Wedding Wows

PS: (added on 8th Dec, '09): This post has been selected as a 'Tangy Tuesday' pick at Blogadda, here!! Thank you SO much guys!! I am so delighted - this is my first blog award!! :)

'Tis the season of happy unions, and for some unfortunate fellas - a fate worse than a lifetime of prison. But why oh why, do weddings throw up the same cloud bubbles over your head - of the grinning, marked-for-life couple with garlands (noose, anyone?) around the necks and never-ending rows of the world's yummiest cuisines awaiting thy much-emaciated presence? What about us, the harassed invitees (womenfolk, mostly), who are hounded from the day the wedding invitation arrives at the doorstep? Right from which outfit to wear (gentlemen please ignore, this does not apply to you.. I mean, how difficult is it to pick a shirt/kurta and a trouser?), which shoes to trot in, what purse/bag/clutch to hold (it should be 'matching-matching' with the outfit - Ma says), what accessories to wear, what gifts to buy and..... oh wait! This is most crucial - how to lose those extra kilos gained by OD'ing on your favorite cheese-burst pizza at Dominoes last week? Ok, ok... I admit... I don't have to worry about the last part (yet)... I am blessed with a terrific metabolism... a big *muah* to God! I must be your most biased creation! ;)

In case you don't have an outfit saved aside for a rainy day, one that your relatives/friends haven't already seen.... you are doomed, woman! Repeating outfits is a total no-no, a fashion crime, an unforgivable sin! A quick and desperate departure is made, to the nearest mall/boutique or wherever it is girls buy their threads from. In case a tailor (call me a stylist, dahling!) is involved - 'Bhaiyya, bahut urgent hai.... kal hi chahiye' is hastily muttered, only to be met by a pair of severely arched eyebrows that could give the Arc de Triomphe a complex - telling you you're not the first to order him around, so don't 'bhaiyya' him please. But you coo and boo-hoo, and he finally relents. Ha! One down, several more to go! Hasty purchases of shoes, bags, accessories are then made at the speed of light, that long-impending haircut is niptao-ed and your nails are scrubbed until they scream luminosity. The more enterprising will go to the lengths of fixing an appointment with the local salon to turn them ugly ducklings into beautiful white swans (I never understood bleaching, scrubbing and whatever it is that women do to their faces). A hairdo is picked with a carefully manicured finger from a glossy magazine - that should make me look like Angelina Jolie.... huff-puff..... damn! The 'pitts' we go to!! ;)

The D-day finally arrives. You're more nervous than the poor groom himself. Who will come today? I hope that irritating aunt doesn't come, she always bores me to death (beta, when are you getting married, tee-hee... as if she cracked the world's funniest joke) and I hope uncle forgets to set his alarm - he is always cracking dumb PJ's, to a sparse audience of mostly - me! Oh, but I hope... really really hope *insert-droolworthy-crush-here* DOES come, I have gone through SO much effort for him! Once you've made a mental list of who is worthy to come and not come to the wedding, you arrive only to find all those you detest are there first! The entire place reeks of dirty, sexy money (I borrowed that phrase), opulence and some heavy-duty flaunting about. You have the fattest aunties bedecked in more jewellery than the bride and her mother put together, you have all the mota-boys (uncles) flashing their multi-ringed fingers and dual/triad mobile phones at each other. The kids are running helter-skelter, dropping a drink here, sullying the carpet there.... and the waiters (poor things, they look the biggest lost souls of all!) are hurrying around, catering to many whims and fancies. The whole occasion is of apparent merriment, but it is also of muted, and more often - vicious jealousy - 'how the hell did that tramp manage to get her hands on such an expensive sari?' Or, 'look, how much gold she is wearing - is she a walking-talking goldmine?' Or, the judging 'look, such a short, tight dress.... I wonder how she breathes!' Note that all these observations come from women (surprise, surprise!). The most vile of creatures!

But not all behave in a petty fashion - some are really happy for the bride and groom.... especially me - whenever I am witness to a love marriage! So lucky these chaps are! To find your love and then to marry him/her.... just wonderful! You greet the newly-weds and wish them all the success and happiness in the world!

