Trial and Error

See you on the other side

2007-09-26T09:38:00.000+02:00

It’s time to move ... from here, to here.

Drop by anytime...

India!!

2007-09-24T12:41:00.000+02:00

One hour away from the twenty20 finals and I still can’t believe we made it there. I had little doubt we’d even make it close to the semis - I thought the team was all wrong, the itinerary was claustrophobic, the bowling was weak, the fielding was lost, the board was asleep, and there was no coach. Enough reason to believe it was a lost cause. And yet, despite all of the above, and more, here we are. So win or lose today, I won’t crib. For a change I have no reason too.

Sing along ...

2007-09-22T19:50:00.000+02:00

Dor.mp3

A little bit of motivation

2007-09-20T17:29:00.001+02:00

Once a week she rewards herself for being good. First she watches the needle on her scale fall to numbers she has long since forgotten, and then she allows herself one luxury - a small slab of dark chocolate. She peels the wrapper off slowly; the rustling paper makes sounds of poetry. The taste of chocolate bursts out, lodging itself in every corner of the room; she will hunt for each wisp over the coming week, it's how she gets along. Slowly, she takes a bite. And floats away. On a fat white cloud. Drifting above the world, she sees all its wonders. When she finds a rainbow in the way, she hops off her cloud and slides down the seven colours. The wind dancing in her hair, down she goes towards her pot of gold.

Spooky the cat

2007-09-19T10:48:00.001+02:00

This is Spooky, the landlord’s cat. She has a normal pet type name, but I can’t remember it. I always call her Spooky. Because she is.

For some weird reason she prefers our yard to the landlord’s. They have a lovely garden; it's full of flowers, and fruits and birds. They even have a special cat area built for her, in case she gets locked out in the rains. And of course they like her.

Our yard is still new. It's still growing, which means it's just a bit of grass and a few flowers. It doesn't fit the bill of a fun hang out place for a cat. But Spooky is here everyday. The garden is right outside my study. And Spooky is always in my yard. So I spend most of my afternoons staring at her. I don’t think she likes me very much. Or the flowers. Or the grass. She keeps attacking the flowers. She snalrs at the grass. And if she spots me at the window, she flays her paws and brandishes her little pointy teeth, and makes weird scary sounds.

She is always lurking around, looking like she'd love a fight. Some afternoons I see her just jumping around, looking mad. She used to bring a friend along, till a while back. But not anymore. Either he ditched her, or she's killed him. Killed him makes more sense. Like I said, she is spooky.

Pretty, no?

2007-09-17T08:46:00.001+02:00

I am such a sucker for pastel buildings and cobbled streets.

In other terrifying news ...

2007-09-12T20:06:00.001+02:00

Ajit Agarkar is in South Africa for the 20-20 world cup.

*shudder shudder*

So Remember:

Keep all heavy objects as far away from the couch as possible. Remember, Agarkar will not buy you a new TV set.

Keep your fingers (and fingernails) away from your eyes, hair and veins. Gouged eyes are hard to replace, and Agarkar will not help you find new hair. He doesn’t care for torn veins either.

If you’re pregnant: Woman Please! Don’t do this to your unborn child! And more importantly don't you know the wee baby will make you pay for it during labour.

If you have kids - Protect them. Shield them. There is time to save them yet!

If you have a weak heart, this will be considered as a suicide attempt, and that is a criminal offence.

Visit your doctor before the game. Get a prescription for sedatives. Ask the doctor to get one too.

Practice before the game. Watch reruns of the England series.

Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.

If all else fails blame the ISI. Or Bush. Or the Left. Or Salman Khan.

People of India unite in therapy.

Update: Zimbabwe just beat Australia! Zimbabwe!! I love it! I love it! I love it!

Labels

2007-09-10T21:18:00.000+02:00

Every weekend she sits through torturous boy-seeing sessions. It’s so ironic; if she met different men every week out of free will, she’d be labelled a slut.

Sleepless nights

2007-09-10T00:04:00.000+02:00

Anita hasn’t enjoyed a goodnight’s sleep for over a week now, and it’s beginning to show. The circles beneath her eyes are a dull black. And she is becoming as whiney as the baby. She hadn’t bargained for this. She knew babies were hard work, but she didn’t realize it would affect her so much. Anita is just 26. Her career is just about taking off, and a baby has no place in her life right now. And yet here he is. She has to admit, when he isn’t crying, he is a heartbreaker. There are times when he gurgles his little gooey smile at her and she just melts. But right now it’s a different story. She tries to ignore him sometimes, but he makes sure it’s not for long; sooner rather than later he forces her out of her slumber and demands some attention. At her wits end, she has even called her mother for some advice, but all she offered was, “darling, babies can get like that.” Right. She loves the boy to bits, but he is taking a toll on her. There is only one thing left to do now. She jumps off her bed; she calls her broker. “Hiten bhai - Bandra, one BHK, and no children, only old neighbours.”

Patches

2007-09-07T11:33:00.001+02:00

Every Thursday she gathers all the papers and magazines from the week and settles down on the floor. Sitting cross legged she diligently flips through each and every one. When something catches her eye, she stops and carefully cuts it out. Once she’s been through the entire stack, she pulls out her big sketch book, and pastes all her little bits into it; trying to piece together a perfect life.

A morning fix

2007-09-05T11:37:00.000+03:00

The coffee kettle goes off in the kitchen and she stumbles over to make a mug. She needs her morning caffeine kick before she can bother with anything else. It has been a ritual - in the corners of her head she knows addiction is more the word, since she was in the ninth grade; that was the first time she was allowed to drink as much coffee as she wanted. She also has a favourite mug. When she is at home, she can’t have her coffee in any other mug. Any other mug and her mind starts playing tricks on her. Too much sugar. Too milky. Not enough coffee. Too cold. And once that stream of thought erupts, her day, predictably, goes rolling down the hill at an excruciatingly slow pace. Of course she will be the first to admit that a perfect cup of coffee doesn’t mean the perfect day. Hell no. But good coffee in the morning helps her get through the day knowing not everything in her long tiring day is going to be crap. And at night she can reflect on the day and say, well at least the coffee was good. It’s her way of dealing with things. She adds her one cube of sugar; it tinkles against the cold walls of the mug before crashing into the bottom. A little bit of milk goes in, leaving a sloppy white trail at the side. She rummages for a spoon. When she finds one, she shoves it into the dark brown jar; the force of it expels a small coffee cloud above the jar. Three spoons of coffee and some boiling water, and there it is. The aroma of fresh coffee fills up her mood. She takes a sip and as the bitter warmth rushes down her throat, a small content voice in her head asks, how bad can it get?

And then there were 3 more :)

2007-09-03T13:59:00.000+03:00

From a recent holiday ...

adding to this lot :)

Conditioning

2007-08-24T09:07:00.000+03:00

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

Have paid for telecast. Must watch match.

update: could someone please run over ajit agarkar? and not just with the bat this time ... i was thinking maybe a tank ... hell even a rickshaw will do ...

Freedom

2007-08-15T20:25:00.000+03:00

She stands right in front, facing the teachers. Her white uniform is spotless and crisp. There is no mistaking her position - Headgirl, down to the perfect double knotted ribbon holding her hair. From her vantage point she watches the flag unfurl. A fist-full of rose petals float down, and on cue the national anthem soars out, filling the damp air. She can’t help but look up at the fluttering flag. A surge of pride shoots through her and she says to herself, I will make a difference. I will. Along the sidelines, her mother stands proud. Her baby girl is at the head of the crowd. She looks up at the fluttering flag and whispers to her friend, "we are saving up to send her to the

Katti!

2007-08-12T21:51:00.001+03:00

Wrinkled dreams

2007-08-06T11:36:00.001+03:00

There is something incredibly beautiful about crooked, derelict buildings; criss-cross wrinkles running down their length, faded memories staining them in a patchwork of their once magnificent colour. They stand tall, held together only by the stories they’ve helped weave together over the sunburnt years.

If you drown out the self-absorbed din of today, you’ll hear yesterday come alive. Like a grandmother sitting in her favourite rocking chair, a fire by her side and the little ones around her, these old buildings will tell you fantastical stories of a time long gone by; of brutal wars and bright red romances; of wild drunken parties and night long wakes; of the dark bruises behind shut doors; of the warm glow of newly weds melting into one; of the sorrows of losing one of their own and the magic of meeting new faces.

The toothless windows nod in agreement, as do the balconies and street lamps; together they’ve seen fashion come and go and come back again; any clothes line here can dress you up for a big date, better then the best. Arthritis has set in. Some show signs of pneumonia, even tooth decay and kidney failure. But they refuse to give up. Unlike some others, they refuse to retire in the comfort of an old age home. They refuse to get any kind of a body job, proud of the shape they’ve turned into; proud of their cracks and their patches. The loose bricks smile proudly atop the strong, rigid frame.

The once chirpy terrace though has a bag of complaints. It remembers a time when its doors opened to young lovers, soaked in poetry on star-lit nights. Today it is a nest of creepy crawly wires, like thick aged blue-green veins, sticking out from beneath wilting skin. If you move them around, you might still spy a J heart M and an A heart G, dying under the heavy weight. Where bright flowers once stood, today antennas and a satellite dish stand; a sign of the changing times, I guess.

'Yes,' they all agree, wisps of their white hair making puffy clouds in the sky, ‘the times change; the characters change, but the stories, they remain the same. We just sit here on the kerb and watch them replay.’

A few of my favourite things

2007-08-04T22:59:00.000+03:00

For much of my time I am a career cynic. I scoff at most people and things. Some are too stupid, others too snobbish. Things are either entirely pointless or just too frivolous. But even within this rigid framework, I do make a few exceptions. One is for bookmarks. I LOVE these. I can ruin perfect holidays in search for one. Sometimes I think the only reason I want to go on a holiday is to find more bookmarks to add to my collection.

The other is slightly more predictable. Stationery. In a stationery store, I transform into a spectacular bumbling idiot. I just stand there and ogle, like a teenager drooling over some namby-pamby boy band; the rows of pens, pencils and books looking at me, making puppy eyes at me, begging me to take them home. And if I am left unguarded, I can do much damage on the bill.

