Of dreams and more

There is nothing more joyous in life than knowing what you want; understanding the element you are built of (wood, metal, clay, fibre...). It’s easy to create a world and it’s easier to make it a reality… this isn’t a joke and I don’t live in your world.

I met the monk with beads and things changed. It was surprising for me to notice so many things changing within me and so quickly. What did the Monk do?-- He depressed me, challenged my fears, and mocked my insecurities. Has this never happened before, of course it has! But this time it was my calling- I had summoned the monk to awaken the star in me. His despotism, futility, morbidity, emptiness helped me build my army of saints and angels, of shining morning and endless smiles. He exuded so much negativity that I didn’t have to look far for the bright sun in me.

And the fun part is that all this is happening and I am just observing---it’s effortless! It’s like a flower opening it's petals, like fronds of grass grabbing the morning dew, like the snake train swishing away on the rails, like the infinite street lights working to make marine drive look like a queen’s necklace. It was as smooth as a-neat single malt down your throat.

There is a time for everything, including believing, challenging and heading in the direction of light. It comes to us of and on and when it does- one should grab it: I am spreading my arms wide….
We all have one life and one world and there are no hurdles and there are many miracles—I am a true blue destinarian, silly but true! I believe in peace; within- and without. Life is hilarious; all we need is a sense of humour: I chose a laughing echo over a wet pillow. (Instance- dodging to the movie hall though multiple entries and too many people, I saw this kid checking his hair, doing it up in a security guard’s vehicle-checking-floor mirror. This lady in the compartment was reading P.G woodhouse and was curbing her smile till she couldn’t hold it any longer and burst into laughter… it was exquisite waiting for her to break the silence and watching her helplessly laugh).

The time has come, the walrus said
To talk of many things,
Of shoes and ships, and sealing wax
And cabbages and kings!

----If the walrus can speak- I can fly!
It’s ecstatic to lose social sanity and believe in the cosmos…

Cabbie v/s Client

I received a fwd from my boss today, with a link that I conveniently erased out.

Do u know, Rickshaw & Taxi Drivers do not have a right to say NO,. So remember that each time the rickshaw/taxi driver tells you a NO, take down his vehicle registration number, note the time date and place, please click on the following link and register your complaint.

We have had enough of these guys bullying us around, and refusing to ply specially when its urgent. They have been told that they cannot say a NO to any customer when their meter is FOR HIRE! not even for short or long distances. I'd suggest you stop asking them whether they will take you wherever you wish to go and rather tell them where you want to go. and if they refuse. REGISTER a COMPLAINT. Lets teach these guys who's the customer , and who's the boss!

Yes, of course it's time to cheer! This is because we get the upper hand. Most of us will be happy with the decision but I, for some inane reason do not wish to travel in a cab or an auto rickshaw with a driver not driving at his free will. It just doesn't seem fair- irrespective of their problems or their 'just don't want to' attitude.

There are times when I am irate and amused - like when they demand abominable amounts for small distances, especially when 'crisis' is visible on your face. Or when the driver checks you out before taking a call on whether he wants to drive that far/ near with your face in the rear-view mirror. I have even had certain drivers consciously adjust their mirrors- aligning them etc... it can be infuriating, complimenting and hilarious: depending on your mood for the day.

It's often the latter for me: I have come to acknowledge and grin away. These drivers have proved certain norms wrong- like I only have snob-class appeal; coz 'I have attitude'. No - the way they look, i know i have mass appeal! (lol) There is a certain pride that they display to fellow rickshaw drivers when they pass by - a smile or a 'maintain ur distance' look or sometimes my attitude rubs on the driver and he also suddenly becomes a snob.

There was one particular incident when this rick guy was eating gutkha, i didn't realise when i got in but within seconds it got me nauseating and i decided to get off. He was baffled and i told him it was his gutkha and it was giving me a headache. He asked for a two minute break, got off, spit it out rinsed his mouth with the bottled water, sat back and said sorry. I said thank you. Incidentally I met him again, weeks later, at the station, and he smiled real wide- then i recalled it was the same driver. As he was driving me back home, he told me that he had stopped eating gutkha and i said good, as it's really bad for ur health. He said it was because of me- and i was amused, i asked him 'why me'? He replied ,”Aap classwale log jab mere auto mai bathe, toh mereko bhi ache classwala hona magngta na? Aur classwala log gutkha nahi khata.” (when people of ur class/standard travel in my vehicle then i should also behave classy and people with class don't eat gutkha!) I told him he was 100 percent right and he should keep it that way.
(i am sort of a digression expert, aint i?)

