never wanted to be anything like her. Let me try and illustrate that:

For starters, she’s the world’s greatest cook (ok I know most of her kind are, but she’s really different). She can rustle up the most amazing dishes from even the tiniest possible left over or the most uninteresting groceries.

She can travel the earth and back to help some distant relation or friend, or no one specific, and do loads of other “social service”.

She can endure, adjust, compromise and yet always end up on the wrong side.

She can enthrall an audience with her dramatic much-exaggerated stories.

She can teach & preach like there isn’t a tomorrow…

Strangely enough, as I catch up with her age, I can see traits of her in me, and increasingly so, much to my utter horror. And I look for the nearest bylane to run away from this truth. More horror. All roads lead to home.

So love her, hate her, fight with her, curse her, run away from her, but still can’t live without her. Miss her mochar ghonto, muror dal, chingri'r cutlet, mince meat pie, fishcake, chicken nest, custard, bhapadoi… her pottering around and her infectious laugh.

Happy birthday Ma('m) .

PS: The most important vague lesson she taught: Jotodin Ma naa hobey, bujhbey na…(Till you become a mother, you won’t know…). Learning and understanding…at the speed of light now!

The New Vending Machine

2006-04-10T05:33:00.000-07:00

Overheard at a cafe: Why do you put condoms on your cellphone?

I wonder at the technological advances of this world, speechlessly.

Makeover

2006-04-07T04:40:00.000-07:00

I have been craving for a makeover ever since the relaunch of our magazine. The wonders that a good haircut, shaping the eyebrows, a platinum facial, waxing, manicure, pedicure and an overall body massage can do, I'm told, is ethereal.

But dragging myself to a parlour and then sitting there for a good two-three hours just to have other women feeling you up repulses the hell out of me. So I just limit my visits to short 30-45 minute stints, all the time needed for a quick waxing or a trim. And I normally never do them on the same day. Take it one at a time, babe -- my motto in life.

You'd say, then do it one at a time and finally get the makeover you are seeking. But, there's the catch , good friend. You have to do it all on the same day to get "the best results". And, I was missing in action when God was distributing patience to all and sundry.

You see, I had better stuff to do. Like catch up with the neighbourhood guys on cricket, or have a cycle race with one of them, play dog & the bone or pittoo, go for long walks through the lanes and bylanes of NA, organise a neighborhood drama with the weirdos who didn't have a clue about scripts, dialogues or cues, go off with Baba for a round of golf at RCGC (albeit as his caddie and scorekeeper) or just snuggle up in bed with a book. All this was so blissful.

Oh and I must add here, my Mom belongs to a generation which didn’t know of the existence of “beauty parlours”. Thank God for small mercies, as this finally turned out to be the only ONE 'extra-curricular activity' I wasn’t forced to excel in. Yayayayay!! Freeeedddoooom!
Even better was the fact that I thankfully had other “girl” friends who weren’t obsessed about the beauty parlours except for their usual trims. As a child, it was always Ennis for me. (Calcuttans, does it still exist?)

I won’t say I’ve turned out too bad despite my aversion to the parlour, except for a faint moustache on the upperlip and a few stray beards here and there on the chin (I have just one now. The other one vanished some time ago, much to my surprise). [Digression: I don't go to the gym either. Tried a couple of times though, lasted all of 10 days max.] As regards the moush and the beard, no one seems to mind, especially not N, so saves me all those tears of threading them. Yay yaaay yayy.Freeedooom.

However, Urmi’s been insisting for a while now that I should get some “highlights” on my hair and do some more wild stuff with myself. And, I hate to disappoint people, especially my best friend. But since I can’t get myself to spend Rs 1500 to just colour my hair purple or blue or green or blonde (you can call me wise or stingy, your choice), I chose a much cheaper and easier option.

Since I was anyway getting royally bored at work, I decided to try my hand at something creative. And the only thing I could think of - considering I spend most of the working hours either reading blogs, or commenting on those I read and rarely writing my own - was to give my blog (which incidentally is neither my ego, nor my alter ego) a brand new look. The much needed makeover.

Cheers!JFB, dudher shadh ghole metano! ( Nothing like a good sweet lassi from Bobby da dhaba, Blr)

PS: I’m terribly, horribly technically challenged. So if some kind soul could help me link to the blogs I read, Vodka’s on me.( Those in Calcutta, during my next visit, which maybe shortly, and those in Bangalore, anytime, folks!)

Cool or wot?

2006-04-06T00:54:00.000-07:00

Here we are fuming because our salaries are delayed, all thanks to the SBI strike (convenient excuse), and the bloody HR/finance are cluless as to when our backbreaking efforts are gonna be rewarded, and there is this smart, intelligent, charming, lovesick 23-year-old cool dude who wangles a flight ticket out of the boss to be there for his girlfriend’s birthday in Mumbai, over the weekend!

Coolest blackmail I've ever come across.

Hmmpfffft.

I wanna be smart, intelligent, charming and all of 23, NOW.

My love, my life

2006-04-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

G's in the why phase of life now. There has to be a reason for existence - everything living and non-living, consumable or otherwise. Sample this:

"Mamma, where are you going?" in the sweetest possible tone.
"Office," most disgustedly.
"Why are you going to office?" (a look of genuine concern)
"So I can buy you a jigsaw puzzle" (She's obsessed with them and does them with amazing alacrity)
“Why?”
Ever seen a child questioning her own happiness? Weirdo!

“So, you don’t want a puzzle?”
"Nooo. Don't go to office, pleease." (Just shatters my heart into a zillion pieces)

****************************************

The usual lunch time call.
"Hellooo"
"Hi Mamma. What are you doing? Sitting in office?"
"Indeed!"
"Why?"

Unfortunately, I haven't a very vivid imagination, nor am I literate enough to satisfy her insatiable hunger to know. So, I just mutter to myself:

Our's is not to question why,
Our's is but to do and die.

Poor child, what does she know of the bliss of ignorance.

Untagged!

2006-03-22T07:34:00.000-08:00

Urmea tagged me long ago but it's only now that I have managed to really come up with what I want. Here's to my perfect partner:

Must have a sense of humour that can match none living or dead.
Must have a passion for the wild - whether it be in seeking out the Royal Bengal Tigers from anywhere in the Sundarbans or going on an African Safari; to just letting the basic instincts loose
Must be able to rattle of PSR&T, The Doors, Pink Floyd, Eliot, Plath, Browning, Ogden Nash, Henry James, Conrad all in the same breath
Must find innovative ways to titillate me mentally and physically since I get bored very easily.
Must accept and endure me as I am: with all my whims, fancies, tantrums, vices and shortcomings (after all, he’s the one who has to be perfect, not me!) And if he assumes he can get on board first and then try to work around any one of my imperfections…better not get aboard, dude.
Must respect and understand the ample need for space. Should abide by my philosophy of Live and let live. I’ll be more than glad if he goes out on his Boyz nites out and leaves me to my girlie ones…they r anyways so much better.
Must have a passion for the performing arts…theatre, movies, dance, the works… and if classical dancing isn’t exactly his cuppa, he wasn’t eyeing the right woman, anyways!
Must be decent, presentable, dapper, suave, bright, loving, caring(read pampering) and extremely understanding.

