Is it a bird..... is it a plane...
no, it's the ruddy generation gap again...... as I feel my pet straight white hair curling with embarrassement. I desparately try to re-organise the horrified cast of my face to something more amenable, while Liz gushes on about how great her Dad looks in his Phantom costume. It's the description of the red silk lined cape that finally allows me to shut my gaping mouth, banishing totally unncessary images of a parent prancing about in purple tights with his underwear on the outside, throwing 'biff' and 'pow' punches, branding the milkman with his trademark skull and crossbones. The mournful lament of the Opera a far cry from the jungles of Denkali that occupy my mind....and mine alone.
The Sabbath
Derived from the Hebrew 'Shabbat'; to cease.
An appropriate conclusion to a seemingly endless week of utter debauchery. Cessation of all excess. A deliciously overcast day that keeps me burrowed under my duvet till the Aveda boys swing by. Tea, chocolates (them, not me!) and hugs as they leave to return whence the sprang forth, and my eyes light up at the blatant lure DIY involving paintbrushes and hammers, if I were to venture up North. Hmmmm... this could have serious potential.
I meet DDM & J for dinner in lieu, not really penitent of ditching them this morning (already in lieu of yesterday's breakfast!), and am surprised yet again....!! A mysterious bag, procured from Chelsea at the behest of Mimu, the Git. Artisan du Chocolat. I can only giggle helplessly.... Oh Alice, if you only had my life! I peek into the bag and am met by the sight of some titillating organza, that does precious little to hide the box within. "Happy Birthday, Sweet Poltu! Enjoy these truffles! Muah! Ma, Ba, Mimi & Rahul". I forget that it's not next Thursday, yet. Fortuituously, It's just too pretty to ravish, and both DDM & J shake away my offer. LOL!! Hedonisim gone mad. I'm going to look at this gorgeously decadent wrapping as I let the other truffles melt in my mouth.... and wonder what the surprise dinner will turn out to be like :). Poor DDM & Bebous! I should really give my Thursday massage to the executrix of Mim's elaborate plans. But then again, it would be in appalling taste to give back what you got, wouldn't it?
I do believe I will enjoy it on their behalf.....seriously....
P.P.S. - I'm not dying. I'm being cunningly disposed off through anaphylatic shock.
An appropriate conclusion to a seemingly endless week of utter debauchery. Cessation of all excess. A deliciously overcast day that keeps me burrowed under my duvet till the Aveda boys swing by. Tea, chocolates (them, not me!) and hugs as they leave to return whence the sprang forth, and my eyes light up at the blatant lure DIY involving paintbrushes and hammers, if I were to venture up North. Hmmmm... this could have serious potential.
I meet DDM & J for dinner in lieu, not really penitent of ditching them this morning (already in lieu of yesterday's breakfast!), and am surprised yet again....!! A mysterious bag, procured from Chelsea at the behest of Mimu, the Git. Artisan du Chocolat. I can only giggle helplessly.... Oh Alice, if you only had my life! I peek into the bag and am met by the sight of some titillating organza, that does precious little to hide the box within. "Happy Birthday, Sweet Poltu! Enjoy these truffles! Muah! Ma, Ba, Mimi & Rahul". I forget that it's not next Thursday, yet. Fortuituously, It's just too pretty to ravish, and both DDM & J shake away my offer. LOL!! Hedonisim gone mad. I'm going to look at this gorgeously decadent wrapping as I let the other truffles melt in my mouth.... and wonder what the surprise dinner will turn out to be like :). Poor DDM & Bebous! I should really give my Thursday massage to the executrix of Mim's elaborate plans. But then again, it would be in appalling taste to give back what you got, wouldn't it?
I do believe I will enjoy it on their behalf.....seriously....
P.P.S. - I'm not dying. I'm being cunningly disposed off through anaphylatic shock.
2009. Annus Mirabilis
The Aveda boys and I meander our through towards Piccadilly Circus and more cake (Profiteroles are NOT cake!!), and gape at the price tags in the National Geographic store. Still, they do have some really cool furniture and Klum's superb photos...
Full price tickets for the matinee, and I'm so glad we're here. The production is remarkable, light hearted, and very, verrry good. 4 actors playing all 136 or whatever number of parts there, unsubtle references to pretty much all of Hitchcock's works, obviously deliberate gaffes, and moments of utter nonsense, somehow woven into the telling, staying true even as it takes on a life of it's own. Brilliant!!
I duly impress my harem (now expanded to one minus the benefit of Aveda's rosemary and mint, but then he's American) with Quaglino's before flooring them with Souk Medina's sultry, yet rowdy ambiance and promises of live belly dancing.... yet more red wine ensues (which regretfully has nothing to do with our {Vinod et moi} nautaki spells around the table), as do multitudes of platters, jangling of hips bells, undulating abs, and some sort of thingy in the far corner.... Vinod's casual reportage of "Oh, it's a male stripper" has Jan and me hustling. More some one's gamely buff boyfriend rather than Chippendale is my professional assessment as I leave Jan with the bevy of waitresses getting an eyeful. Our laughter gets more hysterical, the innuendo more regional, and I expand my vocabulary with some choice Hindi insults, even as Vinod and I trade heaving bosom a la Sridevi, and dhichkao Amitabh dance moves, while Aashish assures Dimple that he and I are divorced :p
Sunday to Saturday. An entire week of celebrating almost 39, 39 and gone 39. Surreal. Never has 39 looked better.....
Full price tickets for the matinee, and I'm so glad we're here. The production is remarkable, light hearted, and very, verrry good. 4 actors playing all 136 or whatever number of parts there, unsubtle references to pretty much all of Hitchcock's works, obviously deliberate gaffes, and moments of utter nonsense, somehow woven into the telling, staying true even as it takes on a life of it's own. Brilliant!!
I duly impress my harem (now expanded to one minus the benefit of Aveda's rosemary and mint, but then he's American) with Quaglino's before flooring them with Souk Medina's sultry, yet rowdy ambiance and promises of live belly dancing.... yet more red wine ensues (which regretfully has nothing to do with our {Vinod et moi} nautaki spells around the table), as do multitudes of platters, jangling of hips bells, undulating abs, and some sort of thingy in the far corner.... Vinod's casual reportage of "Oh, it's a male stripper" has Jan and me hustling. More some one's gamely buff boyfriend rather than Chippendale is my professional assessment as I leave Jan with the bevy of waitresses getting an eyeful. Our laughter gets more hysterical, the innuendo more regional, and I expand my vocabulary with some choice Hindi insults, even as Vinod and I trade heaving bosom a la Sridevi, and dhichkao Amitabh dance moves, while Aashish assures Dimple that he and I are divorced :p
Sunday to Saturday. An entire week of celebrating almost 39, 39 and gone 39. Surreal. Never has 39 looked better.....
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.....
Err, actually, it's Rosemary and Mint.
Picture this. Brick lined cavernous ceiling, French kitchen tables and chairs, cute waiters, the smell of freshly baked bread, sharing platters... Yours truly, surrounded by three good looking men. Siigh. I bask in the envious looks of the womenfolk. My boys. Aashish, Vinod and Jan. Metrosexuals all.
A rumour of Aveda hand wash in the loo results in a veritable pilgrimage, as the boys visit the loo (one at a time, I hasten to add!) to pay homage, and return triumphant, hands spanking clean (please, don't be so obvious) with Aveda's rosemary and mint hand wash. Yep, that's what my boys are wearing.... the herb garden.
Saturday afternoon at the South Bank, and I'm surrounded by three men swapping stories about rosemary and mint, lavender and elderflower, lemongrass and ginger - no wait, that was me (admittedly a feeble attempt to fit in, swiftly tutted away). I really need to get a life.....
Picture this. Brick lined cavernous ceiling, French kitchen tables and chairs, cute waiters, the smell of freshly baked bread, sharing platters... Yours truly, surrounded by three good looking men. Siigh. I bask in the envious looks of the womenfolk. My boys. Aashish, Vinod and Jan. Metrosexuals all.
A rumour of Aveda hand wash in the loo results in a veritable pilgrimage, as the boys visit the loo (one at a time, I hasten to add!) to pay homage, and return triumphant, hands spanking clean (please, don't be so obvious) with Aveda's rosemary and mint hand wash. Yep, that's what my boys are wearing.... the herb garden.
Saturday afternoon at the South Bank, and I'm surrounded by three men swapping stories about rosemary and mint, lavender and elderflower, lemongrass and ginger - no wait, that was me (admittedly a feeble attempt to fit in, swiftly tutted away). I really need to get a life.....
and the beat goes on.....
Apparently, 39 is the new 40. A Star in my inbox preceedes my not so quiet night at home. The little Bob-the-Builders in my head have now deemed it appropriate to recede to a faint, but constant reminder, in the background of my cranium, and my piteous threats of, "I don't ever to see any chocolate again!!" has undergone a suitable amendment. "Well, not till next Thursday" (although the aroma of anything chocolate still makes me faintly nauseous).
