If memory serves me right (and we know how dubious a claim that can be), it was Abu Ben Adam who had a book of Gold in which he put down the names of those who were going to get into heaven. And before you call the fire brigade, it's not that I'm not ruminating over ways to get into Abu Ben's good books, but I am paying a little more attention to karmic philosophy. I've lost track of the circular debates Ma and I have had over the subject. She believes, I don't. It's ludicrous to think we're living the consequences of previous karmic actions, and our deeds in this life will dictate our next. Like I don't have enough to keep me busy in a single life!!
Yet, I am now contemplating this whole saat janam phenomena.... why? An email, graciously bestowing upon one, the great honour of being one of the chosen elite. I've been 'selected' to represent C&W in their wholesale mega pan European most co-ordinated marketing campaign as a singular firm. The exercise certainly has been a political triumph as well as a boost to business generation. But an email suggested you've been selected, can bode only ill; in fact, I feel very, very ill. My mission, whether I choose to accept it or not, is to confirm which training session I would like to attend. Training on how to take phone calls. I beg your pardon? My eyes trawl the email with more than a soupçon of attention this time. Nope. It's still there. I've been selected to undergo training on the phone. While admittedly, my dislike of the instrument is not exactly a state secret, for the new head of marketing to get wind of it???? I blithely ignore it, and move on to more pressing matters of my day job.
9 am and I'm herded into the war room. This was definitely NOT in my diary. A beaming Mr. Stone (I've never seen him unbeaming...but then he calls me Apura....) assures us it won't take more than 20 minutes. 35 minutes later, it's only the thought of her gloating that stalls my fingers from punching the number for Iris as I contemplate calling Ma for some karmic wisdom. As it turns out, not only am I expected to pick a training session, I'm also expected to sit through a couple of hours of simulation while I'm tested, recorded and forced to listen to myself.. (the answering machine never had me on it because I sound so completely alien to how I hear myself in my own head!! and I didn't quite mean that they way it sounded, but I'm really stressed now), and this is just a prelude to then having to speak to complete strangers from almost random companies turning them into happy C&W followers.
Voilà! An alternate to the perpetually smiling Hare Rama dudes that mess with my mojo; I can now convert grumpily!! What the fuck?! How did this happen?? Karma?? What else can this be except excruciating retribution for the sins of my past life? I certainly haven't sinned enough in this life to be so roundly punished, have I? Maybe if I do go rooting around for how get into that book of Gold? Would it assure me of a phone free next life? Gah! I'll deal with that when I show up again! Uh oh - is this why I have find myself agreeing to an am training session? Because I so facetiously laughed off the whole karmic cycle? I'm willing to indulge in the mindfuck of pure theology if it will get me out of making these damned phone calls. Hell, I'm willing to believe.... Abu? Help.... Please.....?
15 minutes of fame
Which is really not a lot when you think about it. I have about that same number of minutes to kill before heading out for dinner to flaunt another 40 year old. Thankfully, cultural and gender sensibilities combined with the cheap thrill of being 39 to Velu's 40 for 24 days, render this one amicable about the event. Sadly, I can think of nothing to do in these 15 minutes that would catapult me to the levels of obscenity that fame entails. I could ponder responses to some client emails, but then that would just be efficient. I could change into something more glamorous, but that would make all dressed with nowhere to go and another 14 minutes to kill. Or I could try and focus on the blog, ignoring the pitiful sounds of my stomach begging for mercy. Hmmm. Could my insatiable appetite be the chokehold on an otherwise glittering road to celebritydom?? It is difficult to focus on strenuous ambition when one is so easily distracted by one's conditioning. Explains why Bengalis aren't known for front page grasping vulgarity. Shorshey Ilish runs in our veins and is notoriously unbecoming on the red carpet :p
The sixth sheiks sixth sheep is sick!
It's colder now than it was this morning, and my mind veers towards toast as I walk to my physio. I love toast. But it's visions of sheep that make me think of toast. I meant to write about Aashish's sheep, but the scent of warm toast ready to be slathered by butter, bits of it soaked up by the warmth as the rest of it glistens in anticipation, irretrievably distracts me. It is crucial for the ongoing conservation of our planet, that toast, or indeed all bread be meticulously covered by butter, jam, paté, cheese, marmalade, nutella....every square inch without pause. I learnt from the Master (along with making the perfect bed, but that bores me), and despite 40 years together, my mother's callous dab-on-a-bit-unevenly attitude, keeps Ba occupied during retirement. The thought did cross my mind at the sheep stage that my memory is a bit like toast. Absolutely splendid just off the toaster, all warm and fragrant, begging to bitten into, before degenerating into a soggy mess unfortunately reminiscent of a domestic ungulate's cud. LOL! Would you believe I lost my train of thought by the end of that sentence?? Short lived toast!
The point is, the cold sent images of languid sheep (a duvet desire association?) across my mind, reminding me why Dr. D-uh was on this side of paroxysmal convulsions when he called... an email from the learned Martin Daunton (a super nerd among nerds in the industrious world of academia), informing Aashish, that the attachment allegedly designed as a reference letter, was in fact, nothing more than a cunningly disguised sheep. Yep. Dr. D-uh is sending virtual livestock to his soon to be ex-future mentor, and I quote, 'Dear Aashish, The attachment seems to give me a clip of a sheep! Am I missing something?'. Errr, an older Mary perhaps? It's a miracle. A mundane PDF file given wings to soar... well, to foolishly bleat in any case. The next attempt yielded an oddly technological effort to open the PDF in media player (I personally believe that the sheep was doing rude things, but the dear man was much too polite to share the imagery). My suggestion of responding with the sixth sheikh's sheeps medical woes, had the professor clinging to the rails of an unsuspecting domestic establishment for the next 4 minutes in a fair imitation of a mad cow, before a cut and paste solution put an end to the agricultural bent of what was meant to be an economic debate.
Dear Dr. Velkar, do try and refrain from sending any more farm animals to those who might shape your career. Although, having said that, if he's from Wales....... I think you might have just got your funding! ;-)
The point is, the cold sent images of languid sheep (a duvet desire association?) across my mind, reminding me why Dr. D-uh was on this side of paroxysmal convulsions when he called... an email from the learned Martin Daunton (a super nerd among nerds in the industrious world of academia), informing Aashish, that the attachment allegedly designed as a reference letter, was in fact, nothing more than a cunningly disguised sheep. Yep. Dr. D-uh is sending virtual livestock to his soon to be ex-future mentor, and I quote, 'Dear Aashish, The attachment seems to give me a clip of a sheep! Am I missing something?'. Errr, an older Mary perhaps? It's a miracle. A mundane PDF file given wings to soar... well, to foolishly bleat in any case. The next attempt yielded an oddly technological effort to open the PDF in media player (I personally believe that the sheep was doing rude things, but the dear man was much too polite to share the imagery). My suggestion of responding with the sixth sheikh's sheeps medical woes, had the professor clinging to the rails of an unsuspecting domestic establishment for the next 4 minutes in a fair imitation of a mad cow, before a cut and paste solution put an end to the agricultural bent of what was meant to be an economic debate.
Dear Dr. Velkar, do try and refrain from sending any more farm animals to those who might shape your career. Although, having said that, if he's from Wales....... I think you might have just got your funding! ;-)
Conference calls
For a woman who hates talking on the phone, I seem to have participated in more than any one's fair share of receiver holding the past day. Surely seven con calls is a bit ludicrous for anyone but a call centre operator??? Seven!!! Internal, external, existential..... like a zombie, punching in dial in numbers, pass codes, jabbing the mute button just in time to let loose with some libelous expletives about clients that resemble cretins, vain attempts to interpret voices garbled in agitation, each shouting over the other, crying babies and honking taxi's in the background, patiently coiling fingers around the phone cord instead of a colleagues neck as they falter their way through a simple question, too many 'sorry, but what was that?' as cross cultural accents clash....
Still, as con calls go (and many have went!), 71.4% actually had a clear outcome, and glory be, only 2 more in the diary for the rest of the week..! There is a God.
Still, as con calls go (and many have went!), 71.4% actually had a clear outcome, and glory be, only 2 more in the diary for the rest of the week..! There is a God.
Turning 40?
Barely into 2009, and I'm plagued by potential 40 year olds, some more precariously perched on the edge of trauma than others. Middle age is obviously contagious, if that hot flashes experienced this morning are any indication.... what else could possibly explain the desire to shed an outer layer in sub 10 degree weather? Either that or I have been in this country waaaay too long!
What is it about hitting a new decade that makes people silly? It's just a number. Yet, Emma's being stoically brave, conjuring up myriad ways in which to soften the blow, and Shruti was deeply depressed every time someone acknowledged the fact she was 30!! Don't remember it as being any different from 29.....I rather liked being 30. It allowed my unbridled satisfaction to be able to turn to my roots and proclaim that I was now THARTY! THARTY THREE was even better :p. My mother however, is not amused by my penchant towards rather vocally embracing my THARTIES. Messes with her fairy tale chronological assertions about her age.
As I will now only have a year and a bit to gloat over the triumph of Bengal, indulge me while I bandy about my THARTY nine years with great pleasure. Forty isn't going to be nearly such fun....
What is it about hitting a new decade that makes people silly? It's just a number. Yet, Emma's being stoically brave, conjuring up myriad ways in which to soften the blow, and Shruti was deeply depressed every time someone acknowledged the fact she was 30!! Don't remember it as being any different from 29.....I rather liked being 30. It allowed my unbridled satisfaction to be able to turn to my roots and proclaim that I was now THARTY! THARTY THREE was even better :p. My mother however, is not amused by my penchant towards rather vocally embracing my THARTIES. Messes with her fairy tale chronological assertions about her age.
