The Party of a Lifetime

I'm not trying to be morbid, but I frequently think about my funeral.
I've planned it out like I would any birthday party. Given some thought to the food, the drink, the decor, dress code and of course, the entertainment; as with any other, the speeches should be kept to a minimum!

When my grandad died, one of my aunts knocked me on the head for laughing too loudly the next day. Someone had said something funny, and I'd reacted. But of course, this wasn't 'proper'. I didn't take into consideration that the fact that I could laugh made is seem like I was grieving less for someone I loved. When I thought about it later, it seemed to me that my grandfather would've wanted a whole lot more laughing and a whole lot less crying at his wake.

Anyway. Since then, I've planned my own funeral in elaborate detail.
There will be no wearing of black. I'd like colour to help brighten up a sad day with a little visual stimulation. People always talk about funerals as a celebration of the person's life but then dress in black and white as if going to an extremely boring business meeting. For me, bring out the blues, reds, greens and yellows, and look happy about it!

There will also be good singing. I've had this arranged before anything else - I told a friend he would sing either at my wedding or my funeral, whichever comes first. At this present stage in my life, it seems the former is nowhere in sight so the funeral it will have to be.

Then there is the waxing eloquent about how lovely and perfect the dead person was. Hardly any eulogy tells the truth. Again, no one wants to be disrespectful of those dearly departed, prefering instead to lie in church about his/her nonexistent virtues. I'd like whoever spoke for me to keep it short, and keep it honest. A ten minute talk perhaps, outlining the main points - I had a terrible temper, made some horribly impulsive or ill-judged decisions, had more friends than enemies, loved my family, my dog and my food - all in equal measure, and for the most part, was pretty darn happy.

And then on to the things I love best - food, drink and merrymaking in the company of fun people.
The party of a lifetime, to celebrate mine.

The Bottomless Pit

It's nice to know that there are more of us out there, whose stomachs are bottomless pits.

An hour after we ate a fairly substantial meal, my friend looks at me seriously and asks;

"We did eat, right? It doesn't feel like it."

Nashville on the down low

Here's the truth of it; I'm a closet Country music fan.

There are few that will admit to it. Country music is something you hide in your CD collection, waaay back behind even 90's pop. It occupies a obscure, but not forgotten folder in your computer's music files. It is present, but never mentioned in our music lives.

Country music is too whiny to be cool. The whole banjo, cowboy hat, 'everyone died and my cat ran out of me too' story line is just a bit much to cross over into something we will publicly own up to liking. But the thing is, every now and again, everyone needs a little country music.

When you're curled up in bed, missing your family or your someone special. When you've had a rotten day and you're sure everyone and everything was put on this planet to ruin you. When you feel ugly and your hair is a fright and your whole world seems one big shade of grey.

That's when the cowboy hat, banjo, violin and crooning (if but slightly whiny) voice can make music that sounds exactly like what you're feeling; a big pile of sentimental mush with no real logical reasoning behind it.

So if you'll excuse me, I need some Tim McGraw and Faith Hill right now.

The whole Venus/Mars thing again

Girl: I like this. It's so comfortable. We fit so well together.

Boy: Yeah, just like Lego.

Cue laughter.

(Shared with permission of those concerned)

Everyday People

We have an extraordinary ability to adapt. I don't mean in the scientifically proven sense of evolution, but in the way that we get used to changes in our situations, possessions, people, etc.

Wherever we are, we build a network of everyday people. They are not necessarily soul mates or best friends, but they become such an ingrained part of our lives simply because at a point in time, we have a shared location.

And then you move, or they move, and you find new everyday people, as do they. You keep in touch and write long emails, chat for hours on the phone perhaps.

Or maybe not. Maybe these people who you saw everyday, ate every meal with, spent some of your best and happiest times with, maybe they just fade away into oblivion. A memory you call on occasionally, if at all, with no great emotion attached.

Here's to all my everyday people, who are still slipping away as I'm writing this.

2 by 2.5

It's incredible that after all the shopping, gifts, exchanges and accumulation of things whose origins you have forgotten; your whole life can fit into a suitcase.

I am a hoarder. The postcard my Grandad wrote to me on a flight from Bombay to London. The T-shirt my sister gave me that may or may not have several holes in it but feels like a warm hug. The little pin of Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh that has survived four wallets and my penchant for losing small things.

