Blah di dah is the new lah di dah

2009-05-14T03:18:00.003+05:00

This girl from Azerbaijan claims she's not from Central Asia, but Central Europe.

That's levels of Euro-Centricity even the coiners of the phrase hadn't imagined.

2009-04-21T16:32:00.002+05:00

Today while talking to my mother on Skype, I suddenly broke down crying. We weren't talking about anything that could have induced tears, really. She was telling me about the usual stuff at home and how my dog was had chewed up all her new toys.

It's not about wanting to be home. It's perhaps the thought that I'm not sure I can go back. I'm scared too much has changed already and I won't be able to deal with the change. I still miss home. But I can't face the change.

Iago-inspired

2009-01-26T03:17:00.003+05:00

One of Iago's most stunning soliloquies - which I had the pleasure of using as an audition piece just last week - starts by him asking the priceless question: How am I the villain then? Sometimes, what has to haooen, has already been set in place. We're merely the tools. Agents. Recruits.

I asked myself the same question very recently: How am I the loser then? When it's you who's so undecided, conflicted and unsettled. I've emerged braver, stronger, albeit sadder. But at least I know where I stand. And what I want. And who I am. Whereas you. Will probably go through your entire life rebounding from one side to another. Hurting yourself the most ultimately in the process. How am I the loser then?

The colour had to change

2009-01-26T01:34:00.003+05:00

I think I have a really strange relationship with my blog.

In moments of crisis, I keep away from it. Which is also the time I need it the most because it'll help me process and analyse my own thoughts better. So in the last few months, when I really needed some clarity, I stopped blogging altogether. It's almost as if I'm scared of the honesty that the blog requires of me, as if it's a hard taskmaster who'll demand that I actually address all that's bothering me and all that's wrong with my life and all that I can change and yet am doing nothing about.

But that's changed. I have written today. Written and re-written three drafts before I could actually write something post-worthy.

So what did happen in the past few months? A lot, really. A lot of things that caused upheaval, made me evaluate, re-evaluate, and re-re-evaluate people around me, and more importantly, my own judgement of them. It taught me (as upheaval always does) more about myself. That's what life is I suppose. And the "growth" they talk about. It's about learning more about yourself. Not the stuff you learn in school, college or your PhD research. The real lessons are the ones you learn about your own self. What you like, what colour suits you, what behaviour types match yours and no, I don't think those dumbass Myers-Briggs type tests are sufficient). I realised that my entire last year was one of healing. Without me even knowing. And without knowing, I seem to have slipped into post-healing-celebration mode.

2009 has had its hiccups already. But they're all welcome.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-24T17:11:00.002+05:00

..and a happy new year. I'm back on the cold chilly island and tonight we're having a party. There will be lots of sangria, cider and good food from all over the world (the many joys of living in an international student community). But that's not really why I'm writing.

It's because I'm wondering if I've left a part of myself somewhere....

Tolerance

2008-12-12T00:39:00.002+05:00

I had two teeth pulled out on Monday. I can't talk, can't laugh, can't eat.

My cable guy's giving me just one channel. I end up watching the movie playing on it.

It's got Bobby Deol.

It's called, as I later learn during the ad break, Bardaasht.

There are so many layers of meaning to this that I'm not even going to bother.

Unpronounceable words

2008-12-10T22:30:00.006+05:00

I had a very interesting conversation with a friend the other day. One in line of many interesting conversations I've had, with many friends, on several occasions, about same old same old... love.

This particular one was about how it's not easy to say "I love you" anymore. Forget "I love you".. even an "I like you" is not easy. But. You like each other. A lot. You wait all night just to hear from them. You have great conversations. You pretend to be friends. Hoping that you're actually, not.

It's the times we live in, she said. It's a lot more harder to say these things, there's a lot more at stake. Is it? I wonder. That just makes me feel very sorry for, us, that is, the human race, our society, whatever collective that follows this philosophy.

Which brings me to the second theory, which sort of links up to the earlier one.
About being a Love Buleimic. You know, the type, that takes it all in, but just purges it out. The one that falls in love, but half-heartedly. The one that is forever scared, forever holding bakc, and forever "taking it slow." What does that mean anyway? I mean, I understand the taking it slow theory, when you're still debating if you WANT to get into a relationship with X person or not, wondering if it's wise to cross the line from friendship into relationship. But when you've already decided, how much slow can you take? Surely, it can't be as simplistic as plunging into marriage/marriage plans from Date 1 onwards. No, it's also part of the let-me-see-how-much-I-can-hold-out philosophy.

That makes me really sad. Sad because I'm part of this world, of this belief system, that is embarassed about telling someone that they love them; of being "commitment phobic" (which perhaps is just a euphemism for 'I havent slept with as many people as I'd like to before I commit to one person for the rest of my life'), of weighing out the pros and cons of a relationship till the person actually walks out of your life... My only saving grace? That I'm probably self-reflexive enough to be writing all of this down.

It's funny. I lost my dog very recently. And at that moment, what I felt was just pure, unadulterated pain. I cried for days, and cried till I could cry no more. It's pain that I don't think I've felt ever, in my entire life. Not when I saw any other family death (so far it's been only my grandparents and in their age, death is somehow more acceptable, not when a relationship ended.)

And that got me thinking. This is unconditional love. It'll probably sound silly to anyone who's not an animal lover... but the kind of love you get/give a pet, is unconditional. A bit like what we imagine the love between a man and a woman to be, except that it's not. The grief at the end of a relationship has a lot of other issues attached to it - bruised egos, rejection, loneliness and sheer anger. Not sheer grief like you'd imagine if it were truly truly unconditional.

Because we're all too busy holding back. Taking it slow. Missing buses.

Cyber Chor

2008-12-04T00:09:00.004+05:00

I need to know what to do with hackers.

Sometime back my Facebook account had been hacked into and the bugger sent a pornographic message to everybody who's last names began with an S.

Yesterday, my gmail was hacked into.
A really strange mass mail titled 'Hey Friend' was sent out to everyone on my address book including: Former best friend and current psycho person that I have not spoken to for almost 4 years, Barcelona youth hostel where I stayed for a night, all the universities and scholarships I have ever applied to, sundry PROs, TOEFL, Editors of Indian Express, Mint, my own paper, my former paper, former boyfriend, whom again, I do not speak to anymore.

I mean. Do these assholes even KNOW what damage they cause?

My only consolation is that it wasn't pornographic.

back

2008-12-01T19:50:00.001+05:00

Missed you much. But how glad I am to have you back in my life.

Oh dear blog.

Reprise

2008-06-30T21:52:00.002+05:00

Interesting that a post on bad writing can generate so much interest - and anger.

Anyway. For those of you who think I'm not writing (that includes me), let me add that my first piece of writing - non-work related writing - is ready for performance.
Yes, it's a play - funny because I always imagined that my first piece of writing would be a novel. In a way I'm glad it's a that because there is a HUGE dearth of original scripts in theatre - everybody who wants to write usually wants to write a novel, or else write film scripts.

But I guess drama was my calling. Right from my college days - college dramatics, to studying different types of drama, to writing about it, to actually writing it. Funny full-circle this. Of course, this circle needs circling many times over for me to have actually achieved anything. But good start, and a start that's very me.

This is actually the doing of a friend who wanted me to help, and it's his prodding that's made me do it - and realise that I CAN do it.
Suddenly, there's just a lot of hunger to actually write more - explore various themes. And in a way, I think I'm better equipped to write drama scripts, than novels. Which doesn't mean that I won't write a novel one day. I, like every good American, too cherish that dream.

Meanwhile, it's going to be just plays then.
And these blog posts.

On writing

2008-06-26T23:29:00.006+05:00

It's been a while since I've wanted to do a feature on bad books. Books that are written for no reason, books that get published for no reason, and books which are READ for no reason. One look at the 'About author' section will actually give you a fair idea about how it made it to existance. Like this one that I found today while browsing through my Book's Editor's discards. 'A smile to catch' or to catch a smile, or somesuch. The cover looked rather interesting and ruskin-bond like, but oh the horror, and oh the laughter (both in equal measure) that it provided us with when we finally read its contents.
About author section, dead giveaway.
Name: bla bla
Post-grad: IIM-Ahmedabad (since that's what makes us all Virginia Woolfs, or Orhan Pamuks)
Grad: (insert obscure engineering college name)

That was warning sign no. 1. Obviously, this was no Ruskin-Bond type book. I can't even remember if that man went to college or not.

And then when I read some of the short stories (which couldn't have been more than 1000 words each.) which started 'She was sitting on the chair, waiting.'

But honestly. Why would you want to write a book like that? Why would you want to tell a story that does not interest anybody and make no difference to anybody's life?(That's what a blog is for.) It's a thought that's often crossed my mind. Of when to know that a story is special enough to be told to the world.

I remember having these great conversations with H about what is the right time to want to write. I'd always say that I'll only write when I have a story to tell. And at age 25, with a very middle-of-the-road life such as I have led, what can I write about? My first crush? My first kiss? Some stupid fight in office? The loss I felt when my grandmother's dog died? What rejection feels like? What life for a 20-something south-Delhi chick is for (I obviously don't know how to market myself.)

I look at my trite existance, and then I look at the lives of people like Woolf, Eliot, Joyce, Beckett, and all the depth of experience and pain that gave birth to such great writing. About the loss of faith, about the meaning of life. Or some of the South American, African and Asian writers and their questions about identity after they all switched from their mother tongue to English.

And then I see IIM-grad writing some cheap college-crush story in his supremely pedestrian prose and think, no. Writing can wait some more.

And I can't even say I went to IIM-A.

Tag Her

2008-06-20T12:18:00.006+05:00

Loved this tag by AB. It was honest, and goofy, and fun. Lets try it.

* 10 random things about myself

1. Right now I'm a lot prouder of myself than I was say, two years back. Oh yes, I was confused, messed up, and based my life and aspirations on what were really, delusions. I used to keep comparing myself and my life with other people's and that made me depressed as hell. I think the moment I realised that I had to live my life like my own, not like x friend or y colleague's, was when it all changed.

2. I love making obscure and elliptical statements (like the one above, except that I tried to qualify it a bit.) The real horrors are my Facebook status messages. Oh dear god. How much I said and yet how little I revealed. It's a lot of fun.. i wonder how much people understand though.
3. I am a HUGELY lazy person. Even my stars say so. But I have noticed something, that if I really want to do something, I'm not lazy about it. Preparing for my GRE (where even a mutt like me aced the Math section. I had got a 55 in my 10th Board exam. Yep, that's how much I worked); losing weight (from the happy 70 I used to be in my hostel days, I had gone down to 55. Now, I'm a comfortable 58); and multitasking to juggle work/theatre/random third entity (like my college admissions.)

4. I'm a happy person, but I'm also a frighteningly moody person. On days that I'm in a foul mood, I am fully capable of making my life sound like Transylvanian nightmare. On good days - like today - yeah, I feel like my life is one big party.

5. I'm a winter baby and have always loved the winter. And yet I am horrendously susceptible to colds. Contraditions, as you would have gathered by now, are what defines me.

6. I'm a hopeless romantic and extremely sentimental. Which is funny considering most people around me think I'm a very practical, no-nonsense person. I have been called 'cold' and 'unromantic' by people sometimes, but that's just me being shy :)

7. I get nervous doing tags like this because there's always pressure to write a certain number of points and I'm always scared I'll run out of things to say, which is funny considering I never run out of things to say in real life. (Last night, a random conversation with AB lasted 3 hours. Night before, another conversation with AK lasted 4 hours. Which will also tell you about how much talking these people can do themselves.)

8. I used to be a very opinionated person, but I've toned down on the shrillness now. I still have my opinions and idealogies, but the very fact that I've become more sublte, shows a shift from my Wannabe-Noam-Chomsky days to I-still-have-my-beliefs-but-I'll-keep-them-to-myself-and-smirk-at-screaming-idiots.

9. I am very very close to my family - that's my parents and my dog. I almost feel sissy writing that, but it's true. My first reason for not going to study in america, was I can't leave my family for 2 years (and see them once a year). Silly I know, but well yeah, true.

10. I am clueless about my macro plan for life is going to be. It's just that there are a lot of things I like to do, but I don't think I'm brilliant at any of them. yes, I am the jack of all trades, master of none. I'm doing this play nowadays, where I've written the script, acted, sung (it's a musical) and been assistant director for. So yes, I can do all of this, but don't RULE at it. It kinda sucks.

