Cell-o-feign

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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!

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

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!