My friend, my cat, my TC died today.

It was a peaceful death. We got a vet to come home and give him a shot (to the heart, quite literally) and he quivered once--I leaned my head on the Good Thing's arm so I didn't have to see--and then it was all over.



He had something called Chronic Renal Failure, which is a term I became so familiar with, I even began referring to it in sassy shortform: CRF. I used "CRF" in the cat forums I joined, hoping to find a cure for him, or at least, something to make him feel better. I was pointed towards blogs called When Vets Don't Know Enough. I was told to call it CKD (chronic kidney disease) because that made it sound easier and more manageable.

It is manageable for some cats. They live a long life. Some cats have to go to the vet a few times a week to be put on a drip or an IV. Some cats have to have annual bloodwork. But they'll never get better. Eventually, they'll all "crash"--that's what it's called when it's the very end--and then they die quite rapidly after.


TC "crashed" four weeks ago. He completely stopped eating. The vet said there was nothing he could do, and because I begged him, "Please don't let my cat starve to death!" he prescribed a glucose drip. My cat forum friends urged me to force feed. I did, triumphant in getting 25 ml into my cat--once strong, once a ginger giant--and he vomited it all over the floor.

TC died today, but this wasn't the TC that lived. That TC died three weeks ago. That TC was a Catcher of Pigeons and a Hunter of Hands. That TC had a purr that made a man he knew say, "Motor chalu?" each time he picked him up. That TC had a happy, inquisitive meow: "Mrrrpp?" he'd say, looking at you, green eyes wide or slanted with affection.

He was my small furball--the kitten that was left. I had gone, armed with my pink basket, to pick a grey tabby kitten, but the grey had been killed by a dog, the owner said, and of the indoor and the outdoor kittens, TC was the only one she could catch. I wanted a kitten, so I went home with him.

"What will you call him?" asked a visiting friend.

"I like Noor," I said, but then changed my mind.

Six months later, his baby daughter was named Noor, but my TC remained a TC, through the discovery of his real gender.

He was never a very affectionate cat, but he did like being social. Once he had gotten over a party actually happening in his home, he'd stroll out and very deliberately sit in the middle of a room and wash his balls or anus vigourously. Everyone would stop what they were doing to coo at him, and he'd move tantalisingly close but always a few inches away from their fingers. Once he saw me getting up to move rooms though, it was all over. He knew who he wanted and he always wanted me.

I want to remember the feel of his body curled up into the crook of my thighs, the way he always greeted me at the front door,  feeling the thump of his landing on the bed, and watching him if I heard a strange noise--if TC jumped, I'd know it was an intruder inside the house, if he stayed still, I'd know the sound was outside.

He charmed the many men I had known in his lifetime, and they knew if they wanted to get the girl, they'd have to compliment the cat, but I never saw him actively seek out any of them until the Good Thing came into our lives. But still, if I left the room, he'd (usually) come with me, because he knew who he wanted, and he (almost) always wanted me.

We had a very lovely cremation for him in a little pet crematorium in Chattarpur, where the men in charge looked at me sympathetically and handed us incense and flowers and scented earth to pour on him. He looked so peaceful, I had to touch him to make sure he was actually, truly, dead.

Part of being who he wanted (and he always wanted me), was knowing that I had to make the decision for him. "If you want to go, you should go," I told him, a week ago, "But if you don't, I'll fight for you, I promise." Yesterday, his eyes--such beautiful, weary eyes--looked at me and asked, truly, actually asked, "Why is this happening to me?"

You know when it's time. It may sound like a myth, but it's true.

We had eight good years. He knew who he wanted--and I always wanted him.

Goodbye my faithful friend. I'll miss you forever.

And now you're back, from outer space

* I wrote a bunch of articles about blogging which I felt excused me from the actual act of blogging, but after a while you start to get guilty feelings in your stomach, like when you've forgotten to feed a pet, but not like a real pet, say a fish? Or a Tamagotchi?

Anyhow partially this is because while I haven't been manically busy, I have been a bit... preoccupied. Remember how I told you all those months ago about how I was broke? It continued to be an concern up until, well, last weekend, when finally all the stuff I'd been juggling began to make patterns in the air without me working so hard! Shit finally came together! And because I have a little breathing room now, I'm able to really look at all my tasks and get them done instead of numbing the stress with more brainless TV.


* Speaking of brainless TV though. I've been watching some very BRAIN-FULL stuff lately, which I'd like to offer up to anyone looking for recommendations.
Obviously The Good Wife is the best thing on TV right now, so watch that without fail and also, The Legend of Korra which I will do a longer post about soon, but which is basically the most feminist fantasy series I've ever seen (and it's a cartoon.) And Outlander, which is all time travel! And time travel sex! And history! And for science-y educational stuff, there's Cosmos, which sometimes will make your head spin with information but will make you that much smarter for watching.

* Oh my god, you guys I finally quit smoking! It's been four weeks. FOUR WEEKS! And apart from the drunk smoke, I actually don't miss it much. Sometimes I think about smoking in a wistful manner: this sunshine, this coffee, wouldn't it be nice? But that's a passive craving, which is far easier to deal with than an active one which feels like you're drowning in your desire to smoke. Uff, for a while all I could think of was smoking and now week four. WEEK FOUR!

Right after this photo was taken, Olga da Polga jumped on TC and ruined everything

* The cats are great, thank you, old enough that we should really neuter them soon so that we don't have grandkittens, but a total joy, and I don't regret having three at all except occasionally when I feel a bit outnumbered.

* I'm writing this from my new phone! Yes, I finally stopped being evangelical for Nokia, because a work thing came along for which I needed Android or iOS. I have a Moto G Second Gen, and it's amazing to be back on Android after a break because you can really tell how intuitive it is. Also this is a really good phone. Fast, responsive, solid. I was going to jump on the Xiaomi bandwagon but ugh, I have no patience for flash sales. Sell me something or don't, stop being a drama.

Summarizing

Too scared to open Blogger after nearly a month and a half away—has it been that long? I’m so sorry, dear reader (for there’s got to be one of you still left right?), and I have no excuses except: writing. And cats. My life has become suddenly extremely full of cats: I went from a normal person with just one cat who sat in the background looking attractive, to bordering-on-crazy-cat-lady person with three. And not even the original three.

The Cats Story: You’ve seen my last “For William” post, and you’ve surmised that there’s a new kitty in my life, but, BUT, in the month I’ve been AWOL, there’s been some mah-ha-jor cat drama (crama!) going on.

Bruno: which is to say “William” which is to say “Suzie”—can I go off on a tangent here about naming cats? It isn’t just one of those holiday games! You were right the first time, Mr Elliot! So, The Good Thing has a theory* that cats should have “people” names, and I saw the funny side of this, and so, we called William, Susan, before his balls dropped exactly eight days later, and then we called him William, as in “Just” or “And The Outlaws”, but then more and more, we discovered he’s basically a really large dog, like a boxer or something, inside a kitten’s body, so Bruno it is. And shall be. Bruntonious Rex, first of his name, sometimes. Bruno was brought in to be a Little Friend to TC, but hello, you don’t have to know TC for six years, to know that that cat basically wants to be fed and watered and left alone. That’s his idea of a perfect life. The occasional pet, when he feels like it. Bruno, on the other hand, just loves him, but since TC hissed and spat, and we couldn’t, we bore the brunt of his essential Bruno-ness. 

