the five stages of grief

For the last two weeks, I have been reduced to acting like ditzy sixteen-year old girl with a giant crush—giggles included. The object of all this affection is a delicious young trainee who has a body to die for. For the week that I spoke to him, I was convinced that he had a thing for me too, which made me pay more attention to my clothes, my hair and my general demeanour. He was my reason to go to work (besides work of course).

Sadly for me, I have only just found out that he has a giant crush on this really tall Amazon girl who has the personality of a gnat’s arse and the fashion sense of a 60-year old woman. She also walks like she has an invisible pair of wobbly stilettos on. When I heard, my first reaction was—No, this cannot be true. This is Denial.

Now, mind you, I’m not that upset that he didn’t pick me. Ok, I’ll admit I am a tad upset, but I am more perturbed by the lady-giraffe he chose over me. Not often does a gorgeous man walk into my office, and honestly, he would have at least 3-4 fairly hot ladies to pick from, and she would never qualify, not in the top 10 even. This is called Anger.

But he picked her.
He’s gone out with her, they talk on the phone they chat on Facebook and heaven only knows what else they’ve done outside of the office. I know all these tit-bits because of the multiple spies I have planted in every corner of the office—mostly because initially I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Bargaining?

I know all this is none of my business, but it physically hurts me to know that I have been outwitted by a dim-wit, that I have been sidelined by a floozy, that I have been disregarded for an Amazonian with zero charm. What’s worse is they are just such an odd looking couple to look at—He is 5ft nothing, it’s like a chiwawa dating a lion. The stage is called Depression

After being suitably outraged and comforted by my close friends who called her nasty names to appease me I have decided that he’s no catch either. He’s short, he’s not very smart (when I made a joke, he didn’t get it and I had to explain it slowly to him until he finally got it and gave me a half chuckle. Oh, and he called me a ‘mannequin’ because I am so ‘animated’. Duh!)

And at last comes the Acceptance.
I have accepted the fact that they are meant for each other. Why? Because basically, when they come together they have one brain between them. That’s a plus right?

live writer

I’ve just downloaded Windows Live writer.. and it’s frikking awesome… this is just a tester post, so don’t judge. I’m happy with technology. Woot woot.

revelations

Last Saturday I realised two very pertinent things:

Thing one: On Friday night I went out ‘partying’ with my friend who came down from Dubai. And since I had not gone out for the longest time, I decided to dress up like a girly-girl, high heels et al. My friend and I were accompanied by her brother and his super hot girlfriend who left us feeling frumpy even after half an hour of preening in front of the mirror.
About an hour into the night, my feet hurt and I wanted to get into my pyjamas and sleep, but I sucked it up and I kept at it.

Two hours into the night, we were surrounded by nubile young things wearing short shorts and tops that left little to the imagination. The music was fusion—of some electronic crap and some Bollywood crap. We needed a drink. At the bar, we were shocked to see that the menu said Rs.400 for a pint of beer. Understandably, we decided to leave.

But much to my chagrin, we did not go home. We moved to another bar, which had two sections— a Bollywood section and a Hip Hop section. We chose the latter and entered.

My feet were still killing me and I decided to take my shoes off and keep dancing. In doing so I also became some six inches shorter than the brothers girlfriend, who was still in her stilettos with no complains.
I didn’t feel bad though, looking around the small cramped dingy space, there was no one I even remotely wanted to impress. So off came the shoes, and out came the funky moves.

Then the club closed. But no, we didn’t go home. We went to one of his friend’s hotel room to chill and chat. Which we did for another four hours and finally reached her house (where I was spending the night) at 5:30am. It was only the next morning when I had my first revelation: I looked in the mirror and a racoon stared back at me. A racoon who was too old to party, and couldn’t feel her legs.

Thing Two: When I could feel my legs again, I picked up my stuff and trudged home. I had a shower and made myself presentable again. I had to attend a good friends wedding all the way in the other side of town. Heels on again (I really don’t learn) I made my way to the reception only to realised I did not know a single person there. I know I should have thought about this before, but I assumed that I would meet some mutual ex colleagues and therefore have some people to sit with. I was wrong.

I sat alone on a table for six. Groups at the other tables began to stare. Perhaps I looked like one of those creepy gate-crashers who like to attend weddings. An hour passed and people began to ask if they could borrow the six chairs for their ever-increasing posse.

I watched the couples first dance, I watched groups chatting, I ate alone and I occasionally got a friendly, sympathetic smile. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I made a lame excuse to the wedding couple and left.

In the cab home, I listened to sad songs and cried at my life. It was truly the worst night of my life because I have never ever felt so utterly alone.

This is when the second revelation happened: Even if your best friend in the whole world is getting married, never ever attend a wedding absolutely alone.

dear you

Dear H, I’m not sure why I liked you at all—we were so different. I guess it was because you were so quiet and unassuming, and the dimple didn’t hurt either. You were my first kiss, but not my first love. I should have known better at the time, instead of waiting for you to be the one to break up with me.

Dear L, I remember how much we laughed on the steps to my building. I remember all the crazy things you’d do and how much you made fun of my weirdness. I should have known better—you were a better friend than a boyfriend.

Dear B, I liked you a lot. Too much for my own good I think. And unfortunately, when I do that I stop seeing clearly. I wasted so many tears on you. And looking back now, I realise you are a self-centred, juvenile, nauseating piece of dog crap.
And I really, really, really should have known better.

Dear F, I have only good things to say about you. You truly were my first love. I would have, and still will do anything for you. Sometimes I wonder if we will ever get together again, and then I remember why we broke up in the first place.
I should know better.

Dear A, you were never really a ‘boyfriend’ but I thought I’d add you just to tell you how much I despise you. You have the personality of a slug and the only thing that is remotely attractive about you is your money…Unfortunately I am not materialistic. I did know better.

Dear T, you were everything I have ever wanted. When I looked at you I saw my future and I got lost in it, instead of seriously thinking about the present. It’s because of you that I know what true love feels like. I still miss you even though I wasn’t the one to let you go. It will take some time to forget that feeling I had when you were next to me. I thought it would last forever.

Next time I’ll know better.


Inspired by Alanis Morrisette ‘Unsent’ but not half as well written

(far from) happy ending

This weekend I watched three very different movies about how male protagonist fights for the woman he loves, eventually getting her and living happily ever after. And they all made me sick.

The guy who supposedly adored me for two whole years did not get the girl. He did not even begin to fight for her. He left me instead, hopefully watching these movies wondering why he did not fight in the same way for me. Making me assume that, perhaps, I just wasn’t worth the effort.

Going by the movies I saw— my break up should have hurt me so bad, that I somehow meet the man of my dreams on a bus or in a store (when I least expect it) and we go out and I realise that the break up was the best thing that happened to me, which is when my ex realises what he terrible mistake he has made. Or I make such a huge impression on this dreamy dude who falls completely in love with me and does everything he can to keep us from never leaving each others sight.

I know, I shouldn’t be using Hollywood as my relationship benchmark. I know that the script has to be happy to make a blockbuster—which makes me oftentimes wish I was living in a movie, instead of this crap, lonely reality that I exist in.

God damn it, I want my happy ending.

i'm just bored

Will someone please explain what all the fuss is about? Why is Frieda ‘Ugly’ Pinto getting so many eyeballs when she has nothing special about her? There are thousands of prettier and more attractive Indian women for the world to go ga-ga over— Laxmi Menon would be one on the very top of the list. It’s annoying that she is compared to the likes of Angelina Jolie! I mean seriously, what are these people thinking?

PEOPLE, SERIOUSLY, SHE IS UGLY.

And really, Dev Patel… you could do so much better.

Oh well, maybe she has a beautiful heart.

nadir

Main Entry: na•dir

Pronunciation: \ˈnā-ˌdir, ˈnā-dər\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French, from Arabic naḍhīr opposite. Date: 15th century

1 : the point of the celestial sphere that is directly opposite the zenith and vertically downward from the observer

2 : the lowest point



After two years of being in a happy and wonderful relationship, my world has crumbled down into a pile of nothingness. I feel miserable and sometimes short of breath. I have cried in trains, buses and cabs. Not to mention the office toilet.
I know. Everything is going to be ok. I’m better off this way. He totally isn’t worth this. It’s his loss. I’m a great person who will find someone super. Things happen for a reason.
I know it all.

Whatever. It still hurts like hell.

utopia

Once upon a time there were two things.

One was called Em and the other Reh.

Em and Reh were inseparable, so much so no one could see one thing without the other. They completed each other and even finished each others thoughts. They were the same, yet unknown to them, they were completely different.

Em and Reh lived in a big bubble they blew together when they first met. They thought nothing could go wrong and the world around them was sunny and bright.

Em was always satisfied with whatever it got and was happy in the bubble with Reh. But Reh on the other hand always wanted to grow more popular and have new things like Em.

The older they got the more their personalities differentiated. But because they didn’t want to hurt each other they didn’t say anything.

Em was so caught up in nurturing their Bubble Home, that it never once noticed that Reh was letting other things into her side of the bubble.

