Hanging in There

Just When You Gave Up Your Car...

2012-02-13T14:08:00.001+05:30

Food's a luxury we can't afford either, right? Right.

Ayurvedic Super Drug

2012-02-13T14:06:00.002+05:30

The only reason it doesn't cure cancer or AIDS is because there wasn't enough space on the label.

Stares

2012-02-13T14:04:00.000+05:30

No amount of righteous bullshit will make me climb those when there's a working lift behind me.

So Much More

2012-02-08T20:17:00.002+05:30

It takes a lot more strength to deny yourself the comfort of stability and throw yourself at the mercy of the biting winds of change. It takes all of Samson's strength to get you to wake the next day to face a life of emptiness; everything you possess having been taken away from you.

I often muse that this is the fate of idealists and dreamers. To have their high hopes dashed on the rocks of reality. I admire the realists, the practical people, the people who are content to live life as it is dictated to them. To be an idealist, to dream, means to have to face the horror - oh, the horror - of having those dreams shatter; of taking off those rose tinted glasses to find that they had shielded you from a scene full of gore.

But once you find the ground beneath your feet, it's best to start running, and not ever look back.

No More Tears

2012-01-25T20:52:00.003+05:30

Don't you ever ask me again why I don't believe in a god.
Don't you ever ask me again why I hold my head high
And ask for help from no one
And don't you ever try helping me again.
I'm ready to bend my head at the gallows
Just sit back and watch me
die.

Some presents you might want to avoid this holiday season

2011-12-28T05:49:00.001+05:30

It might be a bit too late to post this seeing as the holidays are over, but after having got an annoyingly useless bunch of gifts from my secret Santa, I realised it was about time someone made a guide for this sort of thing. Consider it an early warning, then.

1. Say no to the plain Jane photo frame
Now tell me this - in this digital age who really uses photo frames anymore? You can't expect someone to go all the way to the photo shop just to pay for a print to put into your cheap little half hearted gift, now can you? A digital album is more up our alley if photos are what you want us to display.

2. Teddy terrors
This one's pretty simple, really. Don't ever buy an adult a stuffed animal! I mean, what am I, 2?! Unless it's a giant sized angry bird plush doll, don't even bother.

3. What's to show
Nothing says 'I never think about you' like a show piece does. What is the purpose of that fake porcelain bird now really? I'd rather put a signed copy of any Kurt Vonnegut up for display on my shelf, any day.

4. If it's not branded, don't bother
Look, I really appreciate you buying me a watch. It says a lot. It says that I'm never on time for anything, that I can't afford one of my own and that I have crappy taste. But at least buy me a Swatch, not some obscure brand that you know I know was made somewhere near China.

5. When all else fails, buy a gift card
Really? It wasn't enough my guessing at how little you shelled out on me this year that you actually had to put it in print for me? Literally? Unless you're willing to hand me a voucher for Rs 5000 or more, I'd suggest you put your money where my mouth is and take me out for a nice lunch or dinner instead. At least I'd complain less with my mouth full of food.

Of course, the ideal gifts are always an android smartphone ( worth between Rs 15k - 35k), if not an iPhone; an iPad or it's Samsung equivalent; a brand new car; a diamond pendant or a Labrador puppy. Can't put a price on love, now can you.

What They Never Tell You About Love

2011-11-30T14:27:00.001+05:30

Disclaimer: I have long since abandoned any attempts at making this blog a cheery place. So if frosty cold climates is your thing, feel free to continue visiting, or perhaps you can drop by here on your way to die. In any case, there's no optimism to be found, not here. Now, on to today's topic of interest.

Relationships, I have found, tend to pass through the following three phases:
1. The 'I Love You!!!!!!!' period: This is a happy time. You've just met that significant other and absolutely everything about him or her is great. Even his or her faults are the best faults you've even come across in another human being. Even if they have a huge hairy mole on the side of their face. That's about the cutest hairy mole in the whole entire universe! Why, you can spend days and weeks simply gazing on that adorable mole. You don't know how you made it through your entire life without it. Also, your wonderful mate can do no wrong. Their short temper is wonderful, fights are celebrated and their lies are lovely little white lover's fibs. Oh, and the sex is great - you just can't get enough of each other's bodies. This horrible period of temporary blindness lasts for approximately a year.

2. The 'I... Like You..!' period: This is a strange time. Suddenly one morning you wake up and find that your lover has a disgusting hairy mole on the side of their face. You are surprised at yourself. You tell yourself that you love them despite that hairy mole. That they have done so much for you and there's still a lot of good besides that one physical characteristic. Sex is still great, as long as you can position your face away from the hairy mole. Fights aren't so great, anymore, though. You tend to feel the resentment a day or two after the fight and then somehow push away those negative emotions and try to focus on the good. As difficult as that may be. This period of growing awareness usually begins in the second year of togetherness.

3. The 'I Hate Everything About You (*&*^%!)' period: If you are in this phase, you are probably depressed, frustrated and a drunk. The damned hairy mole pales in comparison with the other terrible traits your 'lover' exhibits. Can't she ever stop her damned complaining? Can't he ever once at least help out around the place? You find yourself angry all the time, in his or her presence. And sex is something you can avoid, oh yeah. Who needs sex, anyway? That's for the animals, right? What you need is someone you can talk to and that's definitely not something you've found at home, now is it? Come to think of it, you curse the day (three years ago) when you met your 'lover' and would be happy to see them dead. Preferably at your own hands. This period begins in the third year and generally lasts... forever. At least, until the end of the relationship or one of your own lives.

So, you see, it doesn't matter if you're married or not. It's relationships that are the problem. Maybe it's just me, being a terrible commitmentphobe. Or maybe it's to do with being a woman and being idealistic and dreamy and embarking on something thinking you'd reach somewhere you haven't and perhaps never will.

Being Joyless

2011-11-29T18:32:00.001+05:30

... when did you become so joyless?

- American Beauty

I'm starting to wonder that myself. I remember when I wasn't afraid to stand up to people and sound out my views. I remember a time when I would look forward to the next day; to the sunshine and the music and the million other little joys that made my day. I remember looking out for the underappreciated and doing my bit to make them feel good. But more and more I find myself cynical and depressed. I can't stand the mornings, I just want to crawl back into bed. I don't like dressing up or going out. These days I don't even bother to turn on the music.

You know, I've even forgotten why I struggled so hard to be 'free'. Free to live your life the way you want to? But where's the joy in that? Freedom is overrated. Maybe I should move to China.

Divided We Stand

2011-11-28T12:41:00.001+05:30

(This article has been a long time coming. I plan to edit and work on it some more with time because there are several more add ons to this list which I may not have remembered at the time of writing this)

As pathetic as it is true, India is a country that is divided by its diversity. Sure, there's all the patriotic talk about us being secular, being 'one' despite the fact that each state has its own language and being unified in the face of any problem. Bull, bull and bull.

India has never been united. There are many many divisions within India and I can safely say, this situation is unique to India alone. No other nation in the world has been this diverse and, hence, divided:

1. North hates South
You've probably experienced this in your own country; the whole Northern states hating the South and vice versa. But in India, it's different. For one thing, the Northern states mostly speak Hindi (the national language, by the way). In the South, Hindi is mostly abhorred (still the national language, yes). So if you're caught speaking Hindi in the South, be prepared to be subject to discrimination and cold shoulders. Also, since the belief is that the majority of North India comprises fair skinned people, and pretty people, while the South comprises dark skinned, hairy, not-so-pretty people, people from the North consider themselves superior to the South. You can always see a man from the South portrayed in Bollywood movies as the dark skinned, lungi-wearing guy with sandalwood smeared across forehead who says 'Ayyo' a lot.

2. State of Affairs
India is more or less like thirty countries sewn together to form one big country, just to keep the politicians busy and wealthy. The only thing that each state has in common is that each has a 'capital' city, which houses local parliament and is therefore the most developed among all the other cities in that state. Every state is like a mini country and hates all the other states, even though they depend on each other for commerce and such like. For instance, people from Uttar Pradesh and Bihar are found in almost every other state in plenty, in search of employment outside their own states because of the pitiful condition of UP and Bihar. And in those states that they work in, they have to face abuse for being a bloody UP Bihari (often used interchangeably) who is there to suck up the jobs of the locals. In fact, if you happen to be 'from' or born in any other state apart from the one you are employed/living in, you will always be treated like an outsider, and therefore, met with cold suspicion. And if you're from the North Eastern states, you aren't Indian, you're just chinky looking.

3. Tongues-a-lot
India has 27 states ((and seven namesake union territories) this number is set to increase if Mayawati has her way). Each state more or less has at least one language unique to the state (there are even designated state languages) and several dialects. Can you fathom something like that? Imagine all the countries comprising Europe were states of a single country. Even then, the number of spoken languages wouldn't outnumber the languages and dialects spoken in India. And don't get me wrong. The word 'dialect' here is used lightly but they qualify to be languages of their own to the speakers and the spoken to. For instance, the South of India only comprises four out of all those 27 states (we're ignoring the Andamans, etc for now, just like the rest of India does). And there's more than six languages/dialects spoken here. Every speaker of said language hates the speaker of another language. I'm South Indian. I am from Karnataka and speak Konkani at home. When I evinced an interest in living in Tamil Nadu, I was met with no end of opposition from my parents who called it a dirty place (oh, like all of India?). And when, on a visit home, I spoke to them in Tamil, to show off my grasp of it, as it were, they were shocked and horrified and didn't speak to me for two whole days.

Let's take Karnataka as an example, where you have the state language of Kannada. Kannada is spoken differently by people from different parts of Kannada. That earns some discrimination of its own. So if you're from Coorg, the minute you speak Kannada in Bangalore, you're sure to be caught out and (in one known instance) beaten up. Oh yeah, it's still the same language. What's worse is, in Karnataka, the language you speak depends on the religion or caste you belong to. Mangalorean Catholics speak Konkani (different from the Goan version because of its Kannada influence), the Muslims (called Bora Muslims) have their own language, the Hindus speak either Kannada or Konkani (different from the Catholic and Goan; their caste is called Konkanna because they speak Konkani). And in Mangalore, the spoken language is Tulu. Kannada just happens to be the state language here. Which brings us to religion.

4. Insecular
Do you know how many religions are forced to coexist within India? Again, I believe this situation is unique to India. I mean, in America, sure you have all of those varying sects of Christianity. In India we have all those and then some. There's Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Buddhism, Christianity, Sikhism, Zoroastrianism, to start with. We also have our share of Jews, so don't think we're missing out on that. And people of all these religions hate people from other religions. Oh yes, and all those religions speak of love and brotherhood and all that good stuff. Mostly this is thanks to the politicians who leverage these differences to their own selfish ends. But it isn't politics alone. There lies a deep mistrust and antagonism between people of different religions. Back in Mangalore, when I was living with my aunt, she had a house to let. Several people came inquiring about it and she was pleasant enough with them all. When a Muslim came around asking about the house, she immediately said that it had already been let out (when it hadn't). I asked her why the discrimination. She replied that Muslims were 'such dirty people' and would keep the house dirty, too. I was born Catholic.

Hindus and Muslims have a rivalry of old and the demolition of the Babri Masjid did nothing to help matters. Sikhs are generally looked on as a hairy, unclean lot by the rest of India. Buddhists are tolerated because of the foreign interest they attract. Christians are put in their place and if any Hindu happens to be baptised into Christianity, the priest or nun responsible is immediately arrested for 'illegal conversion'. It's enough to make a body give up religion entirely. Hence the atheism. Within Hinduism, there are so many delightful castes and subcastes. Should I reserve that for a separate numbered point? Ok, I will.

5. Caste Off
The caste system was abolished way back in 1947, say the history books. But anybody in India will tell you that's not true. When you sign up for anything - whether it's a gas connection or college application - the form will contain a separate section for 'Caste'. You see, within Hinduism are several castes. There're the Brahmins, who are as Upper as Upper Caste will allow. On the lower end of the spectrum is the scheduled caste or scheduled tribe. These chaps are considered untouchables/inferior. While they were pretty badly treated in the 'good' old days, the discrimination against the lower castes led to 'reservation' wherein the government allotted a certain number of college seats and government jobs for the lower castes, to provide for them. People of higher castes are not eligible. Thus, you have people of middle or upper castes, actually paying good money to have a lower caste certificate made out to them so that they can reserve jobs/college seats. Didn't see that coming, did you?! In fact, casteism has extended outside Hinduism, too. I lost my college seat to a lower caste Catholic at a college run by Jesuits, even though I had passed the entrance exam and had impressed the head of the department.

In case you didn't know, Brahmins are pure vegetarians (except in Calcutta where they eat fish claiming that fish is the vegetable of the sea). The rest of Hindus may or may not eat meat. Which brings me to food discrimination.

6. You Are What You Eat
A good way to spot possible reasons for discrimination in India is by looking at rental ads. In India (in Tamil Nadu, at least), it's commonplace (accepted and encouraged, even) to have ads where the landlord wants 'Vegetarians only'. Some are even so specific as to say 'Brahmins only'. There are a lot of vegetarian Hindus out there. It's not that they don't eat animals because they hate hurting them; they were merely born that way. So, the vegetarian Hindus hate the meat eating populace. In many parts of India, Hindu dominated areas have done away with cow slaughterhouses altogether. No, vegetarians reading this needn't rejoice yet. Note I said 'cow' slaughterhouses. They have no objection to the consumption of buffalo meat, though. In fact, I know a lot of Hindus who eat buffalo. Hey, it's the cow that's considered sacred, right ma? Non meat eating Hindus dislike meat eating Hindus. Muslims, as you know, don't eat pork. So they hate anyone who does. Surprisingly, pork is considered unclean even by many Hindus who knock that off their grocery list just as they do with beef. Therefore unclean, pork eating Christians (or north eastern Indians) don't find easy accommodation in India. Then there're the Jains who don't believe in adding onions, garlic and some other tasty stuff to their food. And of course it goes without saying that they don't eat meat either. I once had this weird Jain wannabe roommate who subsist on large quantities of tomato chutney alone. Moving past religion, the Northern states tend to eat rotis with their main meal, while their Southern counterparts eat rice. Their Southern counterparts also eat dosa and idly, which is both unheard of and mocked at in the North. Yes, mocked at. People from the North are not comfortable eating 'Southie' food and wonder how anyone can. And people from the South wouldn't survive a day without curd rice.

7. Black, White, Yellow and Brown
Indians come in different colours. Here, black, white, yellow and brown are a reality and have to coexist even if they don't like the looks of the other. Black people, or dark skinned people, aren't favourably looked on. Hell, they don't even feel good about themselves. Hence the huge market for fairness creams (like the best selling Fair & Lovely). You see, black people are trying to become white. The white people are found in places like Kashmir (those lovely white skinned, brown haired and light eyed denizens who are the envy of the rest of India), many parts of North India and in several communities of the South (like the Muslims and Hindu Brahmins and Anglo Indians (oh ho, I forgot to talk about them, hang on a bit!)). These white people are what Bollywood portrays as 'beautiful' hence making the rest of us most unmarriageable (matrimonial ads ask for fair skinned women). Yellow people are from the North East. You know, the chinks. They don't look like the rest of India and aren't considered to be Indian and are frequently treated as Chinese and therefore ignored. They make for good supporting cast in the movies as Bruce Lee wannabes. And finally, the brown people make up the rest of India. They aren't called brown, however. Here, they are called wheatish complexioned. You can't go wrong if you describe yourself as wheatish complexioned. Shopkeepers will instantly know what shade of compact to sell to you. It doesn't matter if your colour is nothing like wheat.