Who can ignore the protesting, growling belly by now? A beeline for the food counter is made; suddenly people appear from nowhere - 9 pm is when the guests actually start trickling in... JIT.... what a coincidence, na? You have to contend with large plates, larger bowls and that stupid napkin under the plate that threatens to slip away anytime. Soon you are juggling them all like a jittery circus clown on his first show. Paneer is inevitably the hot favorite and you find the long queue clogging up at that one mecca of gastric indulgence. After you've cleaned up the Chinese, Chaat and Mexican counters, you hop over to the dessert section and maul it. After you've let a belch or two out (yes, I heard that Uncle... it must be yucky being you!) you know you've had enough. Haath khaali, peth full. Time to go. Another day well wasted.

I haven't even given you a full glimpse into the Great (Indian) Wedding Tamasha. Lest the reader (yes, poor you.... if you've managed this far, you deserve a large medal for tolerance) doze off, I have curtailed my severely itching fingers to type more. I would love to hear from you guys any anecdotes/tales of a big fat wedding that you have attended. They always fascinate me.... nowhere will you see such a kitsch of emotions, blessings and colors blend into one perfect product - the Indian version of the 'happily ever after'. The bottomline being - *addressed to the couple in question* - you better not break up, dearies.... after all, we spent so much on the wedding! We don't want all that to go in vain!

My Baby Shot Me Down

Nancy Sinatra for Beatrix Kiddo. Two incongruous personalities, yet this song is befitting both.

I was five and he was six

We rode on horses made of sticks

He wore black and I wore white

He would always win the fight

Bang bang, he shot me down

Bang bang, I hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful sound

Bang bang, my baby shot me down.

Seasons came and changed the time

When I grew up, I called him mine

He would always laugh and say

"Remember when we used to play?"

Bang bang, I shot you down

Bang bang, you hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful sound

Bang bang, I used to shoot you down

Music played, and people sang

Just for me, the church bells rang

Now he's gone, I don't know why

And till this day, sometimes I cry

He didn't even say goodbye

He didn't take the time to lie

Bang bang, he shot me down

Bang bang, I hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful sound

Bang bang, my baby shot me down...

Gimme some Space, yaar!

My friend Shikha asked me something interesting today - "After the fight for oil, what could the next big fight be for?" I pondered over the query for a while. What indeed could scuffles and wars break out for? Nuclear weapons? The right to clone humans? The cure for AIDS? Or perhaps emissions regulation? I am no prophet; neither do I possess a whacky imagination that could spin tales to boggle rudimentary minds. I count myself amongst the latter lot - I am plagued by simpler ordeals that could very likely snowball into unmanageable complexities if gone unchecked. Like parking spaces, for instance (don't laugh). Since times immemorial, space has always been a subject of great dispute and minor powwows. Great, long wars were fought over land, spaces. Today, we are still battling it out for space - primarily for shelter, for that ground beneath our feet and the roof over our heads. But, also consider other trifles like the fight for space in the Great-Indian-queue, for that fourth seat on the Mumbai local train, for atleast a square centimeter on the board of the overcrowded-BEST bus, for a 2-second darshan at Siddhivinayak/ Tirupati temples, for a tiny area on the rocks at Bandstand on a Sunday evening etc. etc. The more creative ones will even demand 'space' in relationships (I never quite understood that phrase).

Judging by the sheer number of cars and other four-wheeled monsters that ply on our over-burdened roads, I will not be surprised if we soon run out of spaces for parking our four-wheeled indulgences. Not so long ago, I was walking through the upscale neighbourhood of Hill Road (perennially in a traffic jam) and was mildly amused to see several cars (each more ravishing and more expensive than the other) lined alongside the narrow streets. Most were parked bumper-to-bumper. I wonder how the drivers got them out. Parking lots in malls/theatres are filled within minutes on weekends. Even aircrafts circle the airport for hours, just for that elusive area to land. Such is the dearth of spaces in our city. The parking lot in a SoBo neighbourhood will make you poorer by anywhere between (hold-your-breath) Rs. 15-25 lakh!! Such preposterousness! One also witnesses brawls breaking out if someone else captures your parking space, even though legally - it ain't yours. The other day, Mom got ultra-defensive (and almost abusive) as a smartarse tried to sneak in his car while I was busy negotiating a turn into the narrow space between two cars! Tempers are already flying thick and fast over (hitherto) trivial things such as parking spaces! So much so that, ghar rahe ya na rahe, parking space toh hona hi chahiye!

