RUF
Quail's eggs are fiddly little buggers and best left to the professionals. Like tea smoked duck breast.
And while it is rather annoying (not to mention a complete annihilation of any mysterious je ne sais quoi everyone likes to claim), there's something comforting about having those that matter, know you well enough to read your absences....
My neighbours, on the other hand, must really hate my ill timed forays into domesticity and cleanliness (actually, I lie. Even squeaky clean, I'll just wallow without guilt as I deplete the earth's water table - look, we're doomed anyway), which will have to be deferred to a more obscene 1 am while I get some much ignored emails done.
My neighbours, on the other hand, must really hate my ill timed forays into domesticity and cleanliness (actually, I lie. Even squeaky clean, I'll just wallow without guilt as I deplete the earth's water table - look, we're doomed anyway), which will have to be deferred to a more obscene 1 am while I get some much ignored emails done.
Choices
I'm pretty certain God allowed siblings on this earth for a reason....I'm just hard pressed at this particular point in time in ascertaining just what that greater good might be. I have to confess albeit with some reluctance, that the little git does help shift perspective, and even manage to rein in the unrestrained whirlwind that is sometimes my life, even if for a little while. Sometimes, that little while is all you need to move from a hazy, melting watercolour to a more delineated, bold abstract. But I'm still sticking to the finding her in the trash story...it's the only explanation!
For Jetal, the choices seem non existent. But for most of us, there is always a choice, and for some of us, there are too many choices. I've never understood the middle class Bengali sentiment of wallowing in misery, denying the choice. Status quo brings comfort, indifference, security, hate, acceptance, alienation, belonging, frustration....but it is still a choice. The reasons don't really matter. To do nothing is as much a choice as to do something. Like inertia. But that's not how they see it, is it? So much rampant life stamped out by a bad marriage; now left to the ministrations of a child who never cared before this. A whining wife, who undoubtedly is more worried about her pension than his deteriorating health.
But is choice sometimes taken away from us? Once bright eyes are now dull and empty, bereft of the satanic mischief, the untenable innocence and idealism that was his trademark. The soul that was, that I now see, in her shining, fearless eyes. He had eyes like those once. The boy that he was, had those eyes. Now it's like looking at an abandoned house, that will become derelict with the passage of time. Did he really have a choice? Perhaps not. But his parents did. There is always a choice. Take it or leave it. That's a choice.
My list of hates also seems to be growing, with skipping CD's overtaking pigeons at the moment; Bol re Papihara is NOT best rendered with hiccups, and serves only to damage any deep philosophical meanderings. I am peeved and I shall rearrange my musings under a hot shower. I should also contemplate some very necessary logistics.... career related deadlines, a house to clean, yoga much neglected, and a definite plan to pfaff with DDM & J tomorrow afternoon onwards. Amazing how I still find the time to indulge in the occasional mindfuck.
For Jetal, the choices seem non existent. But for most of us, there is always a choice, and for some of us, there are too many choices. I've never understood the middle class Bengali sentiment of wallowing in misery, denying the choice. Status quo brings comfort, indifference, security, hate, acceptance, alienation, belonging, frustration....but it is still a choice. The reasons don't really matter. To do nothing is as much a choice as to do something. Like inertia. But that's not how they see it, is it? So much rampant life stamped out by a bad marriage; now left to the ministrations of a child who never cared before this. A whining wife, who undoubtedly is more worried about her pension than his deteriorating health.
But is choice sometimes taken away from us? Once bright eyes are now dull and empty, bereft of the satanic mischief, the untenable innocence and idealism that was his trademark. The soul that was, that I now see, in her shining, fearless eyes. He had eyes like those once. The boy that he was, had those eyes. Now it's like looking at an abandoned house, that will become derelict with the passage of time. Did he really have a choice? Perhaps not. But his parents did. There is always a choice. Take it or leave it. That's a choice.
My list of hates also seems to be growing, with skipping CD's overtaking pigeons at the moment; Bol re Papihara is NOT best rendered with hiccups, and serves only to damage any deep philosophical meanderings. I am peeved and I shall rearrange my musings under a hot shower. I should also contemplate some very necessary logistics.... career related deadlines, a house to clean, yoga much neglected, and a definite plan to pfaff with DDM & J tomorrow afternoon onwards. Amazing how I still find the time to indulge in the occasional mindfuck.