i think it will be different if it's by force. Sometimes it's okay to let the driver choose his client. I know it's unnerving and cruel in emergencies but waiting for ricks (with hurting heels ondazed-out night) and getting late for a morning edit meet has taught me a lot of patience, hope (that the next passing empty rick will stop for me) and courage to smile when it doesn't. Then follow the higher principles of basic kindness or like the one above- that class doesn't come with money.

I owe these qualities to them... so i support their freedom to choose!

adieu - abortion poetry

Dear Pathetic Poetry,

This is me, your verse cheerleader, your ringmaster apologising for unnecessary morbidity. From when I scribbled you, half a decade ago; when i wept and howled three years ago after i wrote my final segment- i vowed to complete 10 briefs to my unwanted children.I am breaking my vow taken under the influence of a bribe--for more poetry awards, more popularity, more appreciation of young dashing intellect - it's a holly bally humbug and i want to say that to you. i will receive more awards but i don't think i can write this way again. apologies, for i have changed tracks... and i am giving u your final podium forever. i am paying my respects dear muses- stand by me.

To,

All my Unborn Children – 1

iI do not regret your absence.
In fact you wouldn’t have enjoyed the world I live in,
It has nothing much to offer.

My mother accused me once:
“See not what the society gives you,
See what you give to the society.”

I gave them,
My thoughts,
My feelings,
My difference,
My ideology.

I was expatriated,
As an illegitimate child
Of the Hindu society.

My mother blamed it
On the Uranus in my horoscope.

…It’s growing barren
On both sides of the fence.

So, babies feel blessed…
There isn’t much air to breath,
And contamination in the womb is frequent.

There is no space----
To stand,
Sit, or shit.

You grow with confused morals,
You could be in a global village,
With no sense of belonging at all.

You could be born with deformity,
If not physical, psychological or
Worst of all… if you think unalike.

I don’t want the shadow of the cypress
To befall on you.
I would not have preferred a bonsai either.

So I nipped it off in the root.

2

I have been wandering
To seek a different world than I see,
I have failed miserably.

I still hopelessly hope,
Beyond the unknown,
There might be a world,
Unperturbed, untainted, immaculate
By the virus of the subhuman.

I don’t have the courage
To tie you up
With umbilical ropes,
To let you suffer and long to die.

So I take a pill every day.
And see to it that
I bleed every month.

3

I am not sorry,
My dear little one,
I refuse to conceive you.

I am thinking of putting copper-T to use
Abortion is a fairly painful process you know!
And my pain lasts forever,

Accumulated in diaries, letters
And poems like these.

I am sparing you of this pain,
So do not anger.
I can’t be mute,
Therefore I am bitter.

4

I have conceived yet again.
My soul cries out,
My heart is numb
And my mind ignores.

I don’t hear their cries any more.

My children come prepared
To die before they are born.

They are sacrificed at the altar
Of their mother’s Ambition,
Freedom and Foolishness.

They pay a price for the love
That will never die
Because it was never born.

They avenge me through
Vipashana and Therapy.

I stole their life,
They are stealing my mind,

My infidel arse-hole unborns;

---------=+&^#@%*--------------

Fetters

(I)

I move with potential partners from season to season,
I find some promising:
The colour of his teeth nearly meets my crockery.
His voice sounds like the ticking of my antique Blackforest clock.
His hair as smooth as my apothecary table.

Your eyes are molten caramel, he says.
Your lips are pink as raw strawberry
Your skin as alluring as the frosted snow.
Your body as sinful as a sand dune.

They jabber and I fall asleep.

“I thought this one was going to last: (No jokes, truely... truely)
His eye colour matched my drapes quite seamlessly: it was like divine intervention!”

(II)

Why should I only love you?
Be tethered to the same arm?
-----You should be my Sunday man, instead.

The gong has rung!

Alzheimers died
day-before-yesterday night.

Mom says death never comes alone, it always comes in three's. It's especially true of her maternal family. I think the gong has rung in again. (This is one of those inexplicable beliefs that are born out of 'just happened'.) The last time my cousin uncle, maternal grandpa and then my maternal uncle died.