* 9 things I wish I wasn't/didn't:

1. Oh mine too, has got to be the same as AB. THINK TOO MUCH. I really need to switch off that damn brain sometimes.
2. Be worried about WHAT PEOPLE WILL THINK. That's like a corollary to the previous one but I have NOT done so many things because I'm bothered about other people. Like hello, what about ME?
3. Fat. Oh god, how lucky are those with awesome consitutions and not greedy appetites. I am not them.
4. Be a wuss when I should have spoken up: A lot of people have done shit with me and got away unscathed because me, just cannot give it back in equal measure. The only people I am mean to are the ones who care about me, and that's really shit. I hate that about myself.

5. Mediocre, at least academically. I really wish I had been a scholar-type in school and college and just been more focussed about my studies. I regret those mediocre grades every day of my life!
6. Born into a disfunctional family. Yeah, apart from the fact that I have awesome parents, there really isn't much to boast about in my family. My maternal uncle doesn't talk to his mother. My father's sister is persona non grata to her 2 brothers' and their families. My grandparents are really sweet but my grandmother is so stingy despite being so rich. Why?

7. Fly off into these sudden rages. I have controlled myself considerably, but sometimes I really say the first thing that comes to my mind. Thankfully, I cool off soon after but very often, the damage has been done.

8. I didn't talk too much and open myself up to people. It almost makes me vulnerable to attack.

9. Writing crap when I don't have anything to say just like I'm doing right now. What sort of a fascist diktat is this? I clearly don't have as many as 9 regrets about myself! (It's over. Breathe.)

* 8 things I'm wondering right now:

1. How the F will I finish this tag. It seemed so much fun and games when I started it. It's hard work, it is.

2. What I'm going to have for lunch. Cook's not around and mum just coming back. What do we eat?
3. If my play's going to be a success. If people are going to think I'm an idiot.

4. When my mum will leave for Calcutta.
5. When I'll have that party.
6. When A will make a move. WILL he make a move? (Idiots. Men.)
7. How practice is going to shape up in the next one week.
8. If I'm going to be thin and hot in time for the play. (I already know the answer to that: NO)

* 7 things that cross my mind:

1. Will I ever write a book. A GOOD book, a book that I'd like to read myself and won't be embarassed about.
2. How will I manage my Masters abroad? Can I afford to go this year? Where will it take me?
3. Will I do what I'm really meant to do, or just be a cog in the wheel?
4. If I really DO what I want to do, does it mean not having a family because a bohemian life won't allow for the usual husband-baby ritual.
5. How long my dog will live.
6. If other people my age are as ridiculous as I am.
7. When I'll come back to my country.

* 6 things I'd like to do before I die:
1. Find true true love.
2. Travel across Europe, parts of Asia, Africa.
3. Have a creative unit where all my friends will have jobs and we'll have fun and do some good work together.
4. Write a book.
5. Live in another country, specifically a cosmopolitan city like London or NYC for a few years and come back to my own. I do not fancy an NRI life!
6. Slap some people - metaphorically of course, by proving them wrong.

* 5 turn-ons
1. Sexy voice with great diction. (Add intelligent conversation and I'm a goner)
2. Well-read men.
3. Believing in equality is important. I don't want to you be Karl Marx, but just give respect to everybody.
4. Innocence.
5. HUMOUR. LAST BUT ACTUALLY THE FIRST.

* 4 turn-offs
1. Meanness
2. Shifty eyes.
3. Man about town attitude.
4. BO.

* 3 ways to win my heart

1. Make me laugh.
2. Make me think.
3. Understand my goofy and intellectual sides, equally.

* 2 smileys that describe me

:D - that's the grin, because I always grin
;) - wink. almost half the stuff I say are jokingly.

* One confession: I have no clue what to put here!

This was LONG, hard work, but good fun too.
I'm tagging Ghost of Tom Joad (else he will never blog), First Rain, and VK. Also anyone else who reads this blog and feels like!

an almost love story

2008-06-15T00:55:00.004+05:00

we have the greatest conversations about philosophy.
we have equally great conversations about andaz apna apna.
we have nerdy pg wodehouse quiz competitions.
we hate the autowallahs at khan market.
we're both lefties. we both goof-up our signatures.
on a table full of people, i'm the first to get his jokes. and he mine.

and yet. yet. something holding me back. is it his eyes? his eyes that i can't penetrate. that despite talking to him for hours and knowing everything there is to know with him, there's something i can't get through.
the eyes really matter to me. the eyes matter.
big
bright
crinkly
smiley
expressive
dopey
goofy
warm
tender

i don't even know what his eyes are like. i swear i can't even remember what they look like.

thought of the night

2008-06-09T02:00:00.005+05:00

you'll be waiting endlessly for that phone call, but it just.won't.come. you harden yourself and just decide to let go. it's not worth it you think. if they don't need you, you don't need them. obviously life has something in better store for you. then suddenly, just as you thought you were comfortably settling into the routine flow of things, it'll come and throw things out of gear.

old flames, and new jobs, I've come to learn, come when least expected. And least welcome.

Life List

2008-05-27T17:30:00.003+05:00

I have pretty much covered the range.

The unprepossessing, shifty-eyed personality.
The man about town.
The self-deprecating academic
The wide-eyed schoolboy.

The order's not as it should have been though.

phone kharab

2008-05-21T11:08:00.002+05:00

Cellphone needs to be replaced.
About time I should think. Time to leave behind and forget all the text messages I saved, and the thousands I deleted.
Time for new phone. New sets of texts.

Heart of a Goof

2008-05-17T23:20:00.004+05:00

Had there been a PhD subject on 'Theorising crap', yours truly would have been Dr Mad Angles by now.

Like, really. I *heart* crap analysis. Crapalysis. It's so much fun, it makes you feel so smart, when you're erm, not. Analysing why loser in office is smug in his loserliness, why 'Washing Powder Nirma' is the best jingle ever (Actually, that merits a separate post altogether. My love for kitchy nonsense. Chameli Ki Shaadi, Washing Powder Nirma, and the Ducktales ringtone, in Hindi. Aside: The ducktale ringtone has great sentimental value attached to it. There was someone that I used to sing it with, almost as if it were a love song.) and why men think the way they do.

So the latest theory that my friend at work, P and I have deduced is this: It's about some of the traits in women that put off men, and one of those, as we have discovered, is a woman with a great sense of humour.

Now hang on, hang on. I do not want a liberated-man rant here. Let me explain.

I do know that most men men say they like a good sense of humour, but lets qualify that. A desirable woman would be someone who is witty, in a dry, Catherine-Hepburn way. The kind of wit/humour that almost has a seductive quality to it. It adds to the mystique of a woman.

And then there's us. We of the zindagi toofani hai-fame. We, who're just goofy and idiotic in our humour. We who guffaw, we who can't titter. We who can just about bat our eyelids for three seconds (aided tremendously by stuck particle in eye.) Which is just as well, because this is the way we are. What's the point in pretending that we truly can bat eyelids forever. The day you stop the batting-act, and get back to your true self, you're man's going to think -- Hey, where did Seductive Batty go? What is Goofy doing in her place?

So goofy/funny woman, not desirable.

Which, really, is the opposite of what happens in case of a man.

If a girl laughs at a guy's jokes, he can safely assume that it's Getting-Into-Pants-Time. Our Bollywood directors have well captured the sentiment in the rather popular phrase - Hansi to phasi.

On the other hamd, if you keep making a man laugh, that's the end of feminine mystique. You are immediately slotted in the Back-Slapping-Buddy category. You're almost a man.

Which brings me to the corollary to this theory. Which is, that only men who are very sorted out, and truly comfortable about their sexuality, can truly fall for such women. Men who know that just because someone is a clown, it doesn't make her any less a woman. Men who don't define femininity in the conventional sense, who're perfectly ok with a woman grabbing a beer, and burping and having facial hair.

Now the bad news -- as many of my single women friends would agree -- is that men like that are hard to find.

Good news is that I do know some like that.

Now I shall end this with a line which could well be Facebook group: I know a 1000 people who will clobber me for this. Or rave. Or rant.

The Man Who Knows Too Much

2008-05-09T01:40:00.004+05:00

There is a guy in my office called Door-Knob. No, that's not his name but it's what we're calling him for this story.
Door-knob, at first glance, looked like a dignified, middle-aged man, with wife and college-going kids. Then suddenly, the plaster started to peel off and I began to get a feel of what Door-knob's life really was like. For one, he's not married. It's just something you assume when you see a man who's that old (45 plus), and more importantly, that asexual. Because you know there are 45-year-olds who are unmarried, but they're marked by this very rakish feel to them, they're single because they want to be single. They're decidedly checking you out, and you can tell.
But Door-Knob's not like that.
Which brings me to point number two - his interest in the opposite sex. I find it a bit strange but for a guy who's single, I've rarely seen him checking any woman out. But it's not because he's not interested, it's almost a feeling of resignation, that he will be rejected no matter what and there's really no point even attempting to make a move. He's one of those guys that you look at and feel sorry for, but you dare not act on your sorry-ness, because he'll just hover around you like a fly, in a quiet annoying way. And Door-Knob's not a guy you'd like hovering around.
Door-Knob is really bad at his work, and always get pasted on the wall for his poorly-written, lazily-researched articles. At age 40 (which is his real age even though he looks 45) he earns about 40 k, and is just one of those employees living on company dole.
But the reason I'm writing all this is because though he is the quintessential loser, there is something very fascinating about him. He's probably never been laid - and by the looks of it, never will be. He lives with his older brother and his family and was dumped by both his girlfriends because he did not have a house of his own. He sucks at his work and his asexuality is something my boss likes to joke about. (My boss has a rather cruel streak of humour once asked him why he was shy of interviewing a gay man. "Come on Door-Knob, you think he'll make a pass at you? Don't worry, no man or woman has ever made a pass at you") And when all these jokes are being cracked, Door-Knob looks stoic as ever, as though he's just been talking about the weather. There's almost a smugness, an arrogance to him when he's being humiliated like that. He's like the man who's confidence stems from the fact that he's got nothing to lose.

Why it took so long for Opal Mehta to get kissed and get a life, and most importantly, get original

2008-04-29T23:27:00.004+05:00

I haven't read the infamous book (and woah, the sales of it totally sky-rocketed after the plagiarism become public) but it sounds to be like Opal Mehta is the story of a late bloomer.
How she kissed, got laid or whatever, which very evidently only happened when she was well into her college life isn't it? Pretty late in the day. Sinfully and unpardonably late if you're in America.
Strangely though, the girl who wrote it couldn't have been a late bloomer - she was totally the antithesis to that: book deal at 17, Harvard undergrad, and very confident despite such a horrific scandal.
Now that's the kind of kid I always aspired to be in school. Only aspired, of course. Never attempted. I didn't ever imagine that one could change the way one was. If you were the dorky fat slob (which I was) at least be honest about it. Why try to fit into the cool crowd (and tight-fitting clothes) if you're not meant to. You'll just end up looking like a caricature; of your cool classmates, and worse, of yourself.

And almost eight years after school got over, I'm kind of glad that things have turned out the way they have. I wouldn't have dreamt of saying this then of course. I regretted EVERY aspect of myself and my life then. I hated how fat and unattractive I was (and I trly never imagined that I could actually lose weight) I hated the fact that I wasn't the popular ones. And most of all, I hated not being one of the Snoopy's girlfriends.

Snoopy. The most popular guy in school, he, to borrow a phrase from Never Been Kissed (since my life is reading like the screenplay of that film) was "the guy I went to school for." He was witty, eloquent and always among the top 5 in class. He had this lovely lopsided grin, and a wicked twinkle in his eyes and all the teachers also got pretty horny seeing him. He also had a string of girlfriends latched on to him on all occasions. And no, I was never one of them.

So Snoopy was pretty much my yardstick of succeess in life. Success is being Snoopy's girlfriend. Success is going to America (like Snoopy did for his studies). Success is living in California.... you get the drift.

After eight long years the prodigal Snoopy returneth to homeland. In those eight years, well, the late bloomer hath finally bloometh. She looks a lot different, and when they meet, Snoopy doth flirteth. But by now, Late Bloomer realises something. She's outgrown Snoopy. Perhaps because after school, Snoopy stopped growing.

And that's what brings me to my theory. It's great to be cool in school (you get laid in time); but it's also important to peak at the right time. And if you peak way too early in life, after that stage you can only go down, like Mistah Snoopy, who after all these years is really like a shadow of what he used to be in school.
As for me, I'm yet to reach my peak yet. The only way, is up.