*it's not so much a theory, as a thing. "I like pets to have human names," he says. Why not? Why subject another "Cuddly" or "Pimpom" on the world? (Although, I wanted to name one Deadline, just so I could chase it and feel productive at the same time.)

Which is when we decided the ideal solutch to this sitch would be to get another kitten. Two kittens! Playmates for each other! TC left alone! Yay! So, we went to Friendicoes and picked out a teeny tiny little black kitten we named Agni. Agni was super sweet and super small and super amazing, but she also carried with her some kind of crazy strong kitten bacteria, which she passed on to Bruno, who kept knocking her down to wash her vigourously. One day she was fine, the next she was shitting constantly, and by evening she was so sick, we had to take her to the emergency vet, and put a drip in her, and then he got sick, and so on and so forth. Very sadly, she couldn’t battle the infection, and died just ten days after we got her. She was so small, but such a fighter. I miss her still.

For a while, it looked like we’d have no cats kittens (I meant kittens, TC, thanks to his aloofness, remained healthy, touch wood, thoo thoo thoo) at all—Bruno was rapidly deteriorating, he was such a playful kitten, and suddenly he was limp and listless and not eating. We dragged him to the vet too, and got a blood test which confirmed the bacterial infection, which we tried to kill with antibiotics. We did this at home, with a take home subcutaneous drip and shots, and force fed him Lactol, some kind of powdered milk thing for unweaned animal babies. But, finally, finally, he was on the mend, and that’s when his previous caretaker person called and asked if I’d take his sister, newly homeless, and too small and sweet to survive as a feral cat. “Um…,” I said, not sure if we wanted to commit, and so soon after Agni too, but she used a winning combination of bargaining and flattery, and so we captured Olga da Polga from the park, and have not regretted it since. She is seriously the sweetest kitten, likes nothing more than to be picked up and held, and is always searching for human contact. In the absence of that, she amuses herself by catching flies, or lying in the cat hammock (see photo) or chasing her brother, who she furiously hissed at the first few days she was with us. (She also hissed at her own reflection for a while.) She’s named after a book character I loved, and who she reminds me of, but really, she’s such an Olga. I wish you could all meet her. Your day would be that much more improved.

I made this out of an old shirt tied to the bottom of a barstool. It's more succesful than the cat tree that we actually spent money on.

And they leave TC alone for the most part, except Bruno, who seems to still gaze at him with hero worshipping eyes, and will lunge at TC to give him a kiss or a nibble whenever he sees fit, and TC will swat at him, but at least he still has Olga, and all this running around has brought his appetite back, so there’s that.

Cohabiting: I told you the Good Thing moved in, right? Like, moved-in, moved in? It’s kinda amazing. We both work from home, so there was some confusion in the beginning as to how we could both do that and not get on each other’s nerves, but it’s worked out very nicely, with a new high table in the living room (for him and his stuff) and me, still on my desk in one corner of the bedroom, which I like, because it faces a window, and I can dream, and stroke whichever cat happens to wander by. There are lots of advantages to living together, and I recommend it fully.

Cool things that have also happened: I’d been working on this Caravan feature about Miss Malini for like, months, and it finally came out in the beginning of August, and it’s SIX PAGES LONG, and my first thought when I picked it up and looked through it, was, “I wrote all that? All these words? Mine?” PHEW. It was quite hard work too, but felt that much nicer when it came out.

I also spoke at The India Today Women’s Summit, and I wore this long pink gown-y thing from Vero Moda (on sale!), which my mum thinks was way too booby, but which I liked, so there. It was also really cool to be there, and be a speaker, but I wish I had gotten to interact with the other women more. 

See? Totally modest, if a little dressy for one pm.

Oh, I also went away again, with my friend (and her boyfriend and mine) who I went to Ladakh with. This time we road-tripped to Kausani in Uttarakhand. There are several things you should know about Kausani, and I’ll summarize those into easy points: a) the internet LIES, it’s not a “eight to ten hour” drive, it’s a 12 to 14 hour drive, if you take breaks to pee and whatnot, which any human would do, so maybe not ideal for just a long weekend, b) once you’re there, stay in the Himalayan Village Resort, which is lovely, dog friendly, and has excellent home cooked food and c) travelling with a dog is also very fun, if a bit slobbery.

This kinda makes fourteen hours worth it, though.

That’s my news. New book very nearly done, and then onwards to another. Life is good.

for william

 

who scratches

who has a black spot on his head

and another deeper, by his tail

who is soft and full

of purrs and kitten dreams

who is warrior with crooked whiskers

who is the bane of the older cat

dignified, paddy pawed older cat

somewhere on the internet

i read this about kittens

“you have a small carnivore.”

william is a carnivore

he is like a raptor,

if you gave him flesh to tear

he would tear it

he attacks his kitten food

and kills it by shaking his head,

he jumps on high tables where the cat’s food is

and sticks his nose in

he will have all the food.

william has half a black nose

and a sliver of sandpaper tongue

who will bite the hand that feeds him

only because it looks like a toy

who hides inside the sofa and emerges

surprise! Here I am!

who does not yet have cat dignity

and so, is always delighted to see me

he shows this by biting my foot

we love him best when he is sleepy

rorschach back to the world

for then he is tame kitten, sweet kitten

not the wild animal that beats

sinew by sinew, drop by drop

in his aching, furry, bestial flesh.

Dog Days Are Over

I have been away--both on holiday (to Ladakh, which was everything they tell you Ladakh is going to be) and also immersed in my new book instead of procrastinating, which means a lot less writing over here. You'll be happy to hear I'm meant to deliver it by July (!!!), which means programming as usual on Compulsive Confessions when that's done. 
I've also been planning a very long Ladakh For Dummies post, a mix of what to do, pack, eat and what we did, and stories of travel. So keep an eye out for that soon. 

I've been feeling domestic lately. Probably this is because the Good Thing has given up Bombay and moved into my lovely Delhi flat officially--our lovely Delhi flat now, I guess, and we have been in a whirl of decorating ideas. Specifically him. I'm more of the "oh, it's fine, we'll move it when we're moving" school of thought. But with a little nagging, we've been pushing furniture around, and examining our options, and the flat will soon look drastically different from what it did last week.

This domesticity in me, however, didn't come out in anything so tame as moving a couch. No, I wanted to go the whole hog. The full bananas. The complete picnic basket. I signed us up to be doggy foster parents on Friendicoes' programme. For those of you not familiar, Friendicoes is an animal shelter here in Delhi and they do a lot of work with stray and abandoned dogs. Specifically abandoned dogs. Delhi being the Land of Status Symbol, people buy pedigree dogs like they're on a Zara sale, and as soon as they're adults and boring, or have a little something wrong with them that a quick vet visit could fix, they dump them. Some of them dump them at Friendicoes, which makes them susceptible for a lecture, yes, but at least they've had the decency to leave their dogs in safe hands. Some of them just abandon their dogs wherever they can, and it makes me so angry to think of a loved pet just wandering the streets looking for the family it had before. Although how loved could a pet be if their owners were willing to dump them?

