Have yourself....

Have yourself a whole five minutes of solo time this morning. To realise that it's Christmas time again, and reflect on the past year.To be thankful that you're in one piece and alive to celebrate it. To remember for a moment those who've moved on, and be grateful for the ones who're still around.

Have yourself the thrill that comes from hearing the buzz that pervades the house. Which doesn't happen on any other occasion ever.

Have yourself the luxury of admiring your Christmas tree for a moment. Of thinking that it is the most beautiful tree on the face of the earth despite being smaller than most and thoroughly battered by your growing-up years.

Have yourself the fun of answering calls and happy greetings from friends and family around. Of back slapping cheeriness and hearty "Look-who's-here"s as everybody comes together.

Have yourself a warm, happy feeling in your heart when you step into a church decked up to the nines. When you see the people you know around. When you call out "Merry Christmas!" in all sincerity despite the fact that you're at loggerheads with them the rest of the year.

Have yourself those I-shouldnt-have-had-that-third-appam feelings inspite of having warned yourself not to overdo it this year. And huge servings of biryani later in the day, with little morsels of plum cake in between. And excuse yourself by saying that Christmas comes along just once each year.

Have yourself the joys of singing carols at the top of your voice, despite being tone deaf and having the neighbours beg for mercy. Of knowing that these songs somehow will never lose their charm despite having heard them all your life.

Have yourself that sense of optimism that comes through on Christmas, no matter what may shake the earth and your faith on other days.

Most of all, have yourself a very merry Christmas and lots and lots of fun. And may you have a wonderful 2009 to look forward to.

Have fun, take care and God bless.

Love
Zahra

The Fellowship of the Ring(less)

Ohmigod.

I can’t believe I actually did this. On my last trip home , I finally gave in to my parents’ subtle demands. Oh well, ‘subtle’ is soooo 2007……. Now it’s more like the Exorcist theme score.

I…errr…. Ahem…. I…… damn, I can’t say this!!!

Oh then TYPE it out lady.

I…. cough, cough….. actually helped them create a profile for me on a matrimonial site. :( :( I solemnly swear that I don’t drink or do drugs.

Stop sniggering willya???

Btw, am pretty sure they’ve already explored multiple alternatives to foist their darling one and only onto some unwitting nalla payyan out there. Note: Do they exist???My suspicions hit an all time high when I saw a string of mails from the Malayala Manorama ID in Dad’s mailbox. I just happened to stop by his desk to ask something, and there was this sudden Alt + Tab rhythm that got started. For the uninitiated, the Malayala Manorama is not just a Mallu newspaper, it’s also the best friend of Mallu parents who don’t know what to do next with their twenty somethings.

I did have my doubts about the wisdom of it alright. Especially since

A) I’m in no particular hurry to tie the knot.
B) My parents’ and my idea of a nice guy vs okay-okay guy tend to clash occasionally
C) Have to keep reminding them that their dream son-in-law is right up there with Santa Claus, dragons and fairies….. a creature of fantasy.
D) And I have to keep reminding myself that all the guys I’ve dreamed of are unattainable public figures, who are married or committed to disgustingly gorgeous women…or just don’t exist. Sigh.
E) As a follow on to (D), the Enchantress reminds me it could be worse. The dream man might just turn out to be gay. Aiyyayyoooo…and good men are a rarity already.
F) Help me God, what if this whole website thingie actually works???? :-S

But on careful consideration it seemed only fair to help them out. After all, parents are bound to need help when they have a gorgeous, amazingly talented and supremely intelligent daughter on their hands.

No, I don’t have a sister.

Kinda dense aren’t you? I was talking about myself.

But here’s a little confession….. Browsing through some of the profiles made me think I shoulda started this eons ago…… I had no clue there was SO much entertainment on the net for free!!!! ;-D

Tomes have been written about the kinds of matrimonial ads that get published…. Some noteworthy blog posts have been dedicated to them too. But honestly, some of these profiles make you laugh out loud, or think really hard.

Among the giggle-worthy, here are some gems I found :

1. “Looking for a partner….. blah blah blah….. who also likes to cook and rear children.”
Hellooooo?!?!?! :-O Somebody pleeeeease get him a copy of Eats, shoots and leaves.

2. “She should be a candle light for me in my hours (sic) of darkness..”
Buddy, what you need is either an agony aunt or an inverter. Or a plain bulb. And you talk like you expect a LOT of darkness ahead……. NOT the best attention grabber for a future mate. Ladies, I see the potential for a lot of skeletons in this closet.

3. “I’m a coooooooool guy!!!”
I swear that’s exactly what was written. And ALL that was written. Stay far, far away from this one, Zahra-girl. This is the type your friends warned you about on Orkut.

4. “I’m a deeply religious, pious and spiritual person.”
Not that there’s anything wrong with that statement….. Faith matters to me too. But the overall tone of this particular profile left me kinda confused….. I didn’t know whether to continue reading, cross myself or light a candle. Methinks we’ve got the next Vatican canonization here.

5. “Myself a very handsome, caring, sensitive, dynamic personality….”
I just cannot compete with such perfection. You forgot to add ‘unshakeable self-esteem’ to your virtues buddy. Btw, about your profile pic….. Shades that cover 85% of your face don’t help. Especially since the uncovered 15% is not exactly standalone material….. nothing personal, just an objective observation.

My folks discreetly sugest that a profile pic will be in orer.

Mental sticky note: Upload a pic of Lolakutty.... we're talking wholesome Mallu gorge-yess-ness here.

:P


Hmmm…. One of the inescapable phases of quarter-life I guess….. at least the family’s getting some free entertainment.

Quite a few of my fellow victims in the Fellowship of the Ring(less) are in similar predicaments. My best friend (who’s a Bong) wishes that Bong guys were known for physique and looks too, not just academic credentials. Coz all her ‘prospects’ to date have been exceptionally geeky-looking Bong-men with multiple Ivy League qualifications. Anybody who can change that trend…..the geeky one….please let me know….. FYI, you’ll have to be single and Bong AND really tall (coz she is) AAANNNDDD intelligent ('coz she is, VERY) to floor this babe. There. That’s my good karma for the week.

Btw neither of us are six-pack fans, so we’re not very choosy that way. But yeah, we don’t dig family packs either.

On a serious note, it’s kinda disturbing that a LOT of people mention ‘fair’ as a criterion before education or personality or anything else. What’s with this fairness fixation anyway??? Especially when the same guys might be drooling over the not-exactly-fair Bipasha Basu. I know this horse’s been bludgeoned to death, but I just had to give my two cents’ worth of kicks.

Oh and did I tell you, I got a response to my profile the very next day ;-P

The mail started like this.....

“I came across your profile and found it SOOO interesting, I hope you don’t mind (sic)…”

There were a coupla smileys too, for my benefit. Oh yes I mind. Terribly. That profile was meant to be uninteresting and solely for my private edification.

Incidentally this guy has apparently not bothered to use a community/region/language filter while searching. Guess chronic spammers have to do their thing whenever, wherever.Needless to say, that guy’s email got the ‘Delete’ treatment.

Appaaa...AmMAAAAAAAA.... I told you this wasn’t a good idea.

Paralysis by analysis?

Last Sunday evening was just like any other. Yours truly hovered somewhere around the confluence of boredom, inertia, and a growing awareness of yet another weekend slipping by. I flipped through mags and newspapers while my roomie caught up with Jodhaa Akbar on TV. Nothing new to read….. everything seemed to be a rehash of these ‘basic’ tenets :

1. Purple is the new black. Or pink. Or whatever. Every self proclaimed fashion guru is screaming his/her guts out about how anybody with dress sense cannot get enough of this colour. True. I cant get enough of Cadbury’s either.
2. Saif and Kareena are deeply in luuuuvvvv. Kareena says “Main unke bachchon ki maa banna chahti hoon”. Sho-shweet. Incidentally Bebo, some tabloid had already credited you with that line long before you said it. Whatever, lady. So long as I don’t have to see soppy lines in bold type on front pages everyday.
3. The auto industry is headed south. You telling me every other industry’s headed north??
4. Minister X accuses opposition of sowing the seeds of communal tension in the country.
5. Minister Y retorts that X and his party have let the country go to the dogs with their inefficiency. As evidenced by the recent terror attack.
6. Speaking of canines, dogs all over the country are up in arms at comments made by a certain senile Communist who is as mature as a cranky three year old. Canine leaders reaffirm that their community does not require party endorsements to merit human recognition.

Okay, I made up the last one. But dog lovers and humans everywhere are seeing red. And they’re not shouting pro-Marx slogans either.

A week’s gone by since the massacre at Mumbai. The media has dissected every second of the siege, shoved mikes in the face of every traumatized survivor, and made endless collages of a burning Taj, bloody corridors and slain fighters. No doubt it requires a LOT of guts to stay put at ground zero and provide updates, not knowing if a stray bullet’s gonna put a period to your life. Still, I can’t help but think that we’re guilty of overkill this time too. Now, it’s the CCTV footage of the shootout that’s doing the rounds on primetime slots.

