Sundays in the 1980s

Bleargh. It's Sunday, my only day off and I'm so bored. The problem with Sundays is that they're so lazy-making, that you don't feel like doing anything, even if it is your only free day. And all your friends are occupied--with boyfriends, or with family shit--that you have no one to hang out with. My own family has gone out on this social whirl of birthday lunches and socialite-type dinners, and me? I'm sitting at home trying to figure out how to write a Statement Of Purpose and polish up some writing samples before my hectic weekday routine starts again. (Did I also mention I hate boys? That entire sex is sooooooooooo complicated, not really easy to understand like mine. (Ya, ya, don't say it) And I'm getting those little boyfriend withdrawal symptoms that happen every now and then, even though I'm single and I'm happy and all that, it wouldn't hurt to have someone to be not-so-single and happier with, no? Peh, this time last year, I was going to move out of my house in two days and K and I were still together. Sigh. Back then at least I had some sort of entertainment on a Sunday. Bored, bored, BORED!!!!)

Sundays used to be a family thing for my household as well. When I was really, really young, the parents used to take me to India Gate on Sundays. This must be one of my earliest Sunday memories, running around in India Gate, with a balloon that was almost as big as me, holding it v-e-r-y carefully, in case it burst and made a loud noise, which I hated. There were other kids as well, noisy little boys who took pleasure in bursting their balloons, but I stuck to myself and my own balloon, thank you very much. Sometimes, they'd buy me a helium balloon, which I loved, because, oh my, they stayed up by themselves! Without tossing or anything! And my mother would tie the string to my wrist and it would tug at it, just like something very alive.

India Gate wasn't just a Sunday thing though. We lived quite close by, on Curzon Road, before it was called Kasturba Gandhi Marg (which I always thought was a pity, because 'Curzon Road' is so much more evocative that KG Marg could ever be, don't you think?) and some evenings, my mother and I would set out for India Gate for a walk, and I'd watch the hoopoes. (I had quite a thing for birds back then. I am told my first ever word was 'pitta', the Telegu for 'bird'. Wierd) This one time, we watched a monkey man make his monkey do all sorts of tricks and kids were clustering around wanting to pet it, and they did. I hung back a little, being a shy child, and my mother practically forced me to go up and pet the monkey (Oh, the Google searches that are going to lead to this entry!) Anyway, so I took a tentative swipe at the monkey, which promptly turned around and scratched me. Scarred for life, I tell you, I still can't pass a monkey on the road without breaking out into a cold sweat.

You know, thinking back, I'm amazed at the ways I found to amuse myself as a child. Being an only child and all, I never had a host of siblings to play with (because that's what brothers and sisters are for, y'all, for the sole purpose of your entertainment). So I'd pretend the little water pumps outside my apartment complex were horses, and sit there for hours, talking to them and egging them on.

When the 1984 riots broke out, my parents went to see whether they could help and left me with some neighbours. I am told that I wept that entire day, going, "Indira Gandhi died," in piteous tones to the neighbours, who gave me Glucose biscuits. Funnily enough, when Rajiv Gandhi was killed, I didn't feel the same pity, though I was on a train to Hyderbad with my grandmother and we got held up for hours. I got to Hyderabad and took gruesome pleasure in going through the India Today which published pictures of people with their legs cut off, their bodies a mangled mess. Poor old sod.

The 80s really did have quite a few exciting things happening, that the 90s and the whatever we're in now (the 2000s? What do you call this era?) didn't have. Ooh, colour television. One of my neighbours in Curzon Road had a biggish colour TV set and that was when the Asiad games were happening. I used to go every day, just to watch the beautiful logos, with people doing gymnastics and all in colour! How cool! Speaking of television, that used to be another Sunday ritual. Waking up really early in the morning and watching Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck on DD. Not even DD Metro, which hadn't been invented yet. Just plain old Doordarshan, way back when it was the ruling channel. I loved the advertisements even, the boy who played really hard and got hurt and his mother put Dettol on his wounds, the brother and sister who drank milk and got milk mustaches and said happily, "I'm a Complan boy! I'm a Complan girl!" and oh yeah, "Go GI Joe!" though I think that ad only came in with Star TV. I was terrified of the Onida ad though, because, really, that devil looked ominous. Neighbours envy, my foot, he was going to come and get me. I was also really, really scared of the Liril ad, because I couldn't swim then and I thought that girl frolicking away in the waterfall was looking at me with an evil glint in her eye, saying "Ha-ha! I'm going to make you swim, whether you like it or not! And you're going to use my soap!" (Incidentally, that Liril girl? She drowned. Ironic, eh?)

On Sundays my parents always woke up really late and had coffee in bed with the Sunday supplements strewn all around them. I had been up for hours, so at this point I was very hyperactive and very whiny because dammit, they were supposed to do something exciting! With me! Ooh, we should go to the zoo!