8. Atavistic Peculiarities
Now, with all this discrimination lying around, god help you if your ancestors somewhere along the line did not marry/breed with an Indian. See, at this point, it doesn't matter if your ancestor mated outside the religion. What matters is which nationality he/she mated with. Hence we have the remnants of the British in the form of the Anglo Indians. Anglo Indians have been around thanks to the various colonial forces that have occupied India in the past. You have the Portuguese Indians who had Portuguese ancestors; you have the French Indians, who had French ancestors (I don't know any, but the French did rule India so they must have had some fun while they were here, right? Right.) and, last but not least, you have the Anglo Indians who had British or European ancestry. The Anglo Indians are considered to be India's bastard children. They command little or no respect, as it is usually assumed that they are the result of illegitimate affairs between British overlords and their Indian maidservants. This is not usually the case, but this is what any non Anglo Indian will tell you. In any case, the Anglo Indians, for their own part, have some of it coming to them as they don't consider themselves to be Indian. Though the present and one generation removed all have Indian passports, they make no attempt to learn any Indian language, perfecting instead their English mother tongue. They even have certain pronunciations for 'Indian' words that have been passed down like heirlooms, which they steadfastly cling on to. So, the Anglo Indians in Chennai love to have italies (idlies) with their tea and doll (dal) for lunch. Every Anglo Indian aspires to live in Australia or the UK and usually has a huge gang of relatives already living there. Anglo Indians are also the reason why call centres came to India.

Wow, if you made it this far, you must be as weary and depressed as I am. As you can see, surviving in India isn't easy. I guess that's what makes us thick skinned enough to bear all the discrimination we get from people outside India. It all starts at home.

Ye Dogs

2011-11-28T06:59:00.000+05:30

The initial plan, when we first conceived of adopting more dogs, was to get Peanut a playmate. We felt guilty leaving him all by himself when we went off to work, and would clean up the chewed up bits of furniture and other items of import without complaint, knowing that his loneliness and frustration that were causing it all.

Enter Kanga (right in above picture). Before she came to be known as Kanga, she was just a little mongrel bitch that we'd noticed in the compound of our apartment complex. She seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, probably abandoned by some yuppie owner, and was mostly by herself and wagged her tail at anyone who passed by. During one of our nightly walks with Peanut, Amit decided that she was coming home with us. And there was born Peanut's new roommate. Finally, we thought, ends the DVD chewing and the paper ripping and the slipper chewing. Finally, Peanut will have someone to play with. Of course, you've probably already realised our joy was shortlived. The addition to the family appeared to give Peanut an accomplice in crime. For now, our furniture is chewed by not one, but two dogs. Twice the destruction to DVDs and other necessities of life (including lingerie) is now caused. And we now have to be bent at the task of housecleaning twice a day thanks to the puddles and poo piles left around by Kanga.

The best laid schemes of men can only be laid to waste by a dog he loves.

My Anorexic Dog

2011-10-21T14:29:00.001+05:30

Somedays Peanut looks in the mirror and doesn't like what he sees.
He senses bulges developing in the wrong places, a full looking furry fold of skin. That's when Peanut decides to go off his food for a while. Not for him, during this troublesome time, the tasty meaty morsels we place in his bowl before him. Not for him the Pedigree we purchased in fearful anguish that our dog was starving himself to death. No. He waits with great willpower until he has dropped a kilogramme or two to his satisfaction and then proceeds to eat normally after he's done.
We wish we could learn more from him.

The Kind that Gets You Before that All Important Client Meeting

2011-09-06T09:47:00.003+05:30

Colombo

2011-09-01T09:34:00.000+05:30

(Note: These are the chronicles of my recent visit to Colombo. Please note that all views are my own and I don't give a lion's ass if you disagree with any of them. It was written while I was in Colombo so if you see a 'here' or a grammatical error, the former refers to Colombo and the latter was probably done because I was drunk on Lion Stout. I love you, Rajapakse.)

The Srilankans are a jovial bunch; they do not tire to guide the lost foreigner (without looting them (yes, we Indians were 'foreigners' there!)) and practically ran to assist us at every turn. The value of the Indian rupee is doubled here and it certainly makes the food and fare seem a lot cheaper.

(An aside from Amit, who accompanied me on this trip: Autodrivers (the three wheelers seen on Indian roads, called autorickshaws, are called Tuk Tuks here) apparently do loot foreigners just like their Indian counterparts; in fact you should probably ask a local what the fare ought to be and decide on with the driver before you board the vehicle.)

Today (refers to day 3 of our week-long visit), we went to a four star hotel called Mount Lavinia. Mount Lavinia is the name of the beach here, named after the local mistress of the colonial governor. The hotel has been built where the governor's holiday home once stood and is reminiscent of colonial times, right down to the uniforms of their staff. It is strange that the Srilankans have not shrugged off their colonial memories; nor have they embraced their neighbours. Indian cigarettes are nowhere to be found. The local shops only stock the INR 200+ (400 in Srilankan rupees) John Player's Gold Leaf (which is as foreign as they come) and even the alcohol is not Indian. The beers are Srilankan, thankfully enough, with Lion being the brand of choice. I have come to love the Stout, which is their dark beer. It tastes much better than their lager, or even their strong (not like our Kingfisher). It looks like Coke and tastes like beer; how awesome is that.

The weather here is clammy and warm but cools with a bit of rain. If you're sitting by the beach in the shade, you'll definitely find it pleasant. On the beach tonight, we were drawn to two guys playing some music using what appeared to be some local instruments. On closer look, we found that they were tapping at water cans and a beer crate with a set of chopsticks (they were the waiters from the restaurant, hence the chopsticks), but the music was so entertaining that we sat and listened to them for a while. Apparently, that was their way of enjoying their day off and they recommended some more places we could visit. In India, you don't find many people who will even give you the time of day (and you definitely won't find them in Bangalore).

Colombo appears to be filled with Srilankans who have family overseas, and that's how they can afford the good life. The supermarkets are stocked with brands that I have seen before only during my childhood in the Gulf; brands that are still not available in India unless you are willing to pay a hefty price.

Local industry here is non existent. Which somewhat stirs a tiny bit of patriotic pride in me, since India managed to build up a lot of its own industry in its attempts at 'swadeshi'. Of course we are all outrivalled by Japan in that sphere.

I find that people here are poor speakers of English; is this to blame on the educational system or the fact that they were ravaged by war? You find a lot of people here still bristling with anger towards the LTTE and brimming with pride at the mention of Mahinda Rajapakse's name. During the reign of terror the LTTE had enforced, so one lady told us, people who left their homes were scarce expected to return. Now, of course, it is a different scene. While you do see civil policemen at every turn, charming and friendly, the Srilankans are enjoying a peaceful time now and owe it all to their president. I read last week that emergency rule had finally been lifted there - another thing they have to be proud of.

The entire trip was very, in fact, extremely, cost effective. I spent in Srilanka in one week, what we normally spend in India during the weekend. The flight tickets were obscenely low priced; we boarded at Chennai. The flying time was just 55 minutes so we hardly had time to munch through our plane dessert by the time we had to prepare for landing. We didn't even have to go through any visa formalities at any point of time. Since the value of the Indian rupee is more than doubled there, everything seemed ridiculously cheap so I splurged but still had enough left over upon my return. Of course, I didn't really find much to shop for there so I mainly spent on duty free JD (which was ridiculously cheap, again!).

We had a happy time in Srilanka. People were so friendly towards us, no one treated us like a terrorist and the immigration officials were only too happy to let us in (Indians do not require a visa to Srilanka if it's a short stay). Once we landed back in India, of course, we were back to yelling at the airport officials that we were true citizens who'd been there for a holiday, arguing with wretched autodrivers whose only attempt was to fleece us for every dime, and being treated like terrorists just for breathing in front of a cop. It took a month for my Srilankan hangover to completely wear off.

This is a recommended destination for the world weary curmudgeon. Just go; don't even stop to plan it.

Pregnancy Scars

2011-09-01T09:00:00.000+05:30

You know how women go on and on about how beautiful the whole process of childbirth is? And how other people go on and on about how wonderful the miracle of life developing within a pregnant mother is? Well let's visit these so called facts, closely, shall we?

1. Pregnant women get that wonderful glow on their face...

... which usually comes of having spent most of the morning throwing up everything and anything you ate the previous night. Including water.

2. Pregnancy evokes a wonderful feeling in a woman everytime she feels her baby bump...

... that wonderful feeling is usually gratitude for the five blessed minutes that she isn't feeling a sharp spasm coming from in there, not unlike what Rosemary went through while she had the Satan spawn within her. Yes, the movie WAS inspired.

3. Pregnant women are joyful and bring joy to those around her...

... except when she's being a crabby bitch, which is all of the time, because of her alternating mood swings. One friend went so far as to completely snap when I regretted the fact that we Indians couldn't have the sexes of our unborns determined as it would've gone a long way to helping her prepare for the birth of her twins. She suddenly turned patriotic and law abiding on me.

4. The process of childbirth is beautiful...

... not when you're crapping on the very bed you're pushing your baby out onto. What can be more embarrassing than pooping in front of your obstetrician, your husband and the rest of any medical staff present? Smell and all? And labour lasts for four hours or more, sometimes!

5. What could give you more pleasure than breastfeeding your own child?

I can think of a lot of things. Including cloistering myself in a convent deep in some obscure remote jungle village. For one thing, a woman who is pregnant is forced to give up smoking and drinking from the onset of the pregnancy. Then, for the whole time that she is breastfeeding, again, she can't drink or smoke. That's a minimum of one year of denying yourself the simple pleasure that enable disgruntled citizens of this planet to survive the various atrocities of life.

6. A child is both a blessing and a joy...

... and a pain in the ass. You have to literally give up your life for the kid; 90% of mothers I know had to abandon a great career to take care of their child. This is even worse when the pregnancy is unplanned. Then for the next two years, till the damned kid gains enough sense to be able to stand on it's own two feet and follow basic instructions, you can't let it out of your site. Daycares in India have killed more kids than anti-female child village abortionists have.

For the record, I prefer a dog, anyday.

Disclaimer: All of above facts are based on what various child bearing/delivering friends around me are going through. I have no actual personal experience of my own to contribute here. Hopefully, ever.

The New Apartment

2011-05-20T13:18:00.000+05:30

Living in an apartment building that's bursting with families and little kids presents several difficulties. For me, that is.

For one thing, you can never play loud music. The first (and last) time I did, was mainly to drown out the noise of the kids playing outside. The music was stopped by the lady downstairs who informed me that the kids had their exams so would I please keep it down till they were done ("It's just a matter of 15 days").

And then I take my dog out for a walk. My golden labrador, Peanut, loves people. Much to my embarrassment, most of the time. He loves having them around, he loves meeting new ones and he just can't understand why they run the other way when he runs to greet them. Clearly, Peanut doesn't know his own size. In any case, the neighbourhood kids soon got accustomed to seeing Peanut around and calling out his name, much to his (boundless) pleasure. Not so the parents, however. Everytime they see Peanut in the vicinity of their precious kids, they make a grab for the latter and drag them to safety. One woman made me wait a 'safe' distance away until she had moved her kid indoors. I now take Peanut out for midnight walks, instead.

Another problem that Peanut faces out on his walks is where to pee in this people-centric neighbourhood. One stop was declared off limits by a woman who claimed to be growing vegetables there. Without a fence. She could really use the free fertilizer, I thought.

Welcome to the neighbourhood, indeed.

Single and Unemployed

2011-04-27T18:18:00.000+05:30

A lot of my friends, being in the same (marriageable, according to Indian society) age group as I, are currently looking out for a life partner in the same way that I am looking for a job. You know, register at a website, look for possible matches, apply for a promising one and hope like hell that you'll get a reply.

So while some of my friends are logging on to Bharatmatrimony.com, others are meeting 'suitable boys' and maintaining strict secrecy about the entire thing until it falls through. Which is another thing I do around the time when I am going through the final rounds of interview with a company.

It's sort of similar; I see satisfaction and fulfillment in my career, in earning enough to pay for any luxury big or small, in being able to save and spend without worry. For my friends, I suppose marriage is all of this plus the free sex. Oh and the family/emotional support/kids, blah.

So while I wait for my offer letter to come through, I egg my friends on as they await the proposal. Good luck to everyone?

Jaago India?

2011-02-25T13:09:00.000+05:30

While Manmohan Singh desperately attempts to look as though he is putting out the home fires he practically held up the match for, Indians everywhere are still suffering from the disgustingly passive attitude of the current government.

CWG only lived up to its expectations, and even the current overbooking of cricket stadium seats for local VIPs and organisers leaving only a measly few for the fans who'd prebooked theirs, does not evoke in me any bit of surprise.

Indians in Egypt and other Middle Eastern countries, faced by a sudden uprising that they hadn't sought to participate in and fleeing their respective sinking ships, had to face a more horrendous beast in their own government whose national airline demanded double rates and cash only to airlift them out of their misery. Nope, still not surprised.

But the continual denial, the continuous assurances that things will 'stabilise' soon, and the lack of a revolt, is really starting to get to me. What is it going to take to get all of us onto those streets, forcing these bastards to pay us back for all they've afflicted us with? Can only some rich bugger grabbing our cricket seat spur us onto such action?

In a country where words like accountability and moral dignity are found only in export quality dictionaries, it pains me to have to admit to being Indian.

A Zombie Story

2011-01-12T16:56:00.000+05:30

ATTENTION: This story was written by a good friend of mine, Bill Purkayastha, also the author of Rainbow's End. He's an excellent story writer of almost any genre and also an extremely intelligent analyst of current affairs. He wrote this zombie story especially for me and told me to post it wherever I liked. So here I go!

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This story was written specifically for my old friend Priya D'Souza, who fell in love with zombies after I wrote about them. Here you go.

(Original Title: PROBABLY THE LAST ZOMBIE STORY I’LL WRITE (sic))
As we walked up from the old fountain by the square, I got jostled and pushed down a flight of steps, rolling all the way to the bottom. I ended up with my face pushed into a pile of drifted leaves, discarded chocolate wrappers and associated garbage. It didn’t, of course, hurt me, but when I pushed myself up again some of the gunk had entered my nostrils and had choked my olfactory system.

The sun was flooding down, but I scarcely felt its heat. Squinting, I brushed some of the dirt away from my eyes, so I could see again, and turned to go back upstairs.

The rest of us were still flooding past the head of the stairs, so I climbed up back to them, working my way, with some difficulty, back into the stream. More than once I almost got jostled back down, and there seemed to be something wrong with my right leg. The knee buckled whenever I put any pressure on it.

I stepped on someone who was dragging himself along the ground, his back broken so that his hips and legs were twisted at an angle. He growled at me angrily, snapping at me with grey teeth, but I managed to take a long enough step that he couldn’t connect.

I no longer knew where we were headed, since my sense of smell was almost completely destroyed with the muck inside my nose. I could only follow the flow, and hope we were going somewhere there was food.

Food! My body craved it.

How long was it since I’d eaten? I had no memory, even, of my last meal. Hunger was a constant, gnawing ache, much greater than any other urge I’d ever had. Much greater than sex.