Liz has organised work drinks to celebrate this ludicrously momentous day of my life, and even my enthusiastic impression of Rahul down at the pub (ahem, a half glass of wine, a pint of water all over her bag {the resultant flooding had us moving to higher ground} and another glass of wine....) which, does precious little to deter the ongoing celebrations. My metabolism is just happy to be surrounded by all things sugar free. 4 bottles of wine later, I'm enjoying a rather incoherent explanation of 'fabulocity' and being declared utterly so, by Helen who swears she absolutely loves me. Really :). I leave the 26 year olds to celebrate my 39.
A text message asking if I've recovered. I blush back, 'Erm, I'm not done yet.....'. Dinner; Galvin at Windows (no, not your local window cleaning voyeur). Taks and I discover the reason for the throngs in front of the elevator. An undoubtedly overpaid consulting firm has deemed it cool for the Hilton to install a lift calling programmer (alright, so I should know what this is called.. I don't). The theory; you punch in the desired floor, and the console directs you to your nearest lift. You step in and voila. Mission accomplished. All very well, as long as the computer doesn't keep changing its mind. 4 futile minutes, another query, and hain!, we're directed to a different lift. This goes on for about 12 minutes, and we strike up conversation with a charming gentleman who never made the lift an decided to go for a smoke instead. Finally doors open, and we make a dash for it, uncaring of what floor it's headed for. The car is full of camaraderie as we applaud the carrying of a book, exchange hostage stories, deliberate over the fate of those that might have been when the lifts persistently open to empty corridors and wonder what happens if the lift decides to head back to the lobby without opening its doors on the 28th floor.....
Thankfully, it does, and like starved wildebeest, we exit, tormented by the thought of being sent back to the lobby. Shrouded by Gotham like mists, the petit bourgeoisie and I indulge in a mélange of flavours and textures, that is the Credit Crunch dinner special, emboldened by some excellent choices by the sommelier, and spend the rest of the evening trashing the appalling dressed women in our line of sight, before making tentative plans to do some research for Taks' essay on shoes (in Nigeria, they assume a significance unknown in Europe, and well, I'd seen rather a fetching pair of dominatrix type heels at Zara that I didn't have the stamina to visit on my own). Thank God it's Friday...
Liz has organised work drinks to celebrate this ludicrously momentous day of my life, and even my enthusiastic impression of Rahul down at the pub (ahem, a half glass of wine, a pint of water all over her bag {the resultant flooding had us moving to higher ground} and another glass of wine....) which, does precious little to deter the ongoing celebrations. My metabolism is just happy to be surrounded by all things sugar free. 4 bottles of wine later, I'm enjoying a rather incoherent explanation of 'fabulocity' and being declared utterly so, by Helen who swears she absolutely loves me. Really :). I leave the 26 year olds to celebrate my 39.
A text message asking if I've recovered. I blush back, 'Erm, I'm not done yet.....'. Dinner; Galvin at Windows (no, not your local window cleaning voyeur). Taks and I discover the reason for the throngs in front of the elevator. An undoubtedly overpaid consulting firm has deemed it cool for the Hilton to install a lift calling programmer (alright, so I should know what this is called.. I don't). The theory; you punch in the desired floor, and the console directs you to your nearest lift. You step in and voila. Mission accomplished. All very well, as long as the computer doesn't keep changing its mind. 4 futile minutes, another query, and hain!, we're directed to a different lift. This goes on for about 12 minutes, and we strike up conversation with a charming gentleman who never made the lift an decided to go for a smoke instead. Finally doors open, and we make a dash for it, uncaring of what floor it's headed for. The car is full of camaraderie as we applaud the carrying of a book, exchange hostage stories, deliberate over the fate of those that might have been when the lifts persistently open to empty corridors and wonder what happens if the lift decides to head back to the lobby without opening its doors on the 28th floor.....
Thankfully, it does, and like starved wildebeest, we exit, tormented by the thought of being sent back to the lobby. Shrouded by Gotham like mists, the petit bourgeoisie and I indulge in a mélange of flavours and textures, that is the Credit Crunch dinner special, emboldened by some excellent choices by the sommelier, and spend the rest of the evening trashing the appalling dressed women in our line of sight, before making tentative plans to do some research for Taks' essay on shoes (in Nigeria, they assume a significance unknown in Europe, and well, I'd seen rather a fetching pair of dominatrix type heels at Zara that I didn't have the stamina to visit on my own). Thank God it's Friday...
13th May, 2009
It is not often that I'm at a loss for words. But the familiar polka dot tin, plonked on my desk by the Feckless German Traitor leaves me gawping like an adolescent goldfish. That tin belongs to the Friggin' Domestic Goddess who is at home nursing her sick 9 year old. I make futile gestures as my puny mind tries to comprehend the facts, while absently attempting to lift the tin. Fuck. It weighs about 4.5 kilos. Taa da! A lid nudge reveals a layer of rainbow colour lemon slices boldly disguising a hesitant layer of marble cake, even as the chocolate brownies shy away demurely at the bottom of the tin. Unfrigginbelievable! That woman has not only managed to bake 3; 3 friggin' cakes, she's got into the office before I have, and poof... disappeared in a puff of cigarette smoke. My heart is so full, it could burst, spewing blood, tissue, muscle, valves and general gore all over the 4th floor. The imagery pleases me, and I lug the tin around, grinning like the village idiot.
It feels fabulous to be 21 again, and the silliness knows no bounds as people start feeling sick even as the mountain of cake is gradually reduced to a rubble. A surprise package! Ta da! Gasp! More chocolates. Mountains and mountains of chocolates.... the 4th floor loves me and my 'Yaan'. The giggles won't abate, and the afternoon sees me bouncing off the walls like a cat on coke. 4 o'clock. and I'm holding my head in my hands, flanked by a forlorn polka dotted tin littered with the debris of what once was cake(s) and a ravaged box of truffles. What used to be my desk, resembles a successful car bombing, more poignant for the occasional moans begging for mercy that punctuate the air.
39 years, and I am finally able to commiserate with migraine sufferers (hitherto eyed with unadorned scorn) as the aspirin does little to ease the dull, yet steady thrum of power tools wielded by vicious miniature Bob-the-Builders who have annexed my head. My delirious mind tells me that I've just found a perfect crime. Kiss a diabetic into renal failure. I feel sick. The FGT pops a paracetamol, and Liz is looking green around the gills. The alcohol in the truffles is making the Scot go 'Oh Apara' and the Kiwi is rooting around the debris for a non existent brownie. This is what anarchy in the workplace looks like....
An unsuspecting visitor to the 4th floor backs of warily as four pairs of jaundiced eyes telegraph, 'fuck off', in response to a chirpy, "So, what are you doing tonight?"
Recover. I hope.
It feels fabulous to be 21 again, and the silliness knows no bounds as people start feeling sick even as the mountain of cake is gradually reduced to a rubble. A surprise package! Ta da! Gasp! More chocolates. Mountains and mountains of chocolates.... the 4th floor loves me and my 'Yaan'. The giggles won't abate, and the afternoon sees me bouncing off the walls like a cat on coke. 4 o'clock. and I'm holding my head in my hands, flanked by a forlorn polka dotted tin littered with the debris of what once was cake(s) and a ravaged box of truffles. What used to be my desk, resembles a successful car bombing, more poignant for the occasional moans begging for mercy that punctuate the air.
39 years, and I am finally able to commiserate with migraine sufferers (hitherto eyed with unadorned scorn) as the aspirin does little to ease the dull, yet steady thrum of power tools wielded by vicious miniature Bob-the-Builders who have annexed my head. My delirious mind tells me that I've just found a perfect crime. Kiss a diabetic into renal failure. I feel sick. The FGT pops a paracetamol, and Liz is looking green around the gills. The alcohol in the truffles is making the Scot go 'Oh Apara' and the Kiwi is rooting around the debris for a non existent brownie. This is what anarchy in the workplace looks like....
An unsuspecting visitor to the 4th floor backs of warily as four pairs of jaundiced eyes telegraph, 'fuck off', in response to a chirpy, "So, what are you doing tonight?"
Recover. I hope.
That's it!
No more red wine!! Dementia or no dementia, clearly my lack of skills goes beyond the mere physical - despite years of practice, not only can I NOT do the following:-
1. Raise an eyebrow
2. Wiggle my ears
3. Touch my nose with the tip of my tongue
4. Snarl with one side of my mouth
5. Roll my tongue (5 out of 5 people around me obligingly did just today!)
but, I also cannot drink red wine without getting utterly maudlin and weepy. There. I feel better now. Marginally. Now I'm just ticked off by my physical shortcomings.
1. Raise an eyebrow
2. Wiggle my ears
3. Touch my nose with the tip of my tongue
4. Snarl with one side of my mouth
5. Roll my tongue (5 out of 5 people around me obligingly did just today!)
but, I also cannot drink red wine without getting utterly maudlin and weepy. There. I feel better now. Marginally. Now I'm just ticked off by my physical shortcomings.