Political parties are making the most of every mudslingin’ moment they get. And they’re ab-so-looooot-uh-ly lovin’ it. So much so that one prominent group just couldn’t wait to put out an ad in the paper asking citizens to vote for them if they wanted change. On Day Two of the siege at that. This, and the consequent blame game have finally convinced me that all our netas put together have a collective IQ + EQ in the region of -2500 (rounded).

Fresh opinions and theories have been thrown at my head every day of the past week. Public opinion also seems to follow a trend these days. Atleast the print representatives of the thinking public do.

First it was to point out that our heroes have fallen for the nation’s glory, and that we should not let their sacrifice go in vain. Weep Mumbai, for it’s your defining icon that’s under siege. THE Taj Mahal hotel. SoBo with its old-world charm has finally lost its peaceful aura to terrorist bullets.

Then it was to speculate on the possibility of an insider job. Otherwise, HOW could there have been such a massive intelligence failure?

All Indians everywhere, look seaward…..The very route used to fuel the communal riots of the early ‘90’s has been used again. Such audacity! Bull. If we couldn’t find the time to do anything in 15 years, then we had it coming.

Parallels, parallels everywhere. My…what a tangled web we weave.

India’s 9/11. Why we have to draw parallels with the US for every damn thing still mystifies me.

The NSG took only two hours to reach the Maldives when a coup started. Why nine within India? Buddy, if I knew that I would also tell you why we let off Union Carbide with nothing more than a rap on the knuckles for virtual genocide 24 years ago.

Angry declarations now. The celebrated Mumbaikar resilience may be finally showing signs of wear. Enough, we say!

The intellectual elite of the country scoff at the peace marches and candlelight vigils. This won’t get you anywhere, they smirk.

The latest question doing the rounds is why there was no coverage of the massacre at VT, no mention of thirty innocents who lost their lives.

Finally, the wheels have turned full circle.

How come Mumbai is finally demanding action?

Does chalta hai, yeh sab hota hai hold only for the aam aadmi? So, it hurts when the elite are hit in their watering holes eh??

And WHEN did the Taj become an icon of Mumbai?? The crowded trains of Mumbai define the spirit of the city better. Therefore, VT is a more appropriate choice of icon.

This country will never cease to amaze me.

In the meantime, I’m gonna go and light a candle for the dead at the makeshift shrine in the corner of my street. A shrine complete with a garishly done collage of pics of the slain top cops.

I’m no Socrates-meets-Einstein-meets-Gandhi hybrid, but I still maintain that some action, even of solidarity, is way WAAAYYY better than no action at all.

To cut a long story short, we Indians are back to doing what we do best. Pointing fingers.

Keep up the rigmarole people, and pretty soon we’ll have a nation that is more than willing to point the middle digit at the powers that be.

And then twiddle its billion times two thumbs till terror, tragedy and apathy meet and snuff out a hundred times something more innocent lives.

Yet again.

Still we rise....

So you’ve done it again.

You took it upon yourself to make the worst nightmares of a people and a nation come true.

So you’ve gone ahead and killed a few hundred innocents who were merely guilty of minding to their own lives. Of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whose ghastly crime was belonging to a nationality or faith that didn’t match your own.

Not that you’d care even if it did. After all, you think the earth spins on the trajectory of your bullets.

Perhaps seeing beyond the barrel of an AK-47 is much tougher than it sounds. Actually, that would explain why you always vent your spleen and empty your rounds on those who have nothing to do with you.

Oh you’ve succeeded all right. You needn’t lose sleep over that.

I will definitely view unattended bags and unclaimed parcels with suspicion. All my life.

Avoiding public places during festivals and national holidays is already ingrained in my psyche. Now I’m not sure of ordinary places on ordinary weekdays too.

I live in the knowledge that the statistical possibility of my ending up as a terror statistic has hit an all-time high.

I fear for my loved ones wherever they may be.

The innate goodness of human nature is a thing of the past. Therefore I view my fellow beings with suspicion.

Dammit, I say a prayer every time I walk into a movie hall!!

And most importantly, you’ve added one more face to ‘evil’ as I know it. You and your predecessors have done your homework well.

But there’s one more thing I want you to know.

It’s gonna take much, much more than a few dozen armed, misguided and violent zealots to break the will of a nation.

You claim to act out of faith. What you have actually proved is your lack of it.

You have accepted and put on record that you’re incapable of being a thinking, rational, civilized being.

That you truly are absolutely incapable of being a human being.

Thank to you, many hundreds of lives have been irrevocably changed.

Some will mourn the loss of a friend or sibling all their lives. Some others will always remember saying goodbye to a loved one leaving for India, not knowing that it was the last time.

Some children will grow up with one parent and a photo of the other. Or perhaps a photo alone. For some others, their very families are a memory now.

Dismiss this as just another run-of-the-mill, emotional rant if you will.

But I’ll have you know that the spirit of this city, of this nation and her people, is much stronger than anything your fanatical commanders prepared you for.

It is as real as the air you breathe, as real as the fact that the sun rises and sets everyday.

To rise again the next day, no matter what.

I am confident that my countrymen and I will continue to live our lives with renewed spirit and vigour, despite all that you do to reduce us to a nervous, hysterical mass of humanity.

Most of all I hope and pray that your wretched soul may languish in Hades.

That you may writhe in impotent fury at the futility of your so-called sacrifice.

Now and for the rest of eternity.


The last few of days have been harrowing ones, even for those who were not directly involved in the terror attacks. Here’s a prayer for those who’re grieving their losses now.

Wish our politicians would stop relying so much on our resilience, and instead do something about every Tom, Dick and Harry who decides to throw a bomb and make a point! Like, hey, the spirit of Mumbai's there alright but we won't let ourselves be kicked around like this!

One thing I couldn’t help noticing though. WHERE the *&$% did the self proclaimed protectors of Mumbai, the Shiv Sena and the MNS go? Haven’t heard a peep from them through all this.

Or perhaps they were waiting for a headcount of Maharashtrian hostages. Oh you never know. Funny, I don’t remember seeing anything about Thackeray asking if the NSG were from Maharashtra. Mebbe they were too busy planning their next attack on non-Marathi speakers, who have the gall to continue living in Mumbai.

You skulking, miserable cowards.

Happy Diwali!!

Happy Diwali folks..... wishing you a wonderful festive season and all the happiness in the world.

Be back soon with a post...in the meantime, can somebody help me out with a layout prob I'm having?? My page elements i.e. blogroll, earlier posts, sitemeter et al appear below all my posts when I visit my page.... the layout's fine when I go to individual post pages.

Any help on how to set this right will be GREATLY appreciated :)

Cheers and stay happy!!

A walk down Indigo lane

It's past 11 p.m. Yet another evening after yet another day of mundane, even depressing routine. The kind of predictability that makes me think I should've defined my desire for 'stability' a tad more explicitly. A little sliver of a flame dances atop the scented candle on my desk. One of those fancy ones sold in fancier sounding stores. A faint mixture of orange and cinnamon scents the air as I sink deeper into a coffee-and-fatigue induced stupor.

It's one of those days. One of those dammitall phases I seem to be slipping into for increasingly frequent and longer stretches these days.

Mebbe it's just the job. Despite all that the bosses say, they know and I know that all I am is a glorified 'Maker of Pivot tables'. Certain unshakeable facts stick to your mind even when you don't want them to. And make you question just about everything till you're in one big, sticky, messy loop. Like, should I be more aggressive? Should I switch profiles? Should I even be doing this?

What am I trying to prove?

WHAT THE HELL????

A cool breeze finds its way into the room, carrying the sharp tang of evening rain with it. It plays with the magazines strewn around, ruffling the pages in a mock Mexican wave. My candle flame dances, flickers, cowers down and springs back to life again. Pretty much like some of my convictions.

Like the conviction that backed some of the important choices in my life. Some individual, some collective. For the individual/greater good. Or so I thought at the time. But there's this nagging doubt at the back of my mind that unleashes itself when I least expect it.

Suddenly it doesn't seem so smart to have refused a chance offered on a platter. For everything I thought I wanted. And still think I do. I can't put it out of my head. I keep returning to scan it under a microscope, to keep probing it like I would an aching tooth. I guess it will vanish only when I get a choice better than the one I turned down. And when would that be? Will it be???

Call it quarter-life crisis if you will..... is this human, or is it just me?

Outside, the low, steady notes of a conch fill the air as a city erupts in celebration. The elephant-god has paid his visit, and it's now time to see him off. The Vignaharta smiles down benevolently, flanked by palm fronds and chasing-lights, festooned with ropes of marigold and rose. His devotees surround him, dancing to the dhol-beat in a gulal-suffused mist.

Inch by inch, he meanders through the suburbs to join others of his ilk, and make his way southward to the sea. In a few hours from now, he will be lowered into the inky depths of the Arabian Sea, leaving nothing behind, but a few ripples and the remnants of floral tributes. Relieved devotees will then go home, having entrusted their lord with the year ahead.

The patter of rain grows louder outside. My candle flickers and cowers again as the shadows dance in sync. Cast your burden aside and move on. Consign your fears to the depths and look life in the eye. Like you would when you know that your deepest, darkest cares have been laid to rest in the ocean, never to rise again.