Sex? A random memory came to me with that word. I had a vague impression, blurry, of a dear and familiar face, and warm lips on mine. Who was that man? When was he? I ran my hands over my face, pausing to look down at the grease and dirt caked into my palms. One fingernail was gone completely, the rest broken and ragged. He had loved to kiss my fingers and tell me he loved them. I thought of that and felt a once-familiar sensation, an urge in the pit of my stomach and between my legs. Who, I thought, was I?

Some other vague memories. Wasn’t there a time when I used to run through this park on our right, giggling at the sensation of grass on my bare feet? The concrete under my feet now was cracked and chipped, but the sensation barely registered. I was barefoot, but might as well be walking in thick boots.

I touched my face with my fingers, again, and could hardly feel anything. In a sudden urge, I stabbed at my cheek, scraping my broken nails through the skin. There was a faint feeling of the skin stretching and tearing, but no pain.

My knee was finally bearing up again by the time we turned the corner at the crossroads where the big old statue used to stand. Some kind of accident had taken place, and the figure had toppled over, crushing the truck which had struck its pedestal. I could see an arm hanging out of the squashed window of the vehicle, waving around aimlessly. The crowd streamed by it, not looking, not bothering. Ergo, it was not food.

Up ahead, finally, I could see the building where we were all headed. Ramps led up from both sides of the entrance to the door, which was guarded by steel shutters. Many of the crowd were banging on the shutters with their hands, howling with the hunger I felt in me, too. The press was so great that try as I might, I couldn’t get to the door.

Something cracked past my ear, and someone just behind me went sprawling over backward, taking two or three others down with him. I looked up and saw a silhouette, scrambling over the roof. Again I heard the cracking sound, and someone else fell. But I no longer cared about the cracking. My attention was fixed on the figure on the roof, which had been joined by a couple more. Food.

My hunger was a burning fire in me now, so intense that I almost staggered. The food were running from one side of the roof to another, raising their…guns?...and shooting down at the crowd. Many were falling, but it made no difference to the other, and certainly not to me.

A space opened up on my left, suddenly, and I slipped round the corner of the building, A tree branch caught my longhair, pulling my head back. With an indifferent wrench, I pulled myself free. There was hardly any pain.

I was in a narrow space between the building and a wall, so narrow that I had to turn myself slightly sideways to pass. Any of the food from above might have thrown something heavy on me here, but nobody seemed to notice me. I was quite alone, walking steadily and silently towards the back of the building. Turning, I got round the back and stood, looking up at the edifice.

There was no way in that I could find, but I could sense them now, the food, hardly the thickness of a wall away. I moaned slightly in my throat, the noise a quiet whimper.

And another memory, a scrap of it, came to me. I’d come home from somewhere – was there something about work? – and found him home already, in the middle of the afternoon, lying in bed. I wasn’t that surprised, because he’d said that morning that he wasn’t feeling too good. Undressing, I’d slipped naked into bed beside him, and reached out to hug him close, intending to warm him with a session of passionate lovemaking.

Ah, I remember that word. The pressure of that urge again between my legs…

My mind blacked out at that point, but I had a vague feeling that he’d turned towards me, and held me tight, his mouth reaching for my breasts. But instead of the soft kisses on my nipples that I’d expected, there was a sharp pain…and then nothing more.

I really haven’t felt much of anything after that.

When I finally got up from the bed, he was gone. Still naked, I wandered out of the house, and down to the street. My nudity meant nothing to me. Nothing meant anything to me, really. At that time I didn’t even have the scraps of memory I’m recovering now.

I’d been wandering ever since.

Suddenly, I saw something. At first it didn’t quite register, and then I realised I was looking up at a window which had been left partly open. It was on the first floor, so the food had probably imagined it was safe. But there was a way up. If you were indifferent to personal safety, and invulnerable to pan, there was a way up, not to the window, maybe, but to the ledge below it.

Again I had a flash of memory, so strong that I had to pause a moment. Hadn’t I once climbed trees, rough bark under my hands, leaves in my face? Hadn’t I stood in the fork of two great branches, and looked at the world through a green curtain? Surely I had.

But there were no trees here.

Careless of the roughness of the wall that scraped and cut at my naked body, I flattened myself against the wall and began to creep up, my fingers and toes jamming into the crevices. Thrice I slipped and fell back partly, and on the fourth attempt I got my fingertips over the ledge.

After that it was a fairly simple thing to pull myself up on to the ledge. I crouched, as low to the ledge as I could, and began creeping along the wall towards the window. It was just above my head, and I could hear voices inside, murmuring, and the smell of food, so strong that even my blocked nose registered it.

Without waiting any longer, I pushed myself up, thrust the window open, and rolled over the windowsill into the room.

I’d barely touched the floor when something soft and enveloping fell all over me…

“Got her,” I heard someone say. The smell, the nearness, of food was so strong that I could no longer think about anything else. I tried to lunge upright, clawing…and could not.

It was like fighting cobwebs. The more I tried to get free, the more I was entangled. Suddenly, something struck me behind the knees, and knocked me back down to the floor. I felt ropes being twisted around me, and something hard and long rolled me over in my back. Helpless, snarling my fury, I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

Three of them stood over me; two man-foods, and a woman-food. I could hear noises as another one shut the window, but I couldn’t see it. The older of the man-foods was talking.

“There, you see,” hesaid, “my trap worked. Now we have a specimen to work on.”

“I knew you’d do it, Professor,” the female food said in an adoring voice. I looked at her and wanted desperately to eat her. I could almost taste her soft flesh.

“Yeah, well.” The younger man-food made a face. “Pity she’s such a good looking one though. Why do you suppose she’s naked?”

“It’s not a she, any longer,” the older food said. “It’s an it. Think of it as an object and you’ve got the right idea. It can’t even think anymore, or have any sense of being. As to why it’s naked, who cares? It’s no more than a lab rat we can use to test for antidotes.” He gestured to someone I couldn’t see. “Get the thing up, will you?”

I felt hands dragging me up, pushing me to my feet, and thrusting me against a wall. The two younger man-food I’d seen came closer to look at me. I saw his eyes straying down to my breasts, between my legs. His face was pink with the blood surging through it.

The female food came and slapped his shoulder. “Stop ogling its boobs,” she said.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” he whined. “She just looks lonely and...scared.”

“Stop calling it she,” the female food snapped. “You heard the Professor. It’s just a...lump of meat.” She glared at me with acute dislike. “In a week it’s going to be all used up, anyway, if I know the Professor. Won’t be nothing more than skin and bones. And good riddance, too.”

“You’re cruel,” the man food told her, glancing at me again over his shoulder as she led him away. She replied something, but I couldn’t hear it.

And this is how I’m in this cage, in this tiny room, with the food gesturing and gibbering at me. They feed me scraps, and poke at me with needles, and with wires that make me shudder when they touch me. Burning right through the numbness. Sometimes they put themselves just out of my reach, and when I try to get at them, they laugh and hit me with the burning wires.

And, the longer I am here, oh god, the more I’m starting to remember. I can remember warm spring days in the park, and picnics up in the hills. I can remember the taste of ice cream in my mouth on a summer day, and cappuccino when the frost lay heavy outside. I can remember dancing, on the sand of the beach, whirling round and round until sun and sky and sea and sand merged in one yellow-blue blur. I can remember so much, and I am beginning to realise what I’ve lost. And that’s the cruellest part of all.

Can you understand me? I could almost think you can.

For a food, you look kind. I can see the tears in your eyes as you look at me. I know you want to help. I can tell you what to do.

Oh, nothing crass, like releasing me, nothing as drastic as that. Just…take that gun on the wall, there, the one kept for emergencies. Take it, bring it over here, and shoot me. I won’t move, I promise you. Shoot me and put me out of my misery. Please.

I’ve had enough of the pain, and the hunger. And the memories. Most especially the memories. I don’t want to remember what I was.

Kill me. It would be the greatest kindness.

Kill me, please.

Copyright Biswapriya Purkayastha 2011

Read more of Bill's writings here.

My Tribute to the Year Gone by

2010-12-30T06:45:00.000+05:30

Fur softer than the softest fluff,
Eyes that grow darker and smaller as the day progresses,
A nose colder than any piece of ice you can find
A ready-to-lick-you tongue that will readily make its way into your mouth
Half chewed bone dumped ceremoniously onto your lap
Bits of rubber ball all over the place
These are a few of the joys Peanut brings into my life.

Thank you, 2010.

Importance of Eloquence

2010-12-30T06:42:00.000+05:30

We now live in a world wherein honour and ethics and honesty are meaningless; meaningless, that is, until you have a tongue that can wag you out of any situation. For the way of the present world is thus: Speak your way be it false or true, the most eloquent shall survive.

Peanut's Little Foe

2010-11-16T19:26:00.000+05:30

Image Courtesy: www.dogchannel.com

While my job continues to keep me from watching my first son grow into a fine young adult, we have taken to babysitting the neighbour's one-month-old boxer pup, as there's always someone at home, anyway (thanks to the thankless shift system of modern corporates).

When Peanut was first introduced to Foe (the boxer pup), he went berserk. But that's normal for Peanut when introduced to anybody new. Foe experimentally went up to Peanut's bowl of (uneaten) food (he gets fussy sometimes) on the first day, and immediately was met with a growl and snapping of jaws by Peanut. Talk about putting someone in their place. On the next day when we brought Foe's bowl from his place, Peanut lost no time in licking it clean as soon as our backs were turned. Since then, Peanut is forced to share his food with Foe as we leave him no other choice.

Over the days, they've taken to playing with each other, with Foe doing the biting, scratching and (tiny voiced) barking and immediately running under a bit of furniture only he can fit under, when Peanut bites back. What surprises me the most is the gentleness in Peanut's attitude towards Foe, despite them both being male. When in a quiet mood, Peanut licks Foe's ears clean and we even saw them curled up next to each other on one occasion.

Foe on the other hand, has much to learn about being loving. He firmly objects to being cuddled. Now, that's the first time I've seen a puppy that hates being cuddled. Everytime we pick him up he struggles and yips and bites us until we let him down again. Quite the independent young thing. He boldly goes wherever he likes despite our warnings and then barks miserably when he is hurt by his latest exploits. Fortunately, he's picking up Peanut's toilet manners.

The one thing we're glad of is that Peanut finally does not destroy anything in the house when left alone, if Foe's around. Which is why we plan to get him a brother or sister soon enough.

The House Where I Once Lived

2010-11-15T20:39:00.002+05:30

A phone call from my landlord last week asking me to either cough up seven lakhs (yes, 7 and five zeroes of Indian currency that I can never make for the foreseeable future) for a two-year lease, or move out, has obviously prompted me to choose the latter. While I'm being brave and practical about it and merely going house hunting and buying all the classified papers I can, I have realised that I'm pushing to the back of my mind just how many memories this old place contains.

Having lived here for two and a half long years, and having witnessed a flurry of roommates during that time (and one change in boyfriend), yes, I've had a good stay. The first of us were the Brahmin girl who ate as many varieties of meat as she fancied, the Punjabi who had no job or ambition or - for a lot of the time - money and me, of course. The Brahmin girl was the one who hunted out the place after our desperation to leave the PG we were staying at, where we were being tortured at the hands of a crazed, drunk old woman and her mistreated dog. She happily convinced us that staying on the brink of the city limits for a whopping rent was better than looking for a place within city limits. So up we went. She soon made it clear that the other bedroom was exclusively hers to munch on non vegetarian pizzas and smoke Marlboros and listen to songs (of her ever-changing taste in music; she was, at different times, a rock fan, then a carnatic fan, then a person who shunned rock, then a person who listened only to world music, and so on) and watch movies (which also answered to the ever-changing-taste description) as much as she pleased. The Punjabi and I were left to the other room, which we didn't mind so much, as we at least agreed pretty much on what we definitely liked and didn't like. But we still had to split the high rent just three ways.

At one point of time, the Brahmin girl announced she'd be going to the UK for business purposes for two months. So the Punjabi girl and I made hasty plans to get a fourth roommate, to lower costs. The first experiment was pretty successful - a Dutch girl who was interning for a widely read Indian newspaper. She kept pretty much to herself and - I thought - was pretty nice to have around as a result. The Punjabi girl, however, derived no end of grief about the fact that she used toilet paper and so had to have a bin in the toilet for that purpose and she insisted that it stank up the place. Yes, the Punjabi girl was pretty intolerant that way. The Dutch girl was with us for only a couple of months after which she had to move to Mumbai and she'd drop by whenever she was in town after that.

Once Dutch girl moved out, it was time to find another roommate once more. So, in answer to an ad I'd placed online, we were visited by a lady who assured us she was a manager in some IT firm in Bangalore and only had to be in Chennai for four months to do her CA exams. Sure, we said, short stay was good with us. And so we unwittingly brought upon ourselves a new bout of misery. You see, CA lady was not just vegetarian, no. While she firmly shunned all forms of meat (eggs, too), she also insisted on ruling out onions, garlic and pretty much anything else that made Indian food edible. Instead, she'd content herself with boiling a kilogram of tomatoes and frying it into a chutney that would fill several containers, meant for consumption over a period of weeks and for filling the fridge so that we had no place to keep our unworthy morsels. This, of course, meant we spent a lot more on cooking gas. At one point, she asked me to refrain from using certain items of cutlery as she intended to use them for her more-than-just-vegetarian purposes. We were a little scandalised, seeing as we were the ones who'd let her into our door, but had to accede as she paid the rent too. The other slightly worrisome part about her was her insistence on walking about the neighbourhood in her night gown (and yes, it was a night GOWN), and frequenting the nearby park with her books while dressed in this manner. But, to each her own, we thought. The Punjabi girl meanwhile seethed with resentment and made no attempts to disguise her dislike of CA lady.

While CA lady was living with us, we were joined by a friend of Brahmin girl who had been hounded out of her ladies' hostel under pretty shocking circumstances, or so she claimed. She claimed to have been beaten up by the women there for being visited by her boyfriend at the hostel, and then was driven out by the police. Indian hostels, you see, are strictly gender specific. You cannot have a member of the opposite sex visit you under any circumstance. Which is why they're best populated by more conservative sections of the populace. So, the beaten up girl came to live with us and was forced to also put up with CA lady and her minorly disturbing ways. As the weeks went by, Brahmin girl began to grow more suspicious of her friend as she confided in us that she found new bruises on her everyday, and upon probing she did admit that it was her boyfriend who was responsible for these. She made no attempt to leave him, though, and this infuriated Brahmin girl, who was a firm feminist. Brahmin girl was simultaneously also growing weary of CA lady's antics and one day decided to kick the both of them out. She did this by taking Punjabi girl and I into confidence and lying to CA lady and Beaten Up girl that we were planning on moving house and could they also please start hunting for new accommodation. Brahmin girl's brilliantly evil plan worked and the room was all hers once more and this time she offered to pay the rent of two people so as to ensure to keep it that way.