Now if any 1 person even remotely fits this bill, you are either lying or a dreamer. Besides, if the opposite sex was really perfect, we wouldn’t have been the wo(e)ful other half.

PS: JAP, Bonatellis your turn next.

Another day , another world

2006-03-22T07:05:00.001-08:00

The journey has begun. After a very smooth flight, I am destined to face my moment of truth. A chauffeur-driven swank black Merc at my disposal. While the world sleeps, I speed at 130 kmph down my perceived highway to heaven. The names of the roads mean little to me at the moment. Just the drive, the speed, the feel of the plush Merc interiors and the two tiny pegs of vodka on the flight, all combine to give a heady feeling. First question to the driver: How long will it take to the hotel? “Half an hour madam”.

Aha…half hour of mindless musings. Unfortunately, he either underestimated his driving skills or The Merc’s horsepower! It took just 15 mins!

I have a river-facing room that allows me to just gaze at the world as the day yawns out of the night, little ferries amble by with sleepy passengers aboard and the birds sing their songs of sixpence to usher in a bright new day.

Freedom is indeed a many splendoured word. When you don't have it like every other thing you crave for it...when you have it...you don't know what to do with it. The overflowing excess of nervous energy has rendered me an incapacitated insomniac, clueless about what to do next, where to search for some peace of mind and body. I and my laptop, I and my sporadic virtual company, I and my thoughts, live in isolation... in another part of the world.

Admitted!

2006-03-16T20:06:00.000-08:00

Lateral thinking has been rewarded. She's been given a grade pass as JAP suggested earlier. But happiness comes with a huge price tag.
Parents pay 1 grand per month for all the 33 months of her existence till date.Yes, that's the amount one has to dish out for admission into pre-school. Co-incidence? Ridiculous? Or just the norm?

A strange and sublime moment

2006-03-15T01:29:00.000-08:00

How many times in life have you ever really wanted something in life? And got it too? I'd say a couple of times out of the ten times that I've held my breath, closed my eyes tight, pursed my lips and with folded hands knelt before the deemed Miracle Maker. The outcome called for celebrations.
But this time it’s different. I’ve suddenly been offered something I have secretly desired for, for almost a decade now, but never really mustered up the courage to even ask Him for it in passing. I was quite happy in my resigned-to-fate state of being. Until, the capricious Trade Winds blew my way and left me to contend with a bag of mixed feelings. In one swivelling move, they’ve just turned my body inside out and shimmied the innards of my brain.
I feel stranded between the vast blue firmament and the fathomless sea. I’ve longed for it. Now I can have it (touchwood). My moment of truth. I should be happy, elated and welcome it with wide open arms. To borrow Karate Kid’s lyrics, I’ve waited forever, it's now or it's never, nothing should stop me now. Even though I know it’ll last all of 72 hours, not a second more. I can live a lifetime in those 4320 minutes; slip into the skins of those characters I’ve secretly idolized, do the things I’ve always wanted to throwing caution to the winds and, still be Me.
But what is this that’s pulling me and tying me up in knots, enshackling me with those massive manacles? I can’t seem to set myself free, make a choice, get up and show them who I am, prove myself. Deep in my soul I hear a voice, answering to the call, but it’s just not as easy as it seems. I know this is the place, this is the time, it’s now or it’s never. But there are visions that float across my mind’s eye. Some faces, some loose statements, some bonds, some priceless cuddles I may miss…some choices I consciously made long long ago.
But, I guess I just gotta believe in myself and make love to the moment. Close my eyes tight, purse my lips and set myself free.

AGE

2006-03-03T05:16:00.000-08:00

Ok, in the last around 17 hours or thereabouts I have been reminded about my AGE in not so subtle terms by various people.

Now, before you start commenting, let me make it absolutely clear, that I am perfectly aware of my age and all that comes with it-- yes, the wrinkles, the tiers, loss of memory and hearing(thankfully I have a 20/20 vision, so that'll take a while to fade), ton loads of responsibility (both professional and personal) to shoulder that leads to a bad back and neck, disintegrating teeth(darn colgate, close up et al), osteoporosis, general exhaustion, like now, so feel free to add the rest.

So, what's it about my age, or for anybody's age for that matter? And who decides what's the right 'behaviour' for an age? My nearly-three-year old sings herself to sleep on Kajra re kajra and wakes up singing Dus bahane karke le gaye... Sigh! Oh for the good old days of Ghum parani mashi pishi...She doesn't respond to gobbledegook or the usual kiddy language. She speaks very clear logically strung sentences.

Most men I know, seem to be talking about/watching who faced how many balls before getting out; who scored how many goals (when they aren't scoring themselves, i.e); babes, bods, the best brand of beer, gizmos(when they are not in a switch-on,switch-off mode i.e), pubs, clothes or the lack of them most often than not and everything else that amuses them. Basically, they're always either playing games, or up to some prank and they can play ball throughout their lives. And, try talking to them when they are specifically watching a ball game. Here's a tip for girlfriends, wives(just the newly married lot), "just friends" -- if you wanna know the man better, thre's no better time than this. But if you are watching your favourite soap or just happen to be working on something and he needs something (which is usually right away) or just wants to be amused and you happen to ignore him, that's it women! Wives-get those divorce papers, girlfriends can either gear up for a loong sulking day/evening replete with "You are ignoring me" and lines to that effect or just go find one of the soap stars. Ageless games, and all very becoming of the age, I presume.

The moment women talk of the shade of lipstick they bought yesterday, hunks(arm candy!), clothes, bags, shoes, retarded mothers-in-law, bitchy friends, or shed all inhibitions(if any) to have some fun, AGE becomes an issue. So at what age should we discuss lipsticks? And what's a good age to discuss mothers-in-law? (Personally, I think this is a topic akin to good wine, the more the years you spend with them, the discussion gets juicier and tastier). What's a good age to seek a little attention? Or what's a good age to have fun? Pray someone please tell me. So I can behave MY AGE.