Would that my uncertainties were stilled as easily.

I'm SO glad you're a boy!!

I'M BAAAAAAACCKKK!!!!!


*Deafening silence*



Oh well, don't say I didn't tell ya.



Ages since I logged in.....am sure there's tons of great posts that I've gotta catch up with. Been kinda bogged down with work (aren't we all).... some of it pretty shitty at that. And a 'life', so to speak, remains non-existent. Hmmm.... atleast somethings are constant. As a colleague of mine puts it "Life ees the sucks, man!!!" No, he's not a school dropout or something, in case you're wondering.

A quick clarification on the title....it's NOT pro female-infanticide. It's got to do with a tag that Philip passed on to me eons ago...procrastination's just one of my many virtues btw.

So here goes....T&C of the tag are as follows:

Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.

Confession: I've Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V'd the last 5 lines from Philip's blog. Y'see, it's like, y'know, this little neurotic fixation that the yum-bee-yay tribe has.... we do not type and expend precious energy if there's any means of avoiding it in the first place.

Step 1: Thou shalt pick up the nearest book
Blindly sweep my arm over the table next to my bed. Pick up topmost book that gets knocked to the floor. Maeve Binchy's "The Copper Beech". Ok I can see all you macho dudes roll your eyes skyward... trust me, it wouldn't hurt to read this genre of books once in a while. And in my opinion, Maeve Binchy does NOT write chick lit, though her stories appeal more to women. Background info time. The book's about a group of classmates who grow up together in an Irish village. Each chapter's named after one person. Each chapter traces a series of events through the same time period but from a different person's perspective. And thus an entire story builds up.
Time for step 2.

Step 2: Thou shalt open to page 123
Done. Next?

Step 3: Thou shalt find the fifth sentence
Got it. Wait...oh damn..that was the seventh line (or was it the sixth?) Never claimed I was good with numbers anyway. Recount. Ahhh. NOW I've got it.

Step 4: Thou shalt post the next three sentences

"I always told myself that when we were both sixteen, I would tell you I've known since the very beginning that you were a boy. I was afraid to tell you that I knew in case you'd stop writing. I like you being a boy"

Cryptic?? Simple enough really. Eddie's an awkward young fella who decides to make a friend through his school's pen-pal program. So this nine-year-old picks out 'Chris' from Scotland. Chris's first reply reveals that Chris is actually short for Christine, AND she thinks she's writing to an Edith, not Eddie. The rest of it goes about how Eddie remains Edith for a few more years blah blah blah, till Chris writes to him on his sixteenth birthday, from lines five to ten or so on page 123.

Step 5: Thou shalt tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.

I tag thee...

Nikhil - who writes about pretty much everything under the sun. His only problem here would be which book's page 123 will qualify. Or if it happens to be one of those pro-female books that he uses to take a dig or two at me. ;-)

Sritanu - The Bong bard will have something interesting for sure.

Dennis and Pradeep - Two amazingly talented writers who share one teeny-weeny flaw. They don't write. Duh. One hasnt touched his blog since January (unless he's moved it elsewhere)...and the other since June. GUYS.PLEASE.WRITE!!!

Only four people on my list...really dunno anybody else I could tag.

Acknowledgement: I raise my cup of filter kaapi to Philip, who tagged me.

Hope to write the next post after a much shorter interval...cheers!

Check this out

The madness continues... don't see myself coming anywhere near this blog for some time more...boohoo!!

In the meantime, here's a little something that I've schemed and plotted over for the last coupla days

http://technicolorsunset.blogspot.com

This is completely uncharted, unexplored territory pour moi... so please do take a look and lemme know what you really think of it...

Awaiting the 'pheedback'.... cheers till the next post!!

Be right back!

Unpardonably long delay in replying/posting et al.... sorry ppl, but I've been busier than I have any business to be..or like to be for that matter..:((

Things will (hopefully) ease out in a week or so. (Fingers, toes and eyes crossed!)

Philip, thanks for the tag.... shall take it up asap. To make up for my tardiness, I hereby transfer 20 toppu-karnams from my account to yours. :)

See y'all soon, and stay happy!!

Ok ok...TRY to stay happy!!!

Oru zimble jeevacharitram - Part 1

(Reluctant) Statutory Disclaimer : The post(s) that follows is a long-windedly, incredibly, shamelessly self-centred one. It traces the past and present of yet another insignificant keeda who crawls arounds these days in the biggest keeda-hill of them all a.k.a. Mooombhaiii.

A friend of mine suggested recently that my blog should contain a little more about ME. But wasn't this already all about me and my antics/thoughts/blahblahblah?? Oh well, whatever. I hereby bow to public opinion. (Okayyyy, so less than half a dozen people follow my blog!! Here goes.

Zahra is NOT my real name. That should've been pretty workable. I chose not to write under my real name for the simple reason that I write more freely under an assumed one. No inhibitions whatsoever about what if so and so reads this, what will such and such think et al. Those who know me in person may be able to figure out my identity from what I write here, but that's fine by me.

And thus I began looking for a fairly simple yet not too common name. Came across a coupla sites that gave the meaning as grace and elegance. Some others even mentioned that it was the Urdu/Hebrew/Arabic equivalent of flower. Not bad at all. Quite nice in fact. Since grace and elegance are qualities I kept (and still keep) aspiring to, I decided to let it reflect in my nom-de-plume. Oh I saw that half-smile, btw.

My real name is nothing to write home about. I can tell you it's not Priya. In fact, I'm telling you it's not Priya, 'coz that's what I was almost named. Apparently my dad threw a spanner in the works by gently reminding mom of something. That guys in Kerala colleges have this thing for singing 'O Priye' to girls with the name. The musically challenged would only call it out. Talk about far-sighted. I suspect he knows much more than he lets on. First hand experience on the singing side perhaps, but he insists on maintaining SUCH a gentlemanly front. :(

Now that Priya had been chucked outta the window...the name, silly... the hunt began for other nice names. Some friend suggested 'Angela' which (thankfully) was rejected outright. There's such a complete absence of anything angelic in me. Boohoo. Some more names came and went. And then a propah Christian name popped up. Sounded pretty starchy when said out loud, but mom discovered she actually liked the legitimate shorter version of it. Typical Mallu trait, lemme tell you...this fondness for short and sweet 4-5 letter names. Of course the sweetness quotient depends on whether you're named Jijo/Biji, or manage to get away with Paul/Mary.

The whole family concurred and yours truly was promptly carted off to church. There, the priest dangled me over the baptismal font and solemnly intoned, “I baptize thee...

...... ***** ******....

...in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Followed by the sprinkling of water and the drawing of a cross on a sleeping infant. I'm told I slept through my own baptism...to my mother's eternal embarrassment!! Probably the first of my many displays of unflappable cool. (Ahem!) Btw I wasn't named according to the great Mallu X'ian baby naming formula though... in case you haven't read that email fwd, do let me know. :)

I was born in Kerala, yes, but that's the only event of any significance in my life to have happened there. Spent the first 13 years of my life as a typical 'Gelfie' Mallu. Methinks we fulfilled every stereotype, except one. I speak Malayalam fluently, and read it too. I'd even go so far as to say that I can give my (for want of a better term) 'native Mallu' cousins a run for their money. In fact, if the VJ's on TV are anything to go by, then I'd qualify for a PhD in advanced Malayalam.

Then we heeded the tug that band-bajaofies on NRI heartstrings and came back to India for good. To join an established yet fast growing community of Non Resident Keralites or NRK's. To live in a land which is not in Kerala but is not so far away as to make you miss it terribly. That speaks a language very similar to, yet totally different from mine. Which was known as Madras in olden days and is now Chennai.

That's short for Chennappanaickapattinam btw. Thank God they shortened it. Can you imagine a flight announcement with that name? So, in this city I got my first taste of convent school life, Madras bhashai, brilliant choirs, Kollywood dominated politics and...siiiighhhhh...filter kaapi. It's so sweet to recall the beginnings of a lasting romance. Dunno if this applies to situations involving humans though.

A few weeks in Chennai, and the first of my many revelations hit me. And so I knelt down and prayed.

I thank Thee Lord, for Thy many mercies
'Specially Marina beach and milaga bajjis
But most of all, that my parents dear
Did not name me Priya and bring me here

Y'see, every third female in this city is a Priya or a variant of it. Priya, Padmapriya, Vishnupriya, Lakshmipriya, Haripriya....heck, even Priyamvada. Now you get the priya...sorry, point. Archana's and Divya's are a dime-a-dozen too.

All-girls school (a first for me) was a riot. Missed my old school terribly but had loadsa giggles at the nuns' rules and regulations. Bless them, Thanks to life there, there are some unchanging aspects to my life as I live it today. Oh yeah, my soda-kuppi glasses didn't help my cause, but made some amazing friends despite it all.

Then came graduation at a local women's arts and science college where urstruly discovered some 70% of herself. Women's college, so the Priya hullaballoo was for nothing after all. Had been given up by half the family/friends circle for not taking the more respectable job-and-groom-assuring med/engg/science route. Point to be noted here.... full marks to my parents for sticking to their guns and backing me all the way. All you folks who still believe that Science is THE Holy Grail.... by all means stick to your beliefs...but pls do pause to think of how hurtful those dismissive looks and comments can really be. Oh, they motivate all right, but not in the right kinda way.