As I will now only have a year and a bit to gloat over the triumph of Bengal, indulge me while I bandy about my THARTY nine years with great pleasure. Forty isn't going to be nearly such fun....
Mayday! Mayday!
I have just had my mellow ABBA induced mood destroyed by the off chance sighting of some grossly maudlin words.... "just wanted to wish you a good night. i enjoyed making love to you such a lot, your kisses, the way you bite me, your breath in my ear, it was wonderful to be naked with you, to touch your skin, to be inside you.... Sleep well and sweet dreams...."
Perhaps I've just seen too many moons to feel anything other than a Calvinesque abhorrence to the banality proffered by a romantic hero. If I was in love, would I be less contemptuously scathing? Would it thrill me to be on the receiving end? What is it about being gushingly 'in love' that makes this drivel not just acceptable, but practically bordering genius to a woman?? Do pheromones tweak the xx chromosomes so that they veer towards stupidity? Unless you were bored, lonely and wanting to be in love, or actually in the middle of sweating, screaming sex - actually scratch that, unless you were wallowing in a romantic post coital afterglow, or just woefully in love, would you as a woman, be enamoured of the sentiment?
Or maybe, you just need to be twenty again.... or stop reading the hamster cage lining..... or weep over highly melodramatic films like Bazaar..... too much shairi in the air. Hmmm, now if that had been in Urdu, this post might have been entitled, Subhanallah! instead...
Perhaps I've just seen too many moons to feel anything other than a Calvinesque abhorrence to the banality proffered by a romantic hero. If I was in love, would I be less contemptuously scathing? Would it thrill me to be on the receiving end? What is it about being gushingly 'in love' that makes this drivel not just acceptable, but practically bordering genius to a woman?? Do pheromones tweak the xx chromosomes so that they veer towards stupidity? Unless you were bored, lonely and wanting to be in love, or actually in the middle of sweating, screaming sex - actually scratch that, unless you were wallowing in a romantic post coital afterglow, or just woefully in love, would you as a woman, be enamoured of the sentiment?
Or maybe, you just need to be twenty again.... or stop reading the hamster cage lining..... or weep over highly melodramatic films like Bazaar..... too much shairi in the air. Hmmm, now if that had been in Urdu, this post might have been entitled, Subhanallah! instead...
Mama Mia!
Money, money, money, must be funny.. in a rich man's world. Not exactly awe inspiring lyrics, but that's not why we love ABBA (so much as to even sit through the excruciating sight of Brosnon's celluloid agony, only midly alleviated by the magnificent Ms. Walters). Yet, as I skip through the Best of Ace of Base (don't even ask!! just chalk it down to 2 years holed up in the moutains with 43 Swedes), 98 degrees (huh??!) and belt it with Aretha on my annual alphabetic CD churn, I find myself singing long after the end of the CD. A melody, largerly ignored in the decade I actively listened to ABBA, now swishing its way around my head, an unintentional hum coalescing into a relatively restrained vocal airing before escaping to a full throttle rendition....
you and i can share the silence... finding comfort together, the way old friends do.... oho i don't care what comes tomorrow.... we can face it together, the way old friends do... times of joy, and times of sorrow, we will always see it through ... whoaaa hoooo i don't care what lies tomorrow, we can face it together, the way old friends do....
I didn't even get to the second CD. Extraordinary, the things that sometimes just snag in your mind and heart for a few moments in time.
you and i can share the silence... finding comfort together, the way old friends do.... oho i don't care what comes tomorrow.... we can face it together, the way old friends do... times of joy, and times of sorrow, we will always see it through ... whoaaa hoooo i don't care what lies tomorrow, we can face it together, the way old friends do....
I didn't even get to the second CD. Extraordinary, the things that sometimes just snag in your mind and heart for a few moments in time.
The Reader
It's funny, but the other day, I had someone insist that when you do write, you're always writing a little for someone else. That is how I began the blog, ostensibly to get some discipline into the writing effort, but turned into updates for family and friends in lieu of the copious letters I used to write. Now, it's just for me. Not a diary, and for doubters, let me assure you, NOTHING beats an unrestrained scream, the melodious splintering of a window, the disintegration of a phone against the wall any more than it can replace the desire to shake the life out of a sibling. Anyone who claims their life is an open book is fit to be embalmed as pathological liar. There's always something to hide ;-).
My favourite undercover agent (pun intended, o lord of chaos, in case you were wondering....) gentle admonishment of my illiterate association of the worlds best spy (a spy with out any digits is nothing but a tawdry impostor, Jason) with an errant government department found me doing a rather reflexive dimwitted bird head tilt, before giggling. How can you ever write for anyone else, when what people see when they read the same words is so confoundingly divergent?? Every 1500 words we discussed around a table of a dozen had about 14 interpretations and a minimum of 8 different things that grabbed them about the writing.
I know that reading is not just utterly personal thing, but ever evolving with your own experiences, yet, it still makes me do that bird thing. It's like finding an unexpected letter from an old friend on your mat; answering a phone to a gust of hysterical laughter as they pick themselves up the floor and remain incoherent; that first bite of a perfect crab risotto.... it just stops you in your tracks, makes you pause and jerk like a portly pigeon whose perfect dinner party has been invaded by a rakish crow, and then wonder at the magic of it....
I don't know why it is....that words take on the sensibility of the reader, or why it still surprises me... You never write for anyone else. You don't need to. They'll find what they're seeking, despite you.
My favourite undercover agent (pun intended, o lord of chaos, in case you were wondering....) gentle admonishment of my illiterate association of the worlds best spy (a spy with out any digits is nothing but a tawdry impostor, Jason) with an errant government department found me doing a rather reflexive dimwitted bird head tilt, before giggling. How can you ever write for anyone else, when what people see when they read the same words is so confoundingly divergent?? Every 1500 words we discussed around a table of a dozen had about 14 interpretations and a minimum of 8 different things that grabbed them about the writing.
I know that reading is not just utterly personal thing, but ever evolving with your own experiences, yet, it still makes me do that bird thing. It's like finding an unexpected letter from an old friend on your mat; answering a phone to a gust of hysterical laughter as they pick themselves up the floor and remain incoherent; that first bite of a perfect crab risotto.... it just stops you in your tracks, makes you pause and jerk like a portly pigeon whose perfect dinner party has been invaded by a rakish crow, and then wonder at the magic of it....
I don't know why it is....that words take on the sensibility of the reader, or why it still surprises me... You never write for anyone else. You don't need to. They'll find what they're seeking, despite you.
Virtuosity - musical or marketing?
My fortune cookie says that my ideals are well within reach, and given Dr. D-uh's confident response to my worried logistic query about getting to the South Bank from Chinatown, "15 minutes at the very least and 20 if we walk fast.....", its just as well!! (huh?!?! and this is LSE's finest....!). Oddly, as it turns out, 15 minutes is what it took, and we weren't even out of breath, so conceivably, if we had been, it might have taken us 20 minutes????
Trilok Gurtu, percussion hero, spawn of the legendary Shoba Gurtu. Unlike Somya who was rather moved by the fact that I was going to watch the man, I had never listened to his work, despite fancying myself as a thwarted percussionist, when I am so reminded, as I was this evening. While Aashish is picking himself up off the floor, let me tell you, I take pride in having been part of the school orchestra (OK, so perhaps we were more of a band...), when I was 5, with the profound responsibility of the triangle. You scoff? A triangle, but for it's shape, would be the cornerstone of percussive melody. Furthermore, I even had sheet music for my instrument! It takes talent and dedication to bear the weight of such immense duty, and regretfully, I was more inclined sit in a cardboard box and sail around the world than to practise 6 hours a day. Alas! Had I only pursued my classical training on the triangle more seriously, it would have been Guhakar and not Gurtu at the receiving end of the standing ovation. Siigh, another glorious career nipped in the bud!
Trilok did however, have the audience eating out of his hand. Wolf whistles, thunderous applause and a standing ovation. Perhaps I'm being too cynical, but tonight's concert seemed to me, to be an affirmation of the victory of style over substance. It was Gurtu with the Arkè string quartet (who incidentally, were fabulous!). Double bass, viola and two violins and some exquisite compositions. Fes by Carlo Cantini was haunting and pure sensation, especially with Valentino's mellifluous calling. Trilok on the other hand, reminded me of a sound stage. Some interesting use of percussion that you'd expect as part of a film; the rushing of wind, the early noises of dawn mingled with chanting was rather hypnotic, but then degenerated into cats squabbling on metal trash cans. Or it could simply be that my jazz ear is severely underdeveloped and I suffer from a deep seated jealousy of any percussionist success. He is a star, and not just because of his pedigree. London loved him. I thought Arkè made him better than he was. He has some charisma, his humour predictable - not that you'd guess from the squeals of the crowd lapping it up..., but perhaps I'm just too jaded (and possibly too much of a Zakir groupie, and a fan of other masters like Vikku Vinayak and Vijay Ghate), but talent? I thought he was mediocre. Didn't stop me from getting drawn into the encore finale with great enthusiasm, but tabla calling (or any kind actually) has always been one of my weaknesses, along with a good jugalbandi, and well, this one was enervating... but no better than so many others I've seen. As a percussionist, he was ordinary. If I was impressed, it was with his unique ability to have each of his appendages follow a different rhythm without faltering. Right hand beating a tattoo on the tabla while the left whispers over a snag drum, the right foot thumping a steady beat, while the left jingles, each unique, culminating into a seamless flow. I'm impressed, even as my brain tells me I can play the piano with both hands doing different things and a foot marking emphasis.