One day Em realised their bubble was getting a little too crowded. When asked about it, Reh said that she felt ignored by Em and needed some other company— Reh blamed Em for the crowd gathered in Bubble Home and their estranged relationship.

What hurt Em the most, was that Reh completed a lot of people— it finished everyone’s sentences too. In fact everything Em thought that was special about them— was actually becoming more and more common. Reh refused to believe it was doing anything wrong and because Em and Reh had been together for so long, Em began to justify a lot of what Reh did, even if it began to tear them apart.

Soon Reh was thriving on its own, having separated partially from the Bubble Home. Em struggled to be a part of this new world but really, it couldn’t bring itself to adjust to this new common space.

Reh, wanting the best of both worlds wanted Em to open her side of the Bubble Home to these new found things that Reh kept dragging in. But Em could not and began to build a wall between them. Over which she could hear the constant laughter and merry-making coming from Reh’s side.

Their relationship strained because of Em’s naiveté.
And Reh’s ambition to become bigger and more popular.

The Bubble Home doesn’t exist anymore. Both Em and Reh are living poles apart.

Both dreaming of the bubble that burst a long, long time ago.

Things I have learnt in 2008

I realised that most people take their health for granted, and when you least suspect it something completely unexpected will happen to make you take it seriously.

I discovered that some people are better friends when they don’t work with you. Because when they do you automatically become competition.

I have realised that competition is healthy when there are no feelings or friendship involved.

I’ve realised that family that moves abroad feels the need to justify their decision as best they possibly can, and all one can do is understand that it is nothing personal.

I learned that no matter how much you work for a company, no matter how many accolades you get— if you don’t suck ass… you don’t get ahead.

I have realised that no matter how hard I try, I can never, ever be a suck ass.

I have realised that I work better with a female boss.

I have decided that deep inside me is a loner waiting to burst out… and if I get over my craving for ‘people’ and ‘friends’ I will be positively happy.

I have realised that I need to learn how to pick the right friends.

I believe that having ‘friends’ is not over-rated.

(I realise I am being contradictory.)

I have discovered the meaning of feeling absolutely alone even when you are surrounded by people.

I have resolved to shut negativity out, in whatever form or shape it comes.

I realise that you need a circle of friends outside of work. I also realise I don’t have that.

I realised that I no one in my family has a ‘best friend’.

I have decided that those indeed are over-rated.

I realise I haven’t learned much at all. And I really should stop wasting time making lists like this.

one of those days

Sometimes I reach a point when the ‘creative’ people in my agency make me want to rip out my throbbing eye and shove it up their ass only so I can actually ‘see’ where their ideas come from.

don’t you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?

I have never once denied that I was the jealous type. Sometimes, (practically all the time,) this insane (and mostly unwarranted) jealousy gets the better of me.

Today my boyfriend is going on a lunch date with some girl he met online, a month or so before he met me. Initially, I kind of freaked out a bit (quite a bit—more like a drama queen) but then I told him that I am perfectly ok with it and in a surprisingly mature way, said that he is free to do whatever he wants. Little did I know that he was already on his way to this lunch rendezvous with this mystery chick.

Talking to a close guy friend at work, I asked him (a guy’s perspective) if her name was a ‘hot’ name. He told me that he’s only met one other girl with her name and she was very hot. And so the drama began again.
I went online and Goggled her. I found a semi-informative interview she apparently gave, but I wasn’t sure it was her. So I went on Orkut and snooped into his friend list. I found her, but no information and an illustration where a photograph should be.

Right about then, I started to panic (oh yes, everything before this was normal behaviour, I kid you not.) I tried another social networking site and finally found some useful information—a guy from my office was listed as a mutual friend. Yay.

Casually I asked him if he knows her and he says yes. Then he points to the colleague I have been confiding in, and reveals that he has met her too. Turns out, she is ’the’ one other girl with the same name he has met (annoyingly small world isn’t it?).

Now that it was all in the open, I began to prod him for details. Things like ‘is she prettier than me?’, ‘what does she do?’, ‘what kind of hair does she have?’ He began to tell me what an amazing person she is, so multi-faceted. She listens to metal music, a rare woman indeed. A couple of his friends (her acquaintances too by default) joined in—she paints and DJ’s on the side. She oozes attitude, and that’s so sexy.

The more they spoke of how wonderful she is the more my lunch started to surface. The more I envisioned them having a wonderful time at an intimate café. The more I pictured her hair glistening in the sun (stupid lunch date!). I pictured him smiling, enjoying himself a little too much for my liking.

I found myself consciously trying to not be sick. And seeing as how it’s only 2:45pm, and the lunch date is still on... I’m still working on it.

I am not crazy

As part of my birthday celebrations I have called all my friends to a club. Having a not so great salary, I also decided it would be a buy-your-own-booze thing—which also made it a completely optional thing. So, if the person I called did not want to come and spend their own money, then they didn’t have to because I had my set of good friends who were definitely going to make it a success.

Now, to be very honest I don’t have a whole lot of very good friends. And the handful of them who I really wanted to be there were all I really needed. Except I got a mail from one of the girls saying she was not willing to come because Thursday “wasn’t good” for her. Obviously I was very upset and tried calling her several times to get some clarity on the situation.

She finally called back and said that she couldn’t make it because she was broke, and she didn’t have a present for me— I’ve known her for almost 10 years and that was the excuse she was throwing at me. I choked up; I sputtered an “Ok, fine, if that’s what you think I want you there for.” And I was about to put the phone down when she began to laugh and say she was kidding.

Then she said I was crazy. She said I was overly obsessed and asked if I thought she really wouldn’t come. She said I sounded like a crazy paranoid chick, who was worried about people not coming to her ‘party’ when she was not even paying for people. She said I should stop calling it MY party, because it’s really a bunch of people going out drinking, it just happens to be on my birthday. She said I was stupid to think she wouldn’t come. That she thought I would take as a joke and it was a joke, but it wasn’t my party and I should get that clear in my head, before getting upset about people backing out.

I said I would only be upset if she backed out.

And I cried some more.

I'm not crazy.

twenty-frikkin-seven

I was telling a friend of mine how incredibly depressed I was to be turning 27 this Thursday. What I didn’t realise was that I was also talking to him five years ago, a couple of days before I turned 23—and I was ‘incredibly depressed’ then too.

Don’t get me wrong, I love birthdays. And I love my birthday even more. I want gifts, I want hugs and I want all the people who love me to be around me and celebrate the day I was born.

So that got me thinking: Is it ageing that I am depressed about? Is it the depression that comes before being insanely happy as the centre of attention at my own party? Is it depression for the sake of depression—maybe just another reason to feel inconsolably low, and wallow in my own little private pool of self pity?
Honestly, I have no idea (I said it got me thinking, I never said I came to any concrete conclusion).

This year’s pre-birthday depression phase has been more acute. I think it’s the combination of slowly crossing the youthful hill of the twenties and heading towards the weary mountain of the thirty’s (ok I realise this hill metaphor is no fun at all for you, but I’m trying to make my life a little more interesting to read about, so sue me.)

When I was nine, I’m sure I didn’t think of my life as it is when I reached this ripe old age. My nine year old self probably imagined me with a car, maybe an apartment. I probably believed I’d be someone’s boss, doing what I loved and being fabulous everyday. I probably dreamed I’d be all professional—wearing heels, business suits and doing my hair. Heck, I probably thought I’d even have a wedding by now.

The big 2-7 is upon us and in two years—BAM—I will be thirty. Needless to say, I haven’t achieved any of the above, not even close.
I’m a twenty-seven year old, who travels by public transport, lives with her parents, has an odious senior, lives in jeans and t-shirts, hasn’t seen the inside of a parlous in months and yup, no sign of a wedding happening any time soon.

Shame on me.

And apologies to my nine-year-old self.

true story

“Do you want to be sad?” he asked, looking at her more intently than usual.

“Please! Why would I want to be sad?” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Because it’s easier”

under my skin and on my nerves

As you probably already know, I’ve been seeing someone for over a year now. (Yes, yes, that explains the infrequent whiny, complaining blogs that you all used to relish so much *giggle*). Anyway, he makes me feel wonderfully happy and dizzyingly in love, except on those rare occasions when we fight. Tonight was one such occasion.

I was having a relatively ‘blah’ day, waiting for my boyfriend to come to my office so we could have a nice dinner with my dear friend from college. Looking forward to a nice evening with loved ones, my mood lifted a notch.

I arrive at the location to find my friend with another girl who was a friend of her friend. They had run into each other at this place and this new girl just wouldn’t leave. In the first five minutes of me meeting her, I despised her.

My evening was eclipsed by this loud, pretentious, stuck-up little twit of a witch. She talked on and on about herself until I could stand it no longer. In the agonizing half hour we were with her she announced that she had ‘a nagging for French fries’, a wonderful blog we all should check out, an ex-job, unemployed now, recently seeing someone, traveling a lot, she corrected my English, flirted with my boyfriend, pretended to bond with my girl friend, she told us she worked for an NGO, where she lived, why she was fed up of Bandra, how she loves to drink and smoke—BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

By nine, my friend had to run off somewhere and left us with this woman. She even made us wait with her while her friend arrived. The annoying bit was that every time I tried to make an excuse to leave, she’d make more inane conversation about herself and her fabulous life. My boyfriend was being genuine and listening, even though I tried to make eyes at him to leave. Eyes that told him ‘this woman is horrible, let’s leave now and never return’—but he read the look as ‘This Subway sandwich is yum, we should come here more often’ and didn’t budge.