Anyway, those three years taught me a few (hitherto unknown) things about myself. That I could actually write if I put my mind to it. That I could lead a group and work in fairly undefined situations without too much trouble. Most importantly, that I could stick out like a sore thumb in any crowd (which I did quite effortlessly) AND not give a damn. Life hasn't been the same since that discovery.

And a little keeda of an idea that I should do an MBA after this popped up. I've made my reasons for doing an MBA lamentably clear in an earlier post.

WHAT?!?!?!? You haven't read it??? Fie, dear reader...here it is. Point 7, FYI.

More later.... if you aren't choking already that is.. ;-)

A (blighted) day in the life of Zahra

9:30 a.m.

Uneventful 45-minute ride to office. I get down at the office entrance, only to have the next auto driving in wreak muddy havoc on my pristine white salwar.

Stay calm, stay positive. Breeeeeaaaathe.

It's tooooo early in the day to murder somebody, babe.

Surf Excel hai na.

Walk, no, STALK into office, snarling at the watchman on duty.

10:10 a.m.

My karmampudicha PC has taken nothing short of 30 minutes to start up. Leaving me to twiddle my thumbs and toes. The blasted machine actually flickered to life only after I folded my hands, whining "Pleeeeeaaaaase" under my breath.

I swear the thing's possessed.

10:15 a.m.

Rush to canteen for breakfast, or whatever's left of it.

Menu:

1. Missal Pav. Nope. Burned my stomach lining off with it yesterday. Gotta allow it two days to regenerate.

2. Vada Pav . Ho-hum.

3. Amb-let Pav. Huh?? Oh ok...Omelette Pav.

4. Bhajiya Pav. Honestly...this guy will stuff anything into a pav.

Finally settled for Idli-Sambar against my better judgement. Takes 20 minutes to finish as I have to step on one side of the idli and lop off chunks from the other side.

The idlis in college were better. We only had to throw them at the class rep's head.

11:30 a.m.

The Big Boss has sent out one of those "Hey guys let's catch up on the team reviews" emails to everyone.

Venue: Conference Hall

Time: 14:00 hrs IST

Date:.... (Gasp!!!) Saturday?!?!?!?

#@$#@$%#$%$!!! Please fill in with vowels and consonants of your choice. Foul language is against my credo.

Like, DUDE, you may not have a life to catch up with on weekends, but the rest of us do. Misery.... another 2 p.m. meeting where everybody walks in at 3 p.m., sits around and laughs at (supposed) witticisms till 5 p.m., and then decides to catch up with the real agenda on Monday.

Feeling blue. Solid, navy B-L-U-E.

12:50 p.m.

Vitriolic email from business head who wants his project completed 2 weeks before schedule. Really now. The Cc option should be disabled for some people. He's put his entire vertical and mine in that bar.

Debated the wisdom of replying with a subtle, sarcasm laden email describing the benefits of a nature-appreciation jaunt.

Like...'Take a hike' , y'know.

Oh, forget it. He's capable of writing back asking for a timeline for that too. Grrrrr.

1:00 p.m.

Made up my mind to go the J-Lo way and insure the same..uhh...property. Different reasons though.

Hers is admired/coveted/drooled over, around the world.

Mine is whipped outta shape, even if in the figurative sense. Actually, that hurts more.

1:40 p.m.

Lunchtime.

Karela mash and watery dal. Sour curd that'll work wonders for my stomach bacteria population.

Rice. Atta frisbees... sorry, rotis. And the works.

Mental sticky note: Prepare last will and testament. Name nominees.

2:50 p.m.

Finally. Got past the blocks and "Company policy does not permit access to this site" pop-ups and logged in to Orkut. Hmmm. Mebbe their Chinese fortune cookie-type messages will have something nice to say.

Today's fortune: You and your wife will live happily ever after.

Rrrright.

Me. And wife.

Bhaery phunny. Exactly what I needed to hear.Bad, bad Confucious. No chowmein for you.

A distant Chinese-accented voice screams, "I no say thaaaaaat!!!!"

Rocking day so far. Shouldn't surprise you that I'm pro-Tibet now.

3:00 p.m.

Moved on to Orkut scrapbook. 3 new scraps. Lemme see.

Damn. Two of them are for pasting code into the address bar to see

"Congratulations!! You've been voted the World's Biggest LOSER!!"

OR

"Warning: Preparing to self-destruct....5..4..3..2.."

The third one's a 'frand-sheep' request from some obscure geek who thinks I look garjyaass...errr...gorgeous. Did I mention that the only picture on my profile is one of Hobbes? I tell you, these techie-types need to get out and meet real people once in a while.

Waitaminit. Mebbe he really was talking about Hobbes. Self esteem steps out for a walk in the rain.

4:15 p.m.

Desperate for a caffeine fix. Rushed to pantry with coffee mug to find.... no prizes for guessing.

"Machine out of order. Regret inconvenience."

5:00 p.m.

Nooooo....

Urgent requirement for crucial data and metrics for a high-level meeting. A scroll down the forwarded email shows that the meeting was scheduled more than a month ago. A call to the so-called 'desperate' AGM reveals that he's already left for the day. Like, hello, who's meeting was this? There go my plans to leave at 6 sharp.

Sorely tempted to stagger around clutching my heart and croak, "Oh palpitations! Oh palpitations!"

Before you start sniggering, lemme tell you that Anton Chekhov actually used that line. Atleast his translators did.

5:45 p.m.

First sensible act of the day. Discreetly disconnected landline, and switched mobile network to an unreliable one. Gave self feeble pat on the back...shoulder, actually. can't reach that far.

Inner voice: Exercise, woman, exerciiiiiise!!!"

Zahra's voice: "Shaddup. SHAADDDDUUUP!!"

6:20 p.m.

Emailed the accursed report. Hurriedly shut down comp and fled down the corridor, only to barrel into...gulp...Boss. Whyyyy is his cabin on the way out? I tell youuuuu (Tam-style)...the vaastu in this place is all fouled up.

"Btw, I want updates on the status of Projects Alpha through Omega by ten a.m. tomorrow. See you."

Aatma descends effortlessly to the ground floor. Bhautik shareer awaits the lift to follow suit.

8:20 p.m.

Back home in one piece despite suicidal auto driver.

Stood in front of the mirror and chanted "Why am I doing this to myself??" 100 times as per routine.

Check dinner prospects. Yesterday's dal and last week's bread.

10:45 p.m.

Thought: It couldn't get worse than this.

Second thought: Don't be too sure.

Oh well, so it was my statue day today. Go to bed praying for the pigeon's role tomorrow.

ZZZzzzzzzz.....

Note: Okay, so I exaggerate, :) But I've had several days like this one in the not-too-distant past!!

Souls and Raindrops*

7:44 A.M.

The green electronic display flickered, blinked and changed as she watched.

7:45 A.M.

The wind kicked up a chocolate wrapper and a dirty scrap of newspaper into a slow pirouette around her feet. She caught the flyaway end of her dupatta and wrapped it around her handbag, clutching both closer to her body. A gingerly placed step to the left, a little hop to the front, and she was past the puddle of water. Her pace quickened against the wet stone platform worn smooth by decades of rushing feet. Soon, she was just another blur of movement in a teeming, seething mass of commuters, under a sloping, leaky station roof, under a fast-greying sky.

He crouched in a filth-ridden corner of the stairs leading to the second platform. The corrugated sheet of the roof didn’t reach far enough to shelter him completely. A slow trickle of water crept down the side of the stairway into a splash of Coke from somebody’s carelessly thrown plastic cup. The trickle swirled, widened and welled up, till it finally broke free into the grooves between the smooth stone slabs and meandered into a puddle at his feet. It didn’t seem to bother him.

A rusty can with traces of its once blue wrapper sat at his feet. A faint gleam inside it told of some earlier passer-by’s generosity. His gnarled, dirty hands stretched out and away from him in that timeless petition for help, sympathy and most of all, money. Tangled, matted locks of greasy grey hair hung down the sides of his face that bent abjectly over his hands. A dull pair of eyes with yellowed whites and age-clouded irises stared vacantly, resignedly, at the ground in front of him. A blur of feet of all sizes and shapes, covered and bare, clattered around him as the damp wind whipped at his ragged shirt, bringing his shrivelled frame into sharper relief.

She stole a quick glance at her watch. Two minutes left for the next train. She could catch it if she hurried down the stairs to Platform 2 fast enough. She nearly ran past the brown, ragged, smelly isle of stillness on the stairway. Oh, she’d seen him before. No words of supplication from this one. No invoking curses or abusing ancestors if you passed him by. Even if he did, who had the time to listen? A slight raise of his hands, a barely perceptible movement as he leaned forward…this was all the indication one had to realise that a fellow being was seeking charity.

