Of Boobquakes and SlutWalks

SlutWalk seems to be the new ‘Boobquake’. Twitter can’t stop talking about it, news sites are giving it a lot of coverage (I don’t know about newspapers, I’m going green) while I’ve even heard my fellow women passengers in the train vehemently appreciate a ‘daring’ and ‘bold’ movement like that.

So for the uninitiated, here’s your SlutWalk gyaan. 

Just a few questions, though. 

Does a man’s sexual beast awaken only when a woman is ‘half-clothed’? True that perhaps skin show excites him a little more than he normally would have been, but how about the zillion times I’ve been fully covered, in a three-fourth sleeved kurta and jeans, no cleavage showing, but still had a lewd remark or a boob graze strewn my way? How do you explain this molestation? The amount of times I’ve had to hit molesters on the head with the binding of my book till they wince is not funny. I can safely say I haven’t been showing any skin at any of those times (since I don’t wear revealing clothes), but have had my fair share of eve-teasing thrown my way.

The worst part? One generally can’t do anything about it. There usually isn’t any use retaliating when you hurl your dirtiest swear word back at these men, or worse hit back, because they’re generally used to all this and more. You do it for your satisfaction, but realize you don’t really get any. Slowly you get used to being molested like this, without it playing on your head all day. What do you do but get used to it really, except sit at home?

That is how sad the state of affairs has become.

But then on the other hand are the men who would never utter a lewd word about any woman, even if she was walking naked on the road. Laugh all you want, but I do know men like that. They’d help bash up anyone who troubles random women, let alone women who are their friends or family. Don’t we all know such men, too? Just proves it takes all kinds to make up the male species.

So how do you explain the mentality of a man, really?

And as women, don’t we judge other women who are provocatively dressed? I know I do. I judge a girl who’s wearing a really tiny skirt that barely covers her butt. I know I think a zillion times before I wear something I think is remotely revealing. “Is my cleavage showing?”, “Are the boobs looking too big?” Questions most of us ask ourselves each morning as we dress up.

Are we really as liberated in our own heads as we make ourselves out to be? We fear being judged by all and sundry when we wear certain types of clothing – and the fear rarely has to do with molestation. We fear how we are perceived by everyone around us. If we aren’t confident of whether what we’re doing is right or wrong, don’t expect anyone else around to reassure you either.

Remember, slutty is in the mind. You are as slutty as you think you are. No one else holds the right to call you that, as long as you don’t call yourself that, either.

Happy SlutWalking!

Every once in a while...

(Forgive me for this personal, random post. Just need an outlet, and what better than my own blog?)

Every once in a while, you decide your life is perfect just the way it is. Every once in a while, you’re certain that the way your life is headed is just the way you want it to be. These rare flashes of insight are what keep you going, convincing you that the path you have chosen is right, the risks you’ve taken have been worthwhile, that you’re finally becoming someone capable of taking your own decisions. You heave a satisfied sigh of relief and try bettering yourself.

And then, every once in a while your belief in yourself is broken into a zillion pieces, when something you believe in, are proud of, is shot down by someone else. Someone you look up to, someone whose word is the gospel for you. And suddenly you’re not so proud anymore. Suddenly you wonder if you’re doing the right thing, if you were ever doing the right thing.

Parents, family, boyfriends, girlfriends, everyone close thinks you’re completely in the right place. But how much of it is the bias of their love for you and how much is the absolute truth? How does one go about pacifying self-doubt and self-worth? 

Am I really good at whatever I do and take up? 

Is there a way to ever know?

And then there are the friends. The people you trust with your life. The people who, whether or not they agree with you, will not judge you and hold stuff you tell them against you. Where do you go when someone like this does judge you after all? Phases you out, doesn’t want to talk to you apart from the bare essentials? Will you trust anyone with your darkest secrets ever again?

I don’t think so. If you were to learn from my experience, I’d say don’t tell anyone about stuff no one would understand. How much ever they claim they would. There are some things best left untold, best taken to your grave.

Trust me, it’s for the good of everyone concerned. Or not.

Losing you?

I fear losing you. 
Stupid cliche?
I think not. 
Hackneyed? 
Not anymore.
Scary? Not when it 
Happens to someone else. 


When it's you?  
Shatters my world. 


What world, really? 


The one we've carefully 
Built together? 
Of the home facing the sea? 
Where sounds of your 
Laughter, are what only waves 
Are made of? 

Where love runs through 
The hallways
Like a child, mischievous?


Where arguments crumble 
Like our daughter's dominos?
Where you and I grow 
To love one another. 
Grow older? Better?


Where beauty fades away.
But love engulfs?


Is it the same home? 
The same world?
Is it so brittle? 
A mere domino, 
Is that what it is?


Answer me this. 
You owe me an explanation. 
You give me some answers. 


I know you have none.


Answer me this. 
Wash me of my guilt.
Explain. 
So I hate not my own soul. 


Do this for us. Do this for me. 
Selfishness, I seek refuge in you. 
Wipe away my tears. 
And I shall wipe yours.


For is that not what makes you and me,
My soulmate?

Of the life gone by and the life to be lived

She stared out of the window, perched on the sill, staring at the trees that arched the road. The evening
was peaceful, the kids away at a camp, the husband away at work. She was alone, all alone.


Alone with her thoughts, she pondered about her life gone by, the life she was leading. The perfect life. She had chosen her career, her job, her husband, everything. Her parents, bless them, had given her all kinds of freedom. “I want to take up finance,” she’d told them firmly. Her mother was convinced she’d be better at languages, but never took away her freedom to make her life’s decisions.


She sighed. Maybe she needed some more convincing? Or maybe a mother who had controlled her life just a little bit?


After college, and hating every minute of it, she was now an investment banker. Whatever that was, really. “Little Ms. Finance and all that”, her friends mocked her. “I love finance! What makes you think I don’t?!”, she asked, sounding more convinced than she felt. No one else was convinced either. 


What were her talents, really? She could converse well, loved the languages, was good at them and loved to read. But were these talents? Not unless she did something useful with them. 