And after a lot of eye-rolling and complaining, they finally got their asses out of bed, stopped looking at the hideously boring newspapers and made lunch. After which they slept. (I used a pity card, whcih always worked. Looking at them sadly, I'd say, "Now if you had another kid, I'd have someone to play with. I'm all alone." Deep sigh. Usually, it worked like a charm) After the long boring Sunday nap, finally, they'd take me somewhere, sometimes if I was lucky, we'd tie up with the one and only friend of my parents who had a kid, who was thankfully, my age. And we'd watch Jungle Book, again and again and again, or draw or play with my stuffed animals, depending on whose house we were at.

I think Sunday naps are the reason I learned to read in the first place. My mom used to read to me before, trying to make me eat, showing me pictures and going, "Ooh, what's happening here? (Open your mouth) Is that a pig? (Chew your food) and what's the pig doing?" I got bored of her reading to me, because she read really slowly, and when she was napping, then I had nothing to do. So I began to read, pretty early too, and then Saturdays were library days, and on Sunday, we'd go to the pavement bookstalls in Daryagunj and pick up piles and piles of books and Amar Chitra Katha comics. Sometimes, we'd take a tonga back home, and I'd always run into the house for an apple or something to feed the horse with.

Right, enough procrastination (Thief of time and all that). I am reminded that I can't curl up in bed with a book anymore and that I do have work to do. This being an adult thing sucks, big time.

That's Ms. Teeny-bopper to you

Okay, I'll admit it. I used to be a teeny-bopper. Used to be? I can hear some of you asking. Well, shut up. Let me finish. When I was about 19, I had all the makings of a classic teeny-bopper. For one thing, duh, I was a teenager. I had very. very long hair at the time, almost waist-length, which I ironed every couple of weeks and swished around, I wore skirts when I went clubbing, little ones that could have doubled as handkerchiefs and these huge pencil heels, I laughed a lot, painted my eyelids and mascara-ed my eyelashes so I could gaze seductively from under them. My friends and I were a snotty bunch, we didn't talk to anyone, or even if we did, they were objects of ridicule once they left. (Oh my god, I was a horrible person! Though in my defence, I never really said the bitchy stuff, just laughed when other people did.) Anyway, we clubbed constantly, I'm talkign Tuesday nights--Mezz, Wednesday night--Djinns, Thursday nights--the Gymkhana club, Friday night--DV8 and Saturday, was a free-for-all. Of course, being in a girl's college and all, it was evident that we had a little posse of male friends and/or boyfriends who picked us up, dropped us home and acted as arms from which we could hang off. This was during the summer vacation, if you're wondering, we didn't go out on weeknights during college.
Anyway, that's what I used to be like, so even if I'm slightly the "hectic teeny-bopper" now, you have to realise where I'm coming from. The reason I'm mentioning it, is because yesterday I went for Siddhartha Tytler's Spring/Summer showing at Decibel. Strictly a work thing and all, and since I was going straight from office, I went as I was, dressed in a bulky coat, a cardigan, blue jeans and sneakers. I smelt of coffee and smoke and tiredness, my hair was in its final I-give-up stage and I carried a huge jhola with various notebooks and pens and Bill Bryson's The Lost Continent sticking out of it. The photographer and I were joking about how it was always easy to spot journos at these dos because they would be the worst dressed. (Not the TV journalists. Bitches. They're always so made up and so put together and they have this certain authority with holding that mic and sticking into people's faces that I definitely can't conjure up, even with a Parker pen.) Anyway, it was all very funny and all run-of-the-mill because I had done it a hundred, thousand times before, right?

So then we watched the show and then as good little p3p reporters do, we circulated. And it was incredible! Every second person I bumped into was from LSR, people I used to hang out with and hair-swish with and people who were now regarding me with the same expression I used to give..well.. people who turned up at nightclubs in jeans and sneakers. Wow, am I getting my come-uppance, huh? Of course, the first few people I met didn't bother me, even one skinny cow, who smiled at me and when I asked her what she was doing there, she said, "Oh, Sid and I are good friends." Sid. God.

Then there was this old school-acquaintance of mine, who has turned into an Elite model, very glamorous with big hair. And then there was this fat girl, a year junior to me in college, who I usually felt good around, but she was all dressed in a blue halter top and she was all like, "Catch you." Peh. Well, she looked fat in her blue halter anyway. And I stood there, in the midst of this party, feeling my heart beat in my ears, not even fortifying myself with alcohol because the bar was so crowded and feeling people staring at me, no doubt because of the way I dressed and seriously, at that moment I felt like a has-been. I felt old and wrinkled and ugly and it was horrible because I used to be one of those shiny people. I have halter tops that are languishing in my cupboard. I think I should just quit my job and go back to being a socialite.

So I staggered out and into the lobby, where I met the brother of a friend who was very nice and sweet and gave me cigarettes and I felt better.

Moral of the story: Next time, don't volunteer to cover a party at a nightclub, even if you haven't been there before.