Yes, I do judge people easily. And I either instantly like you, or instantly despise you and the decision is rarely ever reconsidered. This particular woman annoyed the hell out of me so much so she ruined my evening. (The other half of my evening was spent fighting with my lovely boyfriend because he was trying to be nice to this conceited *badwordhere*.)

I’m home now. All made up with the boyfriend. I’m still mad at the waste of a perfectly good evening, and I’m fighting the urge to leave a nasty anonymous comment on her blog page.

polished apples and cabbages

I'm doing a campaign about Teaching and the importance of teachers which kind of inspired me to write about one of my own past teachers...

She always wore a sari. Always in dark greys or browns, that complimented her greying-brown hair. The sari was always made of khadi, a hand spun Indian cotton, that was more of a statement that a cloth and had a long history of revolution and revolt weaved into the very fabric.

She never wore a bra. She used to walk into class smelling of smoke and adjusting her sari blouse. She never greeted the class, but instead just picked up the book of verse and read. And when she read everything seemed to melt away, and we’d hang on every word, every full stop and every pause.

Once in the middle of class she got a coughing fit (probably from smoking in the teachers lounge) and could not read the poem completely. When she asked the class for water everyone fumbled to give her their water bottle—like an offering, a polished apple if you will. The lucky student would be privileged to get a ‘Thank you Darling” from her.(She called us ‘cabbages’ when she was upset with us and ‘darlings when she wasn’t upset with us – but she was never ever ‘happy’ with us.)

Her name was Eunice and she was my English Literature professor in college. She retired before we reached our final year, so batch only had her for our first year of Literature. She hardly ever smiled and I would always see her in the teachers lounge, lighting up another cigarette and turning a page of yet another book she read. I heard that she never married, had many lovers and lived with only a parrot as her companion.

I, like most of the others who took Literature as their Major, was completely and totally in awe of this woman. She made me want to do better in my tests, she made me want to participate in class, she made me want to carry a water bottle to college only so she would sip it and call me ‘darling’ and then I would look at the ‘cabbages’ with a certain air about me.

When she yelled at us for not experiencing the work, I used to go home and cry. So much so my sister made me a little card that said ‘you are not a cabbage’ only so I would feel better.

I never would have thought she knew my name. I was one of those students who sat in the back seat – not because I was naughty, but because I didn’t want to be noticed and questioned, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
The week before she left I made her a ‘Thank You’ card that I carried around with me in my file, waiting for the right opportunity to present it to her. Finally, one afternoon I met her alone on the corridor between classes and I mumbled an ‘Excuse me, Ma’am’ and handed her the card.

That was when I had my definitive moment of glory. She looked at me and said ‘Thank you, Simone, darling’.

My year was made.

little things i do for me

When work stresses me out – I go dancing – and it only works if you dance like you’re the only one in the club.

When my boyfriend stresses me out – I go to the gym.

When my parents stress me out – I go and have a sleep-over with my girls.

When my girls stress me out – I get a pedicure.

When life stresses me out – I put my ipod to almost maximum volume and I listen to music.

When my boss stresses me out I log on to a free game website and play Zuma or Mini Golf or Copter.

When I want to feel organised - I make 'LISTS' (I love lists!)

When I need to calm down – I put candles in my bathroom and I wash my hair. To get charged up, I make a strong cup of frothy coffee (the frothier the better).

When I want to forget about the day – I go to sleep, I’ve slept for a whole day like that.

When I want to remember days gone by – I dig through old albums with my mother.

If I needed to be peaceful or pensive I’d choose to go to a place by the sea. If I needed to rejuvenate I’d go to the hills.

When I don’t want to write ads I write a blog. When I don’t want to write at all I take pictures, draw or paint.

When I want to feel pretty I straighten my hair, do a home face-mask and paint my toe-nails. Or I go shopping for pink things (my most recent purchase being a plastic hot pink water bottle.)

When I want to feel content I make a sandwich.

And for a little more contentedness – I add cheese.

:D

bag lady

If you've got it, put it in your handbag.

That is the philosophy I live by. Everything that passes through my hands has a very strong possibility of going straight into my handbag, and almost never coming out.

It's true, mine is, what can be called a "black hole of handbags".

It is only in the unlikely event that it changes (due to weather or wear and tear) that things actually might see the light of day.

Not all of it is rubbish though. I have a lot of very essential stuff –well, stuff that I think is essential, anyway. Lets see, lip balm, a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouth wash, face wash, face cream, hand cream (a lavender one – yummy), house keys, an i-pod USB cable, my i-pod, sunglasses, an umbrella (when the weather demands it), a pocket-sized mirror, a novel, an idea book, printouts from work, a bottle opener (don't ask),an extra keychain, tissue, mints, four or five pens and lots of credit card receipts.

I also have a make-up pouch that contains three types of lip gloss, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick and a locket with me and my dad's picture in it.

In addition to this, I also have a big, fat wallet that carries everything from tummy tablets and band aids to visiting cards and crocheted flowers (oh, and money too).

You'd think with the amount that goes in to it, it would be a rather big bag. On the contrary, my brand new, sky-blue beauty fits neatly under my arm and has great storing potential ( read: it's still rather empty).

Bags are probably my most favourite accessory. And aren't always bought based on need. I have to literally chastise myself from buying every handbag that "speaks" to me. (My newest favourite formal bag is a cute little bronze pouch, with a metal handle – but that's another story)

My old everyday-bag was a large rugged, khaki Diesel bag. I could stuff virtually anything into it. When the zip broke, so did my heart. I spent weeks looking for a new one. Why weeks you ask? Because I am one of those people for whom buying a bag is not just a shopping issue, it's a very emotionally-charged experience. You can't just go out and "buy" a bag. The bag needs to sell itself to you.

A bag has to speak to me; it needs to talk to me from a shelf to grab my attention. It doesn't need to shout, it needs to flirt subtlety with me.

And when I put it on my arm, I need to feel like it's mine – and not just some bag on my arm. It needs to be a part of me – an extension of my body. It doesn't have to be branded or expensive, it just needs to speak.

For weeks I did not find a single bag that spoke to me. Then suddenly this blue one just grabbed my attention from an array of bags on a shelf.

My new boy waited patiently as I preened and posed in front of the mirror and then, without hesitation paid for it and happily stuffed everything from my make-shift plastic bag, into its welcoming, water-proof lined depths.

Yay :)

Luna-tic

I’m going to go ahead and blame it on the moon.

The 13th of September was probably the worst day in the history of my life. I literally felt like I would have a sudden shooting pain in my left arm and my life would briefly flash before my eyes while I passed into…well…the other side.
Alarms that didn’t go off, mad men on the road, never-before traffic jams and intense heat - after which, I finally step into my office.

I walk in and before I even put down my bag, this servicing guy parks his pillar-like body in front of my path, looking at me with lunatic eyes, asking if I had a goodnight. I ask him if he has any work with me and why he is following me around like that big black slab in Kubrick’s 2001 Space Odyssey. He doesn’t get it. I walk passed him and when I reach my desk – he is there again. Freakin’stalker dude.

Then the most annoying woman in the office, the stick-figure, walks up to me and starts yelling that I have to do some work for her and she doesn’t care how much work I have, she needs it and she wants it by 4:00pm. This is when I lost it. This is when I thought I would have my first heart attack of the day. In short, I yelled till my eyes were blood shot. I told her to piss-off and come back when she learns how to talk to people. She didn’t.

Then as I calmed down with lunch I noticed that one of the guys in the office was very obviously ignoring me. I asked him if he was and he curtly replied, that he was. I asked him why and he yelled that he didn’t want to talk about it right then and stomped away.

In the evening I was sitting outside the office when he marches up to me, Red Bull in hand, saying he wants to talk about the Tuesday night office party. So I say, okay, talk about it.

He then begins to accuse me of starting this little tit-bit of gossip involving him, an annoying girl in the office and a Swedish condom. Apparently he was reaching this woman home to one end of the world when he stays in another end, and when he told some office guys, they drunkenly teased him and one of them handed him a condom – instead of throwing it back at their faces there and then, he keeps it and leaves. Then when the party is almost over, I notice he is not there so I ask where he is. The drunken boys tell me he’s gone to drop the annoying woman home – at which I say –Why would he drop her home? He stays no where close to her. At which the drunken boys giggle and tell me he took a condom too. Now, because of office grapevine, the ugly annoying girl walks in on Wednesday and the whole office is whispering that this guy took a condom and dropped her home.

So, I’m sitting there as he accuses me of “getting the ball rolling” and how “at my age” I should know better than to “blab” at office parties about things I don’t know. This is when I truly lost it. I told him he had no right to talk to me like that, and that how can someone “get the ball rolling” by asking about the whereabouts of a friend at a party? Further more, if he had no intention of doing anything with the condom, why walk away with it? And if he were to drop me home, would he even think twice about giving the condom back? No? Which means the drunken boys were completely justified in thinking something might ensue between annoying girl and boy?