I have all these and I've refused to let go.

But other possessions that I felt emotionally invested in have not been so fortunate. As I've once again upped and moved, I had to be ruthless with the packing. Just the bare essentials, weighed with the practicality of what a girl 5 feet and 3.5 inches tall can lug around.

Not much made the cut into the big black bag.

Which leads me to think, new resolutions are in order. Less hoarding, more recycling and just a little bit more common sense (did I honestly think that the laundry basket was going to move with me?!).

In the meanwhile, there's are still a few summer sales on.

You know, presents for other people of course!

You're a completely worthless waste of space, but, you know... don't take it personally!

I will never understand this line, 'Don't take it personally.'

The Manager at the store where I have a part-time job (that I am thankfully quitting soon) had a little talk with the Assistant Manager. She told her that all the other staff had complained about her 'driving them too hard', being rude and unapproachable, that a client had called to talk about her attitude and 'tone' and that she needed to 'chill out and relax.' She then proceeded to leave the store early because she wasn't feeling too well and gave the Assistant Manager a list of about 12 things to do for the next day. You know, so that she could... relax and take it easy.

So when I was asked by this lovely Italian lady if I had said anything to the Manager, I was surprised, because I quite like working with her. Moreover, if I have a problem with someone, they're likely to find out about it in a more direct manner, i.e. through me.

Then the Manager asks me if the Assistant Manager had spoken to me (yes, I hope you're following the intricacies of retail politics), and I expressed my displeasure about being used as a little pawn in whatever weird strategy games they were trying to play,especially when I had never said anything to anyone about any of this!

To which she says, 'Oh, I had no idea she'd take it so personally.'

Which leads me to ask, what exactly does that mean? What other way is there to take it when your personal and professional qualities are being called into question? Are you supposed to file it under some other alter-ego and carry on as if nothing was said?

No one seems to know, but no one wants you to ever take anything they've said 'too personally'. Heaven forbid they may actually hurt your feelings with their unthinking words, callousness and (in the case of this particular Manager) downright lies.

Baggit

I have a cousin who said that no self-respecting adult should be caught dead carrying a baby bag.

A baby bag of course, is entirely different from a bag that has baby stuff in it.

A baby bag is the one with pastel colours and pictures of clowns or toy trains on it. It's large, unattractive and always knocks people over when the carrier of said bag walks by. It is not clear what purpose the clowns and toy trains serve. The kids for whom the bags are carted around don't know their elbows from their knees yet, never mind being amused by a clown face. In most cases it would seem they are quite as entertained with a spoon. Or mud.

Moreover (and it has to be said), the bag does nothing whatsoever for the adults carrying it. Absolutely. Nothing. It does not add to the style quotient, and it doesn't help to announce that they are parents; the fact that they have a child attached to them serves to do that quite well.

But then there's the issue of how convenient they are.

Well, it would seem that an ordinary bag, something that may (heaven forbid!) not attract the attention of everyone within a five-mile radius but still attractive enough to be taken out in public, would serve to carry around the nappies, bottles, bibs and baby trinkets just as easily. I've even seen some parents do this (including the aforementioned cousin), so this is not a figment of my imagination or me waxing eloquent from my childless utopia.

To all those companies that manufacture and endorse these hideous things, please, stop.

Let parents regain their dignity and pride.

God knows that when they're changing the 100th soiled nappy for a new one out of that bag, they're going to need it.

Just Block

You'd think that with the multicultural population of London, it would've occurred to the major chemist outlets in the city to stock what in the rest of the world is known as simply 'Sunblock'.

But no. In spite of the vast number of brown people that live in this city, it seems that none of them want to protect their skin from UV rays during the summertime. That's the only explanation I can fathom for the fact that there is no pure sunblock to be bought in this city.

Geared at the pale folks, there is suntan lotion with protection from UV rays, tanning sprays with 'mild protection', mild tanning with 'strong protection' and even (this is my favourite) 'bronzing sunblock'.

Now, seeing as I am quite happy with the shade of bronze I already am, I just want to find something that will leave my skin the colour it is, while still protecting me from skin cancer. Is that really so hard to do?

In London, apparently so.