--------------The last death was a shock of sorts, youngest, most pampered, most spoilt and most successful of the sibling lot- he popped with a heart attack. (The fact that he smoked like a chimney and had a temper of Hulk doesn't count) As kids we used to make fun of his love life- he got married three times and none of his marriages were a success. I remember, one afternoon back from school, my mom was howling on the phone- it was my first experience to face an emotion muddled with fear, anger and hurt. My 1st mami had fled with her husband's driver. [Reflecting on that- he never owned a car after post that incident -- he just gave up on the vehicle.] Sasquatch was eight years old, when he died. And we like atypical kids were playing with the neighbour's parrot, unaware of the aftermath of what had happened.

---------------I had certain fascination for the last but one right-- touring the body covered with shroud and flowers around the city scape or to the funeral home. Every time a body passed; my mom, dad, every elder body in the house- stood in silence, prayed quietly. I saw that most people around me did the same, fights stopped that moment, palms were held together, fingers touched the forehead and chest in respect. That dead body was the focal point, center spot, the attention magnet.

-------------Before Halo died - Opinion died, now Alzheimers died. Opinion and Alzheimers were siblings. I wasn't close to any of them. Had a distinct dislike for Alzheimer's wife and kids. We met on occasions and touched every one's feet in respect, told them what i was doing in life, asked about their aches and hearing aids- listened patiently and smiled. Titanium balls has a large line of siblings, they have started to pop and current situation says one more to go before the the deaths halt. Who will it be? Beer Buddy, Titanium herself or will it be Quack-Quack?

--------------I know; even though 82, Titanium balls isn't going anywhere-- like the rest of us, God and Satan too are scared of her.

P.S. I have to go visit her this week, before it's late.

fashion: sleeves, cuts n colours

Sleeves, cuts and lenghths: Short kurtis, hosiary tops in boho, flower child loose style are in. Cuts are multi layered or two layered, plain contrasted by print. The Gaagra ghera with empire waistline and loose straights for dresses. Quarter balloon, ruched or cap sleeves are back (check Marchesa (NYfw)) Off shoulders, halters, tubes are out. What is interesting to watch is that the contrast sleeve effect is going to be big-- eg. (Visualise) Gold raw silk kurti with selective sequence embroidery in crimson, paired with creme silk chudidaar: the sleeves are likely to go crimson than gold ruched. And it looks amazing. This applies to the colour palate of fabrics as well. Ps. Pockets are in.

Fabrics n colours: Linen, Georgette, raw silk, khadi is here. Chiffon, cotton is out. Blacks, cobalt's, crimsons, fuchsias, grape, tungsten, magenta, saffron, gold, Hawaiian blue, berry purple IN. Exception is biscuit cream. The colour exudes class and can be teamed up with the above madness. Steel, silvers, whites, greys go at the back end of ur closet. Andy Warhol, Manish Arora, Donatella Vercace, Prada are in: get the picture? The same applies for ur denims n trousers. Capri's pave way for harem pants, denims and jeans can go funky, skirts reach knee length and thin stripe corduroy's are back where they belong (check out the Armani collection).

Fashion forecast- eye, neck, waistlines

Face: Nudes(be it lip gloss, balm, nuetral skin shades) go. Reds, crimsons and browns replace. Apart from cheek bone highlighters: everything is toned clean. Thick liners unconventional glitters will be season's high. Max-factor is not still in for the Indian eyes, honestly Ashiswarya Rai's eyelash volume looks disgusting in person, also smudge risk is high- instead try perfectionist by Lauder. What compensates the extra thick lashes are ur college blue, green and grey liners. The egyptian look carries from the eye to the neck lines.

Neck lines: Egyptian, classic 'V', deep semi-circles, boatnecks, flannel and lace are in. Mandarins' are not. Flaunt collarbones and cleavage but tit popping, butt cracks, visible bra belts are OUT. If necessay use of same colour bra with the strappy outfit, it works: eg. Double up a green boatneck with a green bra: let the straps show.
Clean necks are still in vogue, hence string of pearls apexes the class-cool list.

Waistlines: The best of the lot, designers are experimenting with a delirious high. My fav: Empire waistline is back and will stay, what will also retain is the low pubic balloon that may just go without a visible waistline.