There was a lot of yelling and crying (yes, I cried) and eventually he wanted to make up because he realised he was being rash, but I just can’t go from yelling to being bum-chums again. And honestly I don’t think I ever will get back to thinking he was anything more than a colleague.

The day was awful and I thought maybe I should go out dancing to relieve stress. We went to our usual adda and start dancing when this normal looking couple walk up to her boyfriend and say hi. But it ended there – they only looked normal.
She made intensely happy smiling faces and mouthed an “I love you” to me. She popped out from nowhere as, I walked to the loo, and danced with me. We tried to escape them and go upstairs and she followed us. We hid behind pillars and made our way to the exit. And we were free.

I went home and the heat was unbearable. As much as I wanted the day to end it just wouldn’t. I tossed and turned in bed and finally fell asleep at 5am.
What a day. I’m going to blame it on the moon.

in the name of loving

I have always been interested in law. In fact, I thought I would make a very good lawyer, I even used to pen out mutually-benefiting treaties between my sisters and myself. I also used to watch Ally McBeal, L.A Law and the like, to see how lawyers manoeuvre arguments in their favour. Anyway, my argumentative dexterity is not the point.

Yesterday I was surfing channels and BBC World was airing a program about the Lovings.

For those of you who haven’t heard about Mildred and Richard Loving, let me give you a low down. They were married in 1958 in Commonwealth, Virginia – it was love, if there ever was such a thing – only there was a rub – she was black and he was white.

By making their love public they broke one of Virginia’s vile rules – no inter-racial marriages. Sentenced to imprisonment, denied bail and forced to leave their home town – they took on family, home town and state all for love – and what’s even more ironically, their name was Loving.

In one of the most racist comments I have ever heard – the judge presiding their first case, found them in violation of the ban against inter-racial marriages – he said –

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, Malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.”

June 12th of every year is celebrated as Loving Day. A day that celebrates the fact that we’ve come a long way since then – or so we claim.

This was a time when racism was at its peak. It inspires us because it is two people fighting for what they believe in. It was the simple struggle for a basic civil and human right. Sure America accepts inter racial couples now, but what about culture? Isn’t there still a prejudice between a person practicing Islam and a person who is Catholic? Or a Hindu and Muslim?

Give youself a pat on the back, because we have risen above the bigotry, and we have looked beyond the colour of our skin when it comes to love.

So far beyond in fact, we’re now looking at our Gods.

update

I have often been told that heart break makes for great copy.

I think I finally realised that this, is indeed true.

For the past four months or so, I have been happy. Satisfied. Pleased, contented even.

And it’s scaring the crap out of me. The unrelenting cynic within me occasionally creeps up like a little ugly thing. And then I push it back down, with the help of a sweet, gentle man.

Here are some confessions:

I turned 26 yesterday
I’m smitten
I have a feeling he is smitten too
I’m not sure where it’s going, but I’m happy
I’m so happy; I haven’t written a blog in a month.
I don’t think I’m used to being “taken”
I find myself not staring at the hot guy in the gym.

I’ve been reformed. I’ve been changed.

And what’s more, he’s so gosh-darn pretty

:)

jitterbug

There I was, microphone in hand, looking upwards. The disco ball made pretty, comforting patterns on the ceiling. It calmed me a little, but for the most part I was a barrel of nervousness.

Welcome to the Corporate Karaoke championships.

I know what you’re thinking, how can a little singing cause so much anxiety? Well let me tell you, it’s not just the singing, it’s the performance pressure, the stage fright, and to top it all, the strangers, who’d probably pay good money to watch you screw up.

It’s not that I have a bad voice or anything, it’s more that I have bad stage presence – think – making imaginary doodles with your toes and twiddling thumbs.
So anyway, there I was – spotlight on me, my team uneasily cheering me on – their thoughts were screaming out at me – ‘We know you’re a first timer, you better not make us lose’.
The song was a sappy, love ditty – not one I would be caught dead listening to, but a safer option compared to my alternative, out-of-the-box tastes.
The calming ceiling patterns, the muted cheers and the sound of my voice– which didn’t waver, crack, or mess up, not even once.

I won.

101st post

Finally.

After all the complaining, whining, nit-picking, thinking, grumbling, over criticizing, rethinking, hair splitting and denouncing.

After all the quarter-life crisis’s, the ends of the world and the manic depression. After all the mood swings and emotional roller coasters.

After all that messed up nonsense, I’ve finally figured - I am completely incapable of happiness.

Shit.

paani

The person you love is 74.8% water

Think about it. More than half of the person you cannot live without is made up of a colourless, tasteless liquid. More than half of this person is something that is so common, it’s hard to see why you love them. And more than half of this person is something we take completely for granted.

Isn’t that something? Makes you wonder what the whole ‘love’ thing is anyway. What does it feel like? How does it manifest itself? And, have you ever felt it?

I think I’m too cynical to ever get answers to any of these questions. Which kind of sucks, cause I wouldn’t mind knowing.

Really.

yeah

Have you ever walked down the street, staring pointlessly at the nearly-melting tar road, hoping and praying that a big, freakish bolt of lightening would just strike you, singeing you to the bone, just so you don’t have to walk another step or live another minute of this crappy existence you call a life?

Yeah.

sammy update

This past Saturday, I and a friend went to visit Sammy for the first time after he came back from brain rehab in the States.

The whole visit was almost surreal. I couldn’t believe that this guy, sitting in a wheelchair in front of me, was the same guy who used to be the one person who’d dance behind me every time we went out. I couldn’t believe that it has been almost two years, and the progress is still slow – he is improving, but it’s going to take a long, long time for him to dance behind me again.

We had lunch with his parents and his brother, who is the strength that has gotten Sam this far, when doctors said he would never speak, walk or understand anything ever again. We shared stories and I learned that Sam was a man of many secrets and a genuinely naïve guy, who may have been taken for a ride, more than once.
It made me want to beat up all the people who have ever hurt him. I was always overly protective of him, I’d snap at anyone who said anything about him or his art – so much so, when the accident happened, people in the office came up to me to ask if I was ok.

When I saw him, my heart broke into a million pieces, and I thought about what a waste of talent this was. How a stupid split second mistake can affect someone’s entire life and family. How you can curse Fate as much as you want, but still nothing changes what has happened.

His dad had phoned me a week ago saying Sam was slowly coming out of it and getting more and more depressed and needed people around him. He’s not talking much because his jaw is still messed up so he can’t really articulate – it’s mostly sign language and mumbles that only his family understands.

His legs are still weak and he was made to do some physiotherapy while we were there and the screams of pain were even more heartbreaking.

I’m not sure if he recognized me but I did get a thumbs-up when I asked if he remembered the club we used to frequent.

It took everything I had not to cry and be positive and tell him that I wanted him to have that poolside party as soon as possible. His parents have been so strong and his brother is just amazing.

It’s possibly the most difficult thing to come to terms with the fact that he is not well. But to still be positive about his progress and know in your heart that he is going to be better is comforting.

I have that feeling. I’m positive that he will be able to dance behind me at that smashing pool party we will have. Positive.

heart breaker

mcshit with a side of lies, anyone?

I can blame it on the fumes from the fireworks at New Years. I can also blame it on my biological clock that seems to be stuck in a metal box that is amplifying the ticking and making it really, bloody annoying - driving me to lose all better judgement. I can also blame it on my complete lack of judgment. But then why play the blame-game? Especially, when it’s me I’m playing with?

This is in reference to The Guy I was supposedly, sorta, kinda seeing in the beginning of the year.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen he turned out to be a McShit with lies on the side, and Lady Luck decided to super-size me.

Not only did he put me through immense mental trauma (I’m talking about the jealousy-kind) he has now decided to bad mouth me to his posse – within ear-shot of mine – just so I can find out the nastiest way – through the grapevine.

If that wasn’t enough, I have to deal with his smug ‘I’m-so-super-cool-with-my-long-bloody-hair-and-my-big-bloody-Mercedes-and-my-bloody-tattoos’ attitude every bloody day.

Apparently I sure know how to pick ‘em. In fact I think I am like honey to the B’s (and F’s and C’s and M’s – and all the other nasty words you can think of)

Just for once I would like the big deli in the sky to give me my order.

Super-sized McNice - Happy Meal, hold the nasty.

you know you’re ready to mingle when…

You overhear some management colleagues talking about hiring a new account director and you ask if he is cute, rather than qualified.

You are almost willing to forgive all the crap that someone put you through, just so you can snuggle.

You are on the treadmill and a foreigner hottie is doing crunches on the floor behind you, and you peer at the mirror in front trying to get a glimpse inside his shorts.

You think your taxi driver has nice eyes. And you justify it by exclaiming “they looked really intense through the rear-view mirror, okay!”

You think every guy is hitting on you. It’s not true, you’re just hormonal.

Some grey haired man in the gym seemed cute to you. When you mention it, your gym buddy thinks the blood has rushed rapidly out of your head.