A few stolen moments

2006-03-01T00:14:00.000-08:00

Been adrift on life for awhile now. Ebbing and flowing with the tide, seeking method in its mad resounding splashes. Sometimes straining my ears to pick up the voices of virtual passersby trying to reach out and hitch a ride. But, alas, surfing is a pacy adventure sport. Leaves no time to stand and hear. So, in a few stolen moments of freewheeling, I live a lifetime, before moving on.

Playing Hard to Get

2006-02-22T05:17:00.000-08:00

Your Famous Movie Kiss is from Cruel Intentions

"I'm the only girl you can't have, and it kills you."

What Famous Movie Kiss Are You?

My Aura

2006-02-22T05:14:00.000-08:00

Your Aura is Yellow

Your Personality: Life's too short not to have fun. Your bright energy brings joy and laughter to those around you.
You in Love: A total flirt, you need a lot of freedom to play. But you'll be loyal to that one man who makes you feel safe.
Your Career: You love variety in a job, and you probably won't stick with one career. You would make a great professor, writer, or actress.

What Color Is Your Aura?

Another Mindreader

2006-02-22T05:06:00.000-08:00

You Have a Choleric Temperament

You are a person of great enthusiasm - easily excited by many things.Unsatisfied by the ordinary, you are reaching for an epic, extraordinary life.You want the best. The best life. The best love. The best reputation.
You posses a sharp and keen intellect. Your mind is your primary weapon.Strong willed, nothing can keep you down. Your energy can break down any wall.You're an instantly passionate person - and this passion gives you an intoxicating power over others.
At your worst, you are a narcissist. Full of yourself and even proud of your faults.Stubborn and opinionated, you know what you think is right. End of discussion.A bit of a misanthrope, you often see others as weak, ignorant, and inferior.

What Temperment Are You?

Sealed and closed

2006-02-16T01:10:00.000-08:00

Interviewer: What shape is this?
G: RED.

Need I say more?

Sneaking back in

2006-02-09T04:27:00.000-08:00

I've been accused of many things in life but never of "celebrity status getting to your head". I've never been one, to begin with, so wouldn't know. But M just knows how to get me back on my hands. She's hit where it hurts most.
So here I am trying to salvage some lost pride from this unwarranted attack. Let me begin with an explanation, though I owe it to none. I've just been taking a sabbatical from blogsphere, and hovering somewhere between tropo-& stratosphere, desperately trying to strike a work-life balance. Am nowhere close to a gymnast, so I've failed miserably. G's been growing up on her own and I am just privy to a few waking hours of her clear, logical sentences that she now strings with amazing alacrity. And of course, I have had the pleasure of being put to sleep with "Nikki Bakshi sweet & Sexy, full of rocking, hot & happening" as lullaby, sung in the most amazingly sweet tone. No wonder she's now "Big Mamma" and I'm the "shmall mamma".
Besides, a bright red Swift now drops and picks me up from office (chauffer-driven and all that jazz). Yes, to hell with the auto fellows! I can do a li'l jig at the very thought that they have two customers less to throw their attitude at. And, at least Rs. 110 less in their bloody pockets!
All my hard work to relaunch the magazine, may not go waste after all. This issue's looking good. All thanks to the designer Wizard. In fact, magazine, magazine, magazine..that's been the only high point in my life till yesterday! (What a contrast to Urmi's;-) )
Yesterday, G got an interview call from the school I want her to go to. Now it's up to us to perform.

I luuurve Chinese food

2006-02-09T04:25:00.000-08:00

You Are Chinese Food

Exotic yet ordinary.People think they've had enough of you, but they're back for more in an hour.

What Kind of Food Are You?

The story so far

2006-01-16T00:32:00.000-08:00

Ok, so it's two weeks into a new year and I haven't posted. Can't really think of a convincing-enough lame excuse for that. So, how about mainting a low profile as familiarity breeds contempt;). But, if you're really dying to know what I've been up to, here's an update.
For starters, I've been very excited about our magazine undergoing a makeover. An NID passout who's redesigned Graphiti(I love, adore, admire it, for reasons I'll soon enumerate) to give its present form, is now with us. And we both sat together and brainstormed on the redesigning to come up with some exciting stuff. He's a coool dude with great ideas, must admit. So yes, this has kept me on my head and toes, quite literally.
We've also launched the e-newsletter which again demanded my undivided attention (ok, apart from JAP and Urmi;)). That it hasn't yet gone out to our readers/subscribers is of course, another story...all thanks to technical snags.
And the most anticipated story of them all...I did pick up the admission form for G. N's designated tout diligently stood in the queue from the night before and that gave me one helluva advantage to be among the first 100 of the estimated 4000 odd who turned up. TOI had a photo of the nightriders. I missed this once in a lifetime Page 3 opportunity, as the newsletter craved for my attention back at work (how boring).
But guess what? I made up for the loss by being featured in Sunday's Graphiti, all thanks to the Bagchi . Now I have a claim to fame - as the Non-star blogger. (I haven't had a chance to see the article yet, though;))
Fame, that too, for being in the blogsphere, sharing space with all time greats such as the GreatBong, JAP,Jabberwock et al. That's cause enough for me to celebrate (Yippeee, Dippeee, dooooo). Star or no, I don't care.
A true rags to riches story ;) Photos anyone? The papparazzi, where's the papparazzi??

Really Touched

2005-12-28T03:44:00.000-08:00

Can't say I'm eagerly looking forward to the New Year. Primarily because I am faced with the harsh reality that it' s time for my baby doll to graduate to school already. And even before she can start going to one, it's trying and testing times for both N and me. (*shudder in fear*) Hang on a minute, more for me than for N, considering his supreme dodging skills.
The first school to distribute forms in the new year is the one I really want G to go to. For two reasons - first and most important: Despite its reputation as a premier school, the interviewers don't brazenly ask for a hefty donation to extend the school complex(at least that's what I last heard) or build a state-of-the-art-indoor sports auditorium etc etc. Second, it's not too far from home (she'll be just three, can't send her off on a bumpy tour of potholed Bangalore, yet!).
And you know how it feels when you really ever want something in life? Dunno about others, but I can feel the pangs of fear, of insecurity; I can feel those butterflies fluttering in my stomach and I am totally disoriented at the thought of having to go and stand in a queue from the night before. And more so, ever since I realised the date coincides with N's impending trip to Cal that very weekend to be with his beloved NRI sister. He could've postponed or preponed it, had we owned a private Jet. But since he has to rely on Jet Airways, ATM, and adjust with his busy new-business-pitch schedule, I really can't blame him.
But, the moment I voice my concerns, very matter-of-factly to R and a surprise caller, the Bagchi, they are both only too keen to pitch in. I mean not everyone would be forthcoming to sacrifice their precious weekend sleep to stand in the queue for/with a nail-biting, hypertensive woman, irrespective of whether she's a friend or an acquaintance. I mean after all, it's my baby, her impending careerIn a strange land, full of strange people, with strange demands, I 'm really touched by their offer. Call it parochial Bong bonding, call it the warmth and the greatness only Bengalis are capable of, call it pati Bangali sentu on my part...call me names...but once again it's Q.E.D. that friends make a world of difference, no matter which part of the universe you are in. It's not just what they do but what they do differently that really makes the difference.
The independent, egoistic, no-obligations bitch that I am, I'll probably spend the night on the road with 500 other weary-eyed eager parents, but a special thanks to both of you for just being there. Feeling very lucky today.
Looks like I have a way with people, huh(*wink, wink*)?