:)

Why I love blogging

2008-02-13T23:16:00.003+05:00

Sore throat. Decaying teeth. Nasal Himesh-like voice. Blank head. Convoluted thoughts. Broken back. Broken heart.

Boss, I'm turning into an international basket case.

***

2008-01-17T23:27:00.001+05:00

I've been totally flipping over this new version of blogger btw. Easy to use, easy to figure out templates.. which just means that every time you visit this blog it might be a different colour.

I just bought a new laptop btw.. yes, yes.. I realise that it's a bit late in the day - a little later and my dog would have owned one as well, but well I never seemed to need one. Btw, speaking of laptops, I've heard a lot of people use laptop as a generic term for computer - and it sounds damn funny. The same way that people like to use dvd to indicate films. "I love watching dvds". I mean, you watch the damm movies - no one asked you whether you see it on vcd, vcr, dvd, or cdrom.

Nagraj ka naya avatar: Pagal Dishaayen

2008-01-15T21:48:00.000+05:00

Wow. This is like rebirth.

I think all bloggers do this btw.

ie. Stop blogging - forever - only to return. It's probably like a chronic illness. You get used to having an audience for your rantings, play prima dona and say ooh, this is too hectic, i must retire. But then there's no audience for rantings and return we must. Resurrection, as one can see, is inevitable. Kya philosophy. Waah Taj.

But to be fair to the poor souls who listen to my rantings in real life, I've never been short of an audience. The problem with me is perhaps that the amount of jabber I generate is too much for one person to handle. Which is where the blog, my friends, comes in.

So well then friends. Welcome aboard then. (Since I'm the only person reading this right now, I might as well tell that to myself.)

Hola, and Ciao.
(Beatles ka gaana ho gaya.)

A prayer

2007-07-26T13:14:00.000+05:00

Oh dear god I just got too much information about something and now I have got to vommit.

Please god, help me deal with whiney-piney-moony friends who get oppressed by their freakshow -- not to mention philandering and multitasking -- lovers, who despite, knowing everything stick around to get kicked. Please god, let me not hate them. Give me the strength to not want to shoot their freakshow lovers.

Even though, if you DID give me the strength to actually go ahead with the murder, I'd be eternally grateful to you.

Why I am a Marxist

2007-07-06T13:11:00.000+05:00

I first met him last November. More than anything else, it was his schoolboyish charm that I found most appealing.

We've met each other four-five times since then. Each time I walk in through that door, I know he forgets whatever he's doing and keeps finding excuses to come to my side of the room.

We once had a really long conversation, when it was raining and I was waiting outside for my friend. He'd just been standing there, waiting with me and we started talking.

I had told my older sister about him and later taken her there to see for herself. There is something about him, she admitted.

He gets very shy around me. I notice how nervous he gets when his hands accidentally brush against my cheek when he's giving me a haircut.

For those 45 minutes, we are one. Haircutter and haircuttee. And then it's time to wake up. Time to be yuppie upper-class South Delhi girl tipping her hairdresser. Time to squeal: Oh Kenneth, I love what you've done with my hair!

2007-07-01T23:33:00.000+05:00

The import of a story changes with its narrative.

One story, so many versions.
Kurusawa my friend, you were right.

PS: Scary that all these varied versions are in my own head.

Honeymoon destinations

2007-05-19T09:51:00.000+05:00

*Mauritius. Phoren at non-phoren price.

*Goa. Not phoren but with total pheelings of phoren. (It also has a lot of phoreners.)

*Singapore/Far East. Phoren and feels wee bit more phoren than Mauritius (which anyway has all Indians only)

*Australia: Complete package deal. Real phoren with real white people (and not the chinks one sees in Far East thus leading us to believe that we may as well be in New Arunanagar Tibetan Refugee Colony of Old Delhi) and yet way cheaper than Europe and Amreeka/Marica.

*Europe. England/Switzerland. Because I'm Punju and rich and flaunt it.

*Europe. Italy/France/Spain. Because I'm slightly non Yash-Chopra in my tastes (yet equally rich and perhaps a little more into the culture/romance scene. Hey I KNOW that Venetian Gondolas are right up there on the romance quotient so what if the city is practically caving in because of the water.)

*Europe: Eastern Europe. Because I am an unheard-of species. Whoever goes to unheard-of places and more importantly, unpronouncable places (if you can't pronounce you won't be able to show off, silly!) on their honeymoon.

*Turkey/Greece: Yeah, exotica and Mediterranean and Showarma and Hummus and turkish massages and Legend of Icarus and yeah well. (This probably going to be moi.)

(You can add more to the list)

Bitchy, yeah. But there's been a surfeit of weddings (and therefore honeymoons) around me and I notice bit of a cliched thinking when it comes to choosing a honeymoon destination. I really wonder if people have suddenly run short of places to go to. What about within India? Isn't it romantic enough? Is it not conducive for sex? (Err. yeah right.)

I remember lauging out loud when my mum told me that she and my dad had gone to Haridwar for their honeymoon. Methinks that the choice of destination (most probably my grandmother's) was to do with the fact that the whole blasphemous idea of a honeymoon ie. celebrating sex could only be countered if it was in the guise of visiting a holy shrine.

My mother tells me how on their first/second day, as they were sitting by the raging Ganga, my father turned to her, and said in a softly-ominous voice. You know why I got you here? Remember, I know where your jewellery is. Now all I have to do is to give you a gentle push and pretend it was an accident. Buhuhahahah. My mother, had-able at the best of times could have almost died of a heart attack. 26 years down and thankfully no one's pushed anyone into any river.

And they never went to phoren.

PS: All in jest. And like someone told me after reading this post, S, it's not like you're going to go to Ranchi for your honeymoon. True.

2007-05-17T14:41:00.000+05:00

Sometimes I really feel so very foolish.

How do you know if you're truly over somebody? Can you really get over somebody? When can you really look back and laugh at yourself, and actually feel very smugly satisfied about your present? Will I ever feel smugly satisfied at my present?

I'm just so so confused.

Conversely, when do you know when you are in love? Is there a precise feeling, a prick in some distinct spot in your heart, that tells you that 'hey, this is it.'

Oh god, I hate adulthood. I want to go back to Class 2.

Have time, will blog. (Really? Since when???)

2007-05-10T17:38:00.000+05:00

I have to say that I simply HATE google talk. Or perhaps some people who happen to be on my list. One annoying bitch from college, who, for some strange reason thinks she's my best pal. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY. She reminds me of something a friend had once said about someone he hated "Life mein ek khoon to allowed hona chahiye." I so agree.

Realised yesterday that life's no Orkut account. You can't press the delete button on some relationships.

For some strange reason, I have been talking like Lola Kutty all of last week and it's beginning to scare me. The week before that it was Gujju aunty from some serial. I have forgotten what I originally sound like.

Anyway. See what this heat has done to my brain? I urgently need to head to the hills. McLeodganj? Ranikhet? Rishikesh? Sattal? All? Anyone game? :D

Stream of Bollywood consciousness

2007-04-20T16:05:00.000+05:00

So today, yet another one of my men is gonna be taken by yet another vile woman.

Why do they bother getting married I wonder? I mean really. Ash is getting married to Abhishek. She's already slept with Amitabh, btw. She's also slept with Amar Singh, which is one of the reasons that Amitabh was apparently not keen that she be their bahu. But aunty Jaya was really keen on the plastic bitch and not Rani Mukherjee. Jaya aunty, the forever tormented and wronged woman has turned out to be the most chaat woman on the planet. Nowadays, she just needs anything that REMOTELY resembles a mike to start gushing about the domesticated cat. I suppose years of living with a womaniser has done severe damage to her brain. ( I hear she's been having an affair with sidey Bollywood villain of the yesteryears, Ranjeet and has taken to the bottle)

Meanwhile, the other woman gone psycho because of Amitabh, is his former girlfried for 13 years, Rekha. Anyone sees what she's been reduced to? She's now got a secretary (a female secretary) who looks like a carbon copy of Amitabh during his angry young man days. Yes, you heard me right. FEMALE secretary. One school of thought suggests that Rekha's turned lesbian, just so that she can sleep with someone who looks like Amitabh, but there's no evidence of that. But yeah, this woman (can't remember her name) has appeared several times in pubic - one has in fact seen her on TV walking alongside Rekha. Oh yeah, and apart from that secretary, Rekha, in her room has an enormous picture of Amitabh covering the entire span of the ceiling.

But really, to come back where I'd started. Why do these people bother getting married? They got sex, they got money, then why bother getting into all this faltu naach-gaana and peeple-tree wedding for? Look at Shahrukh and Gouri. One's gay, the other's been sleeping with Vijay Mallaya until he dumped her for Shilpa Shetty. (Who after Big Brother, the Richard Gere kiss and increased market value is probably gonna ask him to go fuck a tree.) Preity Zinta, my favourite slut really. My crime reporter used to tell me that the woman's been at it since her school days in Simla. I find it so bloody hilarious when she makes statements like Suchitra Krishnamoorti is talking shit about me to get into the limelight. That's always the statement if you notice. If that were the case, why didn't Suchitra name a bigger star than Preity? Why didn't she name Shahrukh - that'd be HUGE news man. Imagine Shekhar Kapur gay! Suchitra would be our version of Ross Gellar. Anyway. It's also sad though that they always blame the woman. I mean, your husband cheated on you woman, just get a life and blame HIM. Why should a good bharatiya abla-naari blame her husband now, huh?

Coming back to the Bacchan wedding. I hear they had got their sangeet choreographed by Karan Johar with music by Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy. So lets see now. You crib crib crib about having so much work and hectic dance schedules, then you choose to do the same damn thing for your wedding? Err ok.
But it's funny really. 3 years ago, when Ash had just started dating Vivek (my then sweetheart) my friend had made a rather perceptive remark. She said you know this Aishwarya has an interesting modus operandi. She takes men in their prime and by the time she dumps them, poor fellows have turned into choosa hua aam. She then proceeded to give me a before and after lowdown of these guys and it was so bloody accurate.
Before: Salman Khan in Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam (where even *I* liked him). After: Salman Khan in Tere Naam. (Ulp. Tho must say the hairdo is my all-time favourites.
Before: Vivek Oberoi in Saathiya (awwwww) After: Vivek Oberoi in Masti. (Sniff.)
Before: Abhishek in Dhoom, Dus (crap movies but he was a bomb, ok) and After: Abhishek in Guru (OMG. and well, its gonna get only worse.)

Yeah I did mention I still don't have a proper job. You think I could apply to the Stardust gossip column then?

PS: Incidentally, all the stuff I've written about is from senior police officials and very reliable film journos. This is not just my imagination or Stardust/Filmfare rubbish.

SIDELIGHTS: Farce Couples

John-Bipasha: So the man's been having himself a lot of fun. Was an item with Esha Deol after she lost weight (even tho is as ugly); then with Mallika Sherawat and now Vidya Balan. Apparently the facade needs to be there because of purely comercial reasons. John and Bipasha have signed a lot of films, ads together and if the news of their break up spreads, they're gonna lose all that money.

Preity-Ness: Anyone who calls himself Preity's boyfriend has got the be the world's biggest Cuckold ever. Pretiy used to be Marc Robinson's girlfriend and even had an abortion in Delhi's Appollo hospital when she wasn't really a star but this time she was actually with Marc. While she's been with Ness, she's been with Salman Khan, Sidharth Anand (who directed her in Salaam Namaste) and hundred other names I don't even know. Poor fellow.

Delete

2007-04-18T19:24:00.000+05:00

It was with great sadness that I deleted my Orkut account yesterday. Sadness, not so much at how much I'll miss it, but at the circumstances and observations that led me to do it.

Orkut has done to communication, what electronic journalism has done to newsmaking. It's revolutionised it in terms of speed and accuracy, but what misses out on, is depth.

I just hate everything it has come to stand for - the impersonal, faffy "sup", as opposed to a nice long email (dare I mention snail mail here), exchanging platitudes, writing testimonials. How you project yourself, what a witty chootiya you can sound like. It's just such a HUGE load of bullshit.

Over the last one year, some people who meant a lot to me at one point, mean shit. I may have starred their names as a 'fan' and written gassy testimonials about them, but at this point, save our picture on the damn profile, we don't even remember each other's faces. We leave scraps, but haven't met in ages. It sucks, it really does. The facade out there for the world to see, the pretence of everything being alright.

In any case, the people that I really want to be in touch with, I already am. I couldn't care less about some weirdo I knew when I was roaming around in diapers.

