There's a lesson in here somewhere...

While two friends and I were walking along a busy street in Bombay at rush hour, I pointed to the sky and said, "Look! That's such a pretty sunset".

One of them looked up as well and said, "Huh. Funny how little we bother to look up since we're so preoccupied trying to see where we're going".

Over the next few months, I tried hard to be philosophical about that moment and look up at the sky more often. The colours, the cloud formations, the sheer artistic brilliance of it is truly mesmerising.

I currently have nine pairs of shoes.

In the span of three months since I had this revelation, seven of them have had dog poop on the soles.

Yesterday I received a ridiculous email from an old friend which made me laugh out loud. It was filled with nonsense that had a rich sense of tradition, i.e. we had been carrying on with the same fictional characters and story lines for the last three and a half years.

The point is this - there are some things that are worth hanging on to.

Old friends that make you laugh with stupid emails is one of them.

The people that resemble the spawn of Satan are not.

I made some bad character judgements and terrible decisions over the last couple of years. Today I took the time to really think about them and it was hard.

And then I let it go.

I have no doubt that there will be moments when I will come across a picture, an email, or have a conversation that gets me annoyed and wonder, 'How on earth....??!!!'. But I spent the better part of a year working hard on getting my physical health in order. So it's not too high a price to pay to do the same for some mental peace and quiet, and rid myself of the self-recriminations, the effort it takes to not forgive the sorry bastards that we are all blessed with.

With three days left of this year, I have no intention of making any New Year's resolutions for 2010.

Except to be as happy as possible without being annoyingly chirpy about it (I hate those kind of people), while I continue to put one cautious foot in front of the other.

Snow

This time of year is all about making lists.

There is a synopsis of your life as Facebook status messages, shopping inventories for Christmas and yet another round of New Year's resolutions written on an ever-shortening piece of paper.

I usually like to do a run down of all the things I can tick off the 'Giant List of things I want to do while I'm Alive' and then, in a more philosophical moment, consider all the lessons learned, things to be grateful for despite the crappy bits, etc. However, this year, things have been a bit more... busy, than usual. I feel older, a tad wiser, richer (despite being broke), happier, thinner and on the whole, more content with my lot.

So I'll end my reflection on my most recent lesson after witnessing snow for the very first time this past week (yes I know, I'm one of those people that had never seen snow before):

Snow is prettier and infinitely more enjoyable when you're inside, where it's warm and you can feel your feet.

Life is full of teeny, tiny little epiphanies.

Out to Dinner

I can see them wondering what our connection is.

What could we possibly have in common?

The old, white gentleman and the young, brown girl.

I can see what they see.

How absolutely happy we are to see each other.

How we both have tears in our eyes, and they lean closer to catch a snatch of the conversation - the stories you're telling me of people long dead and gone.

How I reach across to hold your strong, wrinkled hand - to comfort you as much as myself, as we talk of the worst bits of our shared story.

I want to tell them to stop staring.

To look away,

because they will never understand that what family means to you and me

has nothing to do with geography, colour or age.

Reality Check

Today I was told that I was a bit of a hypocrite for asking people not to be too bitchy, and then slagging off others on my blog.

It actually got me thinking, what if that's true?!

I'm not a fan of pretentiousness, so this scared me quite a bit.

But after a chat with my sounding board, here's how it is.

Yes, I do talk about things that annoy me, and even people that annoy me and you know what? this is my space to do that.

More to the point, I never mention these people by name - even when it would've been really easy (and God knows more satisfying!) to do so.

I've never found myself with such a low level of self-esteem and nastiness that I needed to talk about someone's physical attributes in order to make my posts seem funnier or more sarcastically appealing to someone reading it. And I hope I never will.

I've been told that 'this is what some people do'. But for the sake of my own sanity and faith in those who I still consider decent human beings, I have to hold on to the hope that this isn't true. And that when the funny talk gets to being downright debased and trashy, someone else has the guts to say that it's wrong, and then walk out of the room.

Something I Wish People Would Understand

There are degrees of comfort.

For example, I am a hugger, but that doesn't mean I'm open to hugging everyone. Or just because one person puts his/her arm around you, it does not mean a proclamation of 'he/she's okay with it', so it'll be fine if anyone does it.

I grew up with a friend who I had an amazing level of comfort with. We could hold hands, hug, sleep right next to each other, and there was never any weirdness involved.

Unfortunately, another friend took this to mean I was all sorts of 'cuddly'.

Which I really am not. It didn't end well.

So the lesson for today boys and girls, is don't base your assumptions about what's okay in terms of physical contact based on what someone does with other people.

They're not you. The rules do not apply.

Something's Off

Last night, a man I'd just met told me that I was lovely.

I'd like to think the traditional answer to that would've been 'Thank you'. Instead, before I could help myself I said, 'Yeah! I've heard that before!' before clamping a hand over my mouth to curb the flow of any more cynicisms.

And as another in a (thankfully!) relatively short line of as***** boyfriends walks down the aisle, I think, 'Whew, sidestepped another potential landmine'. I hear other women talk with regret about the 'One that got away' and wonder what that must feel like. All I have as a frame of reference are the ones that I'm really happy are far, far away from me.

Yup, something is definitely off.

Need To Know Basis

There are people who like knowing things.

Not important things.
Not things that are pertinent to their lives.
Not even things that would enhance their general understanding of the world and all its complexities.

They need to know the mundane stuff. The 'where are you going' and 'what are you doing' and 'who you're doing what with' etc... the stuff that is of really no significance to anyone else.

My Dad is one of those people. Our answers of I'm going out - with friends-to hang out- will be back in a while were absolutely infuriating to him not so much out of parental concern I suspect, but because of the sheer lack of detailing.

There are other people in my life who also have this Need-to-Know issue; and because I do not have enough entertainment in my life, I like to mess with them.

It is absolutely amazing to watch someone get so worked up about a teeny little detail that they know probably won't amount to much, but they need to know about it anyway.

They just can't seem to help themselves.
Then again, neither can I.

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

And that's why we all look forward to the Christmas Holidays.

(TBN: This sprouted from a combined effort of thought. Thanks T)

To my friend the smoker...

There's really no need to explain why you are slowly killing yourself.

After all, we've all been there; when you have those really bad days that just make you want to numb the pain by inhaling tar and a variety of other strange substances.

Then again, the rest of us have moved on.

We discovered alcohol and hugs and other things that made us feel better.

I'm sorry you didn't.

But my pity is limited.

For example, it does not extend to an allowance for making my hair stink every time I'm with you. Or having you accountable for an extra laundry load because all my clothes smell of that horribly acrid stench. Not to mention all that second hand smoke you so kindly share with me.

Those are the mere details.

The real problem I have with the whole situation is, I HATE smoke.

It was fun hanging out with you while it lasted, but I'm afraid that while you continue to slowly introduce your lungs to the possibility of cancer, I'm choosing to... not.

Spill: The Aftermath

Tell me your dreams,

Tell me about your life before me,

Share with me everything,

especially your friends.

Tell me about your family,

your favourite movie,

your addictions, your fears,

your biggest regrets.

Bare your soul and all that you are,

Give me the privilege of your trust,

your heart and mind.

And then let me trample it,

crush it all and throw it away.

So that it becomes indecipherable

to the next person who cares to try.

Everybody goes 'Shriek!!!'

I can't scream.

I'm not even trying to lace this with innuendo, it's just a fact.

I have absolutely no capacity for working up a good scream.

At the very most, after a particularly scary movie and a friend jumping out at me in a dark corridor, I managed to work up a yelp before proceeding to beat the crap out of him.

But over the last few weeks, I've been treated to a variety of very loud shrieks and screams (I don't even want to know what caused them!) which made it seem like they could be summoned at a moment's notice and without any great effort thrown into them.