The clock steadily ticked away. Her thoughts strayed to the life she could have led. Settled in some strange land, where no one knew her, where there would be no prejudices, no pressure to please and fit in. Some place that would consider her plain looks exotic and not just another face in the crowd. 


Why hadn't she take up a more creative field? At least something that didn’t have a bloody dress code? Even the people she kept running into were like products of a sausage factory. Identically dressed, full of numbers, stock markets, the Wall Street…she wanted to scream!


The friends thought she traveled to a hundred different exotic countries every year – so lucky! Sure.


Again, she’d meet the same type of people, just with blue eyes or different hair. Scratch the surface and they were all the same. The business trips were the worst. Always in the best, most glamorous of hotels, too much splendour, everyone on their best fake behaviour. Before she knew it, it would be time to come back to the children’s homework, deciding what the husband would like for dinner, preparing more presentations, the obligatory sex…


Her thoughts cut to the time in college when she’d first started dating Nikhil. Nope, no exoticism there either. They were classmates, friends, part of the same group, grew to love each other.


In hindsight, did she actually ever love him enough to marry him? He was a very nice person, a dutiful husband, a loving father, a wonderful son, the perfect son-in-law – the list of everything amazing he was, was endless. He’d do anything to keep her happy, but then…why was she even having this conversation with herself?


“Time to face the truth, hon”, she told herself. She’d married Nikhil out of some obligation. She was incredibly fond of him, but it was more indirect parental pressure to marry that ‘lovely boy’ and the lack of a concrete excuse to not marry him, that led her to say yes. Marrying Nikhil was like marrying a beloved friend. There wasn’t a life without him, but was the one for her. Did she want someone Bohemian? She didn’t know. Perhaps someone who wouldn’t be so conventional about life, who wouldn’t have the next twenty years panned out in advance.


What would she do, if given half a chance to start all over? Well, she’d throw caution to the winds, truly this time. Be a hippie, begin with that tattoo she always wanted, move on to making a bonfire out of her business suits, then major in French or German, move continents, travel alone, the list was endless. Why wasn't it legal to sometimes forget that you had a husband and children, and just do what you wanted? 


What wouldn’t she give to not pretend she was the dutiful wife she wasn’t, in her head? She wanted to
glob trot, live on her own terms. For once, she didn’t want to be tied down to the shackles of marriage,
the constant adjustments and compromises that came with it. When had she lost the freedom of walking
out, for good?


Suddenly, she was scared. Very, very scared. What was she thinking? She had everything anyone would ever want from life. But that was the thing. Anyone would want the life she was leading. But not her. She wanted to do something about it.


But where does one start taking charge of one’s own life?


Her thoughts were interrupted with the ring of her cellphone… “Nikhil Baby”, it said, merrily.


“Hello babe. Have you left office?” she asked.


“Yep. Home in half an hour. Dinner had better be something good. I’m famished!” he said.


“Yeah. Come on over. Dinner is something you’ll love,” she smiled.


“Great! See you. And I love you, wifey,” he said, hanging up.


She quickly busied herself heating dinner, making rotis. Nikhil liked dinner ready when he came home from work, and that was the least she could do, wasn’t it? Her mind began making a mental to-do list: Presentation for tomorrow, dishes to be done, the car to be given for servicing for next day, helping the kids with their projects…it sure was a long day ahead.


She quickly got busy with her list, trying to knock off work so as to sleep on time. A long list of chores was waiting for her.


Restarting her life? That could wait. She had dinner to get ready, first.

There was no one else, there never could be...

He woke up after a very brief afternoon nap. The time was 4.30 pm, the day, Saturday. He got out of bed, fixed himself some tea and switched on some TV. 


Some time later, he checked the clock again…Yikes! It was almost 5 pm. Izzie would be mad at him, for the umpteenth time. She’d almost given up on him. He rushed about the house like a headless chicken – he had exactly 20 minutes to move out. There were flowers to be picked up, too. How did he always end up being late despite waking up on time and having the best intentions? This was surely one of the unexplained mysteries of the universe.


Rush, rush, rush…He rushed through his shower, wore the shirt she liked on him best, the deo she loved and the Puma shoes she’d bought him two years ago. Pretty pleased with what he saw in the mirror, he stepped out, maneuvering through traffic, halting with a screech straight at the florist’s doorstep.


Nothing had changed. He’d been buying her the same orchids for the past year and a half. Salimbhai would keep the bouquet ready every Saturday, he’d pay and whisk off with a ‘Thanks, Salimbhai!’.


Today was no different. Off he sped from Salimbhai’s. Hastily finding the first available parking space, he walked briskly, bouquet in tow. Soon he was outside the gates. 


“Arey Sir, you’re 20 minutes late again,” chuckled Fernandes.


“Yeah man, traffic!” he panted.


Entering, he walked over to the spot she always waited for him, patiently. She’d stopped complaining these days; resigned to her fate, perhaps.


All was silent – there was just another man sitting on the grass, with his eyes close. He looked at peace with his solitude, oblivious to the world he was physically present in. Our man, too, sat down on the grass opposite her.


As usual, she didn’t say anything.


“Sorry Izzie, I’m late. Don’t hate me!” he said, very apologetic. He put down the flowers before her, knowing she’d be too mad right now to appreciate them. But she’d preserve the bouquet till he gave her a new one next week.


She didn’t say anything. He knew she couldn’t remain angry with him for long, something he was deeply grateful to all the powers of the universe for.


Soon, he was chatting up a storm. He told her about his week, the upcoming 3-week work trip to Sweden, and she listened without interrupting. “But don’t you worry. I’ll be back soon, okay, love?” he reassured her.


Suddenly, there was silence.


“I love you, Isabel,” he said, and he never meant it more.


A silent tear trickled down his cheek. He didn’t brush it off; he didn’t try swallowing his tears either. He stayed absolutely still, didn’t move one inch for the fear of losing the beautiful moment he was a part of. With her. 


There was no one else, there never could be.


He was caught in the most beautiful moment of his life. He closed his eyes and let it engulf him.


He opened his eyes, got up and silently walked out of the graveyard, feeling complete, fulfilled and in love like never before.