Certainly when I met the boxer, he was skinny and shivering, not really the picture of a spoiled breed dog. They had named him Quentin, and they called to say he needed a home to live in. Apparently, the other pedigree dog at the shelter, an absolutely gorgeous golden retriever called River, had suspected distemper, so they needed somewhere for Quentin to stay while the other dog recovered. His previous owners had left him tied to a pole for several long hours, despite people trying to reason with them to give the dog another chance. I did a little research about boxers while we were waiting for him to come over and they're very sensitive to temperature, having almost no hair, they could get heat stroke or catch a cold super easily. I was wary, because, I mean a boxer. I didn't know much about the breed but I thought they could be in the same category as a Rottweiler or Alsatian, big dogs that could turn menacing swiftly.

"You got us a what?" asked the Good Thing, his eyebrows raising.

"Only temporary! I promise!"

"A boxer? Who's going to walk it and feed it?"

"I will! I swear!"

He wasn't pleased, but I was all like, "This dog will die if we don't take him in" and "Temporary!"

"What if he doesn't find a home?" he asked.

"Well, I guess he'll go back to the shelter, and I guess they'll kill him." (Note: Friendicoes is a no-kill shelter, but I didn't know that at the time. Euthanizing sounds cruel, but I think it's for the best sometimes when you have more abandoned dogs than humans can take in.)

Another concern was the cat, but we were more worried about the damage a huge dog could do to the cat than the cat and dog getting along, so we decided to give TC the run of the house except the living room, and to keep Quentin only in the living room and attached balcony. When the shelter workers dropped him off, he only needed a wound on his butt dressed, they guessed that was why the owner's dumped him, because of his wound, and because he had probably been used as a breeder.

Oh but. His jowly face. His eloquent eyes. His stumpy tail that took a few hours to get used to us and then wagged away.  He took his departure from the Friendicoes workers quite philosophically, gazing after them for a bit and then pacing the room. The Good Thing has never had a dog before, and I last had practice over seven years ago. We both watched him. "Ugh, he's drooly," said the Good Thing, trying to register protest, but half-heartedly. "Good boy!" I said, and watched his face light up, his stump like a metronome.

I renamed him Dobby that evening for his ugly face, but he didn't respond to that or Quentin. "You've got to have a name, dude," I told him, as he sank by my feet snoring. "What do people call boxers? Tyson? Caesar? Sheru?" At the last one, his head went up and his ears went back. His old life.

"Sheru? Really?"

*wag wag wag*

"Okay... Sheru."

TC was not happy with the situation. A couple of times we put Sheru on the leash and let TC come in, but it was only a matter of time before he started to strain on the leash and look at TC with anticipation and ol' TC rose up on all fours, arching his back and hissing and spitting.

"Why won't you let me catch a cat for you?" asked Sheru.

"Foolish humans! What have you done?" asked TC.

But at night we switched our areas, moving from the living room where we worked all day, to the bedroom. We turned off the light for the dog and left him with fans on and the balcony door open and he was a little sad that we were leaving, but he soon settled down. TC greeted us with a cold shoulder until we made a fuss of him and then he was just like, "Okay, okay, he can stay."

The first night, I got a call from my father in Kerala telling me that my grandmother had passed away. She was a really lovely lady, and I had to go for the funeral, and I was wondering if I should call the shelter and have them rehome Sheru for a few days.

"I'll look after him," said the Good Thing. (Do you see why he's the Good Thing?)

"Really? But it's not your responsibility! I can totally call them and have them bring him back only when I return."

"No, it's cool. We'll manage."

The funeral was sad, and we're not going to talk about it, except that when I returned two days and one night later, there was this whole Man and Dog thing going on in the flat. I had been reading some of that dog psychology stuff, you know, dogs are pack animals so you have to be the alpha and so on and so forth. I mentioned it casually to the Good Thing before I left, and he did some reading too. And oh boy. He was the alpha all right.

Sheru was delighted to see me again, but every time the Good Thing left the room, he'd stand and stare at the door. The Good Thing had also discovered that Sheru was reasonably well trained, he could sit and stay and shake hands every now and then. "Sit," I said when I got back, "Stay!" But he was so happy to see me he just kept offering me his paw over and over again, like a short circuit blew in his brain and he knew this would make me happy.

Here's when the nice thing happened. I posted a picture of Sheru to Instagram saying that he needed a home. And two of my friends, who have recently gotten hitched, got in touch. They loved boxers, they said. He looked just like their other dog who lived with his mum. Could they come over and meet him?

Obviously, anyone who liked dogs would like this one. I mean, we're more cat people, and we liked this one. He was eminently lovable. And so, we handed him over after a house check by Friendicoes who like to make sure their pets aren't twice abandoned. I knew that wasn't going to happen, because if you could've seen Sheru with his new owner. It was like click-click-click, all the pieces of a dog and a person falling together at exactly the same place.

We dropped him off on Sunday afternoon to his new flat, where he had access to every single room, not left out of the activities because of a temperamental cat. A full-time house help who loves dogs. A flat that's always full of young people, all of whom would make a fuss of him. In the living room, we made excuses not to leave so we could hang out with him longer. Sheru in his turn kept coming over to us to have his ears pulled, to sniff at our hands. But his new owners fed him as we were leaving and he didn't even look up when we left. It was nice. And sad. But mostly nice. 

"Should we get a kitten?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

While we are decorating, and kitten-ing, we probably won't have another foster dog for a few weeks. "How can you say goodbye?" asked my friend, "It must be so hard!" But dogs, as lovely and enchanting as they are, are not the pets for us. We're Cat People. We like our independent lives, with a cuddly creature still there, but still independent. We're helping, in our own small ways, we're trying to home some of the many needy animals out there who need some love, some social media attention. Do I think Sheru would have still gotten a home if he had been at a shelter? Sure. But maybe not as quickly. And maybe not with his perfect family.

Here's my PSA: you should consider fostering. Especially adult dogs. They're delightful, already potty trained, and less demanding than a puppy. Being in your home will make it easier for them to find a new one because you can tell their new owners all about their quirks and habits. Even if you have another dog or a cat, it's really not that hard to keep them separate. And in your own small way, you'd be helping.

  

Thirty Two and Twenty Thirteen

32.

Thirty two years have I,

No longer young and fit and spry.

Thirty two years of laughing and lucking,

Considerably less of dancing and fucking.

Thirty two sounds very, very old,

I’ve learnt fortune does favour the bold.

These feet have been in quite a few places,

This brain has forgotten many faces.

These eyes are better than the ones I was born with,

The epic hangovers are no longer a myth.

Sleep only comes when I’m in my bed,

Not—alas carefree twenties!—on buses, planes or horse’s heads.

At thirty two, life makes you Plan,

Life Insurance? Marriage? Babies? A man?

Of assets, I have but a few,

A car, a cat, and you, and you, and you.

Thirty two years this December,

Thirty two years I’m happy to remember.

But it’s August, why now, why think, you ask,

After all, winter has yet to pass.