Work v/s Time

I work in a publication house: there are times of the month when 'stress' and 'deadlines' sound euphemistic understatements to what we are going through. But as the mag hits the stands there is a lull: no real work, research- time, culling out ideas; basically a whole lot of time-pass. That week according to me is wasted on blogs, vogue, esquire, social networking sites, quizzla,etc: when i could do a whole lot of fun/quality things but nah! NO organisation believes in letting their employees be and i have come to terms with the same.

Something that was personal became universal in this week: two friends quit high paying jobs in one day one and on one loose thought. Randomly read three blogs about working; loving or hating it. Then i read
http://www.stevenmsmith.com/my-blogs/management/full-time-pay-for-half-time-work.html read it...

I agree and most of you will too. But the breed of human resource professionals don't. [i nurture few prejudices and amongst them is a nauseating hatred for HR. They are the firm's happy face to exploit you; negotiate your pay when u deserve more - bunch of hypocritical, good for nothing troublemakers, who waste every body's time in ridiculous discussions, tests, charts lectures etc... Like advertising, investment, insurance and credit cards: HR belongs in the category of con jobs.]

I know how much time i kill doing one piece: coz if i finish it in 2 hours what will i do for the rest of the day? HR is to blame!

Back to arbeiter angst-- my office HR rules changed; reporting time: 9am- 5:30pm. Post 9:15 - half day, post 1 pm-- absent. Pay will be cut if you come late or leave early. I have no issues with the arrangement; just a Q to all HR professionals: If u are going to cut every penny from the minuscule you pay, why don't you pay overtime?

When meeting deadlines -- nobody looks at the in-out time. People walk in at 8:30am and walk out at 10 pm and return by 9am: is that fair? What about when there are events and parties to network: why not compensate that?

How does time matter when it's the work that should?
I believe till you are doing your job- it shouldn't matter how/ where/when u do it. Loudmouth disagrees.
What do u think?

Writing is a Talent:

Almost the last of the lot, i wrote this one in a lit class discussing verse by Lanjewar: i sat there, arrogant, abusive -- just coz i had read the whole dammed book and no-one had a clue of which side the head popped.
After minutes of generic criticism from my prof on my generation: i decided to scribble,
---
Write a verse: Is the order.
Well, a laconic doggerel won’t do, my classmate asks?
She frowns, “write an epic, lazy bones”
She rants on the lethargy of my generation.

She asserts we write quartets,
I plead, 'I can’t rhyme to save my nine lives.'
She reads my blank verse and throws a verbal quill.
“What happened to poetic imagination, where are my poignant words?
Make your pages bleed…..blah blah blah. Don’t be sad. Be miserable!
Be Shelly, Milton, Eliot. Be Sylvia,” she cries.

I take up the challenge and write a verse,
I open with a vodka shot, and then smoke up pot…
I tell my friend I don’t hate life still. I don't feel pathetic enough.
I fine slit my skin and rub in charlie.
Filled with self- inflicted torture
And words stolen from the thesaurus:
I swing my stylistics rule book out of the window.
I tear my sleeves and dart my fingers on my laptop.
I forge unfathomable psychological tortures,
I make love and smother my lover; I rouse the gods and herald a plea.
I rush to Sybil and Delphi; I scream, evoke.
Hit the mattress!
I lose the war; I scribble an elegy in scurry.

I am trying to save my blood.
Absolute shock slaps across my face
Drags me into deranged plight.

My professor adores me, calls me a perfect literature student.
Emotionally volatile, addicted to pain and difficult to comprehend on paper.

My parents consult a therapist.

Lost and Won

I don't write verse anymore. It's been almost a year now that I wrote something the way I used to. I never rhymed, so that 'freedom' prevails. but i don't scribble anymore... that haunts me.

i don't do a whole lot of things: carry scrap books, kiss in public, drink obscene amounts of papaya juice, stare, smell, just sit (for god's sake), gorge on strawberries, watch movies for 12 hours straight without eating, or save animals from plight, cuddle them. i don't bring home sparrows, kittens, dogs, donkeys, calf, butterflies anymore. i haven't laughed like a lunatic in years, haven't cried over a book so bad (after 'like water for chocolate') that my mom thought i needed help. i haven't argued over something i believed in after Iser.

i had come to understand that the best part of literature was not in poetry or drama or autobiography; it was in literary criticism, in theories about reading and writing. They were like philosophies that applied to physics, economy, math, life, history, fashion, literature... theories that moved u into becoming you. That inspired and impressed it's emblem onto your soul.