My cup runneth over....
or does it overfloweth?? It's like a galactic conspiracy. The stars and planets have all aligned along with those who have touched my life.
"Happy Birthday Poltu! Meet Mr. Crusty - he's yours now! :) Love Mimu & Rahul"
Crusty Guha looks fetching in the photo frame that used to house the little git, and like any proud Mama, I gush about how clever my baby is... "isn't he clever the way he can twitch his ears... and look, those beautifully trimmed hooves.. awwww". My very own donkey, and a new title, Gadhe ki Ma. Thanks Bebous. BF will now spend days cursing his kismat at not having thought of that earlier.....
A road trip to Croatia with a bad tempered Hungarian. My mother is disappointed in my choice of destination but gives in gracelessly. She'd had Monte Carlo in mind when they offered me a holiday... now she'll have to listen to Valerie banging on about some red carpet destination her son went to, while her bhangi offspring is bumming around Eastern Europe.
Like most things Apple, I came. I saw. I coveted. And then, magically... Poddy III. Small, sleek and oh sooo sexy. Mine....!! All MINE!!
Two men I adore. Bewdi sniggering in the background. "How about a spa thingy". "Spa thingy". "Sounds good". "How does one do a spa thingy?". "I'll check"."Boss, they said they don't have a spa, but she'll enjoy it anyway". The perfect mélange of inspiration and execution. 3 deliciously indulgent treatments in the spa that isn't, hidden under the alleged recession driven gift that is my own cape. Warm sunshine. Food that is sheer poetry. Laughter that is music. Wine that vanishes and Conversation that is bollocks. Perfect.
The freezing weather does little to wilt the smile on my face, as I benignly watch the 414 pull away. A wonderful evening at Mango Tree, even better company and get this, more presents!! Yay!! Truffles & Trouble. How very apt, Mr. O. And I'm not even thinking of the shoe that didn't fit.
A jewelled crocodile with pink eyes who's jaws snap shut, apple tea and ischlers, futile sales in the glass shop. A pledge to enjoy old age together, sitting in a balcony, spitting at unsuspecting pedestrians below.
Tina Turner. Bear hugs. A funky phone with dual sim cards. Cake. Rude emails. Facebook. Sentiments that echo the heart. Phone calls. FDG & FGT. Ecards. Sincere wishes from Jet Airways (?!) - a year of joy and happiness, may you enjoy every moment... If they only knew! Family and friends. Faltugiri, love and laughter. Untold joy shared....and I'm still not done.
Finally. Finally, the witching hour and I'm being serenaded....mobile and land line. My jaw aches with the friggin' smile that's taken up permanent residence on my face. Gadhe ki Ma lets them go to sleep, but stays awake, wallowing, her heart full.
I cry. I know not why. Possibly the wine at dinner; or perhaps the donkey concall earlier in the day with Gadhe ki Ma, Mashi & SuperAmma; maybe the b'day lunch photo album; definitely the midnight singing and applause.... Someone said, live everyday as though it were your last. I am.
P.S. - Am I dying ???
Pixie Dust
Hmmmm. Team lunch. Cancelled. Em's been packed off home, sniffles et al, and Brent the Brave already croaked his excuses at 7 am. I'm on cake. I don't care. I can handle anything.... Here on the 4th floor, swine flu' and such pandemics leave us less than impressed. Our speciality is early onset of dementia. Not only is it particularly attractive in certain older women in the team, apparently, it is also deadlier than swine flu'...
Subject: RE: Buenos Aires snapshot
Your early onset dementia combined with my lack of useable memory (graymatter variety, not PC based) is a dangerous combination. I don't recall receiving anything but then again, I don't remember much in general. Thanks for your help.Regards, Ken
Subject: RE: Buenos Aires snapshot
Your early onset dementia combined with my lack of useable memory (graymatter variety, not PC based) is a dangerous combination. I don't recall receiving anything but then again, I don't remember much in general. Thanks for your help.Regards, Ken
---------------------------------------------------------
Subject: RE: Buckhead Plaza
Oh! That reminds me! Don't think the RfS was attached...!! Meant to sent it through, but forgot... Do you want to check your emails and resend if it wasn't??
Subject: RE: Buckhead Plaza
B0ll0cks no its wasn’t. just checked the emails and I didn't. please can you send on. V sorry.
---------------------------------------------------------
Subject: RE: Atlanta RfS
Ken,
Apparently the early onset of dementia is endemic within the CS team in London.... RfS attached.
Apologies!
Subject: RE: Atlanta RFS
Its not only endemic, but it's contagious. I didn't notice it was missing.
Thanks,
Ken
----------------------------------------------------------
Methinks the Domestic Goddess has been overgenerous with the pixie dust in the cake!
Let her eat cake!
and everything else in sight! If this week unfurls like it's threatening too, I will be not just a year older, but several kilos heavier. Bring it on.....!!
But this morning, I'm on a bus that has been diverted and the smile sneaks through..memory.. perhaps premonition? I'm not only in time for my meeting, but am met with Tupperware. The Domestic Goddess has been on a binge and I have been bestowed with marble cake. Kismat has me surrounded by that Feckless German Traitor (henceforth referred to as FGT) who will now only eat fricking fruit; Charles the überfit, who persists in describing some sort of gym equipment that sounds like it belongs in a medieval kingdom inflicting torture and tall, stacked, gorgeous 23 year old blondie who's dropped a barbell on her foot this morning. What the fuck?!?! Fine. If no one wants my cake. I shall eat it....ALL... and I do. The respect level rises even as the scatty Scot steals some.
However, woman cannot live on cake alone, so I set forth to forage for sustenance at Selfridges. "Excuse me..." Uh-oh. I wasn't shoplifting! I raise a haughtily inquiring brow (a lie as well all know. I raise two haughty brows). "Are you Anomita Guha?". Huh? Maybe 6 slices of cake for lunch wasn't such a bright idea. "Err...Nooooo. But I am her sister?". "Oh cool. I used to be in the same school as Anomita - 3 years her junior". Ugh. I study the boy more closely. "You were 3 years her junior?" "Yeah.. I live in Cuffe Parade and just visiting here on holiday... off to Scotland tomorrow...". Ah... naturally, we chit chat nonchalantly as strangers are wont to in the middle of Selfridges. "Have a great holiday..and your name is...?" "Pankaj Saraf". Surreal.
My plan for the rest of the week is not to get hit by a bus. That would a supreme tragedy given how utterly charmed my life seems to be at the moment. I feel ruthlessly spoilt by those I love and rather embarrassingly, positively Pollyanna in my inability to stop smiling. Even the friggin' weather is determined to be just perfect.
An indulgent birthday lunch with the usual suspects, a wonderful gift of more indulgence and pampering, an absolutely gorgeous stroll through Hyde Park and an impromptu encounter with Star Trek 90210.....and it's only Sunday. A fact I'd manage to misplace in the joy of a perfect afternoon, helpfully brought home by Taks on our way home. The combination of fine wine and tea renders me unnecessarily attentive till past 3 am, a sure fire way to be Bride of Oscar the Grouch on any morning, let alone a Monday...But this morning, I'm on a bus that has been diverted and the smile sneaks through..memory.. perhaps premonition? I'm not only in time for my meeting, but am met with Tupperware. The Domestic Goddess has been on a binge and I have been bestowed with marble cake. Kismat has me surrounded by that Feckless German Traitor (henceforth referred to as FGT) who will now only eat fricking fruit; Charles the überfit, who persists in describing some sort of gym equipment that sounds like it belongs in a medieval kingdom inflicting torture and tall, stacked, gorgeous 23 year old blondie who's dropped a barbell on her foot this morning. What the fuck?!?! Fine. If no one wants my cake. I shall eat it....ALL... and I do. The respect level rises even as the scatty Scot steals some.
However, woman cannot live on cake alone, so I set forth to forage for sustenance at Selfridges. "Excuse me..." Uh-oh. I wasn't shoplifting! I raise a haughtily inquiring brow (a lie as well all know. I raise two haughty brows). "Are you Anomita Guha?". Huh? Maybe 6 slices of cake for lunch wasn't such a bright idea. "Err...Nooooo. But I am her sister?". "Oh cool. I used to be in the same school as Anomita - 3 years her junior". Ugh. I study the boy more closely. "You were 3 years her junior?" "Yeah.. I live in Cuffe Parade and just visiting here on holiday... off to Scotland tomorrow...". Ah... naturally, we chit chat nonchalantly as strangers are wont to in the middle of Selfridges. "Have a great holiday..and your name is...?" "Pankaj Saraf". Surreal.
00:48
Another square foot of rain forest depleted by my politically incorrect bathing habits. But I feel not an iota of guilt even as my back lauds my endeavours to single handedly destroy the ozone layer. I firmly believe that Superheroes must be made to sing for their supper. Hmmmm. Supper. The cold draft through the open window does little to sublimate the aroma of garam masala that clings like liquid latex to the walls. I sniff to make sure its not sleeping through my pores. Even that would be too much for BhagraMan to take on...