But when one’s thirty-one-th moves slowly into thirty two,

There’s ever so much planning one has to do.

Thirty one-and-a-half years have I,

Thirty-one-and-a-half, twenty-one-year-old-me, do I hear you sigh?

Age is just a number, a figurative concept,

But ultimately, something we all have to accept.

A couple of months ago, I posted this poem on Facebook. Okay, so it's not the world's best poetry, but it summed up what I was thinking about ageing. Ageing is weird. I started this blog at 22, and here I am, 10 years later, still trying to figure out the Meaning Of Life. Some things I have sorted, some things I know as truisms, but mostly, here I am, along with the rest of you, muddling my way along. I wrote a couple of books these last few years, and while I'm not the "acclaimed" author I longed to be by now, I know that writing is my thing, the thing I'm going to do for the rest of my life, while trends ebb and fall, critics come and go, and books may move beyond printed pages to meaning something else entirely. This will happen even if I don't win prizes or make a lot of money doing it. I always have my words and words will earn me a living, depending on who's buying.

On the other hand, as I'm summing up, I think of all the things I'm grateful for. This man, for example, the one sitting in front of me in his lungi, the one unexpected who became so entwined with my life that I now can't imagine one without him. Loving, when it's done right, is intimate enough to hearken to a family member, this guy is my partner, my boyfriend, my best friend and my brother all rolled into one--different roles for different days. Love, when it comes, is a slow feeling, a morning when all is okay with your world, an evening somewhere doing something perfectly mundane that suddenly is tinged with petrol-in-a-puddle rainbow colours, just because someone is holding your hand as you cross the street.

This is also the year I moved into the Flat of My Life, and since moving in, I haven't had a moment alone with it, which is oddly fitting, because the Flat of My Life is open and welcoming to all the people I love so dearly, and its rooms aren't meant to be hoarded by the single woman with her cat, but shared with a multitude of people. The dining table is suddenly "too small" for the largess on it, the rooms are full, all cupboards are occupied, and yet, there are pockets of the day when I can retreat to a corner and be by myself just to recharge. The cat has stopped trying to escape it, like he used to in my old house, which had such bad vibes I wanted to leave almost as soon as I moved in. He suns himself in the balcony, and has his little nooks and corners where he retreats, just as I do.

This is the year stuff changed slowly but for the better on the professional front. I like what I do, which is amazing, because it's the better half of my week just gone on doing what I do.

And in the world, which is greater than my own insular little life, this is the year people started talking about things: feminism became mainstream, politics affected my whole disaffected generation, you got a little scared of what you were putting on the internet, the world collapsed and it rebuilt, collapsed and rebuilt, so often that you skipped the headlines unless it really mattered to you, and still it continues: collapsing and rebuilding.

"What would you wish for, if you could wish for one thing?"

"Happiness." 

Life In Instagram

A photo round-up of what I've been doing.

Went to Bombay last weekend. It was raining mostly, but then it dried up and was just very pretty--overcast and cool. Good Thing has hooked up this giant computer monitor on a desk next to his bed, so we can lie around and watch movies. I made him watch Dil Chahta Hai which he HATED, but I was all, "Awww." I love that movie.

Posted this picture on Facebook and Twitter asking people to identify the movie and everyone did! People are smart in their old movie rememberance.

The Good Thing has a Maharashtrian cook, an older lady who just LOVES bossing the two bachelors around. She's quite sweet though, and when I asked her to make me sabudana vadas, she soaked it at home and made them piping hot and fresh, serving it to us, while we were lying around that aforementioned bed watching Family Guy.

Kofuku in Bandra is pretty much my favourite Japanese restaurant in the ENTIRE COUNTRY. Run by a Ladhaki, the staff is almost all Japanese and there are always homesick Japanese people there, like the guy reading behind my cherry blossom sushi.

With Cookie dying (thank you all for your kind words) I've been looking at other old dogs a lot. This is Rani, he's a boy who lives downstairs. He has only one tooth, and barks a lot, so initially I was a bit wary of him. But he has the sweetest disposition, and this funny way of gnashing his gums and about a week after we moved in, he's greeting me as I walk up the stairs. He must be lonely though, I never see anyone in that house, even though my friends who lived here before assure me he is much loved, I still stop and say hi.

He's pretty shy of having his photo taken, so I had to wait quite a bit to take this one.

I don't know why his name is Rani either.

And of course, you want a TC update. This is him in the summer time. He hides a lot in the day, but he seems so HAPPY in this house, as opposed to the pokiness of the old one. I barely see him now, he has so many spots to lurk, but he always comes out by the evening and hangs around with me for a bit.

When my mum spends the night, she wakes up earlier than I do, so TC wakes up with her, gets fed and goes to the balcony, pottering about, till I wake up and then he goes back to bed.

Great life, cats.

Currently reading. It's big and it's bulky, but it's lovely, very Urdu, which makes sense as the author is an Urdu translator. I have to do a longer book post soon, including Mohsin Hamid's latest, which I loved so much, I gave it to someone as a birthday present. But so far, this book and I are bedtime snuggle buddies.

Although, I did just yesterday have my Tata Sky connection fixed, so BYE BYE reading. Sigh. TV is the devil's plaything.










PS: You can follow me on Instagram for a LIVE FEED YAY! BUT SHORTER NON-EXPLAIN-Y CAPTIONS BOO! experience.  www.instagram.com/decemberschild

Cat In A Hot AC Vent

Yesterday morning, I came back from Bangalore at 9.30 am. It had been a weekend of six am flights--some down time in Bangalore on Sunday--but mostly, hectic, hectic activity. The readings went well, there was press and I felt a bit like a conquering heroine, book four all laid out in my mind, anxious to get back to work.

Usually, TC waits for me by the door. A lot of people ask me what happens to the cat while I'm away. I've been lucky to have help who genuinely like him, I've seen them chat to him, stroke his head, and he, in turn, butts his head against them, and waits for them to come in through the door, his tail swishing. I do an experimental away-for-the-weekend trip, don't tell them when I'm coming back, and then check in on him later, to see if he's well fed and watered, and for the most part, all he needs is someone to top up his food and water (two bowls of water in the summer, placed in different parts of the house, if there's no one to keep giving him fresh water) and to have the occasional chat with. In this regard, I'm so much more suited to having a cat than a dog, cats are creatures of habit, he doesn't care so much who's home, as long as he has food, and shifting him to another place would mean two days of trauma. When I was in England, summer of 2010, I left him at home for two months, giving friends the key, and they reported back to me, "Yes, he's alive and happy."

ANYhow. So, yesterday, no sign of the cat. Sometimes he hides, so I did my usual on top of cupboards, underneath the beds, but didn't see him. I wasn't too worried, he's a master hider, I've been panicked before and he's just strolled out of some crevice or shadow in which he concealed himself for the last 12 hours. I should've called him Houdini.

Texts from TC

(My cat isn't half so charming as Dog, but he is equally annoying.)