Oscaraneurosis
10 nominations..... that's all anyone can talk about. Does it deserve it? do we define ourselves by it? is it really such an achievement? is it only when you portray 'thirdworldness' that you can win? the soundtrack? is this A.R. Rehman's best? why is Anil Kapoor gloating, given his bit part? Sour grapes? Undoubtedly.... given that the remarks seem to be emanating from Bollywoods big hitters who've been trying their damnedest to make a dent into Hollywood. I don't suppose I should snigger at the thinly veiled jealousy, but there is such a compelling poetic justice to the fact that despite the indifferent shoulder shrugs and the crashingly obvious politics that is the Oscars, nominations still still set the cat amongst pigeons. Well, given the tumultuous times we seem to be sinking in, there has to be some comfort in knowing that somethings will never change.... it's all about being at the right place at the right time, the luck of the draw. Does Slumdog deserve it? I haven't a clue. Given my staggering bias towards all things Bombay, an objective assessment of it as a film is beyond my capabilities. Are there better films? better actors? better soundtracks? Hell yes. But when has that ever really mattered? This is the time for India on the global stage of celluloid (at least it's exponentially easier to applaud this effort as opposed to Yukta Mookhey as Miss Universe! or was that Miss World - what the hell was that about?!). Ma wanted to know if the soundtrack deserved 2 nominations - damned if I know, I can barely remember it... (unlike Bollywood, they don't take time out of a film to showcase the music with a minimum of 14 costume changes) but I do know that it'll never be able to dislodge the soundtrack of Bombay (nomination worthy I assure you.... ) as the peak of Rehman's musical genius.... but then again, my names not Oscar...
Damn Siblings..
...the keeper of my morality has raised rather pointed question and made several horribly succinct observations that are now sending me deeper into mindfuck territory and it's already 2 am. I am not impressed. But I am up.. :-(
'For All Mens Only'
Squinting, at the hand written notice on the back of the door, fails to shed any illumination. Tilting the head doesn't either. Err, was I at an all men's only 'massage parlour'? Nope, it's the right address and I'm pretty sure Somya wouldn't have packed me and my backache off for an hour of misplaced jollies. Clean and well, normal. The thought of hidden cameras don't cross my mind as I peel off layers contemplating the slightly less cryptic, 'take off all clothes except underwear' bearing notice. Oook - I can do that.... they can't mean a bra, can they? A petite, smiling woman pops in, confirming my state of undress, and then before you know it, I'm thinking..... aaah.. Effleurage!! Damn it feels good!! How long has it been since I've had the 'e' word run through my head in tandem with strong, soothing hands? (ok, so I'm a nerd and now need check the blog for just how long it's been.....crikey!! that was May '08!!! Oh my, can't believe I said crikey!).
It takes ages for my legs to stop pretending they're custard in a clever disguise and I eventually get home, feeling all mellow and zen-like after three days of immaculate stress (although Guy's 'Handy for what?!?!' did leave me rather wondering about my observation of 'Now that's handy!' to the lovely lingerie clad ladies artfully arrayed in the windows of a pretty townhouse... what was I thinking they'd be handy for?? and why on earth was I thinking it???), when the light dawns... that notice about the underwear!! It was for ALL MEN'S ONLY!!! don't strip down so you're dangling! Those poor dainty women... therapeutic specialists being subject to unwanted bits of male anatomy - LOL!! Which reminds me, it's almost like an immutable law of masculine physics... 'I could give you a relaxing massage' and 'I really hate using a condom'. You don't say.... mere coincidence that nakedness is a necessity for relaxation massage and you'll never meet a man who'll say...'oh yeah, I so love rolling a condom on..', but don't think they'll ever stop stating the obvious.
Argh! Just how many hostile encounters with a refrigerator is one woman allowed to have?? I cannot believe this! My freezer is now sprouting icicles along the rim.....God dammit to hell and back! Nothing like a vicious attack on white goods to get the muscles all coiled like Medusa's coiffure. Hmmm, it's all stuff from Chinatown in there... could it possibly be? it must... a gargantuan conspiracy designed to wear down prolific Indians as the inscrutable Orientals take over the world with their insidious groceries and massages.....