There was no else, there never could be.

I sat on the bench,
Waiting.
Looking around for
A face familiar, a bird
I could identify.
Ears strained for the chirp
Of a bird,
The sound of
A laugh, footsteps, a whisper.

I waited. All around was
Unfamiliarity. All was cold.
All I heard
Was silence.
I waited.
For what?

A hug from
A friend?
A man's closeness?
The sound of
A child's giggle?
I knew not.
But wait I did.

I got up. Left.
Alone, still alone.
As alone as ever.
As alone as when
I had walked in.
As alone as
I was yesterday.

As alone as
I would be,
Tomorrow.

Alone.
Always alone.

Tag-a-tag-tag!

Aargh! I've been tagged by The Monkeykong, Prince of Apes. Highly silly tag, if you ask me, but whatever. A mandatory blog update was due, so what better option than a useless tag thingummy? So here goes.


A) Five things in my room:


1. An invisible bed. It houses everything - books, diaries, underwear, lots of clothes, bedsheets. Everything except sleeping space. If you've ever lost anything, chances are, you'll find it on my bed.
2. A dead cockroach. It's been there for 3 weeks. I'm hoping it'll slowly disintegrate into nothingness soon. 
3. My suitcase full of books. I'm still in the process of figuring out where to keep them books so they won't gather dust and dog-ears. 
4. My gym bag, that's big enough to use while moving continents. 
5. A tent. I don't know what it's doing there, exactly, but it was always there since I moved. Maybe God is trying to tell me something. 


B) Five things in my bag:


1. My notebook. You never know when inspiration strikes, although Mr. Murphy always gives me flashes of insight only when I'm on the pot or eating extremely cheesy pizza.
2. A blue pouch with essentials - lootttsss of pens, kajal, lip balm, housekeys, pen drives, chocolates and other stuff that's best not mentioned on this family blog. I think I can survive on a deserted island if I'm equipped with my signature blue pouch - kajal to look good at all times and the back of the pen to dig my nose with. 
3. An empty packet of Happydent gum. The box is too nice to throw. 
4. My bandanna
5. An envelope with my dad's writing on it. I carry that around everywhere. Looking at it helps me miss home less on days I'm homesick, miserable and about to throw a tantrum.


C) Five things in my wallet: 
1. (Hardly any) money
2. A cute note from Becky, from the time she gifted me the wallet. 
3. A picture of someone who I should probably discard (from my life and the wallet...and no, it's not the ex).
4. My railway ID from 7 years ago, with a picture of me from my REAL FATNESS days.
5. Lots of old bills that fatten my wallet up and deceive me into thinking there's something of real value in it.


And since the tag was a bit boring, I'm going to try and spice it up by adding other random categories:


D) The five most favourite things about my house:


1. My twin fin babies - Chilli Pepper and Xplode happily swimming around in the tank. On a side note, how do you get one kid to stop biting the other's buttock off?
2. The wash basin decorated with flashing blue lights, stocked with alcohol! It's the coolest Daaru ka Basin, ever.
3. The terrace. Depressed? Upset? Our terrace is just the place for you.*
4. The mad graffiti on the walls.
5. The thinking corner of the house, where ideas, words, thoughts flow effortlessly, like puke after much drinking.


*Conditions apply


E) Five rules of the house:


1) No smoking inside (unless you're a REALLY special friend).
2) No saying 'Oh you have goldfish? They generally die in 30 days!' (Although two people have majorly broken the rule.)
3) Touch books / DVDs without permission (this leads to a war fought with nothing less deadlier than bazookas)
4) No bringing animals into the house while I'm around. One dog is bad enough. The fish are an exception, though.
5) Ask me to cook khichdi all the time. 


And that's about all I have time for, folks. Do take up the tag, spread the vellaness, add more categories. For now, I tag: 


1) The Cat.
2) Chippy.
3) The Baby Girl.
4) Shayon.
5) Dormerpin
6) Prem Piyush
7) The Wiseass

The games Fate plays

Fate is such an indecipherable mystery. A sort of storeroom to stow away life’s unexplained, irrational tales. If you wonder why certain things went the way they did, well, Fate’s the woman who seems to be the answer to everything. Quite an overactive little busybody, our Fate.

But, I digress. Fate made them meet. Where? I don’t really know. Two strangers, same hometown, caught in the same strange city, but because of such bizarrely opposing circumstances!

She, in the city, chasing the love she thought she had. He, leaving behind the love he once had. As usual, fate brings them closer. The sparks fly. The love, it happens. She couldn’t escape it anyway. Finally, in her head, it all begins to fit. Why it didn’t work out with anyone else before. The tears of the past all seem explained. Finally, she was truly happy. The ghost of her past had managed to lift its ugly shadow. The sunshine was back, and so was her smile.

But as Fate would have it, the ghost of his past refused to lift its shadow from over him. It refused to let him look ahead. Did he want to look ahead? The bigger question was, did he want to look ahead with her? No he did not. Don’t be silly, Ms. Presumption.

Hush now. If you listen closely, you can hear the evil cackles of Fate. Result of the pure sadistic pleasure she derives from the cruel games she plays.

Unrequited love. So grand, so archaic, so Elizabethan. If only it felt as glamorous. But for her, it was a pattern, something she should have gotten used to, a long time ago. The silly optimist in her would make her believe it was different each time, only to have her silly heart broken again. He would never love her. Of course he wouldn’t.

Well, Ms. Optimist. At least he was open about it.

Yes. Like that makes it any better. In fact, ignorance was so much bliss, wasn’t it?

What next? She’s contemplating packing her bags. Leaving. Back to the same hometown she’d left, to pursue love. This time, she’s returning to it, defeated, hurt, miserable, a failure. Running away? Maybe. She has no strength left to fight back. And fight for what, really?

Oh, the sheer senselessness of it all. The sheer waste. She wonders why she had to run into him, let him teach her how to live, make her feel alive again. Wonders when he became a part of her soul. Wonders why she left her soul around to be trespassed on, and her heart to be trampled.

Oh, she wonders… 

Yes. I am all those things...