It's late, I'm home from TC and I want to go to bed. Some really, really, REALLY random thoughts for your general edification

Happy Moment: Tra-la. Finally saw Black which was good, but not great. A little overdone, I thought, but nevertheless, for a Bollywood movie it was good. I have a feeling it's going to be India's entry for the Oscars next year. Though I'm not raving about it like so many people I know are, I'm glad to have seen it, because now I can have an opinion! :)
Things up on my pinboard right now:
1) A lovely photograph of me, Nitya, Leela and Ginny. I love this picture because we look like we're posing for a cigarette ad. All of us are laughing very hard, the light is bouncing off our hair and we just generally look like we're having a good time.
2) A film postcard of The Passion Of The Christ. Originally, I got that postcard for K, but I liked the movie so I decided to keep it. That movie was so dark though and so gory--a little too much, I thought, especially the flagellations where you can see the teeth of the whip actually going into his flesh... shudder.
3) The PETA calendar. I've had one from somewhere or the other every year for the past three years and I love them. Each month has a picture of an animal they've rescued with a little bio about it. This month it's Buckey, a fat orange cat who was thrown out of a car in a garbage bag before he was rescued. This acquaintance of mine rescued a kitten from Chennai when she was there volunteering for the Tsunami relief. That kitten is adorable, she's called T.K (for Tsunami Kitten) and she has this way of climbing into your lap and rumbling purrs at you that makes you (or me in this case) feel all broody.
4) One of those Amul ads that comes in HT City. I love the way they reflect the current situation. Like yesterday's ad had a cartoon of Amir Khan just after he cut off his Mangal Pandey locks and it said "Baal, baal dekho"! The ad I have on my board has a cartoon of the Ambani's fighting and their mother is saying, "Share the bread equally". And beneath that it says: Amul Butter. Rely on it. (Rely like Reliance, y'know). I heart clever advertising.
5) A brochure from NSD, cut to resemble their mask--y'know the half-happy, half sad one that is the symbol for theatre? I pinned that up in a fit of sentimentality singing "There's no business like show business, like no business I knooooooooow."
6) A poem by Maya Angelou, which is so old now the notebook paper has yellowed and is crinkling at the edges. When I found it I thought it said so much about my life that I should write it down, and even now when I re-read it, I think it holds true. Here's the poem, by the way, you'll see what I mean.
Reverses
-- Maya Angelou
How often must we
butt to head,
mind to ass,
flank to nuts,
cock to elbow,
hip to toe,
soul to shoulder
confront ourselves
in our past.
7) Two more photographs-- one of me, Pieces and Iggy taken in our second or third year. We all bought identical jackets without knowing it--red zip-ups with hoods and we wound up wearing them on the same day. The picture has all of us, jackets zipped and hoodies up looking like identical elves, except our faces. Actually I think this was third year after all, because we're doing the smiling but not really smiling that we started doing for photographs after Puja---the fourth in our foursome--died.
The second photograph has me with Devyani and Nitya, my neighbours and East Delhi compatriots on either side. It's one of the few pictures I have of the three of us together, which is why I have it up in the first place, even though we've got big fake smiles on and are looking rather stiff.

Random observation of the day: Why is it that all editors or bigwigs of the media industry are always referred to by their first and last name? I mean, really, think about it: Shekhar Gupta, Arun Purie, MJ Akbar, Vir Sanghvi, Vinod Mehta.. etc. I can’t imagine calling any of them by just a first name, like "Wotcher, Vir, old chap?" Nope, it can’t be done, and I bet you couldn’t do it either unless you were being irreverant.

The Intrepid Reporter: I’ve been meeting this weird assortment of people lately. On Saturday, I met Mumait Khan, who is very young and very pierced. Today, I met Bapsi Sidhwa, who is not. Both were very nice women though, Mumait was all, "Oh stay and have a drink with me" and Bapsi was all, "Oh do have a cup of coffee." I declined the former though I accepted the latter with an alacrity that astounded me. I’m becoming quite the coffee slut, if Satan was to hover over me and give me a choice between saving my soul and drinking all the cups of coffee I wanted, I’d take the coffee. Hell, at least I’m not alcoholic.

People I met at TC tonight: This very nice 30-year-old woman I was sharing a table with. She works in Women’s Development and wants to move to CR Park and go dancing. I told her where to go dancing, though I was a little clueless about the whole moving-to-CR-Park thing. Our interactions with strangers really reflect our state of mind though, either that or this woman was very nice, because both the Iggy and I gave her our numbers and promised to take her out on our next "Girl’s Night" which should be pretty soon coz yay! Pieces arrives tomorrow. Lovely, lovely Pieces, with her lovely, lovely clarity of thought, will be able to put both Iggy and my lives in perspective, we’re hoping. Quite a tall order, but I think she’ll be able to handle it.

Puzzlements: What's with this sudden lack of commenting, people? Even other blogs that I visit have barely 3 or 4 comments. Worse, some blogs haven't been updated in ages. I propose a Bring Back the Blog movement, which will have as an important subsection: Bring Back The Comment. I'm going to click 'Next Blog' on every blog I see and leave a goddamn comment! And you know, you (yes I'm talking to you, you know who you are), it wouldn't hurt if you left a little hello here every now and then just so I know I'm not wittering away into empty cyberspace.

The song that's making me do little pelvic thrusts in front of my mirror every morning: I Love Rock And Roll by Joan Jett. It's a reallyyyyyyy good song, specially when there's this little guitar riff and you feel totally hot! I do these things, okay, don't judge me! I once did a whole striptease to Lady Marmalade, which made K give me these lecherous looks every time it came on. Everyone should do a striptease once in their lives.