I never have to buy any of the things I buy. I just have to have them, that’s all. As of now, my table holds a regular post-it pad, an xxs post-it pad, a speech bubble shaped post-it pad and an apple shaped one – not because I need to post reminders to myself, for that I have a really cool post-it software installed on my laptop, but because I saw them, and they looked really nice. Really. I have a pen stand spilling over, sagging under the weight it holds. I bought the same stack of pens twice, because I loved them so much. And of course in case I run out of ink or something in the next two years. I have a pack of crayons and a box of pencil colours, coloured paper-clips, paper holder, a little pink stapler, a bookmark, erasers, sharpeners, paper pins, etc, etc, all tastefully tossed into an open green basket, sitting on my shiny brown desk. I usually can’t take my eyes off it, which probably explains so much about my writing.

Habits like these don’t develop over night. They start young. They have to be mastered and turned into an art form over the years. And almost always, as it is with taking to habits, a parent is responsible. In my case it was both. I learnt early. And I learnt quickly. I remember how much I used to love the days leading to the start of a new year at school. In Zambia the new term begins in January, post the crazy New Year parties. By default the first day of the year was spent in recovery and lethargy. The 2^nd and 3^rd day of January were spent sprawled on the carpet, ripping out the twelve months of the last year and dressing my new notebooks in them. We didn’t have uniform brown paper, and the freedom to choose covering paper usually put a creative, almost competitive spin on the process. Since the first day at school was invariably spent in critiquing other students, their bags, new hairstyles and books, the end of every year was spent in choosing the most interesting calendars available. The theory being today’s spectacular calendars make next years fabulous book covers. Mine were generally covered with exotic landscapes, castles and other such natural wonders. Not only did ruined castles and romantic waterways attach themselves brilliantly on to my books, they also helped me slip into a day dream with much ease, during class hours.

One concept I really struggled with in school was the ‘rough book.’ I couldn’t digest the idea of having a book to scribble in, to desecrate, to soil with equations and reminder notes. It made me incredibly uncomfortable to see people around me vomiting their untidiness on these precious notebooks. My rough book was probably the neatest one around; with neat equations, essay and story themes all in bullet points – a), b), c) - even my doodles were neat and pretty.

My pencil box was my most treasured school possession. It used to be filled to the brim with smart yellow, well sharpened pencils, all sitting in a row, awaiting further orders. Once a pencil got too short, I quietly discarded it, and replaced it with a smart new one. When we moved on to pens, life got more interesting. Ink pen, pilot pen or ball point pen? Blue pen or black pen? Since it was compulsory to use blue ink in school, by default I preferred the black one. How many pencils with how many pens? The permutations and combinations that my pen case could hold was a process involving much deliberation, self doubt, agonising and sacrifice.

The introduction of the mechanical pencil, or the pen-pencil, as we knew it, ushered in a whole new era. I started out with the cheap plasticy models and gradually worked my way to the sleeker and definitely sexier Faber Castle. Since I was so obviously in love with my stationery, lending it out always led to a nervous break down of sorts. I can’t stand stingy characters, so I always lent out the extra one. But I never forgot. The lent pen hovered around in my brain like a bee, drowning out all of what was going on around me. And when people absconded, it led to mood swings, incessant mutterings and deep sorrow. I could have just asked for it, but I was always worried about being petty. So after a few tragic episodes, I began carrying a pair of unglamorous-lending pens. A little petty, I know – but it saved me so much heartbreak and lending almost became fun.

Stationery was the only reason I passed math. I lived for math-loathing. I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t solve it. It was only created to torment me. But then I met geometry, more importantly I met the geometry set. I passed my tenth boards solely because of this set. It seemed like a fair trade off – I pay attention in geometry class and be allowed to use all the toys in the box.

As I moved on to college, files and paper joined my collection. Though my allowance never supported it, I collected snazzy files and beautiful crisp white sheets of paper – not that whole sale, by the kilo, yellowish paper for me. I was invariably left with no money at the end of it all, but I was happy. I still am.

Sigh!

2007-08-03T17:32:00.001+03:00

I have a sneaky suspicion that the layer of fat that I think I am losing* from my waist is actually making its way up to my brain :(

* very very very very slowly

Ever after

2007-08-03T09:55:00.000+03:00

If you’re still looking for some Potter closure, head here.

One afternoon

2007-08-02T18:29:00.000+03:00

She was picking out tomatoes from her vegetable patch when the white butterfly flitted past her. It was four in the afternoon and she had just about enough time to pick her veggies and start on the dinner. She tried to ignore the stupid creature that was darting around her sweaty, flushed face. She tried shooing it away. She swatted at it. She even hurled a bad tomato at it. But it wouldn't leave her alone. Is it taunting me? she wondered as she dropped the good tomatoes in her basket. She wiped her hands on her brown skirt and watched the butterfly for a few minutes. Slowly she raised her right hand and in one swift move plucked the butterfly out. She held the insect, pinning its legs together, but not hurting it. She watched the snow white wings flutter violently; trapped and trying to break free. Maybe this is how I look in the bigger scheme of things. Maybe we'll eat out today, she thought, leaving her basket out in the sun for the little white butterfly.

Happiness

2007-07-17T23:05:00.000+03:00

The rain breaks suddenly, giving the wind an excuse to act three. She runs to the window and tries to pull it shut. But the rain isn’t easy to beat. Little pellets of water ambush her. Cold splashes hitting her warm skin. The raindrops sting her face as they melt, in long tear-stained streaks. The breeze runs through her hair, flirting. She feels light and heady; a small smile draws up. She gives in. She sticks her tongue out, trying to catch a raindrop or two. And for those few minutes, she is truly and completely happy.

All in a day's work

2007-07-17T16:17:00.000+03:00

They hovered around the sickly fire like three little moths. She could feel the evening chill settle down on her rickety bones. Spitefully, she poked at the fire. They should have been sleeping in warm beds, at some comfortable retirement home in the country, right now. In one of those nice blue room, with crispy green curtains; a crackling fire by the side, and fresh yellow flowers. But instead, here they were, crouching in a dingy cave, waiting for some stuck-up fart. It never works out like you plan it, does it? A noise outside broke her stream of thought. So, he was here. The gullible twat. She stood up, creaking all the way. She dusted her dress, and headed out. “Come on girls," she called, "let’s get this over with. Double double, toil and trouble …”

Out on my terrace the world seems just fine

2007-07-15T10:09:00.000+03:00

I sit at the little table on my terrace and write. When it rains, I sit inside, with the doors open. It’s just as nice. All I need is one look around and everything solves itself. The exact right words come to mind and pretty phrases draw themselves up. And for a bit, I truly feel like I was born to write.

I haven’t made up my mind about working from home. I like the relaxed pace of life. I like doing things on my time. And, I manage to do everything, and on good days even more. Maybe it’s not the home bit that’s got me all confused, it’s the work I’m getting. Uninspiring. Insipid. Pointless. Boring. I feel less of a writer with every deadline I meet. But then I go back to my terrace, and figure, it'll be fine.

There’s something about this place, this view that really works for me. The thick green hills with pretty lego homes encrusted in between. I see little green, orange and maroon slanting rooftops, some shooting out wisps of smoke, some blushing into a rose shrub. I listen to the birds sing all day. Up till six, even seven and eight. It’s so soothing. It’s enough to make me reach for my pen.

There’s a twisty little road that runs past, and into the bend. Occasionally it throws up a car or swallows one rolling down. I know what I’ m looking for is just around the corner, around the bend. It will find its way to me. Someday.

The air is crispy, almost sharp. I can taste its sweetness. The sun is shinning through, throwing up different colours of green. A cup of coffee sits simmering by my side, the pages get filled.

I've always wanted to write. Even before I knew how. I was in the eighth grade and we had an English assignment. I penned a story; it was the only time I didn't mind doing the homework. By the time our grades were out, I knew this was what I wanted to do.

There's a new house being built, near by. I can hear the workmen all day. It's a funny house; the balcony looks the wrong way. I wonder what kind of a view they'll have. If it's even half as good as mine, they'll be fine.

SOS

2007-07-12T18:15:00.001+03:00

I’ve been wondering and doodling and screaming out in frustration, over the last few weeks. I need to do something with my writing. I need to start somewhere. And I need to start soon, if I mean to accumulate a sizeable fortune before I hit 80. I was wondering if a creative writing course is a good place to start. So, if anyone has taken one, or heard of one, or anything else, please please please do drop me a line. Pearls of wisdom are always welcome.

Letters of love

2007-07-12T10:54:00.001+03:00

He found the letters quite by accident. Maybe that’s what made it worse. He was, in fact, looking for a pair of misplaced cuff links, a present from the in-laws. Little wonder they stirred up so much trouble. He had looked everywhere, but he should have known better than to go snooping in her stuff. All he did was open the chest, and they just tumbled out. It was almost like they were waiting for him. They smelt of rich Cuban cigars and the open salty seas. There was even a hint of Old Spice on one. He read each and every one of them. They were heart wrenchingly beautiful. Some crying out in lonely desperation, some bruised by violent passion, and some so poetic, even the violets on the dresser blushed. He almost didn’t blame her. But it is incredibly torturous to read about another man’s undying devotion for the woman you love. He suddenly felt very old. And very used. It’s one thing if your wife is cheating on you, but it’s quite another if it’s your mistress.

From her balcony

2007-07-10T16:12:00.001+03:00

She loves her balcony. She stands out there and watches the world. She knows its patterns by now. Everyday at nine, the girl with the curly brown hair comes running to the coffee shop. And a minute late she runs out with a steaming cup. How old is she? Is she married? Is her hair really brown? She wonders why the girl and the man with the black bag never talk. They are always standing next to each other in the bus line. She thinks it’s strange to see someone everyday and never share a word. The old man from the building on the other side of the street always shares a word. He leaves home at 10:30. He buys a paper in exchange for a joke. He buys a coffee and shares a laugh. He likes whistling as he walks down the street. He reminds her of Gramps. Gramps with a rounder belly. She thinks he is lonely. Maybe his children don’t call anymore, and his friends are all gone. Maybe he just needs to talk. The mailman comes in the afternoons. He is always on time. He looks so sad. Like the schoolgirl. She’s not sure why she noticed her in the first place. The street is full of kids when school is out. But this girl is different. She would look beautiful in a classic tragedy. Maybe she is in one. In the evening, a young man passes by her place. He stops below her balcony and buys flowers. She wonders if he likes buying them, or is it just a habit. She stands here everyday. One day someone will look up and see her. Maybe they will wave or smile.

Pearl Jam – Live in Concert

2007-06-29T16:23:00.002+03:00

26th June 2007, Copenhagen

The selfish, they’re all standing in line
Faithing and hoping to buy themselves time
Me, I figure as each breath goes by
I only own my mind

Tuesday morning started with a desperate wait for Tuesday evening, and for a change time flew just as fast as we wanted it to; maybe time is a Pearl Jam fan too.