It also doesn't help that every family these days preens about in more than one car. This has added severe pressure to the already-cracking infrastructure of the city. I see a day not so far away when our newspapers will flash the headline - Mr. Poonawaala wins the case against Mr. Jhunjhunwaala, thereby winning the right to park his Audi Q7 in the disputed area (which incidentally happens to be two kilometres away from his residence... since the building's parking lot already accomodates the very chap's 2 BMWs & 3 Lamborghinis)! Indeed, in the future, parking spaces are going to be much rarer commodities than housing spaces.

God save us all then.

You don't realize what you've got... until its gone!

Her absence is disquieting, the silence is deafening. Initially you hurrah her exit - finally you can do what you please - but it only takes a few lonely hours to snap out of your reverie, suddenly realizing there's pin-drop silence in the house. I don't like it. It renders me restless and cranky. Just like Kamal Hasan in that brilliant movie 'Pushpak' who couldn't sleep without the theatre's loud acoustics running in the background, I need Mom's voice ringing in my head, else it makes me uneasy - her rattling out a thousand instructions, yapping with the maid and relaying endless orders at the speed of 100 orders/min, talking loudly on the phone with her friends, yelling at me since I won't help her out in the kitchen, snapping at me coz I ate out again, complaining to me coz she fought with sis once more, emotionally blackmailing me to consider that 'perfect match' again..... I miss all that! In normal circumstances, I'd be mighty annoyed with her for being such a motormouth. But when she's away, even for a few days, she is sorely missed.

That brings me to a more important question - whatever am I going to do when I move away from home, from her? I realize I am SO dependent on Mom for so many things. Piping hot and lovingly prepared dinner is ready for me when I reach home from work, my bed is reset and my room is neat and in order. I am coerced to eat more, something that I would certainly give a miss when she's not around. A patient ear is also offered, which I gladly accept, in order to recount the day's highs and lows. But all this may very well come to an end. Soon I may have to be on my own. It frightens me to think of how I shall cope. The prospect of departing from under her wings is scary, yet unavoidable.

I don't know why I am missing her so dearly this time around. This is the perhaps the umpteenth time that I am alone at home while Mom has gone away for a while. Maybe its only normal. Or maybe its the looming near of that one important day in every girl's life. The day when she has to leave her home of 25-odd years and shift base to another. I wonder how Mom did it. Or any other woman for that matter. It is a terrifying thought. Maybe I should adopt Mr. Hasan's ways. A recorder will be of great service, for starters.

Be Happy :)

This is such a lovely song by Snow Patrol. I assured my friends I wouldn't write mushy songs on this blog. But how can you not, when the lyrics are so alluring?? Ode to SP!

You could be happy and I won't know
But you weren't happy the day I watched you go

And all the things that I wished I had not said
Are played in loops 'till it's madness in my head

Is it too late to remind you how we were
But not our last days of silence, screaming, blur

Most of what I remember makes me sure
I should have stopped you from walking out the door

You could be happy, I hope you are
You made me happier than I'd been by far

Somehow everything I own smells of you
And for the tiniest moment it's all not true

Do the things that you always wanted to
Without me there to hold you back, don't think, just do

More than anything I want to see you
Take a glorious bite out of the whole world

Hope (and a lil' effort from my side!)

The stench was overbearing. The heavens above did not ease the foulness emitted by the landscape - it had poured a few minutes ago, adding considerably to the rancid stink. Used plastic bags greeted your way, you had to play dodge with potholes filled with water, spit, shit & other unimaginables. The local beef-hawker had hung his day's offerings in his ramshackle shop; rabid flies going berserk around them, no doubt adding extra punch to the meat. You stifle the bile rising in your throat which is threatening to break-free of its confines. The stench gratefully subsides, and so does the bile. But then your senses are almost immediately attacked by another vision: a vision choc-a-bloc with humans - men going about their day hawking their wares; women on their way to the plush neighbourhood alongside to work as bais; men plying dilapidated handcarts, old men preparing hot chai, little boys and girls in shabby uniforms scurrying to the municipal school and of course, THE Mumbai-special: faltoo (my friend puts it that way) taporis just sitting, lazing around with mouths agape, and staring at passing people. In this part of the city, everything happens in the public. Occurrence is in the open. There's no hiding, no shame and no privacy. The need for these basic luxuries pales in comparison with the need for basic necessities - roti, kapda aur makaan. For these residents, to procure even these daily requirements is a herculean task - a fight, or lafda in Mumbaiyya lingo.