It was after these harrowing incidents, and during our recovery period, that Brahmin girl decided to unleash the combined torture of two kittens on us. She insisted that she loved cats and had procured these two from a friend and was going to keep them around. I hate cats. Being dead against them from the start, I only asked that they never be in the same room as I was. It was little surprise then, to see them hiding out in my clothes cupboard, scratching me while I sat watching TV and mewling for all they were worth as it pleased them. Punjabi girl didn't mind so much as they provided a wonderful outlet to her newfound photography skills. She'd click them in various poses and presented little resistance when requested to feed them and take care of them since she didn't have a job and Brahmin girl did. Brahmin girl also brought a huge tub and filled it with sand and claimed this was the kitty litter. The cats soon caught on and stank up the litter well. Since the litter was strategically positioned in our balcony, where we also hung out our clothes to dry, many items of my lingerie were sacrificed to the litter through no fault of their own. It was only when I threw in one of Brahmin girl's bras, to get my own back, that Brahmin girl decided to reposition the kitty litter. While at work one day, I received a call from Punjabi girl who told me that one of the kittens was found dead outside, presumably killed by stray dogs. I was shocked. Hateful of cats though I am, I knew how Brahmin girl was fond of them and assumed she was feeling miserable. I knocked gently on her door that night after my shift, to convey my sympathies and offer to help bury the kitten. Brahmin girl, however, seemed unaffected. "Oh that's alright, the ragpickers will probably get rid of it by morning." With that she said her good nights and returned to her solitude. Huh. Perhaps she was in a state of denial/shock, I thought to myself and privately mourned the kitten's death.

Soon after this, Brahmin girl probably had concluded that it was my hatred for all things feline that was to be blamed for the loss of her kitten and she decided to move out on her own. She announced to us, therefore, that she was moving out that she'd found a place where she could live on her own and she would over the period of the next four weeks be moving all her stuff there. Strangely enough, eight weeks passed before Brahmin girl made the final move and that only after Punjabi girl and I gave her an ultimatum.

Months of Punjabi girl's not paying her rent, forced her self-eviction from the house. She made up her mind to move in with her cousin brother and his family, the main reason for her being in Chennai and not Punjab. So that left me all alone, joined by my furry son, Peanut, a couple of months later. I guess it's only fitting then, that I give this house that has seen so much pleasure, pain and overall strangeness, a proper farewell. Perhaps with my last birthday party here, next month.

The Angry Young Woman

2010-11-02T01:51:00.002+05:30

The angry young woman tends to be single, with a lot on her mind. On one hand is her firm resolve to be financially independent and pursue a career. On the other, is the societal demand that she be married so that she doesn't die an 'old maid'. Somewhere at the back of her otherwise logical mind, this worry plagues her. What if they are right? What if, in the desire to be happy and live of her own free will rather than the dictates of someone else and incubating their babies, she is actually missing out on some important part of life? What if it isn't so important to earn your own way to fulfilling your goals as it is to just get married and let someone else handle the pressure? What if the old maid is lonely forever.

And all of these worries drive the young woman to stress, which soon turns to anger. That is why the angry young woman will snap your head off at the slightest provocation and will not hesitate to use the choiciest of expletives to better illustrate her message.

Go Green! Eat Grass! Proud to be Part of the Herd!

2010-10-29T03:26:00.001+05:30

I firmly believe, much to the sufferance of my 'professional life', that just because a bunch of people have to work on the same floor, within the same four walls and for the same slave-driving clients, they do not have to necessarily like each other.

Since I believe this, I have, at all the organisations I have worked at, been the loner seeking out people I could get along with who at least shared some of my thoughts and ideals. The problem, of course, is that few people share my belief. They believe in TeamWork and Team Spirit and Team Outings and the lot. They don't believe that a single individual could probably achieve a lot more than their herd minded team ever could. I faced a bite back from one such team at a previous organisation which, while full of egoistic and headstrong individuals, were being forced into submission by an overbearing evil boss. So when I mocked his attempts at herding us to graze, he tried to make things very, very ugly for me.

Lucky for me, right now an individual contributor so I don't really need to associate myself much with the people I consider utterly despicable, and can happily fraternitise with my own kind. My luck hasn't run out so far, so fingers crossed!

As Time Goes On... and On...

2010-10-22T23:09:00.002+05:30

As the years go by, we gain not so much of wisdom, as an awareness of how much we can hurt and how much of this hurt we can stand. The days and months throw afflictions upon us that we must manfully stand up to, and inevitably learn from. As the wrinkles spread upon our forehead, we must face up to the mistakes of our past and live with the consequences of our decisions. As each year passes, we realise that those youthful dreams were more of fallacies and that no good can come of this world unless you work hard at it; so very hard. But from where does one muster up the strength to bring about this elusive goodness?

As we hope to move closer to our graves, we wish for it all to end, as swiftly and as painlessly as possible. And as the sun sets on yet another dreadful day, we have to summon up the strength to face the next, having long forgotten all goals and dreams that would once spur us on.

My Dog Ate It. Again.

2010-10-17T01:44:00.001+05:30

Image courtesy baxterboo.com

"No, ma'am, no, not again" wailed the shopkeeper as he tried to hide behind the counter.
"Oh yes," I replied, as I produced a half eaten rubber ball from my hand bag."Yet another defective, destructible rubber ball. What have you got that my dog can't destroy?"
"Oh, ma'am," moaned the man wretchedly as he wrung his hands looking around his small pet store for some salvation, "we're all out of cannonballs."
"Are you trying to be smart with me?" I retorted as I glared at him, holding the once-ball like a shot put.
"Er, no, of course not! Perhaps you should try giving him something of a tougher material, you know?"
"Look, man, he's eaten through half our footwear - rubber and leather, both - and ripped apart several cushions once he discovered the joys of floating bits of foam. I don't know what else to give him that he won't eat and later poop out, that he just can't joyously chew on forever." I sighed.
"I'm sorry then, ma'am, I really can't help you further. I do have a family to look after and own only a small little pet shop that can only do so much for you and your labrador, you know." said the little man with some determination.
"Fine, then, goodbye. I shall take my business elsewhere!"
And with that I had shut the doors on yet another regular pet store and returned home to find Peanut had munched on some CDs he'd found particularly edible in my absence.
"Oh well, I never much cared for Angora, anyway," I muttered as I fondly patted his head while he panted proudly.

Toddy in Your Sanna?

2010-10-16T01:19:00.000+05:30

If you are Mangalorean you:

Will never bite into an idly without musing about how lovely sannas taste with dukhra maas
Will never be forgiven if you utter a word against the great (late) Wilfy Rebimbus and his family
Possess a cassette of some Wilfy album somewhere in the house, with a picture of his entire family on the cover
Know what lingese is
Have to describe to your non Mangalorean friends the wonders of Kori Roti as they've never even heard of the stuff
Are either a Pinto, D'Souza, Menezes, or know one
Know Tulu or live in guilty ignorance of it
Like to pretend you're Goan when you're in Goa because of your knowledge of Konkani (if you're Catholic)
Have at least a basic knowledge of 3 dialects, all from your hometown: Konkani, Kannada and Tulu
Have at least one relative who owns a buffalo or two in their 'gaddhe'
Swear by Ideal Ice cream and have never really developed a taste for any other brand
Are the only one in your friend's group who knows what a gadbad is
Have at least ten friends whom you have completely stopped talking to because of an imagined slight and now don't really remember what the issue had been
Have at least ten relatives in the Gulf, unless you've lived there yourself
Have parents who keep insisting that you read daijiworld.com, like they do
Never admit to being Mangalorean for the pure shame of being the minority. You don't mind being mistaken for an anglo indian, though
Have a strange and ancient craving for fish curry
Absolutely detest people who think Mangalore is in Kerala
Are a closet backstabber
Studied in Aloysius or Agnes or Nitte or Manipal or KMC

I doubt I'm going to get many takers for this one.

The Only Fest Worth Celebrating

2010-10-15T20:27:00.000+05:30

I've just realised the pressing need for me to celebrate Oktoberfest. Think about it. For a person who has renounced all religion, and has embraced alcohol, nicotine, the odd joint and food as her new gods, this festival surely is a 'god' send.

Therefore, I vow every year to faithfully glug my way through as many beer bottles and chomp my way through plates and plates of frankfurters and other meaty wonders, all through October. I pledge to faithfully belch my weekends away till I am well and truly sloshed and can muster no more will to raise my head off the ground and shove another fried something into my mouth.

This I promise myself. Whee!

Creature Comforts

2010-09-30T22:48:00.000+05:30

Of the many joys that my corporate provides me, like a 24 hour gym and a multi storey cafeteria block, one facility in particular is my own special paradise. I'm referring to the dormitory, where all weary souls go to rest. This being a 24/7 BPO, there would naturally be a lot of bodies tuckering out every other hour or so and therefore the Great Administrative Authorities have benevolently provided us with an air conditioned room containing approximately twenty bunker beds with pillows and blankets - the works!

Often, but far too seldom for my liking, I have spent blissful hours curled up on one of these beds, dead to the world as soon as I hit the pillow. These days, I spend more waking hours at home and more stolen hours of sleep at work. Who could possibly ask for more?!

Crimes Against Humanity aka Marriage

2010-09-27T07:12:00.000+05:30

Yesterday I went to a newly married friend's place for a party. At least, that's what I'd thought it was. I soon found it wasn't much of a party as my friend seemed keen on getting us to just eat dinner and boot us out of the place. After just two hours and we'd just started drinking! Apparently he was guilty of having broken a bottle of booze the previous night and was given no end of hell for it. And this is the guy who's done everything from acid to 'shrooms, whose college life was spent getting stoned every day and who is passionate about his music, his booze and his (then) girl (now wife).

The other married couples around seemed similarly inclined and intent on going home to warm their beds. I just don't get it. Why do normal, sane people decide to get married? Is marriage some sort of rehab for them? Well, it's a rehab that's going to last a long, long time, if so. And probably cheaper than actual rehab. Aren't there easier ways to torture yourself? Like whipping yourself to sleep like members of Opus Dei.

I'm not even sure if it's just the women who torture these men into submission, because they're like lambs practically skipping onto the butcher's block. While I was questioning this friend as to the drastic change in his behaviour, he merely defended himself saying, and I quote, "Married life rocks!"

Yeah, whatever helps you sleep better at night.

The Importance of Having a Life

2010-09-26T11:18:00.000+05:30

In between the rush to work and back and the minutes of TV and sleep that come in the midst of that, I am glad to finally be also rediscovering the world around me. The boyfriend and I have taken to going for walks on the beach early in the morning and come across interesting things/people everyday.

Like the old man from Nagpur who told us about his son who, along with his IIT batchmates, started up a business that ended up winning a national award and international clients. The old man told us how his son thirty years ago asked him for Rs 6000 to start the business. He offered him Rs 50,000 instead. To which his son replied, "I only need the 6000 for living expenses. The rest I can scrape together with time." It was with pride that this father told us all of this and then explained that he'd come to Chennai all the way from his hometown of Nagpur, only to live out the rest of his life with his son and his family.

And the Coastal Clean Up campaign, which had volunteers and media trucks from all over town arriving at the richer sections of the beach in order to clean it up. We watched in silence as we knew our little section of the beach, which wasn't as commercial or popular, would never get this kind of attention.

Then there was the old man who came to us trying to vent out his frustration about the trash littering the beach, and then ended up giving us a few lessons in life. He told us, before he left us half an hour later,"Every person has something of value in them to offer this world. And you're an ass if you don't realise what you have to offer the world."

Inspiring walks, to say the least.

RIP - Jose Saramago

2010-09-17T19:32:00.001+05:30

"It is so easy, dear god, we need only wait for everything in life to be fulfilled in order to say, it was fate."

- Jose Saramago, The Gospel According To Jesus Christ

"You do not know, you cannot know, what it means to have eyes in a world in which everyone else is blind. I am not a queen, no, I am simply the one who was born to see this horror. You can feel it, I both feel and see it."

- Jose Saramago, Blindness

It has been too long since I last read a book, let alone a good book, but one of the best I have read was Blindness by the Nobel Prize-winning Portugese author, Jose Saramago. The fragility of human civilisation told by his tirelessly long sentences is something that really gets one thinking.

He passed away on 18 June this year. Try reading The Gospel According to Jesus Christ (don't read it unless you have a very very broad mind) and Blindness and you'll see what I mean.

Hostel (minus the severing of body parts)

2010-09-17T00:50:00.001+05:30

The ultimate growing up experience in India is living in a 'hostel'. While the term might mean different things to different people in different countries, in India it means only one thing: five to seven people packed into a single room and forced to share a common bathroom with people from four to seven such other rooms on that particular floor.

Hostel inhabitants, perhaps not that surprisingly, refer to themselves as inmates. They really do, and not even sarcastically. Food in hostels could range from ok-tasting to wholly unsuitable for human consumption.

The hostel warden (much like a prison warden), is one who is feared and disliked. She prowls the facility in search of people who have the lights in their rooms on after ten pm, who happen to be giggling away in another friend's room instead of being asleep in their own and she has every right to enter your room when you're not in it so that she can see just how messy it is.

Every women's hostel will have at least one lesbian in it. Note: this is not meant to be discriminatory to homosexuals in any way. It is just that women in women's hostels, or even women's colleges, in India, tend to go through a lesbian phase out of sheer frustration for sexual gratification but then get married like normal heterosexuals once they're out of college.

Every hostel has a thief in it who, despite everyone's best attempts, escapes without ever getting caught and with someone's latest phone and someone else's room rent.

Luckily, every starved hostel dweller has friends 'on the outside' who feed them well with lunch from their own homes. You can recognise the hostel dweller as that would be the person feasting like a fat cop with a free $1000 Dunkin' Donuts voucher, when invited out for a birthday treat.

If you have missed these experiences, you have missed out on an important survival mechanism in India. For the kind of buddies you make at your hostel that served to replace your own family at the time, end up being the ones you kept close forever after that.

One Point to Atheism

2010-09-14T01:12:00.000+05:30

(Banished by the moderators of my company's internal blog hence huffily posting it too late out here.)

All this talk of Koran burning by a tiny insignificant church in Florida that’s probably only doing this for publicity, would lead one to believe that atheism really has something going for it. Have you ever heard of an atheist starting a religious war? Has there been an atheist who has burned some religious institution or object? No, atheists are more of the logical, live-let-live types. Atheists don’t even try brainwashing people into believing what they believe.

So, we atheists are going to sit back and watch to see what happens when this indescribably moronic pastor actually attempts to perform this equally moronic act; and wish that more people would live and let live as we do.

Before You Go...

2010-08-04T19:09:00.000+05:30

There's always hope.

I know right now things don't look so good, but perhaps they can get better. Right now, there are no friends calling you up. There isn't any family who really care enough that you're gone. The financial situation has always been bad and the house won't pay for itself. Yes, snuffing it seems like a good option right now. But what lies on that other side? What happens when you're in the nothingness that none have chronicled factually about? Surely, the land of the living can offer you a better hope for a way forward. Right now, things don't look so good. But somewhere there's a list of stuff that you were going to achieve, and that list just keeps growing longer. Maybe you can buy yourself some time and get that done first. So hang in there for another day. Come out of your self made shell.

And remember: there's always hope.

Of Strange Things and Love

2010-07-27T02:08:00.002+05:30

My parents could never get along. My father was the intellectual, outspoken, charismatic types. My mother was born in a village and sent out into the world with no real education and having the sole aim to get married to someone she could take care of for the rest of her days.

When they got married, in the usual Indian way of getting two complete strangers who may have hardly exchanged two words with each other over the past seven days (also called an 'arranged marriage'), my father was a drunkard who would not hesitate to beat the crap out of my mother for getting 'out of line'. Getting out of line could include nagging, going shopping without his knowledge and talking too much. My mother, in her turn, would babble in her usual empty headed manner, but even that isn't a fit reason for anyone to lay a hand on her.