Poetry is moving and heavily despotic; pain of sorts stirs every writer. And that melancholy in turn becomes you,"when u play the game long enough, the game takes over and plays you". if u disagree, pick up all the 'movers' in this world, see how they lived and died.

I know i will not end that way. i am not Achilles, who will barter all the happiness in this world for fictional immortality.

N. asked me once why i took lit? I told her coz i wanted to read. honestly I wanted to discover myself by moving into a cocoon of escapism, into the phantasmagoria of burnished realities, of unconnected myths: and find truth between sepia cast, moth smelling pages.

I found my truth in critical theories, clean pages and archetypal mythologies. I found them in multiple forms, in deconstructed syntax and when i embraced them I lost the art of grafting----

grafting Silvya's, Blake's, Wolf's, Albee's, Pinter's, Eliot's emotions with mine.

This gradual disassociation was unconscious; in the process i ended up choosing happiness over everything brutal. Who needs complex reality anyway, when you can create a universe of your own?

iPOD Bhajan

I have reiterated that we are in digital times. God, too has become mobile.Earlier there were audio bhajans; yesterday, i saw one that had taken the visual face. A video of some Astha/Sanskriti channel god-man; dancing in a trance like high on a krishna bhajan. [Irrespective of my first thought that he looked like a bihari/ U.P fraud]
What I found intriguing was-- the lady, listening to it and grooving to the rhythm of the bhajan: at 8 am in a super crowded, dark, humid, temperamental first class compartment.

Her trimmed hair gave her a professional 'regular' no fuss look. Her Salwar kameez without dupatta, gold ornaments, her savvy Baggit bag, the iPOD --completed the above-average, affable working class woman. Then why would she resort to obvious looking fraud god man singing a bhajan in karaoke? Can't she read a good book instead?

I am being judgemental; but something in me pinched with sarcasm when i saw her; fuck me: there was no place to sit, not enough air to breath and everyone standing had either their butts or their pubis in your face. [my innate fear is that someone is going to fart in my face someday- precisely why I take an empty train to work and walk in with the canteen boy].

She was enjoying in her trance state, intermittently checking up on stations; smiling at chatty, gossipy, dhokla nibbling women working in RBI.

Her composed gait unrested me, then it dawned that she had made her peace with all the brouhaha around her: she indeed had! And the 'hows' didn't matter at all.

Polka Dotted Memory

Selective is the word I like to use. I have a thread-like memory and I am unreasonably proud of it. Loud-mouth and Monarch have a photographic memory- they remember every single thing I said, wore, did! The latter uses it against me in an argument and the former doesn't. I live by convenient memories of people, places and experiences: it's a technique- if I like it, I keep it. What I don't like, goes- period.

There is a horrific drawback to these colourful specks of polka dots. The background of everything that is not there-- the islands becomes so arbitrary. 'x' thing in a person stays 'y' is excluded. Derrida would have argued and the lit freak in me would agree that everything is complete in itself and does not look outside to determine it's existence.

What happens to the fabric around? Who will weave that? Do mixed facts count as realities? Can choice come without a package? Is having the best moments as the only moments sinful? Why can't we only relish the delicious and garbage the bland? I don't have answers and frankly I ain't looking for any.

I love making and having collages around me precisely for this reason. They make a pretty picture- jumbled realities, torn parts that recollect the hollow in a page. Every piece was picked up over time and has found its place on a creme, burgundy, cobalt, turquoise or crimson hand-rolled paper. A secular Tibetan script art juxtaposing MTV's trance images.

Moreover they are my life: fancy, thought provoking and above all picture perfect!

Seasonal Fashion forecast : Hair

Neo- retro and grunge haven't left, what has entered is volume. Extreme side partition with long tresses (a la Sonam Kapoor) or collarbone short hair with frond feels are the seasons' speciality and will continue to the next fall. Currently Sabyasachi styled clips are found in abundance to keep rein the mane but don't count on them to stay longer. Use Loreal -volume conditioner, Bumble and Bumble thicking spray or the regular Bedhead: all are good volume magnifiers.