He isn't half as posh as he looks

girl
girl
girlllllllllllllllll
girl

WHAT?

whatcha doin?

working.
whats working
is it when you sit and stare at your screen for hours
do you look at other cats
i know you do
girlllllllll

don't be stupid.

i saw the cats
you cant lie to me girl
the cats were on your screen

oh THOSE cats.

yeah those cats
are they sexier than me
would you prefer if i was black
or a grey tabby
girl

i like you ginger, okay?

so it isn't true that you only got me because my sister, a grey tabby, was killed by a dog?
i heard you talking
i know it's true
you can't deny it

i might have wanted a girl cat, but then i got you, and i have no regrets
except for when you poop on the floor

that's not poop girl

it's not? if it looks like poop, and smells like poop..

hellz, no
that shit ain't shit
that shit is a way of me expressing that i'm the man in this relationship
i'm the boss cat
you have to clean it, coz you're the girlllll

that's not very feminist of you

it wasn't very masculist of you to cut my balls off
i know you left me with the sacks though
thank you
thank you for my sacks

i really am working though, so i'd rather not discuss your *sacks*

i've been napping all day
i like napping
you should try it
now i'm hungry
hungry
HUNGRY

there is food in your bowl, you stupid idiot

no one told me there was food
where's the food
where's the food

it's.. OH MY GOD.. IT'S RIGHT THERE, SEE FOLLOW MY FINGER? SEE? RIGHT THERE

you don't have to shout
oh there's my food
hi food
i'm gonna eat you now

you're welcome

you need to stop texting me so much, girl
that's not cool
it's kinda needy
i'm gonna eat
laters girl

My fingernails are caked with dirt

I've never been a person with much of a green thumb. Once, a former flatmate gave me a cactus. She had quite the collection herself, loads of plants all set out on her windowbox, growing green and beautiful and wild, and TC was unceremoniously kicked out of her room each time he went in, because, man, I love my cat, but he is a PAIN when it comes to plants. Or cut flowers. Or anything that is green that is not meant for him. Once, I gave him some greens, placed them by his bowl so he could have at it whenever he wanted, but he wasn't interested. Instead, he made a beeline for some roses someone had given me and spent the whole evening his face stuffed in the flowers, gnawing at the leaves. Even now, my houseplants bear the distinct Mark Of TC, the leaves are browning in bits where he's taken an experimental chew. It's good for him though, to have some roughage, since he's a housecat, so I don't stop him, but then, if they're other people's plants, it gets a bit much. ANYway, she gave me a cactus, which I liked very much and placed on my own windowsill, and you know cacti are hard to kill, right? But I killed it. It sprouted a couple of green things hopefully for the first month or two, but then decided to die, no doubt out of depression, and each time I went near it, it spat out thorns in my direction. That was a neurotic cactus. No kidding, once at a good five inches, nowhere NEAR the damn thing, I wound up with little thorns all over my fingers.

Anyway, that was the last time I aspired to keep plants for a long time. Then, one monsoon, my mother visited Bombay and bought me one of those sticks of bamboo you see everywhere, tall and twisty, and I put this in an empty vodka bottle with some water and waited. And waited. Nothing. The bamboo got a bit chewed by my cat, but once it stopped doing anything and just sat there pathetically, he lost interest. I was ready to give up on Mr Bamboo. I wasn't winning any Miss Green Thumb awards any time soon, but then I remembered an old trick of my mother's, to revive flagging flowers and popped it into the bathroom for a bit. I don't know whether it was the humidity or the fun of getting to see us naked, but the bamboo revived with great speed and even started to get new leaves and twists in its stem. (Trunk?) It grew so well, I even popped it into a plastic bag and carried it with me and cat to Delhi and now it sits, in an empty wine bottle on my windowsill, growing madly. MADLY.

Ennobled by my success, I bought a few more bamboo plants, but none of them did as well as the first, apart from drinking water rapidly, so much so that I have to top them up every couple of days. So they have roots and everything, but as for new leaves, they seem to be shy about it, putting out one a month and then waiting with this tiny, tender new leaf and nothing happening. Stupid plants.

Once I moved to the new place though, I decided I was going to be the girl with lots of plants. A CONSERVATORY even. I imagined loads of little plants everywhere, the air thick and green with them, sprouting little flowers, I even imagined fondly, snipping some flowers off and putting them in a vase for my table and everyone being all, "Oh, wow, where'd you get those flowers?" and I'd say, modestly, "I grew them." It was all very English countryside in my brain for a moment. My mother, like my previous flatmate, is a great plant lover, so most of the plants lined up on my study windowsill are courtesy her, and well, it's hit or miss. Some are dying really really rapidly, like the two succulents my parents brought me back from Ranikhet, which are in hanging pots and which, no matter how much I water and sunshine, don't seem to be going anywhere. Some are doing okay, like one green leafy shrub (TC's favourite for its chewy leaves) which, despite abuse, is putting out new leaves and being all twisty and obliging. Some just sit there, like a cactus like plant, which promised me a new shoot about three weeks ago and is still holding on to it. One, the gorgeous bonsai-esque tree thing that someone gave me for a housewarming present, is doing SO well, that I hold my breath each time I pass it, new flowers and everything.

So, I became that girl with the plants. Finally. When I was in Kerala last weekend, we happened to stop by a nursery and seeing the pretty new green things, I decided to pick up two for my flat. (Note: if you're flying a plant, they make you check it in, which means mine emerged a bit battered looking, despite the 'Fragile' tag I made them slap on). I got a jasmine plant, because come on, who doesn't love a jasmine, and I envision it flowering and filling the flat with its sweet, sweet scent and making garlands out of the buds (it only has one so far, and I'm watching hard to make sure it blooms.) And I bought one corresponding to my Malayali birth star, because they had a list of which tree was for which sign (it's a thing in Kerala, apparently) and I thought I'd get a kick out of it. My birth tree is a bit boring, the kumbil or beechwood, but it's nice to have something "lucky" in your house, right? I wish though, that it was the lemon tree, because nothing is cuter than little nimboos growing. In fact, I think I might get a little lemon plant, just for the fun of harvesting my own lime.

It's a nice hobby, gardening, even when a couple of your plants aren't doing spectacularly. I like watering them and pottering about seeing how they're doing, and something about nurturing things that aren't warm and fuzzy (which are the only things I've nurtured so far) is pretty rewarding in its own right. Hey, my cat's thriving, right? How hard can a plant be? (Don't answer that.)

UPDATE: Just got home after a Friday night out and found my jasmine plant abloom. Apologies for poor picture quality, it's off my cellphone.

Back to life, back to reality

Heathrow. Getting my very heavy suitcase to the check-in desk. Being told I was *gasp* SEVENTEEN kilos overweight. Being told it was *heart attack* THIRTY ONE POUNDS per kilo. Hurriedly unpacking and giving JC's mother most of my heavy stuff. Telling the grumpy check-in girl that I'd take the other bag as cabin baggage.

Stopping at duty free, buying a carton of Camel Lights. Rushing to the boarding gate.

Doha. Arabic everywhere. Duty free there is SO much cheaper. Absolut Mango, check. Benson and Hedges Special Filters, check. Trying not to think about JC further away with each step I took, well, not so much. Stepping up to the check in counter. Being told my seat had been changed from 17 K to 11 B. Asked for a window seat, but no luck. Oh well. What difference did it make? Economy is economy.