Yes. I...

1) Swear.
2) Get extremely angry.
3) Am impulsive.
4) Can be immature
5) Nag
6) Am Lazy
7) Am all messed up.
8) Am emotional
9) Am spoilt
10) Am unreasonable, sometimes.
11) Am arrogant.
12) Am vengeful.
13) Am wicked.
14) Am a procrastinator.

But, I also...

1) Love with all I have
2) Am the best friend.
3) Understand.
4) Don't judge.
5) Am your equal.
6) Stand up for what's right.
7) Am the hopeless closet romantic.
8) Will do anything for you.
9) Am a good daughter / sister.
10) Return lost mobile phones to their owners.
11) Am independent.
12) Am accomodating.
13) Am the eternal optimist.
14) Am generally happy and positive.
15) Am always there.

Is it then, so hard to love me? Is it so easy to hate? I take you with your flaws. Can't you focus on the good for me?

I'm not perfect.

I'm not trying to be.

I'm just myself.

Do you still like me?

Of sons and remains of coffee

Remember that boring evening at work? You stuck in your office, me in mine? And that sudden coffee plan? Barista at 8. See you there. 


Should have known then what a bundle of lateness you are. I finished reading a two whole chapters of my book before you walked through that door, bag in tow, hair swishing. "Sorry Moodles. Got stuck." 


"It's ok, I say," smiling. One really can't be mad at you, can one? 


We spoke that evening. A lot. Chatter chatter. About what? Nothing of consequence. Work. Colleagues. Gossip about cabbages and kings. And did we wonder whether pigs have wings? We must have. 


Coffee. That's how it always starts. Why didn't we do more coffee trips when I was around? Oh yes, it's always been work.


Never mind that now. 


Fate made me move to a different city. You were heartbroken at seeing me go. I, at leaving you behind. Should I have packed you in that suitcase like I'd planned? I should have when I'd the chance. See? I'm not always impulsive. 


I promised never to lose sight of you. I promised I'd be there. I promised to do all I could, to stop you from hurting. Wishing I could have all of your pain. Friends? We were beyond that years ago. Soon, you became my son. Me, your overprotective mommy. "Sleep. Get some rest. Eat on time. Don't smoke so much," and all that. Did it bother you? I hope not.


Being your mother, a full time job I loved. I wanted to envelope you in my love. Protect you from the big, bad world. A mother fawning over her little baby. Apart from the fact that I didn't give birth to you, all the motherly instincts were there. I felt normal. I felt like a woman. Responsible for her cub, shielding you from the eyes of the world. Fiercely protective. You were just mine. 


Maybe I overdid that bit, in hindsight. Somewhere, I lost the plot. You were not my son, I, not your mother. Happy realisation. Too late. You were not mine for keeps. I had no right to be jealous. I had no right to keep you chained. 


But all I did was want to see you happy. All I ever wanted was to grow old together. With you. Live in that palatial house by the sea, which you'd sell your kidney to buy for me. That's ok. About the kidneys, I mean. That's what two kidneys are for. And no, no dog named Gaffurbhai would run in the passages of our home. Shh. No arguments. My word is the law. Because mother knows best.


So what happened? We lived together, we loved together. Sometimes each other. Sometimes other people. But we loved. And we laughed. And sobbed. And hugged. And we sang. And we cheered. Life was good. I had you. And you had me, or so I thought.


Why the past tense now? Why the end, when the beginning seems like just yesterday? Where did time lose us? Where did we lose time? Where did we lose ourselves? Where did I lose you?


I don't know you anymore. And much as I'd like you to, you don't know me. We stopped being a team. When? And when did the tears replace the laughter? Over and over? Why didn't I ever notice? 


I was busy. Chasing my dreams. Making new acquaintances. In a different part of the world. You were there. Was I there for you? I now doubt. Like I now doubt everything else. Love, friendship, top that list. 


You're gone. And there's nothing I can do about it. 'We' died a pernicious, cancerous death. And now all that's left behind? A black hole. Where happiness goes in, never comes back out. Seeped in. Sucked in. We died a gory death. 
This is not the death I ordered, God. Wait, I never ordered one. Trust you to mess up, as always, you interfering pile of trouble. 


A cup of coffee stares at me now. Half drunk. It has unfinished business. Coffee. That's how it always starts. But it can end in two ways, mind you. One, you drink it all up. Feel happy. Refreshed. 


Or, two, you pour away its cold, forgotten remains. Then you wonder. How would you have felt if you hadn't forgotten to consume it?


And the coffee on my table? I forgot to finish it. Left it behind. The warmth is now gone. What remains behind is a sad, watery, sickening taste of caffeine. 


I get up. Pour it away. Watch its remains flow down the sink. With the other hand, I wipe a silent tear that forces its way out of my eye. 


Goodbye, my son.


I love you.

Is your S-P-A-C-E-B-A-R working fine?

(Resurrected this post I'd written a month back. Still holds true, I guess).

If it is, kindly use it more often. And not just on the computer.

The tiny percentage of population that knows me quite well, knows how fiercely protective I am about my space. In fact, I'm just short of marking my territory by peeing around it. Cross that line, and you're done for. Really.

It's strange how people don't get the thin red line between 'overtly caring' and 'space intruding'. And I see this especially since I'm going through an unpleasant patch right now (read: break up). I love my friends for being there. But really, I'm not dying and neither is anyone else. And the few close friends I have understand my need to be alone sometimes and don't keep 'checking on me'. They don't keep calling, SMSing, pinging me on chat and asking me if I'm okay. They still poke me in the ribs when they meet me, give me a big hug and tell me about the hot pair of legs they can't forget from last night's party. Or they rant about how much they hate their jobs. And trust me, that works for me.

I've been getting quite a lot of annoying calls these days, where people keep calling wondering if I'm going to be free all the time, now that I'm single. Hey, it's not like only the boy used to keep me busy before! I still had stuff to do around the house, books to read, writing to do, a job to work on, friends to catch up with, solitary walks to take, coffee shops to visit, sleep to catch up on, amongst the zillion things I normally do. And probably the best thing I like(d) about the boy was that he understood this need for my space. He never intruded upon it, not once. If I wanted to be alone, I just did. Maybe he didn't agree with it, but neither did he question it. Which worked for me.