Operation Majnu

2005-12-21T21:42:00.000-08:00

Operation Majnu --That's what the maverick Meerut police liked to call it. And mayhem is what struck young lovers in Gandhi Park, completely out of the blue. A podgy peeved policewoman caught couples unawares and started physically and verbally abusing the women for the most innocuous crime commited: Falling in Love.
Now, we are quite aware that from time immemorial falling in love has been considered a crime. The repurcussions of the folly have ranged from incurring the wrath of at least 1 of our 33 crore supernatural beings to at least one of the more natural biological beings (read parents); to murder; to suicide; to transmogrification...Alas, how would the Hindi film industry and Ekta Kapoor have survived otherwise!
And all this irrespective of whether you have fallen for the most beautiful/handsome or otherwise, highly educated/drop-out, well-to-do/pauper opposite sex. Everyone except the two concerned turn the most illogical, unreasonable moral guardians you could ever dream of. Parents of course turn into your worst enemies, in most cases, and then there are the neighbours, relatives, wellwishers, blah ,blah,blah...suddenly every one wants the best and only the best for you. At any other given point of time, all these "best wishers" are no where to be seen of course. But the point here is these are emotional black mailers, moral consultants, legal advisors ... ( ok I understand parents resrt to physical abuse, too.)
To get back to where it all started..Gandhi Park. From the TV footages and reports, it was apparent that the policewoman just randomly picked couples (some even married) and slapped and booted the women for sitting and coochi-cooing in public places. I mean, what could they have been doing? Holding hands, ok, kissing at the most. Just exercising their constitutional right to freedom of expression. (Has the word expression been defined anywhere in the constitution?) Some social activists shared my thoughts, but Ms Kiran Bedi, our erstwhile national moral guardian begged to differ “No, sometimes these couples do indulge in obscenities under the shawl”. Under the shawl, did she say? Pray, then how is it obscene? Can anyone see anything? It’s under the shawl, right? What would they do to Emraan Hashmi and his women, John and Bipasha, Mallika and Jackie Chan, Shahid-Kareena, Riya Sen- Ashmit Patel??
What would happen to the luvbirds of Victoria Memorial, Maidan, Lake(south Calcutta), JU jheeler paar( pond side) and sundry other goli-galtas(clandestine lanes/bylanes)?
This paucity of private space is not just a physical problem in our country but a sociological one, too. Whether while trying your luck out in college or even as married couples living with parents (in-law), we often encounter the problem in our lives. For instance, unless you are the kid of working parents and have a spare key to the house, or you are one of the few with a swell of a friend who lends out his bedroom, or you are among those late starters who finds a soul mouse, oh sorry, mate, only after clearing the CAT (Ohm projapottoy namaha-IIMC, since, as per my knowledge, it had the highest hit rate;-)), or any other hostel for that matter, you don’t really have access to a very private place to do very private things. Privacy is a luxury we have to pay a high price for.

So where does one let loose the spontaneous outburst of powerful feelings? In public. But to be beaten black and blue and abused so that TV cameras can freeze the frames, play and replay the scenes so viewers can see, bite, chew and digest the atrocity. The funniest thing is some other police(wo?)men from the same police station called the Press to capture the moment, because they thought they were doing a “good thing”. Am a bit conphoosed.
But then I’m confused about a lot of things.
Why is falling in love a crime? Someone tell the world how to rise to the occasion and save them the nadir.
And when one has fallen, why do people suddenly have to develop fangs, paws, nuke bombs et al to destroy the lovers and the beautiful world they dream of through those rose-tinted glasses?
Most importantly, why does the world defect to the Opposition, leaving just the lovers in the Ruling Party?
Why is love so controversial and painful? Well, almost always. The pleasures that come with the pain as bonus, are usually few and far between.

Nothing to Will

2005-12-21T02:37:00.000-08:00

Came across this very touching post. Set me thinking about what I can bequeath G...
- a world where u live in eternal fear of getting raped,bombed, runover and the works
- a life full of shopping malls
- a life full of wannabe uber-heroes
- a world wrought/torn apart by competition to get to hell or to high water
- a life sans a sense of belonging and rootedness
- a life with a problem of plenty
- yet a life full of half-fulfilled dreams

Alas, wealthy not am I, to leave my poor Cinderalla wealth enough to be a princess and live happily ever after!