Boarding. Walking through economy, no seat. Keep walking, keep walking. Through... curtains? Really? OH. MY. GOD. I. AM. IN. BUSINESS. CLASS. They upgraded me! Whey-hey! Steward notices my confused expression. Clocks me as a newbie. Try and make myself look respectable. Accept a glass of champagne and put my feet up. Too bad this flight is only a couple of hours and I'm... so... tiiiiiiiiiired.

The best sleep I have ever had in a plane. The seat goes all the way back and I curl up under my blanket, only to awake when we're circling Bombay. Ah. I don't think I can ever do economy again.

Bombay is instant shedding. Off comes the jacket, the cardigan, the socks. Standing in line at immigration. Realise I have forgotten to fill in the landing form. Sent back to the back of the queue. Make my way to the front again, only to be told pencils are Not Acceptable. Seriously? I almost cry, and they take pity on me and let me stand there and rewrite it.

Baggage claim's a bitch. One line gets broken, the other takes ages. I'm standing amongst people who shove past me. Well, Toto, I guess we're not in the UK anymore.

Home. Upstairs. Flat looks decent but dusty. Cat looks shocked at my appearance. Doesn't let me out of his sight. When I go to the bathroom he stands outside and meows. I guess the fact that cats are perfectly happy with just someone coming in to feed them is a myth. Now, what shall I do with him next time I travel? Oh dear.

Friends are happy to see me. Bandra is much the same, with the addition of a few new places. And, how sad, Bonobo is no more. And Escobar seems to have never existed. Did I really leave? Did my two months end before I noticed? The only lingering signs that I have been anywhere at all are some souveniers and a bad stomach.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

A guest post from The Cat, Esq.

So there's been so much fuss about this Sockington fellow, I told my Legs that I wanted to write something also. Legs has been busy lately, and hasn't had much time to write (or to cuddle) recently, so I figured if it wasn't for me, this blog would just fall apart. Right? Right. Of course I'm not modest. Why should I be? Firstly, I have it made, and I bet more than you do. I get fed and watered when I want, I play nighttime games, I sleep all day. It's a good life, for anyone. Besides which, I am handsome, charming and with a set of whiskers that would put anyone to shame. AND clearly, I have a great grasp on the English language. I'm pretty much bilingual. Legs calls me Motu Singh (which I do not appreciate, but hey, she's okay about other stuff) and The Cook Lady in the morning likes to talk to me in Marathi. I respond when I feel like it.

The other day, I overheard Legs and THIS MAN WHO HAS APPEARED FROM NOWHERE talking about making me comfortable in a new home. I'm all WTF? What is this new home and why have I not been consulted previously? Legs noticed how upset I looked and tried to tell me that it was this awesome place--huge and airy with many cupboards and windows for a cat to curl up in AND my own toilet, plus I don't have to contribute to the rent. But still. No one ever asks the cat anything. And THIS MAN WHO HAS APPEARED FROM NOWHERE. Okay, so he feeds me when I climb on top of his head and yowl at him. But he has made one or two rude gestures at me and it hurts my feelings. And Legs lets him get away with so much! She is too lenient sometimes.

Legs has been sort of stressed lately though. I think it's a combination of how much money she's going to have to spend on the move, and this dreadful weather. As long as I get my regular feeds, I'm really okay. I think Legs 2 and Legs 3 are going to miss me also. Not to mention The Cook Lady. They've all been saying, "Oh TC, we'll be so LOST without you around to be the man in the house!" and I'm all, "Yes, obviously, you wouldn't know what to do without me." I am a smart cat. THIS MAN WHO HAS APPEARED FROM NOWHERE (although he seems vaguely familiar) better not try and take my place.

Anyway, enough about Legs. Let's talk about me. Have I told you how much fun it is hunting cockroaches? They hide under the sink, but ha ha! I catch them and chase them and bite them and crunch them and cockroaches are yummy. I leave a few in Legs' room for, you know, a midnight snack, but she just gets the broom and sweeps them out and I'm like DEWD YOU ARE WASTING FOOD. And then she says, "Bad cat!" and I look stonily at her.

It is hot. I must go to the window and nap now. Goodbye, other Legs people.

Note from "Legs": Regular blogging resumes next week, as soon as the busy stuff is over!

Disjointed Dog Memories

Reading the ebook of Marley and Me on a rainy evening, right before I go out to dinner, I realise how much I miss having a dog around. TC is awesome, he's a stellar cat, does his own thing, is affectionate when he wants to be, is SERIOUSLY adorable and is the size of Garfield, but he doesn't come rushing to the door when I come home. He can't be walked. He won't be walked. His ideas of conversations with us are: "Oh, an ankle. Let me scratch it lovingly." or "Legs! Food! TC hungry!" or "I know you love me, and I tolerate you when you scratch under my chin." Cats are cats and dogs are dogs and the two are very different species, I know, but I miss my dog. Cookie is more like a cat than a dog. She is loving, yes. When I'm in Delhi, she can't get enough of me and rests her head with deep sighs on my knee. When my mother calls, sometimes she puts Cookie on the phone and I say, "Hey Cookie! Who'sa good girl? Who?" and she closes her eyes and licks the reciever. But I bet if our house in Delhi ever got robbed, Cookie would be the one either under the dining table or going, "You can have them all! Just don't hurt me!"

Bobo, now. Bobo was a dog. He oozed essence of dogginess from his every pore. Bobo was part Alsatian (full Alsatian, the pet shop assured us, but he seemed more like a Dobermann-Alsatian cross to me). He was named by my mother, for Boris Becker-which should be more BoBE than BoBO, but hey. He was an adorable puppy and an adolescent dog with behaviour issues. MAJOR behaviour issues. And we weren't the best puppy owners in the world either. My parents have this whole live and let live thing when it comes to rearing anything--including me--and that's something I've inherited. I figure discipline can come, everything can come as long as the thing being raised realises it's loved. Bobo understood he was loved all right. He also understood that his humans were inconsistent with their punishments and in a large house, it was easy for an active puppy to get into mischief.

We packed him off to obedience school once--the kindest decision, my parents felt. I opposed it as violently as an eight year old could, but when Bobo returned, he could sit and speak and do all sorts of things. Well, for like five whole minutes. Then he was back to being himself, tongue out, wide smile, head lopsided. I lived in Trivandrum then, which I've written about before--a huge house on top of a valley, no other kids nearby and lots of walks. Bobo and I walked all over that hillside--well, he took off and fathered many children--but I had Enid Blyton ideals about my dos and whistled to him as I set out. Sometimes, he'd respond and come bounding after me, but most times he was wrapped up in mating with every bitch that waggled her bottom at him.

He loved me though. He was a loving dog. My mother would hold him by the leash and I'd hide and she'd say, "Bobo, where's eM? Go find eM!" and he'd always find me. When we moved back to Delhi, I gave him to my grandfather, who also took him on long walks and was firm with him and gave him attention when he needed some--in fact, probably a much better pet owner than we were--and Bobo was devoted to him. He'd even leave off chatting up some brindle mongrel to go running whenever my grandfather called. Once Bobo died (of snake bite) I considered getting my grandfather another dog, but he's older, the farm is smaller and I don't think he has the energy for a puppy.