Guess nepotism is alive and well in the desi gharanas... the only progeny that I've seen who surpassed their guru and parent, has been Zakir (eventually grudgingly admitted to by Ma), and all the others have been, well, merely fortunate to have been born to talent. Norah Jones as well, but under her own steam. Daddy darling was too busy being infatuated by his Veena player and then promoting his less talented celebrity bitiya, as have so many other greats. Such a shame, that we are willing to forsake the truly talented for blood. A cliché, and somehow unworthy of the legendary tradition of the gharanas. Still, Arkè were fantastic (even when they were percussion to Gurtu's solo grandstanding, I'd have rather enjoyed their plucking, beating and thrumming to Gurtu's frenetic rendition) and it's been a while since I've enjoyed a live performance of fusion, and there is much pleasure in being part of such an interactive evening, even just watching them play off each other, and their obvious contentment and joy with their art. Well deserving of two big, fat scoops (that boy behind the counter was most obliging of my entreaty) of chocolate ice cream to celebrate a sense of accomplishment! The perfect end to a glorious day.
My aching legs strongly suggest I've walked off the ice cream (wonder how far it is from the South Bank to home). Hang on - that can't be right 3.98 miles??? I walked 3.98 miles???? Actually, I would have walked 4 - it's got to be 200 metres from the tube station! Sheesh!! If only I had known then what I know now! Unnecessary bravado perhaps, but it seemed inappropriate to end the evening with public transport instead of the serene sight of boats moored along the banks, the water a sheet of glass mirroring the hushed affluence of the mansions overlooking the canal. I shall console myself for my Englishness of the evening by devouring some more calories (which brings to mind the Tiramisu that Sofra, St. Chris, brings on as dessert - it's humongous!! Big enough to feed a family of four, for a week. Photographic evidence shows it as bigger than Liz's face, and the response to that particular stimulus is an open mouth gape by all who view it. I ate all of mine).
Incidentally, I'm super impressed by the nnnnnwwwww nnnnnwwwww light sabre sound the iPhone is capable of - talk of an übercool way to cut a swathe through the rush hour crowd! I know I am a nerd. I'd like to think it was being married to one for 11 years that turned me into this, but..... as far as weaponry goes, that would be a lie. But my thrill with the neat virtual lighter where the flame flickers when you blow..... that one has got to be proximity to nerd ex (the man takes photographs of the various screens with the phone's camera and flaunts it!!). God, I am such a nerd!! I shall console myself with the 5th highest score on my first try (after a late start coz Dr. D-uh very deliberately neglected to inform me there were points to be had!) at the bubble wrap burst. Let's just chalk this one down to an appreciation of brilliant integration of faltu technology and innovative design....
Trilok Gurtu, percussion hero, spawn of the legendary Shoba Gurtu. Unlike Somya who was rather moved by the fact that I was going to watch the man, I had never listened to his work, despite fancying myself as a thwarted percussionist, when I am so reminded, as I was this evening. While Aashish is picking himself up off the floor, let me tell you, I take pride in having been part of the school orchestra (OK, so perhaps we were more of a band...), when I was 5, with the profound responsibility of the triangle. You scoff? A triangle, but for it's shape, would be the cornerstone of percussive melody. Furthermore, I even had sheet music for my instrument! It takes talent and dedication to bear the weight of such immense duty, and regretfully, I was more inclined sit in a cardboard box and sail around the world than to practise 6 hours a day. Alas! Had I only pursued my classical training on the triangle more seriously, it would have been Guhakar and not Gurtu at the receiving end of the standing ovation. Siigh, another glorious career nipped in the bud!
Trilok did however, have the audience eating out of his hand. Wolf whistles, thunderous applause and a standing ovation. Perhaps I'm being too cynical, but tonight's concert seemed to me, to be an affirmation of the victory of style over substance. It was Gurtu with the Arkè string quartet (who incidentally, were fabulous!). Double bass, viola and two violins and some exquisite compositions. Fes by Carlo Cantini was haunting and pure sensation, especially with Valentino's mellifluous calling. Trilok on the other hand, reminded me of a sound stage. Some interesting use of percussion that you'd expect as part of a film; the rushing of wind, the early noises of dawn mingled with chanting was rather hypnotic, but then degenerated into cats squabbling on metal trash cans. Or it could simply be that my jazz ear is severely underdeveloped and I suffer from a deep seated jealousy of any percussionist success. He is a star, and not just because of his pedigree. London loved him. I thought Arkè made him better than he was. He has some charisma, his humour predictable - not that you'd guess from the squeals of the crowd lapping it up..., but perhaps I'm just too jaded (and possibly too much of a Zakir groupie, and a fan of other masters like Vikku Vinayak and Vijay Ghate), but talent? I thought he was mediocre. Didn't stop me from getting drawn into the encore finale with great enthusiasm, but tabla calling (or any kind actually) has always been one of my weaknesses, along with a good jugalbandi, and well, this one was enervating... but no better than so many others I've seen. As a percussionist, he was ordinary. If I was impressed, it was with his unique ability to have each of his appendages follow a different rhythm without faltering. Right hand beating a tattoo on the tabla while the left whispers over a snag drum, the right foot thumping a steady beat, while the left jingles, each unique, culminating into a seamless flow. I'm impressed, even as my brain tells me I can play the piano with both hands doing different things and a foot marking emphasis.
Guess nepotism is alive and well in the desi gharanas... the only progeny that I've seen who surpassed their guru and parent, has been Zakir (eventually grudgingly admitted to by Ma), and all the others have been, well, merely fortunate to have been born to talent. Norah Jones as well, but under her own steam. Daddy darling was too busy being infatuated by his Veena player and then promoting his less talented celebrity bitiya, as have so many other greats. Such a shame, that we are willing to forsake the truly talented for blood. A cliché, and somehow unworthy of the legendary tradition of the gharanas. Still, Arkè were fantastic (even when they were percussion to Gurtu's solo grandstanding, I'd have rather enjoyed their plucking, beating and thrumming to Gurtu's frenetic rendition) and it's been a while since I've enjoyed a live performance of fusion, and there is much pleasure in being part of such an interactive evening, even just watching them play off each other, and their obvious contentment and joy with their art. Well deserving of two big, fat scoops (that boy behind the counter was most obliging of my entreaty) of chocolate ice cream to celebrate a sense of accomplishment! The perfect end to a glorious day.
My aching legs strongly suggest I've walked off the ice cream (wonder how far it is from the South Bank to home). Hang on - that can't be right 3.98 miles??? I walked 3.98 miles???? Actually, I would have walked 4 - it's got to be 200 metres from the tube station! Sheesh!! If only I had known then what I know now! Unnecessary bravado perhaps, but it seemed inappropriate to end the evening with public transport instead of the serene sight of boats moored along the banks, the water a sheet of glass mirroring the hushed affluence of the mansions overlooking the canal. I shall console myself for my Englishness of the evening by devouring some more calories (which brings to mind the Tiramisu that Sofra, St. Chris, brings on as dessert - it's humongous!! Big enough to feed a family of four, for a week. Photographic evidence shows it as bigger than Liz's face, and the response to that particular stimulus is an open mouth gape by all who view it. I ate all of mine).
Incidentally, I'm super impressed by the nnnnnwwwww nnnnnwwwww light sabre sound the iPhone is capable of - talk of an übercool way to cut a swathe through the rush hour crowd! I know I am a nerd. I'd like to think it was being married to one for 11 years that turned me into this, but..... as far as weaponry goes, that would be a lie. But my thrill with the neat virtual lighter where the flame flickers when you blow..... that one has got to be proximity to nerd ex (the man takes photographs of the various screens with the phone's camera and flaunts it!!). God, I am such a nerd!! I shall console myself with the 5th highest score on my first try (after a late start coz Dr. D-uh very deliberately neglected to inform me there were points to be had!) at the bubble wrap burst. Let's just chalk this one down to an appreciation of brilliant integration of faltu technology and innovative design....
Shag carpets and spam
Of late, I find myself inundated by offers of Russian mail order brides. I've always believed this to be the domain of exorbitantly paid oil workers in Alaska. Apparently, I was wrong. Being nearly legitimately single qualifies me as a bonafide recipient of such alluring offers. The Russians have never been known for their subtlety, and while I make no claims to it either, I bow unequivocally to their demonstrable superiority. 1 mail from someone in my address book forlornly competes with 27 screaming ones from Delaware (don't ask....if Sarah Palin can see them from her window, how far behind can Delaware be?) with a generous offer; WANT TO MARRY A HOT RUSSIAN CHICK? DREAM MARRIAGE WITH LIVE VIDEO STREAMING. ONLY GENTLEMEN HAVE ACCESS TO LIVE VIDEO FOR VIEWING WOMEN DURING LIVE CHAT, SO NO NEED TO DRESS FOR THE OCCASION.
For the love of Christ. No need to dress for the occasion?? While I'm willing to suspend my romantic notions of what might constitute a dream marriage, even for a hot Russian chick, and I do appreciate this is not the actual wedding we're talking about here, I'd be hard pressed to choose between a 'gentleman' in dirty sweats picking his nose while shovelling pizza into his mouth to a naked one exercising his willie! Or maybe the latter is dressing for the occasion?? Where is Rasputin when you need him?!