Draper

French windows are a common architectural feature today. Crepe, Chiffon, Organza, Georgette have replaced heavy Cotton and royal silk curtains. The trend is beautiful. I am unsure of utility n durability but it looks mind blowing romantic.
Especially white organza with silver kairi design in Velvet. (visualise) I am willing to stitch one if I don't find it!

Biba, bed and bath, Zeba, Carmichael house... all of them have the most intricately styled curtains and drapes for your bed and your windows.

Seasons Socks

Socks are taking the plunge: go colour crazy with them (walk down from Kala Ghoda to marine lines, the vendors on the left have the best collection!) Ankle lengths (gay c penny, halti fi) and even calf covers in pink, black n red, stripped yellow.

Calf covers can be worn with short dresses, quarter pants and gauchos. Check Sara J.Parker in pink knee length socks. Caution: if u have the confidence to carry it - then go for it or try embroidered stockings but leave the nets.

Hold On

... to every
emotion, friend, family, hobby that makes you smile. When Halo died, we took it in good spirit: he was old, had a bad lifestyle and a bypass surgery. Dad was alright; till yesterday. Last night he went on a 'we will die in solitude and the loss is pathetic' trip. He's been emotional about death for as long as i remember, yesterday i realised why.

It's a common problem. When people are around us, its rare that we hold them; tell them we genuinly love them, make that small gesture, gift. We take it for granted; we postpone it for tomorrow. Then people move away, change cities, get married or just die. Suddenly all the repressed feelings surface: the sense of loss is not monumental but it feels profound. Here's where 'distance makes the heart grow fonder' frankly (i think wander is more real than fonder).

There are few things that i have gotten right about living, accidentally they turn out to be the most vital ones. I never leave a moment to let someone feel as special as i think they are. The important people in my life know i love them to death. Loud mouth, child-mom, monarch, wise capitalist, the man, chameleon, mandy, talkathon, stocks queen, mil... we don't meet often; we are continents apart but we do know in our locked away hearts that each of us is a phone call away. Unresonable amounts of money are spend on inane conversations; it pinches bad but in the end we know what we have and what we hold is precious.

Years down the line, when we are worn-out and everything around us is racing by; there will be few people to call, fewer to listen to you. But those couple of faces who don't frown when you talk for too long or reiterate the same point; are very important to have around. It is likely that they will be your spouses, cousins, your kids (befriend them), your lovers, friends.
People who care; and 'Care' is a very important feeling. Hang on to it!

Seasonal Fashion for Women: Footwear

Footwear: To my solace -- boots are in. Straps, strings, Romans all toe poppers are out. Ethnic chappals, mojris, ankle closed are here in crazy colours n fabrics... including faux leather, linen, cottons and stretch materials (the Nike for women collection). Heels are definitely in ( work like a testosterone shot!) but flats especially mojris and pumps (ballerinas) will keep prancing around. Sports, snickers are back to team up for a worn out look (will be very in- by Nov). Be it Volar (peach pumps with bow), Baggit (leather boots), Catwalk , Metro, Balencigia, Jimmy Choo, Alberta Ferretti (berry purple), Louboutin or Ferragamo,-- everyone is going booty crazy. Also the duckling heel looks ugly on your heels (even though its a rage in US).


pic shoes: Black pumps and suede cobalt with gold heels- Pierre Hardy.

pink suede anklers: Manolo Blahnik, silver lizard boots - Chloe, croc cut anklers- Louis Vuitton

sources: Vogue, Google, New York, Wills, Milan and Paris fashion Week.

Happy Dying

R we always upset with death? I have come to understand 'not necessarily'.
Halo died yesterday afternoon. My very sweet bro called up crying to deliver this news. The fact that he partially detested his father didn't count. My grandma is probably the best 'cool chick' i have met in a long time: the global influence with Indianess really works magic. She also acted as a foil for him.

Halo never drank water (only beer) or had a straight conversation. On one of his vacations, he woke up late and Sugandha asked him if he had finished his bath. He promptly replied “ujed pad le la disat nahi ka?” (Can't u see the halo around me?') -- she n mom were baffled; dad and I burst into laughter. It's a family tradition that my dad and sometimes me keep up.