They said the gates open at 6, and the show starts at 8; so of course the crowds began to gather the night before. The stadium was packed. Danes, Swedes, Brits, a few Indians, and some other accent owners that I couldn't place, all crowded around waiting, watching...

The waiting drove me mad...
You're finally here and I'm a mess.
I take your entrance back -
Can't let you roam inside my head.

And then it happened, just like that, he walked on to the stage, with his guitar and sang. Eddie Vedder was singing on stage. Some people froze in awe (me included), others stomped to his tunes, and others wore looney grins. It was finally Tuesday!

No starry airs, no rock star antics, just a song -Throw Your Arms Around Me, a big hello and an introduction to the opening act - some big noisy mistake from the UK called Future Head. For the next one hour this poor band made their noises under the pressure of opening for Pearl Jam, while the crowd caught up with friends, hoarded up on the beer and queued up to the loo.

And then they were back. Pearl Jam. With a mind blowing set - Long Road, Corduroy, Why Go, Do the Evolution, In Hiding, Love Boat Captain, Love Reign O'er Me (performed live for the first time ever!), Severed Hand, Light Years, Marker in the Sand, Given to Fly, Breath, I Am Mine, Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town, Hard to Imagine, Life Wasted and Porch.

Throats were burning, legs were cramping and hands were sore, but the music kept flowing. The first encore began with a much expected anti-war message -No more (a solo, brilliant of course) followed up by World Wide Suicide, Down, Once, Black and Alive.

After this any hope for the throats was lost, it just got crazier and crazier. No matter how tired you are of Alive, you just couldn't help jumping up and down and screaming out the song. Stomp, stomp, clap, clap, scream, scream.

Turns out Pearl Jam played on the same day, 15 years ago for the first time in Copenhagen. The second encore began with a thank-you from the band to the crowd, and a few words in memory of the accident that killed nine people during a Pearl Jam performance in 2000. Eddie Vedder was as brilliant with the little speech as he was with the music. More screaming, more clapping, more stomping.

Betterman, Yellow Ledbetter and then the lights came on, for the last song of the night – Rockin’ in the Free World. I am not sure how to describe it, I could say it was sensational, but that would be insulting to the band, I could say it was orgasmic, but it won't cover the emotion, I guess you just had to be there.

Any regrets? Sure! No last kiss, that would have been sweeet! And yeah I’d have liked to switch places with the Swedish girl (in my head - COW) who got to jump on stage and exchange kisses with Eddie, loads of little Swede girl voodoo dolls doing the round in Copenhagen, I hope.

I will come to you in the daytime
I will raise you from your sleep
I will kiss you in four places
As I go runnin' down your street ...

six whole months

2007-06-15T12:53:00.000+03:00

Six months ago today, I got married, which makes this my half-year anniversary. I am not being mushy or anything, but you have to understand how dangerous the situation could have been, and how sane I have actually turned out to be. In the last six months I could have accidentally burnt down the house, drowned in the dishwasher, slipped in the bathroom, gassed or electrocuted myself, food-poisoned the Husband, or worse scared him away, starved, walked into a tram, frozen to death, suffered severe pani puri withdrawal, choked on bland firang food, acquired a new accent, punched someone in the face (knee more likely) for asking a stupid India question, collapsed under the pressure of being surrounded by skinny Eastern Europeans, collapsed under the pressure of Husband being surrounded by skinny Eastern Europeans. Instead I have survived it ALL, which can mean only one thing: I am really good at this marriage thing :D

OMG!!

2007-06-14T13:55:00.000+03:00

omg omg omg!

Now, if only they can manage NOT to screw this up...

Bruised

2007-06-10T11:00:00.000+03:00

She was walking around with a huge purple bruise around her eye, not the most convenient accessory to have. She tried to hide the ugliness behind dark glasses. But dark glasses at 8 in the evening just don’t work. She tried to mask it with makeup. But purple isn't a colour you can hide easily. She got sympathetic glances everywhere she went, the kind a sickly little dog gets, just before it dies. It was disgusting. They’d ask her how it happened, and she’d tell them. “Umm, it’s really embarrassing, I, um, kind of walked into a door.” They’d nod at her, like they knew all along and then they’d say, “You should report him to the police, men like that deserve to be in prison.” It had taken her a good week to realize, sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth.

Whoooohoooo!

2007-06-06T11:27:00.000+03:00

Finally, something to cheer about!

Aai ga!!

2007-06-06T10:14:00.001+03:00

More on the coach tamasha, looks like Sunny G has prevailed, and Whatmore will not be making as much money as he hoped. But here's the spanner in the works, we could have this guy for coach. Damn promising, this is turning out to be...

A good match

2007-06-05T20:57:00.000+03:00

She couldn’t believe she was doing this, but maybe she wasn’t going to regret it. Her mum had called the previous day and it was the same story.

Beta, listen to me, there is this boy.
No Ma.
Just meet him once na.
No Ma.
Just once. That’s all.
…

And here she was. Shockingly this guy didn’t seem too bad. His was nice looking, well dressed and his hair wasn’t an amalgamation of goop.

It’s going to be just a coffee Ma, no dinner-vinner.
Arre, but it will look so bad.
Coffee Ma, nothing more.
Sometimes, I really don’t understand you, you no.

She had picked the café. A quiet little Italian place with a tiny faded bookstore next to it. She was addicted to both. Coffee and a book, a potent combination.

Really he wasn’t bad. When she mentioned she’d pay for herself, he didn’t gasp in horror or defend his masculinity. A first. He didn’t faint when she lit a cigarette, he didn’t even stare at her tattoo. She could already see her mother doing a little jig at home, lighting the diya, thanking the Gods for “settling ” her daughter.

Can we stop at the bookstore for a minute?
Uhh … sure.
I just need to pick a book.
Sure ... hey look at this, isn’t this a movie? Now they've made a book too? God, Hollywood!

She heard her mother’s heart break into a hundred little bits.
It was too good to be true anyway.

The right ingredients

2007-06-05T12:19:00.001+03:00

She jumped off the bus at the main market. It was just nine in the morning, but the place was alive. Already there was a cluster of aimless men, sitting around gossiping. The radios were on and the voices were rising, some hawking some haggling.

First stop was Papa Pierre’s. Thankfully the grand old man wasn’t around, which meant no small talk, no chatter. She picked up her bottle of oil, some matches and a packet of cornflour, and quickly made her way out. She could already feel the touch of water and flour on her fingers and the patterns being formed.

The crowd on the street was growing, and she struggled to make her way to Big Rosa's. She loved this store. It was always so dark and cool. She enjoyed this break from the sun as she went about looking for the right incense sticks and candles (four of them, one for each corner), saving every bit of energy she had, to make it through the herb market.

The herb market was always hard, to rummage through heaps and heaps of herbs under the blinding sun was no mean task. But she could make no mistakes today. Carefully she picked her way through the heaps for the ones she needed, some rare, all strong.

It didn't take too long to get the wine and the chicken, and there she was done. She had spent more than half her month's salary today, but it would all be worth it. She thought of her chilled glass of wine as she ran her finger across the squawking animal’s tender throat. Very soon dear Richard was going to find out what happened when you cheated on a Haitian girl.

Horrors!

2007-05-30T12:13:00.000+03:00

Somebody please tell Kapil Dev to SHUT UP! In a horrifying snippet from Cricinfo, I gather the man has been thundering nonsense again. I know that's what generally happens when he opens his mouth, but this time, I worry that someone from the Board of Cricket and Chaos in India might be listening. Worse still, they might pick up on this idiocracy and put me off cricket forever!

"Who is Whatmore," he thundered in an interview in the Telegraph, the Kolkata based daily. "Why do we need to talk about Whatmore? Or, for that matter, anybody not associated with our team at this point in time. In my opinion, when Ravi (Shastri) isn't available after Bangladesh, the Board should give the coach's powers to Venkatesh Prasad and Robin Singh, both of whom have played international cricket and are currently working with the boys."

Aaarrrrh, Robin Singh, I can try and understand, but Venkatesh Prasad! Come on, he isn't even a real cricketer for crying out loud!! Seriously when you're trying to un-rubbish the team, you shouldn't toy with them, or the few fans left, like this :(

I spy with my little brown eye ...

2007-05-18T15:47:00.001+03:00

This is what my terrace opens out to :)

It looks even better if you've got some hot coffee and a good book by your side.

D-Day

2007-05-17T18:52:00.000+03:00

Today was the day. Finally. It had taken a year to get here. From the first time her parents had met him, and had totally hated him. She remembered every minute of that torturous dinner. Worse still, they had hated his parents, if it was possible, even more. That was an even more vivid memory.

Never.
Over our dead body.
Is this what we brought you up for? To see this day?
Our very own daughter. *Sigh*
Why didn’t I die before having to go through this?
We gave her too much freedom. *Sigh*
No!

This story had all the ingredients of the perfect Bollywood pot-boiler, now, if only she could sing and dance to it all. It had taken months of crying, screaming and threatening to convince them that they had no choice. It had taken even longer to get the parents to be civil to each other. To be honest they never really got there. Though they did reach a sort of semi-civil state of being, where they ignored each other completely and went ahead and did just what the other didn’t want.

Horoscope.
We don’t believe in all that.
Diamond ring.
We insist on gold. It’s tradition.
Temple Wedding.
Fancy Wedding.
Fancy Wedding.
Temple Wedding.
Our style.
Our style.
Bombay.
Bangalore.
Yellow sari.
Red sari.

It went on and on. She didn’t have a say in any of her wedding preparations. Neither did he. Apparently it was enough that the parents had (reluctantly) agreed to this match, and from here on they would run the show. And the way they went about it, it was more like four parallel shows, all running at once. At times during the year, they wondered why they hadn’t just eloped. It would have been so much simpler. And so much more enjoyable. But the drama had stretched out the year. And survived. And from a Balaji production, this show was heading for a Yash Raj finish. Today. This was the big day. Their big day. The day that they had all struggled towards. Today was the day they tied the knot. Today was the day she was going to call it off.

Page number ...er .. umm ...