Spider = Shriek, Startled by random person = Loud shriek, Passing whim = Loud Scream (yes indeed, there is a tad bit of a difference between a shriek and a scream)... this has been my recent experience with some part of the female population.

It seems like an absolutely feminine thing to be able to do. After all, which good old entertainment movie (Hollywood or Bollywood, take your pick) does not have at least one damsel in distress who can truly exercise her lungs for all she's worth?!

Then again, when I consider the hearing loss that I've probably suffered from all the shrieking and screaming, I consider that I'm doing my part for the environment by keeping the noise pollution levels waaaaay down.

Perhaps I'll keep my yelp after all.

S

Since you were expecting to find yourself mentioned here at some point, I thought, why not end your misery?

I'll admit I have a penchant for pessimism, therefore writing about you and things that annoy me in the same vein would be... easy. Then again, where would be the fun in that?

So we'll leave it at this; we've come a long way, you and I. And we're all the better for it.

You have my hugs and I have your diamonds... equal footing when you really think about it.

I'm glad we're us with the stupid humour and the sarcasm and the cuddles and the fact that we can cry unabashedly when we both needed to.

Oh yes,

I almost forgot to mention,

I really do love you.

Learning Curve(s)

If you keep chocolate in your room fridge instead of your kitchen fridge, you're kidding yourself that it's going to last more than an hour.

And it will come to bite you in the ass. Literally.

Kapwoosh Times

According to the handbook of my life, i.e. Calvin and Hobbes, there are times when words are simply inadequate to describe something that is above and beyond beauty, greatness, happiness etc...

In one of the strips, Calvin is looking at a beautiful summer's day and with nothing in his vocabulary to articulate just how amazing it is, he ends up with a word that goes a lot like 'Kapwoosh'.
It means nothing of course, but then again, it means everything!

My life for the last few months has been one long series of incredible moments.

So in the absence of any other way to explain it -

KAPWOOSH!!!!!

Newsflash!

Here's a little FYI moment for men - women always know when they're being felt up.

So when you're trying to do that casual brush of the hand 'accident' thing,

don't.

Siblings

I sat with you for talk about shoes

I sat with him for talks about boys

I sat with the other him, for words in dictionaries that he would not explain to me

and with all of you, I felt such love.

I drank Old Monk and Grey Goose,

with equal ease and equal grace,

our old table of memories and stylish tables of novelty,

they seemed the same in the company,

did you notice it?

I held hands with all of you,

fell asleep lying next to you,

I cried for love of you,

when you were long gone and went your own way.

When I close my eyes,

I remember the room we were in,

The air we shared,

the laughter ringing off the walls.

I talk to you,

I talk to them,

And your voices make me happy,

wherever I am.

Just smile and say 'No'

I used to be able to do it.

Just say 'NO'.

I've often berated other people for being pushovers and questioned them about why it was so difficult for them to stand up for themselves. I would tell them to just be polite, but firm and throw in a smile for good measure.

And then today I was one of them.

At an event whose description is really not relevant to this story, I met a boy from India.

Like me, he had come to London in September and like me, he is a student.

But that's about where the similarity ends.

This guy is obnoxious. He's chatty, but not really what you could call friendly. He smiles a lot, but there's a glimmer of someone that has the potential to be very, VERY annoying. And of course, the clincher - he has an opinion on everything, especially when he isn't asked for one.

So really, when he asked me for my number on the way back home I should have just said 'No' and left it at that.

Instead, I became one of the 'them' people.

I gave him my number.

Moreover, I gave him the right number.

When I got off the train, I was thinking of all the excuses I will have to make when he calls, and how I really must find out if I have a call -block facility on my phone.

I was mentally kicking myself for not thinking of a great excuse as to why I don't hand out my number.

The girl I was travelling with then says to me, 'You know, you should just smile and say No next time'.

The vicious circle of want

It's the whole Mars-Venus thing again... isn't it always?!

If men want something, they are able to express themselves pretty easily.

I want - therefore I should get.

Somehow the vast majority of women aren't able to articulate this particularly well.

I want, but I want you to want to do whatever the hell it is that is the subject of the argument. Doing something just because I want you to do it is just not good enough; it's the intent that matters. Do you want to do it, or are you doing it just because I want you to do it?

Besides the obvious difference in complexity of one sentence versus four, what on earth is wrong with the female mind?

Simplicity in articulation... that's what I want!

Way too much free time

He has a look on his face when he talks to her.

She twirls her hair and smiles a lot when he's around.

They spend waaaay too much time together.

'Just friends' don't act that way around each other.

There must be something going on.

No of course I'm not saying that they're going out! Don't be ridiculous!

But you know, she is single... and so is he.

Maybe they are, who knows?!

I'm not asking them, it's none of my business!

Her friend's brother's cousin's wife told my classmate's room-mate that he spent the night in her room.

He lent her a book, he never lends his books out.

She's taking a trip with him, a trip! We all know what that means!

He's gay? Well of course, he's gay! I knew it all along.

It was something about his mannerisms...

The way he spends all his time with her.

2 Down

I had decided a few years ago to live with as little regret as possible.

While it sounded all Hallmark-cardish and inspiring at the time, it was harder than I thought.

So as a compromise, I can hang on to about three things, but everything else has got to go.

Right now, the count is up to one; but my days are spent doing things that I may regret not doing later on, e.g. speed dating, or not doing things that I know I will regret for sure, e.g. drinking until 5 a.m.

I guess while I was running around filling up up my time doing as much as was humanly possible, I forgot about my first and greatest love - sleep.

A cousin once told me he doesn't like to waste too much of his time in bed because he can sleep when he's dead. I tried to follow his sage advice... and failed miserably.

I know the rationale - seize the day, the birds are chirping, the sun is shining (ish, as far as London is concerned), live while you're alive etc etc, and believe me, I try!

But it turns out that I'm just one of those people who loves to sleep.

So against my better judgement, I'm notching up my second regret... and taking a good long nap.

Clean Slate

The thing about new places; you can reinvent yourself.

You can go from quiet, shy, back of the class variety to being the gregarious, self -confident person that everyone wants to be friends with.

You can keep all your secrets, because honestly, who would know?

And can gloss over your past painful memories, by making new ones that you're happier to keep.

But here's the other thing about new places; everyone gets a shot at reinvention, even the assholes.

WTF??!!!

Yesterday I sat next to a girl in class.

She was blonde, had blue eyes and for all intents and purposes looked.... well, white.

Then she turned to me and spoke;

In Hindi.

Not just Hindi, DELHI Hindi (for the uninitiated, that's the really good kind of Hindi).

It had been a very long time since I was that dumbstruck.

There's just no accounting for predictability any more.

I spent last year watching the seconds, the minutes, the hours... waiting for stubborn time.

Wanting every day to pass quicker than the one before, taking the past with it into unknown oblivion.

Now an hour in the kitchen, two over tea endlessly stirred.

I blinked, a month went by.

The blessing - the human body has no memory for pain.

The curse - happiness cannot freeze time.

Fillers

When I was in my second year of college, a friend and I found ourselves sitting in the canteen foyer, chatting aimlessly about the various things that constitute nothing at all. Amongst these was the frequency with which the word 'like' was used as a filler in everyday conversation.

E.g. He said he was going to the pub, and I was like, 'How could you possibly stand it?', and then he was like, 'But it's fun', and then I was like...etc.

We both agreed it was overused and annoying.

So we challenged ourselves to give up using 'like' unnecessarily for a week; and would you believe, we managed it. We noticed that our conversation was much improved and we had managed to reach within our vocabulary to substitute 'like' with actual words that had more relevance and meaning.

So today as I waited at a bus stop, I listened to three young girls (when I say young, I mean younger than I am) have a conversation that featured 'like' 26 times in ten minutes.

I know this because I counted.

In my defence, it was cold, I didn't have a book, and I needed something to take my mind off the fact that I couldn't feel my fingers any more.