Our destination: Anjuman-e-Islam College, Bandra. The purpose: the Teach India campaign. The route: A narrow, winding bylane - right in the centre of a growing slum, which incidentally happened to be the longer route to the college. A much shorter and cleaner route existed on S.V. Road, Bandra (West), but perhaps I was destined to go through this raw, punishing landscape. I had always wished to traverse through a slum one day. As they say - Be careful of what you wish for; you might just get it!

Armed with nothing but our volunteer IDs and a humble determination to make a difference to the society - to give back what it has given to us - we entered the auditorium of the college. It was humid and hot, but we were early and hence could choose seats just below a merciful fan. Then people started trickling in, one by one.... and the sight amazed me. Everyone was here - professionals, college students, housewives and even some foreign nationals. From all ranks of the society - rich, middle-class and poor. All of them were sincerely committed to the cause of teaching children - according to me - the noblest service that one could provide to the society. Cause the children of today will shape the future of tomorrow. And what better way than this to shape them - by arming them with education, which is (and should be) a basic necessity but available to only a select few.

The various NGOs present at the place put forward their causes: what they did, whom they did it for and what they expected of us. The appeal was for nothing opulent or grand. All they wanted was our time. A contribution that we could all easily make - two hours in a week for 3 months. As simple as that. And we pledged to give it to them.

The program hasn't begun yet. Many nitty-gritties have to be ironed out. Many questions have to be answered and many instructions to be given. But I am excited from the onset. I do hope they call me to help. I hope I am given the chance to give back to the society. I hope I am able to do something for those kids who have been deprived of their rights. I hope I am successful.

I know I am sounding like a hopeful Miss India candidate ;) But unlike them beauties with fake smiles plastered across their faces and rehearsed lines to charm the public with, my wishes come directly from my heart, and I am determined to fulfil it! Even if I have to cross a hundred more slums to do it!

You can stand under my Umbrella

The monsoons have set in full force now (thank the good Lord for that). Somehow, the rains always remind me of this lovely, catchy song by Rihanna; among other things, of course, that one is reminded of when it rains (like steaming hot bhajiyas, walks in the rain, splashing-in-puddles, wet-and-won't-dry-for-a-week shoes, broken umbrellas, the resultant-trip to the chathawaala, earthworms, water-logging, long car-drives, thunders, lightening, long phone-calls, nice cosy blanket etc. etc.) .

Meanwhile, ella-along with this song!

You have my heart
And we'll never be worlds apart
Maybe in magazines
But you'll still be my star
Baby cause in the dark
You can't see shiny cars
That's when you need me there
With you I'll always share
Because...

When the sun shines
We'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be your friend
Took an oath
I'mma stick it out 'till the end
Now that it's raining more than ever
Told you we still have each other
You can stand under my Umbrella
You can stand under my Umbrella

These fancy things,
Will never come in between
You're my entity
Here for infinity
When the war has took its part
When the world has dealt its cards
If the hand is hard
Together we'll mend your heart
Because...

When the sun shines
We'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be your friend
Took an oath
I'mma stick it out 'till the end
Now that it's raining more than ever
Told you we still have each other
You can stand under my Umbrella

You can run into my arms
That's okay don't be alarmed
(Come into me, there's no distance in between our love)
Gonna let the rain pour
I'll be all you need and more
Because...

When the sun shines
We'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be your friend
Took an oath
I'mma stick it out 'till the end
Now that it's raining more than ever
Told you we still have each other
You can stand under my Umbrella
You can stand under my Umbrella

Its Raining!

This is an 'eating my hat' moment. I'd never thought I'd be saying this.... but its POURING and ain't I GLAD!! Admittedly, I *hate* the monsoons. In Mumbai, that is. Cause the rains have this uncanny ability to turn our city into a filthy, rancid, dirt pot; with its teeming population just managing to stay afloat like flies who have fallen into a ditch filled with goo. But this time, yeh garmi neh toh humari jaan le li! The Rain Gods have at last, and mercifully at that, beamed on us - showering this baked, scorched and thoroughly roasted planet with some much-needed succor.