Dissertation Research

This is so clearly the best piece of research I have come across while reading for my dissertation on Diasporas:

'At the independence day celebrations in Ghana, a toast was proposed to the mosquito, which had discouraged white settlement.'

Cancer Chronicles

It seems to be the season of recurrence and death.

You can pray hard for things to not happen.

You can believe in the power of 'good', and that 13 year olds don't die when there's still so much of life that they haven't seen or done.

And yet, my pint-sized hero, older and wiser and calmer than any adult in his situation is dead.

When recurrence and death do occur, the rationalisation process begins.

I can imagine he's in a better place, no longer suffering etc etc; because really, what else is left than to explain it any which way I can?

Unfortunately, whether I can comprehend what happened or not doesn't change the fact that a little boy died, a family lost their only child and the rest of us feel guilty and grateful for still breathing.

Eureka

You know the people that have always known exactly what they wanted to do with their lives? The ones that had purpose and direction and unwavering belief that they were meant for a certain profession?

I'm not one of those people.

I was meant to be a doctor. Then a journalist. Then a social worker perhaps (insert laughter here), or a PR person... my career seemed to be assuming the direction of endless dabbling. And I was really okay with this, given the rationale that the more things I try my hand at and end up hating, the easier it would be to arrive at the thing I really wanted to do.

Simple process of elimination.

Which is why it was such an absolute joy to have worked at something that I enjoyed every minute of for the last three months. Now, it's true that I didn't get paid for it and that some of the work also involved drone stuff (read data inputting), but these are minor details. In the grand scheme of things, there is the possibility I have found the exact job profile that I would be happy to do for the rest of my life. And by that I mean the next five years at least!

Yay to me.

I did not know that...

Facebook came with a sense of irony.

On the little sidebar on the right hand side of the screen, where it says who you should add on your list it suggested to me that I add my ex as a friend on Facebook, because apparently we still have 22 friends in common.

I don't know if you can tweak the account settings to fix that kind of thing!

'

It's that time of year

I want you to remember me pretty.
Sans make up and with my hair down.
Smiling
For no reason at all.

If you see me... human
With my fears and anger running down my cheeks
It would ruin the memory
Of a perfectly good face.

So remember me
Pretty.

Getting older and all that

It's been a while.

But what better time to make a reappearance than when I'm supposed to be studying?

I have a birthday coming up and that's got me to thinking about where I am at this point in my life etc etc.

When I was 8 years old, I was pretty certain that by 25 I would be married and have at least one kid. It was what my mother did and therefore it was good enough for me. This was before I discovered I did not like children.

When I was about 15, I wanted to be a hot-shot professional making tonnes of money and living the good life sans husband and kids. Never realised that knowing what you wanted to do and then being good at it was part of the criteria of being a hot-shot.

By 20, I wanted to stay young forever and never get a job unless it involved loads of travel to exotic foreign lands. A year later I got a PR job that took me to Delhi, Chennai and let us not forget, Baroda.

Ah well.

A few weeks short of 25, I know nothing worked out as I planned it.

So my new plan is to have no plans unless it involves deciding tomorrow's lunch.

The next 25 years (or however long I last) is going to be a series of menus.

Ah the Space

So few are the people who truly understand space.

No, I don't mean the great beyond where the great mysteries of life lie etc etc.

I mean my space.

The place and time that I want for me. And only me.

When it's okay to be selfish and do whatever I want to do - be quiet and read a book, hang out with my friends or take a good long nap.

There's only one person who ever really got it. I'm tired of trying to explain it to anyone else.

And because of this tiredness, I'm going to retreat a little into my dark corner, where it's quiet.

Because, you guessed it, I need some damn space!

I lost

My favourite ring

My phone

My patience

I lost

All sense of time

Of tiredness

Of trust

My appreciation for distances

my proximity to family

my love

for the old familiar

I lost

My footing

My second chances

My eternal regrets

Children in Churches

There is no good reason served by taking children to church.

The children are bored, the parents frustrated and the entire congregation distracted. I'm secretly convinced that even the priest sometimes wants the kids to just shut the hell up or leave! So much for the holy environment and all that...

I know some parents have the idea that if children go to church from a young age, they develop a reverence for the place and become accustomed to the traditions of their religion.

Perhaps they're right.