How much wood can a woodchuck chuck, I ask you?

~Drunken eM is going to bed now~

Coo-coo-ca-choo Mr. Robinson

A friend of mine is dating a married man. He is nice enough--somewhat portly, curly salt and pepper hair (though it's more salt than pepper to be completely honest) and he has a sweet smile and a way of trying to fit in with a crowd of people, some of whom are more than twenty years younger than him--which is rather endearing. He looks a little like Suhel Seth, I thought, when I first saw him, wondering what this friend of mine--the youngest of our crowd, saw in him. It's not like age-wise she's the youngest, because the crowd includes some 19-year-olds as well, but she's just so young, and I thought, until then, so naive, she's the last person you'd think would be seeing someone so much older.

He was pretty charming though and then someone asked him about Sri Ram School. "What about Sri Ram?" I asked. "Oh, I'm thinking of getting my kids admission there," he replied. Kids? Okay, I knew he had children, I just thought maybe they were in the toddler stage, not realising that they were old enough to be getting into school and such. I smiled, gave him a few good school names, all the while watching his fingers intertwine with my friends'. "Do you like him eM?" asked my friend, grinning. "Sure," I said, smiling, because I did. I did like him, it's just that he was married with kids and this is not the sort of situtation I'd imagine myself in at twenty-three. At thirty sure, we can discuss kids and school and all, but just then with the rest of talking about the GreatIndian Rock festival and sitting around talking about career options and all, the situation was.. shall we say.. a little odd.

That's not the only thing that was wierd though. I was amazed at my own sense of tolerance, at all of us, accepting this man and treating him as our equal. Where had my sense of moral righteousness gone? Theoretically, I would be totally against dating a married man, especially if there were children involved, but here I was making conversation, teasing and being teased, just as if it was any old boyfriend that I was being introduced to, y'know? My friend got even younger around him--her voice was high and childish, her eyes danced around the rest of us, looking for our approval. "We should go to TC tomorrow," she said, and turned to him, "Let's go to TC, no?" We all agreed, great plan and all and at twelve they took off because it was their anniversary.

But really, who am I to sit in judgement of anyone? They seem happy, even if this may be harmful in the long run, he seems to adore her. Never mind that by the time she is his age, he will be in his dotage, never mind his daughters and his wife, to be able to get that kind of devotion at our age, when all the boys we know are fucking around or making statements like, "I can't commit right now" or "I need space" or even "I need to figure things out", generally mindfucking, maybe older men are the way to go.

I think it takes great courage on his part as well, to be able to blend in so well with a group of twenty-somethings he obviously can't relate to. Okay, so maybe it's a second childhood, midlife crisis kinda thing, but she was so happy and it's not as black-and-white as it seems here in writing about it. It's a lot more complicated than that, so I think I'm just going to be there for her, just offer support if she needs it and not be so damn judgemental.

We're not perfect people, but we all do strive for happiness.

Dinnertime conversation

Gather around children and I shall tell you a tale. A tale of dinner spent, conversations had and professions almost made.

Once upon a time in the fair (but sometimes not) city of Delhi, lived a young journalist. She was not impoverished, as she lacked for nothing, but she did not have excesses to spend, not earning that much money and so usually by the end of the month, wound up pretty broke.

In the same city of Delhi, lived a man called Mr. Warbucks, a man with weath untold, with a large bungalow made of gold, his soul to the devil he had once sold (okay, going overboard with the rhyming--I'll stop). Mr Warbucks had money, he had fame (he had been all over the papers when he went to visit a small town), he had a family that loved him, he even had a Rolls Royce in his American home. But he was not happy. Mr. Warbucks was not happy because he had an unborn story inside him, a story dying to be born and to be told, but Mr Warbucks didn't think he was a good enough writer to deliver this story.

Enter the Young Journalist (YJ from here on now), who felt that though her wealth may be little, she could more or less tell a story and therefore peddle this craft. Mr Warbucks invited YJ and her mother OJ to dinner in his huge house.

The front of the house looked like a fort, YJ thought as she entered. She was late, but then she was always late. She would blame it on the traffic, on the bad weather, on the fact that god just didn't like her, but the excuses could wait till she was inside. She was nervous, dying for a cigarette by this time, and busily biting all the skin off the side of her thumb.

Mr Warbucks was not as roly-poly as she had imagined him to be for some reason. He was tallish, with sparse white hair sticking up on his head, and a small white beard. Through the hair on his head, you could see the pink of his scalp and YJ instantly felt the urge to pull on his cheeks a little, give that shiny head a rub for good luck, even to hand him a cane and help him across the street. OJ was by this time looking daggers across at YJ for being late, for making her (OJ) sit and have conversation alone, when she had expressely asked her daughter not to do that. But Mr Warbucks was all charm--giving YJ a Bacardi and coke, even asking whether she smoked.
YJ shot a quick look at OJ and said, "Um... no." But then OJ laughed and said, "She's not allowed to smoke in front of me." Which made YJ wonder, was she then being given permission to smoke whenever she liked?
Mr Warbucks asked all the right questions, education, work etc, and YJ was soon feeling pretty damn good. Sure, Mr. Warbucks would ask her to write his biography or autobiography, which would be all about his business and his family and which might be a little boring to write, but she could totally do it.