To brew or not to brew. That is the question that consumes me. Like an addict, the urge is overwhelming, but I do have to look pretty by noon tomorrow and turning up late to your own party, is beyond lame. I did ask the ex if he was getting me a present. "Do I have to?". I'm presuming it's a rhetorical question. I love presents! I grovel him into submission and he agrees to another lesson to help fix the problem (i.e. my lack of memory) with the photo site. Good thing we're divorcedish. Justifiable homicide would've been the theme at his funeral otherwise.
Weather check and then I'm off. I'm determined to be slinky tomorrow, but petulant behaviour from the weather gods isn't something I will be capable of dealing with in the 45 minutes between sleep and noon. Rumour has it at 15C. Hmmmm. Check. Plan A & Plan B good to go.
P. S. - Profound thought: The only difference, between a rut and a grave, is the depth.
To brew or not to brew. That is the question that consumes me. Like an addict, the urge is overwhelming, but I do have to look pretty by noon tomorrow and turning up late to your own party, is beyond lame. I did ask the ex if he was getting me a present. "Do I have to?". I'm presuming it's a rhetorical question. I love presents! I grovel him into submission and he agrees to another lesson to help fix the problem (i.e. my lack of memory) with the photo site. Good thing we're divorcedish. Justifiable homicide would've been the theme at his funeral otherwise.
Weather check and then I'm off. I'm determined to be slinky tomorrow, but petulant behaviour from the weather gods isn't something I will be capable of dealing with in the 45 minutes between sleep and noon. Rumour has it at 15C. Hmmmm. Check. Plan A & Plan B good to go.
P. S. - Profound thought: The only difference, between a rut and a grave, is the depth.
23:36
and the potatoes, cauliflower, peppers and onions have been simmered into submission. The kitchen is spotless, the sink empty, the fridge groaning. Plan C beckons winsomely, but my stomach growls in protest. I beg your pardon?? Wonderful.
Back vs. stomach. Hot shower vs. hot food. 23:42 - round 1 to Plan C. But Plan D will be back.... count on it.
Back vs. stomach. Hot shower vs. hot food. 23:42 - round 1 to Plan C. But Plan D will be back.... count on it.
P.S. - Is this font getting smaller? or am I just ageing faster??
No rest for the evil....
or the absentminded...... my triumph at my delicious masterpiece short lived, as I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of the neatly cut potatoes, cauliflower, peppers and onins disconsolately vying for my attention. Damn! Two helpings of khichdi (if the non desi UK residents haven't yet made the connection with Biryani or find themselves asking Birywhat?, an extradition is in order) is all it takes to outfox myself. I return my neatly arrayed mise en place's woeful glances. Siiigh. Fourteen minutes to eleven; must be Plan B o'clock. As I head back to the kitchen, I'm now thinking that Matt's barbeque would have been a damn sight more relaxing...
One for the road..
The prelude to what the forties will bring, suggests the wiser course of action would be to stay home instead of seeking out other unsuspecting, yet helpful policemen about to go off shift and Matt and I agree to use my birthday instead of his as an excuse to catch up next week and swap hot water bottles....
I spend the afternoon being industrious. A visit to the local has been post office to drop off birthday card and handcuffs, quick grocery top up, yellow rimmed orange tulips, a frustrating inspection at the grossly inadequate neighbourhood Boots. Chat with mom-in-law, sort and caption the Istanbul photos, all set for upload.... Now, if I could only remember how! I will deal with, what will undoubtedly be an ex ready to pull out his hair, tomorrow. But wait! He's got his new photo site up and running and it's gorgeous!! Absolutely stunning and I love it. Ahem.... but before I can lead up, he generously offers me the use of the legit, registered copy. Knew there was a reason I'd married him.
But for now...... one for the road for my verrry attentive wolf, and a culinary classic, brought on by the memory of an indefatigable lady. Character, joie de vivre, fierce independence, profligacy, humour, ceaseless appetite for life, quirks and arthritis... she had it all. Like a leap year, Padma Aaji was probably best appreciated by those like me who saw her seldom, but enjoyed her most. A Pathare Prabhu pièce de resistance, one I'm unfailingly indulged with, every time I'm home, by my Aaji and Aai.
Kolambchi Khichdi, Sneh Kunj sarkha
I spend the afternoon being industrious. A visit to the local has been post office to drop off birthday card and handcuffs, quick grocery top up, yellow rimmed orange tulips, a frustrating inspection at the grossly inadequate neighbourhood Boots. Chat with mom-in-law, sort and caption the Istanbul photos, all set for upload.... Now, if I could only remember how! I will deal with, what will undoubtedly be an ex ready to pull out his hair, tomorrow. But wait! He's got his new photo site up and running and it's gorgeous!! Absolutely stunning and I love it. Ahem.... but before I can lead up, he generously offers me the use of the legit, registered copy. Knew there was a reason I'd married him.
But for now...... one for the road for my verrry attentive wolf, and a culinary classic, brought on by the memory of an indefatigable lady. Character, joie de vivre, fierce independence, profligacy, humour, ceaseless appetite for life, quirks and arthritis... she had it all. Like a leap year, Padma Aaji was probably best appreciated by those like me who saw her seldom, but enjoyed her most. A Pathare Prabhu pièce de resistance, one I'm unfailingly indulged with, every time I'm home, by my Aaji and Aai.
Kolambchi Khichdi, Sneh Kunj sarkha
Ingredients:
250 gm rice * 250 gm prawns * 250 gm onions (finely sliced) * 250 gm cauliflower (bite sized florets) * 250 gm peas (shelled) * 1½ tsp haldi (turmeric) * 2 tsp red chilli powder * 3 tsp garam masala * salt to taste * 4 lavang (cloves) * 4 elaichi (cardamom) * 1" dalchini (cinnamon) * ½ tsp hing (asafoetida) * 1 tsp sugar * 2-3 tbsp vegetable oil
Method:
Heat the oil, add the hing, elaichi, lavang, dalchini, sugar and ½ tsp of haldi and swish around. Toss in the onions and fry till soft. You don't need to wait till they brown, just as long as they're soft. Throw in the prawns and fry for a minute before adding the peas, cauliflower and all the other masalas; garam masala, haldi, chilli powder & salt. Stir it all together, add two cups of water and cook till the cauliflower and peas are cooked through (but before they get soggy! Shouldn't take more than 6-10 min.ish). Don't wait for all the water to evaporate as it'll come handy when mixing with the rice.
While the house is being radiated by the most shockingly sexy aroma, cook the rice (go figure it out!). When the rice is done, mix in gently with the heavenly smelling stuff, stirring through and taa da! An ideal accompaniment to this would be Aaji's bhujnā, but, one good thing at a time....and damned if I'm not starving!
Friday afternoon at Canary Wharf
Even my client notices I'm walking funny and offers up his own tea bag (a new one...!), when the coffee machine informs us the boiler is broken. My posture is the envy of royalty world over as I sit through what is meant to be an abridged presentation. Retail figures are surprisingly sturdy, and über client pithily blames it on his wife.
Emily Gray, the lovely, helps me with my jacket once we're done with the meeting, holds open the heavy doors leading to the ladies, and waits dutifully bending over to help me swap shoes as I do a fair imitation of a geriatric whose misplaced her walker. We stroll out to the lift bank, minus the men, only to be accosted by a "Great shoes!" from the client. Brilliant. Em and I lug around bags for the sole purpose of perpetuating our sophistication in high heels, leaving our fetching bright purple (hers) and fluorescent green (mine) sneakers for weary tube travellers.
Guy, on the other hand, is not amused at waiting mid tube descent and demands to know just what the hell took us so long and where Em had gone off to before continuing his earlier admonishment, "I have told you repeatedly to leave those 6'6" men alone. You only have yourself to blame. Also pick someone more your own age".
Did he mean younger or older???
Emily Gray, the lovely, helps me with my jacket once we're done with the meeting, holds open the heavy doors leading to the ladies, and waits dutifully bending over to help me swap shoes as I do a fair imitation of a geriatric whose misplaced her walker. We stroll out to the lift bank, minus the men, only to be accosted by a "Great shoes!" from the client. Brilliant. Em and I lug around bags for the sole purpose of perpetuating our sophistication in high heels, leaving our fetching bright purple (hers) and fluorescent green (mine) sneakers for weary tube travellers.
Guy, on the other hand, is not amused at waiting mid tube descent and demands to know just what the hell took us so long and where Em had gone off to before continuing his earlier admonishment, "I have told you repeatedly to leave those 6'6" men alone. You only have yourself to blame. Also pick someone more your own age".
Did he mean younger or older???
Physical relief 1 - Diligent duty 0
I feel like a fraudulent Michelangelo as I gaze at my excessively boring ceiling. Inspiration does not strike and as the laptop sears my ovaries, I contemplate sacrificing temporary physical relief to the Gods of diligent professionalism. The right side of my brain grapples with angles of inclination, heat displacement and degree of wrist rotation required for optimal function of mind, body and machine when arranged at right angles with the wall. The left side runs through a catalogue of mouldings, colours, mosaic, frescoes and chandeliers.