Still, for some deeply dubious reason, this caused my mind to wander to shag carpets. Anybody who has the misfortune to suffer from carpet burns will tell you that torrid shagging on a carpeted floor is seriously overrated, unless it happens to be in a thick pile of silk carpeting. Was that the original purpose of shag carpets? A handy lower back insulator for artfully spontaneous passion? Rumour has it that shag is apparently used to make deep pile carpets (no, I'm not making this up, so stop with the suggestive nudging!). Prophetically, google informs me that you could get either a long shag, short shag or mini shag. Hmmm.... might be best to check in advance what kind your date is.. err has....
For the love of Christ. No need to dress for the occasion?? While I'm willing to suspend my romantic notions of what might constitute a dream marriage, even for a hot Russian chick, and I do appreciate this is not the actual wedding we're talking about here, I'd be hard pressed to choose between a 'gentleman' in dirty sweats picking his nose while shovelling pizza into his mouth to a naked one exercising his willie! Or maybe the latter is dressing for the occasion?? Where is Rasputin when you need him?!
Still, for some deeply dubious reason, this caused my mind to wander to shag carpets. Anybody who has the misfortune to suffer from carpet burns will tell you that torrid shagging on a carpeted floor is seriously overrated, unless it happens to be in a thick pile of silk carpeting. Was that the original purpose of shag carpets? A handy lower back insulator for artfully spontaneous passion? Rumour has it that shag is apparently used to make deep pile carpets (no, I'm not making this up, so stop with the suggestive nudging!). Prophetically, google informs me that you could get either a long shag, short shag or mini shag. Hmmm.... might be best to check in advance what kind your date is.. err has....
Neurotic singles syndrome
A shockingly gorgeous day, blue skies missing any errant clouds, bright sunshine burning through your jacket. Perfect for a walk along a surprisingly dirty canal, littered with trash, an uncommon number of bottles, a higher than usual concentration of water fowl and annoyingly stupid pigeons on the walkway. It's not just the sunshine that lifts my mood, and makes the stray thought that I've been displaying signs of passive aggression not dissimilar to my mother in law less upsetting than it normally might have. Tanya's unhappy and fixated about a situation at work, not about what is, but what she thinks might be. Even a posting on Facebook sets her off. We listen, ask rude questions, debate and offer advice. Sometimes, it's a thwack on the back of the head that's needed (figuratively speaking, in case you had images of me assaulting her). Somya nailed it when she laughed about the neurotic singles syndrome. Each one of us has done it, wallowed in it, before the other came along with the sharp rap on the head to help you focus. Nothing everything is about you. Simple enough, but yet, so easily forgotten by us singletons, specialising in the knack of looking from without while ignore whats within. Seems like London is a fertile spawning ground for the likes of us....or is it being here that makes us this way? Like the internal clock that makes a large part of the animal kingdom follow it's migration paths, generation after generation... all roads lead to London for the neurotic singles to self obsess. Hey, we've all got to have a hobby!
Retraction
I lied. Not all allusion, just ones with the potential to destroy life as we know it, excluding any reference to global warming.
P.S. - I wonder if Gerald Durrel had to get his family and other animals to sign release forms before he went into print... (hah! bet both Hercules & Jason would have wilted at that challenge. Give me a gorgon anytime!)
P.S. - I wonder if Gerald Durrel had to get his family and other animals to sign release forms before he went into print... (hah! bet both Hercules & Jason would have wilted at that challenge. Give me a gorgon anytime!)
S.M.E.R.S.H. recall
This is what happens when you type faster than the speed of light. Critically sensitive information with far reaching consequences, ultimately causing the world to explode, sneaks into the public domain. Mi5 gets super upset at Bond's reckless abandon and packs him off to far reaches of outer Mongolia. Sadly, my resourcefulness at landing among lush animal skins into the waiting arms of a sultry, high cheek boned enemy spy seems to be glaringly lacking. So, 00¾ shall meekly (in spirit if not speech) and hastily backtrack and delete all allusion to any psychotic behaviour amongst friend or foe.
Mirror Mirror on the wall...
...why do I see a different face between the shifting wisps of fog? When did you turn so translucently opaque? Now a predatory wolf, bared fangs tinged with the hue of a setting sun; vacillating tumbleweed tossed by indifferent winds; the ugly face of covetousness; a self indulgent Bengal tiger indolently wallowing in the pleasure of cool waters on a hot day; the anti-Borg, solitary and aloof; iridescent rain, ruffling the serenity of stillness; scavenging hyena emerging from the shadows at the scent of opportunity; myriad estuaries splintering a delta into uncontrolled fecundity; a wily escape artist, oblivious to the shackles; an arrested river, shoring silt along the banks; an impatient thoroughbred quivering in anticipation of the unknown; an errant drop of water rimming the tap; a Möbius strip doomed to infinity; a destructive typhoon, incandescent with rage; the raucous innocence and carelessness of children frolicking in a storm; the wildly erratic scratchings of a successful lie detector; an enraged bull, bellowing in impotence; a glimpse of an age old Ashoka tree, strong and unwavering; the ringing laugh of pure happiness; a manuscript left fallow, its characters loitering without intent; the reluctant promise of dawn after an endless night...
1 o'clock and alls well...
... if you discount 2nd degree burns and a potential stabbing, the kitchen is where I'm really on full goddess throttle (given that I've survived a year in a commercial kitchen without flexing my medical insurance, that's no idle threat). But then given I've been squinting at a page devoid of any calligraphic enhancements for the last too many quart de heures, that stabbing could have just been Freudian.
Midnight,
and I'm contemplating laundry. And I'm also wondering if I've eaten. I did cook..... and given that I have shut the door this evening (brb, while I check to make sure I'm not lying yet again - yep, all good), it's unlikely the neighbours snuck into steal my Port Salut and grapes...., so that would have been me. And before accusations of procrastination start flying around, let me just say.... documenting a three hour project management meeting to soothe petulantly, pernickity, graceless Englishmen with less personality than stale watercress sandwich, would make you want to separate the colours from the whites! Hmmm, I now need to counteract the bland imagery I'm faced with - masala mété or black pepper beef stir fry? Maybe both. It's going to be a looong night.
Plan B
Unlike M&S, I always have a plan B. Sometimes C and D. Once even J. It's Plan A that's usually missing. Well, Houston, we have lift off.... and the nervous anticipation fuelled thudding of my heart will degenerate into near coronaries between now and Saturday as I hypothesise, oscillate and work myself into a frenzy. I do lie, but desi DNA keeps slipping past the barriers and rushing to the fore. Still, I really need to work on my self control. Even a 3 week old kitten has a mewl stronger than my self control. An exercise in futility? Perhaps, I just enjoy wallowing in it so....siiiigh!
Introspection...
...is hell. Particularly when indulged in during the interminable chasms in time almost demanded by public transport (irrelevant here, but does anyone actually travel by first class on the Heathrow Express?). It also conjures a surfeit of potential titles for a blog, ranging from a plagiarised 'Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies...' to a more stoic 'Learning disabilities'. There is no limit to what the mind is willing to deny, which is why it's such a poignant shock to be assaulted by your self absorption with a few well chosen words, delivered by someone who hates your guts as she loves you. It's galling to admit that the snap judgement actually wasn't so snap; you just didn't want to see it. Like shifting attention to foreign policy when the domestic is haemorrhaging. Well, here it is, 70mm full blown technicolour complete with Dolby digital surround. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Truth is, it's easier to focus on the outside, rather than within. Safer to shift the spotlight. Create another series of smaller, less insurmountable fears that divert energy from the real ones, thrilled at the ability of 130 points of IQ to justify it in all manner of ingenious manifestations. Inspired inertia, the effortless place to be. Now, that would be turning laziness into an art form....
A voice across the river
reminds me that I've lost the plot. Yet again. At least I'm consistent? Frivolity aside, why do I find myself asking if this is what I really am? An abstract painting; blurred and open to interpretation. Is she right, or am I just following a different path? And that's the irony. Neither of us is wrong. Yet neither of us is right. No single truth. It's so easy to pick a side and justify it; the good, the bad and the ugly. Always endless possibilities. I think I might have forgotten what it is to walk in someone else's shoes.... entralled by the sight of my toes wriggling up from the gorgeous new ones, easily slipped off whenever I choose. Makes you realise how effortless it is to be thoughtless while deep in thought. God, I really hate to be a stereotype and I'd toss the damned letter if I could... What was I thinking????
Coffee??
Despite being enthralled by my own culinary abilities, a rather obvious lack of some other essential facilities render me ineligible as a candidate for domestic goddesshood. For example, if I had children, it is entirely feasible that I would (a) forget where I left them (b) forget to pick them up (c) forget to feed them (d) forget their names (e) drive off without them. Actually, I lie. They'd have gourmet taste buds by the time they were 4. Did I mention the front door didn't need more than a tug this morning to let me out? Could've sworn I'd actually shut it after I got home the night before.....
It has been a verrry long week, but there are limits to pitiful diary management. My vague remark about the lack of a coat as we queued to pay for lunch, had Sam launch into explanation about having run out for a coffee with a mate.... Coffee! Shit!! Luckily the lid's secure enough to stop an untimely cascade as my watch confirms the witching hour. That's where I'm meant to be. Coffee. Starbucks. Man. Date. Bugger!!! My soup and I make a mad dash, minus any intimate brushes with large, red buses. Only 5 minutes late, but distracted by thoughts of my poor soon to be shivering lunch and impending conference call, the banker was doomed to sink without a trace. And he did.