Anyway. Now the only thing I'll really miss, is the snooping. :)

Aila Tendulkar

2007-03-21T19:13:00.000+05:00

Just a quick post to say that I'm very much alive and this blog is back to being open to all readers. Yes, I did have to restrict the blog for a couple of weeks this month, not because I couldnt handle the excess traffic (snort) but because I'd given out some of the writings here to prospective employers and I didnt want them googling the stuff and landing here, which dirty gossipy journo bosses are quite wont to do. So.

And yes, a very belated happy new year, holi, women's day and *insert suitable occasion here* to you'll.

Love,
Me.

PS: The title has nothing to do with anything, just a phrase I picked up from one of those music channels and felt like using. I wanted to do a post on cricket but the Bob Woolmer episode has really left me depressed.

PPS: Just realised that this has been the longest blog-gap ever, even by my standards - 6 days short of 3 months. The lazy just got lazier.

Her Story

2006-12-05T13:12:00.000+05:00

For a long time, I have resisted the urge to write a post on Feminism. I suppose I didn't because I never quite fancied sounding like one of those rabid/ranty/obsessive/one-dimensional bloggers who keep theorising on their blogs and do precious little in practice. Besides, I didn't think there was anything new I could say that hadn't been said by feminist writers already.
But today, someone asked a question, and I think I want to answer it.
Feminism is an intimidating term. Not just to men, but to women as well. Just the other day I met a school friend after ages and we were catching up on all that we'd been up to, and as I said something she suddenly started in horror and said : "OMG are you a feminist or something? " Yes I am. Is that a problem? I thought. But I didn't say anything because I remember that that was the same way I used to feel about Feminism during my teenage years. The image of feminists as raving-ranting-bra-burning-frustrated-man-hating-unattractive-hence-turned-lesbian/bisexual-smokers - the image most people subscribe to - was the image haunting me. Yes, I didn't want women to be burnt or killed or raped or ill-treated but surely, I wasn't one of those 'feminist types'?
And had it not been for the education I got, I probably would have continued thinking the same way even today. It was only here that I realised that Feminism is nothing but a fight for equality and about understanding a woman's right to identity. You don't need to be A particular type - every sane human being can be a feminist - yes, men too. (And no, that does not make you gay.)
My next question was, so if Feminism is all so noble and pure, how is it that it is viewed with such distrust - and at times even hatred? Because history is HIS STORY. Not HER STORY. Historical narratives have been written by men. Sociological tretises have been dominated by male voices. Medical science - that in medieval ages tried to prove that women's bodies were botched-up versions of male bodies - was also male dominated. Is it any wonder that the Fall of Mankind is attributed to a woman? The term hysterical - from the word hyster meaning womb - was coined for women especially to describe their state during menstruation. Closer home, you see why the Manusmriti talks about women as lying-cheating-whores. This is his story. Female voices have been lost and buried.
Popular culture too has furthered the patriarchal propaganda. I don't recall any dignified portrayals of feminism or feminists in the popular media. Anyone remembers how the suffragist mother in Mary Poppins was the butt of all jokes? She had to be. Imagine the angelic Julie Andrews as a feminist? The film would have been a box-office disaster.
You would wonder then why Balaji Telefilms, despite being headed by a woman makes such soaps then. She is a woman, her audience consists mainly of women - clearly, women have a huge role to play in the success of these soaps, these are female voices that are dominant, in no way marginalised. And this perhaps, is what makes patriarchy all the more insidious. The fact that it is so comfortable and convenient for women. It's so much easier for a woman to fall in line, conform to age-old traditions, sit at home and make rotis and play the damsel in distress. Yes, even romantic traditions are heavily skewed in favour of patriarchy. :)
So it is difficult, yes which perhaps is the reason most women are often dismissive of feminism. But when I see some of the women around me strutting about in their jeans and boob tubes, dissing feminism, I really feel sorry for them. Because had it not been for the work of feminists in the previous generations, they'd been lying behind some bloody zenana without even their right to vote. (Actually, I don't think the latter would've bothered them.)

Feminism, for me has actually been a journey of self growth. Of understanding a lot of things about my surroundings which I never questioned earlier. My teacher in college once told us: It took me a very long time to realise that my father was also a man. As someone who's always been bit of a daddy's girl, I was pretty shocked to hear that. My father is one of the more progressive men I know - but I now understand what she meant. My father rarely helps around the house. He does not cook - and more importantly, is not expected to. After my parents got married, my grandmother gave my mother quite a hard time when she learnt that she didn't know how to cook. (Not even fish! Eeeeeesh. Ki hobe!) I wonder if she ever considered teaching her son. Of course, had I been born in some of the more remote pockets of Haryana (actually would I have even been allowed to be born?) my mother would have probably had a worse time.

Feminism was about achieving this self-reflexivity; the ability to distance myself from my surroundings and see things from a perspective. It was about understanding that there is always another way of framing reality.
If there is a history, there's got to be a herstory.

PS: I haven't covered an iota of what there is to cover, but well I'm no Germaine Greer. Actually, those of you interested should check out Greer's Female Eunuch, Simone De Beauvior's Second Sex, both very rivetting.

PPS: Actually, for now, check out VK's post on a similar issue.

Funny no more

2006-11-19T12:12:00.000+05:00

I find the term doing friendship rather funny, as I'm sure, we all do. But the reason I really find it funny is because, come to think of it, doing friendship is the only thing I've done in my life. Not climbed Mount Everest, nor did go to Stanford, nor found everlasting love. But did friendship.
Talked, and talked and shared and poured my heart out and - listened. When hearts were broken, when bones were broken (actually, that's not true. The only bones that broke were mine), when life didn't give you your due, when someone wanted to commit suicide (yes, that's true. This friend even quoted from Albert Camus' 'Absurdity and Suicide' to explain that it indeed was the right decision - imagine trying to debunk Camus' theory while someone's practically hanging on to the terrace railing!), I listened. Tutorials would be pending, bosses could be shouting, but I would leave everything aside and listen. Not that I regretted it - this, after all, was the only constant in my life.
The reason I'm writing all this is that the events of the past few months have somewhat shaken my belief in friendship. The friendships that I've held closest to my heart over the last six years, are not the same anymore. It feels like the last phase of my life has been reduced to a vacuum and now there's nothing to show for it.
I had never imagined that I would write about Funny five in the past tense. Yeah, that's what we used to call ourselves. :) Funny five. Together always - irrespective of geographical location. So far yet so near, one of us had once said.
In college, we were considered the "cool gang" that many people wanted to "join". I don't think people realised that we weren't about being "cool". Even now, as I write about it, I really don't know how to describe Funny five. Was it the hysterics we'd go into, was it the fact that this was the only madness in our life, was it the comfort of a family outside of a family? I don't know. Attending class together, play-reading, combing the city for directors who'd come cheap, singing chipmunk versions of Love Me Do, travelling in the godforsaken Mudrika all over Delhi, watching trash films and some wonderful plays. College fests, hostel night, club-hopping in Delhi (the most horrendous experience which we insisted on attempting again and again), cramming Muktibodh's SHIT poetry, spending hours counselling each other about men, tossing omlettes at 4 am and going giddy with laughter; OMG what have we not done.
We'd laugh and say that 'God gave us friends because you don't get to choose your relatives' . Funny five gave us the strength to deal with other shit aspects of our life - and the ability to laugh at it. Even after college, after we had moved to different cities/countries/continents, nothing had changed. We were so particular that nothing should ruin things that whenever any of us started going out with someone, the first concern would be if he got along with the rest of us. But I suppose it's always a bad idea to be so fiercely protective about something... because sometime or another, it will fall apart.
I don't know if things are ever going to be normal again - I don't know if I want it again. I realise that this entire episode has really made me change. I've become reclusive, I rarely answer my phone and am just not the person I used to be. I just feel like for so long, I've shortchanged other people in my life and other aspects of my life and want to do other things than friendship. Is that a bad thing?

A really really bitchy post

2006-10-31T21:59:00.000+05:00

Just been having the biggest bloody laugh looking at Orkut! The things people come up with!!!!!! One of my friends says her turn-offs are "Men who are too clean. Gelled hair, facial-kiya-jaise looks, red lips like that of Uday Chopra in Neil n Nikki." (I totally agree. The metrosexual man seriously needs to figure out if he's heterosexual.)
Another friend, recently married (and I'm sorry has really lost her marbles since then) has written:
About me: I am 23, married and a journalist.
Relationship Status: Married
Activities: I am married. That itself is a full-time activity.
Ideal Match: I am married. (duh?)
My idea of a first date: I married the man I loved to date.
From my past relationships I've learnt: What you have today is so wonderful and beautiful
5 things I can't live without: husband, bla blslsdlsdls
Christ! What the hell is that?

I find the personal column most entertaining actually - you really get to see the most priceless gems there. And the way people lie about stuff is hilarious. This girl in the neighbourhood who's HUGE and I don't mean pleasantly plump but bloody mount kilimanjaro says she's a "few extra pounds." And OMG men ALWAYS say they're single. This guy, who by the way, is living with his girlfriend says he's single. Another guy who's even asked his girlfriend to marry him says his single! Just leave it blank if you don't want to say "committed" (which I admit is a really daft word.) And yes, they always make it a point to mention their sexual orientation, which actually, many women don't bother about. (Why should you. Keep people guessing. :D)

There's this Bihari buffoon from work (I'd once SCREAMED at him in office and he, in all his Bihari dignity, felt that a woman screaming at him was as good as castration) who says that one of the 5 things he can't live without is "Intelligent females." Ulp. Ok.
This other choot from school who's almost started stalking me (since it is only the choots who stalk me) says: HEY GUYS!I AM @ SIMPLE GUY WITH STRONG FAMILY VALUES, WITH A MODERN PERSPECTIVE TOWARDS LIFE.I @M @N EXTROVERT @ND I BELIV IN DOIN WATEVER IT TAKES TO @CHIEVE SUCESS IN WATEVER I DO.KEEP THE FAITH ALWAYS.LIV AND LET LIVE.KEEP SMILIN ALWAYS. (eeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. This is just a glorified fraaanship-maker.)
Ideal Match: som1 who has a blend of traditional values and mordern thinking
From my past relationships i learned: girls run away from commitment ( I KNOW GIRLS WONT AGREE , BUT BEEN THERE DONE THAT,HAV PERSONAL EXPERIENCE ) (Read: They refused to commit to go out with me.)

Anyway, so my friend and I (both of us unemployed and perfectly content being so) have been snooping for each other, on the men of course. And by the way, what the hell is dudette? Is it even a word? In which case, I am obviously getting old. Oh and in case you guys don't know (and since I'm pretty much a PhD on Orkut theory) when you enable your profile visits, ALL the profiles you visited while it was disabled will see your footprints. So careful my friends.

I'm going to hell for this post isn't it?

PS: Incidentally, since Orkut is basically a glorified dating site and has made categories according to which you can slot people, why don't they have a section on "voice". I'm serious, I know some really good-looking people who have these hissy, mousy voices. In fact, there's a real hot professor in JNU (not mentioning his name) who'd come for a talk to our college and we all let out a collective gasp when we saw him UNTIL, he started to speak. Bloody squeaky voice he had, like there was a frog down his throat and you know, with looks like that we were totally expecting a baritone. Yikes. Tangent, tangent. But anyway, I think just like they have that section on looks: 1) beauty pageant 2) king kong 3) mirror cracking (whatevr the hell that means) 4) bla-di-bla; they should have one on voice.
1) squeaky and hissy
2) ordinary/average
3) chocolate-boyish/schoolboyish
4) deep/baritone
5) oh-jesus-help-me (verray verray nice)

Right. Y'all can go back to your work now. :)

Tag Ho Gaya

2006-09-11T22:22:00.000+05:00

I remember this line from Friends where Monica goes "I haven't had sex in such a long time that I've forgotten how they do it."
Ahem. It sort of felt like that when I tried logging on to Blogger today, because, well, I simply could not. Tried, failed. Tried, failed. Tried again and I finally succeeded. Now I must, simply must respond to this tag of Pink's which has been pending for something close to three years now.