"You know," said Mr Warbucks, "If you do do this project for me, I'd have to tell you a lot of very intimate details about my life." YJ smiled at him. Sweet old man--he probably thought that kissing his wife counted as an intimate secret, or maybe he secretly lusted after a film actress. But then OJ said, "Yes, Mr Warbucks was seduced at 15 by his cousin!" Okaa-ay, thought YJ, maybe his life would be more interesting than she thought. "She was 12," said Mr. Warbucks, "And she had obviously done it before, because she, y'know, guided me, when she realised I had no clue."

YJ's eyebrows suddenly hit the top of her scalp and she took a big sustaining gulp of her drink to keep a straight face. "Then there were these three sisters in Shimla," said Mr Warbucks, "I made love to all three of them. In fact, one of them got so annoyed with the fact that I was holding her and kissing her, that she put her hand... down there and unzipped my pants!"

On and on went Mr Warbucks--about the woman who used to orgasm with such passion that she sweated all over, about the other woman who was having an affair with a younger man (but not Mr Warbucks) and who straddled him one day and said "This is mine, all mine!", about the other woman who used to give Mr Warbucks blow jobs and then swallow and then get him to ejaculate inside her so that "she could have him from both ends". YJ didn't dare look at OJ, who was giggling over her Scotch. She pasted a tolerant smile on her face, prompting Mr. W to say, "Your daughter has the most beautiful smile". Oh no you don't, Mr Warbucks, thought YJ, crossing her arms in front of her bosom.

This was what he wanted his book about? Perhaps it wouldn't be such a good idea for YJ to take the job, she thought, not when every time she talked about the chapters with him, she'd feel like rolling over and lighting a post-coital cigarette. It was too bad, because she genuinely liked Mr Warbucks. He was a nice man, who just happened to have a raunchy past he wanted to share with the world. No harm in that, in fact, most guys want to share their exploits anyway, except they sniggered about it in locker rooms instead of writing books but hey, to each his own.

YJ sighed. The extra money would've helped. Maybe she'd take it after all.. or maybe not. She was very confused. Aargh, she said, and stopped blogging.

You Live, You Learn

I am a serial time waster. Look at me now, for instance. It's 12.10 and I should be frantically getting ready for work, but instead I'm sitting around in tracks and a sweatshirt and blogging. My flu is clearing up, I think, but I still have this horrible old-man cough, which is very unappealing. And sinusitis, which is a pretty harmless word for THE MOST PAINFUL HEADACHE IN THE WORLD. No shit, really. Because everytime I turn my head or bend over the keyboard or something my head is filled with the most agonising pain and I feel like pulling out bits of hair and shouting, "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

I know so many people these days, by sheer chance, who have had babies recently, that I am now an expert on baby care. The other day I was showing off my belly ring to one of them and instead of looking at the belly ring she looked at the down underneath it. "See that?" she said. Having seen it before, you know, since it IS my body and all, I nodded. "That's going to get sooooo much darker when you're pregnant," she said ominously. Quickly I pulled down my sweater and quickly announced that since there were so many kids in India already, I was going to adopt. Other things I know about babies include 1) They get sick when they've just been vaccinated 2) At four or five months, they really have no clue who the woman who labouriously and painstakingly pushed them out of their vaginas is as long as they're clean and dry and fed and 3) They have the weeniest hands with little-little fingernails which make me feel very old and haggard.

I'm also learning other things, like the other day, I had this long discussion about Economics and the Law of Supply etc. I quite liked the opening line of the Law Of Supply, if I remember it correctly, something about "All things being equal.." it sounded a bit like Animal Farm, all products are equal, but some products are more equal than others.

And, the other night, working late, I had a conversation with a colleague about ringtones and he really likes Western Classical stuff, so he played me some things, and I learned that the American Army tune that they sing in most Hollywood movies (you know, the one that goes Da-da, Da-da-da-daaaaaaa-da) was composed by someone famous--Wagner, I think.

Damn. Now that tune is stuck in my head. (Lisa/her teeth are biggggg and green/Lisa/she smells like gasoooooooooline)

Quick head's up: I'm really not well, so this will probably be terrible writing.