2007-05-14T17:52:00.000+03:00

I am numerically challenged. I can’t remember phone numbers or number plates, or any other important information made up of numbers. It’s a malady I first noticed in the sixth grade. I would be reading in my room when my mum would yell for dinner; reluctantly I would look up the page number, shut the book and sulk my way to the dinning table. When I’d get back an hour later, I’d flip the book open in search for that memorized page number, but would mysteriously draw a blank. No matter what I did, I just couldn’t remember my page numbers. So when I discovered the bookmark, I became an instant fan. I began treasuring my bookmarks. And over the years from a random habit, it developed into a hobby. I am now a bookmark hunter. Wherever I go, I first scout the place for interesting bookmarks; and in a bout of self indulgence, I am putting up a few that I totally love …

A Japanese paper doll, by far the most gorgeous bookmark I have

Adding a bit of Mumbai to every story

In pure leather, from Norway

American and practically impossible to use, but it's just sooo cool

King Tut and his words on Papyrus

Beyond brilliant while travelling, discovered during a stop-over at Vienna

A wooden Tulip from Holland

A hand crafted banana boat on a Palm leaf, from Kerala

P.s.: If you find one that you think I should absolutely have, please do the needful …. :)

At Home

2007-04-06T08:41:00.000+02:00

He is sitting behind me with his bag on his lap. His hair is gelled and neatly parted in the middle. He wears a formal shirt and strange fitting, ugly pants. A black jacket and a pair of sports shoes complete him. He is looking for something in his much used blue handbag, intently shuffling through its contents. Where is it? His brows bunch up, and doubt begins to cloud his eyes, but his relentless hands keep searching. The group around him, his group, shift from one leg to the other, following his search with greedy eyes. They mummer to him, maybe words of encouragement, maybe rebuke, till he finally finds what he is looking for. He breaks into a crackling smile and pulls out a packet. A wave of cheer goes around the group. Riiiiiiiipp, opens the packet of shev bhujiya and instantly gets devoured. Kurumm-kurumm-kuruumm.

I don’t feel home sick anymore.

Thought for the day

2007-03-27T11:39:00.000+02:00

There is no such thing as too much Coldplay*.

*replace with band of choice and current state of mood swing.

Finding a voice

2007-03-26T17:21:00.000+02:00

Maybe you’ve seen this; a response to Dow Chemical’s "the human element" campaign. But if you haven’t, take a minute to stop here, and here.

Stuck

2007-03-25T23:11:00.000+02:00

He tried to free his hands. Man, sometimes he could be so damn stupid. If some one walked into the room right now, how would he explain this? As he worked his way through the little knots and clots that bound him, he wearily thought, “Who says there isn’t a flip side to being Spiderman?”

A mistake

2007-03-24T01:11:00.000+02:00

They sat next to each other, awkward and uneasy. This whole thing had been a big mistake. It had seemed like such a great idea a few hours ago, and yet now they could barely look each other in the eye. “Listen, let’s not mention this again, okay?” she said. “It never happened”, he agreed. And just like that, their world cup came to a crashing end.

Murder

2007-03-23T09:53:00.000+02:00

He had a history of being stalked by the dark side of cricket. Kerry Packer, Hansie Cronje and now death. Ironic how the game he loved so much, took away so much from him.

R.I.P

Bob Woolmer
1948-2007

Me

2007-03-19T12:20:00.001+02:00

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Shhh

2007-03-19T00:44:00.000+02:00

No cricket post for me.

!!

2007-03-16T10:44:00.000+02:00

Yaaaaaaaay! Leprechauns on the cricket field!

Getting it right

2007-03-15T11:53:00.000+02:00

She switched on the News as a last resort. Maybe the tragedies of the world would be enough to distract her mother. Or at least get her started on something other than marriage. It didn't work. Her mum just kept on going; past the shattered Iraqi buildings, across the Zimbabwean protesters, over to the sullen Russian, and his not so sullen ex-wife. But as the figures of their multi-billion dollar divorce settlement flooded the living room, her mother trailed off, quietly adding, “That’s what happens when you marry right.”

Quack

2007-03-07T10:35:00.000+02:00

I had a good sports day yesterday. Chelsea won, in one of their rare Drogba didn’t score, Ballack did, games. India got through a warm up game without any (too many) scars. And I came across this …

Bits and pieces

2007-03-04T00:30:00.000+02:00

I switch on the TV and I see bits of Africa being torn to shreds. I go to the movies and I watch Africa bleeding a brutal death. I open the papers and read obituaries of a place I treasure. And it breaks my heart.

I grew up in Africa. In a small country called Zambia. And in the ten years that I spent there, I learnt almost everything that makes me who I am today. I discovered books there, I poured through libraries full of them, in a childhood not hounded by homework but in the shadows of leafy green trees, behind paperbacks and watching Hindi movies. It is where I first began to write, which in the coming years, I realised, was the only thing I was any good at. It’s where I fell in love with football: the Africa Cup, then the World Cup and then the European Leagues. Tennis followed football and paved a future for cricket.

I spent my holidays in the most amazing places – in safari parks where giraffes reached somewhere above the jungles, chewing leaves off the top of trees and elephants tapped at our windows in the middle of the night. I remember the guides telling us of man-eating lions on the prowl and pointing to a leopard in the tree overhead. I remember having breakfast watching crocs and hippos sunbathe. I remember being completely over awed at the Victoria Falls, not realising that not every kid gets to see what I was growing up with. And I remember almost falling into a river infested with crocs. Happy, happy memories.

Of course, something dark was always looming around. Crime was common and we constantly heard of coups and civil war around the neighbourhood. Rwanda happened when I was 13. And it happened next door. Uganda, Angola, South Africa and Zaire were always near by. And AIDS had just kicked-off. But it still didn’t seem so morbid. It always seemed like things would eventually get better. They never did of course. They just got so much more worse. War. Refugees. Genocide. Landmines. Maimed Limbs. Failed economies. Civil war after civil war. Poverty. Hunger. Disease. Pain. AIDS. Death. Africa.

When I left Zambia, it wasn’t just Zambia, but Africa I rooted for - African teams, African athletes - because they took me back to a time I so loved, bringing back memories of a happy place, full of people with the warmest smiles.

One day, they will get their smiles back.
I hope.

Still Counting

2007-03-01T10:08:00.000+02:00

It was early in the morning and the air was sweet and crisp. Just the way he liked it. He had been bringing the sheep up here for over 2 years now. Alone. It was his most favourite chore, and if he could tend to sheep all day, he would be the happiest. It was easy, really. All he had to do was lead the sheep safely to the grazing site, make sure they didn’t get eaten or lost and then take them back home, safely. And while they nibbled at the grass and made baa-baa noises, he would stretch out on the cool green floor, bite on a twig and dream. He’d dream about a bottle of ice-cold coke and girls and movies and football and silly things like the other side of the world. It was easy to see why he liked doing this. Who wouldn’t? The only thing he had to be careful of was the wild dogs. Occasionally he’d get lucky and kill one before it got to the sheep. He would take the dead animal home and ceremoniously present it to his parents. But sometimes a sheep would wander off too far and disappear. Those were the worst hidings he’d receive. He remembered each and every one of them, all four. He still had marks to show. He was particularly proud of the purple patch on his leg; every boy in the village was envious of it, even the bigger ones. He smiled as he propped himself up on his elbows. It was time to head back home. Come on, let’s go, let’s go, he yelled at them. One, two, three, he started gathering each one. Four, five, six, something wasn’t right here. Seven, eights, nine, oh god! Ten, eleven, where was the last one? He frantically looked around the landscape for twelve. No, no, NO! Not again, this couldn’t happen to him again. He clutched at his hair for support, he yelled and he cursed, even his purple wound began to burn. But twelve didn’t come.

Far away from the boy, on the other side of the world, where it was still dark, a young man lay twisting and turning in his bed. He kept getting stuck and he kept losing count. He just couldn’t get through. I hate the bloody sheep and I sure as hell hate their bloody fence, he thought as he reached for his bottle of sleeping pills.

...

2007-02-26T20:34:00.000+02:00

I need to write, need to write, need to write, but ...

The view from my window

2007-01-29T13:29:00.000+02:00

Save the earth! Now!

2007-01-26T23:07:00.000+02:00

*Warning: petrifying post

Scary things are going on in Germany. With the weather all topsy-turvy, this year’s crop has been badly damaged, which in Germany means a horrendously poor potato crop, which means no potatoes, which means an extreme shortage of potato chips in the market!

And you thought global warming didn’t matter.

Six O’clock Surprise

2007-01-26T14:02:00.000+02:00

Warm sleep is nudged awake by the singing church bells. It is early. It’s still dark outside. And I can already tell winter is being mean today. I pull my blanket up to my chin and glare at my window.

I Glare. I frown. I squint. I squeal.

Floating past my window pane are soft delicious flakes of snow.
My first snow.

*crazy extremely embarrassing, girly excitement follows*

I forgive the biting cold and the icy floor. I pull on a sweater and pull open the door. Brrrrrrr. The morning air tears into my skin, its sweet scent lost in the view that has been conjured up during the night. Snow-coated roofs and white park benches. Trees all dressed in white trimmings. Tiny flakes precariously perched on twigs and branches. A little black dog surrounded by white. Pink boots and scarves wound up tight.

*dumbstruck awe. or maybe just frozen stiff*

Click.
Click.
Click.
Something to remember it by. And then I shiver, I cling to the warmth hidden in my sweater sleeves and run back to my warm bed.

*yaaaaaaaaaayyy my first snow!!*
*crazy extremely embarrassing, girly excitement follows*

Plump no more

2006-11-16T11:43:00.000+02:00

Here’s a word I’ve been meaning to share forever, and I have n to thank for this fabulous discovery …

Zaftig
Deliciously plump or carrying your extra weight very well.

From the urban dictionary* (which I think is brilliant, btw)

Not fat, or overweight … but Zaftig …

*http://www.urbandictionary.com/

Random

2006-11-09T20:14:00.000+02:00

Today has been one of those vague days. I have a craving to write, but have nothing to write about, so I figured why not get a little random.

A report in the midday today says item girls across the city are a happy lot because Rakhi Sawant is locked up at Big Boss’s for three good months; giving them a chance to up their business considerably. The paper has also been very kind to list each girl’s price per show, just in case …

Promos of Himesh’s debut are out. He is now threatening the mortal world with a disaster called Aap kaa Surroor - The moviee, the real luv story. (Yes, movie is now moviee and love is now luv). The nasal menace claims this to be his very own tragic love story. My reaction, ye gods, he has a love story!

Going ahead with the filmi connection, Lindsay Lohan says she fears an end like Princess Di. ROFL. The poor delusional child. But then eating disorders do that to you right?