So what needs to change now? Why the constant calls trying to keep me busy? If I need help, I'll tell you. I promise. And I'm pretty certain I'm not suicidal yet. So it's not like if you don't speak to me for two hours, I pretty much must be staring at that bottle of rat poison. That's not what a break up needs to do to you. Why should it? You haven't stopped being an independent person. Your life hasn't stopped moving. Your job isn't waiting for you to 'come out of depression' (yes, someone assumed I must be clinically depressed), so why assume I must be staring at his handkerchief and crying my eyes out? I don't know if that's how you do it, but I don't.

Why is giving space to people becoming such a difficult task? Forget about me, but everywhere I go, I run into people who won't give their friends / partners / parents / children any space to breathe. How difficult is it to let people be for a while? Respect your own space, don't let anyone mess with it. Then you'll find it easier to respect other people's alone time. It isn't necessary to know what your person is upto every minute of every day, and really, it's ok if he / she makes plans with a bunch of friends, without asking you to join. You should do the same, too, you know. It's healthy. Checking people's phones, emails isn't the nicest thing to do. If a person wants to deceive you, he'll do it anyway, however watchful your eye is.

The mantra is: Just Give It A Rest. Do not suffocate. If it's yours, it will remain with you. If it isn't, it isn't going to stay with you however hard you try.

Now, time to check on that Spacebar, yes?

My absolute dream wedding :|

Right. Calm down. No, seriously...Stop snorting out that wine. No one's getting married here. (Well, all my friends are, like it's the mating season, but that's a story for another day.) 


So let me explain. I was randomly surfing and stumbled upon this. Now since I grossly ignore this blog and haven't updated it in donkey's years, I thought I'll take part in this contest thing put together by www.99labels.com. So here are the rules, before I yap some more: 


"All you have to do is blog about one or more of the following topics:


1) My big fat Indian wedding


2) What “not to do” while planning a wedding!


3) My dream wedding – Simple or lavish?


4) Traditions I love/hate in Indian weddings


5) My wedding shopping spree!


Now I can't really yap about 'My Big Fat Indian Wedding' and 'My Wedding Shopping Spree' as much as I'd like to, since, er...being married is a pre-requisite here. I don't really have too much experience in the 'wedding planning' zone either, since the last wedding I attended was of my sister's, 10 years ago (I really had no choice there). And despite being certain I'd hate most traditions in Indian weddings if I knew what they were, I don't think I'd be any close to winning the competition writing about imagined traditions. So then, 'My dream wedding it is'. 


Well, knowing how much I hate weddings, I'm surprised I'm even arsed to write about them. If and whenever I do choose to get married, I'm certain my mum will have to prod (and slap) me awake at least thrice before I'm willing to get out of bed and bathe. Speaking of bathing, I should technically be allowed to not shower on my own wedding day (this in keeping with my philosophy of 'showering is overrated'). 


So well, here goes my dream wedding, and for those of you who still need it to be spelt out, it's going to be 'simple', to say the least. Well, here are the rules:


1) Gold is strictly to be banned at my wedding. I hate gold. HATE. IT. It's yellow and shiny and ugly and expensive. Anyone thinking of gifting me gold should first go to the nearest jeweller, sell it and present me with the cash. 


2) I should be allowed to wake up on the day I'm technically supposed to get married and decide whether I want to do it at all. No one should even raise an eyebrow if I chose to say, "Gah...It's too hot today. Perhaps I get married tomorrow, yes?"


3) The groom and I are going to wear shorts at our wedding. And so will our friends (If groom and friends don't agree with this, well, please point me to where I can buy a new groom and new friends). If you want to be wearing three layers of sarees and 25 kgs of gold, you're going to feel mighty stupid. Especially since I'm going to marry on a beach.


4) The minimum cut off for the present you buy me is Rs. 9,999. I will surely accept whatever you get me even if it's below the minimum amount, but I will judge you and call you names in my head (Names may range from cheapster, kanjoos, skinflint, etc.). Guests will have to declare their presents at the entrance, based on which their meals will be decided. Dal and rice for the cheapsters, a full 7-course gourmet meal for people gifting me a car / house / home theatre system, etc.


5) Relatives above the age of 45 (except my parents and the groom's) aren't allowed to the wedding. Separate video-conferencing facilities will be set up for them at home, where they can choose to watch the proceedings. A separate hotline will be arranged for them to leave me congratulatory messages. I'll be damned if I sit and answer all those phone calls.


6) There will be music along the lines of 'Kuan ma doob jaungi' and 'Ringa Ringa' to dance to. If this is too down market for your tastes, please get the eff out of wedding.


7) The bride must be allowed to take a power nap sometime in the afternoon. Guests may continue having fun in the meantime with housie or musical chairs or whatever it takes to get them out of my hair. 


8) I will canoodle with my husband in the middle of the venue. Beach tumhare chacha ka nahi hai. And don't forget, it's MY wedding. 


9) I may just walk out of my wedding if I get too bored. The groom can choose to join me or not, depending on the level of fun he's having. If he is, good for him. I'll be at home reading when he's back.


10) Please don't stand in line to get pictures clicked with me, in the manner of a rationing queue. Just tap me on the shoulder when I'm in the middle of dancing and go *click*. Don't be disheartened if I look spastic, though. 


11) No video shooting at my wedding. I don't want to be reminded of the biggest mistake of my life, alongwith with visual evidence. 


12) There will be free-flowing beer and breezers at the shaadi. People expecting Moet Chandon and Laphroaig should bring their own booze. This isn't an Ambani wedding.


13) Oh, and did I mention this is to be a court shaadi? I don't have the time, patience and the money to spend on pandits and their rituals. After the court, head straight to the beach. 


14) You will not come to my wedding and criticise anything about it. You will not call me fat or my husband names. You will come, have fun and leave at a decent time. Do not outstay your welcome since husband and I will want to go home and sleep. And by sleep, I mean sleep. Not the bonking kind.