My use of temporary is tragically prophetic. I'll need a prescription from the German. Wonder where the pole dancing domestic goddess stashes the high grade pixie dust.............
My use of temporary is tragically prophetic. I'll need a prescription from the German. Wonder where the pole dancing domestic goddess stashes the high grade pixie dust.............
Trollop Princess tales
My reliable sieve like memory eludes me at the moment, and I distinctly remember saying something incredibly stupid on this very blog about 40 being just a number...... Bollocks. Like the Richter scale of life, it's a chronometer that measures how much you're body is going to give way to the symptoms of advancing years.
As I hunch into my seat in an effort to alleviate the discomfort of a back that has abruptly given way, wondering if I'll have to cancel a much anticipated burlesque night (watching....!!), I startle the upper deck with peculiar sounds of mirth while trying not to fall off the seat..... the pole dancing domestic goddess has sent me an email:
"Subject: Story
Once upon a time there was a beautiful shiny tin box who had just been given to a fair domestic goddess. The box was lonely and empty and kept asking the frigging lady "why am I here?, what's my destiny?, when can I be of use". And the wise but scatty lady said "patience, my dear, your day will come... actually it's coming next week on Wednesday and you will be filled with yummy marble cake bites, rich soft brownies and delicious lemon tartlets".
Now let's ask the magic mirror what that trollop princess Apara wants for her birthday!
Love and fairy dust to all"
"Subject: RE: Story
Now that the trollop princess has picked herself off the floor and composed her regal features into a more becoming cast.......she will srunch her eyes tight, wrinkle her nose and hope the friggin' magic mirror delivers Hugh Jackman as promised!! if not, she will write a strenuous letter of complaint to the pole dancing domestic goddess and bicycle balancing offspring of burgerking sidekick......
P.S. - there is no greater satisfaction than watching destiny being fulfilled..... "
"Subject: RE: Story
I have no colourful language skills. I have no fairy dust to waste and just would like to point out, that as much as we like you Apara, if we can get Hugh Jackman, we will have to keep him! any other wishes would be fine."
Moral of the story: Once upon a time, in a far, far away foreign land, three stunningly beautiful and erudite princess' were forced to work as bonded labour for an evil English old boys' club. An Italian, German and Indian who despite their distant homelands (don't miss the Germans any other wishes would be fine...no guessing who's in charge of the wish list) continued to age gracelessly....
Ladies, it has been an honour and privilege. What time is the pole dancing lesson?
As I hunch into my seat in an effort to alleviate the discomfort of a back that has abruptly given way, wondering if I'll have to cancel a much anticipated burlesque night (watching....!!), I startle the upper deck with peculiar sounds of mirth while trying not to fall off the seat..... the pole dancing domestic goddess has sent me an email:
"Subject: Story
Once upon a time there was a beautiful shiny tin box who had just been given to a fair domestic goddess. The box was lonely and empty and kept asking the frigging lady "why am I here?, what's my destiny?, when can I be of use". And the wise but scatty lady said "patience, my dear, your day will come... actually it's coming next week on Wednesday and you will be filled with yummy marble cake bites, rich soft brownies and delicious lemon tartlets".
Now let's ask the magic mirror what that trollop princess Apara wants for her birthday!
Love and fairy dust to all"
"Subject: RE: Story
Now that the trollop princess has picked herself off the floor and composed her regal features into a more becoming cast.......she will srunch her eyes tight, wrinkle her nose and hope the friggin' magic mirror delivers Hugh Jackman as promised!! if not, she will write a strenuous letter of complaint to the pole dancing domestic goddess and bicycle balancing offspring of burgerking sidekick......
P.S. - there is no greater satisfaction than watching destiny being fulfilled..... "
"Subject: RE: Story
I have no colourful language skills. I have no fairy dust to waste and just would like to point out, that as much as we like you Apara, if we can get Hugh Jackman, we will have to keep him! any other wishes would be fine."
Moral of the story: Once upon a time, in a far, far away foreign land, three stunningly beautiful and erudite princess' were forced to work as bonded labour for an evil English old boys' club. An Italian, German and Indian who despite their distant homelands (don't miss the Germans any other wishes would be fine...no guessing who's in charge of the wish list) continued to age gracelessly....
Ladies, it has been an honour and privilege. What time is the pole dancing lesson?
Saved by the bell?
Since my earlier frustration of the day has now transmogrified itself into full blown foul temper, I'm now going to have a go at Mim, keeper of my morals, she who can't tell time zone apart and she who STILL hasn't sent me the friggin' photos!!!
After months of 'I'm so glad you're divorcing Aashish', 'Poltu, you're back!', 'I don't like him being mean to you' bullshit, the little git has the GALL to ask, 'Are you sure you don't want to take him back?'......WHAT?!!!! 'No yaaa, he's like he used to be... all chilled..'. This, is why I do not have children. But then again, there is some serious satisfaction to be had in smacking them silly! 'I'll come to St. Petersburg'. Bravo. Mission Moscow 2010. I now have Taks, Aashish, Sarolta and Mim ready for Russia..... 84:3 odds that it'll be Sonia and I who actually see St. Petersburg next summer. Anaheeta & Farsheed have now bailed on Malta but still haven't confirmed the dates for London and as for Priya........ Priya............!!!
I can't take it anymore. What kismat allows me to know so many people who have the unique skill of not being able to organise a simple tourist fucking visa?? Why keep paperwork with you when you can keep it in a remote location - always handy for disaster recovery! An entire (well nearly!) bank holiday weekend sacrificed to the Gods of fucking useless.
The phone rings. 'Are you busy?'. What a coincidence, you just caught me mid-rant! The familiar voice calms me, focuses my myriad, zinging frustrations into a single point. Better. But life gets in the way, and the only thought in my head as I hang up, is that it's nowhere near enough.....but I will save the head ripping off for another day.
After months of 'I'm so glad you're divorcing Aashish', 'Poltu, you're back!', 'I don't like him being mean to you' bullshit, the little git has the GALL to ask, 'Are you sure you don't want to take him back?'......WHAT?!!!! 'No yaaa, he's like he used to be... all chilled..'. This, is why I do not have children. But then again, there is some serious satisfaction to be had in smacking them silly! 'I'll come to St. Petersburg'. Bravo. Mission Moscow 2010. I now have Taks, Aashish, Sarolta and Mim ready for Russia..... 84:3 odds that it'll be Sonia and I who actually see St. Petersburg next summer. Anaheeta & Farsheed have now bailed on Malta but still haven't confirmed the dates for London and as for Priya........ Priya............!!!
I can't take it anymore. What kismat allows me to know so many people who have the unique skill of not being able to organise a simple tourist fucking visa?? Why keep paperwork with you when you can keep it in a remote location - always handy for disaster recovery! An entire (well nearly!) bank holiday weekend sacrificed to the Gods of fucking useless.
The phone rings. 'Are you busy?'. What a coincidence, you just caught me mid-rant! The familiar voice calms me, focuses my myriad, zinging frustrations into a single point. Better. But life gets in the way, and the only thought in my head as I hang up, is that it's nowhere near enough.....but I will save the head ripping off for another day.
Raging hormones
An affliction of youth and pregnant women (PMS is an optimistic male view of naturally bad tempered women).
While I have the vast resources and innate ability to display the daftness of youth and get pregnant, a mere spike in estrogen levels can hardly justify my current state of extreme disequilibrium. Furiously engaging my elegantly shod foot in a ceaseless staccato is about as helpful as holding my head in my hands and breathing deeply in an effort to subdue my elevated cardiopulmonary activities. My body continues to thrum, an over taut bowstring ready to snap at the first twang. Fortunately, Silke manages to mute the boiiing sounds on Pascale’s laptop relieving me of the necessity of explaining just why I hurled it out the window. This is bloody ridiculous.
I glare at the pile of brazil nuts strewn next to me, and they look back earnestly. I go back to clutching my head, but my body shifts restlessly, demanding intervention. This call of the wild feeling is now moving from the middlingly aggravating to a desire to claw the walls. This is not good. I feel like a caged wolf instead of a happy bunny. I want to sink my teeth into something warm and alive. Feel its heart beating against me, hear it howl (either I’m going to be inundated by shocked emails, or avoided like a carnivorous plague….). Winner takes all.
All this teeth gritting is giving me a profound headache. I retire to the little room in the distant corner to write pithy (another impeccable word) comments about what I think of our US marketing team, instead of choking poor Pascale. This would have been a good day to work from home…..