(Transcribed from notes in a slim notebook, with a bullock cart on it and a sunset. `Scens Of Nature' the cover says proudly, and the pages inside are unruled. Written at 8.30-9 pm last night, when I was on desk and had nothing to do, which might account for the garbled writing)

I don't think anyone who hasn't worked for a newspaper knows the absolutely soothing noise of no human voices, just many fingers going 'click-click-click' on many keyboards. It's a moment of such one-ness with the world, the fact that you and everyone else around you is on the same team---ackowledging it, knowing that the text that emerges from under the tips of your fingers is somehow telling a story that will provide information to someone, hearing the pauses in people's thought processes. Outside it's dark, many people who don't have your job are going home, or perhaps even going out to party, for it is Saturday night after all. But not you, because you're part of the media and you arrive and leave late and now during rush hour, you don't care because your fingers are going 'clackety-click'.
And then suddenly a phone will jangle and as if on cue the rest will start jangling too and the peace will be broken. And you go from being a cog in a machine that makes 'clackety-click' noises to being you again, realising the sore throat and watering eyes of a flu ignored, planning what you're going to do on the weekend. Your once-magic text is now scrutinised as you scroll through it, checking if the 5 W's and H are in place and you stretch and yawn and are suddenly very, very tired.
(end of notebook writing)
Aargh. That part about the flu? True story. Day-before-yesterday I got so buoyed up by the warm weather I went to work in a t-shirt and a jacket, therefore yesterday I felt like I was going to die. No seriously. You have not lived until you have experienced the excruciating discomfort that is fever rising and breaking. Fever rising means you shiver, feel very giddy and yearn for your bed with the red and brown velvet quilt. Fever breaking means cold sweats and your body feeling so disoriented by this whole cold/hot thing that you want to jump from the nearest available elevation.

Today I'm still feeling it, the words are very close to swimming in front of my eyes, but I want to be all okay for this evening when I'm going to finally see Black. This is probably the worst structured blog entry I have ever written, I'm looking through the sentences (TWICE I spelt "sentence" with two s's) and thinking 'Peh'.

This was going to be longer, I had planned it and everything, but my wrists are suddenly aching (How old do you have to be before arthritis and rheumatism sets in?) and so I'm going to go. If I die of this terrible wasting disease that's turning my young body into that of a 50-year-old, remember that I lurve you all. Indiscriminately. Even the horrible anonymous blogger who left mean comments. And I am going to update my Blogrolling links, but thanks nevertheless to all the new people who have linked to me. You're very kind and I will return the favour soonest, I promise.

*crawls away to die*

Brown Girl In The Rain

I know it's a little late in the day for me to be realising this; but writing really is good therapy! Ever since that long, unburdening blog entry of last time, I'm feeling all ready to take on the world again. Even my music has changed from Matchbox 20's Time After Time to Aerosmith's Pink and right now as I type this We Are The World. (C'mon sing with me; *There's a choice we're making, we're saving our own lives, it's true we make a better day, just you and me*). In Class 8 or Class 9, our English textbook (which was in two parts: a textbook and a workbook) was called Interact With English (I always imagined English as some guy, who would pop out of the book and interact with us. Johnny English, aarrrrrrrrrr!)(Okay, I don't know why I made the `Aaarrr' noise. The moment just seemed to call for it). Anyway, back to my original point, Interact With English had the lyrics of We Are The World for us to study and comment on. Our teacher's were ideally supposed to play this song while we read the lyrics, but most of them couldn't be arsed. (Though I do remember, when we were studying slavery in History, our incredible, inspired teacher played Buffalo Soldier. She did that kind of thing. When we did the Russian Revolution she played Rah, Rah Rasputin). Anyway, so I can never listen to these songs without thinking of being stuck in a hot classroom, the boys in the back bench invariably playing some game and us with our socks rolled down and our skirts beginning to wilt in the heat of the afternoon and the fan making whirring noises. English, no matter which school I went to, was always for some reason, the last class of the day. Actually, it probably made more sense. Imagine struggling with Maths when all you want to do is watch your watch moving slowly towards 2.30 when you could finally escape.

Even though I'm not what you would call academically brilliant (in fact, I'm not what ANYONE would call academically brilliant, which is wierd, coz I had all the makings of a nerd. I joined the Science and Nature Club, I often sat in the classroom during lunch break to read and I was part of every Elocution and Recitation club any of my schools had to offer), I loved English. I got English, and so that last period was like my ego salve after leaving my regular classmates to join the remedial maths classes. (Yes, so, I bet you sucked at something too!).

Ooh, last night watched Jerry Maguire on HBO and surprised myself by knowing most of the dialogue (Show me the moneyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!) (You had me at hello) and (You complete me). I love that movie, even though I don't care that much about Tom Cruise (even though he looked absolutely edible in Magnolia) but I think Renee Zellwegger was at her prettiest in that movie. Not always, her eyes are too squinty for my liking, but she had definite moments of beauty you couldn't see in Chicago or Bridget Jones' Diary.

So you see. I am happy. Or at least, halfway there.