Dear old Ram Jethmalani says Jessica Lal was killed by a Sikh man ... no Mr Jethmalani, that was Indira Gandhi, remember?

Vilas Rao bravely fell asleep during a 'How to counter the terrorist threat' meet. Wonder if it was thinking about Money Money Money that put him to sleep ...

Shoaib Akhtar has done it again, at least allegedly. He is said to have slapped Bob Woolmer. Kind of got me thinking, whom would I slap if the opportunity presents itself? Let’s see I’d start with V.P. Singh (yes, I am political like that), Himesh (good old prejudice), Kashmera Shah (she’s annoying, yes yes, I watch Bigg Boss), Ektaa Kapoor (she still spells it like that, right?), RGV (Basanti, Nisha Kothari, please!) Beckham (just), that damn referee Poll (robbing Drogba of a goal like that, scum!) Bobby Jindal (such a fart), Alonso (just), Sonia Verma (she is on TV right now, she is so dead, it's irritating) … this is turning into a very long list, and I haven’t even started yet …

Alone, with himself

2006-10-30T21:13:00.000+02:00

He sat there, stretched out on his exquisite velvet couch, watching his irritation creep up onto him. He had been lying on this same couch doing the same old things, day-in and day-out for the last so many days. In fact, it had been a good year since he was last out on an assignment. Yes it had been riddled with ridiculous risks. Yes he had cribbed about it insanely. And yes he had mentioned a couple of times how he never wanted to do this again. In fact if you were one for numbers, you’d have placed his count to 237 times over four days. But now he was craving to be out on the job. Ironically, he was wishing for one of those reckless moments. He leaned across the couch and picked at his toe nails. What else could he do? When he wasn’t working, he wasn’t allowed to walk around the city streets. Yes, some jobs are like that, plain bloody evil - if you don’t know real evil, that is. And while he had every single need provided for in this room, it did get a little tiresome after a while. After all one does get weary of a pretty room and growing toe nails after the first 41 days. He wrenched out a bit of his protruding nail and thought to himself, a man needs to get out from time to time. Meet up with his mates. Have a couple of drinks. Boast of made up achievements. He sighed as he studied his toes again. There they were, all lined up neatly, one next to the other. Yes, that's a job well done, he thought as he began to snuggle his way back into the couch. He had almost made it too, when a sudden jolt threw him right off. It took him a few surprised minutes to recognise the rumbling all around. His room was shaking violently now, its contents flung all over the place. As he struggled to stay put, he smiled. Finally, he thought, a summon! And as a lime green vase smashed into his face, he wondered, in child-like anticipation, what three wishes he would be granting this time.

Where there is smoke...

2006-10-22T11:07:00.000+02:00

There was smoke everywhere. She could barely see a thing; her eyes were watering and turning a worrisome red. It was a chaotic scene, people were screaming instructions and suggestions as she struggled to find her way around. As the smoke rose, she worried even more, what if the edge of her sari caught fire? What if her lenses fell out? What if she tripped? What if ... damn, I need to hold it together, she thought. And as the thick black smoke danced around her, she hitched her sari ever so slightly, blinked her eyes furiously and told herself, just two more pheras and we’ll be done. Just two more.

Blue Curacao

2006-10-22T10:32:00.000+02:00

Was it the drink, he wondered, or something else?

He had left office at six sharp, walked a colleague to the bus stop and then made his way to this coffee shop. It was a routine he was diligently following over the last few weeks. Now even the staff here recognised him and greeted him as a patron; him, his glass of iced Blue Curacao and a sports magazine. He flipped past yet another player profile as he stole a quick glance at his watch; it was almost eight, any minute now his phone would ring. He hurriedly pulled it out from his pocket and placed it on the table, right next to Allan Donald’s career statistics. And waited. 8:02. 8:03. 8:05. 8:07. 8:08. It finally rang at 8:10. He grabed the phone, let it ring once, and then quickly answered it.

Hey, she said, am done, how about you, are you still at work?
No, am done too, just leaving, he answered.
Oh super, so I’ll see you at the station then, in another 15?
Yeah, same place.
Cool! See you.
Bye.

He quickly finished the remains of his drink, tucked Allan Donald back into the magazine rack and made his way out. In five minutes he’d be at the station and in another ten he’d be on his way home. He smiled as he thought he didn’t mind the hour long journey anymore.

Was it the drink, he wondered, or something else?

What was Mulayam Singh thinking?

2006-10-20T15:09:00.000+02:00

Note: This question has at least 10001 variations, just substitute name of politicians to suit your argument.

The UP government, headed by the honourable Mulayam Singh Yadav, has issued cheques to distressed farmers across the region. This lion hearted drought relief measure ranges from an opulent Rs.10 to a generous Rs.2. Wonder how much the cheque itself costs, and the fare to the local bank?

Signing out

2006-10-17T20:23:00.000+02:00

It has finally happened. After a year of plotting and planning, the day has come to hang up my oshos and do things other then advertising. It’s been a half decent run, I think. Some memorably forgettable work and some that never saw the light of day (thankfully?). But all is good when the people you work with get rid of you with a warm smile and actually reply to your ok bye email. Of course it was a little weird to see the new boy sitting on ‘my’ comp. I wanted to tell him that he’d inherited a lousy machine, one that’s slower then Inzy and that it will almost always let him down. But then I thought, let him find out the hard way. A couple of weeks here and he’ll figure out it gets much worse :) Also my boss asked me to stay on in the sweetest way ever, it’s a memory that’ll always stay with me. So at the end of it all, am I happy? Hell yes, I realised somewhere between a barf worthy ad I was writing and a stab me now brochure that even though this was (at least occasionally) fun, I didn’t want to spend my life writing fun as a ringworm leaflets and yawn yawn when will this end AVs. So I've decided to move on and find me something new to do. What exactly I know not, but it will most definitely involve lots of travel and loads of writing. And hopefully, I’ll end up exactly where I should be. So till then adios advertising, and adios;

Think some more (but …but, I can’t)
But where is the idea? (THAT IS THE IDEA)
It’s been done (not by me, it hasn’t!)
I want an option (fuck off)
Your book is not crazy enough (*quiet simmering rage*)
But where are visual ideas? (I am a writer, asshole)
The brief has changed (what? what?)
It’s nice, but … (BUT?)

Sweet sweet relief!

Closure

2006-10-17T15:01:00.000+02:00

She sat in the last row, right next to the door and watched the proceedings, the charade play out. She heard out the arguments and watched the Judge react to them, sometimes worried, sometimes frustrated. And when the case came to an end she was hardly surprised at which way the verdict went. The cops and the accused shook hands and exchanged words of hushed conspiracy, and the honourable Judge walked out with his head held low. As the front row broke down in uncontrollable grief, she walked out of that courtroom with hidden tears and a cold heart. Years later when they reopened the case, she returned to her spot near the door. A lifetime had passed since they had all assembled here last, a lot had since changed. And by the end of this renewed battle so had the verdict. While the front row wept a silent tear and marked their victory with brave smiles, she saw him collapse in his chair. He couldn’t accept this reversal in fortunes, not after all the money he had spent and the names he had cultivated in his favour. He watched his guilt closing in around him. He looked towards the door; he desperately wanted to get out of this room, away from all these people. That’s when he saw that last row seat. He suddenly found it very hard to breathe as he watched that empty seat. If he could have seen her, he would have seen her standing there with a smile.

The verdict to the Priyadarshini Matoo case is out and finally justice has prevailed. It’s come 10 years too late but at least there is a dim light at the end of the very dark tunnel. We’ve a long way to go, and hopefully we’ll get there.

Out of touch

2006-10-16T20:34:00.000+02:00

She took a deep breath and prepared herself. She hadn’t done this in a very long time. She was completely out of practice and that made her very very nervous. She used to be really good at this once upon a time; her friends had always told her how lucky she was, envy spreading from tip to tip on their longing smiles. Ah, those were the good old days, when everything was in place, and in shape. Now weighing 93 kgs, forget her toes, she could barely touch her knees.

Scary

2006-10-16T18:49:00.000+02:00

These are bad time we live in. A time of remixes, remakes and super scary sequels. So while I cringe and squirm each time Shahrukh ‘Don’ Khan wriggles his bum to Khaike paan and Ash batters her fake eyelids to Rekha’s Umrao Jaan, I hear wicked words like Ramu’s Sholay and my newspaper spreads evil rumours of a Krrish sequel. Is there no hope?

Reflections

2006-10-15T10:23:00.000+02:00

She took off her shirt and walked up to the mirror to face her naked blue reflection. He had promised her a bruising, he had warned her, told her what to expect but she had laughed off his silliness. Now she winced as she gingerly touched a new born welt on her abdomen. All across her body he had left little isles of his promise, each swelling up as a reminder of his presence and power over her. He had been careful not to scar her face, he hadn't touched her arms either; marking his playing field to strictly neck and below. So while her perfect face and her smooth arms stood a rich brown, the rest of her was slowly turning into a riot of blues. She looked into the mirror, at what he had done to her, and smiled.

Black!

2006-10-14T15:20:00.000+02:00

I am back after four days in Goa with sea shells and a chocolate brown tan. The shells are really pretty but the tan didn’t find too many fans. Some sample reactions;

Mortified aunt: Oh my god, have you become dark?

Mortified aunt 2: Why are you looking so dark today?

Mortified aunt 3: Tan! Why did you even go to Goa?!

Mortified aunt 2 again: You will become normal again, na?

Mum: Haven’t you ... washed your face today? (Hmmm)

Mortified aunt 3 again: You shouldn’t have gone only.

Am expecting some fair and lovely advice to follow soon, will keep you all posted. Sigh.

Breaking NEWS

2006-10-08T19:59:00.000+02:00

It’s 10:45 on a Sunday night. The whole day has been spent at work and all I ask for after such a day is some decent television programming to surf on. But no. What I get instead is 765 stupid news channels flashing brain dead breaking news in my face. Remember the old days? Breaking news meant election results, earthquakes, a tsunami or planes flying into buildings. On a good day it meant wow, we actually won a match. Today breaking news is a gutter filled with ridiculous marital spats, children eating chocolates in a pit, farty religious bigots displaying stunning levels of mental retardation and other such displays of general Indian stupidity. And this isn’t just one or two bad channels, every channel seems to be working hard to stoop lower then the rest. Example on screen right now, Sachin Tendulkar is saying, in Hindi mind you, that we need a balance while experimenting with the team. Stupid, daft reporter translates in his version of Hindi, Sachin ko nahi pasand team ke saath experiments, akhir bole little master. Huh? What? Where? On another channel the smart as a twit reporter is asking a singer about the pressures of singing for the new Umrao Jaan (warning: rant on remakes of classics soon to follow) and asks the singer to hum a few lines. Decent courtesy demands you at least shut the soundtrack, a song sung by another singer not in your studio, playing on your split screen, while the singer in your studio sings. But noooo, how could they figure out something as complex as this, after all this isn’t rocket science, is it? Btw, just incase you missed it, this was a segment of breaking news too, how exactly it qualifies, i don't know. Don't get me wrong here, not that watching the Mika-Rakhi war wasn’t interesting, much more intriguing then the Middle East conflict I’d say, but whatever happened to the news guys? And whatever happened to journalism?