While I have the vast resources and innate ability to display the daftness of youth and get pregnant, a mere spike in estrogen levels can hardly justify my current state of extreme disequilibrium. Furiously engaging my elegantly shod foot in a ceaseless staccato is about as helpful as holding my head in my hands and breathing deeply in an effort to subdue my elevated cardiopulmonary activities. My body continues to thrum, an over taut bowstring ready to snap at the first twang. Fortunately, Silke manages to mute the boiiing sounds on Pascale’s laptop relieving me of the necessity of explaining just why I hurled it out the window. This is bloody ridiculous.
I glare at the pile of brazil nuts strewn next to me, and they look back earnestly. I go back to clutching my head, but my body shifts restlessly, demanding intervention. This call of the wild feeling is now moving from the middlingly aggravating to a desire to claw the walls. This is not good. I feel like a caged wolf instead of a happy bunny. I want to sink my teeth into something warm and alive. Feel its heart beating against me, hear it howl (either I’m going to be inundated by shocked emails, or avoided like a carnivorous plague….). Winner takes all.
All this teeth gritting is giving me a profound headache. I retire to the little room in the distant corner to write pithy (another impeccable word) comments about what I think of our US marketing team, instead of choking poor Pascale. This would have been a good day to work from home…..
Mutual admiration society
A popular phrase amongst Begalis of ilk. I feel particularly Bengalish after tea, cake and phish fry.
ETA 15 min
This domestic goddess thing is now getting out of hand. First the Hungarian and now Uncle & Aunt. Two successive weeks of cleaning. On the bright side, I've remembered to put away all embarrassing knick-knacks in time :). Naturally, it's only fair that I get a text message telling me they're still asleep. 30 min later, another disconsolate, 'still sleeping. will try again in 15 min'. Guess we'll just give tea a skip. Correction. They'll have to skip my rather creative tea of cake and/or sparerib pancakes. I'm starving!!
Hark! 'Tis the phone.... ETA 15 min.
Hark! 'Tis the phone.... ETA 15 min.
ETA 1755
The longer I stay here, the more absurdly desi I seem to get! I leave the Hungarian behind in T5, and then curse the 12 min. wait for the Heathrow Express.... It's now been an hour since their flight landed, and my rather callous attitude towards air travel has come back to bite me in the ass.
My uncle and aunt are visiting en route to San Diego. Or is it LA? Well, the West Coast. Such epic journeys demand much grumbling about advancing years, stupid foreign countries and even stupider relatives in said countries, airline delays, packing......and Shejokaku does it full justice till Shejoma threatens to cancel the entire undertaking. They are staying with my cousin, who good Indian fashion, lives down the road from me. But since we're posh, that would be down Little Venice way and not Southall. And if I had an extra bedroom, a real shower and a wife, they could quite possibly be staying with me.
My cousin (whom I adore for reasons apart from the obvious!) offers to pick them up, and I blithely continue to wave away his offer to then accompany me. I now have 9 min. to torture myself with visions of a highly unimpressed Shejokaku & Shejoma milling about aimless in Terminal 3. But no, I had to test the rather enticing sofas at giraffe over a stale pain au chocolat and a bucket of Earl Grey (now cooling in my tense palms) getting misty eyed with the Hungarian. I call command central and they confirm that flight has indeed landed 20 mins. ahead of it's scheduled ETA. I mumble about the stupid Heathrow Express being late, and resign myself to unflattering stories about my ineptitude at family gathers for years to come.
Naturally, it is only fitting that Terminal 3 is miles away and as I hurl myself down the concourse, weaving through masses of people, balancing jhola and tea, I feel like I'm in India. It is, of course, advisable to stash mobile phone type fiddly objects in a close fitting pocket in the proximity of one's butt. Of course, the thought only occurs to me as I curse in Greek, pirouette to prevent a serious earl grey slosh and crouch to sweep up the scattered pieces of my Blackberry, all in a single flawless motion, and I'm off again.... leaping up the stairs as my phone rings. It's the cab. Fuck!! Just how late am I?? I barge through the the doors....and hello? I'm at the check-in desks! SHIT!!! All I can see is signs for departures. Wrong bloody building. Another steeple chase, this time on the outside. I heave myself through another door, trying to slurp the tea from my wrist and am assaulted by an ocean of faces, placards, luggage trolleys and wailing children. Finally!!
I desperately look around and curse my Dad's 6'3" that had made the airport pick up offer so easy. Dammit!! I've never had to pick up anyone shorter than that from Terminal 3 and at 1855, that's a needle in haystack task as my eyes scan dozens of brown, balding gentlemen with suspicion. I foray into nooks and crannies where they might have sat down to vent their disgust and fret about having missed them in the main throng as I hunt through the seating area. It has now been an hour and twenty minutes since their aircraft landed..... more confabulations with central command, and he assures me they wouldn't have gone anywhere. I take up vigil and make slurpy noises with what's left of the earl grey while my sub-conscious eavesdrops even as my conscious gapes at a tall, broad, older gentleman in a hat, shocking pink and grey striped jacket and grey shorts. Someone else is waiting for the hapless passengers of the Jet flight. The guilty panic dissipates... along with the throng. I refuse to worry about the changes in colour and ocular orientation in those now exiting.
Shejokaku's looking around expectantly. Urk! When did he get there?! I semaphore my way up to them, and my bear hug, though mostly love, is not untinged by sheer relief!! 50 minutes, stories of my nephew's latest antics, a rather heated debate over the elections and Raj Thackery, commentary on the uniform housing and lack of people, and the driver's optimism that Arsenal actually might have a hope in hell later, we're home..... and as we relax around a few bottles, I'm more jet lagged than they are....next time, I'll stay at home and cook dinner.
P.S. - What Humpty needed was a BlackBerry design team and not the King's silly horses. I can't remember the times I've retrieved the strewn bits and schleped it together, expecting it to work (I did spend a few minutes, the first time around, fabricating a plausible lie for IT to explain it's demise...). It does.
My uncle and aunt are visiting en route to San Diego. Or is it LA? Well, the West Coast. Such epic journeys demand much grumbling about advancing years, stupid foreign countries and even stupider relatives in said countries, airline delays, packing......and Shejokaku does it full justice till Shejoma threatens to cancel the entire undertaking. They are staying with my cousin, who good Indian fashion, lives down the road from me. But since we're posh, that would be down Little Venice way and not Southall. And if I had an extra bedroom, a real shower and a wife, they could quite possibly be staying with me.
My cousin (whom I adore for reasons apart from the obvious!) offers to pick them up, and I blithely continue to wave away his offer to then accompany me. I now have 9 min. to torture myself with visions of a highly unimpressed Shejokaku & Shejoma milling about aimless in Terminal 3. But no, I had to test the rather enticing sofas at giraffe over a stale pain au chocolat and a bucket of Earl Grey (now cooling in my tense palms) getting misty eyed with the Hungarian. I call command central and they confirm that flight has indeed landed 20 mins. ahead of it's scheduled ETA. I mumble about the stupid Heathrow Express being late, and resign myself to unflattering stories about my ineptitude at family gathers for years to come.
Naturally, it is only fitting that Terminal 3 is miles away and as I hurl myself down the concourse, weaving through masses of people, balancing jhola and tea, I feel like I'm in India. It is, of course, advisable to stash mobile phone type fiddly objects in a close fitting pocket in the proximity of one's butt. Of course, the thought only occurs to me as I curse in Greek, pirouette to prevent a serious earl grey slosh and crouch to sweep up the scattered pieces of my Blackberry, all in a single flawless motion, and I'm off again.... leaping up the stairs as my phone rings. It's the cab. Fuck!! Just how late am I?? I barge through the the doors....and hello? I'm at the check-in desks! SHIT!!! All I can see is signs for departures. Wrong bloody building. Another steeple chase, this time on the outside. I heave myself through another door, trying to slurp the tea from my wrist and am assaulted by an ocean of faces, placards, luggage trolleys and wailing children. Finally!!
I desperately look around and curse my Dad's 6'3" that had made the airport pick up offer so easy. Dammit!! I've never had to pick up anyone shorter than that from Terminal 3 and at 1855, that's a needle in haystack task as my eyes scan dozens of brown, balding gentlemen with suspicion. I foray into nooks and crannies where they might have sat down to vent their disgust and fret about having missed them in the main throng as I hunt through the seating area. It has now been an hour and twenty minutes since their aircraft landed..... more confabulations with central command, and he assures me they wouldn't have gone anywhere. I take up vigil and make slurpy noises with what's left of the earl grey while my sub-conscious eavesdrops even as my conscious gapes at a tall, broad, older gentleman in a hat, shocking pink and grey striped jacket and grey shorts. Someone else is waiting for the hapless passengers of the Jet flight. The guilty panic dissipates... along with the throng. I refuse to worry about the changes in colour and ocular orientation in those now exiting.
Shejokaku's looking around expectantly. Urk! When did he get there?! I semaphore my way up to them, and my bear hug, though mostly love, is not untinged by sheer relief!! 50 minutes, stories of my nephew's latest antics, a rather heated debate over the elections and Raj Thackery, commentary on the uniform housing and lack of people, and the driver's optimism that Arsenal actually might have a hope in hell later, we're home..... and as we relax around a few bottles, I'm more jet lagged than they are....next time, I'll stay at home and cook dinner.