After listening/eavesdropping on this fascinating discussion, my bus thankfully arrived.

I left with the regret that my one week challenge of dropping-the-word-'like'-from-all-conversation-where-it-is-not-necessary could not be shared with all those who are so clearly in desperate need of it.

Home

I'm almost convinced of it - I was born to be a city girl.

Any place that has people walking with some sense of urgency, lots of lights and bustling activity, reassuring traffic noises, a shop around every corner and I feel instantly at home.

So while I may love the eye-candy, the fact that I live with people from over 10 different countries, the convenience of the Tube and the acres of beautiful parks, the reason I really love living in London is because it feels like I never left Bombay.

What was I thinking?

Every morning, when I see the Italian coffee-maker on the stove-ring sending off aromatic smells throughout the corridors, I seriously consider decking the owner, stealing his coffee and making a run for it.

I do this, because in a moment of sheer stupidity (and ambitiousness?) I made the decision to give up coffee. New beginnings and all that.

It was a bad idea.

Giving up coffee makes you a grumpy person. Or in my case, an even more grumpy person.

And as lovely as ginger and lemon tea is, it just doesn't quite do the job.

Coffee was my wake-up call. It was the seven minute walk from VT Station to St. Xavier's College with my face buried in the Nescafe cup, it was timeless mornings spent in the kitchen, it was French Tuitions, it was quick dates that I didn't want to last too long, it was chats with my sister at 3 a.m., it was my favourite mug that no one else could touch... and now it's thoughts of murder just for one more sip.

I have an inkling this abstinence is not going to last. Just a hunch.

Come to me, all ye...

I am a freak magnet.

I am convinced of this. If there is a weirdo/creep/socially maladjusted person within 10 kilometres of me, they will find themselves drawn to me for some inexplicable reason.

And then stay there.

This isn't to say that I don't meet normal people, because I do. I know tons of them. But it seems that none of them have the freak-shows lining up in their lives.

It's just me.

So while I'm cruising along trying to figure out the 'purpose' of my life etc etc, I'm desperately avoiding even considering the fact that this could be it.

Maybe I'm the supposed to be the one that saves them from themselves, stays friends with them despite all their innumerable and oh-so-obvious problems, tell people that they're really not as strange as they appear to be (even though I know better)... you get the picture.

I want to be the one that has the normal people... so this run of luck had better take a turn for the better. To think that this will continue for the rest of my life... I shudder at the thought.

No Last Name Needed

Some of the best memories are created with people you meet just once.

There's something perfect about that one evening spent over a beer, a laugh, a random party that you didn't want to go to but glad you forced yourself to, because you ended up having one of the best conversations of your life.

It's 'Hi, my name is John/Jane', two hours of absolute magic, and then you never have to see them again! You never have to discover dysfunctional personalities, annoying habits, terrible hygiene or anything else that is a part of getting to know people better.

They're perfect! And they remain that way forever, just because you never saw them again.

Exchanging phone numbers is overrated.

Encore

It has been said so many times before, and yet it needs a repeat. So let me be the one to say it... again.

India was colonised by the British. Therefore, it follows that our grasp on English would be fairly good, i.e. let go of the shock when I can string a whole sentence together without any grammatical or pronunciation errors.

And yes, it is completely possible that English is my first language. If you don't believe me, I could talk to you in Hindi, you could laugh, and then we'll settle this matter once and for all.

Agreed?

Sunday Morning Amusement

'The Examiner' is a magazine published by the Bombay Catholic Sabha (indeed, such a thing exists). Every Sunday, we pick up our copy after mass and spend about a hour leafing through it over breakfast.

While most of the news consists of the latest announcements from the Vatican, the Pope's views on birth control, the plight of the dwindling Catholic community in India and so on, there are two pages devoted to my favourite part - The Matrimonials.

Since I was ten years old and first discovered this feature in the magazine, I looked forward to reading it every week. The Examiner Matrimonials provided me with a week's worth of entertainment in just ten minutes of reading time - For a mere ten rupees, this was money well spent as far as I was concerned.

The descriptions for brides always involved the following characteristics - good, God-fearing, homely, family-oriented, wheatish-complexion, under 30 years of age. For men it was usually much of the same, except the age limit was probably upped to 35 years and 'professionally qualified' was added to the list.

Apart from seeing which people I could actually identify by the few facts or email ids mentioned, I was amused by how each ad asked for more or less the same thing. If everyone indeed got what they wanted as advertised, I imagine they all married carbon copies of each other. So I'm on the lookout for the real Roman Catholic matrimonial ad. One that says exactly what the prospective bride/groom wants; no more, no less and forget all the frills of 'wheatish complexion'!

Then again, as a fellow cynic and I have concluded, the Examiner editor would probably go nuts with something that read as, " Groom wanted. Should fall under 'decent human being' category, preferably not an only child (i.e. no sharing issues), no Oedipus-complex, comes with own friend circle, has a decent job or ability to support himself (i.e. not be a moocher) and of course - is not butt-ugly. Being taller than the prospective bride (i.e. over 5'4") is an added advantage.

ONLY interested parties that fall under all these categories may write in. If you hear from me, kudos to you. If not, good luck with your wheatish complexioned homely God-fearing wife."

I'm pretty sure that would be over the word-limit and terribly out of line from what the good mamas are looking for, but at least I'd have a good laugh for ten bucks!

Poetic Justice Is:

The biker staring at my chest for an inordinate amount of time while making sick comments rams his bike straight into a stationary auto-rickshaw.
The rickshaw driver was a tall, well-built man.
He was not pleased.

Dirty Words

There's a lot of profanity floating around.

I was taught at a very early age to never say "Shit".
I used to fine my Grandmother Rs 1 every time she slipped up and used words like 'stupid' or 'idiot'. I made Rs 50 on one summer vacation alone that I spent with her!

Considering all the f***'s and B******s and truly conventional bad words, someone forgot to tell us that the worst of all profanity was 'What if''.

I'm swearing off the use of all regret.
What the fuck, life is infinitely happier without it!

Let me introduce to you to...

The concept of the pavement.

Everyone in Bombay is well aware of the fact that if we're walking anywhere, it has to be on the road. Primarily because there is nowhere else to walk. Middle, Side, Edge of the road, or gutter - the choice is yours. While it is annoying to drivers that they have to look out for random pedestrians aside from dealing with crazy truckers and road rage addicts, they accept this as part of life in the city.

However, the BMC (Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation) has spent a substantial amount of money over the last three months to construct pavements in Bombay so that automobiles and pedestrians will no longer have to share the same space.

Since the pavements are built over the gutters, this presents a drainage issue during the monsoons. And since they've used paver-blocks instead of good old concrete, the pavements are about a foot and a half (if not more) higher than the road, making it extremely inconvenient to hop on and off every time the pavement ends. Now, while I admit that most of what the BMC does defies all logic, there are certain areas where the pavements are more than usable. There are no sunken areas, no gaping holes, no major height difference from the road level and no large branches obstructing the path. I know this because I walk on the pavements in these areas, and I am still alive and well.

So now, when I am driving my car and there are people in the middle of the road, I am going to slow down and look around to check if there is a pavement in walkable-on condition. If there isn't, I will slow down and make impatient noises while waiting for them to manoeuvre themselves out of the way of oncoming traffic.
But if there is, I'm going to accelerate and may God be with them.

Dab on a little colour why don't you?!

As far as dressing goes, I stick to the safe, tried and tested. I have a few tops which scream with colour and at one point I even had pink pants (I know!). But for every time that I wear a funky top or a particularly bright shade of lipstick, I spend the next ten days scurrying back to the safe shades as a sort of penance for breaking my own safe-colour boundaries.

I know women who can wear what seem to be the most outrageous clothes in ridiculous combinations of contrasting colours and manage to make the whole thing look effortless and fashionable all at the same time. I on the other hand, have neither the pluck nor the talent to carry off such a look.