It takes ages for my legs to stop pretending they're custard in a clever disguise and I eventually get home, feeling all mellow and zen-like after three days of immaculate stress (although Guy's 'Handy for what?!?!' did leave me rather wondering about my observation of 'Now that's handy!' to the lovely lingerie clad ladies artfully arrayed in the windows of a pretty townhouse... what was I thinking they'd be handy for?? and why on earth was I thinking it???), when the light dawns... that notice about the underwear!! It was for ALL MEN'S ONLY!!! don't strip down so you're dangling! Those poor dainty women... therapeutic specialists being subject to unwanted bits of male anatomy - LOL!! Which reminds me, it's almost like an immutable law of masculine physics... 'I could give you a relaxing massage' and 'I really hate using a condom'. You don't say.... mere coincidence that nakedness is a necessity for relaxation massage and you'll never meet a man who'll say...'oh yeah, I so love rolling a condom on..', but don't think they'll ever stop stating the obvious.
Argh! Just how many hostile encounters with a refrigerator is one woman allowed to have?? I cannot believe this! My freezer is now sprouting icicles along the rim.....God dammit to hell and back! Nothing like a vicious attack on white goods to get the muscles all coiled like Medusa's coiffure. Hmmm, it's all stuff from Chinatown in there... could it possibly be? it must... a gargantuan conspiracy designed to wear down prolific Indians as the inscrutable Orientals take over the world with their insidious groceries and massages.....
Chicken Noodle Soup
Is what my mysterious allure is reduced to by someone who knows me all too well.... A simple, 'that's why you haven't been on the blog...'. Yep. That is why.
Apparently, all good Indians are meant to be aghast with the hoohaa around Slumdog Millionaire as led by the ubiquitous phenomena himself. The Big B wants to know why it's ok to portray India the way they did, as a seriously 'developing' nation, with a seamy side to horrify all civilised men. Something about every country having it's dark side, and no one ever talking about it. So? This isn't about every other country. It's about mine. My city. The first time I've felt like I've seen it on celluloid through my own eyes. Naked, raw and honest. In all her ugliness, heart, brutality, hope, soul, emptiness and joy bared for all to see. Well, to those who care to look anyway. I understand though, it's hard for an outsider to see what I see - amid the filth and poverty, the bright shining eyes and smiles, the little beggars suddenly transformed into truant children with the changing traffic lights. How can I explain... the duality of it all. Of us. Being Indian. Of living with degradation, accepting it, yet finding happiness in it.
There is so much I'm ashamed of, of the things we do allow to happen, but yet, I accept this is who we are and I'm not ashamed of admitting it. Police brutality. It's real. But so are the good cops. Children being maimed by organised crime for a few more rupees. How often do I tell foreigners - feed them if you feel pity. Don't, don't give them money. It's not about poverty, it's organised crime. Deaf ears, naively believing their generosity will make a difference, shocked at my callousness. The two cheeky little boys selling magazines that I dropped to the next signal, who insisted I read one of their magazines.... No charge Madam! No freeloaders here. How do I explain..... the heart that beats, the soul that shines through despite the cruelty. Happiness isn't always about having a roof over your head or new clothes. Happiness is shared laughter. An unexpected downpour that turns business into a free for all mela. What caught my heart (well, one of the things...) in the film was the blind boy that didn't make it out tell Jamal he's glad that he was able to.... wishful thinking? Maybe.
If I had a magic wand.... for that little girl with the dirt streaked face, snotty nose and bright eyes smiling clutching my ex-car ornament, the young boy who practised his English on me at the Chowpatty signal, for that audacious little girl that nearly gave Darius a heart attack when she asked for ten rupees without blinking (that was the sum total of Darius' financial capability for an entire month those days...)...for all the children of my city... my country.
In true desi style; it's a victory. Good over evil, winner takes it all, truth triumphs and everybody applauds and cheers for the hero and the love of his life... an euphoric figment of someones imagination. But the city is all mine; vicious, cruel, joyous, hopeful...a living heart.