Some green shoots (there's one tree with berries growing on it, it looks beautiful during the monsoons) outside my apartment, limp and almost burnt before, but now seem to have come alive, thanks to a nice lil' bath:

Grand ol' Dame

She was born in 1916. She's never been hospitalized, never had any ailment, never had so much as even a bruise in all of her glorious 93 years. Yes, read that again. My grandma's maasi has astonishingly lived a staggering 93 years of life on this planet without consulting the medical profession. Yet, here she was lying on a hospital bed. The reason? A petty fall, of all the darned reasons in the world. This enterprising old chick (sorry ajji.... but you are one rocking 'chick'!), on one sunny day, felt it necessary to step out of her abode, to hunt for flowers to adorn her abode's deity with. In the process, while standing on her dainty but tired toes, she lost her sense of balance and took a nasty fall. A few bones broke and her hip dislocated. Piercing pain ensued and it was more than her fragile body could take. Result - hospitalization.

Note that this lady has encountered me maybe once or twice in her laudable life. Yet she remembers me like it was just our last meeting. All this at the ripe age of 93! I keep reiterating this number cause I want to remind myself how inferior I am in comparison to this enigmatic lady. Hell, sometimes I don't remember what happened five minutes ago! I don't remember half the people I've met only once or twice in my life. And here was this amazing ol' granny who recognized me in an instant, took my hands and caressed it, thanked me for coming to check on her and hugged me like I was her own child. Such tenderness and love! I was truly moved.

Someone wisely said - Old is Gold. I still see the love and care in the eyes of my aged relatives, them having the same intensity that I saw decades back. My maternal grandparents top the list. They love me more than my parents do. Who said that the old are boring, intrusive and meddling? With the right amount of care and approach towards them, they too can be your best friends! Trust me! I found a new friend, aged 93!

Power of Two

Didn't need any coaxing to believe in the institution of marriage. These few, simple lines did the trick.

"We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying, 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness'."

-Susan Sarandon, being very wise in 'Shall we Dance'.

Amen to that.

(Mansi & Deeps.... you're likely to have dropped the contents of your hands by now)

Some Stupid Cliché

Love - is that what it is? Some stupid cliché? Singular hearts meet and then break. Sweet, soft words are spoken; then you only speak to hurt one another. Your day is brighter than the brightest, the sun only being an incidental appendage in the sky. Then it turns darker than the darkest, the bright lights now mocking you, derisively. There's a zing to your gait, a smile on your lips and a lightness in your head. Then you walk a lonely road, tears in your eyes, engulfed in sorrow & dread. The beauty of it all uplifts you... you're flying high; then you have that sinking feeling... you're going under. You're inseparable at first, then you are cold and aloof. The phone rings incessantly; then a cruel, vile silence greets you. You never want to see each other cry, then crying is all you do. You do the craziest things for each other, then you go crazy without the other. Every part of him is yours and only yours. Then easily someone else's. Mirth and gloom. Happiness and misery. Music and lamentation. Laughter and tears. Truth and lies. Trust and deceit. So alive and irreversibly dead.

If love, that most stupid of clichés, is what it is - sung countless times by hopeless romantics and derided in equal measure by several broken and disillusioned hearts - then I don't ever want to fall in love again.

Escapist Bent

I've been thinking. And one knows the outcome of such exercises of the cerebral muscles. The mood, which was until a few minutes ago jauntily bopping about, suddenly deflates and rids itself of all frolicking gaiety. And when self can take it no more (read, needs to dispose off whatever the bothersome thing is out of the distressed confines of the cranium); self resorts to this page. This little nook, tucked away in an undistinguished and unknown hide-out of the world wide web, privy to only a select few.

Now that you've been greeted with the most grim of prefaces, I'll arrive at the crux of this post. And the reason for several brainworks and contemplations that I seem to be undergoing these days. It all began with that saucy, yet hard-hitting comment from that insolent-bundle-of-a-pest who also happens to be my sister. "Don't you have a brain of your own?" she snaps at me, "why do you always listen to everything Mom says?" And you know what? For a second there, that always-ready-with-a-smartarse-retort Avanti was stumped. She had no fitting reply with which she could send the audacious interrogator packing, dismissing her as a mere mosquito, meanwhile tut-tutting about how kids these days have no tact or respect for their elders. I let it go, didn't shower much attention on it. And then, just as I was retreating back into good ol' blissful complacency, it happened again. Another pal quips at me - "You're so comfy with your job & the subordination that comes with it. Why aren't you your boss's replacement by now?" Again, I was left speechless. Left to execute some serious thinking-about. And the result goes thus - I don't want to do this ALL my life. Certainly not a 9-6 job. And most definitely, I don't wanna be what others want me to be. My folks want to see me 'settle down', with a 'nice, educated boy' of their choice from a 'respected family' (how the HELL are they gonna accomplish that astonishing feat beats me), have babies that will call them grandpa/grandma, raise the kids, marry them off and then pop off to meet my Maker. They want me to live the exact same dull, monotonous life they've been living all along.