I am thinking about........
This conversation I just had with a VK. It ranged from the latest cheap programmes on tv (there is one in which Rati Agnihotri goes "Main Nachungi!!!") to book inscriptions and it is the latter that I am thinking about. About how there isn't a lovelier gift than a thoughtfully inscribed book. It was recently VK's birthday and a friend of hers gifted her a copy of "Sacred Games" with a really simple, but sweet and allusive inscription. What a contrast to something she had previously got from another friend which went.
"To V
from A". Yikes. Like I didn't know that already.
I was trying to think of some of the inscriptions written for me. There was this book I had won in college as a prize for playing one of the tramps in Waiting for Godot and it said :"To S, the original Beckettian tramp." I quite liked that.
When I was younger, my parents and I would go to these bookstores and every time there would be massive fight over what books to buy (funds were limited so each outing could not cross the threshhold of about 7 books) and I would only want to buy Wodehouse/Agatha Christie and my parents would insist that I read more of the Classics. Once my mother forced me to take E Nesbit's Railway Children because it was a really excellent book. "Really" I said. "Yeah take it S, I'm telling you you'll like it." When we got home, she gave me the book afetr sometime and it was one the lines of : "Dear S, I insisted that you buy this book, because I knew it sounded wonderful." (Actually i'm gonna dig up the real thing, its a lot nicer - basically she hadn't read the book and had faffed and I was really pissed off then but glad later because it was nice book.)

I said.............
"On my birthday I want a nice book, with a nice, thoughtful inscription." Every year, without fail , I do this to to my best friend, who, poor child is not very eloquent. So now I have this huge list of "Dear S, lots of love, A"-type flat inscriptions. And every year I insist on being really mean and throw a tantrum and say "That's all you could write???".

I refuse...
(Off topic but I refuse to entertain irritating friends on Orkut now. These are not the friendship-making pervs, but some actual friends who're getting too intrusive for my liking with their incessant questions about my plans for my future. One of my colleagues from work has even send me a friend request just so that she can snoop on me. )

I want to....
Strangulate her. Nathu Sweets we call her incidentally.

I wish.....
I could go back to being a child. To the days of buying books; to the days we used to live in Allahabad and we didnt even have a phone or car or internet or dog but life was so lovely and so simple. Or even to the time when I was in Class X and those days of giddy teenage romance when I was simuteneously in love with three guys at the same time. (Actually, no lets take the last one back. I do NOT want to be in such a complicated situation at this stage in my life!)

I hear.....
I'm pretending I didn't see this irritating question. I'm not listening to any music if that's what the question means.

I wonder...
About my future. About what I'll be doing five years from now, about where I and the people around me would be, professionally and personally.

I regret....
A lot of things but number one on the list would be ever wanting to become a journalist. And wasting 2 precious years as one. I also regret wasting my time with people who completely abused my trust. Actually there are so many regrets in my life I can't believe it when people say that they dont have any regrets in life. HOW???

I am...
Idealist/Feminist/Sugarcoated Socialist/Dreamer/ (...this is beginning to look like that bloody orkut profile.)

I dance...
mostly when I'm drunk really. This insane, tapori-style dance evolved primarily from college days. It's so much mroe fun than just standing and swaying your bum which by the way is what most people do anyway.

I sing...
..Sweet Child of Mine! (the Sheryl Crow version) That's my favourite singing song. I also like Dream a little dream and All that Jazz. Plus a host of lewd hindi ones, of the Jeene-ke-hai-char-din variety. And oh, the self-composed ones I sing for my dog.

I cry....
Rarely. Especially since the time I've quit, I haven't cried even once.

I am not always....
this boring. I'm really sleepy plus contemplative. Not a good combination.

I make with my hands....
duh?

I write...
mostly my diary really. and yes, mails. I can't really count the blog can I? I used to write for a newspaper, which too, ahem was rather limited in scope. I hope in sometime to be writing more substantial stuff.

I confuse...
Renumeration with Remuneration. I know, I know, the latter (or is it the former?) isn't even a word but well on the day of my exit interview from office I kept saying Renumeration and the bastard kept saying Remuneration and I kept thinking that *I* was wrong. I even came home and checked the bloody dictionary.

I need...
To get a LIFE. (Think some of you could have figured that one.)

And now. Revenge sweet revenge.
(And please be a little sporting and not mean about this yes?) Honoured souls AB, VK, Saltwater Blues, Nishant, First Rain, Aabeirah, Bhagya are expected to oblige us.

kharab template

2006-08-21T10:16:00.000+05:00

There's something wrong with my template so tra-la-la-la just testing.

Omkaara, ghatiness and why I must go back to theatre

2006-07-31T23:30:00.000+05:00

Othello is one Shakespearean play which always failed to impress me. I always felt that it lacked the depth of a Hamlet or a Macbeth or the complexity of an Antony and Cleopatra. For me, the essence of a great tragedy lies in being able to convey that sense of tragic waste after the fall of the character, which I never felt for Othello. Yes, he had risen against odds and yes he loved his wife but at the end of the day, he was just another jealous prick who killed his wife. I didn't even feel sorry for him.
And at the cost of sounding blaspehmous, I'd say that what Shakespeare could never do for me, Vishal Bhardwaj, clearly clearly does.
From the very beginning, one is sucked into this world which is so murkily-real and so Rebelaisian, that it's hard to imagine that this not some village in UP-Bihar but in fact just a movie set created in Maharashtra. Really, those images of men wearing nail polish and saying chutiya and betichod after every three seconds are soooooooo out of the bloody cow belt.
But what's awesome is what he does to the character of Omkaara. Here is one character whom you can actually SEE grow in stature and can do nothing but silently accept the way you are being told to view him. Even the way he's introduced into the frame breaks all Bollywood conventions of Hero ki entry ala Shahrukh Khan alighting from a helicopter. He's introduced as a silhouette, and in the next shot from behind, and finally when he does step into the light, there are no blinding spotlights, no besura violins. Just a dull light; he could be anybody. He's never forced down your throat.
In fact, this holds true for the other characters as well. Each character has been defined with such clarity that you feel that you actually know them. You know the motivation behind why they act a certain way and think a certain way. Even Iago, traditionally the motiveless malcontent, does have a motive for his actions. In fact, that is perhaps what heightens the tragedy; that each character does what makes perfect sense to them and to you. Which is why, despite knowing how it'll end, you keep hoping till the very end that something, just something will make Omkaara act otherwise.
What was really fascinating was the way the way the rest of the audience reacted. Because what started with lusty yells, whistles and cat-calls soon transformed to stunned silence as the film settled into a more sombre mode in the second half, with the possibility of Dolly's murder becoming increasingly imminent.
And yes, full marks to all the actors. Ajay Devgan, by now a pro at playing the brooding anti-hero, and Saif as Iago, are fantastic. Kareena, whom I love to hate, plays the innocent Desdemona so well that I was forced to change my opinion of her. One special mention for Vivek looks-like-Ash-cloud-is-out-of-his-life Oberoi. Not only does he do the ghati-ewwwwwwwww-inducing dance in Beedi Jalaile brilliantly, he's also very convincing as the piney, out-of-favour deputy. Actually, I could see traces of his long lost Saathiya magic especially in one scene where he's teaching Dolly how to sing 'I just called to say I love you' (he's not at all a bad singer).
Where the film scores the most is that it at once, appeals to one's intellectual and ghati sensibilities. The use of theatre techniques like accentuating Omkaara's blackness and Dolly's whiteness; the use of light and shadows and the character build-up coupled with Saif going "Ass Am kardoon" (SMS kardoon) are really a winning combination.
So you can be this lah di dah bum at IIC gushing over the cinematic techniques; or you can be an autowallah singing Beedi Jalaile without a clue as to AC Bradley kaunsi chidiya ka naam hai, and still love the film equally.

And if you are a little bit of both, who has also incidentally quit her job, you will consider going back to theatre.

On why it hasn't been such a bad two years

2006-07-24T22:34:00.000+05:00

It is only fitting that I follow a post about 'How I survived this job for two years' with a 'Why it hasn't been so bad'. Ordinarily, I wouldn't write such a post. (Can you imagine extolling the virtues of chasing sewer drains and garbage dumps?) But today I am feeling exceptionally light, benevolent and bile-free. Quitting your job does that.
Yes guys, I quit. Two years and I decided that it was time to move on. But to say that a paper job sucks is old hat man. Despite my cribbing and whining, I have to say that it has been an eventful two years. This is why:

Where else will you find such stories: And no, I'm not talking about the stories that I worked on. Yeah, the byline's great but here I'm talking about the real stories. The ones that you can keep for future use and laugh about, all your lives. Like the one in which I had gone to cover something as staid (and stinky) as a drain caving in, where the residents kept trying to convince me, in pained voices, as to how bad the situation was. "Itna kharab aroma aa raha hai. Hum to saans bhi nahin le sakte" Or the one where I had this earnest citizen telling me about the robberies in his area. "Madame kya bataoon itni kharab locality hai. College ke ladkiyon ke saath kitni baar chain-skatching ka haadsa ho chuka hai." (By the way, that was no slip of tongue. I even pretended to not have heard him the first time and asked him kya hota hai? Chain-skatching, again.) Or the time when I had an entire hour-long phone conversation with this very portly-Punju-sounding woman, and after an hour of saying "yes ma'am, no ma'am, three bags full maam", was informed that she was a man. "Ectually, theaaarre is one last thing maedam. I am a male."
I could have ACTUALLY died laughing that day.

Meeting Vikram Seth, Aamir Khan, Shashi Tharoor (and Salman Ahmed, Kunal Kapoor, Prabhat Patna1k, B Karat and more) Man. Vikram Seth: gay as summer but who cares! I actually turned into a wide-eyed schoolgirl who stayed in office till 1.30 am just so that I could hang around and listen to him talk. With Aamir Khan I had to maintain the facade of the very scathing-yet-sedate journo, while in reality I wanted to just squeal and say awwwwwwww you're my first love! As for Shashi Tharoor. Phew. The man is 50. And he's still sooooooooooooooooo good looking and soooooo eloquent. (Incidentally, it turns out that my mother's generation also had the hots for Tharoor. They all made it a point to attend all the debates and seminars in which he was participating. My mother tried to sell me some moonshine about how SHE wasn't among them. But heh. puhleese. You've got to be gay to not like Tharoor.)

Laughable Loves: The title is self-explanatory. I did manage to add some more to my ever-growing list of loves. And no V, lets keep the number to ourselves shall we?
* Honey: Mel Gibsonesque I-am-god's-gift-to-women guy. He's married, with a 12 year old son, and like VK once told me "S, his life is premised upon the fact that women like him."
* Descartes: My friend and I started checking him out because he had a cute ass. Turns out that's what he was. A big, fat, pyschotic, maniacal ASS.
* R: My idealist from JNU who was just soo wonderful and we got along soooo well except that he had a girlfriend the size of Mount Kilimanjaro who would have probably beaten him to a pulp had he called it off. Sniff.
* Bunty: The poor little boring boy who was soo earnest and soo sweet and so boring that I, who can keep herself entertained in a conversation, used to yawn. Aiyo.
* Baal Ki Dukan: Smart, eloquent and sexy-voice. If only he didnt have two left feet. If only if he visited his friggin barber.

Ma girlie friends: Yay. So S who was initially met with much suspicion, did make some good friends. Actually great friends. In fact, it was only today when VK and I were returning home that I told her "You know for all the shit that we've been through here, we have managed to have some good times." And boy we have. Partying at Djinns (when AB got so plastered that she fell into some butter chicken); inside the building of the Indian Medical Association which felt like being inside a Mithun movie. Finding friends who termed us "Emotional Guru" and "Physical Guru". Going to TSF or Flames after a frustrating day's work. Singing ghati songs like "Jeene ke hai char din" and exchanging notes on what the latest C-grade films were. (No, we did NOT watch them but kept a record of how raunchy the names could get. The best one so far is Petticoat Mein Vispot.) And hours and hours of sitting in the staircase and discussing which 4th floor guy was hot/semi-hot. Christ.

Did I mention that I WORKED there for two years?

Tum jeeyo hazaaron saal -- to phir likega kaun?