Then again, my sister and I went to church when we were young and all I remember from those times was that my mum's lap was very comfortable to take a nap on until the whole singing, praying, bowing heads bit was over. I don't think that quite equates a reverence for Catholicism. Then again, that's just me.

In a perfect world, and by that I mean the world where I ran things the way I wanted to, anyone that did not understand volume control could not enter a church.

We can all agree that children have no concept of appropriate voice modulation (some adults don't either, but lets not deviate from this present subject). Therefore, until such time that they do, church is a no go.

Unfortunately, the church I frequent does not subscribe to this theory.

I believe it is time to look for another parish.

(Over)Cautious?

I'm so busy trying to avoid the mistakes I made before, I making huge, brand new ones.

That perfect balance of learning from the past and enjoying the present while not fearing the future.

It eludes me.

Tonight, I realised a gift my parents gave me....

was the ability to sit in a fancy restaurant, drinking expensive alcohol and the knowledge of which knives, forks and spoons to use without embarrassing myself.

It is the same ease with which I can sit and eat a simple meal with no cutlery involved (true Indian style!).

When we were young, my sister and I used to hop over the wall of our garden and go to a labourer's shack next door. The lady was working on the renovation work of our neighbour's building. We sat on the floor, ate from her plate and played with her baby.

Looking back, I see the house was makeshift and tiny, the food simple.

But the enjoyment was the same as any we had when we ate out with our parents.

One day we were at her shack. The next, we were at the five-star President Hotel eating at their famous Thai Restaurant.

It never seemed strange or out of place, the dichotomy of our social interactions.

But now, when I see how uncomfortable some people are when they are not at a place that serves food 'just so', or see friends who are used to simple food shift uncomfortably when they are invited to la-di-dah restaurants, I am able to appreciate this gift.

So to conclude, I was totally and completely able to enjoy Lahore Kebab House tonight.

Just as much as I was able to enjoy Assaggi, Status, Global Fusion or any other place I went to.

The fact that I'm a foodaholic has nothing to do with it of course.

Onwards

While looking through some old folders in my email inbox, I cleared two thousand emails from my 'work' folder.

Yup, that's right. Two thousand.

If I choose to look at the bright side, I am grateful for the job through which I learned a hell of a lot about the real world, how to get along with all sorts of people diplomatically, met amazing colleagues who became friends and gained immense respect for at least two clients.

If I choose to be realistic about it, the job was hell. Sure it had its perks and the pay was great, but anything that makes you want to not get out of bed in the morning and want to have a drink by noon, is not a good thing in the long run.

So as I head toward a career change away from being the 'yes' person, here's my wish list for whatever I work at next:

- I won't receive more than ten emails a day. More importantly, I won't have to answer them within five seconds of receiving them in order to appear to be 'on the job'.

- I can leave work at a decent hour and not get stared at on the way to the door (I swear to God this actually happened every single time I left before six o'clock!).

- I will have a Monday to Friday job that actually entails not working on Saturdays from home.

- Lying about what is possible to do will be an anomaly, not a part of the job description.

- Most importantly, I won't have to smile all the time when talking to idiots.

Here's to the dream job!

Villa Prisca

I don't need to re-tell my story.

Because you know it already.

You know why I speak the way I do.

Why I prefer the company of older people.

You know I hate loud, noisy folk.

That I prefer hugs to kisses.

You know my scars,

my short-form words that don't make sense in real languages.

You know my family,

my connections, my attachments, my stupid little 'happy' thingamajigs.

I don't want to explain them any more.

The re-telling emphasises the pointlessness of it.

Every once in a while, I'll catch myself mid-sentence

wishing I could just take a deep breath

and go home, where I can be quiet.

Because you know it all already.

I know what I want to say but...

No one who knows me will ever accuse me of being at a loss for words.

Unless it's under extraordinary circumstances, I usually have a pretty good handle on what I want to say, when I want to say it.

Lately though, I feel like someone stole my words.

There are a loads of things I want to say, but the articulation is proving trickier than I imagined.

In the usual structure of introduction-body-conclusion, I have the beginning down. But then...it sort of trails off and dies. Or gets lost in the muddle of other things that need saying, all at the same time.

So I end up staying quiet.

Coasting along in silence, because it's easier than persevering with my broken sentences.

