Digging deeper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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?