In which I go on about my state of mind and if you're not into inner ramblings, you should skip this entry and come back another day

Most people who know me would say I was a pretty together person. This is true, and not just a trumpet-tooting that I’m doing, because I’ve been told this. On the surface, I appear to have it all figured out, my career, unlike most of my friends’, is actually going somewhere, I’m on my second job, for the most part I’m a pretty smile-y person (not that I go around grinning like a jackass, but I prefer to be happy rather than sad).
Now, this is what most people, or rather, everyone who knows me, would say. What they don’t know, is what I wasn’t aware of, for quite some time.
I am a relationship junkie.
Here’s the thing. Before K and I were together, I was perfectly happy, perfectly complete being alone. I did want a boyfriend, but more for just the excitement than anything else. Then when we were together and I grew to love him, just like I had thrown myself in being alone, I threw myself in being together. Like a sponge I absorbed every moment of the togetherness, and in doing that lost whatever vestiges of indepe ndence that I had. More comforting was the fact that K loved me a little more than I loved him. He was just more into me and I revelled in that. And then he wasn’t. But no one told me of this relationship gear change (I swear, every relationship should come with a manual!) and so when he dumped me, my ego received the biggest bruising it had ever received.
After the break up, like I’ve been writing about, there’s been a whirl of activity. There have been boys, and more boys, there have been parties and then there’s blessed, blessed work. And I’ve been so occupied with all this, it took me five months to realise that I’m not happy.
Not only am I not happy, I’m desperately unhappy. Not all the time, in a crazy manic-depressive kind of way, but a nagging void-y feeling that refuses to go away and if I try to ignore it, it grows greater. I tried to surpress it. More activity! But every time the night out was over, or the random fling ended, there it was, back with a vengeance.
So I decided to swear off boys for a while, back there. But that just wasn’t happening either. Wonderful people have entered my life and I would like for them to stay. But, and here’s the catch, I don’t want them to be my crutches. I don’t want to be the desperately needy clingy person I become. Me-the-person is very different from me-the-significant-other. Me-the-person is like I said before, a pretty together woman, with enough going on in her life not to need anyone. Me-the-significant-other is only nineteen, terribly young, terribly vulnerable and therefore the kind of person most men run screaming from.
I have been informed recently that I play games. At first I was pretty startled. Me? Play games? Never! But, I wish I could just wear a sign or something saying "DANGER: Me-the-significant-other lurking beneath surface!" Or some such.
It’s hard to explain these things to people who don’t already know you and don’t already love you. It’s also hard to explain these things to myself, which is why I chose to write them down. I need to know what I think and what I’m feeling.
I’m just really scared of being alone. I don’t even know what being alone is like, just curling up under the blankets, reading a good book, and out of choice not just because I have no one to make a plan with. I told Dee this and she came up with a set of rules, which I have amended slightly. (Lovely rules. Everything should have rules)
OPERATION ‘IT’S OKAY TO BE ALONE’
1) Mondays and Thursdays are sacroscant stay-at-home days. No plan shall be made by me and if I am invited to join a plan, I politely decline.
2) I am by nature, a plan-initiator. It’s my role on this planet. But we’re going against the laws of the universe and saying I shall only initiate a plan once a week.
3) (This rule is made by me and I’m really proud of it) I get to make three personal calls a day, including sms’s.

Of course, ideally, like an Al Anon plan there should be more steps, but I think this is about all I can handle.
I don’t enjoy being unhappy and lonely, but I also don’t want to use sex and relationships like fillers. They should be add-ons, not something to make me feel complete. I enjoy the relationships I have now, but at the same time, I want to enjoy being only Me-The-Person with no scary Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde metamorphosis.
This is an insanely long blog entry, but for the first time in a really long time I wrote it for me and not for an audience.

The jester sang for the king and queen

Today, among the many other things I thought about, a thought was thought about my boarding school. It was a nice school, for the most part, lots of trees, which my Dilli-wallah soul thrilled to, many activities and the best part--it being such a small school and all, there was plenty of space for me to shine and not get swallowed up by the crowd.

I have good memories of boarding. Saturday night was "Soupy noodles and fried chicken" day, which basically meant Maggi in lots of water and two pieces of batter-fried chicken. Still, with all the insipid daal-roti we were being served during the week, it was a godsend. Saturday lunch was even better. We called it "dry lunch" and it was basically lots of bread slathered over with garlic butter, much coleslaw and, of course, your obligatory piece of chicken or vegetable. The food on Sunday sucked more than normal though. In the morning we got stone cold dosas, gone all soggy from sitting around and the afternoon and evening were pretty unmemorable. Though I do remember, quite strongly, that the boys had better food than we did.

Our dramatic society used to rehearse in the boys section of school, which was where all our classes were held as well. Sometimes, when we rehearsed really late, we got to have dinner there. And as the handful of girls, and the "priveleged" visitors, we got to sit at the prefects table, with the headmaster and everybody. Naturally, all the best helpings of food came directly to us and our poor batchmates would hiss from a couple of tables across, "Hey, pass some food along, man."

But boarding memories are not all food related, though I find the food memories are the strongest. In fact, that seems to be the case with most people who go to boarding, they can describe the food (or lack thereof) in vivid detail. Other things I remember are the dances, or jigs as we called them, which happened twice a term and which were always occasions. We spent weeks figuring out what to wear, I bought many dresses and people all around me were engrossed with hair removal--either by that item of torture, the Epilator, or just by begging other people to wax them. (Personally I preferred the Epilator, even though all those little tweezers yanking out your hair one by one wasn't exactly fun). We had ways of vying for popularity as well. The boys (and ONLY the boys) got little coupons entitling them to buy chocolate and tarts and coke (again with the food memories! I think I'm going to go find some cheese). You couldn't ask the boy directly to buy you something, only if he was well-mannered enough he'd ask you. I was coached on my first jig how to reply to this. If the boy said, "Woudl you like something to eat?" you'd answer not, "Hell yeah!" like you'd want to, but a more demure, "I don't mind." If you were truly popular, and you had circulated happily between the boys, you had a handful of Cadbury perk to show for it. My personal best? Seven.