I think I'd positively go mental if I had to follow this roadmap in the future. Is that the purpose of my life? To marry some stranger and manufacture babies? Or say, if I had to follow the advice of my well-meaning friend, should I be a ultra successful biz-baroness? I'd just be another casualty in this infinite rat-race that we seem to be increasingly associating ourselves with. Okay, so you climb the corporate ladder real swift, you're the toast of the business world, you own palatial mansions, a dozen flashy cars and hop across continents in your private jet. Then what? If I had to choose between taking all the money I've earned or the myriad experiences I've had on this lovely planet with me to my grave, I'd choose the latter without doubt. I want to be a rich, plentiful person - the abundance not measured by my bank balance, but what's swimming up there in my head. Memories of the people I've been with and loved to bits, memories of the various things I've learnt - be it playing a guitar or speaking 5 languages, memories of the numerous places I've traveled to & memories of the sights and sounds I've been subject to, good or bad.

So, to all who expect many dazzling things of me (however noble your intentions are), let me tell you this - I just want to be me. Not what you want me to be.

Dumbing Down

I should be gloriously happy. Rejoicing, celebrating, hailing the Gods, tra-la-la-ing and all that fancy rot. I should be in a mirthful disposition, looking forward to a legal union of sweethearts in the soulful and amorous season of February, a month that is generally brimming with the ripeness of winter. I should go blazing around my town, beating drums, proclaiming loudly that love triumphs all, meanwhile sneering at nay-sayers in a smirking glance that says, 'I told you so.' So amid all such 'should-bes' and a general atmosphere of geniality (everyone looks happy around me), why do I feel deflated instead? And feel as though Melancholy has marked me for her own? As though God is not in his heaven and all is not right? Lately, more often than not, I've found myself woolgathering, musing (accompanied by dazed, moony look on face) on gawd-knows-what. I would no doubt be presenting a spectacle to the idle eye; the said eye, in turn, no doubt deducing that myself must perhaps be sewn from a living rock. The worst (also annoying) part is, I can't seem to be able to put a finger on the dashed thing that has catapulted me into this bothersome state, just like that - out of the freakin' huey blue.

(FYI - No, I am NOT PMSing) *rolls eyes* (Neither am I cursing the fact that the most-rotten day of the year called V-Day is just around the corner and I don't have a date) *rolls eyes more ferociously now*

I'm fervently hoping the wedding will put said-bothersome-thing-whatever-the-blasted-heck-it-is off my poor, tortured mind. Have packed my stuff (nearly 20 kgs in all) and am ready to get going, to wherever I have to go.

On a more happy-for-my-cousin note, here's sincerely hoping that Aditi has the most wonderful time of her life on the most important day in her life. God bless her!

Really.

Cry Baby

Why do you CRY? Perhaps it is because you Cannot Restrain Yourself. You try your best. At first your eyes burn: salty tears behind your eyeballs, rallying round your sockets, waiting to burst out and soak your cheeks. You exercise control. You almost choke on it. Your throat begins to itch, making you feel as though you're sheltering a Saharan cactus-in-full-bloom down there. It makes funny gargling noises, as though it is deriving sadistic pleasure from scratching the insides of your food-pipe. Still, you prevail. You don't allow yourself to break down. But then, just as you're patting yourself on the back for a brave job done, your head begins to ache copiously. And when the good ol' cerebrum starts giving you the throbbing-treatment, you have no choice but to give in. Your restraint caves in. Your throat lets out a gasp. Your eyes finally free the rebelling, sodium-chloride-infested liquid. And they gush out merrily. Soaking your cheeks, trickling down your neck and dousing your shirt with big, wet blots. And then what? After you've drained yourself of the saline fluid, a strange, odd feeling of relief-cum-fatheadedness overcomes you. All those people who've hurt you, all those who claim to love you so much who've let you down, all those lonely hours, all those infernal quarrels you've been in, begin to feel inconsequential. You think, life is but short. Should you really spend the precious hours, whining away, weeping and hollering that you've been wronged? You know its wrong for you to cry. You know that at the end of it, there are no solutions. Life is as shitty as it was before you let out the tears. But still, you cry.