So, to the girl that was wearing the bright green fluorescent top over olive green leggings teamed with red shoes - your outfit was hideous. But I admire your courage!

Surprise!

My morning routine usually follows this pattern:

Get up, walk to the front of the house, collect newspaper, skim headlines, make sure that the world is still going to hell in a hand basket, carry on with other morning activities.
The necessary ingredients in the newspaper are always present.
Murder- check
Rape - check
Corrupt Politician-check
Sania Mirza loses a match - check
And so it goes on...

But there are some mornings which just take you by complete surprise, even when you are as fairly cynical about life in general as I have become. Thankfully, I have only had the misfortune to come across one particularly crazy individual who dated three women at the same time. Not just had a drink, flirted, made a few calls; but actually had three functional relationships during the same time period. Now despite all the possible excuses of 'I work in advertising', 'My mother is dying', 'I had a bad childhood', 'My parents got divorced', 'I have no friends' etc etc, I somehow imagined that this was really as bad as it got!

But then, I woke up this morning and read this lovely article in The Times of India. I was in absolute awe! Despite everything else and all the moral implications of his actions, you have to admire the sheer genius of juggling 14 wives at the same time! And that too, on a mere Rs 70,000 per month salary. While the rest of us struggle to keep one life above water and in some semblance of sanity, this guy led 14 completely independent lives! Before he is jailed for bigamy (is it still bigamy when it's more than two?) and deceit and marrying women under false pretences, I think someone should give him a prize!

This is what I love about life. Just when you think nothing could surprise you, it does!

The Waiting Game

Hospital waiting rooms are always portrayed as these grim, sterile places where no one is ever happy. Every TV sitcom, every movie, every book description is usually the same.

But I find them to be completely the opposite of all these things. For one, they're not very sterile. Anything you've never had before, you can catch in a doctor's waiting room. That's why I find it ridiculous when the doctor advises you to not go anywhere or hug people because who knows what you might catch when your immunity is low, but it's quite alright to wait outside his office with a bunch of sick people for about an hour or so, which is more than enough time for the germs to get anywhere they want to.

But more importantly, I've had some really good times in hospital waiting rooms. Last year, I spent a fair amount of time in them, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. My mother was usually with me on these occasions, and we were periodically shushed for making too much noise while giggling away at ridiculous jokes that no one else found funny.

It's also a great place to watch people. I don't mean in the creepy-stalker way, but in the observing-human-nature-at-its-finest way. I've watched the old south Indian couple with 'arranged marriage' written all over them sit quietly in their seats, not a word spoken between them for more than half an hour. But then he takes her elbow to steady her when she walks with halting steps towards the doctor's office. The parents with anxiety written all over their faces, who manage brittle smiles and casual conversation to keep up appearances for their five year old with cancer. They never realise the kid knows exactly what is going on, he told me all about it while we were waiting together for our tests.

My favourite is always the sick parent accompanied by a child. There's always an air of 'This is wrong! It should be the other way around'. I remember one young woman crying bitterly while her mother underwent her radiation session, saying "This is not the way it should be". But when is it ever the way it should be? We're all meant to be hale and hearty forever! Until reality sets in anyway...

I've never been one to strike up conversations with random strangers, but my mother will go all out to talk to whoever looks even the teeniest bit friendly, and sometimes even when they don't! So we've met old people, young people, couples, widows, children, rich folk, the middle-class, eternal optimists and those who are just about ready to throw in the towel.

It may have been many things; but for my mother and I the waiting room was never unhappy, never grim and never, ever boring.

I remember her always upbeat, with a quick wit and big smile. She is older now. Grey, and slower in her steps.

"When my husband died, I didn't want to live anymore.
I went to the kitchen and took out some fish to cook for our lunch. And then I remembered I'd need only one piece. Such a little thing, but I broke down... every day... little things, and I'd cry.
Death is so final. One day, he was there. The next, he was gone; and it was done.
I'd go to his cupboard, bury my head in the smell of his clothes. But soon, that was gone too."

We spend a year with someone, or two. When it ends, we are sometimes sad but life goes on and things are fluid enough that something takes the place of the one that's gone. I see people my age, in love, but then it's over and nothing really changes. It is something that I am grateful for; the ability to cut someone out of my life and carry on without any great pain or regret.
It is my gift.

But then I see her, and wonder what it must be like to love someone so much that your life ends when they leave. It must be beautiful. It must be devastating. Even though I can't imagine it, it must be...

RSVP - Comprendez Vous?

Whenever I was invited to a birthday party of a schoolmate, my mother would make sure that I replied to the invite and let the person know if I would be attending the party of not. The day after the party, I had to call and say thank you for a wonderful time, even if the party was a dead loss with soggy chips.

Years later I found out about the RSVP on wedding invitations. I took this to mean the same thing that the school birthday party protocol entailed - you had to let them know if you were going to be there or not. On one occasion I did not reply to a wedding invitation in time, and was mortified at how rudely I had behaved. I avoided the bride for six months thinking she may still be mad at me. As it turned out, there were 800 people at the wedding. For all she knew, I was there!

But never, ever during all those years of birthday party and wedding invitations did I think that a reply was optional. RSVP meant you had to!

Repondez s'il vous plait! They even say Please! In French!

And yet over the last few years I find that when I invite my friends to a party or ask them to confirm their attendance, they seem to think this comes with an added condition of 'if you feel like it'. They do not see it as impolite, or an inconvenience that I have to moonlight as a psychic and play guessing games as to whether or not they will be making an appearance.

When did it become passe to let the host know that you will be present at an event, eating the food and yes, perhaps you will bring three or four guests?!

I find this really annoying when it happens. And the only thing more annoying than this, is when someone confirms that he/she is coming and then 'sends word' through somebody else that they won't be able to come. I have realised halfway through a party that a friend was missing and when I asked where she was someone else pipes up with, 'Oh yeah, she said to tell you she couldn't make it.'

For the love of God, we live in an over-connected world. We've gone all the way from the place where it was hard to get in touch with people to where you have to try really hard to avoid someone! Between cell phones, facebook, gtalk and real life - you're always connected. So why on earth would you need to 'send word'?? Was it too hard to expend five minutes worth of energy to type out a message or dial a number to make your own apologies?

Needless to say, my list of invitees is getting a LOT smaller every year!

Pricing

They flowed like a river
Hung staccato in the air

Wrapped me in delirium,
Before they freed me, again

Had the power of armies
The moral weight of nothingness

They were brutal in their ugliness
Before turning gloriously beautiful

Made me love
Made me hate, made my pity turn to indifference

They were gospel truth
And hollow lies, banalities to fill diaries with

Six hundred rupees for a paperback
Twelve hundred for a hardback

And yet when all is said and done,
Words are still cheap

The ways to centre ourselves,
We lost in the frenzy.
Recaptured slowly now, as if learning to read and talk again.

The grace of standing alone,
forgotten, in the warmth of hugs.

While we sit in the breeze and miss our imagined happiness,

another second went by.

Life is Fair

For two months, I ran five kilometres three times a week and did yoga for one hour every day. I lost 0.5 kgs.

Last month I ate doughnuts, a ridiculous amount of chocolate, tonnes of junk food and made no attempt to exercise. I lost 1.5 kgs.

I suppose there is such a thing as trying too hard.

With friends like these...

Conversation with a friend after a particularly painful visit to the dentist.

Me: Does my face still look swollen?
Friend: Nope, you don't look any chubbier than usual.

There is something unnatural and creepy about people who are perpetually happy.

I want to hit them.

Indian Psyche Questions

How is it that we strap on our seat-belts as soon as we get into a car and gasp in shock every time another vehicle seems to come within two feet of us and can still hop into a rattle trap of an auto rickshaw with no safety features whatsoever and fall asleep within two minutes?