But there are things I didn't like about boarding either. The whole senior-junior thing, for instance. If you pissed off a prefect she would tell you to either do laps, around this gigantic field at some absurd hour, or even worse, change-ups. That was when you reported at three or four in the morning and you had to keep changing your clothes, from regular school wear (day kit), to formal occasion wear (Monday kit), to regulation pink or blue salwar kameez (evening kit) to shorts and your house t-shirt (Sports kit) and finally back to your nightclothes. And you had to get your shoes and socks and (wherever applicable) your tie to match as well. This process could be repeated till whenever she thought you had enough. The guys had it worse though. All the boys of class nine were "pisa's" to boys of class 12. So, if a senior guy wanted something done, he'd tell his pisa, who would make beds, polish shoes, fetch clothes, etc. I tried to protest once but was shot down, by a class nine boy no less who said, "We'll get to do the same thing in class 12 so what's the big deal, man?" (They said man wuite a lot. The boys. To the girls.) Oh, and all the junior guys had to call the senior ones 'sme (pronounced ess-me) short for 'excuse me' every time they wanted to address them.

Ooh, quite late. More memories later, they're suddenly coming hard and fast! (Yeah, yeah, your dirty mind is moving in all sorts of ways isn't it? And that sentence will probably lead to quite few hits via Google. But, I refuse to be corrupted. I'm going to leave that sentence in, so there!) (On the other hand, there is the likelihood that you didn't think dirty thoughts. In which case, it's me with the mind like a sewer, right? Hmmm... oh, well, whatchu gonna do?)

Ex-capades

First of all, my sincere apologies for the last couple of morbidly depressing entries. I haven’t been myself lately---it’s not something I can explain—just an empty feeling deep within me.

My life has been so uneventful the past couple of weeks that I really have nothing worthy to blog about. Unless I write about work, but I did promise myself that I would never do that, because then it just becomes too damn complicated, after the last blog I had which was discovered by my colleagues.

But I’ve been in this social whirl this week. First off, it was Dee’s birthday on the 26th, and she had a small party in her flat. Great fun, lots of drinking, lots of talking and lots of eating. I got her a slutty pink halter, which I hope she’ll wear, because it’s SO hot! Also at the party were Hari, her boyfriend, Anuya, Hari’s sister, Shilpa, Dee’s sister and Angad, Shilpa’s boyfriend.

And then of course, the non-relatives—me, Shanti and Abhay. It was a good party though—nothing hectic, just like I like them these days, few enough people so you can have a regular conversation with everybody. Ooh and Anuya said she’d been reading my stories and liked them! Yay, me!

Then there was Turquiose Cottage on Friday night, again good fun. I met Iggy there, she has been in the depths of depression lately (I think it’s just that time of the year for everybody) and we had a long heart-to-heart. I told her about my "empty feeling", she confessed that her friend’s bad behaviour was making her feel very hurt and upset and we hugged, there in the middle of TC, with people around us giving us curious looks. It’s good to have friends.

Saturday night, I did do some of that "hectic" partying. It was Ginny’s college friend’s birthday party, only he ws throwing it at my friend Ranvir’s farmhouse. So by default, I was invited and so too by default, was Ranvir’s best friend, K. We were both very, very drunk, so discomfort was at a minimum. I also managed to have a long talk with K’s brother Rohaan. It’s weird, you date someone for two years and some, you get really tight with their families and when you break up, it’s like you have to pretend that never happened. You have to suddenly un-care about everything you used to care about. Rohaan and I used to be good friends, a summer or two ago I even fixed him up with one of my friends. And when I went to Goa with K’s family, Rohaan and I hung out quite a bit. So we were talking, he mentioned he loved my haircut (what fun! I’m loving this!) and he said how it was nice that me and K have reached this ‘comfort level’.

I’m not so sure about that however. It’s hard to avoid K, seeing as we move in the same social circle and all, but I’m not so sure I’m ready to clasp him to my bosom and declare best friendship forever. It’s something that needs to be thunk about, that’s for sure.

And now, here it is, Monday morning. Boston Boy (the one I mentioned earlier, remember? The guy who studies abroad?) has not replied to my email of last night, which means in all likelihood I’m going to have to wait till tomorrow morning before I hear from him. How’s that going? Very well, actually. We’ve managed to sustain a good email rapport, and I think that if this goes on the way it does, we may actually be able to last till June. But emails aren’t everything, I hear you saying, and I totally agree. Still, as of right now, it seems to be working for me.

Ex-New Boy has been calling me quite frequently these days, but that doesn’t cause any groin flutters. Just a sort of sisterly fondness, which I suppose is the death knell for any former relationship, huh? And talk about a blast from the past, Abhinav (of my The Younger Man story) recently called and messaged. What a coincidence!

Agent eM signing out. Roger wilco, pip pip and all that.