Something made her stop and unzip her bag. Sympathy? Sorrow? Guilt? All three perhaps? She dug deep into the recesses of her purse while being rudely jostled aside and sworn at by other frazzled commuters. Never mind. She dropped a couple of coins into his outstretched palms and raced down the stairs, just as the train pulled onto the platform. A few seconds later she’d pushed, shoved and clawed her way into the heart of a bogey filled with sweaty, ill-tempered women.

A little raindrop left its home and made its way down to earth. Falling down, falling fast. Past other drop-laden clouds, and layers of dust and fumes. Down, further down, past thirty-storeyed buildings, past shabby tenements stacked on a wasteland slope, dodging the outstretched limbs of a thirsty tree. Whipped and tossed around by a steady wind, it finally lay down to rest in a star-shaped spatter atop a train that was slowly pulling out of a suburban station. Soon the raindrop was joined by millions of its brothers who’d decided to follow suit. Together they drummed in time to the rhythm of the train, of the people moving, of the vast metropolis, of life itself.

If she could’ve looked back at the stairs, she would’ve seen him sitting in his corner, a huddled mass of assorted rags. She hadn’t realized that alms, one meal a day and an occasional scrap of sympathy thrown his way were no longer the focus of this man’s existence.

She couldn’t have possibly known that for the past few hours, the man himself had ceased to exist.

*Note: The title has been borrowed from that of a poem by Sidney Lanier.

Arbit observations #3

The Goddess returns with more... (ahem!)...'pearls' of.... never mind. Just keep reading , and I'll be thankful enough.

Actually these are the side-effects of lying at home doing absolutely nothing (i.e. nothing useful) for a month, with an offensively cheery-blue fibre cast on my elevated foot, staring right back at me. Personal note: Change favourite colour to pista green

1. You know your parents have run out of ideas on what to do with you when you start getting a certain predictable set of q's thrown at you on every visit home.

"Isn't it time you started thinking about your future?"
Like.....future what? Future luxury car, foreign vacation, paycheck??? Good idea!!

"There's this nice boy....."
Of course they're all nice... nobody presents their son as a history sheeter cum axe-murderer cum wife-beater with a roving eye to boot.

"This is not a stage of your life to be taken lightly"
I totally agree. You realise that NOTHING at all can be taken lightly when your father starts encouraging you to do exactly the things he forbade just two years ago. Like discussing what you think of a guy's looks, his personality, and most importantly, his compatibility with you. All this when you realised only ten minutes ago that the guy existed at all!!

2. Things may not always be what they seem to be. Oh, that's old hat, I know. Am talking about displays of emotion here. For instance, the time when my parents were leaving after dropping me off at hostel in Delhi. As they walked away towards the car, I saw Appa steadfastly stare at the ground, and Amma discreetly dab at her eyes with a hanky. Stupid ole me presumed it was the grief of leaving their darling baby at the other end of the country and going back to Chennai. A couple of years and a whole series of arbit observations have revealed a 99.99% probability that their reaction was more on the lines of "PEACE.....After twenty-one years!! Thank God for MBA courses" :-S Now you know why Indian parents don't mind splurging on an MBA for their kids, even when the fees show an overtly positive correlation to global oil prices.

3. Meeting long lost relations and family friends doesn't exactly top the list of earthly pleasures for most of us. There are some exceptions of course, but most of these encounters can make you cringe inwardly, even as you prepare to face the assault with a diabetes-inducing smile plastered on your face. I mean, you just KNOW when that achayan/ammai/ammachy/uncle/aunty bears down on you all goggly-eyed and smiling and making a (ob)scene in general.

"Ente moley, nee angu valuthayi poyallo!!" (Beti, you've grown!)

Errr.... isn't that normal...esp since I hadn't even started crawling the last time you saw me??? Besides, I don't particularly appreciate the not-so-subtle references to my prospering waistline..... Hmph!

4. All those who fell for the hype and hoopla of The Monk who sold his Ferrari have obviously missed out on a verrrrry important point. Why don't you see that the Monk HAD a Ferrari to sell in the first place??
:-( Sadist...BAH!!! Go right ahead and rub it in my face....I'm still saving for a tyre to call my own. Oh, and no comments about tyres of my own making pls!! ;-P

5. You'll always have a soft corner for kids you dandle on your knee in their babyhood. No matter that they may grow, or mutate rather, into unexplained forms of pestilence a few years later.

6. Whoever predicted that "soft, curling tendrils" are THE look for our crowning glories this season obviously has a head full of poker straight hair. I'm serious. Nobody in their right mind would voluntarily put up with the pains of a head full of hairy curls of tendrils...err, curly tendrils of hair, day in and day out. Especially when the tendrils/ corkscrews have no sense of direction. I speak from personal experience. Waking up every morning looking like I was struck by lightning the previous night DOES NOT make me feel particularly hep or fashionable. Ah well, dunno if I can blame that fashionista. We've all heard that one on the vegetation being verdantly viridian on the other side.

7. Answering the question "Why an MBA?" is THE biggest farcical exercise you go through in the process of acquiring the degree. All this even before you're accepted into the course, mind! The whole process should've given me a fair idea of what I was getting into. Every coaching centre worth its salt tells you not to bull**** while answering that one. Fine, but what if I hadn't??

a) It's all about the money, honey!
b) Actually, I'm clueless. An MBA was the only thing left after I crossed out every other option.
c) Pleeeeease give me an admission....my folks will get me married otherwise.
d) I'd rather live on a farm, paint masterpieces and call the cows home everyday. But that doesn't bring in the moolah.
e) Face it. I can't rake in peanuts for another decade to get to an MBA's entry level job in my company.
f) Errr.... everybody else is doing it..right??

None of these seemed like a wise answer despite the honesty. Had this distinct sensation of stuffing both feet down my gullet when I thought of these. Therefore I am an MBA today and practising the bull**** professionally. Looking back now, I wonder how I kept a straight face while answering that question in B-school interviews. That's the scary part, I guess....I'd actually believed what I said then.

8. Why is it that the most charming, sweep-me-off-my-feet gentleman I've ever met is nearly 70 years old? Is it a reflection of declining quality standards through the decades or something? Before you jump to any theories about me being an older-man type, lemme tell you that I have nearly twenty-odd women my age agreeing with me on this. The gentleman I'm referring to was a visiting faculty at our B-school, and living proof that there's nothing like chivalry, respect and politeness to win the ladies over. Looks and physique can take a hike. Even MCP-ish views are graciously excused when they come from such people. Oh never mind. You guys may never get it at all. Gimme a man like that between the age of 25 and 30.... oh heck, make it 25 and 40, and I'll marry him blindfolded ;-)

9. I'll pro'lly live in coastal places all my life. There's something about the way the ocean captures every mood and every shade of my being, and throws it right back at me that I'll never get enough of. Nothing like its vastness to give you a very good sense of where exactly you stand and how significant you are in the scheme of things.

10. Something's seriously wrong when a person's smile doesn't reach their eyes. Age is no indicator of maturity. And you definitely have grown up in some way if you can enjoy a good, hearty belly-laugh at your expense.

Wish I practised half of what I preached.... but hey, spouting gyaan is something we MBA-types do naturally!!

Damn... :((

Just received official confirmation....

LIFE SUCKS.

I mean it. But...I repeat....BUT the divine Zahra is made of sterner stuff and shall rise above all this..... just wait n see.

Wonder why folks get the impression that if you've raked through the muck and come out smelling of roses just once, you're dying to make a profession out of it.... have they ever considered that it might just have been a benevolent higher power that was on my side?? :)

My C&H Random Quote generator seems to have sensed it too....hmmm.

Time to roll up your sleeves and swing into action, girl!!!!

Here's one!

Came across this one in a women's magazine some time ago....

Q: What would a dyslexic, atheist insomniac do??

A: Stay up all night wondering if there is a dog.


Heeheehawhawwww!!!

Mujhe maloom illai

This post by Nikhil got me thinking about my travails while learning the rashtrabhasha. An unforgettable experience for all the wrong reasons. As a non-native Hindi student who spoke only two languages then, both gender-neutral (Mallu and English), ka, ke and ki were nothing short of absolute naaansense. Psst, am letting you in on a li'l secret here... I still play a mental round of inky-pinky-ponky before using one of the 3 in a sentence :((.

There was this brief episode where I tried using simple logic to connect words and decipher meanings. Nearly 15 years later I've realised that my system of logical thinking doesn't apply to 99% of real-life situations. Damn. Take for egg-jample, the first time I heard the phrase "baap re baap" from my Hindi teacher. (Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure she was looking at my notebook.) I thought it meant...(hehehe, shy is the comings)...GRAND-DADDY!

Simple reasoning. Baap = father, therefore Baap re baap = father's father . LHS=RHS. Bravo, Einstein.

That 'Entammachy' is a pretty commonly used phrase in Kerala fuelled this line of thinking. An 'Entappacho' equivalent for the patriarchal Northies didn't seem all that out of place then.

So it shouldn't be too surprising that I barely scraped through the subject in 12 years of school and one year of undergrad. And cribbed all along about how I was wasting precious hours of my existence on a language I'd most likely never use.