An exhausting week, broken by goofy giggles the whole way back, before severe glances from co-passengers had me admiring the roof of the lift with great dedication instead. 6 seconds and home free.... gasping for breath at the absurdity of it all, fourteen minutes to compose myself and seven to demolish my trusty companion in the bag before my call. Six and a half hours before I leave the week behind me. Still, I can now spell Székesfehérvár with impunity.
It has been a verrry long week, but there are limits to pitiful diary management. My vague remark about the lack of a coat as we queued to pay for lunch, had Sam launch into explanation about having run out for a coffee with a mate.... Coffee! Shit!! Luckily the lid's secure enough to stop an untimely cascade as my watch confirms the witching hour. That's where I'm meant to be. Coffee. Starbucks. Man. Date. Bugger!!! My soup and I make a mad dash, minus any intimate brushes with large, red buses. Only 5 minutes late, but distracted by thoughts of my poor soon to be shivering lunch and impending conference call, the banker was doomed to sink without a trace. And he did.
An exhausting week, broken by goofy giggles the whole way back, before severe glances from co-passengers had me admiring the roof of the lift with great dedication instead. 6 seconds and home free.... gasping for breath at the absurdity of it all, fourteen minutes to compose myself and seven to demolish my trusty companion in the bag before my call. Six and a half hours before I leave the week behind me. Still, I can now spell Székesfehérvár with impunity.
Sleep deprivation,
does nothing whatsoever to enhance my occasionally winning personality, so this week is likely to be a total write off. A mind numbingly boring proposal to review at 1 am followed by an 8 am concall - that wonderful corporate invention to fill endless hours with a concentrated lack of decision making while looking terribly busy, and impressively filling diaries. Client presentations, followed by a potentially humourless dinner... and the week goes on. Given that the odds of my being evicted rise expotentially at housekeeping duties being executed at this hour of the morning, I have no choice but to inflict myself here as my only viable alternative for deadline related tedium avoidance. Otherwise known as procrastination. Killing dinner (part ii) is also a tried and tested diversion, and can be a rather satisfying stall (did I mention I once upon a time, in a land far, far away, managed to kill boiling water?? Took me ages to connect the loud, rattling noises and an increase in ambient temperature with the kitchen... didn't know that an empty stainless saucepan on a full flame sounds like an insane percussionist in a fusion band. Guess you learn something new everyday... and well, I also learned to connect heat, noise and in this case rampant aroma to the kitchen rather more rapidly than once upon a time ago.....). Dinner??
I am going to KILL her!
To be jarred awake 17 minutes ahead of schedule can only be symptomatic of a day that is not going to go well...and by the time the throbbing theme of Magnum PI penetrates the hazy fog typical of an ungodly hour, signalling a phone call from home, you know, it can only go downhill from here...
'Poltu! Did I wake you?'. 30 years old, lived in India, France & the Big Apple and she can't calculate 5 ½ hours time difference. Friggin' cretin! YES!! You woke me!! 'Wait, don't hang up, it's important!!'. Oi - unless you're calling to report a dead body, NOTHING is important enough to have me twisted in the sheets during the desperate lunge to get the f***ing phone before voicemail hijacks it! But wait, obviously, none of the residents of 14 Iris are dead, because you asked if I was awake?! For fucks sake Miim!! Learn to calculate time zone differences and unless someone is dead or dying, do NOT call me anytime before 11 am!! Asking me if you can sell my TV.....?!?!?!?!?! TV? What? TV?? This is important? To whom??? Who the fuck calls in the morning to ask such a rodent like question???? (and for those of you whining that 17 minutes is hardly a great deal, let me remind you, in the Guha household, that, quite easily is the difference between life or death - YOURS!) YES! SELL IT! I don't give a fuck. Sell everything. I don't care.... just LET ME SLEEP! Aaaaargh! What makes this even more galling, is that it's not the first time (the last time was a gross miscalculation from NYC resulting in a 3 am query if I was actually going to be there on the 14th, so she could confirm lunch at Per Se...!! 'go back to sleep poltu...'). I am going to fucking kill her. But what makes it most galling? This is the pajama clad runt, who on her wedding day croaked from under the sheets, 'I'm tiiired... I don't want to go...you go instead... let me sleeeeep'!!!!! What?! You're the *&$£%"^@ BRIDE! What is WRONG with you????
This is not justifiable homicide, this is a mercy killing. Saving the world from an American returned, smelly, unwashed, daft, inconsiderate, dulcet toned, unnaturally perky, time dyslexic, crooked nosed, size zero troll disguised as a sibling. Pest control. I am so going to eradicate the sibling.
'Poltu! Did I wake you?'. 30 years old, lived in India, France & the Big Apple and she can't calculate 5 ½ hours time difference. Friggin' cretin! YES!! You woke me!! 'Wait, don't hang up, it's important!!'. Oi - unless you're calling to report a dead body, NOTHING is important enough to have me twisted in the sheets during the desperate lunge to get the f***ing phone before voicemail hijacks it! But wait, obviously, none of the residents of 14 Iris are dead, because you asked if I was awake?! For fucks sake Miim!! Learn to calculate time zone differences and unless someone is dead or dying, do NOT call me anytime before 11 am!! Asking me if you can sell my TV.....?!?!?!?!?! TV? What? TV?? This is important? To whom??? Who the fuck calls in the morning to ask such a rodent like question???? (and for those of you whining that 17 minutes is hardly a great deal, let me remind you, in the Guha household, that, quite easily is the difference between life or death - YOURS!) YES! SELL IT! I don't give a fuck. Sell everything. I don't care.... just LET ME SLEEP! Aaaaargh! What makes this even more galling, is that it's not the first time (the last time was a gross miscalculation from NYC resulting in a 3 am query if I was actually going to be there on the 14th, so she could confirm lunch at Per Se...!! 'go back to sleep poltu...'). I am going to fucking kill her. But what makes it most galling? This is the pajama clad runt, who on her wedding day croaked from under the sheets, 'I'm tiiired... I don't want to go...you go instead... let me sleeeeep'!!!!! What?! You're the *&$£%"^@ BRIDE! What is WRONG with you????
This is not justifiable homicide, this is a mercy killing. Saving the world from an American returned, smelly, unwashed, daft, inconsiderate, dulcet toned, unnaturally perky, time dyslexic, crooked nosed, size zero troll disguised as a sibling. Pest control. I am so going to eradicate the sibling.
You can't have your cake....
....and eat it. I've never understood this... what's the point of cake if you don't have it to eat?? Who does cake just to look at it? A hypertensive diabetic on the nudge of caridac arrest? A deeply tortured anorexic? I'm with Marie A. on this one, but I think the balance 27 million (?) is because I can't choose between my cakes. It's being ambushed by the unexpected. It's the contradiction of beliefs and ideas. Both equally strong, but diametrically opposed. An oxymoron of life. Does that even make sense? Wanting it all, and wanting none of it? Actually, I lie. It's wanting it all, but trying to fit in all the divergent refractions into a single point. That can't happen - any more than you can send light back to it's source. I guess that's why it's unsettling.... you're heading in one direction, rather pleased with yourself, when the river meanders off into the unknown. You want to go there, but without giving up your original course, always seeking what's around the next bend. Hmmmm. Doesn't work like that, does it. Well, just because it doesn't work like that, isn't enough to stop you from trying your damndest to make it work so you can do both! Right. This nicely rounds up why I'm in a foul mood. I haven't a clue how to do both and I'm too stubborn to let go of either. The conflict will just have to handle itself.....I'm off to plan my relaxing Nile cruise - well not so relaxing given that those two words now trigger off deeply distrubing images of Miss Marple - is nothing sacred?! Therapy will have to wait. I have an irate client to soothe by previous appointment.... what can I say... it's been an early start!
Albert Pinto ko gussa kyo aata hain?
Damned if i know or care. मुझे गुस्सा क्यो आ रहा हैं? That is the 64 million dollar question. I'm sleep deprived, already backlogged with admin, hungry and seriously cranky with the damned song running around in my head, and it's only just gone 10 on a Monday morning. Wonderful - middle aged and in a seriously bad mood. Charming combination. I'm angry that I've abandoned Babu and don't have a 1300 word piece to edit in the class I'll be giving a miss, annoyed with all the crippling doubt on timing, seriously aggravated by this uncharacteristic indecision I'm mired in, struggling to pay the kind of attention at work that 2009 demands, weary of the continuing restriction to my mobility and missed yoga classes, wondering what on earth possessed me to say yes to uber boss' suggestion I take on the team training for this year, appalled by my eroding net worth, bored of the sulky weather, irritated by perky soon to be ex-friends, pakaoed by the incessant buzz of the blackberry, infuriated that I still can't tell if it should be रहा or रही, exasperated by the drought of 'suitable' men in my life at this moment, wound up for not having glanced the the Bengali books since last summer, cheesed off by the mother Hubbard syndrome, caught between wanting to be left alone and being smothered. Scared of both! Sheesh! That's got to be worth 37 million right there. And the transliteration on this site sucks. I am seriously ticked off.
or go to Plan B....