Crossfire

2006-10-03T19:33:00.000+02:00

The sun was growling, intimidating the pale blue sky to a fierce yellow. A thin plastic sheet, held up by flimsy sticks, was all that stood between her and the angry sun. Her little boy sat near by, playing with bits of gravel. His sores, staring openly at the dehydrated day, were buzzing with flies. Out of habit she tried to swat them away. But they were war veterans, unafraid of little waves, they continued their feast. She wondered how long he would last in these conditions, how long before he too left her, slaughtered like the rest, to fuel this war.

She wondered if her husband was still alive. Maybe he was still out there, fighting death by delivering fresh bodies to his doorstep everyday, driving helpless people like her into camps like this. She had got here just yesterday, ahead of the wave of refugees filing in. Each time a new coalition was formed or a new peace deal was brokered, a new camp like this would spring up somewhere. Soon they would run out of plastic sheets, water and medicine. And then things would get even worse. But they were safer here, at the mercy of foreigners, while their own hacked them up into tiny pieces on the other side. When the war had started, she used to be full of bitterness, and ready to fly into a fit of rage. But today all emotion had been shed away, along with the blood flowing on the streets. Now, there was just a long wait in the sun. For peace. For death. For the numbness to end.

They saw her in the papers the next day. There she was, a beautiful young black woman. Blood was pouring out form somewhere behind her head, a little boy was sitting next to her dead body, crying. It was a chilling picture, it didn’t go down too well with the morning cuppa. People squirmed as her lifeless eyes started at them from the newspapers. And the little boy’s wails were screaming out, past the words and onto the breakfast table. They flipped the page hurriedly and wondered what the world was coming to, burying her as another headline, one more story that got lost in the morning of the civilized world.

Wanderful and more

2006-09-26T19:56:00.000+02:00

While practising a triple jump form one channel to the third I tripped over a classic late 80’s, early 90’s garish Bollywood scene. Lo and behold there stood Govinda on my screen. Usually this is reason enough to curse your luck, but today was special. Not only was Govinda standing there, he was jiving on my screen in a Superman outfit, chaddis on the outside et al. It’s no wonder poor Reeves fell off his horse. Sigh.

Now, the Govinda, he is not alone. He is with his lady love, serenading her, the ever so lovely Kimi Katkar. Ha! Suffer fools suffer!

Things get even more interesting from here, for the Katkar¹, she is no less and matches her beau step for step. And unfortunately outfit for outfit. And to his Superman you have her Sipdey, careful there Toby!

Now, all Super Heros come with super powers and Super Govinda and Spidey Katkar are no different. They superimpose themselves on flying stills of Mumbai² and singing their Super Couple³song, they go about their merry business. They save a really ugly couple from dirty dirty goons, coochie coo in a garden full of sex starved flowers and join a bunch of ageing youngsters doing PT on the dance floor, before superimposing themselves on a flying Mumbai again.

Just beautiful⁴, I say!

¹Have to call her that, can’t risk Raikkonen injuring himself, now that he is a Ferrari man.

²Only Mumbai could have survived this; after all we’ve got the spirit for this kind of shit.

³Ha and you thought the incredibles was original!

⁴For the Bollywood inclined, for the suicidal, for the adventurous, the movie you are looking for is Dariya Dil. It also stars Kadar Khan (in a double role beware), Shakti Kapoor and Gulshan Grover (somebody show this to his Hollywood agent).

Storyteller

2006-09-24T07:41:00.000+02:00

He stared at his screen. Blank. He stared at the keypad. Blank. He looked at the neatly arranged alphabets on his notebook with despair, wanting them, almost begging them to jump out and lead him on to something incredible. His head hurt as he strained his insides for something to get him started. A snippet of the unusual, a moment of tenderness, a poisoned tear…

Nothing.

He desperately searched for his lost genius, rummaging through empty coffee mugs and dying cigarette ends.

But nothing. Not a hint, not a spark, just scorching agony,

creeping all over him,

consuming him.

Betrayed and abandoned by his words, he sat there empty, dry. Striped naked of the talent he once had.

He had said in an interview years ago, there is nothing scarier for a writer then success. His words were walking out on him today. They were proving him right.

Interrupted

2006-09-23T09:56:00.000+02:00

It’s a glorious Saturday morning.

The sun is hiding behind fat white tufts of cloud. Last night’s rain has been soaked in by the cobbled pathways around. The trees are dancing in bright green outfits, with little clusters of colourful flowers as trimmings. The air is crispy and crunchy as it hits my face. Work is adjusted to interfere only on Monday morning. It’s the perfect day to grab a book and make place on the window sill. I take one last look at the world walking by before the words take me away. Aunties in bright pink saris make their way from the local grocer. There’s breakfast to be made and eager stomachs to be pleased. Old uncles walk by in white, smiling as they remember carefree stories from yesterday. A chirpy teenager chatters away excitedly into her phone, it’s just the kind of day when you want to fall in love. School is out and a bunch of kids are planning their next game. Who will bat, who will bowl, wait let me fix the stump. They scream and they fight. Holler at each other. Who will be in my team? I don’t want the fat boy, he can’t run. It’s my bat, I’ll start. Throw the ball, throw it here you fool! Little grudges accumulating for a final showdown.

My glorious Saturday morning is turning into a little riot.

If only I could slap the little hooligans, I’d be able to save the day and savour the words.

13 years later

2006-09-12T13:21:00.000+03:00

The Bombay bomb blast verdicts are beginning to trickle out.

13 years on we continue to bleed.

In memory of all those who lost their lives.

A moment for the innocent.

People who were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

People who died for nothing.

People who were caught because someone had to be.

Those who made the numbers.

Those who have been forgotten.

For the cops who lived the nightmare.

For the cops who investigated death.

For the buildings that saw each other crumble.

For the building which still have the courage to stand.

For the blood that still stains us.

The anger that still haunts us.

For the people who continued to live.

For the people who died after.

I pass one of blast sites everyday. I look at the spot and wonder if I am walking over faded blood stains. I wonder if someone died standing here that day. I wonder if things would have been different if those bombs hadn’t gone off. I also wonder if we’ve learnt anything from 1993.

I wonder how they celebrated while Bombay was bleeding.

I wonder how they live with so much blood on their hands.

I wonder if their hands are still drenched bright red or has the blood faded like it has on our streets.

I wonder if they will ever regret doing what they did.

I wonder if they will ever be truly punished.

I wonder if they are haunted by it when they sleep.

I wonder, if they could go back 13 years in time, would they still do what they did or would they change their minds?

Tick tock tick tock

2006-09-10T21:16:00.000+03:00

Mice don’t really like cheese.

Pluto isn’t a planet anymore.

Andre Agassi has grown old.

Michael Schumacher won’t race anymore.

My world is changing.

And how.

Courage will die

2006-09-01T10:23:00.000+03:00

There is a man crying on TV right now. He says he knows he will be murdered soon. He knows the people who are going to kill him and he knows they will make his family suffer. He knows they will be brutal. He knows he can’t escape. He says he spends each day wondering when they will come for him. They are powerful. They have already threatened him. They even offered to buy my silence, he says. But I can’t sleep with the images they have planted in my head. I see the professor being killed every time I close my eyes. I want to sleep. I will testify. They will kill me for it. I too shall die.

Between them

2006-09-01T10:04:00.000+03:00

Slowly he tried to pull off her shirt. She hesitated. Suddenly she was very uncomfortable, she was scared. He sensed her unease. He let go of her shirt and held her close instead. He whispered in her ears, reassuring words, don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ll take care of you, I promise. With sensual ease he let his fingers find her shirt again. He slowly undid the strings holding it together and gently pulled it off. She shivered as her smooth brown skin lay naked now. He was whispering sweet words to her as his hands reached for her breasts. She saw the look in his eyes as his fingers touched her and she knew she had guessed right. It was there, a lump. She tried to smile.

Decisions

2006-09-01T09:28:00.000+03:00

Ah to be in Michael Schumacher’s very expensive shoes right now. How does a man choose between more money and more money?

Stale

2006-09-01T09:23:00.000+03:00

It was their fourth wedding anniversary. It was their first dinner together in months. Today they had pushed meetings and avoided frantic calls from the office for a promise made years ago; to never spend this day alone. She knew his secretary had booked this table and picked the flowers. He knew she had shopped for the dress an hour before he had picked her up. They was no need for conversation, there was no shortage of it either. When they spoke, they talked of things that mattered, of things that didn’t and things that had to be said. They had dinner with red wine and enjoyed it, they smiled and laughed and enjoyed it. They walked out arm in arm and in smiles. Standing there, under the stars, his phone rang, and then hers. They answered. Sometimes she wondered how they hadn’t got lost yet.

Silenced

2006-08-30T14:34:00.000+03:00

Shit!

Shit!
Clear this mess up; I don’t want another enquiry on my hands.
Get rid of the bodies.
Take the ones that are alive. And talk to them.

Let’s get this over with.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Fuck this one is alive.

Fuck he is British.

What?
Passport.
Shit!
This isn’t good.
Talk to him. Talk to him!

What’s your name?
Can you hear me?
Can you hear me?
Are you hurt?
What’s your name?

He won’t answer.
Son of a …
Why is he staring like that?
He is giving me the creeps.

Maybe it’s shock.
Oh don’t give me those fancy words damn it.
Just a few questions. And we could end this right now.

What?
Look at him. You think he can hear us?
What!
Shit are you saying we made him deaf?
Can he sue us for this?
Doubt it.
He is British.
Then maybe you shouldn’t be saying it out so loud.
Pass me a fucking light.

His eyes bore into theirs. He decided if he couldn’t hear their questions, he wouldn’t have to give any answers. It was time to move on.