15) You will not call up through the week and tell me how much fun you had. Please. Spare me the phone calls. I will assume you had fun anyway and leave you to it. All phone calls will be transferred to the earlier-mentioned hotline till further notice.


Ah well, I read through my own rules before I could proceed and I really wonder if I have any hopes in hell of snagging a man who is stupid enough to marry me. But since I believe in being optimistic and cheerful, let's hope that I marry someone who does not have access to the internet and my blog. Someone from Sudan, maybe? Or Iran? Or Aamir Khan? 


Now excuse me, while I go and register on shaadi.com. See you at the wedding! ;)


This is my entry for 99Labels.com's Wedding Week Blogging contest. My post's under the category 'My dream wedding - simple or lavish?'

Some gyaan on the contest: 


1) Become a member of 99labels (If you are not a member already) by clicking on the referral link at the bottom of this post. (You get Rs 100 worth of credit free to shop!) .


2) Create a log-in preferably using the email id attached with your blog. This is to protect the anonymity of some bloggers as the referral link (read rule 2) displays your email-id.


Post your referral link on the post (This means that whoever becomes a member clicking on the link gets Rs 100, and whenever you referral buys an item you get Rs 500). To find your referral link: 


-Log in on www.99labels.com
-Click on “Invite friends” on the top menu.
-Go to bottom of page and look for “Copy and paste your personal invitation link” and paste the link at the bottom of your post E.g .  My Referral invite – http://www.99labels.com/v1/Become-Member.aspx?re=xyz@gmail.com


3) Copy and paste all the rules in your post.
4) Leave a link to your post in the comments section of the contest page of 99labels http://blog.99labels.com/2010/10/25/wedding-week-blogging-contest/.
5) Copy and paste the image at the end of the post and the category under which you have posted.


My referral link invite is: http://www.99labels.com/v1/Become-Member.aspx?re=whinythemoo@gmail.com. Buy some stuff off my referral and make me some money! #ShamelessPimping

It must've been love...

He chatted away, nineteen to the dozen. She listened patiently as always, sometimes distracted by the odd pang of hunger, as she waited for their food to arrive.

"...They loved my idea," she suddenly heard him say.

"Lovely, darling. I'm sure they're proud of you," she said, slightly stunned at how automatically the response was out of her, before she could even gather what he was talking about.

Pay attention. It's his big day. Don't spoil it for him.

"...And yeah. They want me to be in charge of the entire project. It's really something I've been waiting for, for so long. It's finally happening!" he was now saying. 

"I'm so happy for you!" she responded, a little more cheerfully than she felt. 

The waiter brought in the food. As usual, he joked with the waiter. The latter guffawed and went off to jot down the order at the next table.

Everyone loves him, she thought. 

Everyone? 

Her train of thought was distracted with the sound of spoons against the plate. He'd begun eating, while her plate was still empty. 

"I had a good day at work," she said, grabbing a butter naan. "Wasn't hectic enough to induce a headache, but wasn't boring enough to keep playing Solitaire, either."

"Hmm," he said, checking mail on his phone. "Why isn't he mailing, yaar?"

"Who?" 

"My boss. He's supposed to forward an important mail. If it doesn't come tonight, tomorrow's con call will be a waste of time!"

"Hmm. Yeah so as I was saying...My day was prett---"

"Hang on. I need to call my boss," he interrupted. 

He rattled off 5 minutes of jargon, most of which she'd heard at least three times through the day. 

"Oh good. He's e-mailing me right away," he said, absently. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing, really," she said, picking at her food. 

"Hmm. I seriously am so excited about this!" he said, full of good cheer.

"Yep, I know," she said, silently.

Roxette's 'Must have been love' began playing from the speakers. He looked up from his phone and looked at her.

"I love this song! Been ages since I heard it last," he said, getting up to go wash his hands. "I'll be right back."

"Uh huh," she said.

It must have been love, but it's over now
It must have been good, but I lost it somehow
It must have been love, but it's over now
From the moment we touched till the time had run out

"It must've been love, alright," she thought, as a silent tear escaped her eye. 

All a part of love?

Tears.

Doubts.

Questions.

Suspicions.

Anger.

Hurt.

Self-pity.

Humiliation. 

Lies.

Infidelity.

Fear.

All a part of love?

Not for everyone, no Sir.

This one's just for me.

Go find your own troubles.

Live me alone!

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon. The sound of the wind's coming in through the crack in the window, accompanied by the pitter patter of the rain. As I write this line, Timbaland and Justin Timberlake are crooning 'Carry Out' in my ears. I'm at peace with the world. At this point in time, I love being alone. There's peace of mind. There's silence and there's no one else. 

That's the best part.

Living alone can be a bitch at most times. Especially when you don't cook, hate cleaning and doing the dishes. And when you're a sucker for home-cooked food. But on the upside, you can have corn-flakes for lunch (like I did today), have friends over whenever you want (provided they have clean feet) and wake up at 1 pm on Sunday (again, behaviour that yours truly exhibits beautifully). 

I love the freedom Bangalore gives me. It gives me enough time to catch up on a life I'd been missing out on for at least five years of my life. There's a living to be earnt here, but there's also a life to be explored. You have enough time to spend hours in that new bookstore lazing around, or you could go to your favourite coffee shop on your way to office and spend an hour there before you head home. You have enough time to gym (yes, yes, I'm joining one soon). There's a lot of time to do things I didn't do before. 

I think I like living alone. Not because of the mad freedom I get. But because it's nice doing things on your own. Knowing you have to make your own decisions and can blame no one else. You forage for food, you eat outside, and pull up your socks when you look at the alarmingly receding bank balance. That's when you get a dabba delivered at home. There's lots to learn, and no lesson can be a waste, can it? 

Perhaps you should consider some of the following things when you're living alone, though. Like:

1) Try living alone instead of at a PG, if your budget can allow it. PG owners begin to think they own YOU and are extremely strict about the stupidest things. Also their deadlines are quite silly. You don't want to be home at 8.30 pm on a Saturday night, do you? In fact, on most days, you'll end up stepping out at that time.