.....and forage for food! Feels like I haven't eaten since 2007. Well, I suppose that's fair enough given that we finished dinner some six hours ago. I can just see how the rest of this week is going to go :-(
Reflections of Miss Marple
I never liked the woman anyway... and now she's keeping me up. Actually, I lie. I just prefer the pompous Belgian, and it's hardly her fault that I now have this horrible vision of wrinkly, sagging sweet old lady clad in stockings and lace corset prancing about in my head. She's not the only reason I'm watching the clock at 0238....Reflection is meant to be a good thing, isn't it? Or like all good things, can you get too much of it? It's been a day of confused musings and a sense of restlessness, capped by a greater philosophical reflection of life. Think it's time to call the cavalry. What do you want to bet she's travelling to some god forsaken place up North? Do I stay? Do I go? Am I done here? Tell the investment banker to rein in his miracle worker? How will I know for sure?
It's funny how little actually changes in a sea of change. Umrao Jaan was a victim of her times (described by one reviewer as a crybaby, perpetually sorry for herself.... not untrue, but perhaps a little harsh given the reality of the times), but are things really so different now? The 'other' woman is still the easiest to blame. Reflection is hard when you have to look inwards. But then, oddly enough, in a culture that spawned the concept, it's something we shun with a degree of expertise worthy of it's own international recognition. Why are we so reluctant to admit that there might be more to life. Are we just that lazy?
I really don't know why I do posts at this hour of the morning - I've completely lost my train of thought and this ramble is now irretrievable. I shall attempt to ignore Miss Marple, Umrao Jaan, Vicky and Maria Elaine and get some sleep! A-ha! That's the problem - too many damn women on my mind!
It's funny how little actually changes in a sea of change. Umrao Jaan was a victim of her times (described by one reviewer as a crybaby, perpetually sorry for herself.... not untrue, but perhaps a little harsh given the reality of the times), but are things really so different now? The 'other' woman is still the easiest to blame. Reflection is hard when you have to look inwards. But then, oddly enough, in a culture that spawned the concept, it's something we shun with a degree of expertise worthy of it's own international recognition. Why are we so reluctant to admit that there might be more to life. Are we just that lazy?
I really don't know why I do posts at this hour of the morning - I've completely lost my train of thought and this ramble is now irretrievable. I shall attempt to ignore Miss Marple, Umrao Jaan, Vicky and Maria Elaine and get some sleep! A-ha! That's the problem - too many damn women on my mind!
The 3C's:conditioning, conformity, convention
An interesting debate... is it the desire to conform that makes us human or is conformity necessary for us to survive as humans? A weighty premise, far more worthy than our earlier one involving Miss Marple as a dominatrix! And a graphic image such as this will undoubtedly translate into a most unpleasant insomnia. Honestly - a diminutive white haired, pink cheeked 70 year old with knitting needles in 6 inch laced up knee highs, leather bustier and studs is just wrong!! Almost as wrong as the realisation by 3 women unaccompanied by any sub-adults, that the horses on the merry go round at Christmas wonderland in Hyde Park, have the most disconcerting up and down motion combined with some serious vibrating that make straddling it highly inappropriate for anything but adult entertainment! (which makes you ponder the age old question - how worried should I be about the company I keep??).
I digress. A debate oddly brought on by the evocative combination of Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz and company, which Taks and I had to abandon, thanks to London transports ruthless efficiency late on a Sunday night. Just as an aside, Bardem is every woman's wet dream in a most ridiculously seductive manner, while Penelope is every woman's wetter dream - sensually neurotic and utterly magnificent! She is just......oh my! The usual tittering aside, it does raise some interesting questions about us as a society and what is 'appropriate' or 'acceptable', and how inadequate is usually is. The rules aren't really as important as the roles everyone plays, and that's really the whole point. Take away the conventional roles and it upsets everyone. Why? Are we so conditioned that it's just too difficult to contemplate life without a structure that's clearly recognised and accepted by everyone? Why is it so difficult to acknowledge without any subterfuge that the convention of a 'couple' or a 'family' can never be adequate? For periods of time, absolutely wonderful, but forever? How can it? Yet the institution rolls on implacably. Anyway, we never got past the conditioning bit... let's see how this one pans out.
I digress. A debate oddly brought on by the evocative combination of Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz and company, which Taks and I had to abandon, thanks to London transports ruthless efficiency late on a Sunday night. Just as an aside, Bardem is every woman's wet dream in a most ridiculously seductive manner, while Penelope is every woman's wetter dream - sensually neurotic and utterly magnificent! She is just......oh my! The usual tittering aside, it does raise some interesting questions about us as a society and what is 'appropriate' or 'acceptable', and how inadequate is usually is. The rules aren't really as important as the roles everyone plays, and that's really the whole point. Take away the conventional roles and it upsets everyone. Why? Are we so conditioned that it's just too difficult to contemplate life without a structure that's clearly recognised and accepted by everyone? Why is it so difficult to acknowledge without any subterfuge that the convention of a 'couple' or a 'family' can never be adequate? For periods of time, absolutely wonderful, but forever? How can it? Yet the institution rolls on implacably. Anyway, we never got past the conditioning bit... let's see how this one pans out.
Carpe Diem
A phrase so oft used, particularly by middle aged men, so as to render it more crape than anything else! Never truer than when you want to write about something, even more poignantly so, if the words 'memory', 'sieve', 'like', are oft used in your presence. You might retort saying, "Where there is a will, there is a way....". I might say, "And where there is a will, there is a won't!"
I'd wanted to write about the unholy hand rubbing glee of waking up to a rain day holiday! Except it was snow! It sent me straight back to the Cuffe Parade that was before the roads were paved with concrete.... usually in mid July, sometimes mid August. The morning where you wake up to the report that none of the school buses have been sighted leaving the grounds..... the stealthily ticking clock, the 'ting tong' of 0830 on the radio right after the exhortation to buy lakhani chappals, as you wait with baited breath to confirm whether it's just a delay... .....or YAY!!! A Rainday holiday. You can never count on it, but when it does happen, it's such an incredible sense of excitement and adventure. An arm flinging, world embracing anticipation that is a sudden bonus, day of nothingness. Of rubber chappals, old shorts, ineffectual wind cheaters, and optimistically decorative umbrellas, gusts of teeth chatteringly cold wind, sloshing through thigh high walls of water, chasing each other, battling relacitrant umbrellas and each other, shrieking at the joy of being alive, curiously unmindful of the gutter gunk that's mingling with the new rain, swirling along your skin, like little animals let loose in the wild. Fabulous!
The same rain, the same filth, the same streets... but the delight that can only be brought about by the unexpected. A rain day holiday..... or sometimes, unexpected snow.....
I'd wanted to write about the unholy hand rubbing glee of waking up to a rain day holiday! Except it was snow! It sent me straight back to the Cuffe Parade that was before the roads were paved with concrete.... usually in mid July, sometimes mid August. The morning where you wake up to the report that none of the school buses have been sighted leaving the grounds..... the stealthily ticking clock, the 'ting tong' of 0830 on the radio right after the exhortation to buy lakhani chappals, as you wait with baited breath to confirm whether it's just a delay... .....or YAY!!! A Rainday holiday. You can never count on it, but when it does happen, it's such an incredible sense of excitement and adventure. An arm flinging, world embracing anticipation that is a sudden bonus, day of nothingness. Of rubber chappals, old shorts, ineffectual wind cheaters, and optimistically decorative umbrellas, gusts of teeth chatteringly cold wind, sloshing through thigh high walls of water, chasing each other, battling relacitrant umbrellas and each other, shrieking at the joy of being alive, curiously unmindful of the gutter gunk that's mingling with the new rain, swirling along your skin, like little animals let loose in the wild. Fabulous!
The same rain, the same filth, the same streets... but the delight that can only be brought about by the unexpected. A rain day holiday..... or sometimes, unexpected snow.....
And another day...and a serious WTF?!?!
....and I feel like the inside of a rubbish bin. Hardly surprising given the restless night combined with an unholy desire of the left lobe of my lung to make a wholly unnecessary exit via the scenic route that is my oesophagus. But let's sacrifice the normal for the paranormal. Do I believe in it? I do like the terminology (very handy for a number of human afflictions), but while I'm willing to believe in the copiously vast realm of the unexplained, I'm not ready to endorse all paranormal phenomena.
So what was last night? Apart from being freakily weird. A dream? Unlikely, given that I sleep like the dead, and the dead don't dream. My association with REM sleep is tenuous at best, and I'm most susceptible to it in the moments between being dead and the very, very gradual ascent to consciousness. The most delicious time of impressionist like thoughts, the lazy semi-conscious floating between worlds, only once ever traumatised by the hideous image of my mother in a car, hustled away by evil wrong doers, her hands stretched across a car windshield, held together by a safety pin... (do NOT ask!!!!).
Last night however, was different. Finally, a seemingly comfortable position to end the tossing and turning to find the angle that would allow continued horizontal respiration, the relief at allowing your self to drift off.... when you sense something. Almost a presence, in the same room. Obviously a manifestation of the accelerated heart rate that illness brings with it....Did I just feel the mattress beside me dip? I will admit categorically to having a memory like a sieve, but surely, indisposed or not, to forget if I had a lover staying over?!! Even for me, that would be scaling new heights, and I'm pretty sure, last night was uneventful from that perspective (which makes me wonder, just how bad would you have to be to be that easily forgotten? actually, if you were that bad, I'd remember, which would necessitate what? colossally indifferent sex??). I choose to ignore it. Maybe it is a dream thing. Excessively realistic, but hey, the mind does strange things when unwell.