2006-06-07T21:42:00.000+05:00

Sitting in office at 10.30 pm and staring away into a blank terminal. It's my night today and I'm pretending to work. Surely, this is why blogging was invented? Surely, this is what must have prodded me that fateful May afternoon, last year, into creating this blog? Yeah, yeah. Trying to be creative and falling flat and all. Theek hai man. At least I tried? After forgetting my blogversary - actually I still can't be sure if it was May 24 or 26 - the least I can do is think up a creative intro. So what if I failed miserably.
Well yes, I completed a year of blogging sometime in May. Been nice journey, this. Of course, I must have posted like a total of 12 and a half posts in this year, but that does not mean I don't enjoy blogging. Just need everything to be right when I'm writing a blog - the tilt of my computer screen, the feel of the keyboard, the internet connection, the number of people hovering above me - all need to be factored in.
I also completed two years of work-life on June 1. Jeeesus. Have I seriously survived that long in this godawful organisation? I can't forget my first day - waiting outside the editor's cabin while he and his boss were in a meeting. 5 fucking hours. Sitting in an enclosure that was just about the size of your WC - the enclosure that is, not the chair. They walked out of the meeting and a tremulous voice tried to introduce herself. "I was hired... bla." The boss said: "Are you going to work 18 hours in a day?" I didn't know whether to laugh or give a serious reply. "No problem" (worked bothways I thought). I was introduced to my department and was soon chatting up this woman whom I can't even bear to look at nowadays.
My friend AB - otherwise known to be a cheerful person - greeted me with a scowl. I later learnt that she had fought with a friend.
But well, that was the first day. So much has changed in two years. Colleagues have quit, new ones have join. Bosses sacked, new bosses brought in. Colleagues nicknamed then re-nicknamed because they discovered their names. Friends-turned-foes, and surprisingly, foes that have turned friends.
I've cried nights - and mornings - about bylines that have been dropped, stories that have been killed or beats being poached. But I've learnt. I may still cry about things - but I'm not as out of control as I was. I can deal with the bitch who poached on my beat. I can try and fight for my stories. I still have a loooooooong way to go. My stories still go on shit pages and they sometimes don't get carried. I also haven't fine-tuned the art of sucking up to the "right people". But that's probably because I haven't tried. And I don't think I want to.

But that's where the blog helps. It cures us reporters of our narcissism - that obsessive desire to see one's name in print. It lets you work at your own pace - no deadlines except perhaps the tiny bells in your head reminding you that you havent posted for a couple of months. It allows you to write what YOU want to write. So if I want to write about reservation - I will write precisely what I think of it - not what my ivory-tower-seated editor wants.
Oh and I almost forgot the best part. It makes you discover new friends. And sometimes, rediscover old ones.

Another rant

2006-05-19T22:09:00.000+05:00

It's a vicious circle. I don't post for ages then the list of stuff to write about keeps getting longer and then there's too much pressure and panic about what I'll miss out and oh-my-god, this post's gonna take forever until I remind myself that Breathe you idiot. Do it because you want to and even if you do miss out stuff, it's okay. This is your blog, remember?
So, having breathed fair amounts of Oxygen, having written two-three unfinished posts (one about women's facial hair which I refrained from posting because I'd feel foolish later on about it) I am finally writing my potential pulitzer-prize winner.

Before I forget, which one of you likes the word "meritocracy"? To me it sounds like one of those expressions your teacher taught you in the political science class on "democracy" where she explained to you some of the more insidious forms of democracy - plutarchy, oligarchy etc. Silly, you'd think but that's what meritocracy sounds like to me. An insidious form of democracy.
At least that's what I gather from what I see. I see a bunch of kids from medical colleges, universities, all going ra ra ra against reservation. They scream, they fast, they faint, have seizures, pose with brooms insinuating that this is what they'll end doing if the government goes ahead with the quota move. We see their faces splashed across the papers, on tv channels, them young crusaders of justice. Then a bunch of fuckwitted cops lathicharge the poor kids and this jallianwalla baghesque atrocity makes our blood boil and we initiate angry sms campaigns, urging the government to stop murdering meritocracy.
I'm all for the kids, sitting in the heat, worried about their future. I want to shoot the cop who got them beaten up. But I'm still trying to decipher the term "meritocracy." What exactly does it mean? Does it mean some sort of place where only kids -- like the ones we see on tv -- are considered meritorious? What makes them meritorious - the fact that they were all mini-Einsteins or the fact that they were born into the right environment? What about the kids who actually have to sweep for a living - or worse- the ones who have to carry human crap over their heads - they are not meritorious are they. They're just meant to do that, for the rest of their lives. Coz you know, their fathers did it, their forefathers did it and well, so will they. Just like the rest of us meritorious ones, will go ahead spawning generation after generation of meritorious beings, so that we can make India, the world's largest meritocracy.

Yeah yeah. I can already hear the dissenting murmers. In the last month or so, I've heard plenty of these arguments -- in conversations with friends, while talking to the protesting students and in angry blogs, about how the government is bowing down to the "commies" or "pseudo-secularists".
I understand some of these arguments. Some of you say that the reservation has been around for ages and hasn't done squat for our society. I won't say that. One of the doctors that my friend interviewed, said that he had got admission through the quota and now that he was established, he wouldn't let his children apply through the quota since now they didn't need it anymore. There are many more such people. So, the change is there, but it's slow. You can't expect 2000 years or more of oppression to get obliterated in 50 years do you?

Where do we get our education: Seats are going to be increased, so end of argument.

This will effect the quality of our high-falootin haloed institutes like IIM and bla: Excuse me while I go look for a barf bag. This is India ya cucooned muttheads. There are larger issues than how far IIM rated with respect to Wharton and what not. Somehow, all those of you typing away furiously from your laptops about how meritocracy will be destroyed have sort of forgotten that there are a million people who'll never get a chance if they're not given a leg-up now.

I can understand you wanting to qualify the clause. You can say that perhaps the reservation needs to have a socio-economic basis. There are plenty of rich kids who don't really need the reservation but get it all the same. But how can you say that our society needs to do away with reservation altogether? I find it most hilarious when some of my extremely mediocre (actually, less than mediocre, make that incompetent) colleagues shake their heads ponderously and go, really, they were oppressed hundreds of years back, abhi reserve karne ka kya hai. I want to tell them that you bitch, the only fucking reason you're here is because you were lucky enough to be born into the right place. You are a second or third generation college-goer. Your parents spoke English, sent you to a decent school where you just about learnt to string three words together to form an English sentence. You went to college, you wear jeans and hence you got a newspaper job. Not because of that euphemistic term "merit".

Sorry about the rant but this rich kid bile has really got to me.

This is regarding my pissed-off situation

2006-04-27T18:41:00.000+05:00

Right. This is threatening to look like a rant so run for cover.

You know I can't believe what time does to people. I'd like to believe that one gets better with it - but some people just turn plain wierd. One of my friends from school D has started working as this glorified call centre-cum-HR executive and she's picked up this annoying babu/corporate lingo which I just can't deal with. Called me up just five minutes ago and this is how the conversation went.

D: "Hey, I smsed last week - you never reverted."
Me: -baffled and wondering if this an attack or a greeting - "Oh.. I smsed you back but I didn't think it got delivered. In fact, this has happend pretty often - my messages don't get delivered "
D: -long mumbo jumbo about why I shouldn't make excuses about not keeping in touch -
D: "Anyway. lets meet up tomorrow - you me, DI and PB for dinner ...and at four or so, we should touch base."
No seriously - who talks like that. Reverted? Touch base? And you know, lingo aside, she has totally picked up the skills of an aggressive marketeer. Against my wishes, at the cost of seeking therapy after what promises to be a mind-numbing, brain-eroding outing, I have somehow been roped in.

Shaadi Se Pehle (mood spoiler)

2006-04-09T18:46:00.000+05:00

This would be a proud moment for my cinema teacher. She who tried to inculcate in us fine taste by showing us great works of Godard, Renais and Polanski will be glad to learn that her oh-so-promising-supercillious-Bong student has just returned home after watching the 3.30-6.30 show of Shaadi Se Pehle.
Yes, folks, I did it. I finally saw a Mallika Sherawat film. And you know what, even though it ends up disastrously, it does have some funny moments. It actually starts out rather promisingly, in the spoof-mode. What ruins it is probably the fact that from spoof-mode, it swiftly degenerates into slapstick (The pointlessness of the plot comes a close second but we'll get to that later).
The movie starts with close shots of great romance novels and romance films (I wonder what End of Days was doing there though) and the hero Aashish's (Akshaye Khanna) declamation about how he must must put a The End to his own and give up the woman he loves because he has cancer. There's a short recap there about how he met Rani (Ayesha Takia) (and how he woos her with the worst possible line in the history of the universe -"aapke pitaji terrorist hai kya? aap jo bomb hain) and how he tried to win her parents over. There's an ok scene where the forbidding figure of the father booms "tumhare paas na bangla hai, na gaadi hai" and the hero whimpers "mere paas to ma bhi nahi hai". And how in his attempt to get bangla and gaadi and subsequently girl, he beloes so many papads ( he starts working very hard and becomes the manager of a papad-making factory - really man. ) and yadda yadda yadda becomes rich and successful. But now that he has everything, he discovers that he has cancer (is this Bluffmaster hero-thinks-he-has-cancer-but-doesn't-idea that fantastic that people have started to ape it?) and decides to make her hate him by pretending to be sharabi-kebabi-sex-ka-bukha-bhediya as his friend Rajpal Yadav advises him to.
And that's where boob queen Mallika Sherawat enters the fray. Supermodel Sania (who by the way is looking ugly as sin in that ishq ka buta song) has apparently featured on the cover of Vogue (Mallika Sherawat on Vogue cover and I'm the pope). And so our friend, in order to prove to his girlfriend what a sex-ka-bhediya he indeed is, starts romancing madame vogue. I think this is the part where the film from a leetel-promising-spoofy-thingy becomes this horrendous jumble of inexplicable plot twists, characters, locations. Jeez. I mean these two charlie off to Malaysia where they meet this big gangster Anna 24-ghante-choukanna (Sunil Shetty) who happens to be Mallika's big bro and Gulshan Grover his dushman who wants to kill Aashish, Anna's jamai coz Anna killed Grover's jamai.
Then suddenly Aashish wants to come back to Mumbai when he learns that Rani has had an accident. Thankfully, by this stage, one is already somewhat benumbed by the mindless nonsense and instead of being bothered about the shit parts, is relieved at the not-so-shit-parts. A few more unnecessary scenes, dialogues and Mallika-in-the-bridal-finery later, the movie does come to an end. The last scene is again the very spoofy hero-heroine running-in-slow-mo but by this time, you're so pissed that you're just waiting for the credits to roll.
In all fairness though (after walking out of the cinema I can afford to be benevelont) there are parts in the film that I found laugh-aloud-funny. What I liked were the allusions to things which have become a part of popular culture. My favourite is the television channel Kal Tak or Tab Tak reporting this dumbass accident which is such a perfect depiction of the acenine reportage one gets to see on TV nowadays. There's also a call-centre being run at the gangster's place whose job it is to call up various defaulters of the gangster and bully them into paying up. And yes, Rajpal Yadav's unsuccessful attempts at copywriting and Sunil Shetty's invocation of Mumbai are also pretty funny.
Now if only it had a real plot.
And Akshaye Khanna a better wig.

It's no news

2006-03-24T17:30:00.000+05:00

I never wrote on March 8 when Blank Noise Project had organised that blogathon. I didn't write because I didn't have anything new to offer. I suppose I've got into the total journo mode of there's-no-point-writing-about-something-if-it's-not-new. I just realised that I have started thinking exactly like so many of the men (and women) around me. So what's new? It happens everyday.
Today one of my friends was standing in a market for chrissake when she got flashed. This choot of an autodriver unzipped and lovingly held out his penis. All she could manage then was a blubbering, incoherent holler while he just scooted off. Thankfully she had taken down his number. But you know, we thought, we are journalists, we can jolly well do something about it. No one messes with us and gets away. Well ha ha ha. That's got to be the biggest joke ever.
She called up the crime reporter (man). Yeah I'll get him beaten up but why are you getting so hyper. Relax, he grunts.
Next called up the transport reporter (female). Told her. "Ok. Why don't you call 100".
Then, as soon as she got to office, she told the boss about it.
So? said the tomcat. Why are you getting so agitated? These things happen everyday. You shouldn't be shocked, you've been brought up in Delhi.
Yeah really barfcake. It's my fault isn't it. Why I have to get shocked. I mean, come one, it's not like I got raped or something. Besides, even if I did get raped - big shit. Every 7 minutes a woman gets raped. What's new.

What's really frightening is that everyone is ok with this. Why do we have to take this SHIT day after day. Living and travelling everyday with the fear that someone's going to grope/pinch/grab/attack us. What's scarier is that women are conditioned to be silent about anything that happens to them. You are only told later by college feminists or the Binrda Karats that silence is not the way to deal with sexual harassment that you must speak up and tell people about it. But by the time you know the correct way of dealing with things, you have already been subjected to several such instances.
The first time I ever encountered such an incident, I was so young that I didn't know what was happening. I was about six or seven and my parents had left me with my distant uncle and his son (my age). It was afternoon and all of us were sleeping on the same bed. The whole afternoon I kept feeling this hand in my panty. Whenever I pulled it out, it again found its place back into my panty after a little while. This continued the whole afternoon. In fact, it's only today while I'm writing about it that I have deconstructed this incident fully. It was just a horrible blur in my head all this time because I wanted to keep believing that it was something I'd imagined.