Bubble-Pop

Like most other people, I have an idea of what 'normal' constitutes. The events, behaviours, situations etc that can be confined within this realm of possibilities.

But ever so often, I come across things that don't quite fit into that category.

Like the man of God, that can molest little children and still celebrate mass in Church.

Or the father that rapes his daughter because a Tantrik tells him it will help his business prospects.

The man who agrees to an arranged marriage, and then tells his new bride he's gay.

The boy who watched his mother suffer his father's infidelity, and then follows his good example in multiples many times over.

The people who lecture endlessly on ethics and morals and the importance of honesty, and then can't string two truthful sentences together.

The religious group that defends the traditional values of a country, and then beats up its women.

The women who gossip freely, and then scream off the rooftops about loose tongues when their daughters are talked about.

I've always wondered what kind of logic is followed by people in these situations. What possible explanations could they have that would make their actions normal. Someone once told me that being drunk was no excuse for making bad decisions, no matter how much your judgement was hampered. Something I argued against vehemently! Now I'm wondering, isn't it so much worse when you're perfectly sober, with (for all intents and purposes) perfectly sound judgement, and still making horrible decisions?

But I think a part of me no longer wants to know. Maybe it is a bubble that I live in and denial is my best friend. But if that bubble protects me from understanding the skewed logic of absolute and complete sickos, then I'm quite alright!

Parallel Lives

You put on your make-up.
I brush my hair.

You slip on some high-heels
I wear my chappals.

You check yourself out, make sure you're perfect
I grab a jacket, because I know I'll get cold.

You get to the car, turn on the radio to songs you don't recognise
I crank up the volume on old rock favourites, singing along at the top of my voice.

You enter a club, check for people you know
I talk with a friend as we drive to the top of a hill.

You're shouting over the music, trying to make conversation over your fifth drink
We sit with the headlights off, watching the city blink at us.

Your head is spinning as you take pictures with people you don't know
We talk of old times, good times, and laugh.

You crawl back into bed, not sure of how you got there
I lay awake, grateful for everything.

Only two years apart.
My life

Only two years apart.

Jaded-not

They're in the back alleyways,
Standing against the wall,
They're at bus stops everywhere,
Holding hands and looking coy.
Sometimes I hear them whispering,
He's begging her to stay.
I like that I can still smile at them,
It shows I haven't been harmed in any great way.

Alter-Ego

Never underestimate the pure, delicious thrill of being a 100% unadulterated Bitch!

Payback

When I was seven years old, my mother worried about me having no friends. I would sit at my table and play with my imaginary friends, do little craft projects and generally amuse myself.
I didn't miss having friends to play with all the time. I had three siblings who swung between torturing me and allowing me to tag along and that was really quite enough.

Somewhere through the years, things changed. I'm still very much of a loner, and love spending time by myself, doing my own thing... minus the imaginary friends of course. But I've built an excellent network of friends who I love spending time with. And I'm also a big believer in the 'group theory'. I have a group for partying with, one for lounging around and chatting, another for drinking nights that last forever, another for random walks with ice-cream... the list goes on.

During a not-nice time in my life, most of these friends were around to help me through it in some way or the other. There was one in particular, who helped me more than he knew but I never told him. One evening during this time, I went over to his house not really sure if I wanted to be quiet, or talk or just be. After I'd told him what was going on, he lay down next to me and held me for maybe ten minutes and didn't say a word.
It was just what I needed.

A little while ago, he lost someone very important to him. When I saw him so distraught and upset, I was in tears myself. But I realised later, that it was not only his loss that upset me. It was the fact that it brought home, yet again, how often we forget to tell people what they mean to us and how much we are grateful for having them in our lives.

You know who you are, and I'm sorry that I can't help in any other way except to say thank you. Albeit more than a year later, I'm glad it's now than never.

The Internet so Wonderful

I'm not the world's best when it comes to handling technology and all the implications that come with using the Internet. I have no idea how to write HTML code. Heck, I don't even know what it is! I don't know how to use the iPhone or any of its million applications, and on really bad days, I don't even know how to adjust my Facebook settings!

But I love Google. Google has relatively simple, easy-to-use stuff that even technology dummies like myself can use and understand.

For example, Google Analytics is a wonderful thing.

It tells me when someone from a random city like Atlanta, Georgia is on my blog, which posts they were looking at, on which day and for how much time.

Brilliant stuff, really. Kudos to Google.

Train Observations

The number of times people will step on your shoes is directly proportionate to how nice and expensive they are.

Hm. Who knew?!

You'd think the end of something that you invested time, effort and money into would matter to you. Just a little bit.

But strangely enough, it doesn't. It's another day. And really, things are just fine as they are.
No, actually they're better! Because I'm minus some really despicable excess baggage, with a whole new load of self esteem and worth, and the realisation that I really am quite lovely.

My definition for being 'a good person' has reverted to what it used to be - not the ones that help the poor and donate to the church, but people who do exactly what they please, and don't pretend to be something they're not. I like people that take a bribe and make no excuses for it, or people that sleep around and don't apologise for not having a devoted, committed relationship. Not that I condone what they do, but I like the honesty that comes with it.

Pretence; that's just evil walking around in a person.

So, in view of the fact that I'm devoid of any life-threatening illnesses, have a great circle of family (thanks Mum for having all four of us!) and friends, and an incredible year ahead of me in the home of the English accent - I'm going to have a hell of a time!

And of course, make no apologies for it.

Inclination

You're like an old, comfortable habit.

I could slip back in sync with you and dance to any old tune,
we fall into rhythm just that easily.
It's a year gone by, or two, and still it's yesterday

No awkward moments of small talk and unnecessary politeness.
But there are reasons we don't write, don't keep in touch and don't talk about each other
and they have nothing to do with bitterness or hope, thank God!
I'm just never quite sure...that we can pick up where we left off,
is a good thing or bad.

T-Shirt in desperate need of making for sale on local Harbour-Line trains

"I am getting off at CHEMBUR! Not Kurla, not GTB, not Vashi. CHEMBUR!!!
Now please for the love of God, STOP TAPPING MY SHOULDER EVERY SINGLE BLOODY DAY AND ASKING ME THE SAME QUESTION!!!!"

P.S. No I will not give you my seat because I do not believe in reservations of any form or type.

!

I would usually avoid talking about a subject like this on a blog that was meant for... other things. But this is something I feel really strongly about, so I thought it would be worth mentioning here. This is a note I had written for a project started by my boss to get his employees to 'use their brains' (that's a direct quote).
Read on.

26th July 2009: On the same day that there were reports of three instances of rape of minors in the country, there were also reports of Samajwadi Party MP Kamal Akhtar’s statement that reality TV shows in India were attacking family values in India and promoting obscenity.

This is not the first time, nor will it be the last that the quality of media content in India has been questioned. The content on the Star Plus show ‘Sach ka Saamna’ was called ‘objectionable’, ‘indecent’ and ‘not in good taste’ by various politicians and social activists. Yet not one of these people will use their political clout to address a far greater problem than our media content.

Those fighting to preserve India’s moral code should consider the fact that the rape of one Indian woman every half an hour is an extremely ‘offensive’ statistic. On an international women’s website, it was called ‘India’s Rape Pandemic’. While the media content issue was immediately addressed with a meeting of the I&B Ministry and TV Broadcasters to discuss how best to solve the problem, the issue of crimes against women in India has become so commonplace that it has ceased to shock the public or even warrant much space in the media.

From an objective viewpoint, there is something clearly wrong with a country that cannot tackle such a widespread attack on its female population and dismisses it with comments from government representatives such as, “Women dress so indecently these days, they ask for trouble” (Shiv Sena comment through Saamna newspaper). In the most bizarre cases, women are made to marry their rapists in order to sanctify their union which subjects them to further sexual abuse.