You flirt with a child-man in your office – he’s a summer trainee for god’s sake, Mrs. Robinson, you.

You have train acquaintances – because you’ll go home at the same time everyday. Indicating you have no life.

You go for an exclusive launch party and the waiter slips you his number.

You contemplate swinging over to the opposite sex. Just so you can snuggle. It’s all very pathetic isn’t it?

You start making lists of why you are ready to mingle, hoping some smart, intelligent, stud reads it, finds you insanely interesting, comments and the both of you meet, have instant connection, love each others company and make sweet history together…

Crap.
Woe is indeed me.

me fair lady

Yes. Another weekend hit me in the face. And, as usual, I had nothing to do, no plans at all. Until yesterday –a guy from my office asked me to accompany him to the racecourse. One of our client owns a stud farm.
It was supposed to be a formal occasion, so I donned my little summer dress and looked absolutely fabulous.
I pretended I owned one of the horses and elegantly clapped when it raced – and spoke loudly of its winnings. Needless to say, the guy with me regretted taking me entirely.
I’ve never been to the races, so this was fascinating. I realized that there’s a certain pleasure that goes with dressing up all good ‘n pretty on a Sunday afternoon. I attended the high tea afterward also, and I wore my sunglasses throughout – I was pretending to be someone who didn’t want to be recognized – Incognito, as I told my colleague.
Nobody cared if I was ‘cognito’ anyway – either way, it was fun to pretend.

Some facts about the races and life in general:

I thought the racecourse would be crawling with young eligible stud-farm owners, whom I could rake in and start a stud-farm of my own, if you know what I mean (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) Unfortunately, there were only old bookies and older stud farm owners – and although it did cross my mind that I could be an Anna Nicole and marry a rich old man and get all his money… I also thought, it was important to have standards.

Indian women are so much more attractive than the paunchy, old farts they have on their arm. While I was stuffing my face with finger food at the high-tea, my companion was having a visual treat of all the PYT’s that flocked the place. He even saw a bunch of, what he termed as, “yummy mummies”.

I am one of the guys. Even in a pretty little summer dress and a little bag, with my hair all up in a French bun, I am one of the guys. My colleague slapped me on the arm several times to point out a hot chick. This is very bad news. Even in my dolled up state I am a buddy. (He only said I was looking elegant when I prompted him in the car)

Men who own horses dress badly. Unless they are the sons of men who own horses, then they dress like something out of a Chirag Din ad (read even worse) And, if you’re not betting, a horse race is boring – except for the part when they gallop past you. See how this little metaphor translates wonderfully to life as well?

Thank heavens I did not wear a hat. Apparently, they only wear hats at the Derby. Imagine how lunatic I would look dolled up in a hat at some random race! (This is not a fact, I just thought about it)

All men suck. Oh come on, I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t grumble a little on my blog, now would I?

Anyway, it is way past my bedtime and I have had a tiring day at the races. Pretending you’re rich is a tough job. Sunday was good and Monday promises to be better – it’s a holiday. Three days of blissful R&R.

And then came Tuesday. Sigh.

love and anti-love

Love:

She tries to breathe through the smoke. Another chicken burnt to the bones.

Damn, she should’ve learnt to cook from her mother.

She opens the window to let out the smoke - he’s going to be home any minute.

He smells the smoke, and smiles, “I’m too tired to eat, let’s just watch TV, ok?”




Anti Love:

She makes another one of her mother’s speciality recipes.

It smells good – so what if it’s taken over two hours of her time?

Table laid, she waits for him to walk in– any minute now.

He slams the door shut.
Walks into the bedroom saying, “I’m too tired to eat, im just gonna watch TV.”

addiction to fiction

It is my new addiction. Thanks to Wiseling's whimsical offer I am now a part of a new 55 Fiction blog.
What is 55 fiction? It’s telling a story – in fifty five words.


(1)

They sit in a park, watching kids play.
She looks endearingly at him. He looks fascinated, at the children.

Without looking at her, he says, “I want to have a bunch of them, someday.”

Her hand wanders over the flat stomach she took years to attain.

Still looking at him she says, “Yeah. Me too.”


(2)

“She's a wonderful person. Hardworking, intelligent…"- I said to him – "She is one of those people who's really dedicated to what she's doing. She's good that way, I think."

His eyes continued to watch her as she walked down the corridor - "Yeah, she's got great breasts too…"

"Really?" I said questioningly, "I hadn't noticed."


(3)

They rented Before Sunrise.
He watches it in bed with her - his girlfriend of three years.

Jesse to Celine, “I know happy couples... but I think they lie to each other”

Movie ends. He waits for his girlfriend to fall asleep.

Gets his mobile phone and texts someone- ‘Wish you were here. Goodnight.’

spit sucker

I had a dentist appointment yesterday. I have proximal cavities. One is now filled. The biggest one I am told. And I can’t stop my tongue from fiddling with it.

I hate going to the dentist. I feel violated. Some masked someone gaping down your orifice with whirring tools and a spit sucker. I hate the spit sucker.

I think going to the dentist would humble anyone. You have no control over your drooling. You’re laying flat, a big, harsh light pointed right at you. Your mouth wide open – exposed – a probing so deep, it makes you wonder if he can see your thoughts floating around in there – and with that thought you quickly stop thinking.

Thankfully my teeth are not in as bad a shape I envisioned them to be. I was diagnosed with proximal cavities about two years ago. And for two years I’ve had on and off nightmares of my teeth crumbling when biting on something hard. It wasn’t pretty.

Speaking of strange dreams, I had a bizarre dream the other night. While I was sleeping in my dream, someone rearranged my toe rings. When I woke, in the dream, I couldn’t figure which one went where and it made me very anxious – to the point where I was screaming down at my feet – Who did this? Why did you do this?

Shudder.

I used to have this creepy recurring dream. My second sister and I would plan to throw my eldest sister out of the window. We’d carry her and dump her over the balcony. In five minutes, my eldest sister would walk back into the house – all bruised. I, being very nervous, would plan to help her throw my second sister over the balcony. After which, my second sister would walk back – again all bruised and battered. Both of them would then realize that I was the common denominator and would throw me out of the balcony. I’d never return.

I don’t have that dream anymore. But I do get recurring falling dreams.
Maybe it’s the sequel.

Basically I think I need a spit sucker for my dreams.

reality check

I sat in the office canteen, picking at the putrid looking Chinese food that lay before me. I made a mush of the rice and the gravy and then mutilated the vegetable balls.
The girl sitting next to me, realized my day wasn’t going well.

Out of concern she asked, “What’s up? How’s it going?”
Without looking up I muttered, “Life sucks. And then you die.”
She looked straight at me and sighed, “And what’s more… we live in a third world country.”

I looked at her in shocked silence. She masticated nonchalantly on her noodles.

Damn.

shouldive, wouldive, couldive

I was reading about quarter-life crisis in the newspaper today.

Apparently, it’s a phenomenon, especially amongst young working women. It all goes back to the pressure of what “should” be happening in your life.

You should be working, you should have a great job, you should be putting one hundred percent into what you’re doing, you should have a great friend circle – no, not one or two friends, like a group of confidantes who you should have amazing after work hours with. You should have an active social life – parties, weekends away – if not with your friends then with your should-have significant other. And if all that wasn’t enough – you should have a great slender body and be fit and active – especially because you should be having an active sex life.

It’s true. The pressure is immense. Thinking about it I don’t qualify for a lot of the ‘should’s’ listed – but that should be alright, right?

I mean after a long work day, you can’t be expected to transform into a stiletto-wearing, pub-hopping woman of the night – we don’t all live on the sets of Sex and the City.

And outside of work, which is about nine hours a day for me, where is the time to catch up with a circle of friends – who also may have lives outside of you? No, unfortunately we do not live on the sets of Friends either. Everyone needs to get home, everyone has to travel, it isn’t realistic to assume that people can just meet and chat for an hour, unless you live five minutes away from them.

And the significant others. Considering we have no time outside our nine hour days, we rarely meet people outside of our immediate work place, or outside our profession. Which limits the possibilities a tad, doesn’t it? Are we all expected to hook up within the circle like some kind of inter-career marriage ritual? Besides, what if you meet a teacher, and his work ends at 5 in the evening, while yours goes on for another four hours, by which time he is already home and uninterested in moving, or has made other plans?

And the body bit. How are you expected to keep a fit body when you have to eat whatever your canteen offers because you have no time to dictate your diet? How do you make time, 2 hours a day to go to the gym?

Note - people with fabulous bodies make it their life’s mission to have fabulous bodies.
You think those damned Pussycat Dolls do anything but yoga, gym and pilates?

Real woman have bodies dammit!

I feel for working women going through all this pressure. And the sad part is it’s not going to stop just because you’ve identified it. Apparently you should make a list about what you want to achieve before a certain time – in order to be happy in your life.

I almost made a list.

Then I realised it was just another ‘should’ – which really should stop, shouldn’t they?

buffalos don’t have wings

Isn’t it amazing? I let an entire Valentine’s Day pass without ranting and raving about my crappy luck with love?