Plus, I think like human beings, some animals are just meant to be with some people. Bobo was meant to be with my grandfather, he was, TC is meant to be with me, he is the pet I feel perhaps the most strongly about, and I've had many many pets. Someday, I'll find my dog, my soulmate dog, my dog that will come running when I call it and will be the one I train and everything. TC is going to have to live with it, sadly, a fact that I don't think he's quite aware of just yet.

I'm Like Vasco Da Gama, Except With Prettier Shoes

I know, I know, it's been a while. But nothing of massive consequence happened to me recently. And I've had a horrible, old woman, hacking, tuberculosis type cough. (I'll do it for you: yes, yes, smoke some more). Actually, I still have the cough, I need to go to a doctor and stop being so damn lazy about it. But! I have made new discoveries!

> DISCOVERY ONE: My cat is fucking adorable. He is. His new trick is to sit on top of the TV when it's on. But then he sees all these people inside this little box as he's lying sprawled there, and you can see the tip of his tail beginning to twitch as he pulls himself into sitting position and gazes upside down at the TV. By this time, I'm beginning to giggle, so when he plonks down on his stomach and makes grabs at the yummy Owen Wilson, I'm hysterical. Which is when he notices me, and is all like, "Whatchoo laughing at, woman?" Then, he will turn his back to me and the TV and the world in general and wash himself thoroughly and indignantly. This is point normally when I grab him and say, "Whoosh my handsome? Whoosh?" into his ear. He suffers this if we're alone, even purring a little, but if there's anyone else in the room, he looks at me all stricken and "Mo-oooooooom, please." and then scampers off. I love mindfucking with my cat. What else are small furry dependant creatures for but to sneak up and pat them on their bottoms as they stalk flies, thereby making them jump a mile in the air? Heh.

> DISCOVERY TWO: Okay, so I have an addictive personality. So far, my addictions are: coffee, cigarettes, potatoes, cell phones, the internet and lifestyle. This is why I don't do chemicals (besides the fact that they can completely blast out a few hundred brain cells), because I'm afraid that I might get all coke-head-y. (Also drugs are bad. Sorry, this is a particular pet peeve. And don't give me the whole oh-alcohol-is-a-drug schpeil. Face it, alcohol is legal for a reason and MDMA just isn't. And before you ask, nope, not an alcoholic, yet. That seems to be the one addiction I've been exposed to that I haven't grabbed on to.) Anyhoo, so recently I discovered the ENTIRE Babysitter's Club collection online. OMG. Hardly daring to believe my eyes I clicked a link and there they all were and it was Claudia with her funky clothes and Stacey who was diabetic and really a big city girl and also a trendy dresser and Dawn who had super long, super pale hair and was from California and liked health food and Mary Anne who was shy and cried a lot but had a very cute boyfriend and Kristy who had this billionaire stepfather and who I always suspected was gay and Mallory who had seven brothers and sisters and Jessi who was black and a ballet dancer. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. And I've been just reading them and reading them. Like chocolate or something. I can't bring myself to stop. Last night I was reading till THREE in the MORNING. I'm doomed. (Go to scribd.com and do a search for babysitter's club.)

> DISCOVERY THREE: So, I have two new flatmates, starting next month. Both girls, both from the old alma mater. It's nice that I sorta know them, because then I'm not sharing with absolute strangers. It's nice that I don't know them THAT well, because sometimes even the nicest friends can turn into absolute psychos when they become your roommate. I need to give these two pseudonyms though. What to call them? They're both tall--well, taller than me--so that won't work. Should I just give them random names? I think so. Okay, so the Compulsive household now includes eM, tc, Yamini and Lali. I'll miss Shark Tooth, but despite my best efforts, he's determined to move, so I'm glad at least his replacements are nice. And organised. And everyone leaves for work at different times so no bathroom issues, before you ask. I have SO much to do though, before they move in and he moves out, including changing the names on the lease and changing the address on my SIM card which is on Shark Tooth's name now.

> DISCOVERY FOUR: I have crow's feet! At the young and tender age of almost-26! This SUCKS. I refuse to be old. I don't WANT to turn 26. I'm having an aging meltdown. The party, which I've planned for next weekend (my birthday's on a Thursday) is going to have a kid's theme, as in, I've told everyone to dress as they would in 1987, I'm going to have games like Pin The Tail On The Donkey and Passing The Parcel and Three Legged Races and so on. It'll be just like being six again except with alcohol. Lots of alcohol. On second thought, this adulthood thing isn't bad at all.

Things I Just Thought

(So I can prove to you exactly how random my brain is)

* The blue Sarojini Nagar skirt with the blue top Ma got me. Heels? Maybe. The word skirt is funny. I never really thought about it before, but skirt. Were people stoned when they invented these words? Stoned even. Is it supposed to feel like a stone hit your head?

* Ooh, maybe I need spectacles.

* If thunder thunders, why doesn't lightening lighten? Lightening flashes something something something. Wait, where's my iTunes icon? Oh there it is.

* How can someone who is TWENTY FUCKING FIVE still get zits? Seriously. Considering I was smooth faced as a baby's bottom all through my adolescence. Are babies bottoms really smooth? Investigate.

* I make good coffee. Is it time for me to get waxed again? No, that's just some ingrown hair. Ew. Although if I poke it, it comes out all curly. Is that weird? This one time, I was lighting a cigarette and the lighter wouldn't come on so I held it near my face and singed my eyelashes. The erstwhile Nonboyfriend said I had the longest eyelashes EVER. I tried to measure them the other day, but they curl at the tips, so it's hard. Do people with curly hair have curly eyelashes?


* Erstwhile is a good word.

* As is rapport.


* Do I have enough money to get drunk tonight? No, I don't think so. It's almost September! Whee! I wonder where my damn credit card is. I applied for it in JULY. Although I'm not very good with the whole paying later thing.

* I really should shower.

* I wonder why no one eats cats. Or dogs. Way back when they were evolving, who picked chickens and goats and cows and decided cats aren't good eating? I think it's because they're just so damn cute. But evil. My cat, to announce his displeasure at me leaving him for TWO WHOLE DAYS, pissed all over my bed. Stupid animal. He didn't even touch Shark Tooth's bed, and he loves him just as much. I'd eat him served up with a nice gravy and french fries right now, only he's being all rumbly and purry and it's hard to hate him.

*Mmmmmmmmmmm. French fries.

Remainder pile

* I have an excellent blog post all about "Are you trying to mess with the messee?" and mixed messages and signals and all that, but I can't post it because too many people I know read this blog.





* Which is why, as I mentioned on the comment section earlier, I'm going to shortly turn this blog into invite-only readers. If you still want to keep reading, I'll let you know when to send me your email address for the invite.