I burrow deeper into the mattress, my body splayed like a puppet conquering the entire bed in its determination to aim for oblivion. I can still feel it. This is just silly. I know I'm alone in the house. Sounds from the neighbours, but that doesn't explain sense of someone in my space. I refuse to turn towards the window. I'm in full on denial mode (probably not so clever if someone had actually broken in through the window.... but then I'd have heard the bloody window, yes?), when I swear, I swear, I feel the mattress behind me dip. Again. It's uncanny. My body taut, but unmoving, and I hear the bed creak its resistance. I feel the weight of a body settle... maybe it's just wishful thinking, a big, warm body I can snuggle up next to, gentle back rub to relax me.... Fuck. I hear my mother's voice, 'Ki re mamoon'. All pretense of sleep long gone, I stare straight ahead. This has to be the meanderings of a fevered mind. This is NOT real! Jesus f***ing Christ! I can't help it. I have to turn.... I know there's no one there, but I still have to make sure. Guess what. I am alone in that room. So just WHAT THE FUCK? A premonition? Is she dead? This is ridiculous. I'm not going to call to ask.... and well, I haven't heard from anyone yet, so I'd lay odds that she's alive, well and terrorising all within her range. Obviously, the woman is haunting me. The only two times that I've had unnatural sleep encounters in my 39 years. I am so not going to call that woman to see if everything is fine, or if she had a blip during that time or any other bullshit!!
Uncanny. I know it's not possible. I also know I didn't imagine it. On the bright side, this is one hell of a cost effective way to get an aerobic workout!
So what was last night? Apart from being freakily weird. A dream? Unlikely, given that I sleep like the dead, and the dead don't dream. My association with REM sleep is tenuous at best, and I'm most susceptible to it in the moments between being dead and the very, very gradual ascent to consciousness. The most delicious time of impressionist like thoughts, the lazy semi-conscious floating between worlds, only once ever traumatised by the hideous image of my mother in a car, hustled away by evil wrong doers, her hands stretched across a car windshield, held together by a safety pin... (do NOT ask!!!!).
Last night however, was different. Finally, a seemingly comfortable position to end the tossing and turning to find the angle that would allow continued horizontal respiration, the relief at allowing your self to drift off.... when you sense something. Almost a presence, in the same room. Obviously a manifestation of the accelerated heart rate that illness brings with it....Did I just feel the mattress beside me dip? I will admit categorically to having a memory like a sieve, but surely, indisposed or not, to forget if I had a lover staying over?!! Even for me, that would be scaling new heights, and I'm pretty sure, last night was uneventful from that perspective (which makes me wonder, just how bad would you have to be to be that easily forgotten? actually, if you were that bad, I'd remember, which would necessitate what? colossally indifferent sex??). I choose to ignore it. Maybe it is a dream thing. Excessively realistic, but hey, the mind does strange things when unwell.
I burrow deeper into the mattress, my body splayed like a puppet conquering the entire bed in its determination to aim for oblivion. I can still feel it. This is just silly. I know I'm alone in the house. Sounds from the neighbours, but that doesn't explain sense of someone in my space. I refuse to turn towards the window. I'm in full on denial mode (probably not so clever if someone had actually broken in through the window.... but then I'd have heard the bloody window, yes?), when I swear, I swear, I feel the mattress behind me dip. Again. It's uncanny. My body taut, but unmoving, and I hear the bed creak its resistance. I feel the weight of a body settle... maybe it's just wishful thinking, a big, warm body I can snuggle up next to, gentle back rub to relax me.... Fuck. I hear my mother's voice, 'Ki re mamoon'. All pretense of sleep long gone, I stare straight ahead. This has to be the meanderings of a fevered mind. This is NOT real! Jesus f***ing Christ! I can't help it. I have to turn.... I know there's no one there, but I still have to make sure. Guess what. I am alone in that room. So just WHAT THE FUCK? A premonition? Is she dead? This is ridiculous. I'm not going to call to ask.... and well, I haven't heard from anyone yet, so I'd lay odds that she's alive, well and terrorising all within her range. Obviously, the woman is haunting me. The only two times that I've had unnatural sleep encounters in my 39 years. I am so not going to call that woman to see if everything is fine, or if she had a blip during that time or any other bullshit!!
Uncanny. I know it's not possible. I also know I didn't imagine it. On the bright side, this is one hell of a cost effective way to get an aerobic workout!
Note to self
Remember to call Marnie and give her Csikoskars contact details. And Jayal about her 'yes yes yes yes yes yes' cleaning lady. Check about getting rid of those damn chocolate stains from sheets. Don't put too many staples on the expenses claim coz it's driving the little monster around the bend. Find the damn power cord for the laptop, and don't forget to carry passport. Or to check in. Call Mim - Istanbul hotels - or did I already do that?? don't forget the rain holiday snow post. inchoate. i like that word. and my head definitely feels far too heavy for my neck. it hurts. my neck that is. so much for that crane on back order. I think I'm rambling. scratch that. i know i am but the screen looks cool thorough half open eyes. perhaps i should make another attempt at horizontalisation.
Dawn marks the day...
There's nothing like an inability to breathe when horizontal that brings out the prolific writer in one. 1 am, and I'm knackered, but sleep is not in my kismat this night (goddess of all drama queens however, is my kismat, period). The body wracking TB cough (good enough to audition for long suffering mother of twins boys snatched at birth, collapsing in the arms of a youngish lout who turns out to be lost son no.1 © Bollywood) that insisted on centre stage presence on my conference call, has given way to stultifying morass of achy snot lodged between my cranium and thorax. I did intend to write something edifying for this post, but my mind has obviously meandered irretrievably. So let me tell you instead that the investment banker indulges in petty theft. Of white tea (his favourite)
from the BA lounge at T5. Most unbecoming. In his own words, grand theft... now that is acceptable, but petty theft is grossly demeaning. Such a fundamental truth - if you're going to go down, go down in style. Which reminds me, I need to procure a tea ball for the man. Stultifying morass is now doing it's damdest to make Guy's sneezes sound like an apologetic old lady asking to change her cucumber sandwiches. God, that hurt! Reminds me of a Calvin & Hobbes where Calvin's threat of a megaton, life altering sneeze is held back, only to result in his head imploding. Needless to say, his mother is not impressed. Strange woman. Imploding heads always fascinate me. That's what Spock says, with dependable regularity. Fascinating. He is. Utterly. Should I add part Vulcan to my Unicorn classified?
from the BA lounge at T5. Most unbecoming. In his own words, grand theft... now that is acceptable, but petty theft is grossly demeaning. Such a fundamental truth - if you're going to go down, go down in style. Which reminds me, I need to procure a tea ball for the man. Stultifying morass is now doing it's damdest to make Guy's sneezes sound like an apologetic old lady asking to change her cucumber sandwiches. God, that hurt! Reminds me of a Calvin & Hobbes where Calvin's threat of a megaton, life altering sneeze is held back, only to result in his head imploding. Needless to say, his mother is not impressed. Strange woman. Imploding heads always fascinate me. That's what Spock says, with dependable regularity. Fascinating. He is. Utterly. Should I add part Vulcan to my Unicorn classified?
Inevitable?
"Being logical is sooo last year dahling..... Why do things the obvious way?" Difficult to argue such a blindingly conspicious point, which explains why I have agreed to cook if I lose, against a massage if I emerge victorious. Except, now we no longer have the base premise of the bet agreed... but really, that would just be too obvious, wouldn't it dahlings? Almost as obvious as the smile on my face when I hear the words, you say it best, when you say nothing at all.....
Pigeons. Unpacking/packing. Tan lines.
Some said to me the other day, and this was with some surprise... "Oh, but you hate with a passion". Excuse me? Is there any other way to hate?? Isn't that why the word was invented? To circumvent the ambiguity of an otherwise potentially lukewarm word? I appreciate that there are those who are prone to using it to express rather mild manifestations of distaste.... why bother is what I want to know. Like Lynn Truss (and several others, I can't be bothered to google, but she's the one who wrote Eats, Shoots and Leaves), I subscribe to the 'use the bloody language as it's meant to be used' school of thought. I'm inherently suspicious of people who don't have at least one thing they hate viciously (yep, I refused to date this dude, with the sexiest let me stroke your back voice, because he couldn't think of a single thing he hated!!! How does one get to their forties and not find something they really, REALLY hate??), and it's a question that sometimes takes people by surprise. It left Taks wandering the streets desperate to find two other things he hated as much as bhindi...... (Gloria Estefan was disqualified....still, one solid hate is better than three iffy ones, I think)....he has stopped wandering the streets since our conversation, but still hasn't been able to better bhindi. At least you can always trust children to hate with a purity of thought... pity they occasionally evolve into listless adults.
Pigeons. Unpacking/packing. Tan lines.
Pigeons. Unpacking/packing. Tan lines.
Like a river to the sea....
There is something hypnotic about the sea. You can spend hours just watching her capriciousness, suddenly still, almost menacing; sometimes serene; lashing out in fury; playful and joyous; dark and grim; listless and heavy; contemplative and distant; calming; fierce; unpredictable. I know because I did. For the greater part of my formative years. Hours on end, just watching. Her moods reflecting mine. Nothing fixed my world better than time spent by her side, in the middle of the night, undisturbed by the thumping crowds, completely alone (barring the occasional plainclothes cop threatening to lock you or even worse, call your folks). Or with cohorts, the meaning of life more poignant as you shared your thoughts and dreams as you watched her. Your soul as one with hers.