Kamal Akhtar is worried that our family values and morals are being eroded by a TV show that forces participants to tell the truth, no matter how hurtful or painful it may be. Perhaps if we all were being honest, we would see that Indian society is already obscene, indecent and offensive. We've just been keeping it behind closed doors instead of talking about it on national television.

To all the ones they've loved before

From the time your friends start dating, it is expected that you make an effort to get to know their 'significant' others, even if the relationships live for a shorter time than goldfish do.

The first few times, you don't mind.
It's his first girlfriend, her first boyfriend, and you care enough to make everyone happy.

But somewhere along the way, the numbers add up. And when you consider that some people go through boyfriends/girlfriends like they would library books, the enthusiasm dies out.

I have met some really great people that figured in the friends' significant others category. I liked some of them well enough to hang out once in a while; I liked others enough to really appreciate them for who they were, rather than what they were to someone in my life; and there are two or three for whom I felt real regret when the relationships ended, and I lost a friend.

The rules of friendship, ethics and all that is cruel but true, demand that when the relationship ends, so does the association with the significant other.

I have broken this rule once, and never regretted it.
But to all the others that were just not worth the risk of breaking the rules again,
I miss you. It was great knowing you, and thanks for everything.

Basic Premise

If the truth of our lives is based not on the facts, but on what we feel and experience - then I have missed a million opportunities to catch a glimpse of honesty.

Rote Learning

I know that all good things do not end badly.
I know that all siblings do not fight over property after their parents die.
I know some friendships last forever and ever.
I know that all men don't cheat.
I know that you don't always get shit on by a bird on your way to somewhere important.
I know that bad dreams usually don't come true.
I know that all food that looks and smells great does not necessarily taste good too.
I know that just because someone made a mistake once, it does not definitively mean they will repeat it.
I know...

Now I just need to believe.

What's your name again?

There is a man who has the capacity to brighten up my day, no matter how absolutely dismal it has been.

And I don't know his name.

Since I was eight years old I have met him in the street and we've smiled at each other. At first it was just a 'oh yes, you're familiar' sort of smile. But somewhere along the way, it grew to the beaming 'you're familiar, and for some unfathomable reason you make me feel happy' kind.

I watched him walk hand in hand with his granddaughter, leading her first few tentative steps. I watched him take her to school, buy the groceries, or cautiously hold his wife's elbow to make sure she didn't trip on the ever treacherous 'just tarred' road.

When I met him last evening, we both stopped short in shock, and delight! We hadn't seen in each other in more than six months, and I had well and truly missed him. He had moved from the house a few blocks away from mine and was therefore no longer seen around the neighbourhood.

We had a conversation that lasted for a good ten minutes; both of us standing in the pouring rain under umbrellas that protected us from nothing. But we didn't cut short on catching up on each others lives.

I only realised when I overheard him tell his wife in Tamil that I was 'that Vieira-girl from the green house' that he didn't know my name. And even more surprising, I hadn't a clue what his was either!

But after so many years, it's not polite to bring up these minor details. So he continued on his way and I continued on mine. And I know that each of us was happier knowing that we had been missed, even if it was by a relative stranger.

Through the Looking Glass

They keep saying how brave I was. How courageous. How strong.

And I can always hear you laughing in the background

Because you were there, when it all fell apart.

To girls that have all the potential in the world to be kitty party-going, diamond buying, high-flying, shallow, men-obsessed, noisy, flighty airheads - but aren't.

Thank you for being one of life's pleasant surprises.

Keep it simple, stupid.

I like it when things are what they are.

When they're not masquerading as something else, or you need to spend five minutes thinking about intent, metaphor or hidden meaning.

I like plays that I can understand, and books that can make me laugh and think and cry without wondering what it is actually all about.

I like poems that have a point, not annoyingly rhyming ones - those are still stupid. But ones that lead somewhere, not wander off and leave you wondering if the poet died mid-sentence.

I like brevity and simplicity and I wish people would understand that sometimes it's harder to find than things that are 'deep'.

I like when people say what they think and are not waiting for you to figure out their implications.

And I refuse to apologise for it anymore.

When should I have stopped?

My hair was long at one point in time. It is not anymore.

I met a very nice librarian who I had not met in quite a while, and she was clearly surprised at the short hairdo.

L: My! You're looking so different!

Me: Yes, I know. How are you?

L: You're looking very cute.

Me (feeling quite chuffed): Thank you! I quite like it too.

L: In fact, you're looking better like this than you did before.

Pollution Control

There are women in this world who have particularly annoying voices.

You know the kind - screechy, loud, grating on the nerves.

I'm sure they're lovely people when you get to know them, but I don't care to. Especially since several of this variety seem to be packed into one tiny space, that is the women's first class compartment on the Panvel local train to Andheri.

I can't miss this train, because if I do, it means changing two trains in order to get to work and I am nothing if not practical (= lazy) when it comes to public transport.

So the only option I have is to be squished up against four other women, all of who insist on narrating, re-telling, discussing and in one case, re-enacting (I kid you not) the most mundane and boring episodes of their lives, which in all probability they had discussed the day before...when I was also an unfortunate audience.

Ear plugs.

I need ear plugs.

She What???

Conversation regarding a common friend.

N: Yeah, she's gone home right now, but she'll be back soon 'cause she's a lecherer at the college..
Me: You mean she goes there to look at cute young guys in the canteen?

N: No, she teaches there...

*Taking a moment*

Me: Ahhh... she's a lecturer....

Follow the Lines

Everyone attributes India's lack of progress to the poverty, the population, the corruption etc. And they're all wrong.
The real reason that we can't get it right is because of our skewed sense of logic.

Case in point:
I get off the train after work and go to buy a railway timetable so that I knew what quarterly pass to buy. I've never bought a timetable before, but went to (what I thought) the most logical place - the railway station counter. I was informed there, after standing in the line behind 10 people, that the timetables were only sold on the platform.

Having experienced the grumpiness of the station counter attendants before, I decided to go to the office and make absolutely sure.

It was here that I was casually informed that the railway timetables were indeed only sold on the platforms.

So in essence, the only way to get the timetable was to buy a platform ticket, then go to the bookstore on the platform, purchase the timetable (Rs 8 for anyone who's interested) and then come back to the station counter and buy the railway pass for where I wanted to go to in the first place.

Needless to say, by the time I went to the platform, got the timetable and came back, the counter that sold the pass was closed.

On the way home, the rickshaw driver didn't have any change.

Figures.

10...9....8...7

It is no secret that I am obsessively punctual. Everyone who knows me kinda-sorta well, will tell you that I like to be on time, in some cases, even a little early.

From a very young age, I noticed that if my parents were to go out at 8:00 p.m., my father would be showered, dressed, perfumed and combed by 7:45. My mother was deciding what to wear by 7:55. Needless to say, I take after my father in this respect. I also got his nose, but that's a story for another blog post.

I was at school early, I was at college on time, I went to meetings before anyone else showed up, and I could never, EVER be the one to make a dramatic, late entrance for a date, no matter how hard I tried. I was always there, tapping my foot, glancing at my watch - as if I had somewhere else to be!

I can count on one hand the number of times that I've been late to important, or even semi-important events. And the reasons for these usually have something to do with me getting a ride with someone else, or waiting for someone to get ready.

Which is why I simply cannot understand why some people are consistently late. I have lost friends, respect for colleagues and love for family members because of their belief that time is elastic.

So for all of you who continue to piss me off with your tardiness - buy a watch. Look at it from time to time. Get an alarm clock if you need it. Leave early, not five minutes before somebody is expecting to meet you when you know fully well that it will take you an hour to get there. Understand that "I'm sorry, you know how Bombay traffic is..." is not a good enough excuse when you use it nine times in a row. I know how bad the traffic is too, which is why I left on time!

No matter how little your respect for your own time, understand that other people have places to be and things to do, or at least I like to think so! So for the sake of sustaining my illusion, be on time.