Then came Delhi and a yum-bee-yayy, that unleashed me and my brand of Hindi on an unsuspecting populace (mmhmmmwhahahahaha!!) Landed up on campus with a ton of baggage in tow (3/4th of it to preserve my Mum's peace of mind!) and then realised that I'd forgotten to pack a pair of pillowcases. Never mind. Could pick it up during the Lajpat Nagar sutthal.

And so we landed up at Juneja's, where my parents generally admired the bedspreads and tablecloths on display, and yourstruly sashayed forth to get herself a pair of pillowcases.

Haan, madamji?

Anna, err...bhaiyya, mujhe do pillowcover chahiye. White colour. Umm...safed.(Phew!)

He yelled out to no one in particular

Lal pillowcover dikhao!!

Lal??? Ech-yoose me, white IS safed in Hindi..... I know that much even if I'm a raw southie!!

I square my shoulders and look him in the eye.

Ahem...bhaiyya, mujhe laal pillowcase nahin chahiye. Mujhe safed pillowcover chahiye....WHITE. (for added emphasis)

He stared right back at me. The impudence!! And then a slow grin spread over his face. Grrrrr!!!! Now the Goddess is furious!

Madamji, Lal uska naam hai!

(Something goes Pfffffttttt in my head)

And a smiling ten-year-old's face pops up from behind the counter, saying "Ji madam?"

Eeps. Why doesn't the ground just open up??? As expected my parents didn't miss a word. A pair of biiiig smiles from the other end of the shop. Damn. Trust your folks to hear precisely the stuff they have no business listening to. Stood there with a watery, sheepish grin for the rest of the episode.

Of course it's family legend now, the story of how Granddaughter No.1 kicked off her innings in big baaaaaad Dilli. And she lives to tell the tale herself. In the space of three years I've progressed from the kind of Hindi that made my roomies cringe, blanch and run screaming for the hills,to the type that elicits a raised eyebrow and no comments. Ha!! So there!

Misadventures with the language are still dime a dozen. Am currently in the process of Bambaiyya-izing my Hindi. And the effort looks set to continue for a loooong time.

In the meantime, if you happen to walk around Andheri(W) and hear a lady tell the auto-driver, "Mujhe Malad jaana hoon", do stop a second to say hi to Zahra!!

:)

Of everything and nothing in particular

After nearly four weeks of anticipation, I've finally made the transition to a cast(e)less Indian. Nope, no OBC type controversies here.... the cast on my foot's come off and I can finally walk without that ducky-waddle I've been using for a month now.How, what, when and where was the usual barrage of questions when I hopped into office that day and propped up my foot on the nearest chair. Thanks to a colleague's brainwave, a sheet of paper with Q's and A's taped to the armrest saved me a lot of trouble. This is what was written:

Q: What happened?
A: Twisted my foot

Q: Where?
A: Near the office gate

Q: Does it hurt?
A: U bet :((

Q: Saw a doctor?
A: Not yet.

The answers to the last two should've been kinda apparent after seeing a purple, melon sized foot at one end and my facial contortions at the other.... but never mind. Yep, it IS a rather drastic way of applying for a month's leave, but I ain't complaining. The fall was a genuine one, irrespective of the insane and totally unbloggable explanations proffered by my family. Don't even ask what their theories are.

The interesting part came when the doctor was about to wheel me into the X-ray room. I distinctly saw my father mouth "Brain scan also" to the doc. I understand his concern. It would prove once and for all that I have (or dont have) a human brain. In case I have one, it would lay to rest the family rumour of how a distant uncle patted my four-year-old head and heard a distant, hollow echo. Doesn't help that the distant uncle was also a ghatam enthusiast. Two, Dad's job would be a lot easier when he makes a trip to the great Mallu marriage mart (a.k.a. Manorama classifieds) in a fit of paternal duty. And if it turns out that I don't have a brain after all...well.... one more skeleton in the family closet I guess.

Btw, the jury's still out on this one, coz doc finally convinced him that one x-ray of the foot would do. But yes, it's rather mortifying when the only man in my life tries to imply that my brains are in my feet, or that I walk on my head or whatever. Don't ask me how it works. I'm the only non-Biology grad in the family.

Had resigned myself to a month of endless boredom and ennui, with the only highlights being my folks and home-cooked food. But compulsorily putting your feet up and cooling your heels can be a very pleasant change. Trust me on this one :) Have got around to

1. SLEEEEEEEPPPPPINGGGG!!!! (For the first week atleast! ;-D)
2. Reading novels of every kind
3. Sketching, painting and messing around with pastels
4. Watching the clouds drift by (literally!)
5. Endless perched-on-the-kitchen-ledge conversations with Amma, which I so enjoy :)
6. And many, many more
7. And all of this whenever I want, without having to bother about getting back to work or turning in early for another long day at work.

After some introspection and a quick analysis, I have reached the conclusion that the only way to sustain this lifestyle infinitely (minus the cast) would be to become Wife No.3 or No.4 or,heck, even No.5 to some old, debilitated, rich-as-crassus Arab sheikh who'll hopefully kick the bucket soon and leave a few billions to me. Dollars please. And if he doesn't oblige? To quote a pal of mine... "Simple. I'll help him kick the bucket!"

>:-)

As is the case with the most of my introspections and analyses, this one too found its way into that mental wastebasket deep in the recesses of my mind.

Sigh

Wake up and smell the dosai burning, dearie.

The most significant discovery of the last week has been that Nikhil IS a living, breathing, flesh and blood being. Notice that I do not use the word 'human'. Oops. A retaliatory blog post casts its ominous shadow on the horizon. Wisecracks aside, it was good to finally meet in person, after spending 3 years in the belief that the other person existed! We were supposed to have been batchmates but fate and my b-school decreed otherwise. To all you people out there, if you get a 'frand-sheep' request or a LinkedIn invite from this guy, take it from me.....He exists. Of that much I'm sure ;)

My favourite couple a.k.a. yennudaya Appaavum Ammaavum celebrated 26 years of married life yesterday...here's wishing them many many happy returns and much happiness ahead. The 'happiness and peace of mind' quotient is kinda dicey though, what with yourstruly for their only offspring (:D)

Am sure they've had plenty of revelatory moments in past years.....like the one where Calvin's mom gets depressed when he walks by saying, "Hi, it's me!! Your greatest achievement!" Shall put up that cartoon as soon as I dig it out from my comp.


26 years...pretty neat considering that 90% of the relationships I've seen among peers have crashed before the one-year mark.

It's nearly 3 months since I started blogging...frankly, have blogged much more than I expected to. Thanks a ton to all of you out there who've responded with your comments and feedback. It really made my day (and week, and month!) to see a comment on a post of mine. Don't mind admitting that I actually wait for them (Hint! Hintttttt!) :-)

I know. I have all the subtleness of a starving rhino.Another regrettable flaw in an already flaw-ridden being. Double sigh

Bas. Bahut ho gaya. This is enough and more bakwaas for one post. Am off to revive myself.

Viva la filter kaapi!!

Serendipity

One pack of orange juice. Coffee powder. Carton of milk.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

One box of cereal.

No, not this one. Wonder if they stock those chocolate frosted ones?

She turned to put back the box and check again. That’s when she saw.

Oh my God. Not him.

Not when she’d finally thought she’d moved on with her life. Not after a whole year of coming to terms and getting a grip on herself. On her life. Not after accusing him, herself, her friends, family and the whole damn world itself for her failed relationship.

It doesn’t matter. You know that. He made it clear that he didn’t need you. And you don’t need him to be happy.

Who’re you fooling? If you didn’t care for him any longer, you wouldn’t be fidgeting like a schoolgirl at the sight of him.

He was at the other end of the aisle. She gratefully noted that the aisle was fairly long, AND that he hadn’t seen her yet. Waitaminit, he’s turning this way. Her first instinct was to turn away and duck into the next aisle. But some inexplicable instinct made her think otherwise and kept her rooted to the spot. By the time she’d changed her mind again, it was two seconds too late.

He was coming her way. And he’d spotted her. It was too late for him to turn back or pretend he hadn’t seen her. So there he was, trying to look genuinely surprised and pleased at the sudden meeting.

"Hi. It’s good to see you again."

That rich voice again. That same easy charm. Please. No more of that. His charm was what she’d fallen for two years ago. And it was ridiculously easy to recall the heartache when the spell broke.

"Hi…. Good to see you too." Since common courtesy demands it.

"Quite a surprise y’know, running into you like this."

"Hmmm."

Of course it's a surprise. Folks don’t expect to see their trash again.

Strange. Did she really have that much venom left?

The curt reply seemed to unnerve him somewhat. He tried again.

"So…how’ve you been? Work and all that?"

"Fine. Work’s great."

He paused for a moment. She knew what he was thinking.

Is she single? Has she found someone? Why the hell won’t she talk? Does she know about my...??

"Ahhh....Haven’t been able to keep in touch with folks y’know. Been pretty busy. I got married last month. In fact, I’d sent you an invite, but didn’t see you there..."

The words came out in a rush, like he was trying to get something over with. And ended abruptly, when he finally raised his eyes to meet her steady, level gaze.

She replied softly, almost gently.

"I don’t see how I can receive invitations if they aren’t sent to me in the first place."