Surprisingly though, I had a very nice Valentine’s. No, I did not find the man of my dreams nor did the current man in my life turn into a knight in shining armor.

I have been working with my ex art partner on this website design and concept. We work really well together and it was kind of sad when we parted ways. Now that we are back in the same office, we try to do stuff together as much as we can. She and I have been going crazy figuring out how this website will work and how it will look. We spent days thinking of a concept – and eventually we fell in love with what we got.

So on the 14th we had to present it to my boss, who would approve it or not. And he loved it. Our hard work was appreciated and he was very liberal with the compliments – which trust me, is not usually. He even called some other people to check it out. And when she and I hugged, he joined it – to her surprise and my horror.

Post work I went for a drink with a couple of friends to a place called 'Brew Bar' (Note - Long Island Ice Tea is the bomb). I did have a fight with the waiter though. He tried to pass off Chicken lollypops as Buffalo wings. And when I insisted that what was on the plate was not Bufflao Wings, he looked at my half finished glass of Long Island Ice Tea and said patiently, “Madam, Buffalos don’t have wings.” How can you argue with that? I won't even get into the Fish Fingers thing.

Post that, some of us went dancing. I was happy. I didn’t miss anyone. I didn’t pine for love. I didn’t feel sad for that entire day. The next day I was at work bright and early – worked a little more on my website, my baby and went home.

For a change it feels good not to be all messed up because of some stupid commercial holiday that is only for losers and victims of filmy crap.

I think if I did receive a stuffed animal, a heart shaped box of saccharine sweet candy or a bunch of vegetation, I’d run screaming in the opposite direction - probably to the nearest bar to get me one of 'em Long Island Ice Teas.

certifiable

After going to town to meet a friend who was leaving for the States, I took a cab to my old school. My mom, who was a teacher there for almost thirty-two years, was invited to an alumni function. There were mails going around for the last two months about this big function, but I was totally uninterested in going.

Thinking I would just pop in to tell my mom I was outside waiting for her, I ventured in, dressed in old jeans and a ratty black tee and my big basket bag. I walked around aimlessly looking for my mom, and looking to see if I recognised anyone from school. Some guys did look familiar – you know, just older with facial hair, the girls were dressed up to the nines. I looked completely out of place.

I found my mum surrounded by a group of big hulking men, all asking “Miss, do you recognise me? Class of ’89?”. My mother was in her element – it’s amazing how much she remembers. A man walked up to her and asked if she knew who he was – she looked at him and said – “Ali, Blue house, in the second grade, you looked up Mrs Wilma’s skirt and yelled out what fat thighs she had!”
Needless to say, Ali, now an airline captain and his wife were both amused and suitably embarrassed.

I told my mother I was going to wait outside for her, cause dad was coming too and we’d have dinner together. As I talked to my mom, I heard a table whisper my name, when I turned around I did not recognise any of them, “Juniors”, I thought, smugly.

As I was leaving, clutching my big bag, trying to look down and hoping against hope that no one would recognise me, being grossly under dressed and all, I looked up for a minute and was met with a big smile.

He used to be in the green house. Never tall. Always cute. I had a huge crush on him for a while. He was in my mother’s class when he was in the first grade. Now, twenty seven, dressed in a white shirt and grey trousers, he looked, well, smashing.

We talked for a while, he met my mother and we talked a little about what we were doing now. I sat for a while at his table, with all his batch mates. He then asks, “Remember when we were in the first and we had a full day of school, and you were in the nursery, and had only half a day? You used to come and hang out in our class with your mom... you were so cute”

I didn’t remember that detail. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. This guy was talking about me like I was a bitty baby in bloomers. I did wear bloomers at that time, cream and white chequered bloomers. I think he had that image in his head. The horror.

As we talked he asked me for my number. This was a good sign. It meant he was not thinking about the bloomer story anymore. Then he dropped another bomb. Turns out he knows the current guy in my life – although he doesn’t know about me and him.

He said we should all go out together. And I grunted a disillusioned ‘uh-huh’. But he took my number, So mixed feeling were running through my head– messed up about the new guy issue, and really giggly and gawky at the old guy.

Later, giggly and gawky prevailed. He said we should definitely catch up and go out sometime. I sputtered a “sure, that would be awesome”. He half hugged me and then left.

Damn he was cute.

I think I can definitely be classified as boy crazy.

Yup. Definitely boy crazy.

Ten things you need to know about pandemic influenza

Oh come on.

Like you actually thought this was going to be about pandemic influenza? This is about me.
It’s always about me. And anyone who comes here thinking – ‘why doesn’t she write about something less shallow than her life’ – Go away. Be gone. Get lost.

I’m not here to please you. You are here to humour me.
If you have no time for my ramblings, I am more than dandy with that.

It’s almost 3am and I am at work. Pretending to work on a pitch. No, not pretending, trying. Really trying. I’m nervous in this office. I can’t stop thinking about when I will get to go home. This is my first night here – I’m not sure where to sleep, or whether I should sleep at all.

I can’t believe this kind of trivial crap goes through my mind most of the time. It’s like it’s on over-drive but no one really cares.

I feel low.

I’m going through one of those recurrent quarter-life crises. Almost 26 years old, single, no life partner on the horizon, stuck in a full time job, getting paid chicken poop, living in the back of beyond, a victim of public transport, no social life, no time for hobbies, no time.

Weekends are longed for and when they begin, you cram them so full of things to do, that you end up being tired the rest of the week. Weekdays can’t be messed with because your new job demands you not to make plans and leave early enough to do something fun, before you head back to the village.

All men suck. The ones who don’t have girlfriends or wives or are gay or are pretending not to suck, until you fall into their trap and they divulge how hideously sucky they really are.

Money is being made everywhere you look. Smart individuals with zero talent are raking in the cash. Why? Because they have foresight and are bold enough to make the money that is there, waiting to be made. There is so much money in this city and none of it is in my bank account.

There are so many things I want to learn – pottery, salsa and capoeira. None of which I can do – don’t ask me why. And don’t tell me I could if I “really” wanted to.

Did I mention how much men suck? Especially the ones I happen to be so lucky to encounter. It’s almost as if this secret manual, a code on how to piss me off, is passed amongst them. Like a little all-mail underground cult with an evil agenda, dedicated to making me feel crappy. Maybe I’m giving myself way too much importance.

What am I doing? Am I happy with the direction my life is going? Where will I be in five years? Those are the deep questions that plague my mind now. You’ve got to admit they are deeper than - when will he call me? Who is he with? Why do I want to kill that stick-figured chick?

This makes me a tad pleased.

I’m older, and deeper, and wiser.

Ok maybe just the first two... Hey, two outta three ain’t bad.

toothpaste for dinner

Courtesy – www.toothpastefordinner.com – for getting me through boring work days.

FW:

I've realised that I’m too messed up to be in any sort of relationship. One needs to have a lot of patience and time to even consider me as a “better half”. I’m demanding, possessive and a tad insecure. And if one gives me reason to be any of the above in excess – God help them.

I’ve decided this, whatever I am so called into, vis-à-vis my previous post, isn’t a major relationship – I’m talking long term. Cause if it were one would try and calm me down about issues I have with stick figures.

I’m treating this undefined thing, like a fling. I like flings. I am good at flings. I’m old enough to have a couple of flings. And if I define it like a fling – I become less messed up in my head. This is a good thing. It’s psychology.

I’ve realised I am the jealous type. And the more I try and hide it, the more it eats me up inside. So if I have murderous feelings towards more than one woman – I’m going to show it. So the man in question better deal.

I’ve realised that it is in my best interest to keep myself happy and free of stress. And if that means I am never getting married, having a relationship and a family and ending up living alone with cats and a bitter disposition, so be it.

I have concluded that I am an attractive woman. As Maya Angelou would put it, a phenomenal woman, and if I am to emanate this belief, I have to believe it first.

Lastly I have realised that this post is turning out to be one of those “I’ve realised” forwards that circulate the net. So I’m going to stop.

in other news...

I’m kinda, sorta, maybe, not-too-sure, perhaps, possibly seeing someone.

We met in December 2006 – which was still the “good” year technically, so I’m a little relieved about that bit. But we are “getting into something” in the New Year – which is scaring the beejeesus out of me – cause of my super superstitious odd-numbered-bad-year-luck thing.

I have met everyone that is possibly close to him from his parents to his dogs to his building’s watchman and he has met no one of mine. This is fine by me, because the whole “meeting the parents” bit freaks me out a little.

Now, I have been single and mingling, with no good results, for the better part of two and a half years. And suddenly, bam, I find myself in a relationship quandary.

We call each other, he cares about where I am, we go out and his arm is around me, His hand reaches for mine in a crowded club, I’m the one he calls before he goes to bed, I’m the one he messages in the morning and I’m the one who gets to sit in the front seat of his car.

This is all new. It’s all good, but it’s all new. And I am baffled. As if I did not think enough. My mind is now on overdrive. I’m constantly preparing myself for inevitable disaster.