One miracle, two miracle, three…

2006-08-26T14:34:00.000+03:00

Dear God,

Since you are in my part of the world right now, please do me a few favours. No point pretending you’re busy elsewhere because I know it’s you* and that you’re here.

See, if you were trying to keep a low profile, turning that nasty toxic dump into a sweet water delight was a big mistake. And then you went and drank litres of adulterated milk, sip by sip. Most of us can barely digest a spoonful, you’d have to be divine to polish it off. And if that wasn’t enough, you went and posed on a derelict building. Really God, if you were going for discretion there, I suggest you hire a really good PR firm, pronto. Anyway coming back to the point, all these miracles you’ve been up to, sweet as they are, can we have a few concrete, focused miracles now please? Here. I’ll give you a headstart and then you can take it from there.

Can we start with Karan? God, please take away all his money. Or make him sick. Or just let him have that man he is craving for. One more movie out of his closet and you’ll end up with mass dementia on your hands.

Potholes. Potholes are seriously dangerous God. Just the other day I lost a bit of my spine in one those holes and though I did find a new set in another hole, they really weren’t the right size. My only concern is that a spineless following might not be very good for your image, will it?

Breaking News. Watching Prince eating that bar of chocolate had me craving for the good old state regulated DD days. Honestly, I don’t know how you will tackle this pain, but you are God and I’m sure you’ll figure something out.

The Government. I don’t know if you caught the Laloo-Prabhunath Singh saga the other day. Or if you’ve been following Arjun Singh’s monologue. Or for that matter Vilasrao’s solo act. This nautanki has run its course God, it’s now time to draw the curtains.

Himesh. Oh God o God, please do something about this nasal menace. It is threatening to deliver this and the next year’s biggest hits, pitching this cacophonic situation into calamity mode. Today it’s just filmy hits. Tomorrow it could be your music. Think about it.

Right, this about covers the biggest threats to our daily lives. My work ends here and yours begins. Ciao then God almighty, I’ll let you get on with things.

lv,
neha

* going by the sab ka malik ek hai theory, i have used the word God as a singular representation of all the Gods around.

Shortest story

2006-08-07T10:47:00.000+03:00

I came across the Hemingway Challenge - a short story in six words - on several blogs this week.

My contribution to the growing list:

1.
“I do.”
“I do.”

"Now what?"

2.
He caught the last train home.

3.
"It's just routine questioning", they said.

4.
She missed him. No she didn’t.

5.
He was Hindu.
She was not.

6.
Hey! Are you driving? ... Hello? ... Hello?!!

7.
Her test said positive.
She cried.

8.
It happened a long time ago.

Stopped in my tracks … almost

2006-07-18T14:27:00.000+03:00

I can’t access blogspot. And it’s killing me.

No, let me rephrase, I couldn’t access blogspot. And it was killing me. But as always there is more then one way to get the job done.

Which brings me to the people blocking my morning read. Here's the statement from some government representative on the blocking of blogspot and 11 other sites in the country, it’s priceless, take a read:

"We would like those people to come forward who access these (the 12) radical websites and please explain to us what are they missing from their lives in the absence of these sites."

This got me thinking. See, I’ve always harboured a secret ambition of being an adventurous outlaw. The kind who lives in a dense jungle, defying the authorities and fighting guerrilla wars. I’ve never been able to meet this dream, of course, for a number of reasons. The most obvious being, I’m chicken. Being very scared of scary things like violence, arrest, blood, cut-open bodies, Indian lawyers, (shudder shudder!) torture (ugh!) made this a highly improbable career choice. But suddenly everything has changed. And today, I stand among illustrious fellow outlaws; Robin Hood with his bow and arrow, Che* with his philosophy and an ever-growing line of tee shirts and Me with my blog.

On with the revolution, I say!

* comparison to Che made only for spectacular effect and not in a state of sensless self-illusion.

Oh! In news just in, the block is off! Bye Bye Robin. Later Che ...

Wanted

2006-07-14T15:01:00.000+03:00

We’re back on track. And we’re much wiser.

This morning I hopped off the train and walked right into two neatly dressed cops. Standing outside the first-class compartment in their crisp khaki saris and tidy plaits they scanned me for any potential terrorist threat. One of them obviously found a glimmer of terror in me and promptly got to work. From lazy strolling cop she suddenly became all business, barking her order in perfect textbook cop style ...madam bag check please.

Nothing wrong in that, I thought, she’s just doing her job. And the obedient citizen I am, in a show of faith, I flashed her a bright happy smile. Shit! Wrong move. You never smile at cops. You scowl or you cower but you never smile. She almost cart wheeled in delight as she gave her colleague a triumphant ‘I told you so!’ look. My flashing smile had openly betrayed my criminal intent, more reason then to probe the contents of my bag. After all bags can carry some pretty scary things. Other then your everyday bombs and hand grenades you could be carrying scary bubblegum strips, cruncy red apples, broken pencils, rubberbands, sharp nibbed pens, dirty handkerchiefs. The list is terrifying and endless.

I opened my bag and tried to guide them through the hundred different things in it, but once again, I was curtly stopped. Again, I gave her the benefit of doubt. She had a point; I could be up to some mean mischief, I could detonate unknown devices using a remote control hidden in my bag. I could be carrying a touch-and-boom-we-all-explode contraption. I could have nerve gas and trigger off even more trouble. My hand in my bag could be the end of our world, making this a very dangerous situation. And so my hand stayed exactly where it was, hanging aimless from my shoulder while her hand gingerly shuffled through my stuff. Pens, paper, book, tissue, more scraps of paper, empty chips packet, blah, blah, blah… damn where were the usual suspects?

The bag gave me a clean chit but not the cops. They had another brainwave, hoping to catch me on the wrong foot. What’s your name they asked me, where are you coming from. Brilliant! If I were a part of the movement for mass destruction, I would definitely tell them my name and where I come from. It is but natural. For that matter I would also alight from a crowded train during rush hour, just after a major mishap in the city carrying a nasty device in my bag. Obviously.

Then again, they were just doing their overworked underpaid job. So what if it was a lousy attempt. Finding nothing in me to suit the profile of a closet terrorist, they reluctantly thanked me and let me go. And focussed their energies on some other equally terrifying person hopping off the next train.

Wish you were here

2006-07-12T13:14:00.000+03:00

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

R.I.P
Syd Barrett
1946-2006

Mumbai

2006-07-12T10:09:00.000+03:00

To the rudest people in the world,

Take a bow.

Mumbai,
11/7/06

Do you believe in God?

2006-07-11T13:43:00.000+03:00

Cup of Joy?

2006-07-06T12:19:00.000+03:00

The Football World Cup;
Breaking millions of hearts since 1930.

In the Rains …

2006-07-06T11:32:00.000+03:00

The monsoon is here in all its glory.

Pearl shaped raindrops hit the earth with a gentle splatter. Their rhythmic pitter-patter disturbs the long settled dust, sleeping across the city. Everything is fresher now. Everything is green. And the air is scented with the delicious aroma of roasting corn.

Tempting you from every street corner is a monsoon-drenched cart. A tiny man in an oversized raincoat smiles at you from behind it. Pointing knowingly at the neatly displayed wares on his cart, a tidy heap of lime green butta.

As the skies open out, you run up to the cart and huddle under a dripping umbrella, watching tiny puddles gather to life in a circle around you. You peer through the curtain of raindrops at the tiny man. He smiles, a friendly smile, and strikes a damp matchstick to life. And with these tiny strings of fire, he lights his small coal stove. Instantly little bits of charcoal glow awake, angry red eyes glare at you, from inside the stove, like a monster waking up in a dark fairy tale.

As the stove turns into dots of red, the tiny man picks up a butta and then two, without once disturbing the heap. He rips off the bright green coats they wear and lifts their soft brown velvet veil. He casts a disapproving glance at the flame, not impressed by its progress, he fans it furiously, egging it on to rise. And rise it does, suddenly the air is full of slivers of fire dancing around fat-sparkling drops of rain; the coal is now bright red and the corn roasts to a golden yellow.

After a series of twists and turns, he lifts the golden yellow butta off the smoky hot stove. Yes, it’s perfect, hard enough to bite, soft enough to chew. He smiles. And proceeds to dress it in a melting coat of butter. He adds a touch of namak and a dash of mirch and then to this delicious mix, he adds the final touch, a generous splattering of lime.

You hurriedly grab the hot cob he hands you and greedily bite into this spicy-sweet monsoon delight. And you don’t stop till you rip off every bit of corn from cob. And somewhere between the first bite and the last a thought enters your head, ‘Should I have another one of these?’

And there in the background, stands the tiny man, still smiling, as the bits of coal shut their growling red eyes again.

Running Late

2006-07-06T09:47:00.000+03:00

She’s late.
She grabs her bag, haphazardly throwing in all she needs. Wallet. Book. Scribbling paper. Pen.
She steals a glance at the clock. Shit! She’s going to miss the bus.

Eight minutes left.

She gulps down her tea. It’s burning hot. It scalds her throat as it pours in.
She needs a whole minute to put out the burning flames in her throat.
She has no time for this!
She slips on her Osho chappals. And hurries out.

Six minutes left.

She calls for the elevator. Damn! Where is it?
Forget it. She runs down the stairs and rushes out.
She glares at her watch. It’s hard to tell the time when you’re on a trot.
The hands keep jumping nervously around the dial. Is it 8:10? Is it 8:12?

Five minutes left.

The sun is trailing her.
Her shadow is at her tail, goading her on.
The sparrows chipper loudly, taking bets on her chances.
The old grey crow thinks she’ll make it.
The pigeon says she won’t.

Four minutes left.

Cars pass her in slow motion.
So do people talking their morning stroll.
The world moves on at a lazy pace, mocking her urgency.

She doesn’t notice the wrinkled hawker coming from the other side.
He spreads his cart carelessly in front of her.
She halts.
Ouch! Her shadow painfully bumps into her.
She really doesn’t have the time for this!
Panic is setting in.

Two minutes left.

She brushes the cart out of her way.
And then she smiles for the first time today.
She can see the bus now.
She is almost there…

She smoothens her hair.
She straightens her kurta.

One minute left.

She steps into the bus.
There he is.
His fingers are drumming a panicked beat on his laptop.
Where is she?

And then he sees her.
She smiles.
He smiles.

The engine roars to life.

A Football Match and Other Things

2006-06-28T14:49:00.000+03:00

In other earth-shattering events this week was the game between Italy and Australia. After chasing the ball around for 89 dull as an empty saucepan minutes, four men stood up to the challenge and made the game ever so slightly interesting. Suddenly stretching yawns snapped shut and drooping eyelids lit up in absolute attention. Ah, how a dead game can be brought alive with a little controversy.