2) Have your own vehicle. Or at least be best friends with someone who does. In Bangalore, auto drivers are willing to use a meter only if you speak Kannada. Otherwise, you're an 'outsider' who deserves to be ripped off.

3) Speaking of Kannada, try picking up the local language. Very useful. With locals and auto drivers alike. Till then, you're an outsider. I have no clue why the world laughs at Bal Thackeray. Come over here and you'll know.

4) Your neighbours will tend to be unfriendly if you don't know their language. I've been living here for two months, but I still can't say I can identify who lives next door. As far as they are concerned, I'm the slutty girl next door, who has boys over, who steps out at all odd hours, lives alone and wears skirts and wears shorts at home. When you look for a house, try getting a place that has a young vibe. Try noticing the kind of people that are walking in and around the building and if they fit your profile. Helps. I was conned. Badly.

5) When they say that the house has water 24 hours, don't believe them. Actually, don't believe anything they say. 

6) Try and be inconspicuous as you can. Don't piss off the building by bringing noisy friends over and making  a racket. No one likes noisy neighbours, especially if they don't like you in the first place.

7) If you're Muslim, good luck getting a house. Chances are you'll have to build your own house. The house agents here are generally given strict orders by owners NOT to get Muslim tenants. Sad, I know. 

8) Everyone is out to rip you here. All services are grossly overpriced. Haggle till you're blue in the face. Or if you suck at bargaining like I do, take a local friend along, who knows the language. 

I'm no guru, and I don't display the most exemplary 'living alone' behaviour, but I hope to goodness you don't spend your energy fruitlessly cussing at your house owner, when you realise that your new geyser doesn't work because he hasn't got the building plumbing repaired. Till then, it's heating water in a microwave for me. One more thing I can't be arsed to do is, cook. The thought of buying groceries, putting them away and chopping stuff after coming from work and cooking is something that makes starvation look like a pretty option.

So don't learn from me. Actually don't learn from anyone. It's a brilliant feeling to reclaim your life and make your own discoveries.

Having said that, don't purposely walk home just to see how long it takes, despite your friend's judgement. It always takes 1 hour 10 minutes. My aching shin confirms this. 

Well, have you lived alone? Are you still doing it? Share experiences! The floor's open for comments.

Bang-galore chronicles in a blog post

Yes, so I've been away for a while.


So, I haven't been blogging much.


So, I can't really say I didn't get the time to write.


So bloody what?


I'VE MOVED! MOVED TO BANG-GALORE!


It's been 20 days so far. And quite honestly, I like this place. True that my house-owner is a fat, rotten asshole who makes me pay for the damaged plumbing in the flat, and that the auto drivers here should be castrated without anasthesia, but there's something about Bangalore that makes you feel like you are a part of it. The city welcomes you into its fold and lets you be. It's non-intrusive and young, just the way I like it. 


House-hunting wasn't half a nightmare that it promised to be, thanks to Wish. The torrents of Kannada, Malayalam and Tamil he bursts into are highly irritating at most times, but really useful when you're house-hunting. I will not grudge him the languages ever again. To get back to the point, I have a really pretty, decently equipped house, that my parents have put their sweat and blood to do up for me. What would I do if they hadn't come along to help me set it up? I think I'd have dumped all my stuff on the floor and thrown a noisy tantrum. Hmm.


I'm not going to get into the tedious nitty-gritties of moving. It's completely tedious work and I'd advise you to avoid it like the plague if you can. Unless of course, you have a good enough reason like I do. :)


Work is good. It's been my first week in advertising. Feels strange to have moved on from journalism (for the time being, at least). Although I can't really say I miss the pointless press conferences and events. Advertising lets me be. On most days, I can be in my corner and blast music in mine own ears, and no one bothers with me. I can keep doing my own thing for hours, unless of course there's something urgent to be done. There aren't PR calls to attend, which is somehow the biggest blessing God has bestowed on me. It sometimes gets quite dull, but then, I think anyone moving from Mumbai to any other place in the world will feel the same way.


So far, no complaints. Life's good.


I love the vibe that this city gives out. Remember the vacation to Bangalore I'd taken in January? I couldn't help but think of Bangalore as the one place I'd like to move to, if I had to get out of Mumbai. Well, whaddaya know?


I don't know if I'll feel the same way once the next month starts and the bills start pouring in. When the bank balance will not be enough whatever the hell you do. When the extreme urge to eat steaming hot homecooked food will reach unbearable levels. When I'll sell my soul in a jiffy just to be able to hug mom and dad. When I'll be dying to have a Sunday afternoon that involves freaking out with the WiseAss and LOTS of mad laughter.


But I'll live through it. I'll have to.


I don't miss Mumbai. I miss my people. I miss my family, Mika, Lammy, Bippers, the whole freakin' lot. :(


But Mumbai, I didn't have a life when I was with you. Sorry. I don't miss you one bit.

How I got a bruise on my backside...

Ah yes. I've been away from this blog for a while. Stupid, really, for someone who wants to make a living out of writing. I is a fraud, I've realised.

So a lot of things have been happening lately. Details later, since I don't want to jinx things. A major overhaul is in the offing, either way, in the professional and personal front. And no, I'm not getting married.

Panda, Pimpo and I went on a much needed break to Goa. In fact, I think I'm still having post-holiday blues. Whoever wants to come back from the land of free-flowing booze, beaches, fish curry and rice, waves and relaxation, to local trains, office, colleagues, deadlines and routine? The trip was a lot of fun in more ways than one. Pimpo is staying back for the month (lucky bitch) at her aunt's, while Panda and I had to be dragged out of the place kicking and screaming.

But then, this post isn't about that. This post is about how I got a bruise on my butt. On my last afternoon in Goa.

So the three of us were heading to our friend Vijay's shack for our last round of drinks. We'd just finished an awesome lunch of fish curry and rice, garlic butter fish and beer in another shack and were idly strolling on Baga Beach. Suddenly, Pimpo and Panda let out excited squeals and began beckoning me towards them.