Of friends and friendships

2005-12-08T05:58:00.000-08:00

M finally tied the knot. That too, to the cutest guy I knew in the Timesgroup, Response dept! They came home yesterday really late for a dinner of luchi, alu-chochhori and kasha magsho (all prepared by your’s truly). I hope all of you even at the back of the beyond heard that trumpet. Good. Now to continue.
In the course of our chat, we realized, M & I have been friends for the last 14 years, never having lost track of each other despite the distances travelled. It was a wonderful feeling. Of course, it’s been much much longer with Urmea, my “nappy friend” (ok, ok, agreed we’d just grown out of our nappies then!!). And the distances travelled in this case runs across seven seas!! But thank God, nothing’s changed between us. There are a couple of others whom I’ve known for a li’l over 7 years (S) and just over 17 months (R, plz compliment me on my maths, plz) respectively. They, too, are very close friends of mine. And I cherish each one of them, ‘cause they’re really who have kept me and still keep me alive.
So what’s it that makes us click, tick and talk? Even when we meet after years, months, days or even just hours, sometimes minutes?
Going back to my days with Urmi, I remember even after we spent some 8-12 hours with each other a day, we still had nearly half an hour’s conversation left to be completed either near Yoga Cure Centre, or near the red post box in front of Sanjukta aunty’s house (sorry all non-resident New Aliporean’s, but these are landmarks I couldn’t help but mention). What was worse, the moment we were out of each other’s sight, some other devil from gossipland would pop its ugly head up from behind the subconscious and had to be immediately passed on. So, an otherwise leisurely walk was cut short by a dash home; followed by incessant ringing of the door bell bringing the house down. Then, with total disregard to the raging Her Himmler, the phone was picked up and the devil barfed out. Pheeeeeeew! That felt really good. On the other side of the phone, too, one could distantly hear sentences like, “Weren’t you with her barely 5 minutes ago?” We both learnt these were questions best left unanswered;-)
With M, it was on another level altogether. She was just the friend I needed in the first year of college. The age when, to use a cliché, we all wanna break free. We were a group of 4 “wannabes” (one’s a celebrity now - Chandrani of Krosswindz and the other married a celebrity of sorts!!). And, there was M, lovingly called Mama, who had been there, done-it-all: cigarette in hand, a head full of pop and rock, leading us to the forbidden land! And for every drag of the cigarette I took, there always was moral guardian Urmea (in some other part of the city), asking “Why?” Obviously chose to ignore her, cause I could’ve also turned around and asked her “Why did u have to score obscenely in those stats tests in school and my Mom know abt them?” Miss goody two-shoes!
Anyways, going back to Mama, we’d troop down to our favourite haunt, the Momo house in a nondescript gully, which played all our favourite songs (everything from Beatles, Eagles, Simon & Garfunkel, Pink Floyd, The Doors to Baez, Sinatra,Dylan…the works). Bunking classes to climb the stairway to heaven….awesome. Though the other two have drifted apart for obvious reasons (even tho’ both M & I still exchange smses with Chandrani), Mama and I stuck on. Still remember, the midnight calls to discuss Floyd!! (First time she called at that hour, Her Himmler freaked!!) Both of us pursued journalism, worked for national dailies, albeit in different cities, and then she finally followed my footsteps to Bangalore. In Bangalore, we both ended up working for the infamous unmentionable group. She’s still there and has found her soul mate there too…Bless her heart!
S, the subtly naughty and extremely intelligent kid, came into the picture when I moved to Bangalore. And she’s been there, rock solid. Could run to her anytime at IE, midday or midnight, for anything and she’d have a solution. Me and my midnight fetish! Took an auto at 1 am from ET one night to meet her at IE and literally threw her twin out of bed so we could discuss irritant bosses and awesome books rest of the night, dragging on our sootas! Post marriage, of course, we’ve shared even more cherishable moments together. The surreptitious soota meetings at Java City, totally talli tete-e-tetes at Tavern… oh how I miss them. Why did u have to move to Maddening Mumbai, S?
All the above had been loyal footsoldiers in a my long-drawn hindi-moviesque battle for love. They were my family, when my biological family mercilessly slit the umbilical cord. They’re the ones who always ensured that the rollercoaster ride down didn’t last too long, palliated those moments and seamlessly turned those tears into my famous air-rending laughter. They were the wizards of friendship who helped me to break on through to the other side of life.
Dunno what’s kept them by my side though. I’ve never persevered to keep them. Rather, there’s never been a paucity of space – physical or otherwise - between us. We’ve been downright honest with each other, sometimes rudely so. And poles apart that we are, as two characters can ever be, together, we can burn a house down to ashes! That’s the reason why we always choose to meet at water(ing) holes ;-)
Mama thinks, we have adapted ourselves well to the changing circumstances in our lives and fitted ourselves into the scheme of things. R feels it’s a matter of perspective. I think, I’m just plain lucky to have these wonderful people around. I’ve never really counted the years that I’ve known Mama or Urmi or S or R. I’ve only recounted the incidents, cherished the moments and relived some of them over and over again with each of them. And never really felt bored. So what’s it about years? Like vintage wine, it’s only gotten better.
Always considered friendship the most important of all social behaviours. And friends, like crystal, the most valuable assets I own. Can’t barter them, can’t sell them, can’t loan them and certainly can’t lose them.

Biye bari - Part II

2005-12-02T01:53:00.000-08:00

This one's for all those keenly awaiting it. You see, the first one being N's cousin's wedding, it had an element of unsaid decorum that I needed to follow, after all, shoshurbari boley kotha. So honestly, the fun part wasn't really there, what with a hundred pair of eyes always observing our moves.
Wedding no.2 was N's best friend, Mota's. And this meant, no vigilant eyes, no decency, no decorum demanded. And more so, since it was Mota's, the self proclaimed leader of the famous Bawal Group.
We packed our little strolley and drove out of our J'pur home not to return to it until late next night! The morning was a low-key ghoroya affair with a simple lunch of dal, jhuro aloo bhaja r pabda machher jhol. According to Motah, we had to keep it light, to enjoy the evening better!
Come evening and we, as in Rajesh's friends and their wives, trooped into the biye bari in all our finery, all our eyes roving full speed.
Not much luck...all the dadu/didimas, kaku/kakimas sitting and sipping coffee.
Climb up to first floor where the sampradan et al are going on. Mota spots us and manages a wry smile from amidst all the blinding video lights and dripping sweat (trying to convey just how bored he already was, since they registered their marriage way back in July). Still not much luck for the wives really. So we try to follow the eyes of our "better halves". Spotted some fat wannabes who were shamelessly eyeing our rather "decent" looking husbands. Tried pulling N's leg with one of them but he wasn't amused at all. Dropped the case immediately.
Mala bodol and shubhodrishti was completed amidst a lot of catcalls and whistling. Just when we were about retire, with our tails uncomfortably between our legs, in walked the beauty, hubby in tow. All our "decent" husbands promptly turned indecent, their roving eyes suddenly losing their inertia of motion. The rest of the evening went by following in the lady's footsteps or resting our bums on chairs within clear viewing distance. Hai re , the sacrifices we women have to make for our men!
Later that night, we were curtly told bangalder bashor hoy na and shown the door. Ice-cold water flowed over Neil's printout of the most hilarious jokes and all our enthu to sing and dance our way through the night.
The lady resurfaced , with hubby in tow, on Mota's boubhat, too, and our men didn't spare her this time either. But, this time, she too had turned smart and gave these men back a full-blooded stare, which was promptly interpreted as "Arre, O-o to besh jhari machhe".
We just had to be content with a roomful of Xaverians, none worth a second look. To top that, at the dinner table, we had a huge debate with our men on what they perceive as "handsome". Their perception, according to us, the wives, were rather sad and disappointing, considering the examples they put forth. These men, I tell you, should strictly stick to appreciating "beauty" in the opposite sex and keep honing their jharibaji skills!

PS: Honestly, didn't find anything hot in that babe, even though I can vouch that we women appreciate beauty in our species, when we see it.