Life on the other hand, it occurs to me, is more like the mighty Brahmaputra (or any other river, I just like to say Brahmaputra...), an incredible journey, moulded by time and the elements as it meanders through, nurturing, sustaining, destroying...an inevitability about it's flow (do I not see rivers as automatic hers because they have masculine names??) as it inexorably twines itself around the lives of those who embrace it. As do we. The journey is what makes us who we are, our experiences altering our perceptions, wisdom allowing us a more sweeping passage through the unpredictability, the unexpectedness of what we find on our way both hurting and healing, the sharply delineated black and white of youth giving way to a hazy palette of colours.
I can trace back my life, and see how it's changed me, shaped me, made me so much more than I was, yet it still manages to surprise me. The direction it takes, just when you think you've finally seen it all, suddenly, you're a four year old again, enthralled by something you're feeling for the first time. Full circle? I am the sea to begin with, before I flow through this land, richer for the journey, to finally come to rest where all journeys must end.
My journey is my own. But it is those I meander with, even if it be a few steps, that bring it meaning.
Life on the other hand, it occurs to me, is more like the mighty Brahmaputra (or any other river, I just like to say Brahmaputra...), an incredible journey, moulded by time and the elements as it meanders through, nurturing, sustaining, destroying...an inevitability about it's flow (do I not see rivers as automatic hers because they have masculine names??) as it inexorably twines itself around the lives of those who embrace it. As do we. The journey is what makes us who we are, our experiences altering our perceptions, wisdom allowing us a more sweeping passage through the unpredictability, the unexpectedness of what we find on our way both hurting and healing, the sharply delineated black and white of youth giving way to a hazy palette of colours.
I can trace back my life, and see how it's changed me, shaped me, made me so much more than I was, yet it still manages to surprise me. The direction it takes, just when you think you've finally seen it all, suddenly, you're a four year old again, enthralled by something you're feeling for the first time. Full circle? I am the sea to begin with, before I flow through this land, richer for the journey, to finally come to rest where all journeys must end.
My journey is my own. But it is those I meander with, even if it be a few steps, that bring it meaning.
Bring it on.....!
Just keeping to my middle age theme (now sidetracked by Tom Selleck's irresistible dimple! That man is scrumptious and I really don't like moustaches - and if anyone writes back I was married to one, I will be severly annoyed!!). As it transpires, I seem to be surrounded by those hitting 40 with vengance and the mantle of middle age has draped itself rather sytlishly around my persona. There is such an unholy joy it affords you to be able to pander to the temple of pure nonsense, secure in yourself and yours, indulgent of the world around you, living just for the moment and savouring every last second. 40 years old? Bring it on.... I'm guessing this will be one of Aashish's more memorable birthdays, especially given the fact that the free wifi runs out when he hits 41! DDM, J and I will remember it more for the plaintive and rather frequent 'are we there yet?' moments; the adventure that is suburbia called Maidenhead. Apparently, this was the shorter route home.... pity he didn't mention he lived closer to Reading than he did to Maidenhead!! Exhortations of "hum honge kamyaab...." didn't go down too well with the tourists (who incidentally were carrying inflatable mattress, duvets, alcohol..... why take a risk when venturing into the wilderness, yes??) and despite ample time to recuperate before lunch on Monkey Island, the post prandial freeze your balls off waiting for a taxi (even Bewdi stopped her hand waving lecturing) and then lug fixings for dinner home (DDM & I were got down to a pretty smooth tag bag routine and does anyone else find fennel excessively reminiscent of udders??) left a lasting impression on the visitors that even a second breakfast couldn't erase. Needless to say, the man from Wipro took the executive decision to ensure our journey home was puncuated by a taxi ride :-)
Less than three weeks, and the imaginary yet effective divide over the weekend between those that were 40 and those not, will see another victim cross over to the dark side....bravo, another weekend of unadulterated silliness to look forward to. Better mark it on every visible surface in the house to make sure I don't forget to turn up ;-)
Less than three weeks, and the imaginary yet effective divide over the weekend between those that were 40 and those not, will see another victim cross over to the dark side....bravo, another weekend of unadulterated silliness to look forward to. Better mark it on every visible surface in the house to make sure I don't forget to turn up ;-)
Non compos mentis
LOL!! Ok, so you know you've really got a serious problem if you've forgotten what you wanted to say between having the thought and booting up you machine...!!!! Yet another one of those sorry 'not getting any younger' excuses? Hardly! You'd have thought the older you got, the less prone you would be to embarrassing yourself. Na-ah! Combine absentmindedness with the fact that you become less embarrassable by advancing years, it really does make for a decidedly fierce, 'cut through the tan' blushing, when you do make an ass of yourself. Like the time I quizzically inspected the screen whining about not being able to hear the phone ring when I was clearly connected, only to have the friend whose phone I borrowed tell me he could hear it ring just fine... on the hands free, still glued to his ear!! Or the time I irately glared at an incompetent shop assistant, resentful of her lack of service skills as I tried to pay for my groceries with my work id. Or the time I had to call my date to ask where I was going (I suppose I should be grateful I remembered who I was meant to call.... now that could have been awkward :p). Or even the time I only noticed the vibe standing next to my toothbrush after Matt, Erica & Aashish had left after dinner..... and using the bathroom.... (wonder if my humiliation would have been less abject if it wasn't so horribly pink??!)
But you know what, apart from the inherent pleasure that can be derived (especially in hindsight!) from making an utter fool of yourself with much elan, middle age is a good place to be. The journey more enriching, more unexpected, full of discovery and a damn sight more fun than when you were eighteen and knew it all.
P.S. - Someone claimed (BF, I think) that it's illegal to own more than 3 sex toys in one of the US States..... food for thought.... (a) is there a registrar of toys? (b) do handcuffs count? (c) what happens if you have 4? (d) would the penalty be more severe if you had 17??
But you know what, apart from the inherent pleasure that can be derived (especially in hindsight!) from making an utter fool of yourself with much elan, middle age is a good place to be. The journey more enriching, more unexpected, full of discovery and a damn sight more fun than when you were eighteen and knew it all.
P.S. - Someone claimed (BF, I think) that it's illegal to own more than 3 sex toys in one of the US States..... food for thought.... (a) is there a registrar of toys? (b) do handcuffs count? (c) what happens if you have 4? (d) would the penalty be more severe if you had 17??
White noise
We chat about clarity. The Marwari's have it. In spades. Ruthlessness requires it. That's why warm and fuzzy go together and not warm and ruthless or ruthless and fuzzy. I look at her, and I have a clarity of thought that I didn't a year ago. Why didn't I? Why is it, that things that seem so patently obvious now, never seem that way in the beginning? Older? wiser? Or is it like trying to predict the mood of the ocean. But you can, can't you? If you live it, breathe it, smell it, learn it? Or is it that what's hidden bleeds through like cheap dye after one too many rinses? Or is it our need for survival that suggests a heightened sensitivity is better served by the white noise that we let envelop us? Do any of us really see what is, without letting our experiences colour our views, our perceptions, our beliefs? That's why we'll always need children and animals to make sense of our lives. Their unmarred innocence, honesty and trust. It makes you smile when you inhale it as tiny fingers maul your face, and wonder when it was lost in the ten year old hugging you. Only the fittest will survive. White noise. It's hard being top of the food chain.
Mortality
How strange is it that we so easily forget something so fundamental? Perhaps not that strange given the magnitude of the human ego, but it always gets to me that even the most 'evolved' are so self obsessed. The whole world is reduced to a singular relationship with one's self. Everything else relegated to the periphery, while the id, ego and superego dominate. Is that why it takes so long to look past the obvious and into peoples beings? Ego and lethargy? Ugh. That's just catastrophic. Anyway, I suppose as long as you get there. But, yes, predictably, I do digress...
It's strange to get updates on mortality from Facebook. If I hadn't been sorting through the photos to see which ones were palatable for public consumption, I wouldn't have stumbled across the posting on the funereal cortege leaving.... it's strange, I've been trying to explain to Guy that it's more than just social networking for his kids generation, but really, I'm the same generation as he is. Would I post the death of a loved one on Facebook? Probably not. But then I'd eventual write about it here, wouldn't I? How different is it? Semantics. Mortality suffers another casualty. It's ripples gently lapping those that know. For everyone else, the mundane still rules. It's inevitable. The power of life sweeps away everything in it's arrogance. The ebb and flow as predictable as my likelihood to digress.
Le roi est mort. Vive le roi.
It's strange to get updates on mortality from Facebook. If I hadn't been sorting through the photos to see which ones were palatable for public consumption, I wouldn't have stumbled across the posting on the funereal cortege leaving.... it's strange, I've been trying to explain to Guy that it's more than just social networking for his kids generation, but really, I'm the same generation as he is. Would I post the death of a loved one on Facebook? Probably not. But then I'd eventual write about it here, wouldn't I? How different is it? Semantics. Mortality suffers another casualty. It's ripples gently lapping those that know. For everyone else, the mundane still rules. It's inevitable. The power of life sweeps away everything in it's arrogance. The ebb and flow as predictable as my likelihood to digress.
Le roi est mort. Vive le roi.
Thank you
To those who've said things that have made moments memorable, actually answered the eternal question of why we are here.....those moments that steal your breath from you, make you feel like you're walking on air, turns your nose red with suppressed sniffles of happiness. Right from the bright eyed eight year old who unblushingly told me she wanted to be like me when she grew up (bet the little sod's wishing she could take that back!), to Dr. V's 'bold' words. For making me feel so very special. Muuuuuah!
Oh! I just remembered....Anna's lovely, lovely words on the blog.... one of the nicest thing said to me in a long time - thank you xx
Oh! I just remembered....Anna's lovely, lovely words on the blog.... one of the nicest thing said to me in a long time - thank you xx
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