Maybe its because we love to be emotional fools. Or maybe because we are humans, after all.

From Zero to... well... Zilch!

It is turning out to be not such a good day. Like any other constituent day of the week, it is nuanced by highs & marred by lows; but on this particular Friday, the lows far outweigh the highs. So much so, that they have performed the dual incredible feats of rendering my otherwise-cheery spirits to the ruddy bottoms of a WC bowl & equalizing my disposition to that of a grumpy ol' nag. Not that we weren’t expecting grim news from the bank - something that would make me jump from my seat & perform a mini-samba dance; but it is quite clear that we got the definition of ‘grim’ bungled up in the first place. I mean, how can there be nothing to distribute? Zero! Zilch! Naught! Nil! Nothing! (Gee, even 'zero' has more synonyms than the eponymous value itself). On the flip side, I sort of understand the haplessness of my poor, tied-at-the-hands employer. Struggling with the worst financial crisis in recent times (perhaps even of all times), posting a colossal $6.3 bn loss for FY08 & amid a furore to raise its capital levels, it has barely managed to scrape through the year without sinking nose-first into the sub-prime mess that is well into its second torrid year. So any advances to its employees, no matter what quarter of a sprinkling it may be, will be welcomed by me with open arms.

I wonder what the final disbursement will be though. And whether it will even cover my grand plans for a spankin' new expensive phone this new year's. Or perhaps to cover the down payment for a spiffy lil' car of my own? (building Taj Mahals in a crowded Mumbai now, are we Avanti?) It better be a decent enough figure, else my neatly-laid plans are gonna go take a long jump into the nearest Mumbaiyya pothole - a bottomless pit from which there is no emerging back!

Keeping my fingers & toes crossed!

Raison d'être

What is it about 'new years' that make otherwise perfectly reasonable chaps conduct themselves like a bunch of bozos? A flurry of resolutions are hastily made that will be broken in equal speedy fervour. Undoubtedly, the most popular query doing the rounds is "Hey, what plans for new year's?" (How I hate the word 'plans'!!) And if you don't have any grand 'plans', God help you! You're looked upon as a speck of dust, something a fastidious luncher is prone to do, on spotting a caterpillar doing the merry-go-rounds on his freshly-ordered salad.

You live with that. The run-up to midnight is annoying, for lack of a more apt word. Needless to say, it never does to turn on the TV unless you've got a I-want-to-turn-lunatic-this-year wish for yourself. To subject your senses to the madness floating around, you'd have to be loony yourself to be in sync with all that fancy brouhaha. Little known telly 'stars' jiggle in garish costumes, hosts yell out the customary 'happy new years' in screechy tones and your eyes are subjected to a gaudy bonanza of confetti and cheap crackers that are in fact released weeks before the new year. Somehow, your remaining senses limp to the midnight hour and the wall-clock then chimes in cheerful innuendos, announcing midnight with the same droll disposition that it did with last year around. Firecrackers light up the dark skies all around the world, no doubt making for quite a spectacle, but a menace nonetheless to even the dullest of ears. Funny part is they last 1 hour past the celebrated midnight. Surely not running late, are we? Revellers rule the decked-up streets, getting boozed up to the backs of their teeth, making pests of themselves to the general public. And the ones who make a killing out of all this ballyhoo are pubs, discotheques, restaurants, malls and the like who leave no stone unturned in fleecing the last dime in said reveller's pocket. What a waste all this!

Don't tick me off as a killjoy who derives passing pleasure in preventing people from enjoying themselves. Or someone who is perhaps too ugly to get a date on new year's eve. I find all this its-new-year-lets-go-bump-a-daisy stuff a bit too much of a facade. Its the same shit happening all over again the moment the clock stops chiming, the firecrackers finally cease crackling and the revellers all go back home, the booze receding to the darker recesses of their intestines. What has one gained from the above transactions, other than contracting a golly heavy headache the morning after? If we must celebrate, let us celebrate when villages reeling under utter darkness are equipped with electricity, when starving kids get 3 decent square meals a day, when AIDS has been wiped off the face of the earth, when poverty is just something witnessed in the past, where education is free for all and when we live a peaceful and harmonious life, free from bondages of terror and hate.

Then I shall celebrate. Cause that will be an event worth celebrating for.