The next time was when I had grown up considerably. I was 12 and my mother's uncle had given me a book. My first Wodehouse. I was thrilled and he was sitting in my room. There's my girl he said, stroking my hair, my head, my shoulders. Suddenly the hand slipped into my dress. He probably thinks of me as a child, even though I have developed breasts so it doesn't matter. Stop thinking about it that way, I kept telling myself, stop thinking. This shit continued for about few minutes when I just hurriedly said I gotta go, Ma's calling me or some crap. After that day, I kept avoiding going to his place. A few months later he died but I was so relieved because I was running out of excuses to give mother everytime we would have to go his place and I'd refuse.

There was also the time when I had gone to this amusement park and was wheeling away on those cars and the instructer kept coming to my car. Here. This is how you do it. Simulteneously pinching me. I took it a couple of times and I just left the game. My aunt and uncle who had taken me there kept asking me why I didn't play the whole game but I just mumbled some crap. I was so scared of someone getting to know about this that I didn't even dare to mention it in my diary.

And I'm not even going to bother writing about the number of times I or any girl who's travelled by a bus to college or anywhere else has found herself being poked and groped and grabbed.
There's no point is there.

And a Jessica Lall story for the blog

2006-02-23T18:55:00.000+05:00

I have been preoccupied with other things lately because I wanted to write about this earlier.

Because everytime something goes wrong with our country like a Narender Modi getting reelected or a Gujarat carnage, you think this is the threshhold of how shitty things can get. And then we just outdo ourselves.
I was damn damn impressed by the Times headline - No one killed Jessica - for a change, they just hit the nail on the head. I just hope it managed to hurt some honest guy at the top. I mean I was in school when it happened and after seven years this is the verdict they come up with? She dies, her mother dies of cancer, father's lost his memory. While our friend Manu Sharma's discing away in Chandigarh, probably planning his next murder.
Predictably, the entire office is going completely ballistic doing Jessica Lall stories - I was sent yesterday to interview three of the nine acquitted bastards - Alok Khanna, Amardeep Singh Gill and Raja Chopra. Ask them what they felt about the acquittal. (But of course, we have tremendous faith in the judiciary since ever murderers like us can managed to go scot free.)
I set off - Defence Colony, Friends Colony and Lajpat Nagar. Three prime south Delhi locations, plush exteriors. And the interiors- well didn't get to see them.

The first two guys apparently didn't live at the said locations (And even if they did like they'd be waiting to garland me and answer my questions) and the third- Raja Chopra - well the nameplate at the gate had his name on it, so there was no denying that it was the bugger's house. I rang the bell and this strange woman from the terrace answered, asking who I was, what I wanted.
I said: "Well, I'm from ****, this is about the aquittal."
She said: "We're not interested. "
Me: "I'm not a salesperson."
I'm not usually this rude but this I thought was my way of getting even with the bastards.
Hmph.

aivry day is velentine day, aivri minut is velentine minut...

2006-02-13T23:14:00.000+05:00

My most vivid memories of Valentine's Day are from college. Every February 14th, I remember the day would start seeing all the girls on the U-special in their pinkest/reddest attire. Classes would get over early because all of us would say "Ma'am puhleese, it's Valentine's Day" - irrespective of whether we had a valentine or not. And after getting out of class, everyone would make a beeline for the loos. So if you wanted to pee, you'd have to wait for your bladder to burst since all the girls would be busy standing in front of the mirror applying kajal/ lipstick/doing-strange-lip-movements.
Kamla Nagar market or K-nags as we'd call it, used to be plastered pink and was officially the place for roadside romeos to try their luck. One guy had even managed to kiss a girl passing by. Egged on by his success, the next year there were about 20 of them on one lane alone but I'm not sure if they got lucky.
My friends and I, progressive feminists that we were, always expressed our greatest contempt of the occassion but couldn't bear the thought of going straight back home. We'd either want to go out and eat or catch a movie, do something. We'd go out and pontificate over what was coming over the youth. Why they had to fritter away their parents money on such crap. Why the men were such champus. Why the women were such behenjis. Why were we so single. Ah..maybe that's why.

Even this year, I can't stop laughing at all those promotional offers that have come up. I mean flowers, chocolates is old hat men. Now the latest commodity that can buy you love is English. There was actually an ad that said "Learn to speak English before Valentine's Day". I suppose people have begun to acknowledge how colonial even love can be. Ah well, Valentine's is a western concept. In fact, last week, a friend of mine told me how she turned down a guy because he said "I want to make friendship with you" - urrgh. Poor fellow should enrol into those classes.
But I digress. I wonder - All those times that my friends and I refused to go back home on Valentine's - was it because we were too scared of feeling lonely? That contempt - was it just a mask of bravado? Now I most certainly hate such insane commercialisation and pride myself on being quite a non-conformist but this conversation with a friend just set me thinking.

She: "Are you doing anything - I'm doing nothing as usual."
I: "You want to? Don't you think it's really a ridiculous concept.. I wouldn't be doing anything even if I had someone in my life."
She: "Yes but the fact that it's Valentine's really drives home the point that I'm alone."
Hmm... I really, really wonder.

PS: This is for Nish. (Reply to a matrimonial ad)

I am an olden young uncle living only with myself in Bangaloru. Having seen your advertisement for marriage purposes, I decided to press myself on you and hope you will take me nicely.
I am a soiled son from inside Karnataka. I am nice and big, six foot tall and six inches long. My body is filled with hardness, as because I am working hardly. I am playing hardly also. Especially I like cricket and I am a good batter and I am fast baller. Whenever I come running in for balling, other batters start running. Everybody is scared of my rapid balls that bounce a lot. I am very nice man. I am always laughing loudly at everyone. I am jolly. I am gay.Especially ladies, they are saying I am nice and soft. I am always giving respect to the ladies. I am always allowing ladies to get on top. That is how nice I am.I am not having any bad habits. I am not drinking and I am not sucking tobacco or anything else. Every morning I am going to the gym and I am pumping like anything. Daily I am pumping and pumping. If you want you can come and see how much I am pumping the dumb belles in the gym.I am having a lot of money in my pants and my pants is always open for you. I am such a nice man, but still I am living with myself only. What to do? So I am taking things into my own hands everyday. That is why I am pressing myself on you, so that you will come in my house and take my things into your hand.
If you are marrying me madam, I am telling you, I will be loving you very hard every day. In fact, I will stop pumping dumb belles in the gym.
If you are not marrying me madam and not coming to me, I will press you and press you until you come. So I am placing my head between your nicely smelling feet and looking up with lots of hope. I am waiting very badly for your reply and I am stiff with anticipation.

Expecting soon,
Yours and only yours

Rangasamy

We may love TS Eliot but clearly aren't he

2005-12-28T18:59:00.000+05:00

November started off well-
a change in designation,
then holiday season,
things got murky somewhere in the middel
the birthday was disastrous,
and all men are bastards.
Grandmamma died.
An old flame materialised,
but I still hate men,
so I settled for Linda Goodman.

There. Aren't I brilliant. That's probably the laziest bit of writing (or poetry) you'll get to see but if I were to write about each and every one of those things separately, it'd take me three years. Maybe I should annotate parts of it, especially where I talk about hating men and settling for Linda Goodman. Meaning, I still hate men but I keep reading up Linda Goodman because that's the only place I'll have this wonderfully harmonious relationship with men. In books.

*********

Well anyway. New Year's is around the corner and like every year, this year too, all fartgasses in town are going bananas about "ooooooh what plans for New Year's?" I mean where do these people live man? And god forbid if you happen to say that you're doing nothing, they'll probably check to see if you have horns growing from your forehead. Strangely enough, I have a party planned - actually - *ahem* I am the party planner - meaning there is a strong possiblity that there may be no party. So we've got the music, menu and venue.

What we now need, are the guests.

Confused blogger, confused life-r

2005-11-05T18:47:00.000+05:00

What sort of blogger am I? Am I a blogger at all? I mean I have a post and all, but is blogging really part of my consciousness? Do I feel the need to blog if something interesting has happened? Or do I ever discuss any issues about the world at large? No, no, I seldom do any of that. I blog when I feel that it's been ages and I haven't blogged. I go on a guilt trip. Essar, you own a blog, remember? Now how long has it been since you wrote anything huh?
My friends AB and PS are so involved with their blog. I know for a fact that if AB's put her foot in her mouth (yet again!) she will blog about it. I know that if if PS is thinking about some serious stuff, I will get to see it. And SwB will discuss the burning issues of the day. But me? It's usually rant, rant, rant. Bridget-Jones-style angsty. And it's not that interesting stuff doesn't happen. Now I must admit that my life is extraordinarily boring, but nevertheless, I too get my share of hilarious hardy har har moments. But I'd never blog about it. I'd rather call a friend and talk about it.
There's also the point of anonymity. There are so many things I can't write about because they'll be such dead giveaways. Especially because I'm a journalist and so many bloggers are. It's even scary with the kind of stuff that's been happening with poor bloggers being held to ransom for what they've written in their personal, sacred space. Sheesh.

Anyway. There have actually been sooooo many things that I wanted to talk about. I'm seriously considering going back to my studies. Two years of this place has done enough damage to my brain and before it suffers further erosions, I must do something. Fast. Thing is there are too many options at hand. Too many - not in the sense of I-will-get-what-I-want, but too many in the sense of there just being a gazillion things I want to do. And I'm back to feeling the same way as I did when I left school. And after college. Clueless. I'm actually considered anything between animation voices, professional singing, theatre, developmental work and of course what I am trained in - journalism. I do wonder - is everyone as weird and random as I am? I see people my age. People who've been working for a couple of years have all crossed the exploitation that goes on the first year and have settled in. You ask them how they find their work and they say "I love it". I met someone today and she was like "Wow, you're a journalist, that must really be exciting!". I didn't know what to say. The thing is that there are times I love what I do. Like when I did a story on child labour. It was incredible. I was there when a group of NGO workers barged into one of these units and rescued these children. The fascinating thing was that the kids themselves wouldn't have called it "rescuing". Prying maybe. Or interfering. And if I were in their place I would too. But I digress. So these are the stories I like to do. Some of my friends and colleagues laugh at me saying I've not recovered from my journo-school I-want-to-change-the-world hangover. But this is not about me wanting to change the world. It's about me doing something that justifies its space in the newspaper. Of course, my bosses think doing a story on monsoon fashions justifies its space. "That's what our readership wants," they say. I don't think I'd ever form a part of "our readership."
Which is why, I have decided to move on. I can't continue with this fraud. I give myself a few months. And again my post has degenerated into a rant.

Contemplating crap

2005-10-08T20:20:00.000+05:00

That bastard is such a choot. What am I doing here? The money - its crap. I could be making MUCH more. The people? Nah - malicious fuckers out to screw you. Maybe it's just my flat screen monitor.

What happens when you can't hold your drink

2005-09-27T21:22:00.000+05:00

I've suspected it for long, I've tried to not believe it and after a few disastrous incidents, I've had to accept it. Moi, of the eight-drinks-who-cares credo, has started getting slow right after her first drink!

On Saturday, Ottie had organised a party, and apparently I was dancing with two people I wouldn't be caught dead even talking to. One of them, this suave-smooth-by-half bastard who thinks he's god's gift to womankind, and the other, quite his foil, the ingratiating office secretary (glorified clerk) *bastard*. Yeeeeeeeeeeesh. Of course, I don't remember ANY of this. Some of my malicious friends, who were actually doing nothing the entire evening except *yawn* SITTING AND STARING, tell me this. (Remember PS?)
And you know how, after every office party, one is always dissecting who-smooched-whom and who-dirtydanced-with-whom and the like and this time OMIGOD, I was part of the party dope. Next morning (ok, it was afternoon) I walk into office and everybody's like "So S, you had a good time dancing" and "Oh, you seem to have found your soulmate" and *the worst* "Ooh, you're quite a flamboyant dancer" Hey bhagwan!