Over the years, my father had to accept that he was married to someone he could never have a intellectually stimulating conversation with. He would compensate for this by having friends whom he could really talk to, and time at home would be spent watching TV, or eating dinner in front of the TV. On occasion, he would take a break from the set to tease my mother and generally have a laugh or two at her expense but soon even this ceased when he saw us emulating this.

This resulted in him getting more withdrawn, more addicted to the bottle. Until the day he 'met god' and then stopped drinking completely. Even then, I could never sense any real 'love' between them. Sure there was passion (still is, I gather; curse bedrooms that have thin walls especially when your parents are behind them), but not the love that I'd always imagined ought to exist between a man and a woman. They'd fight and go for days without talking to each other, having shouting matches, all of which convinced me that marriages were for the damned.

However, of late, I have noticed that my parents have grown closer to each other. What with the kids out of the way, they have found a strange sort of - dare I call, love - for each other. It's a strange, stupid sort of love, really. The sort of love that makes my mother always take care of my dad the way only she can - remembering where his things are, setting things out just the way he likes them, ensuring his medication/health is alright, feeding him the way he likes it best. The sort of love that tenderly remembers her birthday and their anniversary and going out of his way on the way back home on those special days to pick up a sari he knows she'll love, or a gold ring in a pattern he'd been designing in his mind for months. The sort of love that makes them realise that they're lost without each other, even though one can tell that this is merely the affection that has been born out of years of being stuck with someone and then finding out that you have no other choice but to take care of and be taken care of.

But suddenly, I don't find that love so stupid anymore. Maybe that's the only thing that's real in this world that's otherwise gone to the dogs.

The Morning After

2010-07-26T19:57:00.002+05:30

The morning after is always like the calm after the storm. It's an uneasy calm. A knowledge that you will open your eyes to see the results of the destruction that occurred the night before. An uncertainty of whether your house is still OK or if you yourself are fully intact and can cope to survive another day. A sense of foreboding remains with you throughout the day and you know you need to take steps to set things right, but you'd rather wait in bed some more and hope it isn't as bad as you know it was.

But you have to get out of bed sometime.

You have to pick yourself up, and recollect all the abuse that was meted out to you the previous night. How he handed you the knife and asked you to slit your own throat so he could watch. How he told you that he didn't care about you and if he could disown his parents he could disown you, too. You have to remember how he hurt himself just to show you what he was capable of. Sometimes, you just have to face the storm, even when you'd much rather be sleeping through it.

Then you wonder what comes next and how best to reconstruct the pieces, especially when he comes back to you the next day like nothing ever happened.

Getting Back in Form

2010-07-19T22:27:00.000+05:30

I am becoming my father. And by that I don't mean I'm suddenly sprouting man organs.

My father has always settled any problem using his fists. Man will not let him park in front of his house? Grab him by the collar and punch him. Man will talk back to him? Grab him by the collar and punch him. Drunk relative getting out of hand? Grab him by the collar and punch him.

Over the weekend, I found myself snapping at anyone who seemed in need of moral policing. While not necessarily grabbing them by the collar (when you're as tall (not) as I am, grabbing collars may not be the best, or easiest, thing to do), I did find myself (a) verbally abusing them, (b) giving them the finger or (c) reporting them to a higher authority.

Needless to say, I feel good. So that's what it feels like, eh, Dad?

Grand Test Auto

2010-07-09T23:36:00.000+05:30

Driving in India is pretty much like playing a car video game. Better, even. You encounter the random cow, SWERVE!, mad driver honking behind you, OVERTAKE! YES YOU JUST SCORED A BONUS 500 POINTS! Crazy curves, unlit roads (poorly lit is good these days) and potholes are other things you need to watch for. Then, when you least expect it, a jaywalker will stand in the middle of the road and look at you (minus the look of terror seen in the video games) and you need to figure out whether you ought to go around the guy or over him.

And just like in the video games, you can hit anything or anyone and not get caught! Yes! So get that adrenaline pumping and hit the streets of Chennai/Bangalore or anywhere else your customer support agent happens to be talking to you from.

For Love of Text

2010-07-07T02:32:00.001+05:30

It's a little larger than a tweet
Yet is as simple and as sweet
The very beauty of it's
What will make you love it

It's that which conveys all that's to be heard
Without anyone uttering a word
Surely it's the symbol of technology's finesse
That's right, my dear friends, I speak of SMS.

Some overly shortened words are minced
Till they're just a bunch of consonants
Add some LOLs and ROTFLs
And soon I'm telling a joke that sells

No more speaking to Milly or Billy
Now I get to type myself silly
The sociophobe in me just grows
But I hide behind my foolish prose

Important texts, dirty texts, texts that beg for a day off
Angry texts, sleepy texts, no more being barked at by my boss
I'm ecstatic and I'm over the moon
And I know I'm not talking too soon

For SMS is here to stay
That's the will and that's the way
I'll drink to it and shout with glee
"The best part is that it's FREE!"

The Merits of Being On Top

2010-07-06T23:49:00.001+05:30

Being a manager/vice president/CEO gives you the unprecedented opportunity of always having someone listen to whatever you have to say. Finally you will be surrounded by people who will never say no to you even if you remark how the sky isn't so much blue as a hint of aquamarine green.

Finally you will have people who will ALWAYS laugh at all your jokes, yes, even the 'intended' puns. You will never be unpopular, at least never ever within your hearing, you will have no dearth of people who would be willing to have lunch, dinner or anal sex with you at any time of day or night.

Of course, when you have achieved this post with the same amount of butt kissing, it is only fair that the same should come back to you. What's karma for, after all?

Why You Need a Boyfriend

2010-06-30T22:30:00.000+05:30

While I can't really think of a good reason why anyone should get married, I certainly can think of several reasons why a woman should have a man in her life; a boyfriend, I mean.

For one thing, boyfriends make the ideal punching bag. When you've had a bad day, when you're PMSing, and even just for the hell of it, you can let loose all your ill temper and mad moodswings upon him. You can blame him for all the troubles you've ever faced. Hey, you can't do that with a dog, now can you?

Got a heavy bag to carry? Or got a bubble top that needs replacing? Sure, the woman of today can do just about anything, but why strain yourself when there's a man around to do the job?

Now, strangely, these are the only reasons I can come up with for any lady to even want to have a boyfriend, but perhaps the rest of you can come up with more. And marrying one? Well, then all you would need is therapy.

Fun Facts about Dogs

2010-06-18T07:58:00.001+05:30

Dogs believe that a couple of licks and wagged tails would improve the world as we know it.
Having sex in front of your dog is like having sex in front of your kid except your dog won't ask you embarrassing questions about it later in front of your friends.
If dogs could talk, they'd work in call centers, too.

In Tact

2010-06-18T07:55:00.002+05:30

Diplomacy is a dirty word. In corporates, it's all the rage. It's the reason why it's important to laugh at your boss' stupid jokes when you'd much rather be pushing his face into the nearest potted plant.

It's the reason why the sarcastic yet hard working, quiet coworker never gets promoted even though if he were to put in his papers, he'd be taking with him ninety percent of the brains of the team.

Diplomacy has stood ass kissers and boss' pets in good stead; it teaches one how to look at the person you hate the most in the eye and tell them that they are the person you love the most. It can only be found in the corporate world and only amongst those who continually climb upwards to higher positions of power.

So try a little diplomacy with your coffee today and soften the bitterness with a promotion or two.

The Good Old Days

2010-05-28T23:48:00.001+05:30

When I was a kid, pollution was occurring, environmentalists were warning the world about the possible effects of global warming (sometimes through kiddie shows like Captain Planet), couples did have fights or abusive relationships and did get separated or divorced, love was very subjective, not all smokers got cancer, there were terrible movies and there were great movies, music was not all bad but some was terrible.

Twenty-six years late, pollution is still occurring, environmentalists are still warning world leaders about global warming now that its signs are becoming manifest (at least now some of them are listening), couples still fight and have abusive relationships and still get separated or divorced, love is still subjective (I would go so far as to say in some cases it's purely a state of mind), not all smokers get cancer, there are good movies (Doubt) and there are horrible movies (pick any Adam Sandler movie of your choice), music is not all bad but some tracks and artistes are awful.

This is merely a reminder to self never to reminisce about the 'good old days'.

Oh, the Humanity

2010-05-25T02:27:00.003+05:30

I am discovering within myself an increasing distaste for people; or humankind, rather.

They lie too easily. They are unfaithful. They exhibit an alarming tendency for duplicity. They tend to be nice to the people who can give them the most either physically or emotionally or financially. They are selfish, can be quite brutal and will allow you in their life so long as you are of some use to them.

I have witnessed a family allowing a member to die of cancer before their very eyes, claiming treatment would hurt him even more; mainly because he was retired and mentally disturbed and of no use, anyway. I have seen trust heartlessly broken and love struggle in vain. I have watched as a female was allowed to be slapped around simply because she dared to defy a male member of the family. What then is more inhumane than a human being itself?

Yet from humans also sprouts good. Charities, social help groups, animal welfare councils. But were not all these started by people who had gone through all that torture and vowed not to let it happen to anyone else? Are we so lacking in empathy that we cannot simply help another out of our so called social nature? Why must we wait for misfortune to attune us to the suffering of a fellow man?

It is the nature of humans to be animals, although sometimes I feel that animals are more just and true to their nature than we who claim to be civilised and .. 'human'.

Red Curtain Falls

2010-05-20T01:50:00.003+05:30

The anger is now unbridled.

All too often it is unleashed

Against you

And well you know that you deserve it.

It comes out powerful

And strong

And grows with every outburst.

Sometimes I think that it has a life of its own

And must be expressed

Mainly for its own survival.

It feeds on your pitiful cries for mercy.

More!

it cries within me,

More!

None of this is enough

To wipe away all traces of the pain

You caused me.

Living a Lie

2010-05-16T00:26:00.002+05:30

I don't deserve any sympathy. I have cheated and lied and am now suffering the consequences of my actions for karma does not forget, no. I am reminded of my actions again and again and how it was a poor innocent who suffered for my crimes. I am glad of the punishment I now receive. I deserve no better. I hope for more purging in fire and hope to never rest in peace. Ever again.

Boyfriends Vs. Dogs

2010-05-07T18:45:00.001+05:30

What is a dog, but a machine for loving? You introduce him to a human being
giving him the mission to love and however ugly, perverse, deformed or stupid
this human being might be - the dog loves him. - Iggy Pop, A Machine for Loving

Unconditional love, anyone? Try a dog. A dog is better than a boyfriend because:

You never have to worry about him cheating on you.
He'd never check out another (human) woman, with the intent to sleep with her someday.
He's always happy to see you, and ALWAYS wakes up the minute you get home.
He doesn't expect you to do the dishes, or clean the house; in fact, he provides you with his invaluable company and full attention when you choose to do either of these.
You don't have to be interesting, pretty or cool to hold his interest.
He'd never go out of town without you.

Anyone care to add to this list? I can think of several but I feel bad for my boyfriend.

New Love

2010-05-05T17:19:00.002+05:30

My shadow is furry and a golden shade of brown.

He follows me all over the house even if I just got up to fetch myself a glass of water. He has adorable hazel eyes that keep checking on me once in a while to make sure I'm doing ok. During a fight with the boyfriend, he jumped in between licking my tears as they fell.

He's a sweetheart for all of the four days that I've known him so far. I hope this is the start of a long and beautiful friendship.

Puff Off

2010-04-27T09:19:00.003+05:30

Every time I light one up, I hate it. I hate it because it symbolises my weakness; my inability to say no to something that is wreaking slow and indiscernible damage within my body. It stands for everything that is wrong in my life that is beyond my control simply because I cannot bring myself to deal with it for now. It is not me; I can do better than this. But for now, I'm just taking a slow drag and trying to buy myself some more time till the next best thing comes along.

Mythically Speaking

2010-04-27T03:55:00.002+05:30

Consider this: Maybe there isn't anyone out there for us. Maybe the relationship fallacy is something invented by the human mind to give us a reason to look forward to the next day when there is none. Maybe there is no special someone made just for us to keep us happy and alive for the rest of our days. Maybe we were bred to live our days in torment, created by gods who toss us about like pawns over their root beer. Maybe the only thing that's real is death, the ultimate salvation. Maybe that's all we should look forward to at the end of our long weary day.

Karmic Chaos

2010-04-19T22:05:00.000+05:30

Karma is an old woman.

She sits in a dimlit room filled with fumes bubbling out from the cauldron she is stirring. She mutters continuously in what sounds like a dialect of assamese. It sounds much like the incantations of an ancient mantra but if you listen closely ou will hear your own life story being narrated through her old dry lips.

You will sit by helplessly as you watch her add more miseries to her pot, to make you pay for the sins of your past. There is no escaping her for you and her both know you are getting just what you deserve.

She smiles a small, slightly pitiful, smile as you exit the room with the weight of your woes on your shoulders.

At What Cost?

2010-04-16T01:53:00.002+05:30

I just spent Rs. 13,000 on a new AC. Part of my buy-stuff-for-your-own-home trip I'm on this year. Did you know that Rs. 13,000 can also pay for an abortion at a good hospital?

Rs. 13,000 also happens to be my monthly rent.

For Rs. 13,000 you can also buy a pretty fancy suit.

Rs. 13,000 can get you two microwave ovens - the kind you can see your face in instead of your food.

Rs. 13,000 could have bought me a smallish LCD tv but I decided to go in for a flat screen ordinary one instead.

Rs. 13,000 can buy my boyfriend the Chrono he's been eyeing for sometime now; or could just buy me an iPod nano and then some.

Can Rs. 13,000 buy me some peace of mind, friends who'll put up with my odd temper tantrums and a constant feeling of ease with self? No? Oh well.

Of A Life Less Lived

2010-04-13T22:43:00.001+05:30

(Written several rums later)

The most basic of human fears, the most primal, is that of being alone.

Even the lone wolf, much as he would love to be part of the pack, howls alone into the night. His howl is that of pain and sorrow and the bitterness of his solitude.

I have been the lone wolf. I have faced the pain of isolation. Perhaps that is why I dread the loneliness and exclusion. I grab attention wherever I find it. I hold on to what I can call my own.

There are several like me who would love to run free, but dread the loneliness freedom entails.

Don't Ask

2010-04-06T23:48:00.001+05:30

One of the most potentially embarrassing situations women have to face with the men in their lives happens to be:

Woman: Honey, I'm just going over to the beauty parlour.
Man: For what?

At this point, woman stops short, fumbles about for a while and gives up and vaguely mutters: Oh, just the usual girl stuff, dear.

How do you tell the man who is convinced of your sexual prowess that you are going to wax your upper lip/arms/armpits/legs? Or then there's the bleaching of various facial hair that he failed to notice existed because of the clever timings of your appointments.

And how do you explain to him the concept of blackhead removal? Is not the dreaded 'Euw, gross' and the even more contemptuous look of genuine shock on his face every reason for you to cover up your covert reasons for visiting the beautician?

If this isn't reason enough, imagine explaining to him microdermabrasion.

Lying Cheating Bastards

2010-03-29T23:19:00.000+05:30

Define mental instability.

Is it: cheating on your girlfriend by sleeping with your ex and lying to the both of you, denying it at every stage, proving your point by going so far as to the point of self abuse? Self abuse that involves banging your head against a wall or ramming yourself into a door?

Is it: Defending yourself before the two parties even after your lies have been caught out, still helplessly explaining that you did it all because you didn't know how to break it to the other and you couldn't bear to see the other hurt?