P.S. - What Humpty needed was a BlackBerry design team and not the King's silly horses. I can't remember the times I've retrieved the strewn bits and schleped it together, expecting it to work (I did spend a few minutes, the first time around, fabricating a plausible lie for IT to explain it's demise...). It does.
Milestone moments
While the ladies bandy posh cocktails and people watch, the warm shower draws my thoughts inwards. Emma's depressed at turning 40. I think of Usha. We'll both be 40 next year, but unlike Emma, neither of us will be able to cobble together eight of our friends for lunch. Hell, not even four of our closest friends, cohorts, co-conspirators. Deprecating jokes about growing older dominated the table, careful to balance the tightrope between celebration and depression, but never an acknowledgement or appreciation of the fortune that allows us to gather together to share this day.
Do you miss it? Not being able to share moments with those who know your history, what you were before your debut as triumphant supermom/hausfrau, those that shared your secrets. Or do the bacchas make all of that redundant? Life needs to be lived, and there's never enough time, but I'll bet there are those brief moments, days when you look around the faces that only know you as the woman you are today, and wonder..... I want you to have it all. The joy that only your bacchas can bring, the love of a husband, friends who've known you forever, new experiences to remember, endless moments to treasure...
I look back at my life and despite the fragments of grief, anger, hurt and disillusion that have littered it, there is only one thing I would change. But even as I wish away the only regret I've ever had, I can't wish away those that stood by me and gave me their strength when I had none. Forty is just a number, and as I shriek at Priya for the umpteenth time about the same bloody things yet again, I'm deeply grateful for my 39, surrounded by those that not just yell at me, but stop to smack me in the head now and again.....
Do you miss it? Not being able to share moments with those who know your history, what you were before your debut as triumphant supermom/hausfrau, those that shared your secrets. Or do the bacchas make all of that redundant? Life needs to be lived, and there's never enough time, but I'll bet there are those brief moments, days when you look around the faces that only know you as the woman you are today, and wonder..... I want you to have it all. The joy that only your bacchas can bring, the love of a husband, friends who've known you forever, new experiences to remember, endless moments to treasure...
I look back at my life and despite the fragments of grief, anger, hurt and disillusion that have littered it, there is only one thing I would change. But even as I wish away the only regret I've ever had, I can't wish away those that stood by me and gave me their strength when I had none. Forty is just a number, and as I shriek at Priya for the umpteenth time about the same bloody things yet again, I'm deeply grateful for my 39, surrounded by those that not just yell at me, but stop to smack me in the head now and again.....
Alice in Wonderland
D-Day. My unnatural anxiety over a suitable ensemble portents lunch through the looking glass. I engage the Hungarians expertise on my wardrobe. She is rude, but picks the little batik silk which had been my natural inclination. I'm dubious, but her years married to an Englishman gives her an unassailable edge. Emboldened, I add a funky Om amulet, opened toed high heels, goth lips and mascara. Alice is ready to wonder.... and lord, she did!!
A languid stroll past the sunny side of the American embassy,an espresso with clotted cream (?!!), and then, we're ready for the ladies that lunch. We walk in and I'm already doing an even better imitation of a sore thumb than I did at the Pathare Prabhu hall inauguration. 'Oh, you glamour puss...'. Meoowwwr. English 1 - Foreigners 0. The flower child is the only one genuinely pleased to see me. Green and pink drinks amplified by flora and fauna reflects in the looking glass...and I'm sucked into a world I've only heard about. Square peg, round hole. My fake smile wilting under the cooing, as pressies are opened and fawned upon. Thankfully, a call to the table...and I make sure I'm flanked by the rude Eastern European.
Their first tasting menu, punctuated by appalling wine. Memories of drinking coffee as a placebo for unpalatable tea rush unbidden to my mind as I quaff the red instead. Potentially interesting individually, but stereotypically English as a collective. The uninspired food causes much ooohing and aaaahing even as the cherubic sommelier with the tight blond curls brings on a second bottle of white and our waiter vies for our attention with a, 'Ok, guys...'. Ok. I hold up valiantly in the face of the banal conversation, forgetting to trade nasty remarks in hushed undertones, when my mouth meets the squid risotto. Clearly, Gordon's only claim to fame. Grilled, magically flavoured and chopped into pretend risotto. I want to wax lyrical, but my audience doesn't seem to be nearly as enraptured as I am. Euphoria turns to Coronation street with the arrival of the 'rack' of lamb. It is a chop, coupled with Shepard's pie as a side. Even trading plates with Csikos doesn't make it taste any better, and I dedicate myself to the Shepard's pie.
The accents get commoner, the references more alien, and I flounder in the unfamiliar, the urge to escape mounting. Like a coach, the Hungarian promises me I only need to hold on for a little longer. Debate over dessert wines tapers off to gushing over the cheese, before disintegrating into offering to swap smelly plates. Flower girls' unexpected anecdote about pig injections (and I used to think the countryside was boring...!!) sweeps through like a mistral, and gasping laughter rings through the restaurant, nudging Sarolta's memory.... the opening scene of a 'D' grade French film, a woman with a book, her dog, a glance...... before smoothly moving to her rinsing off..... oh my! A husband who now looked at his dog with distrust mingled with jealousy. At his dog?? What about his wife????? The perfect counterpoint to what turned out to be a poem of fruit jelly, lemon curd, basil sorbet and lime granita, eliciting a standing ovation, despite the depraved imagery and an utterly unbecoming conversation about elderly ladies shopping for paté for their poodles....
We're elegantly tossed out of the dining room to sample petit fours in the lounge. A garage sale collection of tea things appear; fine, white, china cups; black, cast iron Japanese teapots; dull, ungainly silver milk jugs; random sugar bowl and the petit fours on what could've been the back of a huge rubber stamp. Chocolates, nuts that closely resemble the regurgitations of a seagull, and wobbly, Turkish delight disguised as silicone implants. I rather enjoy the impromptu tea party, and as talk turns to elections in India, I momentarily debate continuing onwards to Claridges for more drinks. The moment passes, and all too soon, we're gawping at the previously absent 'hunk' of a doorman, as he was alluded to (among other less ladylike sentiments), and I rather fondly take leave of the ladies with a sage, 'She's married not dead....'
A languid stroll past the sunny side of the American embassy,an espresso with clotted cream (?!!), and then, we're ready for the ladies that lunch. We walk in and I'm already doing an even better imitation of a sore thumb than I did at the Pathare Prabhu hall inauguration. 'Oh, you glamour puss...'. Meoowwwr. English 1 - Foreigners 0. The flower child is the only one genuinely pleased to see me. Green and pink drinks amplified by flora and fauna reflects in the looking glass...and I'm sucked into a world I've only heard about. Square peg, round hole. My fake smile wilting under the cooing, as pressies are opened and fawned upon. Thankfully, a call to the table...and I make sure I'm flanked by the rude Eastern European.
Their first tasting menu, punctuated by appalling wine. Memories of drinking coffee as a placebo for unpalatable tea rush unbidden to my mind as I quaff the red instead. Potentially interesting individually, but stereotypically English as a collective. The uninspired food causes much ooohing and aaaahing even as the cherubic sommelier with the tight blond curls brings on a second bottle of white and our waiter vies for our attention with a, 'Ok, guys...'. Ok. I hold up valiantly in the face of the banal conversation, forgetting to trade nasty remarks in hushed undertones, when my mouth meets the squid risotto. Clearly, Gordon's only claim to fame. Grilled, magically flavoured and chopped into pretend risotto. I want to wax lyrical, but my audience doesn't seem to be nearly as enraptured as I am. Euphoria turns to Coronation street with the arrival of the 'rack' of lamb. It is a chop, coupled with Shepard's pie as a side. Even trading plates with Csikos doesn't make it taste any better, and I dedicate myself to the Shepard's pie.
The accents get commoner, the references more alien, and I flounder in the unfamiliar, the urge to escape mounting. Like a coach, the Hungarian promises me I only need to hold on for a little longer. Debate over dessert wines tapers off to gushing over the cheese, before disintegrating into offering to swap smelly plates. Flower girls' unexpected anecdote about pig injections (and I used to think the countryside was boring...!!) sweeps through like a mistral, and gasping laughter rings through the restaurant, nudging Sarolta's memory.... the opening scene of a 'D' grade French film, a woman with a book, her dog, a glance...... before smoothly moving to her rinsing off..... oh my! A husband who now looked at his dog with distrust mingled with jealousy. At his dog?? What about his wife????? The perfect counterpoint to what turned out to be a poem of fruit jelly, lemon curd, basil sorbet and lime granita, eliciting a standing ovation, despite the depraved imagery and an utterly unbecoming conversation about elderly ladies shopping for paté for their poodles....