The day before yesterday was supposed to be the day he’d walk up to me and say whatever this is, it’s over. Yesterday was the day he was supposed to call me and tell me that he’s met someone, or that his ex is back in the picture. Today was the day he just gives me the cold shoulder and doesn’t return my calls and text messages.

Last weekend was our first out of town trip. It was not exactly a romantic get away or anything. We went with some thirty-five people to his friend’s dad’s farm. Some fifteen friends were there with twenty parents.

He was introduced to some elderly man as himself; I was introduced to the elderly man as his better half. My feminist instinct was under check, or else I would have demanded an apology. In fact, my 50’s, apron-wearing, home-maker, house wifey side, absolutely loved it.

As usual, the pessimist in me is waiting for the bubble to burst, constantly thinking that it’s never going to work, before it has even begun. And I think, assuming that each day is going to be the end is making me miss out on a lot of good things.

That, and the intense jealousy I am feeling toward some of his annoying, ditsy, Paris Hilton-esque female friends, who probably eat a single pea for every meal and think the weighing scale goes only to about 40kgs. Bloody damned stick figures.

On the 31st night he took me out to this club and we celebrated the New Year together. Before he dropped me home we discussed “us”. I asked if it was a fling, he said no. I asked if we were seeing each other, he said yes. I asked if we were exclusive, he said as exclusive as I wanted us to be. He told me if there was anyone else, I’d be the first to know.
(Insert romantic ‘sigh’ here)

If this is just another one of the big man upstairs’ sick jokes, I swear, somebody’s gonna get hurt real bad.

And it better not be me.

happy frikkin' 2007

Remember how I was hoping and praying that this year was as good as 2006 and not as completely awful as 2005?

I'm guessing the hopes and prayers didn’t quite work out.

My car was stolen today.

Four years we parked our red Hyundai Accent at that spot next to the train station, and today when my dad got back from the train, it was gone.

It was bought as a surprise for my sisters when they came down from the states. It was a beautiful red, which my mum and I chose, as opposed to an old-fogey silver model. The music system was a swanky one – something my dad wanted to splurge on, ‘because we all like music on the road, especially me – he got those ones with a remote so I could DJ from the back seat.

Dad just got back from sitting at the police station for almost three hours filing a FIR, so he can give it to the insurance company. If we don’t get the car back, at least we get the money. It’s naïve to even think we will get the car back in one piece – especially in this country.

Anyway, it’s been a lousy day.

Hopefully this run of crap will not continue. Hopefully the rest of the year is better and brighter. Hopefully the insurance covers us. Hopefully my mum and dad are not too upset over this thing.

Hopefully the testicles of the asshole that stole my car, fall off.

on being inked

I woke up nervous as hell.

The horror stories about people ‘going under the gun’ were enough to scare me, but the horror stories I heard about my tattoo artist were pushing me over the edge.

I took a cold shower and unconsciously cleaned the upper right portion of my back more than usual. It was never going to be the same.

I walked up to the tattoo studio and some girl put some numbing cream on my back. I left and went to get a good healthy breakfast, think fruit juice, eggs, baked beans, potatoes and sausage. I ate like it was my last meal. The cream was numbing every bone in my body.

My closest girlfriend arrived and tried to calm me down. She laughed and joked and even sang ‘I feel pretty’, but I was a nervous wreck, no, wait, a numb nervous wreck.

As I approached the tattoo studio I got a phone call from them, I informed them that I was on my way, and they informed me that my parents were already there.

And from that moment, I was the calmest tattoo virgin ever.

My mother helped me fill a consent form, my father suggested colours and shading options, my best girl sang softly, someone took pictures and my tattoo artist dissipated all doubts that he was a maniac and made me feel most comfortable.

He talked to my mother who was very concerned with about the man who was going to ‘mutilate her baby girl’. He laughed when she told him she wanted to cut his hair and wash it.

The fact that my parents were there appealed to him on some level.
The fact that my parents were there calmed me down on many levels.

After the first half an hour the numbing cream wore off and I could feel the needle jabbing into me. Weirdly it was awesome.

I felt liberated, I felt a rush, I felt like someone who was doing what they wanted, I felt wild and free, I almost felt empowered.

I felt like an adult.

And throughout, all I focused on was my mothers reassuring smile.

i'm inked

I finally got myself a tattoo.

Something I have wanted to do for the last eight years. I remember checking out tattoo sites online when I was 17, and picking out designs and storing them for reference.

This year I finally decided what I wanted, I asked a very special person to design it for me and now, after about three months, it’s on me. My dragonfly.

Most people say a dragonfly is a clichéd design. But when I read about them, it occurred to me how beautifully perfect it was for me, right now, at this moment.

“The more you learn about this small but powerful creature, the more you understand that it is not merely a testimony to beauty, but also strength and most importantly, change.”

What amazed me, was that the dragonfly can spend three years in the nymph stage, living underwater, waiting to painfully morph into what they finally are. They are fierce, delicate, mystical and real, all at the same time. Native American astrology believes that every person has their own totem animal spirit, I’m not certain that mine is a dragonfly, but I am certain I love everything it stands for:

“The dragonfly spirit means you must consciously make an effort to express your hopes, dreams, needs and wishes. It is the essence of the winds of change; it carries messages of wisdom and enlightenment. It beckons you to seek out the parts of your habits that need changing, and then guides you to the path of transformation”

2006 has been a fabulous year – things have changed, I have changed - for better, not so much worse. I’ve travelled more than ever (two trips to Goa, two months in America and most recently Daman), I’ve changed jobs, and I am finally in an agency I have wanted to join for a year, My beautiful niece was born, I’ve met so many wonderful people, some who have changed the way I look at life. If I continue I might get into a whole barrage of reasons.

Honestly, I can’t think of a better, more beautiful way to commemorate the year.

Forever, I shall look over my right shoulder and remember.

Salute!

Not the best picture, but it'll do for now. Oh and look, the first picture I have of me on my blog. Talk about change and new beginnings, eh?

of bugs and boys

This weekend was a mixture of crazy fun and way too much stress.

And the reason is simple. I took a bunch of friends from work to my parent’s holiday home in the hills. I turned into a psychotic paranoid woman who was obsessed with cleaning - which left me with no time to really take in the fun.

We left on Friday night, three boys and me in a car bound for Lonavala. The rest of them, two guys and three girls arrived the following night. During the course of two nights, several glasses were broken, bonfires were made, food was copiously consumed and drinks were drunk – as were some of the drinkers.

But the funniest part of the weekend was the first night with just the boys.

On the way there, they spoke like manly men, grunting excitedly with talks of building a large fire and throwing large chunks of meat on sticks over it. Talks of trekking to the mountains and camping out. Talks of embracing the wild. I listened intently, trying very hard not to laugh.

When we arrived they ran around the house like little boys, up and down the stairs like happy campers. They got their drinks and took chairs outside so they could take in the breeze. The sun set. The single street light came on.

And that’s when disaster struck.

The creatures of the night, including big flying ones, appeared.

And our three manly men could not shake off their fear. They tried to pretend that those massive moths, bugs and crickets did not bother them until they started slamming up against the window, with loud thuds.

One of the boys swore he saw a bat. And in a matter of minutes these “cavemen” were grabbing their belongings and running for cover, a little short of screaming like girls.
This is when they realized that a huge grasshopper had made its way inside.

The boys huddled into a corner while I got rid of it. Alright, so I am exaggerating a little, they didn’t huddle in a corner, they just all stood like manly men on the other side of the room, while I tried to catch, scare and kick the creature out of my house, with verbal support from them, of course.

Bugs and the boys do not mix well. The next morning a panicked phone call was made to the people joining us. Several cans of bug spray were ordered to be brought. One of the boys wanted to spray the entire surrounding area with bug spray so he suggested about three or four large cans.

Still determined to get in touch with their inner caveman, the boys found some villager to get wood and build a bonfire for a small fee. They sat around the fire on chairs, occasionally prodding the logs while they ate the chicken that a nice little aunty to agreed to cook for them (on a stove, not a bonfire)

All in all the city boys had a blast. And I had a great time watching big hulking boys run for cover 'cause of big, hulking bugs.

the break up

I have been avoiding Satya, the guy who does my taxes, for the past month now.

I have been cheating on him with another accountant.

This other guy now has my papers. I have allowed this new guy to study my files, peruse my account and do my paperwork. I’ve even given him a Form 16, something Satya has been asking from me forever.

I have been with Satya for about a year now. We’ve gone through the PAN card process together, the TDS stuff and all the rest of it. Our meetings were brief but meaningful.
A signature here, a stamped paper there.

But it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
I needed someone who was passionate about my paperwork.
So I cheated.

Yesterday Satya called me and I did not pick up the phone because I knew I had to tell him.

I had to break up with the man who saved my money last year.

This is how the conversation went in my head:

Me: Hello?

Satya: Hi, It’s me… You know tomorrow is the last day right… (Voice trails off)

Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…

Satya: Oh? What about? Are your papers not….

Me: Never mind the papers.

Satya: What?

Me: I’m getting my taxes done from someone else. I can’t do this anymore.

Satya: What?

Me: Listen, I needed to. He seems so much more into it. I know you have other clients….

Satya: What?