Apparently, all good Indians are meant to be aghast with the hoohaa around Slumdog Millionaire as led by the ubiquitous phenomena himself. The Big B wants to know why it's ok to portray India the way they did, as a seriously 'developing' nation, with a seamy side to horrify all civilised men. Something about every country having it's dark side, and no one ever talking about it. So? This isn't about every other country. It's about mine. My city. The first time I've felt like I've seen it on celluloid through my own eyes. Naked, raw and honest. In all her ugliness, heart, brutality, hope, soul, emptiness and joy bared for all to see. Well, to those who care to look anyway. I understand though, it's hard for an outsider to see what I see - amid the filth and poverty, the bright shining eyes and smiles, the little beggars suddenly transformed into truant children with the changing traffic lights. How can I explain... the duality of it all. Of us. Being Indian. Of living with degradation, accepting it, yet finding happiness in it.
There is so much I'm ashamed of, of the things we do allow to happen, but yet, I accept this is who we are and I'm not ashamed of admitting it. Police brutality. It's real. But so are the good cops. Children being maimed by organised crime for a few more rupees. How often do I tell foreigners - feed them if you feel pity. Don't, don't give them money. It's not about poverty, it's organised crime. Deaf ears, naively believing their generosity will make a difference, shocked at my callousness. The two cheeky little boys selling magazines that I dropped to the next signal, who insisted I read one of their magazines.... No charge Madam! No freeloaders here. How do I explain..... the heart that beats, the soul that shines through despite the cruelty. Happiness isn't always about having a roof over your head or new clothes. Happiness is shared laughter. An unexpected downpour that turns business into a free for all mela. What caught my heart (well, one of the things...) in the film was the blind boy that didn't make it out tell Jamal he's glad that he was able to.... wishful thinking? Maybe.
If I had a magic wand.... for that little girl with the dirt streaked face, snotty nose and bright eyes smiling clutching my ex-car ornament, the young boy who practised his English on me at the Chowpatty signal, for that audacious little girl that nearly gave Darius a heart attack when she asked for ten rupees without blinking (that was the sum total of Darius' financial capability for an entire month those days...)...for all the children of my city... my country.
In true desi style; it's a victory. Good over evil, winner takes it all, truth triumphs and everybody applauds and cheers for the hero and the love of his life... an euphoric figment of someones imagination. But the city is all mine; vicious, cruel, joyous, hopeful...a living heart.
aaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee!!!
I'm losing the will to live and my brain feels like it's going to explode in a most unsightly manner all across the hapless hotdesk.... is zinging melodrama in my blood because I'm Indian, or am I Indian because I'm pre-disposed to it? Either way, the contents of my cranium are going to make a wholly unnecessary appearance thanks to the male of the species. How is it possible to have an entire gender specifically engineered to drive you legally insane? Outwardly, they seem to be draped in a comforting sense of the normal, and then wham! off they go into the realms of 'whatthefuck'.....?!?!?!
I'm surrounded by men who have lost their minds!! Irretrievably lost their friggin' minds. The blasted lawyer with bleached lashes and 84 page contract, the client that cancelled on the stupid Chelsea game (again last minute!!) and then got all sentimental about my not loving him anymore, the idiot friend who's having a jolly good stab at a mid life crisis (and insists I be part of the carnage), the colleague facing occupational issues on a proposal front, the investment banker seeking legal protection from potential progeny, the other raving colleague who insists I check the email he sent to a client who doubly insists its the wrong one, the sodding ex-boyfriend (hers not mine...) who hasn't moved out because he's worried the shock of an absentee TV might make her jump off the balcony (?!), the boss who's accepted the same meeting 8 times!!!! That's it. I'm just going to have to flush the whole ruddy lot down the toilet.
P.S. - Add the crazy Dutchman who just applied as a scriptwriter for Apara: The Movie/London, to the list of men who will soon have an intimate, insiders knowledge of domestic plumbing
I'm surrounded by men who have lost their minds!! Irretrievably lost their friggin' minds. The blasted lawyer with bleached lashes and 84 page contract, the client that cancelled on the stupid Chelsea game (again last minute!!) and then got all sentimental about my not loving him anymore, the idiot friend who's having a jolly good stab at a mid life crisis (and insists I be part of the carnage), the colleague facing occupational issues on a proposal front, the investment banker seeking legal protection from potential progeny, the other raving colleague who insists I check the email he sent to a client who doubly insists its the wrong one, the sodding ex-boyfriend (hers not mine...) who hasn't moved out because he's worried the shock of an absentee TV might make her jump off the balcony (?!), the boss who's accepted the same meeting 8 times!!!! That's it. I'm just going to have to flush the whole ruddy lot down the toilet.