Is it: Despite doing all of the above, humiliating and torturing your girlfriend mentally and emotionally almost every night by telling her that she is a loser and putting her down based on her physical appearance?

Is it: Killing yourself with alcohol every night and describing to your girlfriend how you'll beat up her dad someday?

Mental instability? Or cowardice? Or just so fucking not worth it?

Letting Go

2010-03-14T19:37:00.001+05:30

Wild things, as I've mentioned before were meant to be free. I'm attracted to free spirits being one myself; this time I think I fell too hard. I don't ever want to do this again. Goodbye, sunshine. Hello, rainy days.

The Great Feb 14 Rip off

2010-02-14T22:08:00.002+05:30

I'm home for Valentine's Day. Alone. But I expected all of this. And the fact that my boyfriend did not get me anything or even plan to. I, of course, on the other hand, surprised him at midnight with a candle lit room, a heart shaped cake and the ray ban aviators he'd been meaning to buy for some time now. So what else is new.

It could be that I have bad taste, but every guy I have been with so far has been unromantic. I literally had to coach them into giving me flowery or other surprises. Of course, I pride myself on not going in for frivolous celebrations that only serve to profit greeting card companies and gift shops and restaurants (yes, Bill, I can hear your teeth grind) but somewhere inside me is a hopeless little romantic, and hey I'm a woman, who just wants a bunch of red roses from her valentine on the fourteenth of February without having to bully her boyfriend into it.

Is that too much to ask?

Used and Abused

2010-02-02T01:51:00.003+05:30

I am, my dear friends, in pain. This pain, as I call it, is not in any real physical sense as it were; in fact it doesn't even construe so much as a headache. No, this pain is caused by a very real physical presence in my sad little life. Not a romantic affair gone wrong, no, for this is caused by someone who is unfortunately, due to the circumstances the gods of fate like to throw us into, very close to me, in a physical sense at least. It is, for readers more familiar with my affairs, my roommate who is giving me such a magnificent amount of grief.

Now, I know that it will make me nothing more than just another ranting, raving gossiping old hag if I begin to bitch about her, but please for once let me be the woman I have suppressed within rather than the wannabe tomboy I strive for. You see, my roommate is under unfortunate circumstances. The very reason I took her under my wing was the sympathy and compassion and genuine liking I felt for her when I first met her. Her sob story was that she had left house and home after being accused of having a fling with her first cousin. This man, incidentally, is ten years older and aided her in getting out of her abode and now supports the both of them on his minimal income. That is not the worst part, no, for each one's life and choices are their own to make, I firmly believe. The worst part is that this child has no ambition and at age 24 is content to sit at home all day watching television and sometimes rustling up some grub in the kitchen while living off her cousin's income. And my generosity.

You see, it's two months now and I've been told she cannot afford to pay the rent. Four months earlier it was my other roommate who had sponsored her rent. A year ago she told me she wouldn't be able to afford to share the internet bill with me and so I gushed immediately that she could use it whenever she liked and not to worry about the cost; on my laptop, of course, for she cannot afford a laptop of her own. Then, four months ago she announced to me that she was leaving me for good and wished to return to her hometown where she desired to pursue the college education she had neglected to pursue all this time. I, while momentarily shocked as I surely couldn't afford to pay the rent all by myself (the third roommate had announced her departure around the same time), I wished her luck and encouraged her to chase her dreams. Then, two months ago she reappears on my doorstep telling me how she hadn't found any place she could stay at and was unsuccessful at making any friends back there so had decided to return. Ok, said I, just like old times.

Just like old times, alright. Dirty dishes in the sink which weren't used by me, waiting for me to wash them. Bills that I have to pay all by myself, TV and laptop in use even on my only off days by hands and eyes other than mine own. And now, she says she can't pay rent. Moaning to my boyfriend about it only brings me advice of: you're bigger hearted than that, don't talk this way about her; I know what it is like to have no money.

Oh, yes, soon I shall too, from the looks of it. Until then, I have the luckiest roommate on earth.

Painful Convictions

2010-01-19T21:37:00.001+05:30

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your beliefs at that particular time, religious people appear to be the most callous and inconsiderate. They can say the most outrageous and inappropriate things in the name of God and remain completely ignorant of the havoc they've wreaked in the emotions of the person they're addressing.

Telling the grieving family of a dead person that it's a good time he died when he did may not exactly be what they want to hear, you know? Damning the soul of a student who committed suicide because they failed a subject, claiming that suicide is a sin, isn't exactly solving the larger problem. Accusing every homosexual of being evil and harbouring evil desires, within the hearing of everyone around, isn't going to make that closet gay feel anymore comfortable with himself.

Sometimes it's important to just respect the beliefs, or lack of belief, of the other person.

Drifting Along

2009-12-26T11:55:00.003+05:30

The sea has always fascinated and scared me, as I'm sure it has so many others. The uncertainty of the waters, the wildness of the tide, the harsh stinging saltiness as it rubs against a scratch on my leg. The deep, deep sea - to think of what lies beneath makes the mind boggle.

Wildness is a part of nature. The unsteadiness of life, the way you feel like a ship lost at sea, that can at any time be tossed over and taken under, swept away by the sea, swallowed whole, never to surface again. Perhaps the vessel was glad of it; had no clear direction or purpose. Perhaps the men on deck were already worn and weary, dreary of holding on; something that seemed so pointless against the winds and the storm that seemed so much stronger than they were. The storm that, at least, seemed to know what it was doing and had a purpose even if that purpose was destruction of lives.

Wildness is a state of being; being wild and free. You cannot tame it. Perhaps you should just let it go.

Wild Things

2009-11-28T02:20:00.000+05:30

To be born free, wild and unchained. To own the world you walk in and not be afraid of anyone. To command the path your feet take and not have to be at someone's beck and call. To go boldly where you want to go, not where someone else leads you.

How would you tame the wild beast? No chains can weigh it down. How can you hold on to what was meant to be free? How would you try to live your life the way it wasn't meant to be?

Heil Mary!

2009-11-27T23:01:00.001+05:30

And the Virgin Mary was born and lived in Kodambakkam and worked for an IT firm.

I am not kidding. The mother of God apparently works in my company and, eager as I am, I have failed to catch a glimpse of her yet.

My friends and I speculated briefly on why anyone in their righteous minds would curse their child with a name like Virgin Mary; I mean, no offence to the faithful, but what would Ms. Mary call herself once she'd had sex? I mean, it would be a lie to continue telling people she was virgin.

Wouldn't it?

And at cocktail parties, she must be one hell of a confused woman, especially with teetotaller friends around. There she'd be, sipping her bloody mary, when her friend yells for a 'Virgin Mary! On the Rocks!' and she'd look up alarmed for a minute wondering where the nearest cliff was.

And when they make out, does her husband, in a state of heightened excitement, yell, "Oh sweet Mother of God" only to hear her shout back,"That's me! That's me!"

What would they name their kids? Is her husband's name Joseph? Did they ever visit Nazareth? Does she have any Protestant friends? Does the Pope know she's in Chennai? And what would happen - heaven forbid - if she should someday decide to change her religion? I can't imagine a Hindu Virgin Mary no matter how much I try.

And this is why, friends, parents ought to restrict themselves to corny baby names books rather than letting their self inflated creativity loose on their unsuspecting progeny.

You Swine!

2009-08-15T23:13:00.001+05:30

Swine flu is the most perfect disease for the recluse; finally, here is a disease where people are advised not to mingle with each other and to stay at home. What more could anyone want?!

Dos or Don'ts

2009-08-13T18:43:00.000+05:30

I do...
... agree to live with this sloth-filled human being for the rest of my days, cleaning up after him and cooking for him while all he does is go to work, watch tv, mess up the living room and snore through the night.

I do...
... promise to not flirt with the cute guy at work even though he's much nicer to me than my husband to be and buys me flowers or a chocolate everyday while I haven't even received my birthday gift from you-know-who yet.

I do...
... vow to have his babies and change their diapers and put up with their tantrums and lose sleep over them while my loving husband snores on and asks me to 'keep it down'.

I do...
... aim to abide by his views on the friends I keep, the places I go to, the things I buy and adhere to his principles on life and how it ought to be lived.

I do...
... do I?

Misunderstood?

2009-08-07T20:28:00.000+05:30

In the virtual world, it is very easy for people who don't know you in person to misjudge you. A statement devoid of ten exclamation marks and five smileys can be misinterpreted to be coming from a cold, dark soul with misanthropic tendencies. This can therefore only be repaired by inserting said exclamation marks and smileys, in order to make your intentions more positive.

For e.g.:

Without exclamation/smileys:
India is a nice place but not as nice as certain parts of Europe.

With exclamation/smileys:
India is a nice place!!!!!! :) :D but not as nice :) as certain parts of Europe!!!!!!!! ;)

There. You see what I mean? Now you try it.

FYI

2009-08-07T20:27:00.000+05:30

Be warned.

A solar eclipse can make a pregnant woman miscarry. Sick leaves advised.

Drinking cold water after an oily meal will give you cancer. Drink Pepsi instead; all you have to worry about is the pesticides.

Today five rich Kenyan uncles you never had will give you six million dollars. Aren't you a lucky person.

Watching a movie in a seedy theatre can give you Aids. Wear really thick clothing.

Tomorrow there's going to be an earthquake and a tsunami. Sunbathing at the beach not advised.

You have been warned.

Requiem for Change

2009-08-07T20:26:00.000+05:30

The Gujjars are staging yet another protest, Manmohan Singh has shocked and silenced Indians all over once more, the Delhi Metro Rail project is turning into a joke with more cracks on the pier and Chennai's still hot despite the rains.

Some things never change.

Most people don't change either.

Just when you begin to think it's time to hang up your boots and start the quiet life, something comes along that challenges you and eggs you on to seek anew the thrills life has to offer.

Just when you think you've learned from your mistakes and do not wish to succumb to the destructive decisions of your past, you indulge in the same whims all over again and think why not; too late will you realise why you had vowed never to let yourself go out of control again.

Some people never change. It's circumstances that change that make them behave a different way: new commitments, new goals, new reasons to look forward to the next day. Yet the old desires lurk beneath the seemingly calm exterior, waiting to break out once more.

Why Buy a Music CD When You Can Travel by Cab

2009-08-07T20:22:00.000+05:30

No cab journey is complete without the driver of the cab assaulting your auditory senses with the same boring repetitive local numbers.

Want to listen to some rock? Or in the mood for some hip hop or jazz? Too bad! You will be forced to enjoy the songs of the local dialect that plummetted out of vogue, from the last fifty years.

But not to worry, they can be very addictive. The best part is you don't have to buy the music album; travelling by cab is so much easier. And cheaper!

Why We Object to Bangaloreans

2009-07-16T00:16:00.000+05:30

I love winter. Unfortunately, in Chennai, winter does not exist.

The seasons in Chennai, as the old joke goes, are hot, hotter and hottest. There is no cold season. There is no time of year wherein we are shivering in our boots and puffing out clouds of steam from between our frozen lips. Heck, we don't even have a clearly defined monsoon. The rains here are a mere sprinkle. If the sprinkle goes on for a whole day, we get floods. And then you have to get a boat out just to get to the end of the street.

The only time I wear a jacket in Chennai is when I am riding my two wheeler, to protect me from the sun. A five minute walk down the road during the daytime in Chennai results in a deep tan and profuse sweating. As we mop our brow, we curse our choice of birthplace and/or settlement.

And when we reach our offices, we have to clean up and douse ourselves with deodorant afresh as we move into our - thankfully - airconditioned offices.

Which is why we who live in Chennai object fiercely to Bangaloreans describing to us the wonderful weather out there. Have a heart, people, and think of those who are less fortunate than yourselves...

Mobile Appendages

2009-07-16T00:15:00.000+05:30

Sometimes mobile phones feel like extra appendages. I'm not talking about the women who are on calls for seemingly the whole day long at ought to have them sewn onto their ears. Bluetooth headsets are good enough for them.

It's not even about the constant attention they demand: needs fuel - keep it charging; feels out of sorts - run to a mobile technician and spend three woeful days without it till you wonder how you'd ever survived without one in the first place; buzzing every other few minutes - you feel at ease for you know that all is well with the world.

No, it's just about how personal they are. When someone fingers my mobile phone, just to check out the model, I can't help but be taken aback with a short catch of the breath. Then I see them unlock it and the uneasiness grows. They're violating my precious. Some people don't think much of going through your pictures either without so much as an if you please. That's ok till they get to the embarrassing pictures I'd clicked of myself just to check out how my hair looked (but of course).

The worst are the text message readers. I don't think they exist anymore, now that cellphone users have evolved. But in the early days of cellphone communication, they wouldn't think much of rifling through your messages for any 'interesting forwards' even if the only interesting messages in there were the extra-private ones sent by your boyfriend.

Once it is back safely into my hands again, I let out a little sigh of relief and run my fingers over it vowing to never let it out of my sight again. My precious... ahem.

My Sister's Homework

2009-06-28T12:32:00.001+05:30

Which I got to do again because my job is only an excuse for me to make money. Here's the speech I had to write for her:

Ten fun things to do during an exam

Three whole hours and nothing to do. Especially if you haven't studied for it. Time is very important and noone should ever waste it, right? Friends, I will tell you what you can do when you're stuck in a boring exam hall.

1. Build a tranformer out of erasers. You might need a lot of erasers. It's ok because you have three whole hours to borrow erasers from everyone in the room. You can even go to the other rooms to borrow erasers for your pet project. If teacher tries to ask you what you're doing, shush her with a brow furrowed in deep concentration.

2. Try to think about what Darwin really meant by his theory of evolution and how you can make it more relevant to the present century. Ponder upon the evolution of your principal and teachers and take notes on your exam papers. Won't teacher be happy when you keep asking for extra sheets.

3. Count every hair on your head. Remember how you've always wanted to do that but never had the time? Well here's the chance for you to finally do it because you have three whole hours to kill!

4. Plan the party of the century. Or even the millennium. Just use your answer book to start calculating expenses. Hey, at least you're practising your math, right?!

5. Practise the mating call of the komodo dragon. Start with high pitched squeaks. If no komodo dragon appears, move onto to low growls. Keep doing this until a dragon approaches you. Note: the komodo dragon is not to be confused with your class teacher who would also approach you once she begins to hear the sounds.

6. Stare at the person on your left until they look back at you but before they can catch you staring, turn to the person on the right. Do this with the person on the right and take turns to annoy them. If they both begin to stare at you, stare at the ceiling and begin to count the cracks in it.

7. Give your stationery names. Make an army out of them. You can be general. Instruct them on how they will all be battling the vicious History monster and how they must not fail their noble task.

8. Say water... water... like a dying man in a desert and collapse in a dead faint. Before you know it, you're being pumped with glucose and out of the exam hall.

9. Do a da Vinci on your desk. Now is the time to discover the artist in you. Get to work creating the masterpiece of the century. You can even try drawing your teacher. She might even be impressed by it, you never know.

10. If nothing else works, point out the window and yell,"Terrorists! I see bombs and guns!" and rush out the door. Grab the first taxi home and settle down with a coke and pizza. You earned it.

Horn Definitely Not OK

2009-06-21T17:51:00.001+05:30

Spot the most fingered spot on this guy's wheel

I don't know what you managed to find, but I'm talking about the horn. The average Indian driver, whether a taxi driver, a motorcyclist, a bus driver or an automobile owner, tends to overuse the horn, which his vehicle had been primarily blessed with to prevent him from knocking over other people.