It's beginning to show though.

The silences beam through the cracks in the words.

Tone It Down

I sometimes find myself backing away from the loud people.

I know sometimes I forget myself and talk at a higher volume than I should.

These times are usually associated with alcohol or a subject I feel strongly about. Or both.

But for the most part, I'd like to think I speak at a volume that is acceptable to the majority.

Which is why when I now come across someone that shouts at me instead of talking to me, I find myself cringing and taking a few steps backwards.

I can't stand it.

Unless we're in a place with ear-splitting music or other such detriments to the audibility of one's voice, I see no reason for the shouting.

It seems perfectly logical to me that there should be no shouting.

Either that or I'm getting old and cranky.

Therapy

When intuition and paranoia are at odds.

When confusion meets happiness along with denial.

When blissful numbness gives way to a whole host of tangled emotions.

There's only one thing to do.

Eat.

The Liberal Illusion

I thought acceptance and tolerance had become the norm.

I was taught that everyone is equal and though we come from different backgrounds, colours, religions and economic classes - everyone had to be treated the same and with respect.

I had friends who were rich and those that weren't so well off; friends who were Hindu, Muslim, Catholic and certainly a whole bunch of disillusioned agnostics and atheists.

It was lovely, and to a large extent, it still is.

But now I'm finding that the norm has limits. Tolerance and respect is all very well, as long as you don't bring it back to your doorstep. Friendship is great, but if you marry - make sure it's from the right religion, caste, community and socio-economic class. When push comes to shove, even the friendship lines will be drawn on the side of those we can see in our 'groups'.

The Liberal illusion is well and truly shattered.

The exception to the norm is not the intolerant person.

It is the person who says he/she is accepting of all, and is able to follow through with more than just words.

Life is full of disappointments

Like when you discover the lovely fragrance you always associated with your Grandma is actually the smell of the psoriasis cream she used to put on her hands.

The reasons for Friendship

She lives down the road for me.

We're the same size, we can share clothes and shoes.

He lives in the same neighbourhood, so it's easier for him to drop me home after a night out.

She gets my space issues, no one else does.

There was no one else really. It was a shit hole, and I looked for the most like-minded one.

We liked the same books, we had nothing else to talk about, but we really did like our books.

She made me laugh. We had nothing in common, but dear God, she could make me laugh!

He gave the most amazing hugs. Yup, that's really all it took.

He was popular, and I wanted in on the in group.

Her mum used to give me a ride home from school. And then we got to chatting.

She's my brother's ex-girlfriend. Yes I know it's weird.

We were on the train together once and I fell asleep on his shoulder.

I'm not really sure how it happened. But I'm so glad it did.

. , ; !

The punctuations in sentences are good.

The pauses give you time to stop, take a breath, consider.

Take stock of words behind you, weigh them and feel them.

Appreciate how the simple ones are the nicest...the most beautiful.

The pauses make you anticipate the words that will follow.

And so it is with you and me.

I always look forward to our next sentence.

How To Turn Yourself Into A Lady

Whenever I talk to BG, there are words of wisdom to be had.

Here's another kitchen conversation example that I have her permission to share.

"I could just walk around with a book on my head. Because that's what I've learned from all those movie montages. As soon as you put a book on your head, you automatically know which fork to use for what. It's that simple."

Blindsided

My college in Bombay had a system of students doing social work at another Postgraduate college which had several blind students enrolled in programmes there.

A few days ago, I came across a girl who was with me in college who told me why she had stopped at 10 hours of social work instead of the usual 60 hours. It was because she felt extremely uncomfortable with one of the blind students she used to read to. It was an intuitive feeling, and luckily, nothing had actually happened. She stopped going there before it did.

Two other friends of mine however, did not.

The same boy had molested them and they felt absolutely conflicted about what they could do about the situation because after all, he was blind. Who would believe them?! They felt bad about reporting him because of his disability. He apparently, felt no such qualms about exploiting it to its full potential.

I'd love to say that there was a point to this post, but the truth is, there isn't.

The story just absolutely and wholeheartedly sickened me.

So I'm going to proceed to break a self-inflicted rule of mine on the blog and name names... to an extent anyway, and say, 'Rajesh, you are an absolute BA****D'.