P.S. - Add the crazy Dutchman who just applied as a scriptwriter for Apara: The Movie/London, to the list of men who will soon have an intimate, insiders knowledge of domestic plumbing
Nam Myoho Renge Kyo
Minu is my mother. A woman devoutly lacking any principles whatsoever. In a piously time honoured and wifely manner, my mother joined Buddhist chanting classes (chanting allegedly dissipates the desire to kill retired men buzzing around in her domain) in search of inner peace in lieu of nagging her absentee brood. Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. For some deeply mystifying reason, those with higher consciousness (one assumes) have decreed that all practitioners of said sport must sit for an exam. Given the zen-like philosophy that is Buddhism, the irony of being tested on a faith that is non prescriptive is irresistible. My mother slips into matyr mode and cancels a trip to Lonavala as there are 8 dates to be provided on demand. Apparently, knowing when the ultimate truth was proclaimed and gloriously spread is as critical as the ability to chant nam myoho renge kyo with unsullied determination. You really wouldn’t want a bunch of irresponsible students to actually pretend to aspire to live life the way Buddha was inclined. Still, it gives me hope that there is a place for ancient teachings when the incorrigible one confides in me that her first thought was to copy the dates on to her palm and cheat her way through :). A sound plan, except, the writing will have to be discreet and anything less than a size 14 font is going to have her adjusting her reading glasses and peering suspiciously at her appendage before asking for assistance :):). That woman is so going to flunk! But it's only a silly exam. The committee of greater consciousness is blithely ignorant of the Incorrigible One's true powers.
'Ninu' is the sound an ambulance makes in Hungary. Otherwise known as the epitome of Freudian slips, when Csikoskar referred to her as Aunty Ninu instead of Minu. The mere memory of the Formidable One, enough to send three fully grown women into catatonic displays of panic in the middle of a store. There we were diligently applying ourselves to the art of spending money, oohing and aaahing over how alluring we looked in the bright coloured silks, when suddenly, realisation struck! 1300!! We'd missed our 1230 dose of cold abating homeopathy medication (safely sequestered along with a small bottle of water and get this, a SPOON!). A tableau to give Bollywood a run for their money; 3 women looking at each other in horror, frozen in shock for 3 ½ seconds before wily nily flinging away everything in their hands to dive for the bag (this would be awesome in slow motion, as we shout naaaaahiiiiin…). A poetically frenzied moment of perfect co-ordination as Judith takes control of the paraphernalia while Csikoskar and I dose each other; liquid, pill; pill liquid.... an affirmative nod from Judith, we’re clear. We slump in relief, erratic heartbeats calming. It’s safe to breathe now… we sheepishly hand back our discarded finery, murmuring our thanks to the middle of a forehead creased with astonishment and slink our way out, too traumatised by the potential disaster so closely averted, to consider signing for purchases a viable option. True power, all pervasive, all knowing, all terrifying defies the trifling efforts of silly examiners obsessed with dates. Ninu the Fierce wields it with style. What happens in Fab India, stays in Fab India. Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.
'Ninu' is the sound an ambulance makes in Hungary. Otherwise known as the epitome of Freudian slips, when Csikoskar referred to her as Aunty Ninu instead of Minu. The mere memory of the Formidable One, enough to send three fully grown women into catatonic displays of panic in the middle of a store. There we were diligently applying ourselves to the art of spending money, oohing and aaahing over how alluring we looked in the bright coloured silks, when suddenly, realisation struck! 1300!! We'd missed our 1230 dose of cold abating homeopathy medication (safely sequestered along with a small bottle of water and get this, a SPOON!). A tableau to give Bollywood a run for their money; 3 women looking at each other in horror, frozen in shock for 3 ½ seconds before wily nily flinging away everything in their hands to dive for the bag (this would be awesome in slow motion, as we shout naaaaahiiiiin…). A poetically frenzied moment of perfect co-ordination as Judith takes control of the paraphernalia while Csikoskar and I dose each other; liquid, pill; pill liquid.... an affirmative nod from Judith, we’re clear. We slump in relief, erratic heartbeats calming. It’s safe to breathe now… we sheepishly hand back our discarded finery, murmuring our thanks to the middle of a forehead creased with astonishment and slink our way out, too traumatised by the potential disaster so closely averted, to consider signing for purchases a viable option. True power, all pervasive, all knowing, all terrifying defies the trifling efforts of silly examiners obsessed with dates. Ninu the Fierce wields it with style. What happens in Fab India, stays in Fab India. Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.