Old habits die hard

2005-12-02T01:02:00.000-08:00

R is giving me the royal ignore these days. And very rightfully, I know. But it still bothers me, or so I think, at least.
Her hubby, SD, is finally back from the US after a nine-month long onsite trip. Ok correction, it wasn't a "trip", it was more a "tenure" when he was slogging his butt out to earn some extra greens, which of course we aren't privy to;-). So what this means essentially is, she goes back to life as it was nine months ago... all lovey dovey with hubby and all that (though she will insist she too has to do a lot to grow out of her habitual life alone).
But, what it also means is that:
(a) No more never- ending phone calls -- on the way home from office (hell, she's far more excited about returning home, silly) ; short pause to pay off the auto, get on to the elevator, open the lock and grab the land phone, then continue where she left from.
(b) No more girlie weekday evenings to our dear Noorbhai, with a pile load of her salwar suit pieces to stitch, or to Bangalore Central for a quick Venky's Roll
(c) No more weekends out to the movies, shopping malls with my extended family -- N, G, I and R, of course, silly; or just sacking out at home over a lunch of shukto, posto, dal, mangsho and loads of achaar
(d) Most importantly, no one to boss/mother over everyday and be my overbearing self with. I mean yes, I have G to mother over, strictly speaking, but that's another story.

Of course, R is finally breathing easy for being relieved of my guardianship, but I seem to be experiencing some withdrawal symptoms as regards these bad habits I incurred over the last nine months. Actually, in a friendless land away from home, even one friendly straw is worth hanging on to. And R is this very mature, yet very sweet girl( yes, that's I think of her and she hates me for it), whose charms you can't help but fall for. Both N and I have become quite comfortable in SD & R's friendship and over the last few months, we've become quite used to having R around us most of the time. Hence, life seems a little different these days. Kya karen old habits die hard.

PS: Here's to a very happy reunion, guys. Wishing you eternal knottiness;)

Biye bari -Part I

2005-11-30T05:07:00.000-08:00

Just got back from Cal after attending two weddings and a mega family get-together all in
the span of a week! And my, did I have fun. All Indian weddings may be fun (tho' I have strong reservations against the Southie kinds; how can getting married at 6.30am be fun by any stretch of the imagination, man?) , but only Bengalis would know what kind of fun I am referring to (*wink, wink*). Now, if you are wondering why the weddings and family get together are two separate stories, the explanation is: weddings-N's family/friend; get-together- My Dad's family.
The last time I attended a wedding in Cal( again N's cousin) was back in 2003 Jan, when I
wasn't really in the thick of things as G was on her way and the paranoid gynae had
strictly marked the lakshmanrekha around my bed. So quite frankly, it was more like an
apology to "attending a wedding". What's worse, that wedding season (Dec-2002-Jan 2003),
most of the eligible bachelors and nubile nymphets in my Dad's family also decided to tie
the knot. So I just lay in bed and sulked while dapper N, as the dutiful representative of
the family (yeah right!! Hog that he is), donned his best attires and went wedding hopping.
That's when I promised myself I'd live it up next time anyone gets married!And,this time I kept my promise.
We landed in Cal in time for N's cousin, Boom's boubhat in the afternoon. Didn't really have time to deck up and be there in all my finery, so just walked in like a fish out of water in my much worn simple salwar suit. We were just in time for the kodi-khela and the . Boom and his cute wife were made to strew and the gather the rice and kodis amidst loud shouts of "Aeii, awaaj korish na, jhogra hobe" and "Cheating cholbe na." Then everyone waited with baited breath to see if the mona caught with the muni in the bowl of twirling water and stuck by it to symbolise the institution that marriage is--stand by the one you love through thick and through thin, rain and sunshine, through sickness and through health. These were lucky kids as the race ended in what will hopefully be a happy union.The games over, we headed staright for the food--the reason why Bengali weddings are worth every penny! For the uninitiated, it's usually a 10-12 course meal from starters to dessert and when the wedding is planned, who the catering contract will go to is usually a matter of huge family debate, with friends and relatives pitching in their two-penny worth. And in an age of shortcuts(read buffets), this opportunity of "pat-pere khawa" was just divine.
The menu too was lipsmackingly sumptuous, to put it mildly. Shukto, dal, alubhaja, bhetki
macher pathuri,kosha mangsho, plastic chatni (the only dampner), papad, doi and rosogolla. And this was just the beginning of all the eating to come! That evening was N's friend, R's
bachelor's bash. Chivas Regal, Smirnoff flowed smoothly while some more yummy food--kadai
paneer, again kasha mangsho amongst other things donned the table. This was followed by
cold coffee and icecream at The Atrium in Park Hotel( after dropping a sleeping G off home
with in-laws).3a.m: Returned home to the shrill cries of G and a stern "Eto ki modern
parents hoyecho?" Was informed she'd been awake from the moment we lay her down in bed at 1.30 am and obviously was desperately seeking us!! Without another word, quietly slunk
away to the 2nd floor ans waited for N to bring G upstairs!! But must say I am probably one
of the few lucky people in this world to have a set of wonderful parents-in-law. Ok, as much as I'm loving this detailed account of my much awaited biye-barir anondo, I realise, if I punch in so much detail, this is gonna to be the longest post ever written in blog's history. So for those diligent readers, who have lasted this far, without getting bored, I beseech you to wait for Biye Bari - Part-II. Actually, that's where all the bawali, jharibaji aar udom masti really happened...