But it wasn't always like this. I used to be quite good, I swear. In fact, during my hostel days, my ability to hold my drink, was at its peak.
How it started: One fine evening, some of my seniors in the hostel started asking me, in very giggly voices, if I wanted 'Pepsi'. Sure I did, who does not want free food/drink in days of such extreme poverty? One sip of that Pepsi and I knew what was so funny. It was *wishicouldhaveitnow* Rum. Neat.
Soon, our booze parties become less exploitative in nature. Meaning, we decided to split the cost of the rum/vodka, coke/sprite and the snakes as my gujju friends put it. "S, you going to Grant Road station, pick up some quarters na" and "Riddhi, you going to the market? Pick up some nimboo."
A great deal of planning went into these parties. At 10.0 when our stick-insect-like warden Sister Joanna would come to switch off the lights, we would all scurry off to our rooms, all looking like we could just drop off any minute. For an hour or so, there would be perfect silence because we wanted to make sure that Sis Jo was fast asleep. Then it would start. The tiptoing, the whispers. We would usually party in the room furthest to Jo's room. This was usually Pandurang's room and she was the one who never drank and would keep yawning throughout the party and we had to keep shaking her from time to time to keep her up.
There were never enough mugs (yes mugs, what the hell do you expect us to have in a bloody hostel) to have the stuff from. So we just used to pass the five or six we had, amongst the 10, sometimes 16 of us. Nagu, Riddhi, Swati, Shilpa, Surabhi and I were the lambi race ke ghode. Ruku and Katy were moderate drinkers. Pandu and Niky never used to drink. Pandu would keep dropping off while Niky would make a mental note of all the crap that went on and used it to embarass/blackmail us later on. And then the alcohol started hitting home. The giggles, the tears and the trips to the loo. Trying to balance ourselves in the corridor as we went rebounding from wall to wall. Saala kuchh nahi dikhta tha. But hell, that was after at least 5 drinks.

And even then I wouldn't have danced with a balding office secretary.

The pluralities of pronounciations

2005-09-18T17:19:00.000+05:00

I finally saw Salaam Namaste, and for me the USP of the film was not so much the "modern" feel (Preity Zinta has used the word in every godforsaken interview) or the fact that it has "loads of sex" as Nikhat Kazmi puts it in her review. It's the humour man. Javed Jaffrey with his Bihari-trying-to-speak-English-act is just so bloody brilliant! I don't think I've ever laughed so much at a movie. "The ghosts of the kicks do not listen to the talks" or "I loves the senses of humour" The funny thing is that apart from sounding like many of my colleagues, he sounds soooooooooooooo much like one of my ex-classmates that it's uncanny.
She was with me during my post grad. She wasn't a bad sort, just a little err. ..different. The first day of class when we had to introduce ourselves, if I said :"Hi, I'm SR, from bla college, Delhi", she said in her singsong voice, "My name is Neelasri Barman. My daddy is the executive director of Reserve Bank of India." (There was this another scream of an intro where this girl went, "Hi I'm SS, I was born after 13 years of my parents' marriage"-- but that another day.) So Neelasri used to say things like "Aye Nikita I love your hairs" or -- and I'm not exaggerating -- "Oh shits, I forgot to gets a notebook." What probably took the cake was "I love Ferrari Rocher" (My friend Niky and I were wondering what new car this was.)
So well. When you meet someone so err.. unique what do you do. Start emulating them. Talking like them. Obsessively. "Oh shits, I can'ts finds my pens." or "I don't take shits." I talk like that with my friends, colleagues, family, dog and at times this -whaddayacallit- has even slipped out in front of my editor, who by the way, I'm sure, should be convinced of my insanity thanks to the number of faux-pas I have made before him.
In fact, the other day, I was filing a story and I suddenly realised that I had even started writing like that. "In a shockings the incident... " Sheesh.
And you know what, I should not be laughing at poor Neelasri. She's doing so bloody well now, keeps getting front-page bylines and is quite the star of her paper. Looks ats mes. Have the forgottens whats its the like to get an FPs.

Barfffffffffffffffffffff

2005-08-19T20:06:00.000+05:00

Soppy cards, gifts, balloons, chocolates, Winnie-the-Pooh style hampers. No seriously man, Rakhi is just turning into Valentine's Day!

Teething problems.....

2005-08-09T17:10:00.000+05:00

I don't think I'm still acquainted with the concept of blogging. I mean, I know what it is - as AB has reiterated time and again - "it's your personal post yadayadyada" - I'm still slightly uncomfortable about putting my most personal, innermost thoughts down there for the world to see. Which is why, I still maintain a diary. I don't know how many of you bloggers have a diary alongside - it is a bit ridiculous isn't it. What I have been doing thus, is segregating personal from intensely personal - the former forming the contents for my blog.
In fact, I was going through my diary today and said to myself -hmm.. this is what you should be putting there. But I'm just so terrified that he-who-may-not-be-named will end up reading everything and phut! that'll be the end of that. Eh... I realise that the last line was AS VAGUE AS IT GETS.
Allow me to explain:
He-who-may-not-be-named : love interest
If he reads my obsessions about him then I;ll just scare him off.
But then, how in god's name will he a) come across my blog from the innumerable blogs in cyberspace b) if, by any sort of uncanny coincidence, he does, how would he know that this is me and c) "he-who-may-not-be-named" refers to him. Well, that's just my paranoia I suppose.

I also feel that putting yourself right there makes you really vulnerable doens't it. Especially since some of my friends do read my blog - otherwise it's really cool to be able to maintain that steely exterior and lead everyone to bel;ive that that is what you are all about. Well, crap, they already know that I',m not like that so who am I fooling!!!
No, but reform time. I need to get over my paranoia and make my blog more blog-like instead of a commentary on society or a tretise on the isms!

Can't stop wearing my Levi's

2005-08-05T16:46:00.000+05:00

Just reading a post by SwB got me thinking about the entire Socialism business. (the pun was unintended but somehow, really makes sense.)
I've been a University Socialist- initiated into the Ideology right from college, done the drill of attending protest demonstrations, marched kilometres in the horrendous Delhi heat with full belief that it'll actually change the world. I stopped drinking Coke and Pepsi and going to Mac-Donalds and made plans with all my friends to attend the next World Social Forum (I did attend the one in Bombay last year) in South America. My friend and I spent New Year's 2004-5, trying to convince all the guys around us as to why globalisation was so bad. (We spent the rest of the night convincing ourselves why we were single -- why? because the men around us were such dumb, non-thinking capitalists!)

It's been two years since college and somehow the diehard in me, has died. And I'm glad about that. I realise that there are so many fissures in the ideology, the way it is practised (in that, most often, it's not. It's only pontificated about over cups of tea.) and how, the people shouting the hardest about "Smashing imperialism" from the rooftops are also wearing Levi's jeans.

I feel sad about that because I still call myself a socialist. But I don't think the way I do, because it's the fashionable noise to make, it actually does makes sense. It makes sense to speak against globalisation where one bugger decides what the rest of the world does (including what colour undies they wear.) It makes sense to protest against a system where people in my country are forced to carry human crap on their heads coz they have no money and there are others who are so flushed with money that they can actually use it to .. well flush their toilets.

But I can't stop wearing my Levi's jeans. I may talk of equal rights and how all are equal but will I ever fall in love with a labourer? (There is this woman in Maharashtra -- the only true true socialist I know. She actually married a labourer.) And that hurts me even more -- the fact that these double standards exist. I hate to be slotted in the same category of those fellows
smoking in D' School in their jhola-kajal-Fab-india ensemble, sipping tea and discussing world politics; but well, how different am I ?
My friend once suggested that the right term to describe us would be "sugar-coated socialists." Our beliefs are not fraudulent but we'll never let go of the comforts that capitalism brings (skipping the cola was easy - it cut calories and MacDonald's in India SUCKS!!! )
I was very tempted into being a cynic- it's the easiest thing to be, just do nothing because things suck anyway. But you know, if the guys with their heart in the right place become the fence sitters, then how do ya expect things to change. It's not for nothing that these RSS buggers have still managed to maintain such a strong mass base -- they work their backsides off for it. When the Gujarat earthquake struck, they made it a point to help people out of the rubble, in their uniforms, so that people knew what service those men in saffron were providing. (It's another matter that the year after that they along with their political allies completely ravaged the very same state.)
We can still do to make a difference if we want. And at the end of the day, if you've changed the slightest about someone's life, it does feel good.
So what if it's done in those Levi's jeans!

Pind Punjab

2005-07-26T21:29:00.000+05:00

Somehow, the Punjabi community has always been something of a presence in my life. (For those of you who intend sending me hate mail calling me parochial/racist, I would just like to say one thing-- read the ENTIRE post.)
Well, so the Punjus I was saying. Yes, they have been quite a conspicuous presence in my life. In fact, when I was a child, I actually thought there were only two communities - Punjabis and Bengalis. (Moi, being the latter. Those of you who wish to, may feel free to regale us with accounts of Bong idiocy. I will be only too delighted to add some more to the kitty. Sorry, I do tend to go tangential.)
Living in north India, Delhi specifically, one really can't ignore them, no way. They're everywhere- in fact it's not just the number... it's also their ability to...well.. make themselves heard, literally and metaphorically.
My father has always had showed the greatest contempt for "Paanjabis" as he calls them. They are loud, crass, unsophisticated (the sophisticated Punju is a species in itself and needs to be addressed separately. One says Amreeka, while the latter says Marica.) One of the favourite family anecdotes is about a young Chadha boy who wanted to pursue English literature and on the first day of class was politely told off by the crusty Mallu teacher.
Crusty Mallu: "Mr Chadha, sure you're in the right place?" (Everytime the punchline was announced, cultured, arrogant bongs that we were, we'd howl at its hilarity even though all of us had probably heard it at least 365 times before.)
Yes, they don't know English; and NEVER could a community be further away from culture...Punjabi philestines, they.
So disdain for the community has almost been my inheritance. Sometime during my schooldays, I had a domestic from the Sunderbans -- unspoilt and uncorrupted by city life. In afternoons, she used to sit on our balcony because she would feel more at home among the surrounding trees. On such afternoon, my mother hears a piercing, blood-curdling scream.
Sunderban girl: "Mammi, mammi, Punjabi aaya!"
My mother rushes out to the balcony, picturing this strapping Punju man with a weapon (why else would she scream), ready for a battle, only to find this 4-ft-nothing sardar boy holding two bottles of phenael in each hand, with the most perplexed look on his face. The poor little kid was just selling phenael, what did he do? The entire episode became another favourite family anecdote. My father would always snigger saying "Taley bhab, odero ki atonko tale Panjabi-der theke "(Imagine then, even they are so terrified of Panjaabis.)
But why am I writing all this? Truth is that Murphy has struck and I think I've fallen for a Punju guy. He has the most distinctly Punju name, looks and voice. (So much so for me vowing that I would NEVER fall for a Punju beefcake. Never say never did I hear someone snigger?)
Like my friend very wisely told me --complete with the Punju accent-- "Life mein badi camedy hai!"

Of beggars, unwanted blessings and crap chat

2005-07-24T16:49:00.000+05:00

If there's one category of beggars I really really feel awful looking at, its the old ones. But that's not the point of writing this. Where I work, one has to maintain this insane degree of protocol; this in spite of it being a newspaper office-- other newspaper offices are very cool, there's rarely any sense of hierarchy, you can address your boss by his first name and the like-- but not here. So one always has to "sir-sir" even the Art editor or the photo editor. So a couple of days ago, I was out on an assignment with the photo editor. It's a long day ahead, both trying hard not to get into each other's hair too much and maintain this 'professional' distance. We're standing at this chat shop, waiting for the fellow to hand us our food. Suddenly this old beggar woman comes up to us and starts blessing us with a very undesirable, and inappropriate blessing. "Tumhari jodi salamat rahe." Hey bhagwan, I didn't know where to hide. I suddenly decided that I needed a lemonade from the next shop and I almost dived there. He didn't have lemonade but you think I cared. And at the cost of sounding like a bitch, I wanted to just whack that woman on her head! I still do. THWAAAAAAAACKKKKKKKKKKK! There. Feel much better. She'll think twice before bestowing such insidious blessings upon the next pair she sees.

2005-05-24T22:14:00.000+05:00

Alright. A Confession -- I've never been into blogging. Thought it was weird to have an online journal for the world to see - i mean isnt that the whole point of having a jorunal - u get to write what u'd never share with anyone. My colleague dispelled the myth. Said "we can bitch about office people in the public domain" Sounded fun. And thus I was initiated into the fine art of blogging.

First things first - Am a 22-year-old journalist still trying to find my feet. In fact, there are times I wonder if this is what I intend to do all my life. "Noseying into other people's lives" is how a teacher had once de(s)cri(b)ed the profession. And set me thinking for life, on life.