Shomebody shtop me!
What do you get when you cross the thrill of a roller coaster with a propensity to melodrama? A very confused woman who can’t tell her ass from her elbow. Eccentricity is a curse of advancing years, but I think I’ve now been able to take it to the level of a fine art. While I’m well versed with the frantic, wheel spinning, hamster frying your synapses, syndrome, I do believe this time, I’ve outdone myself. Someone should send for the little men in white coats (not sure why they need to be little..), but they’ll have to catch me first… bwaaahahahahahaaa…..
Does it worry people around me that not only am I demented, I seem to wallow in it? Should it worry me?? Given that I’m so overqualified, a self induced screaming free fall, followed by slow building anticipation in the pit of your stomach as you inch upwards towards the pinnacle just to plummet again, is child’s play. Well, at least, boredom isn’t something I have to worry about too much, not when I’m left to my own devices anyway…! My friends are mostly normal (occasionally, even well adjusted), so I can’t even blame it on an over exposure to a small band of social psychotics. I now have sort of sensible people (well, more sensible than I at any rate) slotted in my diary all this week to try and curb my baser instincts; see to my saw, yang to my ying, a concentrated shift towards equilibrium. And if all else fails, just thwack me on the side of the head……… 'Wo ho oo, O aaahm still aaaalive... wo ho ho...'
Does it worry people around me that not only am I demented, I seem to wallow in it? Should it worry me?? Given that I’m so overqualified, a self induced screaming free fall, followed by slow building anticipation in the pit of your stomach as you inch upwards towards the pinnacle just to plummet again, is child’s play. Well, at least, boredom isn’t something I have to worry about too much, not when I’m left to my own devices anyway…! My friends are mostly normal (occasionally, even well adjusted), so I can’t even blame it on an over exposure to a small band of social psychotics. I now have sort of sensible people (well, more sensible than I at any rate) slotted in my diary all this week to try and curb my baser instincts; see to my saw, yang to my ying, a concentrated shift towards equilibrium. And if all else fails, just thwack me on the side of the head……… 'Wo ho oo, O aaahm still aaaalive... wo ho ho...'
Early onset of dementia...
...otherwise known as middle age. How do you know when you get there? It's not like it's signposted. Assuming a life span of 70-80 years (given that once upon a time, I had 30 as a benchmark year for killing myself for old age, this is progress...!), 35-40 would technically qualify you. A fervent bout of pnpc (para ninda, para charcha) at a family wedding illuminated the fact that 90% of the contributors were hovering dangerously close to that technicality. We had quorum, and an unanimous decision was passed to declare middle age at 45... which means I still have a few good years left in me....
Except, last Thursday, I forgot my father. 8 of us for dinner, 7 of us to get back, 5 to the same place. I sat across him at dinner, and between dessert and his leaving for a smoke, I forgot he was with us.... Preoccupied with calculating the hip/space ratio in the backseat to see who should be awarded the coveted front passenger seat, it took a horrified face going, 'no, no, we'll walk', to turn the absently calculating look to shock; I'd completely forgotten about Ba. He took it rather well I thought, simply shrugging saying I'd forgotten my mother earlier as well.... (true, but I hadn't exactly forgotten! she just wasn't in the car when I drove off, a fact that was easily remedied if my halfwit sister hadn't just sat next to me gasping like an overweight fish on a treadmill, emitting incoherently strangled sounds instead of 'oi, ma's not in the car!', and this was years ago!!).
Chalk it down to genius at work? I would have, except I forgot Emma and Juniper the day before that. En route to Khush & Sujata's for New Years, saved only by Csikoskar's timely recognition of directional discrepancy, if indeed, the plan was for us to pick them up.....