Catching the cold

2005-11-28T20:45:00.000-08:00

I received the following as a fwd from a cousin-in-law and just had to post it! The idiosyncratic Bangali, no matter which part of the world he/she may be in, remains so. Cricket-football- crazy, khadyo-roshik (gourmet), antel or, at least, pseudo-antel(intellectual) and, of course, eternally afraid of certain illnesses, primarily the cold. And with the nip already in the air, this seems an aptly timed post.
So here's to all you cool bongs, pati bongs, honorary bongs, scared bongs, non-resident bongs and non-bongs,too...
One phrase every Bengali worth his sweater has grown up with is thanda lege jabey. It is
the ultimate warning of impending doom, an unadulterated form of existentialist advice.
Thanda lege jabey. Thou shalt 'catch the cold'.
'Catching the cold' comes easy to Bengalis. It's a skill that's acquired almost immediately
after birth. Watch a Bengali baby and you would know. Wrapped in layers of warm clothing
even if the sun is boiling the mercury, the baby learns quickly that his chances of survival in a Bengali household depend on how tightly he can wrap himself in cotton, linen and wool. Bengalis have almost romanticised warm clothing, so much so that Bengali art has found eloquent expression in a form of quilt-stitchwork called kantha.
I'm sure wool-shearers even in faraway Australia say a silent prayer to Bengalis before the shearing season (if there's any such season). I'm also sure the very thought of Bengalis sends a chill down the spine of many a sheep.
In winter, the quintessential Bengali's outfit puts the polar bear to shame. Packaged in at least seven layers of clothing and the head snugly packed inside the queerest headgear, the monkey cap, he takes the chill head on. Easy lies the head that wears the monkey cap. With a pom-pom at the top, it's not just a fashion statement; it's a complete fashion paragraph.
I remember strolling down the Walk of Fame in Hollywood on a pleasant May evening. My eyes
scanned the glittering stars on the asphalt - each an ode to a Hollywood heavyweight. Suddenly, my ears caught the unmistakable Doomsday warning - 'thanda lege jabey'. I stood transfixed. The Hollywood Walk of Fame is probably the last place one would like to get caught 'catching the cold'. I turned around. There was this Bengali family braving the American chill. The young brat of the family was adamant that he didn't want any more clothing but mom wouldn't have any of it - "sweater porey nao, thanda lege jabey." I need not translate that. Mom won, and the family - sweaters et al - posed for a photograph.
For a race that is perpetually running scared of cold weather, Bengalis have a surprising affinity for hill stations. Probably, warmth of heart is best preserved in shawls, pullovers and cardigans.
In an age when you are judged by how cool or uncool you are, the warmth that the kakus, jethus and mashimas exude can melt icebergs. I wouldn't trade that warmth for any amount of cool. However, the monkeycap may look cool without the pom-pom.

The Sevener

2005-11-16T22:04:00.000-08:00

Ok Urmea, since I saw u have already penned down alot of things I plan on doing as well, I had to wrack my brains to find some others.The Kerala trip and Joyce (me stuck exactly somewhere arnd that page, too) were the most uncanniest "to do" things in common. Here goes my list.

Plan on doing

1. Learn Salsa
2. Go on long drives
3. Read at least 2 books a month (considering now it's down to zero)
4. Pamper myself more often at the parlour
5. Sleep till at least 9 am on holidays
6. Learn to cook some great moghlai and thai dishes
7. Spend more time with Madame G and teach her to speak " propah" English

Can't Do

1. Go to Cal anymore for hurricane holidays
2. Bake a decent cake
3. Keep my cool with G & N always
4. Sleep late
5. Change N's Cal fetish
6. Eat dal for every meal
7. Listen to U gushing excitedly abt her hectic social life, without feeling jealous;)

Say a lot

1. Gandu
2. WTF/FC (since it's very "unwomanly", am refraining from the expanded versions)
3. Mamma...Don't(what with G always doing just the things she's not supposed to)
4. Hi wassup?
5. Chole aaay(This one's esp for R and I know she hates me for it;) )
6. Oh pleeeez
7. Oshojjjhyo (with extra emphasis on the j)

Since no one reads my blog really and, as u can c, neither do I have plans to write more regularly, won't bother tagging anyone. But just in case you drop in, just consider tagged!

Once a Prince, never a Pauper

2005-11-07T20:43:00.000-08:00

I may not be an authority on cricket, but am definitely a keen follower of the game (err...I mean the political kind). So here's something I chanced upon. And if anyone dare say anything about parochialism, I hope they read the name of the author first. Let's get real, people, for change. Here's the piece:

PRINCE, POLITICS AND PALACE INTRIGUES
By Sanjay Jha
The Indian team for the last two ODIs has been announced, and expectedly, politics in selection has taken precedence over common sense and fair play.
Nothing else explains the bizarre and biased ouster of former captain Sourav Ganguly and the continuing prejudice against him by the new powers-that-be.
Let us look at bare facts objectively;.
1) If he had not been briefly injured ( just about 10 days) Ganguly would have been the captain of the Indian team right now. What a strange paradox indeed!
2) Ideally, even if he was not selected as a captain ( on account of the
injury) he should have been playing once the team was freshly announced after the end of the second ODI. But apparently, no one wanted to " disturb the winning combination". Fair enough, then why did they " experiment with a winning combination " by axing Tendulkar and the like in the Ahmedabad ODI ( an old Australian hangover of rotation which Chappell is attempting, which ironically enough, has been dumped as a virtual failure by the Aussies themselves)?
3) India is happily axing a man who has scored the highest number of runs in the world in ODIs after Sachin Tendulkar, who is now physically fit, in good form ( as his century in the Duleep Trophy showed) , willing to play under Dravid and coach Greg Chappell , and who has like a true sportsman taken the sudden reversals against himself with great equanimity.
4) Incidentally, since the ODI series has been decided already, would it not have been fair to allow Ganguly an opportunity to get into rhythm before the ODI series against South Africa and the Test series against Sri Lanka and Pakistan?
5) Are Greg Chappell and all of Sourav's detractors actually so naïve and stupid as to actually believe that they can finish his career off by deliberately keeping him out? Do they really live in a fool's paradise and are unaware that at some stage it will be as obvious as daylight that the farce that is currently being enacted is nothing but an internecine conspiracy?
6) If " performance" is the guiding criterion, how come Yuvraj Singh with 45 runs off 72 balls in 4 innings at an average of 11.25 is still being persisted with? Does it make any logical, rational , practical cricketing sense?
7) Have we all forgotten that Sourav sacrificed his high-run ideal batting position of an opener in ODIs just to accommodate Veerendra Sehwag, and that too at a time when Sachin-Sourav were the best opening pair in the world?
And is this the way the team ( including his own deputy for several years , Rahul Dravid) should now treat the very man who fought for them and led them to innumerable triumphs ?
It is downright repugnant and altogether unfortunate the way the Hate-Sourav Ganguly Club has suddenly emerged, a personification of vicious minds, warped thinking, myopic vision, wholesale ignorance of the game and driven by some small-time parochial thinking. One can either pity them or empathise with their wretched constitution. Or both. But I am fully aware that it will take just a couple of resounding defeats before the initial euphoria wanes and home truths sinks in. The Ahmedabad defeat may just be the beginning of establishing diplomatic relationship with ground realities for Mr Chappell.
And in any case, there is a long way to go!
At CricketNext , we have maintained a dispassionate and honest appraisal of everyone , including Chappell and Dravid on their on-field performance so far ( please click on CricketNext Verdict, Dravid, Good, Bad or Ugly and Chappell's Scorecard).. But it does not mean that we will not expose what appears to be a clear case of petty palace intrigues being played out to humiliate the Prince and destroy his confidence and self-belief. Even an innocent school-kid can witness the murky games being played in the name of Indian cricket.

Sourav Ganguly will be back!. And soon! Watch this space!

I'm watching a lot of spaces...those that are there and those that will be created...very soon.