Porcelain

My fav song!

In my dreams I'm dying all the time
Then I wake its kaleidoscopic mind
I never meant to hurt you
I never meant to lie
So this is goodbye...

This is goodbye

Tell the truth you never wanted me
Tell me...

In my dreams I'm jealous all the time
Then I wake I'm going out of my mind...

Going out of my mind

Mended Boulevards

A sweet breeze tingles your skin...

Stately, elegant trees whiz past by in their verdant splendour...

Traffic lights dance in their triad hues...

Soft raindrops tease your windscreen, flirting like vivacious diamonds in sparse light...

AR Rehman is resplendent in the idle air, you hum along with the sweet symphony...

Chasing fleeting cars...

Who says you walk a lonely road on these boulevards, when you're reformed, rejuvenated and refueled with happy spirits?

Anatomy of a Hospital

How I hate the smell of hospitals. Squeaky clean, plasticky, chlorinated, antisepticized and thoroughly sanitized... you almost feel like you're the one quarantined. Admittedly, I am a stickler for all things spic-n-span, but this is way too much. Its like you're a speck of ugly dirt on that sickeningly clean, glistening floor and as you walk, you're made to think as if you're dropping multigrams of dust behind (smartass janitor comes rushing with his mop after you walk by)... Dude! For crying out loud - I haven't just emerged from the local sewer! And I'm certainly cleaner than your colonised armpit... now beat that! But hey, that's your job and maybe I shouldn't be complaining much. After all, hospitals must be clean, look clean atleast. So there you go - I will keep my pride aside and let you mop up after me.

Can't blame me for emphasizing on a trivial matter, cause I've never been to a hospital (atleast a huge one, spanning 10+ floors) before. Naturally, I'm awestruck by the enormity of actions that go on in the place. Doctors in their white gowns looking oh-so-important; nurses with their hair neatly tied up, barking instructions; ward-boys scurrying across the place with patient-files; janitors (that annoying, yet essential species again) cleaning floors furiously and the receptionist answering various queries with a constant smile on her face. All these people are directly or indirectly involved in the business of saving lives. Daily, hourly, minute-by-minute, every second. And to be honest, I am in awe of them all. My sis is too. "Drat! I should've been a doctor!" she says. Yeah Sona, count me in as well.

On sight of the imposing building of the Asian Heart Institute at BKC, you'd be forgiven for thinking it is a five-star hotel. Well, they treat you like a five-star patient atleast. Dad is in for his bypass. Never thought things would advance to such an extent, but they did. What's important though, is that he survived a major heart attack that struck him this month. 100% blockages, the doc said. In both of his left arteries (LAD, CX). Yet, he lived to tell the tale. I know I'm reiterating this, but it can only be that supreme Force above that averted this near-fatal incident. And not just pure dumb luck. I am not worried sick 'bout Dad. Only a little anxious. I know he is in safe hands. I know this surgery will be a success. I know he will recover wonderfully from it. I know that if He saved him the last time around, He will this time too! And I know, dear reader... that you will pray for him too.

Hoping and praying for the best!

Last, but by no means the least - Here's also praying for the victims of that awful, awful strike on Mumbai. My heart goes out to them and their families. What a great loss for Mumbai!

Let peace prevail.

Now this makes a lotta sense...

A crisp, but sweet lil' verse from my pal - Shikhz (hat tip to you!). Like I told her - truer words have not been chronicled!

A heart is not a playing thing,
A heart is not a toy,
but if you want it broken,
Just give it to a boy.
Boys, they like to play with things
To see what makes them run,
But when it comes to kissing,
They do it just for fun.
Boys never give their hearts away
They play us girls for fools,
They wait until we give our hearts
And then they play it cool.
You will wonder where he is at night,
You will wonder if he is true,
One moment you will be happy,
One moment you will be blue.
If you get the chance to see him
Your heart begins to dance,
Your life revolves around him,
There's nothing like romance.
And then it starts to happen,
You worry day and night,
You see my friend, you're losing him
It never turns out right.
Boys are great though immature,
The price you pay is high,
He may seem sweet and gorgeous,
But remember he is just a guy.
Don't fall in love with just a boy
That takes a lot of nerve.
You see my friend, you need a man
To get what you deserve.
So when you think that you're in love,
Be careful if you can
Before you give your heart away
Make sure that he's a man.

Amen to that.