His face crumpled as it first registered surprise, then dismay at her reply. Funny. There was once a time when she’d have taken his hurt as her own. Now, she didn’t feel a thing. No, actually she did. Surprisingly, satisfaction was the word that best described the feeling.

"But…I…"

Squirm. Squirm all you want. You made sure I’d hear about it from ‘well-meaning’ people.

Her next statement surprised even her.

"Since you’re dying to know, I AM still single. But life’s been a lot happier than when I was with you. That’s saying something, don’t you think? I’ll get going now. Am pretty busy these days."

She made her way to the counter and got her stuff billed. She could swear he was still standing gape-mouthed where she’d left him.

She’d been lying of course. Busy? She only had a lonely apartment and sitcom shows to go back to. And that part about life being better was a lie too. Unless you counted the last ten minutes, when she’d felt far better than she had in a whole year.

She stepped out of the store. The breeze ruffled her hair, and a tiny raindrop landed squarely on her nose.

I’m free. And I’m in control.

Finally.

A ghost of a smile played across her face as she walked to her car.


Chance meetings weren’t too bad after all.

Louw..sorry, Love in the time of coconuts

Cast:

Chacko - The hero of this story. Typical hotblooded, virile, daredevil Mallu achayan. Complete with curly mop of hair and Sathyan-style moustache. The type that Mammootty and his ilk modelled their later portrayals of the species on.
Rosakutty - The heroine. Typical doe-eyed, nubile Mallu beauty. Like yourstruly ;-P
Appachen - Rosakutty's father. Otherwise an upright, well-liked and respected member of society, but circumstances compel him to become the villain of this piece.
Ammachy - Rosakutty's mother. A placid, gentle lady who shows a violent side only if her Syrian Beef Fry is not devoured with appropriate relish and gusto. (Btw, the recipe is a family secret. Her vallyappachen decreed it so, after being bribed with three bottles of toddy by the then Health Minister of Kerala, who was also his son. The state's mortality rate fell the very next month.)
Assorted brothers of Rosakutty's, collectively referred to as the achayans.

*Translations and close approximations have been provided in italics alongside. Wherever it is not available, dear reader, thou shalt use thy imagination.

Scene One:

Chacko adjusted his crisp white mundu a tad nervously. The church compound was already empty. Mallu X’ians don’t waste time getting back to their appams and kozhi curries on a Sunday. He took a look at his Timex, a gift from Babu-chayan in Dubai. Just another ten minutes and the kapiyaar would be back to lock the church and the compound gates. Good thing that Chacko had decided to do his confession just before the kurbana. His confessions always left Achen slightly dazed and in need of a reviving tumbler of toddy post-church. Pro’lly counselling too. Which explained why the kapiyaar had vanished. But where was Rosakutty?

And then he saw her, dressed in pristine churchgoer white and demurely walking towards him. What a lovely sight. His Rosakutty. With the coconut trees swaying in the background, beneath an azure blue sky. Chackochan’s heart filled with a thousand exclamations of raw emotion……. Lal Salaam… no..... Inquilab Zindabad…errr, never mind. Firmly suppressing the raw emotion and exclamations, he walked towards her.

Chacko: Nee vannallo. (You've come!)I thought you’d finally given in to your Appachen.

Rosakutty: Illa achaya…..I couldn’t get rid of Sicily and her friends.

Chacko: Appo… paranjathupole….(W.r.t. our discussion of the 18th last...) We elope tonight!
(Another raw exclamation fought it’s way to the surface, but our hero stifled it just in time. You never know. Could also be the stale puttu-kadalacurry from last night)

Rosakutty: Pakshe achaya… enikku pediyaakunnu…(But... I'm scared)

Chacko: Don’t be afraid….njan ille nintekoode (Main hoon na!!Author’s note: Now you know where SRK maaroed that dialogue from!!)

Rosakutty: (Gulp…That’s what my Appachen’s scared of too) Njan varaam (I’ll come)

Chacko: Innu raathri (tonight)…. Sharp 9 p.m. (another look at the Timex). Ten hours from now!

They part ways.

Scene Two:

That night at Rosakutty’s house. 8:55 p.m. by Chackochan’s Timex as he lies in wait outside.

Appachen: Edeeee Rosakutteeeee……. Njaan arinjadi!!!(I've found out!!) You’re planning to run away tonight with that lowlife scoundrel Chacko!!!
(Note: Appachen’s voice here bears striking similarities to a wounded buffalo)

Chacko: (Hiding outside and under his breath) Aiiyyooo…..chathicho Daivame!! (Equivalent of “Dammitttt!!”)

Rosakutty: (Inside with a wide eyed and innocent look) Illa Appacha….. I never met Chacko even once after you forbade me.......

Appachen: (Bellows) KALLAMMMM!!!! (LIIIIESSSSS!!!)I have my sources. Varkey saw you two talking today…. And he found out that Chacko’s hired a taxi for Madras too!!
I’ll show him, the impudent young dog!! Eda Mathaiiii!!! Royyyyy!!! Vargheeeeeese!!! Daniii-YELLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!

(Four younger versions of Appachen come bounding out of different parts of the house. Of course, they’re better known as Baiju, Binju, Benny and Binu. But Mallu fathers insist on doing full justice to Christian names when they’re furious.)

Chacko: #@$%$)((#!!!! (Loosely translated as “Beeeeeeeepppp!”)

Appachen: (Reaches for the hunting rifles on the wall behind him and slings a couple of them to his sons) We won’t come back till one of our bullets find their way into him!! Vaa makkale!!!!
(Stomps out in a rage, followed by the achayans)

Rosakutty : (In tears) Appachaaaa!!! (Daddeeeee!!!)

Ammachy: (In tears) Ente karthaave!! (My Goddddd!!)

A faint 'bonk' is heard outside.

Chacko: (In pain AND tears) ENTAMMACHEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! (MUMMMEEEEEEE!!!!)

Chackochan’s exclamation in the previous line could have given the aforesaid wounded buffalo a run for its money. While playing the faithful lover waiting for Rosakutty, he ignored one of the fundamental rules of ancient Mallu guerrilla warfare:
Sec 27(6)(aa): Thou shalt hide from the enemy if thou hast to but not under a coconut tree. Especially not on a night of balmy breezes under a tree loaded with the stuff. And most certainly not after thou hast downed two pegs thyself.

The warfare code was found inscribed on the walls while excavating the ruins of an ancient kallu-shaap (liquor shop) from circa 300 B.C. The rules seem to have been addressed to an unidentified Mone Dinesha.


Ammachy: Idhiyaanodu njan paranjatha (I-told-him-so)…. We should’ve called Kuttappan to do something about those coconuts last week itself.

Appachen: (From outside) Pidiyada avane!!!! (Catch hiiiiiim!!!!)

The sound of running feet, rustling bushes and a stray gunshot. The yelp that follows the shot, unfortunately for Danielachayan, comes from the neighbour's doberman, Bruno.

Reader: (In a moment of raw emotion) Inquilab Zindabaaaaaaad!!!

Me: Amen. Lal Salaam.

;-D

The secrets of Venus

Ahem....This post is lovingly dedicated to a lovingly dedicated friend whom I shall refer to as the Psycho Enchantress ;) I know you’re reading this baby….. yeah, so I shoved the link down your throat and begged you to read it :P
Without your collection of books (whose covers had to be wrapped in brown paper before being read in public view), I would’ve been sorely ill-equipped for the journey of life (Sob!! Sentiments is the comingssss….) Just one grouse btw….. 99% of the time the contents of your books never lived up to their cover and title!!! :-D

“The Duke leaped down from his chestnut steed, his tall and muscular frame at once lithe and powerful. All the while laughing at her and looking as devilishly handsome as ever. With his blue-grey eyes flecked with cobalt looking deep into her eyes, it was all Lady Charlotte Marguerite Constance St. Braxbourne could do to stoke the dying embers of her rage back to life under that wonderfully warm and mesmeric gaze. She was horrified to discover that she didn’t feel half as furious as she was a moment ago. Which really was not surprising. For Lord Edward Anthony Vernon Delacouer had that effect on women, especially auburn haired, peach-skinned, green eyed beauties of a lively temper…..like Lady Charlotte.”

Not bad. Not bad at all, even if I say so myself.

That, dear reader, was yours truly’s first attempt at writing popular romance. A la the doyennes themselves…..Johanna Lindsey, Nora Roberts, Julie Garwood et al. M&B’s (Mills and Boon to the ignorant. Like, are you human??) Regency romances, Danielle Steele-type contemporary ones….. Meet the common weakness of the female half of humanity. At least 95% of it. The author of this piece is one who finds herself teetering on the line dividing the 95 from the other 5. Was pretty ignorant of this genre of fiction in my formative years. Quite natural I suppose, except that in my case, ‘formative’ lasted till I was 21. Shhh, for heaven’s sake!!!!