Facts

Any song sounds better when it's in French

Calling people 'interesting' when they're just plain weird is out. 'Socially unaware' or 'Socially awkward' is much more honest, and surprisingly, still acceptable.

When you cook with garlic, the smell never leaves the sleeves of your shirt. Not the whole shirt, just the sleeves. What's up with that?

There are nice, intelligent Americans out there. I know, control the European/Asian shock. It's true.

People will always ask obvious questions or make obvious statements. Like when you're sitting with a book and they go, 'Oh, you're reading'. Even worse, you will do it at some point. And hate yourself for it.

The dramatic void

Today I overheard a familiar conversation. It went something like this:

'Yes, he did this... so I did this... and then he said... so what is the deal? I mean, what did he think he was doing?!! It's so ridiculous... etc etc'.

That wasn't the exact conversation of course, but pretty much the essence of it.

The reason it sounded familiar, was because I'd heard it before. I recognised the dramatic urgency of each sentence, the way everything sounded as if it were a matter of the utmost importance. In fact, I'd even been a part of many such conversations.

The only difference is, I remember it from school.

When I was younger. Much younger. And every minor hiccup seemed like a major catastrophe.

Since then, I've encountered some real mishaps... actual catastrophes that made school-time gossip seem like story books. It seems like most other people have as well. Or maybe it's just the majority of people in my life, who have moved on to a place where we can not sweat the small stuff quite as much, and appreciate that the small stuff isn't as horrible as the big stuff.

Then again, there are those who remain in this enchanted void, where 'he said... she said' continues to be the main dramatic theme. Where nothing is more gut-wrenching than a two-month failed could-have-been relationship and every day life is filled with all the emotion of a day-time soap. I wonder if maybe they're better off?

I feel old.

In Conversation

Sometimes you discover the pearls when you're not even looking for them.

Conversation about someone...nice.

Person A: Nice? Since when are you into 'Nice'?

Person B: Ever since 'interesting' turned out to be a synonym for 'asshole'.

The In-between

So the concept of everything fitting into 'black' and 'white' died a quick death.

I'm finding I'm more inclined to believe that everything is in shades of grey.
There's no black really, just a really really dark shade of grey. No white, just a light dusting of grey.

Black and white was easier.
Either/Or and there you have it. It was done.

The in-between is complicated. It makes allowances for anomalies and exceptions to the rule.
The best friend who would be at your side at a moment's notice to help you with all your drama is still capable of being a really bad boyfriend/husband.
Or the loving, accepting, open-minded couple can still let all kinds of traditional hell break loose if one of their children marry outside 'the community'.
And the boss you look up to and admire, even aspire to be, can be unethical on more issues than you care to count.

It's all allowed and there's not really much you can do about it.
It's the grey you see?

Overkill

Today I was stuck behind a man whose olfactory senses were dead.

I know this because that is the only explanation for how much cologne he had on.

I felt bad for him.

But not as bad as I felt for myself. Stuck behind him. For twenty minutes. That felt more like forty minutes. In a packed train. With no immediate escape. Or ventilation.

As he got off the train, I whispered softly - just enough to be audible, but not enough so as to appear rude and he'd want to hit me, "Moderation".

There's no such thing as perfection.

That's one of the big disillusionments isn't it?

The perfect life, the perfect man/woman, the perfect house, the perfect car, oh yes, the perfect job.

They don't exist. So chasing them is pointless.

The bitterness of that lesson doesn't fade with time or the number of reality checks.

Today I was reminded of it again.

But as I sat there, having dinner and conversation with someone I loved like family, that was perfection right there.

My brothers' hugs, countless times of perfection.

Shoes that fit just right, perfect!

Maybe all those fairytale stereotypes of 'the ideal' whatever won't come true.

But I'm quite content with living from moment to moment of my own perfect constructions.

Failure 1 for 2010

I bought coffee.

I know I said I wouldn't.

But I did.

And it felt so good.

Oblivion

Four year old: Can you read me another book?

Me: No. I read you three already.

FYO: But I want you to.

Me: I can't. I need to study.

FYO: What's 'study'?

Me: I have an exam. So I need to do some work for that.

FYO: What's 'exam'?

I didn't want to disenchant her blissful oblivion.

It will happen soon enough!