I was told yesterday that I'd lose much of my appeal if I went through with my remedy of a brain transplant (as opposed to a commiserating hug). Not sure if the sight of a grown woman with fetching bits of tin foil on her head is more appealing than one chicly costumed for cocktails with a recalcitrant pencil tucked behind her ear.... well, at least I haven't combined the bright blue rain drop wellies that make strangers smile at the bus stop, with the foil.... yet.
Except, last Thursday, I forgot my father. 8 of us for dinner, 7 of us to get back, 5 to the same place. I sat across him at dinner, and between dessert and his leaving for a smoke, I forgot he was with us.... Preoccupied with calculating the hip/space ratio in the backseat to see who should be awarded the coveted front passenger seat, it took a horrified face going, 'no, no, we'll walk', to turn the absently calculating look to shock; I'd completely forgotten about Ba. He took it rather well I thought, simply shrugging saying I'd forgotten my mother earlier as well.... (true, but I hadn't exactly forgotten! she just wasn't in the car when I drove off, a fact that was easily remedied if my halfwit sister hadn't just sat next to me gasping like an overweight fish on a treadmill, emitting incoherently strangled sounds instead of 'oi, ma's not in the car!', and this was years ago!!).
Chalk it down to genius at work? I would have, except I forgot Emma and Juniper the day before that. En route to Khush & Sujata's for New Years, saved only by Csikoskar's timely recognition of directional discrepancy, if indeed, the plan was for us to pick them up.....
I was told yesterday that I'd lose much of my appeal if I went through with my remedy of a brain transplant (as opposed to a commiserating hug). Not sure if the sight of a grown woman with fetching bits of tin foil on her head is more appealing than one chicly costumed for cocktails with a recalcitrant pencil tucked behind her ear.... well, at least I haven't combined the bright blue rain drop wellies that make strangers smile at the bus stop, with the foil.... yet.
Pandora's Box
You think the lines in the sand are resolute, determined and there to stay. Till a gust of wind over the next dune or the next wave of surf obliterates it. You start over, but is it in the right place? How will we ever know? So many lines in our lives, separating, classifying, keeping safe our emotions, needs, desires, families, homes, friends, professions. Overlapping, parallel, blurring, shifting. With each breath that we take, with each year that goes by, each death, each birth. Never the same. Always subtle. But we need them to stay unchanging, so we can chart our way through life, knowing which ones to cross. Little better than reeds being whipped by the storm, but for all their frenzied dancing, they stay rooted, clinging on for dear life, to the familliar. As do we.
Change is the only constant. But it's also fear, grief, anger and pain. More than it is sunshine, laughter and what makes you soar like an eagle. You can't stop the lines shifting, even when you can see them. When they're blurred, you realise, too late, that there never were any lines to begin with. You just thought there were.
Like Pandora's box, there's no going back. There never is.
Change is the only constant. But it's also fear, grief, anger and pain. More than it is sunshine, laughter and what makes you soar like an eagle. You can't stop the lines shifting, even when you can see them. When they're blurred, you realise, too late, that there never were any lines to begin with. You just thought there were.
Like Pandora's box, there's no going back. There never is.
The hardest thing
Sometimes, walking away is the only way you'll live to fight another day. It's the hardest thing to do, and I'm so tired of fighting. I'll have the perfect mood for tomorrow's weather, cold, grey and no laughter. A bit like realising you're middle aged. It's 5.30 am in India, a new day. I should be comatose given the culmination of the last two weeks sleep deprivation, but I'm too tired. Tired and empty. Two weeks of adrenalin, tumultuous emotions, frustration and laughter all distilled into nothingness at the stroke of midnight. Just like Cinderella's pumpkin. Time to walk back home and clean out the ashes. Except, I don't have a glass slipper to match.
Happy New Year???
I've known for a while now, that I'm going straight to hell.... a fact that never bothered me, till I actually found myself there, and now I'm scrabbling like a demented missionary in search of good deeds to inflict on unsuspecting friends, family members, and the general public in the forlorn hope that it will make up for all my lapses over the past 38 years, and save me from the hideous fate that will otherwise befall me.