Enlightenment dawned in B-School. Such was the paucity of reading material in our room that I’d read India Today’s analysis of the Quattrochi case five times over and was in serious danger of doing the same with my copy of Kotler. Being a good South Indian girl who would die fighting for her principles (and coconut oil and sambhar and appam and beef fry) instead of zimbly giving in, I assayed forth to the neighbouring room. Only to find that my choices were a copy of the India Today I already had, and an M&B where the cover and blurbs suggested super scandalous twists and turns to the story. Caught in an internal tug-of-war of principles and scruples, I finally did what any self respecting South Indian gal would do. Walked out with the M&B, promising to return it in a few hours.

Settled down to reading the book after fighting off my roomie who started blabbering incomprehensible stuff when she saw the book in my hand. Something like ‘ooohbabyyouhavefinallygrownupwhencaniborrowthebook’. Thus began an odyssey that has taught me quite a bit.

The findings are listed below:

• Aristocracy, especially of the British variety is invariably comprised of dashing, devastatingly handsome dukes, lords, earls and an occasional prince or two. Who meet charming, seductive, breathtakingly beautiful duchesses, ladies, countesses and princesses and ride with them into the gently rolling hills of Devonshire to live happily ever after. Mah-vellously splennnndid mah deah.
• If the story is in America, it involves handsome scions of prominent business empires who have turned their backs to love and all that jazz. Only to meet their match in intelligent and beautiful young women who are too spirited to be tied down to one man. Deeper analysis would of course reveal that past relationships on both sides with absolute morons had warped their attitude to life for good. No wonder that entire nation’s in therapy.
• You learn more biology, or specifically speaking, anatomy than you ever will in school or college. Mebbe even medical school for that matter. As well as adjectives. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have aced the verbal section of CAT and passed outta IIM-A by now. Ha ha ha. Nice try kid.
• There’s always the mandatory description of the hero (the heroine’s immaterial to me) which usually reduces the reader to a drooling, simpering idiot. With a tear or two in her eye when she remembers what she’s faced with in real life.
• There are portions in every book that are marked by a profusion of anatomical references linked to myriad verbs and adjectives, coupled with a chronic shortage of punctuation marks. Do not be amazed if sentences run into entire pages. The printed sighs and gasps don’t seem too contrived after that. Try reading that stuff aloud and you’d sigh and gasp for dear life too.
• All that talk of biology…the NCERT’s really missing out on something here. Indian kids grow up believing they were picked off trees. Thank heaven for Bollywood to set the record straight. Even if it is the bee-and-flower routine. Hand out an M&B each to high schoolers across the country. Of course, Randolph and Sylvia can be changed to Randeep and Sunita. Or Ramaswamy and Savitri down south.
• The hero and heroine WILL hate each other at first sight. And second and third sight as well. Forget Mars and Venus. We’re talking the Milky Way vs. an undiscovered galaxy here. But that won’t stop them from exchanging looks of smouldering passion (GAG!!!) despite wanting to claw each other’s eyes out.
• You will close every one of those books with the unshakeable knowledge that your life sucks. And the feeling grows exponentially. Absolute ‘Height of the Abyss’ moments (Thanks Swamy!!) Not to mention the awareness that truth is often stranger-looking than fiction. In other words, real men do not look anything like fictional heroes. If they do, they’re already movie stars, twenty years older, thrice divorced and have a string of kids to boot.

Pshaw.

I do wonder how stories like these would sound in an Indian context. No doubt we have our Laila-Majnu’s, and Heer-Ranjha’s. And more recently, John-Bipasha and Jodhaa-Akbar.

Royal/Aristocratic romances are a dime a dozen. But doesn't the great Indian middle class have love-ishtories too? My guess is the lack of glamour does them in. Not to forget that furious papa-ji’s these days are very likely to hire goons and slaughter the hero. Khandaan pride salvaged from the presumptuous pup. As well as beti’s honour.
Come to think of it, we’re so conditioned to western fluff, the Indian version pro’lly wouldn’t ...ummm…inspire the right feeling either. I promise to illustrate with my next post.

Memory bytes

Indulged myself in a cupboard-rummaging session when I went home for the Easter weekend. On one of those lovely Chennai afternoons with a light drizzle and a cool breeze at 2:30 p.m. (yes!). With the rest of the family in siesta mode, I had all the time in the world.
So there I was with my ‘treasures’ of the past decade strewn all over the place. An assortment of random doodles done in different classes at different ages, notes passed around in class to share catty comments, birthday cards, friendship bands (Jeez!), team ribbons (Maaannn!!!) and much more.
The most interesting find was a coupla manila covers with nearly a hundred assorted photographs. Vaguely remembered pulling them outta albums as and when they caught my fancy. Given that I was seeing the lot after nearly 4-5 years, it took me on a full fledged hike down memory lane.

Like the one where big bro and I are frozen in mid air above a trampoline. Where he’s all of six years and I’m aged four. With HUGE grins pasted on our faces.

My Ammachy surrounded by her grandkids. (Ammachy is ‘Grandmother’ in mallu X’ian lingo. Bless her soul)

Parents’ wedding pic. (Ohmigosh, Dad had a French beard?? And what kinda trousers was he wearing????)

Moi with friends on our first sari-wearing session in high school. All dolled up and giggly but the ‘little girl’-ishness is intact. Suddenly, sixteen doesn’t seem as grown up as it was made out to be.

With Dad just before leaving for school one day. (I was wearing two ponytails???AND ribbons????? :-O Noooooo…..) This one undoubtedly has ‘Daddy’s Girl’ stamped all over it.

Our first snap as a family. Taken when they brought Mom and me home from hospital.

But the one that found me staring at it for the longest time was one of me and my Mom. Where Mom’s carrying her year-old baby. In typical mom-and-kid pose, with a lovely smile on her face. It’s not the cuteness/sweetness aspect that struck me. What hit hard was:

1. I finally realised that the rest of the family was right. I do look like her. Uncannily so. Explains how her long lost college pals and phoren- cousins would take one look at me and say “But I’d know her anywhere…”
2. The freshness and optimism on her face. It’s not just youth. Given what I know, I think it came from a very simple belief that life ahead for her, her man and her child would be worth looking forward to, no matter what it held.

Dunno what the foundation is for such uncomplicated faith. Mebbe her faith in God. In herself. In the people around, though she’s been let down often enough. An extremely resilient spirit perhaps?
Have found myself wondering since what I would feel like in that same situation. If my turn ever came. At 24, I already feel like a jaded 50 year old cynic. Blame it on the times and circumstances I’ve grown up in. On a world that denies your right to innocence and simple faith. Where everything HAS to be complicated to the last degree or it doesn’t become worth talking about. Or even thinking about.
Have had plenty of disagreements with Amma. Still do. Some are bound to remain unresolved. Or even get worse. But despite it all, she still retains her belief that I am and will remain an individual worth all the love, trust and respect I can get. That knowledge has got me through situations time and again. Given me the guts to hang in there and fight it out. Kept me searching for who I truly am. To walk out on people who figured I was insignificant enough to kick around.
Wow. It's amazing what a little faith can do. Mebbe it wouldn’t hurt to try it out on the people in my life either.

I know this much. The next time someone says “You’re just like your mother”, I’d be hoping that it’s not only the looks that they’re talking about.

Though I don't say it often.....here’s to you Ma.

Thank you.

Now listening: Let it all go - Mark Knopfler

Arbit observation(s) #2

Another set of random observations that have popped up at various times in yours truly's meandering existence to date.

Warning: If you're attempting to read this, I love ya already. ;) But leave your brains behind..... most sensible folks would have discovered a few of these eons ago. And the remainder would've been considered too halfwitted to bother about anyway.

1. Gym clothes are available in precisely the sizes of those people who don’t need to go the gym in the first place.
2. Irrespective of education levels, professional qualifications and exposure to the world, men who can see women as more than just an assortment of specific body parts are a shockingly small minority. Am yet to figure out if this is a purely ‘Indian’ thingie.
3. Minding your P’s and Q’s will never go out of style.
4. Until you actually learn numbers in Hindi, a tweak or two on the English names will suffice. For example : 35 can be referred to as “Thurrrdy-phaaaiiff” till you learn that it’s actually “Painthees” (No, that’s NOT the Hindi version of ‘panties’ you moron. Get your mind outta the gutter!!)
5. Your judgement w.r.t. certain people may have been lousy. And you pro’lly got punished for it too. It’s okay. Move on and leave the grudge behind. But stay canny enough to prevent a repeat performance.
6. That life as an only child is fun in its own way. Being Daddy’s princess and Mummy’s darling is something you never grow out of. Or want to grow out of despite all your exclamations to the contrary. :-)
7. That being an only child also brings its own load of emotional baggage and insecurities. Not to forget the perceptions of the rest of the world. And no one to share it with. Giving you plenty of “Why me? Why the beep??” moments.
8. Filling in the ‘Personal’ tab on Orkut can be an eye-opener. I’ve discovered that I do not know my best feature (is a multiple select okay?? ;-P) And what do people first notice about me? None of the possibilities that come to mind are very complimentary.
9. Jim Reeves’ voice can truly caress one. And I mean caress. May his music live on. Makes me wish real life had a background score too. With baritone vocals. ;-)
10. A blog is meant to be written in. Not just started and then left with the rest of your litter in cyberspace. My bad. Bad. Baaaaaad.
    
    So heigh-ho, off a-blogging I go.