Me: Don’t do this! You know what I’m talking about!

Satya: But…but why? All I ever asked for is your Form 16, maybe sometimes too many times.
But, I did it for you..

Me: I know. I know. It’s not you. It’s me. I need more. I need someone who is into me.

Satya: I am into you. I’m the one that keeps calling. Do I even expect anything from you?

Me: I’m sorry. I really am. But I have to do this for myself. One day you’ll understand. We can still be friends and send each other Diwali cards.

Satya: (sighs melancholically)

So armed with what I was going to say, I called him back.
This is how the conversation went.

Satya: Hello?

Me: Hi, It’s me…

Satya: Oh hi...

Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…(Voice trails off)

Satya: What about? Your papers?

Me: Never mind the papers. I’m getting my taxes done from someone else.

Satya: Oh ok.

Me: What?

Satya: Fine, I believe you owe me 1000 rupees for last year.

Me: What?

Satya: You can give me a check. Better still, mail it.

Me: What?

Satya: Ok. Bye

Me: Errm. Bye? Is that….

(click)




Arrgh.
Men. I despise men.

You know what I hate…

I hate it when you cannot be close to the people whom you care about, because of distance.
I hate distance. Both geographical and emotional – I hate it when you feel so far away from someone with whom you once bonded so well.
I hate it when two girls only start talking because you talk to both of them, and they end up bonding and leaving you out of most things.
I hate it.
I hate it when you are an afterthought, when you are called just because someone feels they should “do the right thing”.
I hate it when you know a situation is so bad for you, when all you’re better judgements scream “run, fool, run” and you don’t, instead you wait and take it all in.
I hate waiting. Waiting to be picked up, waiting to be met, waiting for a phone call, waiting for a plan to be made, waiting for results. I hate waiting.
I hate it when you get that overwhelming feeling that your friends are not telling you something.
I hate it when you think that overwhelming feeling maybe just your paranoia playing with you.
I hate it when people make fun of where you live. Whether it’s the distance or the name – Do they realise you had no say in the matter when it was ‘christened’?
I just hate it.
I hate it when people comment on what you are wearing when you just walked into a place.
I hate it when your so-called ‘girlfriends’ talk to you, then talk to each other online, minus you.
I hate being a third wheel.
I hate pretending I am happy for couples who are happy.
I hate happy couples.
I hate the fact that the friends I had in 2004 are not my core group anymore.
I hate it when the guys you hate give you attention, and the guys you like, don’t.
I hate the fact that friendship is based on time/place/circumstance.
I hate hating where you live.
I hate it when you’re sleep is ruined because of some random electricity cut.
I hate it when you have to pretend that all the jokes about where you live don’t bother you at all.
I hate that I am petrified of falling in love, getting married and having a baby.
I really hate it.
I hate that sometimes all I think about is doing all three of those things.
I hate being weak and cranky.
I hate negative vibes.
I hate it when you just stop bonding with the people you used to love hanging out with.
I hate feeling left out. And I’m beginning to feel it more. And hate it more.
I hate having to use humour as a defence mechanism.
I hate it when a once big group segregates into mini groups and you don’t know where you belong.
I hate it when you don’t want to belong.
I hate not telling people how I truly feel.
I hate not having a friend I can talk to. Someone who is not just around for the moment. Someone who will be there for me when I am sixty-four even.
I hate when you have nothing to write about and the one thing you decide to write about it how much you hate everything. I hate that ‘things I hate’ becomes a topic for my blog.
I hate hating so many things.
I hate when you bear your soul, and then wait for it to be stomped on over and over.

I hate it.


I despise all of it.

time flew

The bean in the womb
The bean, three weeks old
The bean, 8 months old - and counting.


All I can say is : WHAT THE HELL?

qwerty and happy

I just downloaded the original Pac man game onto my home PC.

It’s quite a fun game really, it succeeds in getting the heart pumping and the energies flowing even on those particularly boring Sunday afternoons. But there in lies the rub, I cannot play it to save my life. And I have just realized why. I’m too neat. I have to eat all the little green globules in one area before I even think of moving to the next, which makes me inevitably have a fatal encounter with Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, that much more often.

Which explains why I have passed the ‘qwerty’ level and just barely made it to the ‘happiness’ level (ironic isn’t it? That this is in a game and not in real life?)

The masters of Pac man play a messy game, random green globs left for no reason lying around at every level, blinking strawberries and twirling cherries – the ones that I foolishly go back for even though Clyde is at my tail.

I realize have a lot of these little stupid things that I just have to do. Another one is eating French fries. I just have to eat two or three at a time. This makes sharing a pack with me very awkward for the sharer. If I am eating a fried egg, I have to break open the yolk and smudge it around the whole egg so every part has the yellow. I feel the need to brush my teeth in front of a mirror. I have to squeal while I stretch in the morning; a stretch without a squeal is no stretch at all. I have to put my alarm for half an hour before I actually need to wake up – this is my snooze time. I have to fold my underwear, not necessarily my clothes. I won’t even begin to get into the quirks I have with my arch-rivals, the ant world.

I’m rambling again. There, that’s one more thing I do. Ramble on when no one really cares to know what I do with my underwear and my fried eggs, in all honesty. I think I should go and master the art of Pac man now. Or maybe I should just give up and shoot some men instead.

In a game, not in real life.

As much fun as the latter sounds right now.

The way my life is going, I think I'm still at the ‘qwerty’ level.

double 'C' theory

I’m PMS-ing. There. I admit it.

My mood-swings, cravings and over-emotional behavior today has finally been justified. I almost cried several times today, once when I was really happy and once when I was really sad. Then some childish boy in my office threw something hard at my neck and that gave me an excuse to run into the ladies room and cry. That’s one indication of PMS.

The second was in the evening when I ate an entire bar of milk chocolate and then almost immediately ate bread dipped in really spicy chutney.

The third was when this sweet guy in my office asked me what was up with my life. Instead of smiling and saying everything was fine, I unleashed a bevy of reasons about why I am so incredibly depressed. I even told him that there was nothing wrong with me, and that I do not want to merely have fun any more, and I deserve a boyfriend.

At which point he said something that stumped me. He called it the ‘Double C Theory’

He said that the way men see me now is like this funny, sweet, bubbly little, ‘one-of-the-boys’ girl, which is all really good according to him. But if I want to snag one of the said men, I have to suddenly, when he least expects it, turn on the ‘Coy’ woman act.

Apparently what men like is this outward extrovert, but a closeted introvert. I found this most interesting. That is my key to snagging me a man. But this is just according to one guy. There are a million guys who probably like the opposite, right?

Oh, but the other ‘C’ is ‘cleavage’. According to him, you should show a little cleavage and be coy at the same time.

That would work, right?

a little more gaargh

I was reading some of my archives and i came across this post

It was then I realised to my utter horror, that my luck has still not changed. It has been almost a year and I have nothing to show for it.

How's that for a perfect end to a bad Sunday?

I need to weep into a big, fat pillow.

gaargh

Sunday is a good day.

Sunday is a day when I read a book, eat my father’s food, drink tea and generally relax while I mentally prepare myself to be pissed-off all week.
But not this Sunday. Oh no, someone up there thought they’d make me just a little bit peeved on my day of rest.

I woke up in the morning at ten with an alarm that I had not set. This is very annoying. My phone just seems to be on its own trip and it is out to get me. It dies when I am on important calls. It rings for no reason sometimes. It is possessed.

I was talking to my ex online and he asked me some very inane question. To which I said he should really pay more attention to when we are chatting because it’s just annoying to repeat stuff over and over. At this point the profanities began and I was left speechless. My first reaction was to yell back. In capital letters. But I realised he may be just a little on edge. Which he was, and soon after apologised and gave me a virtual hug. I accepted but refused to virtually hug back until he washed his mouth. Also I told him if he ever spoke like that to me, it would be the last time.

Then I went to my room and lay down, when I realised to my horror that there were two happy-camper ants running around on my pillow. I almost fainted as I frantically dusted them off and had visuals of them entering my ears and building an ant colony, eating away at my innards, while I suffer and die slowly.

Bloody damned ants.

Sunday is also a day when I wash my hair and do my complicated deep conditioning treatment. It’s not that complicated actually - wash, shampoo, wash, shampoo, condition, leave on for 1 hour and wash.

Today however, as I got ready for my bath, the water in my village went. I say village because the water went. Apparently someone forgot to pump. Excuse me? Forgot? I’m sure all this person has to do all day is remember to pump. How come they forgot? Their job description is “pumps water”. How can you forget? So there I am, semi-shampooed, trying to use whatever little water that is trickling out of the tap.

The water eventually came. So I quickly rush into the bath to wash off my conditioner. I’m not sure what would happen if I left it on too long. Then I get a phone call. So I run out, in my towel to answer the phone. I thought it was important. I don’t know why. No one important ever calls me.

It is a service provider woman. Not only is she high-pitched and annoying, she is calling me on a Sunday. Don’t these people have any respect for Sundays? I asked her what day it was and she bubbly replied, and then I told her never to call me again and banged down the phone.

It’s almost 8pm now.
The day is gone.

And I am just peeved.