Either Or

You believe me,
Hang on every word I say
I could be lying
But you'd never really know for sure

I tell the truth,
Most of the time,
There are evasions and omissions,
I'm convenient like that.

Cooking Lessons

Please note:

Large chunks of tomatoes sprinkled with oregano and doused with olive oil cannot masquerade as a Vegetarian Stir Fry.

True Story

I can never look at my parent's friends quite the same way after I heard this little... anecdote(?) about them.

They're at a boring party where the wife decides to drink a little to liven things up.

Someone: Oh, you and Mr. X look so young.. just like newlyweds!

Wife: Well, not so much in the bedroom!

Husband (intervening) : I think you're a little drunk...

Wife: You'd have to be drunk to be at this party!

Hindsight 20/20

We never did fit.

It seemed like we both misjudged our timing, and were left unsure. Your world was enormous, before mine had even begun, and your efforts to be part of mine only left me embarrassed, wondering if anyone had noticed that we were connected...hoping they hadn't.

By the time I realised that you were good for cuddles, and secrets and an infinite source of information, you were long gone.

It always amazes me that we've been apart longer than we've been together, and you still care enough to want me in your life. To talk to me every day, to have me at your wedding, to have your children recognise me just by looking at my picture, to tell you about my mundane, boring life, to drop your work and come hold my hand when I was sick. To love me without question.

We're still misfits, generations apart. But really, who cares...

Check-up

Today I stand at the edge of the future. Tomorrow, I find out if I've won a pass to another year of living my life as I please. Or if I will spend another suspended few months in the midst of my own medical misery.

I've been here before - where I've dealt with the drugs, the hospital stay, the agonising looks of pain and 'what ifs' of my family. But every day was new, every experience was something that I hadn't dealt with before.

This time, unfortunately, I remember. I have a frame of reference as to what it will be like this time around. And contrary to popular belief, there is precious little comfort in knowing what lies ahead.

So today, the food tasted better. I was more confident as I drove my car. The coffee was excellent and the wine was incredibly smooth. The jokes were funnier, and the TV sitcoms were more entertaining than they had been before. Because today, I was healthy. I was untainted by any reports that pronounced me 'sick'.

And I was happy.

Patchwork

My grandmother was an extremely talented seamstress. She could make beautiful dresses, tablecloths, bedspreads...pretty much anything she put her mind to. But what made her skill really special was her ability to make these from scraps of discarded material. She had a whole cupboard dedicated to housing the cloth scraps that she collected over the course of fifty years. She had them arranged according to type, size, age and uses. And in one corner of the cupboard, were the discarded pieces...those that were just no good for even patchwork.

From the time I was six years old, I would watch her carefully pick and choose which scraps would make it to the quilt. It seemed incredible that she knew that the red would sit well next to the green. Or that the velvet would not look out of place next to the plaid. No matter how hard I tried I could not differentiate between which pieces could be salvaged; fixed to make something which was entirely new and even more beautiful than it was before, from the ones that would be discarded... only good for stuffing pillows.

I have inherited my grandmother's height, her curly hair, her short temper and even her initials. But I still lack the discernment to see what can be mended and made new again, and what should just be let go off, because it's no longer good for anything else.

Things I learned from children

There's nothing quite like a warm cuddle from a four-year old.
Zebras can be rainbow coloured.
Most times, despite your better judgement, you enjoy seeing someone else get in trouble.
There's nothing that can't be fixed with a kiss from Mum.
If you've had something in your hand for more than fifteen minutes, it's yours irrespective of prior ownership.
You really can make loud noises continuously for more than an hour, and not be in the least bit tired.
If you wait in the loo for long enough, someone will eventually come to wipe your butt.
Humans have the ability to go from utterly distraught to unbelievably happy in under two seconds.

Perfect People

The people who were a part of the happiest times in my life are surrounded by an aura of perfection.

I met some of my 'perfect people' today, and was so relieved that the magic of spending time with them had not faded. The conversations you can have with the friends of your past, the ones who know you and all the stupid, almost insignificant details that make you who you are, are irreplaceable.

After hours of talking that seemed to go by in minutes, I realised that maybe the happiness came from being with them, and not so much from what was going on at the time. And there is a comfort in knowing that someone gets me, and will always know what I'm saying even when no one else does.

In these days when I seem to be not making a whole lot of sense, it's reassuring to know that at least two people think I'm not just plain crazy... yet.

Sunny California: The Myth

In India,we have two seasons. Summer and Not Summer. It's really just that simple. The summer months are hell on earth that you suffer through in the hope that you live to see the two weeks of pleasant weather that may or may not occur in December. You grumble when it's hot, you grumble more when it rains and you get down on your knees and thank God when you're not dying from a heat stroke or drowning in the floods.

But while watching television sitcoms based in California, we were lulled into believing that this far-away paradise epitomised the place with perfect weather. It was sunny, but not muggy. It was pleasant without being cold. It was just nice enough for men and women with perfectly shaped bodies to walk about at all hours in various stages of undress... but that's a post for another time.

The fact is, California is just as cold as the rest of America. My hope for experiencing one day in this state where I would not have to be bundled in socks and a sweatshirt have been shot to hell. I have visited here on three different occasions, all at different times of the year, and it has ALWAYS been cold. This myth of a sunny, warm California which has been perpetuated for decades via glossy TV shows have given us a completely false impression of the place. So the next time you're watching TV and yearning for the sun and warmth of the Californian paradise, remember, it's all just one big marketing illusion.

I'm sure that there are indeed a few spots here which experience optimum weather conditions all year round... but they could not possibly exceed one square mile radius.
For everywhere else, it's just plain COLD.

The Small Suitcase

Travelling alone calls for minimal baggage. You have to account for the fact that your brother/friend/boyfriend/father will not be helping you with your three bags stuffed to the heavens with unnecessary clothes, shoes and accessories .

So... one pair of jeans, one pair of black formal pants, 5 T-shirts, 3 'nice' tops, underwear.
1 silver chain, 3 rings, 2 pairs of earrings. Lounging slippers (1), all-purpose high heels (1), walking around functional sneakers (1), One BIG handbag, Make-up Bag, Toiletries.

There.

But I bought these awesome jeans that are just dying to be worn... so maybe I'll make that 2 pairs of jeans. And it may be cold, so I'll take a couple of sweaters along with the T-shirts. The sweaters need different jewellery, so I'll take a couple more chains and some nice dangly earrings. But the sweaters and jewellery won't match my shoes, so I'll have to take the sling-back heels as well. I should christen those my all-purpose heels...

Maybe I won't have the time to do any laundry for a bit, so my jeans and the other pants will be dirty and I'll have nothing to wear; I'll take a skirt as well... OK, two. But I'll have to wear different shoes with the skirt so I'll have to take my boots. And if I'm taking the boots then I have to take some tops that match them... so make that 5 'nice' tops (Note to self: Buy opaque tights to wear with the skirt and boots)

A coat! I must take a coat! Maybe two... one for the day and one in case I go some place fancy. And a couple of stoles and shawls... just in case it's too warm for a coat but still cold enough to want to cover myself. Maybe I should take one more bag... you know, a little fancy one when I can't take the big one everywhere. But the little one is brown, and brown doesn't go with everything so I'll need to take the red one too...but that's it, just 3 handbags!

Done.

Well, I'm quite proud of myself I must admit! I didn't add a single thing to either the make-up bag or the underwear list.

But maybe I'll take the slightly bigger suitcase after all...

Parents

The ultimate infidelity is when your body betrays you.
What can you trust, when your one surety is no longer yours?

When the memories are no longer crystal clear,
and the loud voices become barely heard whispers,
As your firm handshake and steady penmanship are indistinguishable from the tremors,
When your bones break and your skin is no longer alabaster-smooth,
You look into the mirror at a stranger, an old person who looks like your father, your mother,

And you are scared.