He was the generational torch and now that torch died, none of his siblings are alive and I don't think anybody misses them either. We remember him (actually everybody) only for his idiosyncrasies; they were all bonkers.

Instance: his eldest brother had a habit of locking everything (the big antiques locks). When we visited them, he would unlock the TV case unit and the kitchen cupboard, so that we could watch cartoon and mom can make some snacks sufficient for 6 people. I had declared him crazy long ago.

Halo hated to part with his gifts- even if they were useless-- like flowers. On his grand 70th birthday, we received the bouquets enough to open a florist store. They took all the backseat space in three cars to carry them home (& i had started to sneeze my head off). We were encouraging close relatives to take the ones they liked till Halo was furiously remarked, “we will make another trip to pick them up, they are mine; i will chew the petals and pee in the pots.” That made us laugh and offended most of the relatives.

Its funny but also infuriating to live with someone like him. Once he n Granny had a fight and he told her “don't come with me- i don't want you there and on the same flight”: she retorted- “Germany doesn't belong to your father, you can take another flight out if u want!” All this is crude Marathi! It was hilarious, she walked into the bedroom and laughed- saying he was a mad old man. I love her spirit to laugh at the sick things in life.

I am hoping that she takes this loss the same way-- with little strength and a heighten spirit.

Is Vogue in Vogue?

The latest issue of Vogue disappointed me, even though I expected it to. The billboards were filled with eye sores of Bipasha in Cavalli with deep armholes --ugh, she so pretty, how could they do that to her? Or the psychotic looking Gemma Ward-- check her on the sets of Sawariya..just don't like it. Priyanka with good make up but a slouch wearing an Armani back strap: not working for me. Laxmi Menon wearing COCO Chanel (what fate?!, but it just does not have the Chanel effect on her), that woman is rather lean. Preity is wearing a very sexy Dior but u can't see it with the cleavage and the other women. Finally Ms. Dutta in Gucci-- painful.

The cover is dull grey, make-up smoky. It's not text heavy but is more like a coffee table paper weight with almost 400 pages. Evidently a lot of hard work went into making the issue but that also makes it crammed (typical) with images and script. It's funny as in a fast glance one can't separate the ads from the articles!

Articles are simple and simply written. Alex Kuruvilla's article made me like him more: rich, successful, creative with head on his shoulders--- complete turn on! Priya Tanna's editorial sounded a little starry eyed: don't have an opinion on it as yet. Rituparna Som is good...need to read more of her.

I don't know what Adajania Shroff n Tiwari are doing here: sorry to say for all hi-end fashionistas-- just not my taste. Bandana's cocktail Saree v/s dress article: nope not done... they look as if they woke up- wore clothes and threw attitude into the lens because d make-up artist didnt arrive.

What made me smirk were the fashion predictions in the Bible... sehr gut. However, they were less Indian and more western esp. in the shoe segment.

Thanks Vogue for propelling me to forecast...

Abuse

Is this not pictorial abuse? I feel violated every time i encounter such images. Its worse than being called a Chiquita/chick.

Its fatiguing to debate over who (man/ woman) and why. whoever does it irrespective of gender, do they not understand that its not turning on but turning off, humiliating, debasing and infuriating. Its trashing our sensibilities, dignity; it makes me feel like a second rate citizen- a woman in a penile world. A body part, a commodity: everything that generations of women have fought against and risen above.

If its a man- i am ashamed for you. If its a woman (which i pray is not): i am very ashamed that you are born amongst us.

start

"There is nothing like your own shit to make you realise how much you stink."

-- some philospher i am yet to know.

Hard Things

Some things are harder for us to get through than they are for others. And the reverse is true. We all have one tough iron nail that digs into our shoe soles. It is our loneliness, fear of judgement, commitment phobia, ideal partner, ‘the career’, titanium balls, abs, stilettos, sagging boobs, tiny penises, afraid to be happy only because autumn will follow.

They are hard things to accept and change. My lethargy and boredom are on that list. Apart from my dyscalculia; a phobia that school gave me. I hated that place, it took me 7 years to unlearn and clean up the mess in me that the institution created. I recollect that I was intelligent, I had the spark… I have a fucking 146 IQ and I never came in the first 20 in my class. Why? What pinched- doubt, fatigue, futility.