* In the meanwhile, it will be a fairly bland post I'm afraid. Although, I could, I suppose, talk about my cat. He's spoilt rotten, will only eat one brand of cat food, which is also, lalalalala, the most expensive one, won't eat cooked fish or raw shrimp or anything that is unfamiliar, thinks my cellphone charger is his new toy, and likes to crawl under the cover with me in the morning and dig his teeth and claws into my ankle, as well as climbing all over my boobs as a gentle WAKE UP AND FEED ME ALREADY reminder. He has this one game he loves, we call it "Let's make the bed!" and I swear he has sonic hearing when it comes to my bed, because even if he is curled up fast asleep somewhere, he will hear me shake out the sheets and come running to sit on my bed as I make it. And then he lies there as I toss my counterpane over him, and he does a few experimental, "Mmmmm..reow?s" as he stalks around underneath the sheets before he emerges, so triumphant. My cat is a little psycho.





* What are your I-would-never-dates? Mine are a) non-smokers b) non-drinkers and c) vegetarians. Not that there's anything wrong with these kind of people, I just wouldn't be able to date them, what with worrying about cigarette breath, how much more coffee we could drink and having to always order mushrooms or paneer. The list used to be longer and included d) people who don't like animals; e) people who don't read; f) people who don't drive, but as age catches up with me, I'm getting less picky. Although I would never marry someone who doesn't read. Because my bookshelves are my best decoration, what else would I stack up randomly around the house?





* This weekend I am being a good granddaughter and succumbing to filial duties by going to Cochin for my grandmother's 80th birthday. I will, no doubt, be gritting my teeth through it all, because this will be a nonsmoking weekend. A nonsmoking, nonnaked weekend also. Smiling at old uncles I haven't seen in years and answering inane questions about my life. I think I'll have a t-shirt made that says, "I like it very much, thank you for asking." Does anyone from Cochin read this blog? Will you meet me so I can chainsmoke and blame it on you? And I don't know any Malayalam. Sigh.





* Although it would not be as bad as going to meet my mom's relatives in Hyderabad. There I have to fend off questions about when I'm getting married. Either the Malayalis are more liberal and forward thinking, or they just don't give a rat's ass about my marital status. Either way, it means that much less teeth gritting.





* I would like to get married though. I mean, not desperately, but it's in there, with the rest of my to-be-done-eventually list. I'd like to have a court wedding, not too much fuss, and then take everyone to Neemrana or Dharamshala and party for two days. And I will be stunning and all grown up, and he will be stunning-er, and everyone will say how awesome we look together. I like being in a couple, I realise, it's good fun, even though singledom has its distinct advantages.





* Many months ago, I got an email from this guy I met once asking me to link to his blog, and his friends. Which I promptly ignored. But then, we became friends and when we met on Tuesday night, he said, "Now that we've known each other for so long, do an entire post on how awesome my blog is and how more people should visit it." He hasn't linked me AT ALL, so there will be no entire post, but I do enjoy his blog (and his comments) soooo, I'm putting it in big block letters. Go read Leo's blog now. Happy?





* I have not been to a new place in so long.

* And my MSN status says: Master And Commander Of Awkward Situations

* Which makes me wonder whether it should be Mistress?

* And Commandress?

* Commandrette looks better, I think.

* But also it makes me look like the kind of person who dots her i's with a heart.

* Or a circle.

* And I feel fat.

* Not to mention hairy.





* Which doesn't make me feel particularly attractive.





*And when I wear cleavage-y tops at night, my neck and face are a completely different colour from my boobs.





* So I look like I've borrowed my torso from someone else.





* The best solution to this is to wear low cut things in the day as well, so I tan evenly.





* Which I did yesterday, when I walked all over town for a story I was doing.





* Which is not such a good idea, because the daytime? It is HOT.





* And a pool of sweat gathers in my bra.





* And when you go out after work, people recoil from you, their noses wrinkling.





* So I'm going to henceforth stay indoors while the sun is up, and do all my interviews on the phone.





* And not be cleavage-y till the winter.





* When it will be too cold to be cleavage-y.





* Oh wait, I live in Bombay.

Why blog when you can..

> Teach your cat martial arts moves and watch him fly across the room, Matrix style, his tail twisted, his claws outstretched.

> Discover the various merits and demerits of Indian cheese spread. I now recommend Amul's Garlic flavoured spread, with Brittania's cream crackers. That's been like breakfast, lunch and dinner for me recently.

> Think of ways to do away with the noisy loudspeakers outside your house, personal favourites include filling water balloons with boiling hot water so both loudspeaker and person utilising said loudspeaker are destroyed forever. Muahahahaha.. um, you're still here?

> Convince yourself into believing that relationships with expiry dates are really the way to go, because it's so easy and stress free and user friendly.

> Do a pretty good job with the convincing.

> Argue with your writers group online, in Delhi, where you should really not be arguing and just be grateful that you're still on the mailing list at all, about letting someone else join. (Hi! Still totally deeply grateful! Don't delete me!)

> Start reading Sacred Games again, and this time actually follow the plot.

> Go for friend's housewarming party and admire his beautiful new house, especially the huge full-length mirror that came with it and has (wait for it) a SPOTLIGHT on top to illuminate you. Sigh. Such a waste on a boy.

> Go out with Pieces and her friends and drink many shots and demonstrate to her the correct way to stick your finger down your throat over the pot, thereby earning her lifelong gratitude.

> Drive in Bombay during the DAY. To get your car system fixed. And, not so bad. Could be better, but not as terrible as I anticipated. I love expecting the worst, you're either constantly being proved right or being pleasantly surprised. (As much as I would like to take credit for that line, I think I read it in a Reader's Digest once.)

> Go for Eragon. And wonder why you just wasted two hours of your life. And remember it was written by a 15-year-old and wonder why you are surprised that it is derivative crap.

> Remember you have drive during the day again, because even though they fixed your system and charged you a grand, the speakers are now not working. Fill yourself with a sense of impending doom.

> Lech at hot firangs at train stations. Demurely look away and hold your book invitingly to your chest so he can see how well-read you are, and start a conversation. Almost miss your train.


My week. Yours?

Keeping Score

Things I have lost this week:
ATM Card (1 item)
Cellphone (1 item)
A shitload of brand new friends contacts (I forget how many items)
The thought that my cat was a female (Two testicular items)
My mind (who knows how many grey cells still remain anyway?)

Things I have gained this week:

Celebrity crush date type thing (ONE HUGE MOTHERFUCKING ITEM)
Invitations to posh parties (four items)
Tickets to Delhi (well, not this week, but I leave this weekend)
Brand new shiny cellphone (Such a very pretty item)
New friendships (Two, quite cool, items)
News that Solidarity Sister Soulmate Leela will be in Delhi exactly the same weekend I am (I'm-so-excited item)
Pink shiny shoes with a killer heel (They make my feet feel like they're dying but oh, such a sexy item)

Things my cat has gained in this week

News that he is a boy (he looks so proud of himself)
News that he is exceptionally good looking (I could have told you that anyway)
News that he's going to be a really, really LARGE cat ('ims is a big puttytat, 'ims is!)

Things my cat will lose in the next month

His balls (Though my male friends seem to be taking personal affront to this one, almost as if I'm suggesting murder. I don't want him spraying all over the house, I explain reasonably. But they look wounded nonetheless. To tc, I say, "I know you've just discovered your balls, but don't get too attached." I think he'll live)