The horn today is supposed to signify any of:

Get out of my way, asshole, you're going too slow
Get out of my way, bitch, your skirt's blowing in my face
Get out of my way, pedestrian, I have four wheels and you have none, har har!
Get out of my way, my finger's stuck to my horn, look ma!

The incessant blaring of the guy behind you gets really annoying when you happen to be at a signal that has turned red and there is no way you could go forward unless you particularly wanted a fine doled out to you. Or when you're only going as fast as the guy in front of you if only the tooting prick behind you would notice.

One thing I like to do is go especially slow if I know the horn is of the 'Get out of my way, bitch, your skirt's blowing in my face' persuasion. Sure, I nearly got beaten up for my arrogance, but it sure was worth sticking it back to the jerk.

F* Corporate Cost Cutting

2009-05-30T01:00:00.003+05:30

Aargh! First cheap towels and now this.

And You Thought Your Parents Were Bad

2009-05-22T19:28:00.001+05:30

Maybe they were worse than this particular couple, but if they were, you'd probably be reading this from some sort of asylum by now.

The case of Baby P caught my attention today, the poor child unfortunate enough to be born to the woman who caused his subsequent death. In case you're unfamiliar of the details of the case, a young British woman aged 25 had a little baby boy in March 2006 and months later broke up with the father of the child and got friendly with another guy. Normal so far. The new boyfriend moves in and suddenly there are bruises appearing on Baby P's, Peter's, body. Months later, the boyfriend gets his friend to stay with them, who was on the run from his wife, with his 15 year old girlfriend. Several welfare visits later (around 60 over a span of eight months) and enforced trips to the various doctors, and arrests and temporary stays of the child with a family friend while his mother stayed in jail for a while after a fresh set of bruises were discovered, Baby P was taken to hospital with a broken back and ribs, none of which were discovered by the doctor who attended to him.

One day in August 2007, at the grand old age of 17 months, Peter was found dead in his blood spattered cot. Oh, and during the subsequent court proceedings where his mother and her boyfriend were put on trial, it was found that the latter was also guilty of having raped a two year old.

There are lots of questions to be asked: Why didn't welfare take him in before it was too late? Police who'd been to the premises before claimed she was a 'slob' and would incessantly be either on the Internet or watching TV, leaving the baby to its own devices and the house reeked of urine and she seemed to care more for her three dogs than her son. Why was such a woman allowed to raise a child? If she did not want a child, why didn't she just abort it or give it up for adoption? I mean, it isn't as though she feared social stigma, was it? How does the earth breed idiots like this? Why am I blogging about something that happened two years ago?

This is why safe sex should be advised Mr. Joseph Ratzinger. This is why abortion shouldn't be illegal, Mr. Conservative (a lot of politicians I hate on that list so can't name them all here). This is why morons shouldn't be allowed to have babies. Sure, kids aren't the most loveable things on earth but if you must have them give them a life of dignity. In a way, I'm glad that kid died when he did. I'd hate to see what all that violence would have made him grow up to be.

One Last Cuppa Before I Go

2009-05-22T01:08:00.002+05:30

View from the Window of the Office Lobby

There are a lot of things I'm going to miss about this place when I finally leave it. Tea breaks and lunches and dinners out downstairs with R, for one thing. Forever having to implore her to wait if any managers were around, or begging her to let us have lunch anywhere except Saravana Bhavan.

Odious food at the canteen alleviated by the presence of Gupta's north indian food stall. And now the new biryani guy.

Horrible scanner that never worked when anyone really needed it; like during the peak season.

Endless ways to fritter away your salary by visiting the neighbouring mall; despite the incessant power cuts.

Learning how to beat down my ego so that it'd fit into my pocket where I could hide it away from my managers.

Learning that not all friends are good friends, and how to tell the difference.

Being forced not to speak my mind because dumb people talk louder and it's only the loudest voice that's ever heard.

All in all, this company helped me grow professionally. By that I mean that I have ceased to struggle. I have become truly corporatised. The end has just begun.

Seen at Spencer's

2009-05-17T10:59:00.003+05:30

Uhm... I'll try?

With All Due Respect

2009-05-15T19:05:00.002+05:30

They'd crept up on me from behind. By the time they were upon me, it was too late to run, or hide. They pounced upon me and opened their mouth: "Priloza, we'd like you to do us a little favour..."

"But" I told them, my heart beating rapidly and my mind racing fast for excuses, "but my work here is done; it's time for me to leave, I've been here for twelve hours already!"

"Oh" they said, ingratiatingly,"but you know we can't ask anyone else. If we asked Sandi she'd yell at us and when we asked Yosef he gave us a piece of his mind. One must always respect the disrespectful, did you not know?"

"Alright, but what does any of this have to do with me?" I said, my brow beginning to furrow.

"You are of manner mild and ineffectual. What you say is of no consequence. You are the ideal workhorse. We'd say work donkey but we have been instructed that we are to boost employee morale. You must therefore yield to our demands, as you always do, and do far more work than we will ever pay you for."

"But..." I tried, helplessly.

"You aren't going to, refuse us, are you?" they asked, in a manner that seemed a touch threatening, or maybe it was only my fancy.

"No, of course not, I just--"

"Good then, you may complete this in an hour's time. Now get on with your work."

Saying this, the two-headed manager demon stalked off back to their chamber.

A Catful of Sorrows

2009-05-12T17:42:00.001+05:30

And the lord said unto me: I shall smite thee for thou hast not kept My Will. For thou hast coveted thy neighbour's boyfriend and hath borne false witness against thy manager.
Then I said unto the lord: Have mercy on me, oh lord. I know that I have sinned against you. Let me appease you oh great saviour of us all. What penance should I do to atone for my sins?
Then the lord said unto me: Now you're talking! For thy penance thou shalt live with cats! Bwahahahaha!
And so it came to pass that I was accursed with two mewling kittens, brought home by my roommate. The trouble with cats is that they bite and scratch. To put a finer point on that: they bite and scratch me. I have a history of being bitten and/or scratched by various cats down the years that weren't even my pets. If that wasn't painful enough, the ensuing precautionary injection certainly was. Maybe they hate that I'm a doglover. I dunno. That led to my subsequent hatred for all cats and my letting any neighbouring dog loose on any neighbouring cat I see. I know, that's evil. I've sobered down a lot now and have even gone so far as to develop a fondness for my boyfriend's half-blind black tomcat who blessedly doesn't bite or scratch me at all.
In any case, there the little critters are now; crawling all over the house, miaowing for all they're worth, insisting on exploring every nook and cranny of the house and I can't even plonk myself down anywhere for fear I might flatten one of them. Thankfully they seem to have developed toilet manners early enough so that's one worry out of the way.
One must make up for the sins of one's past in one way or another, I guess.

Note to Self: You Are Not Gisele Bundchen

2009-05-04T15:18:00.001+05:30

On my way to work today, strutting as I do, self-importantly, towards the bus stop, I was instantly infuriated by the touch of another hand on mine. Said hand belonged to an individual walking next to me who was, and this was the bit that infuriated me most, male. I do not react kindly to male touch. Put it down to being a woman, being a victim of child abuse or being just plain narcissist. In any case, there I was accosting the individual with a few rude sentences, with the f word thrown in for good measure. Imagine my surprise when he defends and justifies himself saying that it was I who was swinging her hands about all over the place and 'not to talk like a loose person'. Loose, in Tamil slang, meaning mentally unstable, not sexually promiscuous (or so I hope).
As he then stalked off, leaving me opening and shutting my mouth like a fish, I realised maybe I ought to not speak too soon. Eh?

Why Whine

2009-05-01T20:36:00.001+05:30

It's fun to be a whiner. Don't believe me? Try it yourself: I hate my job. I hate my colleagues. I hate where I live. I hate the people I live with. See? Now you've started to sound just like me. Being a whiner gives you the liberty to express your dissatisfaction with the system yet not do anything about it. Think about it. You can spew negativism and profanity in the comfort of your cubicle or bathroom and not go out of your way going to all the trouble of looking for your dream job, using a stun gun on your colleagues or move house.

Dissatisfied with the current state of affairs of the nation? Don't vote, just sit on your ass and cuss the bastard making long drawn speeches on the mike. Upset with your phone service provider? Why change your gorblimey number? Just rant loud and clear to anyone in the vicinity about the disadvantages of fonadove.

All in all, I would advocate taking the most chicken hearted way out of all situations. No confrontations, no random acts of rebellion, no vicious stabs with sharp objects. Save up all that energy for ranting about the way your life's going.

The Net Life

2009-04-30T15:22:00.001+05:30

Being pretty on the internet is so easy. So is being intelligent and interesting. Popular, even. Anyone with more than 200 contacts on a social networking site can look popular, even if she's only accepted every invitation from every hankering male that came her way. Post a picture of your head in some flattering position and you're suddenly beautiful. If it doesn't work the natural way, a bit of Photoshopping would do.

Read a bit, pick up a bit of info and throw it at people whose daily read consists of their email forwards and you're a social genius. Life couldn't be better. It's so... comforting and welcoming to have a world like this at your fingertips after having suffered all through your life coming into constant physical contact with people who thought you were ugly, boring and a freak of nature.

Which is why internet relationships thrive and people like me continue to blog. Two hits today! I'm famous! Woo hoo!

Whatever.

Are You What You Eat?

2009-04-29T15:38:00.001+05:30

(Written for the pimps of the BPO industry, once more)

So you’ve eaten sushi, Italian, Goan, American and think you’re more or less a gourmet? If you think you’ve eaten it all, think again.

Casu marzu (thanks Bill), a delicacy from Sardinia, Italy, is a cheese that can be harmful if consumed without proper protective gear. The cheese is made from sheep’s milk that is allowed to ferment further with the help of the larvae of the cheese fly, Piophila casei. The larvae cause the cheese to become semi-liquid and patrons like to consume the cheese at this stage – with or without the maggots. Since these maggots tend to leap into the air up to 15cm when disturbed, people are advised to wear protective eye gear when consuming it. The Italian government, for its part, has banned the sale and consumption of this cheese. Apparently, if ingested, the maggot can traverse the intestine unharmed by the stomach’s acids, and cause a range of intestinal disorders, including causing stomach lesions. Why then, you may ask, would anyone in their right minds want to eat a food this harmful?

Well, then you should rightly ask, why is rat meat being sold as freely as chicken is elsewhere, in Bihar? While the Italian government hastens to stop its people from harming themselves by eating decomposing cheese, the Bihar government seems intent on convincing people of the merits of rat meat. The social welfare minister sees this as a way to boost income for the poor and tries to convince people, a little desperately one might think, of the wholesomeness of rat meat in the diet: “Rats have almost no bones and are quite rich in nutrition. People at large don't know this cuisine fact but gradually they are catching up,” says the principal secretary of the state’s welfare department as he adds, “we can save about half of our food grain stocks by catching and eating rats.” If you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em?

All of this isn’t much if you consider that there are entire sects of people in India who believe that a glass of fresh bovine urine first thing in the morning is just what the doctor ordered. The bovine urine is in certain cases substituted with one’s own, as in urine therapy. Compared to this, the highly inedible yak’s cheese of the Northeast seems enticing.

If you eat at a roadside joint, it’s true that you may not be a hundred percent certain that the chicken you’re eating isn’t a cleverly disguised crow, instead. And not to put anyone off, but there have been ‘disturbing reports’ of strange guests in the food at our own cafeteria! I guess this is what makes us braver than even the contestants on AXN; they do it for the cash prize, we do it as a daily battle for survival!

Pink Chaddis in the Wind

2009-04-29T15:36:00.001+05:30

(Another corporate whorehouse newsletter article)

I’m guessing enough and more has been said about Mangalore’s infamous pub incident. I’m guessing that Pramod Muthalik’s name is by now synonymous with the oppression of modern trends and that the Ram Sene is famous for moral policing.

I’m also guessing that, as with many other cases of human rights violations in India, nothing’s going to be done about him or his merry men.

As I was launching on a discourse about the ‘pink chaddi campaign’, a friend of mine pointed out that such a campaign was never launched against the attackers of that poor nun at Kandhamal. And I had to admit, he did have a point. If I recall rightly though, a couple of candles were lit on the occasion.

You see, Indian history is awash with perpetrators of hate crimes being allowed to run amok, more so if they have political clout, as in the case of the Ram Sene. So don’t be surprised to hear of the numbers of women in Karnataka being attacked steadily rising.

It isn’t that young college-going girls should be encouraged to consume alcohol. Why encourage the Vijay Mallyas of the world, then, who aim to cater to the needs of the young? It wasn’t as though the girls in question were indulging in any unlawful activity; unless talking to a male counterpart counts. Hang on, in our country, I guess it does.

In any case, the girls we’re talking about here come from middle or upper class families and many of them also have parents in politics, as was the case with the Kerala MLA’s daughter, who was also assaulted in Mangalore for having spoken to a Muslim boy. They have protection enough back home if not the required support.

What then of the endless ordeals of the poorer woman?

She has to cater to every whim and fancy of her husband, is not allowed to have a will or mind of her own and is only allowed to seek employment when forced to by her good-for-nothing mate. Her daughters will either be murdered at birth or be forced into a life of slavery with education out of the question, unless she is lucky enough to be rescued by an NGO.

The sad part is that certain members of so-called women’s rights groups, too, seem to be all for moral policing. Culture, apparently, is to propagate the longstanding traditions of every Indian family to force the woman to bend to the will of her lord and master.

I used to look around at the considerable number of women employed and educated in these days and times and I used to think that finally progress had come to our country. After the incidents of the past year, however, I wonder when, if ever, things will ever change.

Will the Folks at Blogspot Please Wake Up

2009-04-24T02:25:00.001+05:30

They give you a choice of what, ten templates? Ooh mighty generous, but I have needs too. I'm not exactly asking for a byte of Magritte but them Wordpress templates look far more appealing than Blogger templates ever will.

Don't tempt me, Google.

When Everything Looks Yellow

2009-04-22T17:16:00.001+05:30

I will always associate the colour yellow with Chennai.

Yellow for the piss that stains every wall in the city, whether they're by main roads or railway stations.
Yellow for overpriced, recklessly driven auto rickshaws that pursue you relentlessly and fleece you mercilessly.
Yellow for the graduation gown of the Madras University that contrasted horribly with everyone's brown skin.
Yellow for the turmeric smeared on the faces of Tamilian women first thing in the morning in their daily attempt at fairness. Hell, even the fair people put it on. Or maybe that's how they got fair? Wishful thinking.
Yellow are the shirts that clad every Rajnikanth/superstar wannabe.
Yellow for the sun that glows hotly over the place, beating down on everyone during the primary seasons of the year: hot summer, hotter summer and hottest summer.
Yellow for the sambar that is served with everything, whether it's rice, idly, dosa or water (water with a hint of sambar is a major breakfast accompaniment in my office canteen).

If yellow was a disease, it's name would be Chennai (don't remind me of yellow fever, just read). Spread through mere inhalation and suffered for the pure torture of humanity.

Insert Semi Colon Here

2009-03-19T01:58:00.002+05:30

While I am inserting commas, someone, somewhere is:

a. performing a life saving open heart surgery

b. discovering a life saving drug

c. putting out a fire that threatened to ravage homes

d. impeding the progress of a rape

e. constructing a hospital for the poor

f. pulling out a tooth

g. getting people married

h. subtitling movies

I hate being an editor.