New Year's at the Bandra gym (if you have visions of sweaty catholics weighed down by crosses as they perform unspeakable calisthenics, it's gymkhana, otherwise known to the English speaking world as a club). A slice of catholic hell of unsurpassed proportions, our distress rendered even more poignant given the hostess with the mostess we left behind and an inanely well marinated idiot at our table. I have spent many a new year in this city, in many a bizarre manner; on an obscenely bejeweled, shiny tanga, gatecrashing a stranger's very cool terrace party, blithely unaware of wardrobe malfunctions at Bombay gym (though I did wonder why i was so popular...!), in harmonious, reflective peace with a best friend on the crumbling stone walls edging the sea at Navy Nagar, getting pitzily stupid watching DD at home, giggling through a blackout at the President, being restrained from hurling myself into a pool......... I even have hazy memories of the Catholic gym at Marine Drive (I think?) coerced into the dastardly birdy dance with a floor full of morons.
But never, NEVER have I been subject to the utter misery that was New Year's at Bandra gym. The sight of mandatory appallingly dressed macs (always a handy way to alleviate boredom) jiving their guilt ridden hearts out (the fool at our table insisted that jiving is very difficult and is possible only with mac jeans. Given his abilities on the dance floor... {an event that cause the rest of us to rapidly distance ourselves}, paled when the band ran way as the President of the club deemed this year critical enough for a speech, only to return to the likes of Inglebert Humperdink and a floor choc full of mechanically gliding couples, who I swear were muttering 'one two three, one two three' under their breaths, which carried on interminably.
Utterly defeated, Sarolta and I got romantic on the dance floor, which might have encouraged the band to lapse into a horribly laid back reggae tempo, leaving us flopping about the floor (tennis courts on an ordinary day) in vain, like washed out, inappropriately dressed Rastafarians (actually, it was the others that let us down - Csikoskar and I were rather in character...) in a submissive dance to the great God of joints. Naturally, the minute we managed to beg a ride back, the music turned to a more festive imitation of a conga! Typical!
Thank God for sinfully dark chocolate brownies, an encore pole dance and the indefatigable Bhraman mahilas!
New Year's at the Bandra gym (if you have visions of sweaty catholics weighed down by crosses as they perform unspeakable calisthenics, it's gymkhana, otherwise known to the English speaking world as a club). A slice of catholic hell of unsurpassed proportions, our distress rendered even more poignant given the hostess with the mostess we left behind and an inanely well marinated idiot at our table. I have spent many a new year in this city, in many a bizarre manner; on an obscenely bejeweled, shiny tanga, gatecrashing a stranger's very cool terrace party, blithely unaware of wardrobe malfunctions at Bombay gym (though I did wonder why i was so popular...!), in harmonious, reflective peace with a best friend on the crumbling stone walls edging the sea at Navy Nagar, getting pitzily stupid watching DD at home, giggling through a blackout at the President, being restrained from hurling myself into a pool......... I even have hazy memories of the Catholic gym at Marine Drive (I think?) coerced into the dastardly birdy dance with a floor full of morons.
But never, NEVER have I been subject to the utter misery that was New Year's at Bandra gym. The sight of mandatory appallingly dressed macs (always a handy way to alleviate boredom) jiving their guilt ridden hearts out (the fool at our table insisted that jiving is very difficult and is possible only with mac jeans. Given his abilities on the dance floor... {an event that cause the rest of us to rapidly distance ourselves}, paled when the band ran way as the President of the club deemed this year critical enough for a speech, only to return to the likes of Inglebert Humperdink and a floor choc full of mechanically gliding couples, who I swear were muttering 'one two three, one two three' under their breaths, which carried on interminably.
Utterly defeated, Sarolta and I got romantic on the dance floor, which might have encouraged the band to lapse into a horribly laid back reggae tempo, leaving us flopping about the floor (tennis courts on an ordinary day) in vain, like washed out, inappropriately dressed Rastafarians (actually, it was the others that let us down - Csikoskar and I were rather in character...) in a submissive dance to the great God of joints. Naturally, the minute we managed to beg a ride back, the music turned to a more festive imitation of a conga! Typical!
Thank God for sinfully dark chocolate brownies, an encore pole dance and the indefatigable Bhraman mahilas!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)