Getting over a good relationship to finding your soul; it’s a hard path. For some people, these things are unimaginably hard. Like getting a place of your own, like facing fears or simply holding a friend’s hand. I am waiting for that someone who is nursing his realities.

Or like me who is going for a walk after no-sleep night at 6:30 am only to come out with her stupid blog. the ornate cuts, curves be appreciated, rejected, ignored or ridiculed.

It’s a beautiful dawn, in beautiful Bombay and I know there are a handful of people who love me irrespective of how I judge myself. And thats my easiest back- up ever!

Those Girls!

I want to know the girls whose fairy tales come true. Meet the ones who got married to school sweethearts. Stay with all the ‘we fell in love against our parents wish’ happy couples. I want to see how genuinely happy they are!

Some people are plain lucky- like the wise capitalist- she found her bull to matador. There wasn’t any serious opposition and I won’t call them perfect: their's is a stock market love affair. Fairy tale for some and an ‘I haven’t a clue’ for others. Apart from her, I don’t know a happy couple who has lived a cherry on the cake marriage.Beach boy’s parents had a love marriage and are happy: he says so. Rest of the bunch is separating, getting divorced or gotten divorced.

Child mom made an emphatic statement, “It’s because of the egos’, everybody is equal so no ones ready to bend.” Maybe; no one wants to walk the rocky road with foot sores- we just want everything for the better- not worse.

Q: In the age of multiple choices and Hubble’, can a Katherine have a happily ever after?

Fruity’s getting engaged and her college lover boy will turn fiancé in a month and a half. She has a theatrical story to narrate to her kids.When I heard of it; I had the jitters. (chicken me) My 1st Q was ‘WOW, how did she manage to stay in the glass palace and not get caught or be judged. Did it never occur to her that she was going to be ripped apart by the 1st row critics in the fashion show?’

Wise capitalist says if it’s any solace; tell her I have been there! The charm and the confidence with which she dismissed that judgement is admirable.

Would her marriage be the fairytale it looks to me, from my coveted single corner? I know I would be alive to see the ‘big changes’ but I pray that it does remain a dream she conceived.

Not only because I need to believe but also because it’s calming to have someone you love, to love you back in your menopausal 50’s. Love then is a luxury that most people sold out too cheap.

Go Fruity, be that girl!

Zip the Lip

Girl, shut up! That’s what we badly need to do. Women talk too much. We fuss, scrutinise, justify, belabour. We need to abandon our monkey (gorilla to be specific) lineage- we have to stop picking ticks from our beloved’s hair; just to show we care! I think we are irritating the opposite sex.

We are the destructive ones: we love, attempt to change them, distance them from their parents, get rid of their friends (it’s a women’s right to dislike her man’s friends). We spend half of our life in changing everything and spend the rest half complaining that we couldn’t change a thing.

I am furious at myself, for doing all of this; again and again and again.

I thought it was me, till I read three blogs leading the same way. Single or married—women drive men away; this could be a potential reason for romance to die out of relationships. For wise capitalist and her husband to sleep in opposite directions and unconsciously kick him in the nose. Hmmm…

I agree men are weird, listen to this:
Scene: Watching Sex and the city, Season 5
“Chameleon: (Grin) Women! They never say what they really feel when the man is around. The second he is gone, they realise how much they love him.
Moi: Hmmm, Yes: u are right; but isn’t that true of men as well.
Chameleon: With the man; he’s never really sure of what he feels! (LOL)”
(I think chameleon thinks from his crotch)

Is that true? Maybe; generalizing, women coo and pick too much: ‘yellow shirt, green trousers? don’t talk with your mouth full, don’t eat on the bed, don’t twiddle your thumbs, wear socks in your sneakers, change the bed sheet, clean the damm room, put the toilet seat back… place the cover. Don’t drink so much; don’t smoke so many, read that book- ps. return it too. Why can’t your hair stay? Why are you so possessive about your hair? Don’t tap your foot, shave; shave your armpits as well. There is nothing wrong in the above: it’s called grooming an animal called man.

The underlining whys and don’ts sound like a ringmaster and remind me of the sad Miss Mary Don’t. If there is so much to change, why do we want the species in the 1st place? Sometimes, I think we are masochists, knit pickers and it’s our destructive ‘handmaid’ way of showing a constructive feelings of 'care'!

We are weird and maybe if we shut up and let go, we may just let the men live longer than us.