So this is how it plays out, this poor (metaphorically speaking of course) Aussi player, Lucas Neil, stumbles and trips over the last thirty seconds of the game. As Lucas falls, a smart (or maybe just plain lucky) Italian, Fabio Gross, who has been wildly chasing Lucas around these dying seconds, trips over him, and over the last thirty seconds now lying crushed somewhere under Lucas, and also falls.

Clearly there is no foul play here, there’s no space for any dying minute drama. And right here, perfectly on cue our little twist makes an entry. The referee blows his whistle. “PENALTY!” he screams out. How? Where did that come from? Hello? And awards the elixir of life to the Azzurri. The football-loving world squirms, boos and jeers. But really, as bad as it was, I don’t blame the poor referee. Come on; put yourself in his worn out hi-end shoes. Imagine trotting around this hopeless game for almost 90 deadpan minutes. Just the thought of thirty more, will bring the whistle flying to your lips and your finger, pointing to the penalty spot. And the referee is just as human.

Now, getting back to the game, Francesco Totti takes the kick. Scores and Italy are home. It is this kick that has me all bewildered and speechless. This, is my earth-shattering moment. See, all this while, as the game was crawling on, I was fighting battles of my own. I was violently chasing sleep away from the corner of my eyes, and in the midst of it all I failed to notice Francesco’s boring new hair cut!

Why in the whole world would (Ah! How's this for alliteration?) you chop those stunning locks off? WHY, PRAY TELL ME, WHY? Why would you trade this absolutely yummy look for a downsized just-a-really-good-looking look? I’m baffled. This has left me more perplexed then the referee’s bizarre decision. That I could figure out (read above), this I just can’t.

Plain is Perfectly Fine!

2006-06-24T11:40:00.000+03:00

They’ve done it again.

Blasphemy, I say.

Why would you take something perfect and tarnish it with change?

This is my war cry, come gather around.
It’s time to save the best snack in town.

This saviour of bad cooks.
The road to instant salvation.

It’s ok Mum, if you step out.
I have my plate of Maggi. I’ll be fine.
With a full stomach soon I’ll be satisfied.

But now I hear whisperings of sabotage.
I sense foul play.

First they put wheat in it, and now it’s sambhar.

Don't insult my taste buds.
I deserve more then that.
Leave my noodles alone, plain and nice.

Fruit

2006-06-23T14:28:00.000+03:00

Sour grapes are my favourite fruit.

Karma Strikes Back

2006-06-20T19:37:00.000+03:00

Himesh is what happens when you tempt karma and lose.

Love you o Sayonee,
Love you o Sayonee,
Koi shaak?
Wassszzuuup?

Bloody crap!

The Day Order

2006-06-19T12:48:00.000+03:00

You know how some days just work out better then the rest? How certain days make the cut, while others simply fail? Well, I call this the Day Order, a standing of the best days of the week to the ones that need to try harder.

To give it some semblance I start with the top day and continue in the flowing order. The ranking of the days are not necessarily in that order.

Thursday
Yes, we start with Thursday. King amongst days. Thursday is full of hope and joy with a Friday riding on its back. No matter how screwed you are, you can always bask in the shortcut of an escapist weekend being just a few hours away. How can you fault such a day? I so love Thursdays.

Rank Order: Bestest day of the week

Friday

With Thursday leading, Friday can’t be far behind, can it? They'll tell you it’s a whole working day but if you negotiate half of it, you're almost there. Hit lunch, press snooze and look forward to two and a half days of the perfect life at your disposal.

Rank Order: Second bestest day of the week

Saturday
It’s Saturday, it’s time to party in abandonment. After all Saturday comes with the knowledge of a clockful of hours still left to indulge in the sweet caress of laziness. Inspiration so great, that your Saturday smile can rival only Thursday.

Rank Order: Rock solid spot number three

Sunday
Oh god, what a bittersweet day. It’s the day for laundry. It’s the day for dusting. It's the day before a whole new week begins. But still it’s hard to fault a day that wakes up so luxuriously only after the clock strikes noon.

Rank Order: Low down the pile at number five

Monday
First the good part, Monday means new, a start afresh. And Monday kicks into action only past eleven on the clock everyday. But Mondays are dangerous. They should come with an injurious to health warning. After two and a half days of doing very little, how can Monday expect you to operate at full throttle? Don’t fault your body for revolting on this day; there is a reason the blues hit only on a Monday.

Rank Order: A crappy number six

Tuesday
Tuesdays. Tuesdays. Tuesdays are evil. Tuesdays are vile. Tuesdays mockingly remind you of the weekend gone by. Tuesdays taunt you. Tuesdays torture you. Tuesdays stand for the long stretch left to conquer before you can reach a happy smile. Tuesdays. Tuesday. You’ve just got to hate Tuesdays.

Rank Order: Worst day in the world

Wednesday
Wednesday is the equator of the week. Wednesday stands in the middle. It's an equal distance between the last break and the one coming up. Wednesday is cool, it swing both ways. Wednesday is when the week begins to look up. Wednesday is when the week gets brighter.

Rank Order: At number four, not to bad, could do better

And this brings us back to glorious glorious Thursday. A day when life gets good again.

Void Trenches

2006-06-18T22:29:00.000+03:00

Did you burn midnight trying to keep the light alive?
Did you stretch each strand to meet at the end?
Was the walk uphill long and lonely?
Did the path curl around longer then it promised?
Did mediocre, strictly ok and my dad is a rich man pass you by?
Was it hard to accept these naked truths of life?

Did the platter taste bitter and vile?
Did the wallet heavy fiend steal your light?

Was this the way the script flowed?
Is this how it always goes?
The rich man takes his place.
The strugglers wait their day.
When money talks nineteen to a dozen,
Talent cowers, unhinged by burden.

And in this mess of names the void ever grows.

Play Red

2006-06-18T21:05:00.000+03:00

Once upon a time I used pity football referees.

Poor guys. They make a living on the sidelines of action. Almost-ran ageing men scampering around with whistles and tiring lungs. They huff and puff and try to catch up with the ball and where it'll be sent next. Is it football? Is it theatre? Complex questions to be answered throughout the game. It’s a hard job with lousy returns. Eye-full of spit blobs from disgruntled players. Boos and jeers from rowdy fans all over. No part of the glamour. Not even the paycheck. It’s a job that no sane mind would willingly take.

That was then. This is now. A change of mind was always on the cards.

Today I understand the equations. It's crystal clear. I recognise the most powerful men on the field, I envy these red card-totting devils. The players might have the glamour but referees hold the strings to cut short their fame. Piss our men off and oops there goes your next game. Talk out of turn, roll around a little more, take your own time, stick your elbow out of line. Challenge fate. Bring out the colour red. The whistle blows and out you go.

The biggest names, the richest players, all at the mercy of these card-wielding outsiders.

Give me that kind of power any day. Let me be the outsider in this game.

A Birthday. A Book

2006-06-10T20:11:00.000+03:00

I have a young cousin, an offline version of Wikipedia. The more I meet him, the more certain I am of having accidentally missed a few crucial years of basic education. This super smart kid turned a year older recently. And the onus of buying him a present to match fell on my muddled shoulders.

Now here's a kid who lives for science and logic. For strange mechanical things he calls toys. For gadgets and computer games. None of these are words from my world. What do they mean? Where are they found?

I was stumped. Stumped till a timely bout of panicked inspiration hit me. And in his world, full of 101 questions, Pokemon and Midtown madness, I planted a magical tree.

If you've read the Far Away Tree Stories, you know just what I mean. I read this book as a kid and I still remember every twig in the story. I remember walking around trees, wondering which one was the magical one. Peering up in search of magical lands floating by. And waiting for strange creatures to show up and take me on a tour of their homes, hidden on the branches of the tree outside my room.

That's the beauty of a book. It's so much more then just a book. It's a whole lot of brilliance bound between the covers. It's a window that opens up to the past. To what life was before the arrow keys and the space bar. I suddenly had the urge to prise the old window open. And let the fresh breeze flow in. To let it drag me out of these four-cornered rooms of logic we are caged in. And to jump out and explore again. Those strange strange worlds of childhood. Did we live in those worlds or did those worlds live with us?

Let’s go back to the old times. A world of magic and wonder. Let's dump logic in the background of reality and get carried away in a swirl of make-real.

Instead of furiously clicking at an immobile mouse, your finger chases a crawling string of words that push each other endlessly across yellow doggy-eared pages. And your mind stretches and unwinds as little by the little the story unfolds.

Day One Disaster

2006-06-01T12:45:00.000+03:00

The first showers hit Mumbai yesterday and the word of the day was panic. The streets were flooded. Drains were clogged. Trains stopped mid-track. Traffic was crawling. Networks were down. And people were angry. All this just on day one of the four month long monsoon season. Maybe it’s time we outsource the city management to private players. At least then we’ll be able to enjoy a break from the sun without breaking out into a cold sweat every single time.

Right of Way

2006-05-31T21:02:00.000+03:00

I really don’t understand the brouhaha around extreme sports. What’s the big deal?

In India, it’s a part of our everyday existence. Every time we experience a blood rush, we just hail a rickshaw and hold on for dear life.

Rickshaws aren’t for the faint of heart. Or the weak of stomach. These three-wheeled monsters rip across the streets with scant regard for life. On the street. Or in the rick. It’s a simple equation. Hold on. Survive. Fall off. Oops.

The rules to the game are easy. A driver who can’t drive. A free for all on the roads. Every outrageous overtaking manoeuvre earns you 50 bonus points. For every run-of-the-mill overtaking move you lose 20. While at the wheel, no rules exist. Survival is victory.

Say a prayer and let the game begin.

That Kind of a Day

2006-05-31T20:22:00.000+03:00

On some days you wake up and you just know.

It’s as instinctive as not swallowing your tongue while you sleep. You open your eyes and there it is. That empty uneasiness floating around your first blank stare. And that’s when it hits you.

Today is that kind of a day.

At least if it were PMS, there’d be a reason. And that's what makes this so much worse. Days like this have no right to go wrong and yet they shamelessly do. What do you do when nothing’s really wrong, except that it’s just all wrong? The sun is shining. Shining too brightly. The train is moving. Moving too slowly. People are breathing. Breathing too loudly.

If only I could pull the sheets back over my head. Then I could turn the other way and start afresh.