Age of Innocence

2005-11-06T23:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday G did her first social service. She went and distributed some of her old clothes to a few of her "friends" in the upcoming half-a- crore worth flats opposite our garibkhana. Oblivious of caste, creed, race, the divides thereof et al, she smilingly handed over the dresses, cloth nappies and shoes to the mothers of her "(s)mall baby friends". The expressions exchanged are really hard to put down in words. The booty wasn't huge, nor was it pricy. But the joy of giving and the smile on the receipients' faces - priceless.
Two-and- a-half. This age is beautiful. And as M mentioned in one of her earlier posts... these are small things in life that make it worth living.

Tagged and ungagged

2005-10-06T04:22:00.000-07:00

For the first tag...surprise surprise Urmi, I have a 23rd post, after all! And the 5th line(assuming it's different from the 5th sentence,as there isn't any in my post!!) is: PS: Of course, I'm a primeval being, hence, agree with Orwell, almost completely.

And here's my 55 words (and it's exactly 55!!):
A cherubic smile on her impish face, she tiptoed into the dark, gloomy room, where the listless body of her mother lay in eternal rest, lowered her face and planted a long hard kiss. Probably hoping, she could wake her up to play a round of ring-a-ring-a roses, with her and Dad, one last time.

Just happy

2005-09-22T23:24:00.000-07:00

Some random words/phases that sound like music to my ears...after a long(with that long drawn drawl) time: Champion, very good, great progress, normal (hopefully, in a few more days), No Need.

Some people who made it possible: A very caring "better half", Urmi(by being there virtually, by my side), Renudi (my most reliable homemaker) and above all, an ever smiling, inspiring doc.

There's still a long long way to go...but at least I can smile without wincing.

The politics of English language

2005-08-29T22:12:00.000-07:00

We have already debated a lot on the Language, it's use and abuse on the blogosphere. But did you know that Orwell, way back in 1945, already considered that the English language was in a bad way? Here's adding more fuel to the fire, again.

PS: Of course, I'm a primeval being, hence, agree with Orwell, almost completely.

An Auto Guide to High BP

2005-08-23T03:57:00.000-07:00

Act: Hail an auto; Scene: I Time: Am/pm and anytime in between

The scene at 9am everyday: Boss, MG Road?
A wry smile ( like saying 'you're good, but not good enough for me,baby.' yuuuck, puke); a disgusted look; didn't-hear- you, total ignore; nonchalantly drive away; Rs 40 (it's 18 bucks from my house, goddamit)

This is only panning the myriad responses one hapless "immobile" journo faces day in and day out, even before the day's drudgery begins. And this despite putting on one's most charming smile(could give all the Miss Beautiful Smiles a run for their frigging money) and being the most polite self and putting on that most distressed damsel I'm-getting-late-for-work look. Nothing F***ING works. (sorry about the expletive, but believe me,it's much worse when you're the victim). The experience is exasperating, harrowing, agonising,torturous,(feel free to add adjs), to say the least.

The scene at 6.30 pm everyday: Ditto

The scene at 6.30 pm on a rainy day in Bangalore: Even the Gods forsake Pensioners' Paradise. Leaving the Auto Mafia to rule a waterlogged, traffic snarled, anarchical Bean-scattered Town.
Ok, am probably just another one of those daily suffering souls in this godforsaken city. But to be relegated to such dehumanised Nazi-esque treatment by sundry mercenery autowallahs? HELL. What's worse, it's like banging my head against a wall. I can continue to fume, rave, rant and scream expletives(kancha khistis galore), but even God wouldn't know how to get their stinking butts moving. You ask them if they'll take you somewhere(distance not withstanding), pat comes the nod of the head, if he's polite; others don't even bother to answer, just drive past like you didn't exist. Or you are some alien who asked for a drop to some forbidden land! Slowly, and steadily, the mercury content of blood rises till you can see the redness in the ears, nose and forehead. But alas! The autowallas are colourblind and deaf, tempered with generous laddles of shamelessness. (Guess what? I think the Gods peered in through my Venetian blinds and saw me writing this...all hell's broken loose here. They're thundering and spitting fire at me! I'm banished to Kingdom Come!)Nothing can stop me from writing this, even if it be my swansong. Ok, so where was I? Anytime of the day, come rain, come shine "One and a half saar." Or the more kinder variety: "10/20/30...arbit rupees extra madam!" (Yes, today will be one of those days.) Like just because it's the IT capital, everyone's a millionaire! S-O-B, SOB, sob ;(. Wish I were, at least a daughter/wife of one!(Envy that Malaysian journalist.) Complaint centres, letters to editors of various papers seem to be making precious little difference. And of course, the government can't be bothered. Though, must appreciate the effort of police near the Commercial Street Junction. Does help, sometimes.

In a city whose public transport also offers F*All, what do commuters have to rely on? The Auto mafia. Hail Auto!
So why are people still swarming this city from all other parts of the world, like this is the only land of opportunities? May be one should ask the Autowallas.

Sad to say, the city wasn't built to tackle a techboom...it was meant to be a Pensioner's Paradise.
Advice for wannabes shifting base to Bangalore:
1. Make sure you own a two-wheeler or four wheeler.

If you don't, please, oh please:
1. Consult Autorikshaw Association of Bangalore before choosing a flat/house.
2. Consult Autorikshaw Association of Bangalore before choosing your place of work.
Only if they approve both localities, make all other necessary arrangements. So best of luck! For those of us who are bitten by yet smitten with this GFC(godforsaken city, duh!), we'll wait for some good Samaritans to salvage us from this seemingly irrevocable plight.

Where next?

2005-08-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

On a more serious note, is this where the world is headed?

Gory idea

2005-08-18T05:43:00.000-07:00

I decided to try reading as an antidote for my cerebral allergy. And, hell! It wasn't just a bad idea it was Gory! And promptly, as they say in good old Kolkata, Current off hoye gelo! (aka loadshedding/power failure...oh whatever u call it, damn).
Thank God, I'll be spared the ordeal of being electrocuted by Chopracity, but my sympathies to all those who will have acess to it. But hey, if you do get the channel, I'd really like one of you there to report on it.
Oh what would happen to television channels without the quintessential Indian? From NDTV (ok, correction. Bongo TV), CNBC, BBC, CNN to the works...name a channel without a successful Indian on it? And who's best at poaching Indian brains, but the US ofA? Be it Academics,Technology, Consulting, advising, preaching...the works.
Where would the world (read USA) be without the antel (intellectual) Indians?

Existentialism

2005-08-17T05:51:00.000-07:00

Badly doped; high on fever; bloodshot eyes; acoustically shocked; cerebrally allergic; arterially congested; physically challenged.
Phew! Do I exist or what?