The eleventh commandment: Don't offer your opinion unless it's asked for

Conversation with one of the neighbourhood (self-appointed) Goan matriarchs.

Matriarch: Arrey baba, how are you?
Me: Fine, thank you.

Matriarch: And how is everybody at home? All well?
Me: Yes, thank you for asking, everyone is fine.

Matriarch: And your sister? Getting married no?
Me: (downright surprised!): No! Who told you that?

Matriarch (fishing for information): No... I thought I heard your mother mention something...
Me (knowing my mother would be critically injured if she indeed insinuated something of that nature): I doubt it aunty...

Matriarch: And what about you?
Me: We're both quite happy as we are aunty, thank you.

Matriarch: Yes, but you know, time is running out... you need to get married soon, there's not so many years left on the meter. Nowadays all you girls are waiting so long, you should get married now only, when there's still time... later, who knows?
Me (Thinking 'who the f***ing hell asked you????????'): Ok aunty, I'm in a bit of a hurry... must run...love to the family.


Someone told me that the eternal excuse for old people saying inappropriate things - 'But they mean well!', is no longer going to suffice for them poking their noses where they certainly were not invited.
I can't wait for that day.

Money maketh the marriage?

A friend of mine (well, lots of them actually, but for now, i'll use one example) said that a man's wealth was one of her main criteria to decide whether she would marry him or not. i.e. it would be one of the top three deciding factors. And as more of my female friends reach the 'marriageable' age (i'm still not sure exactly what that is by the way), they too seem to find their prospective partner's financial stablity to be quite a point of concern.

Of course, money is important. Anyone stupid enough to say otherwise is obviously living in a parallel universe where everything is free. But for the rest of us, you can't seem to do very much without the moolah. That's not the point in question however. My friend's argument was this - If my father has worked his whole life to bring his family up to a certain standard of living, why is it wrong to want to stay at that same level, or rise above it?

Fair enough, no argument with that either. My question is, why are you dependant on someone else to provide that lifestyle for you? Isn't it sort of insulting to your father that you've learned nothing about working hard and providing for yourself and your family, rather than just mooching off someone else? A lot of well-to-do girls even see it as their 'right' to the money, even though they did absolutely nothing to earn it.

My father routinely drilled this fact into us, "It's not your money, it's mine", and even though at the time I was quite resentful of this statement, I've come to appreciate his principles on the subject. I may inherit a big fat chunk of money later on in life, or I may not... either way, I was given an education, and a good one at that, so that I would not have to be dependant on someone else to maintain me or whatever lifestyle I had become accustomed to.

And the same applies to those girls' parents that look into the financial stability of the prospective boys' families. Even if his family does have pots of money, how does that have any reflection on the boy himself? I can understand if you were looking at the father as a future partner for your child, but if you're not, then how could his money possibly interest you? It bears no testament to the ability of the boy to earn a living and stand on his own feet, never mind about keeping your daughter well. Which in turn brings us back to the original point, if you educated your daughter, possibly sent her abroad, invested all that money in making sure she was prepared to work her way up in the world, why the bloody hell does she need to be kept?

It's a vicious little circle.

...

I had you when I was 12 and sick and my mother wouldn't let me see anyone in case I was 'contagious'.
I had you when I needed two ice-cream cones, or to splash with in the first rain, and it didn't matter that we were too old for both.
I had you for timeless evenings spent on the terrace staring at the sky, sipping illicit rum (and vodka when we could afford it) and having you sing and sing and sing... just because I asked for it.
I had you for hugs, and cuddles when we'd fall asleep watching TV till 2 a.m.
I had you for teaching me how a friendship could be just as heart wrenching as being in love.

And now I have to let you go, just because...

Being prepared should make saying goodbye easier. But it doesn't.

On the 9th Valentine's Day My True Love Gave to Me...

2001 - Flowers and an anonymous letter from 'Muskles 2000' , who professed his love for me, having silently adored me for years across our Sunday School classroom

2002 - Blank Spot

2003 - Partied hard with similarly single peers while toasting the good life

2004 - Enjoyed the single life having dumped inappropriate "boyfriend" a few weeks earlier; toasted my freedom over several drinks

2005 - Largely blank spots... vague memories of toasting something or the other with too much alcohol and unfortunate results

2006 - Complained bitterly to anyone that would listen how terrible long-distance relationships were; toasted misery with large vodkas

2007 - Sat at a bar with a single friend and toasted alcohol, our one faithful companion through the years

2008 - First chemotherapy treatment, followed by long blank spots caused by large doses of Avil; toasted life and all its bloody surprises

2009 - I can hardly wait...

Hyderabad

The harder you try to hold on to something, the quicker it slips away.

The Hyderabad of my childhood was filled with cousins, piles of mangoes, my grandmother's authoritative voice, my grandfather's soft hands soothing away cuts and bruised egos, a Maruti 800 car packed above and beyond the limit with children of all ages, shapes and sizes, dogs that were fed on the sly under the table, the burning heat chased away by coolers fed with water by a Mali more aged than I could ever imagine and finally, the inevitable train journey home towards normalcy.

Now, when I sit in my grandfather's chair (which seemed big enough to hold all four granddaughters at one time), and feel the new material that covers its arms... I am looking desperately for any reminders of the Hyderabad I used to know. My grandparents are long gone, their only remnants are pictures on the walls and their extensive library collection. The cousins have moved away, some married, some gone stranger than they ever were before. And the house - the one constant that encompassed it all, has changed slowly, subtly... so that I did not even notice it until four years later.

For the first time, my holiday refuge where I never cast a backward glance towards Bombay, is making me homesick. As I dish out advice to others about 'living in the moment' and 'accepting change or you will never be happy with the present', I am finding the practise harder than I ever imagined.

Every alteration is bewildering, every inevitable transformation is making me long to go home.

Day Dreaming

Such illusions of grandeur,
of a life yet to live.

The eternal challenge of womankind

There are many rites of passage on the way to womanhood. For years, you watch your mother, your older sister, and wonder how much longer it will be before you join their ranks.

First, the experiments with make-up, walking around in high-heeled shoes that are three times too big for you. The different hairstyles; trying to make yourself feel more grown up than you really are. Your first period, where you realise that growing up is not all that it's cracked up to be. And of course, the ultimate confirmation that you are now a woman - waxing.

No girl ever forgets the first time she got her legs waxed. The warm wax lulling you into a sense of security; maybe this isn't all that bad... right before the painful shock of the cloth ripping away slams into you. And then finally, the wonderfully smooth skin that makes it all worthwhile. Over the years, you learn to bear the pain in a way that you barely even feel it anymore.

But you later realise, that the greatest challenge is not getting through the pain, it is finding a place where you can get waxed without having to deal with the inevitable chatter that comes along with it. 98% of the women that work at waxing parlous suffer from the unfortunate misconception that they must speak to the customer while waxing them. It does not seem to occur to them that you are trying desperately to forget that you are even there, never mind about actually acknowledging the experience and going on to make small talk while you're half naked and at their mercy.

After too many of these painfully unnecessary conversations, I decided that maybe the solution was finding someone that could come to me, and in the safety of my own home, I would not need to bother about being thought of as rude just because I did not wish to talk while my hair was being ripped off.

I was mistaken. When a waxing woman comes home, you are at her mercy. She thinks that she has your undivided attention (which she does) and therefore she can freely tell you about her trip over to your house, the traffic, what her children are doing, how annoying her mother-in-law is, how her mother was a saint and surely in heaven, the political situation, her opinion on every single Hindi movie she has ever watched and of course, her husband. These episodes at home were even more exhausting than the ones at the parlours, and were abandoned after only four attempts at some peace and quiet.

So if anyone knows what the solution is to this dilemma (with the exception of laser treatment, I just quit my job and can barely afford anything!), I'm all ears. And in the meantime, my ipod is coming along with me to every future visit. If you can't beat 'em, block them out as best you can.