Well, they'd spotted a cow on the beach and were orgasming with the possible photo-ops with me and the cow. Ah well, I trundled along to them, while they asked me to pose. But the goddamned cow just wouldn't stop walking. Finally it did, and Pimpo had a bright idea asking me to pose alongside its face. The cow ignored us throughout, so I didn't really think it would mind. Also, for once in my life I was feeling brave about an animal. Maybe the beer had something to do with it.

I sat down near the cow, while Pimpo clicked away. Suddenly, the fucking cow turned its face towards me, making me almost pee in my pants. I got up suddenly and for some obscure reason beyond my realm of understanding, I started running backwards till I tumbled. On my butt. Till this moment, I have no clue why I was so frightened of the cow turning its face towards me.

Needless to say, Pimpo and Panda almost choked with the giggles, punctuated with "WHY were you so scared of your own sister? Hahahahahahahahaha!"

Bitches.

Now excuse me while I go get an ice pack for my posterior.

Just an iPod?

Watching an Aamir Khan movie every year is turning out to be jinxed. When things go wrong everytime you watch his flick, for three consecutive years, there has to be something wrong.

When I went to watch Taare Zameen Par in 2007, my sister and her fiance (now husband) met with a bad auto rickshaw accident.

Last year, when I went to watch Ghajini with Lammy, I lost my brand new Mango shades in the theatre.

Today, as I returned from watching 3 Idiots, I left my iPod Classic behind somewhere. And it's gone. Forever.

Most people think I'm being shallow and supremely materialistic (which I am), but that piece of technology was by far my most prized possession. It was the reason so many tedious, long drives became joyful and memorable.

It was my sole travel mate, steadily killing the mundanity (is that a word?) of traveling long hours. It kept me company when I was so damn tired after a hard day's work. When I was too tired to read, but had to stay awake, lest I missed my station.

It killed all unwanted sounds and conversation. We all know how important it is to tune out. And it helped me do just that. Tune out the frivolous banter in office, the ear-drum bursting sound of traffic, everything.

It made me fall in love. With music. With a man. With life. Don't ask me how. It just happened.

So many memories.

And you say it's JUST a piece of machinery?

Why the Kindle v/s Physical Book is a non-existent debate

(Friendly warning: This blog is penned to encourage a healthy exchange of opinions. Comments of the 'You're-an-idiot-because-you-can't-afford-a-Kindle' kind will not be tolerated. Leave comments that convince me that you've a brain and we can take it from there. Feel free to oppose my point-of-view. I'll like you a lot more if you don't, though. Cheers.)

I'm a stubborn little twit when it comes to certain things. And when I'm completely convinced that my point of view is THE only possible point-of-view, I refuse to see sense. Very cow-like I know. But what to do?

Which is why, I absolutely don't get this whole Kindle v/s Physical Book debate that people are having these days. I mean, what's there to debate about? It's like debating whether walking is better than hailing a cab, or whether sex without a condom is better than sex with one on (don't ask me what's better. I don't know). But the debates ARE pointless. Get what I mean?

And if you don't already know which side of the debate I am on, you're a douche bag.

How can anything, anything remotely substitute the feel of a book? However new, shiny and filled-to-the-brim with orgasmic features your bloody Kindle is. Come to think of it, my bone of contention is just that. Having a book that does stuff it isn't supposed to do in the first place. I'm sorry I'm old-fashioned, but I don't think I want my book to automatically turn pages at the click of a button. And no, I don't want to be able to stick a headphone into it, so that it doubles up as an audio-book. If I want an audio-book, I'll get it myself, thanks.

I don't want to be able to download my book. I want to be able to buy it. Smell it. Lovingly run my finger along its binding. Cringe when the cover gets dog-eared. Get pissed if someone folds a page instead of get a bloody bookmark.

Call me pseudo, call me a weirdo, but I think visiting a bookshop is an integral part of my life. The feeling of wanting to buy the whole bookstore (except where the Twilight series is stocked, thank you very much. I'm still trying to con someone into taking my copies), the sheer delight at holding a book I've been wanting to buy for the longest time, sifting through rows and rows of books, sitting down on the pouffe at leisure and reading a big chunk off a random book, the feeling of curling up under the quilt on a rainy day with a great book, there's so much more to a physical book than it being a mere book. Geddit?

So then, how are you going to get all of this with a Kindle?

Sure. It holds like a few thousand books. It turns pages at a click. It runs on batteries. It cuts down on all the space you'd need for your books, the pros are endless. But are they really pros?

Firstly, do you need thousand odd books on you at all times? How many books can one human being read at one go? Five, if you stretch your imagination to snapping limits?

Secondly, who the eff needs pages that turn at a click? How much effort does it take to turn a freakin' page? So what if an actual book needs both your hands? What are you going to do with your other hand when you're reading anyway? (Hmm...A Kindle may be useful when you're reading erotica, but that's the only advantage I can see as far as the use of one hand is concerned.)

Next, the whole concept of battery-operated books is so unnatural. Like a baby born with a complete set of pearlies and painted toe-nails. It's against the law of nature, that's what's wrong!

And that brings me to the biggest pro-Kindle argument that fans have: It saves you space that books will take up.

This leaves me most flummoxed. But that may be because I don't see books as a waste of space. They're an integral part of my house. Like sofas. Or the dining table. So, my family takes up space in my house. That does NOT mean I will replace them with robots now, will I, just because robots can keep my house clean and do my dishes with utmost precision?

And how can something that's important to you be considered a waste? Our clothes and shoes probably take up more space than is considered normal, but we don't stop buying them, do we? Neither have we come up with electronic, space-saving alternatives to clothes, as far as I know.

So if you haven't got it already, the point I'm trying to make is, that in my opinion, you will somehow accommodate things that are important to you, without looking for easier alternatives.

Sure, you can download a book from an e-book website, but what can be more fun than waiting outside a bookstore hours before a much-anticipated book is going to be released? Or going and picking up a pre-ordered book from the shop?

If you're a true-blue book lover, you won't really mind the space crunch and the other 'inconveniences'.

It's like having a baby. It poops, it cries at midnight and can't even distinguish its teeth from its nose. But heck, it's still perfect!