We're elegantly tossed out of the dining room to sample petit fours in the lounge. A garage sale collection of tea things appear; fine, white, china cups; black, cast iron Japanese teapots; dull, ungainly silver milk jugs; random sugar bowl and the petit fours on what could've been the back of a huge rubber stamp. Chocolates, nuts that closely resemble the regurgitations of a seagull, and wobbly, Turkish delight disguised as silicone implants. I rather enjoy the impromptu tea party, and as talk turns to elections in India, I momentarily debate continuing onwards to Claridges for more drinks. The moment passes, and all too soon, we're gawping at the previously absent 'hunk' of a doorman, as he was alluded to (among other less ladylike sentiments), and I rather fondly take leave of the ladies with a sage, 'She's married not dead....'
The man on the moon
has much to explain........ Loony tunes. Blood lust. Constant tides. Werewolves. Romance. The disappearance of the address bar from my explorer window.
My grandmother used to have this hideously pink book, referred to as the Ponjika, an annual almanack, a redoubtable crystal ball. She never did anything without referring to it's auspices - days to travel, get married, get a haircut..... the phases of the moon. I remember scoffing at her unshakable reliance, but then again, I was young and foolish. The brilliant perfect half circle makes my lips curve, and then falter as I realise I might be getting sentimental over a reflected street light. The thought propels me to my feet and the window, my eyes confirming the wonder, as my breath mists up the glass. A perfect half. Like it was sliced. With confidence and assurance. I can't take my eyes off it, and my mind meanders to urban legend and myths surrounding her.
A powerful force in ancient times, worshipped and revered. Forever linked to our unconscious, and some say, our feminine side. Death, re-birth, crops and seasons, fertility, ever changing, ever constant. Selene, sister of Helios. Moon and sun. Obliterated by the power of the sun, but all the more beguiling for it. Dominant in her submissiveness.
The unexpected radiance distracts me and makes me think of comets. Their ability to give life; and to take life. Till Istanbul, my lasting memory of a comet is being huddled in Sachin's jeep racing down the highway, trying to outrun the belting rain blotting out the road in front of us. Needless to say, the only sighting of Hale-Bopp to be had that night was in the most appalling pj's. But that was before I got called one. A new perspective, one of consequence and not imagery. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrifying. Transient, yet possibly permanent. Creating and destroying.
My grandmother used to have this hideously pink book, referred to as the Ponjika, an annual almanack, a redoubtable crystal ball. She never did anything without referring to it's auspices - days to travel, get married, get a haircut..... the phases of the moon. I remember scoffing at her unshakable reliance, but then again, I was young and foolish. The brilliant perfect half circle makes my lips curve, and then falter as I realise I might be getting sentimental over a reflected street light. The thought propels me to my feet and the window, my eyes confirming the wonder, as my breath mists up the glass. A perfect half. Like it was sliced. With confidence and assurance. I can't take my eyes off it, and my mind meanders to urban legend and myths surrounding her.
A powerful force in ancient times, worshipped and revered. Forever linked to our unconscious, and some say, our feminine side. Death, re-birth, crops and seasons, fertility, ever changing, ever constant. Selene, sister of Helios. Moon and sun. Obliterated by the power of the sun, but all the more beguiling for it. Dominant in her submissiveness.
The unexpected radiance distracts me and makes me think of comets. Their ability to give life; and to take life. Till Istanbul, my lasting memory of a comet is being huddled in Sachin's jeep racing down the highway, trying to outrun the belting rain blotting out the road in front of us. Needless to say, the only sighting of Hale-Bopp to be had that night was in the most appalling pj's. But that was before I got called one. A new perspective, one of consequence and not imagery. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrifying. Transient, yet possibly permanent. Creating and destroying.
Brown eyed girl...and other tales of visual mastery
Ruefully, I admit to myself that it's the two cups of tea after 11 pm and not the disarming unexpectedness of the day that's making my pulse race. My usually faltering memory, gently jostled by CSN's crooning, strays into vivid recollections of other disconcerting moments.... me in bed and beautiful brown eyes staring at me with a dedication that demands a restraining order.
The sleep of the dead, abruptly intruded by the compelling certainty of being stalked. Instant wakefulness, usually only brought on my an explosion of Nirvana by the ears at 4 am. Actually, I lie - Nirvana leads to disorientation and untimely exercise of one's more pithy vocabulary (I like that word too - pithy. Very descriptive. Like smock). But this, this, is dead to combat alert in 4 seconds.
I start awake, hazy certainty permeating my brain, that solitude is now a stranger. Limpid, doe like eyes gaze at me from the foot of my bed. Wordless, constant, steadfast, causing irreparable trauma. All because going home to her bed would have meant an indefensible interrogation against a 3 hour exam completed in nine and a half minutes. Plan B - hang around those oblivious to daylight, and see if they can be stared into wakefulness. Mission accomplished.
We share the same dream; broken rays of the sun dappling the stones, filtering through the translucent leaves as we companionably share the langurous silence and dawdle our way through a box of chocolate éclairs. Top halves mine, bottom halves his. The serenity of the dream dissolved by the intense feeling of a screwdriver boring into the back of my head. I look across and am snared by deep chocolate eyes, only mildly accusatory, offering me the chance of redemption in the face of his love and loyalty. I look away. This time, 28 seconds before guilt overwhelms me and I succumb to the pull of those magentic, moist eyes. Another empty box, a billion more calories, the same smile. Time for another mid-morning REM session.
I wallow as lethargy crawls through my bones, toes curling, muscles stretching, the deliciously magical space between sleep and wakefulness after a raucous dawn symphony by Hitchcock's best. Déjà vu. I feel the heat of an unblinking stare that can only mean one thing. Big brown eyes, again. Urgent, hungry, needing. Startlingly palpable in its intensity, continuing unabated, fringing every sensation. I want to look away, but they consume me, more compelling than any touch. Tracing, memorizing, devouring yet oddly vulnerable. Always watching....... just like the twilight zone.
A decade of recovery, recklessly destroyed by unwavering, big, brown, glistening eyes, nose distance from my own. Fuck. Shockus interruptus as a voice, laced with the suspicion of tears, whispers, "I'm thirsty". I would have battled dragons, kissed frogs, done anything - even exercised, to quench that thirst. Instead, I calmed my arrhythmia, tripped down steps, fumbled in the dark bruising my shin, groped unfamiliar walls for light switches, cursed cavernous cabinets, and lost my heart....
Different places, different times, different creatures. A remarkable ability to totally freak me out, indelibly engraving the surreal in my mind. Brown eyes. Their beauty matched only by my desire to call the men in white coats....
The sleep of the dead, abruptly intruded by the compelling certainty of being stalked. Instant wakefulness, usually only brought on my an explosion of Nirvana by the ears at 4 am. Actually, I lie - Nirvana leads to disorientation and untimely exercise of one's more pithy vocabulary (I like that word too - pithy. Very descriptive. Like smock). But this, this, is dead to combat alert in 4 seconds.
I start awake, hazy certainty permeating my brain, that solitude is now a stranger. Limpid, doe like eyes gaze at me from the foot of my bed. Wordless, constant, steadfast, causing irreparable trauma. All because going home to her bed would have meant an indefensible interrogation against a 3 hour exam completed in nine and a half minutes. Plan B - hang around those oblivious to daylight, and see if they can be stared into wakefulness. Mission accomplished.
We share the same dream; broken rays of the sun dappling the stones, filtering through the translucent leaves as we companionably share the langurous silence and dawdle our way through a box of chocolate éclairs. Top halves mine, bottom halves his. The serenity of the dream dissolved by the intense feeling of a screwdriver boring into the back of my head. I look across and am snared by deep chocolate eyes, only mildly accusatory, offering me the chance of redemption in the face of his love and loyalty. I look away. This time, 28 seconds before guilt overwhelms me and I succumb to the pull of those magentic, moist eyes. Another empty box, a billion more calories, the same smile. Time for another mid-morning REM session.
I wallow as lethargy crawls through my bones, toes curling, muscles stretching, the deliciously magical space between sleep and wakefulness after a raucous dawn symphony by Hitchcock's best. Déjà vu. I feel the heat of an unblinking stare that can only mean one thing. Big brown eyes, again. Urgent, hungry, needing. Startlingly palpable in its intensity, continuing unabated, fringing every sensation. I want to look away, but they consume me, more compelling than any touch. Tracing, memorizing, devouring yet oddly vulnerable. Always watching....... just like the twilight zone.
A decade of recovery, recklessly destroyed by unwavering, big, brown, glistening eyes, nose distance from my own. Fuck. Shockus interruptus as a voice, laced with the suspicion of tears, whispers, "I'm thirsty". I would have battled dragons, kissed frogs, done anything - even exercised, to quench that thirst. Instead, I calmed my arrhythmia, tripped down steps, fumbled in the dark bruising my shin, groped unfamiliar walls for light switches, cursed cavernous cabinets, and lost my heart....
Different places, different times, different creatures. A remarkable ability to totally freak me out, indelibly engraving the surreal in my mind. Brown eyes. Their beauty matched only by my desire to call the men in white coats....
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)