Scraping off Pounds at the Bottom of the Me

2009-03-18T19:01:00.001+05:30

All it took was for me to announce to my roommates that I was on a diet, for the advice to come pouring in.

It was as though they had been long waiting for just such an announcement from me, so that they could make their palak paneer and buy their Cadbury Bournvilles while being assured in the knowledge that I would not be able to contribute to its diminishment. "Don't eat paneer. It's terrible for you" said my roommate as she devoured her paneer/tomato something cooked in wine. "No potatoes, no rice, eat lots of bread or chapathi, there's this wonderful new diet thing from Horlicks, I'll buy you one of those tomorrow" she said as she smiled, comfortable in the knowledge that it would be fried egg for breakfast for her tomorrow.
As I sighed and chopped up the cucumbers and tomatoes and carrots for my meagre lunch, and tried in vain to get my boyfriend to show me some sympathy and try to stop me from starving myself, KFC meals and burgers wafted in and out of my thoughts.
And a couple of minutes later my other amateur chef of a roommate turned up and announced how she's going to do all the cooking for the next two weeks. Must be one of those years.

Why Babies Cry

2009-03-10T22:01:00.001+05:30

"Will you quit yer bawling" yelled the harrassed-looking woman to the little baby crying its eyes out in the walker. The baby was silenced for a moment as it pondered what it ought to do next. It then viciously bit into the tail of the unsuspecting billy goat standing next to it, and resumed its wailing.
"There you've gone and got rid of the goat! I don't know why that father of yours spends so much money on you! First you poison the mockingbird, then you feed the horse the diamond ring and then you break the looking glass - and what a fine looking glass that was - and still your father goes out and buys you a goat! A stinking goat that was only good for eating up all my precious doilies. I thought I'd at least fatten it up for Easter, but that plan just ran out the door!
"He never buys me any of those fancy things. Think how good that diamond ring would've looked on my finger... Oh, now I hope he doesn't go and buy you a cart and bull like he'd promised; then we'll never get that fancy new car I keep nagging him to buy. You'd better keep your little trap shut or I'll scald you alive with this broth I'm cooking!"
The baby merely glared sullenly at the woman and attempted to sink its little teeth into the back of her leg but missed as she moved to turn down the stove.
"Honey, I'm home!" came a happy cry from the front door. As if on cue, the baby started to bawl.
"... and look what I've bought the young 'un..." he continued, in tune with a loud bellowing of what sounded suspiciously like a bull.

Comfortably Dumb

2009-03-06T01:07:00.002+05:30

(or, how to survive in a corporate with your brain intact)

1. Put on the mask of transparency.

Dissolve. Fade into the background. Disguise yourself as a piece of the furniture. You aren't going to be recognised for any amount of work you do so you might as well pretend you don't exist. That would save you a lot of trouble of actually doing any real work. The boss would be too busy flirting with more attractive nonworkers to notice.

2. Smile a lot, especially at people you don't like.

When spoken to, you can also respond with a smile. This would give the person who dared to speak to you the creeps, thereby preventing any further occurrences of having to make conversation with the same.

3. Bow a lot.

Managers like servility. Bows can be administered at any angle you wish as long as your head is closer to the ground while you are giving it. The boss would be too busy checking out the ass of your female coworker as you're bowing to notice the angle of it, anyway. He might even give you a pat on the head for moving your head out of his line of vision.

4. Begin to hear selectively.

For instance, if the dramatic coworker suddenly utters a loud sigh in an effort to grab your attention, continue doing whatever you were doing with your computer. She will probably give up a few pretend-sighs later and go find someone else to bother. This would save you the trouble of having to listen to the events of her life of the past twenty-four hours, and give you more time to google.

5. As far as possible, do not make eye contact.

This is easy when you're in your seat. All you need to look at is your computer screen even if the person next to you is trying to engage you in conversation. When you are out of your seat and walking along corridors, stare fixedly at some point before you, in the air or on the ground, so as to avoid making eye contact with people who might want to extract some work or other amusement out of you. Failure to do this will result in work. Or torture.

6. Be good at nothing.

Remember in school when you were the only one who knew all the answers to the quiz, the first one to finish the class tests and the only one who ever did your homework? Well, it's time to stop being that person. Appear talentless as far as possible, to avoid being used by management to do work they were supposed to have done. Look at the bright side. It isn't as if you'd be paid extra for pitching in. At least you still get your usual pay.

All in all, the dumb act works well in corporate situations. Nodding your head a lot at meetings, blinking a lot when a manager is giving you specific instructions and repeatedly asking the question 'what?' when something is assigned to you will not only prevent a lot of work being dumped on you, but will also prevent subsequent heartburn, stress and the pain that comes from seeing someone dismiss as paltry something you actually put your best effort into. Learn from me, and ye shall live yet another day in the deep dark horrorsome world of the corporate.

Subliminal Torture in the New Age

2009-03-03T00:58:00.001+05:30

If I do exactly as you desire, will you let me be? If I bend myself backward to do as you would, will you finally cease the torture? If I crumple myself in totality such that my withering spine gives way completely, will you at last feel sated?

How can I serve you today, my lord? What subhuman servile task can I perform for you today?

I've licked the dust off my own feet and yours, I've kissed the ground with the length of my body, I've given myself up totally to the infliction of pain by your honourable self. When will you finally release me?

I've let the blood soak my limbs and felt it trickle into the very crevices that make me the fragile human being I am, I've tasted the saltiness of the fluids that seep out of me and have lost the strength to wipe them away. I no longer own dignity, my lord; I know that makes you glad.

But, my lord, my body is not as young as it used to be, to withstand the continuous tribulation. I hear my lungs rasping now with each new unbearable agony I undergo. But I know my lord is still not happy and my lord would still like to hear my agonising screams over and over again.

Then continue to cause me to suffer, my lord, until you are well pleased. Crush me underfoot till my cries no longer resound in your empty halls. Go on and on with your most horrorsome torments until my spirit too ebbs away and dies and all that is left is the voiceless, lifeless emptiness that is much like that which exists within your own self.

Bacon Outlawed in Bahrain

2009-02-27T04:17:00.001+05:30

First, read this.

In a bid to emulate other noble dictatorships and fundamentalist governments, the Kingdom of Bahrain has decided to enforce a ban on pork. This wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't from Bahrain and intend on frequently visiting the place and feasting on my mother's sorpotel and vindaloo.

Apparently, we have this wonderful set of MPs who go about creating fucked up rules, all in the name of Islam. Now anyone who knows more about Bahrain other than it being 'somewhere near Saudi and Dubai, no?' and my personal favourite 'do you have to wear a burqa when you go there?' knows how liberal society in Bahrain. In Bahrain, you can glug your beer while your Kuwaiti counterparts look on with envy, watch movies your Saudi counterparts might be arrested for being in possession of and enjoy hanging out with female Bahraini colleagues dressed in ways their Saudi counterparts daren't even desire. We've always enjoyed the rock (and other tasteless music) concerts, pubs, discotheques, wild parties that end at 5am, ham and pork that you can buy at your regular hypermart and to sum up, WE LIVED IT UP. Back then. Of course, now, in the pretend-democracy that Bahrain recently became, freedom has been rapidly diminishing.

It all started with so-called Bahrainisation, in which they tried to oust as many expatriates as possible so as to give their jobs to the locals. Kind of what Obama is trying to do with America now. Then the Ministry of Information decided to block access to certain Web sites. Now, I don't really know the details of that but I do know that access was restricted to sites considered "offensive" and "pornographic". How is a person watching porn on the Internet any of a government's concern, I don't know. It might worry the parents of Internet surfing preteens, yes, the Chinese government, yes, the Indian government, no they're too busy watching it. Now they're trying to ban pork and alcohol. I'm wondering if Bahrain's going to be a little extension to Saudi Arabia. I wonder where the Saudis will go on the weekend now.

I tell you, I keep falling in love with India more and more each day. Even if they did get around to banning beef, pork and anything else the Brahmins dislike, there'd be a billion ways to still enjoy it. Internet freedom in India is only restricted on corporate networks; the Indian government's too busy squandering taxpayer money on lining their bellies to care what we read about, anyway (no, it has nothing to do with their love of human rights). And the pitiful attempts to ban alcohol in Chennai will fall flat on their faces once they realise they've driven the miserable little thread of tourists that come here (only to find there's nothing to see or do except get scorched in the blazing heat and get stared at by the eager leches) away. There go my plans of a relaxing break with the folks. Now what.

Destressing

2009-02-19T03:55:00.002+05:30

Things I am not proud of:

Sitting silently at the workplace and being treated like an idiot only so that they don't find out how smart I really am; I did that once and they never forgave me for it.
Smiling at my bastard of a manager when I'd much rather be burying the heel of my stiletto into his forehead. Or maybe his heart, if he had one.
Laying down my weapons simply because the morons won.
Sticking onto a job at a place I hate only because the economy's so bad that I don't think I'll get another one that's better. That and the bloody two month notice period.

Is there a job out there that doesn't involve working with other people? Sigh.

Ra Ra Ra

2009-02-12T00:46:00.001+05:30

The struggle, as it were, will remain with the women. They're the ones who will be at the receiving end of hate crimes, especially in our 'liberated' times.

We got a circular today which we were required to sign, asking us if we'd like to continue being served the swill at the canteen everyday or whether we'd rather receive the cash in hand. It also mentioned that if the cash alternative were opted for, it might be a hazard to employee safety as 'women who would be dining outside the office will have to be accompanied by male colleagues after 9pm'. Alright, yeah, I get it. Oh, don't hasten to explain. I know we're all capable of being raped and attacked during the wee hours, especially if one possesses a vagina.

Some intelligent, 'forward' women I know refuse to go to a pub and are planning on staying indoors on Valentine's day. They say they'd rather just not take a chance. Ok, no problem. Oh, you don't have to snort and say well let them then. Even if a pub gets raided it's not the men who'll be dragged out and stripped in public, no.

And if the men out there would much rather not give a fuck; would rather just shake their head and say, well there's plenty more suffering out there without us having to worry about where you'll have your next beer, that's ok then. Go stick your cigarette butt up at the Iron Maiden's concert this weekend but don't look around and wonder all the women went.

Get Those Chaddis Out

2009-02-11T05:46:00.001+05:30

For all those who had their dusty drawers in the back of their closet for just such an occasion, here's the chance for you to smack it against Pramod Muthalik's face. For those who had their head in a bucket for the past two months, let me bring to light the women bashing incident that happened not so long ago in Mangalore, where ordinary college kids where dragged out of a pub and beaten up by members of the Ram Sena for having socialised with the opposite sex and consuming alcohol. And you thought your mom was bad.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, too, here's your chance to get your own bum, er, back at them. The Pink Chaddi Campaign is a consortium of "pubgoing, loose and forward" women that aims to send Muthalik a little Valentine's day gift: their underwear.

Check out their blog here:

http://thepinkchaddicampaign.blogspot.com/

For Chennai residents, here's the collection point in case you don't want to do the dirty deed yourself:

The Shakti Center/ Corporate Accountability Desk,

No: 42 A, I floor,5 Avenue,

Besant Nagar,

Chennai 600090
Contact:

Padma: 99400 25231,

Jeny: 98403 98852,

Aniruddh: 98840 17695
Last Date of Collection: 12 February

Send them in your panties, or photographic evidence that you've sent yours to the Ram Sena (address provided on their blog), and you can do more than just warm the air with a scented candle or two.

1067th Rock Song that Will Never be Sung

2009-02-11T03:26:00.001+05:30

(and I've got the tune for it in my head, too, complete with bass effects.)

There's something inside of me

Trying to get out

Clawing at my insides

You all get away from me now

I've kept it in for so long

Trying to sing the same song

Knowing you'd walk away

Hoping you would just stay

I've fed it, bred it, felt its reign

As I tried to pretend I'm sane

Waiting for the time until

It would feel that final thrill

So stuff your mouth with sawdust

Wait for the rot to set in

I'm gonna come to get you

With the pain I've bred within

There's something inside of me

And I can see it getting out

Watch it run out of control

You can't get away from me now

For B

2009-02-07T03:43:00.001+05:30

Ask him any topic in the world and he'll probably tell you ten facts about it that you wouldn't have even been able to gather after an hour's worth of googling. He claims to be mean and obtuse but melts when with his children - his everloving pets. His writings show a profundity of thought that few people in this world have; in this country, anyway. He loves bikes, hates kids and tolerates with great difficulty his 'specimens'. He's smart, suave and, ladies, still single. Well, kind of. Here's to you; may your kind live on!

Hollow Cost

2009-02-06T03:05:00.001+05:30

My history is, admittedly, pathetically weak, but I do sit up and listen when someone with profound knowledge in the subject begins to speak.

After reading of Pope Benedict's latest goof up, I was intrigued as to why a statement made by some random bishop was broiled in such controversy. I was amazed to discover things I hadn't been aware of before. Namely, the subject of Holocaust denial.

Now, everybody who is anybody, including self, has heard of the Holocaust. You know, what Hitler and his band of merry men were so infamous for. Purging all the Jews from German territory, using all the means in their possession. Most of us have taken the Holocaust for granted. That tearful recollection of those dastardly times as penned in Anne Frank's diary, those pictures of Jews dying in horrifying concentration camps and being experimented upon and that number of them that was killed - six million! Those Nazis deserved their miserable end!

Indeed.

Now, a section of intelligent, independent thinkers, who'd followed all such historical accounts of the alleged genocide, found discrepancies in witness accounts. Photographs that appeared to have been faked. And they also found that the 'number' of Jews that died could not have been more than 300,000. Holocaust denial is banned in Germany today.

History, as promulgated by our history books, is not the most reliable account of events long past. There are, for instance, several genocides that are to-date denied by their respective governments. Most notable of which happens to be the Armenian genocide, which Turkey to this day does not recognise as having happened. But who gets taught that in schools, eh?

Then what of Hitler's regime, one might ask. Are you denying that he killed all those people in his attempts at ethnic cleansing? Of course I'm not. What we're forgetting here is that it was just Jews that were killed by the Nazis. It was all races of people that weren't the 'Aryans' or the 'chosen race'. It wasn't just the Jews who suffered during that time. Russians were targeted too, and so were Germans who were retarded or homosexual; anyone who was not 'perfect', was selectively rounded up for expulsion.

So who spread word that it was just the Jews who'd suffered and why? To protect their own interests. To get more sympathy and support for Israel. To ensure their supremacy over the Palestinians. Ok, enough of that. I'm not antisemitic. I'm just trying to get at the truth here.

So what did the bishop say that was so bad? He, apparently, not so subtly denied the Holocaust by saying that none of the 300,000 Jews that died during the Nazi reign were killed in gas chambers. Holocaust deniers also deny the existence of gas chambers in Nazi Germany. Now that I am not getting into. All I want to point out is that gas chambers were used for executions of prisoners in the United States of America as well. And it's only a slightly better way of dying (instantaneous and not with effects that remain for decades after) than having an atom bomb being dropped over your heads. Do I need to remind you of who did that to whom?

I DO NOT hate Jews. I DO NOT support the Nazis. So keep that in mind before you bristle with indignation. There are probably more important things in the world to focus on, than forcing a some bishop to cater to public opinion, wouldn't you think?

Only In Goa

2009-02-01T23:24:00.003+05:30

Park your gilted ass here, please.