Weak In The Knees

The author of this blog is currently mesmerized with the Paris Fashion Week -

Just this - B'Bay, Business and World

- Too tired and piqued to write in detail -

- I am obnoxiously unnerved with blunders, acquisitions, mergers and takeovers.
- The power to destroy also unfortunately gives you the power to create - Arch head, there are times when I want to wipe that arrogant 'Try me' smirk off your face, preferably with a fountain of habu poison.

I won't bend nor would I give-in this time, you 'make me'!

Stuck-Up Or Just Morons?

I am so pissed... mostly with myself. I remember mom used to tell me that writing with an angry head is the worst thing to do - it also came as a hind sight revelation from my grandfather's letters to his brothers. Ours is a weird family tree - functional only because we are dysfunctional, insane in ways that allow sanity to breath in peace.

It's not everyday that i realise i have the quintessential Dadhe 'fuck you' spirit (most of the time, as B'abyite - i am least bothered) but sometimes people just get on my nerves (my horse is bigger than urs - thing or as in Mbhai we call it 'meri laal'). Dadhes won't tolerate that - like grandada would say - 'Ashil Tujhya Gharcha' (whoever you think you are, are at your house, not in my face).

Androgyny and Moss got on to me in the most 'I can't tolerate you, so why don't you go brain-leak somewhere else' way. As mentioned above. It came after Androgyny purposefully interrupted a conversation with my colleague! i understand he likes being the center of attention and we all do give his 'la di daa' ways.

I don't have anything against a man who behaves like a woman born with stilettos - i have a problem with a man who is a woman in the head. For god's sake which 'man' worth his penny prances in an inner alley in Mahim, with blue aviator shades and a carton of Lassi at 2:00pm? Whom are you giving attitude - the Muslim Cafe Azad boys, the six bucks sandwich wala or the pan bidi seller?
He was asking to be mocked at - his U-ASS gyaan and his chick parties and his cousin's sex life... freak - why would I want to know about all this and his super Tuesday (I haven't a clue what it is and why it is called so) when i am clarifying an important misconception with a colleague. We all have 'I am above the sundry mere mortals' attitude but we do know where to throw it.
And I am so turned off with his use of Persian language and script everywhere (his hangover does not go... be it the chat tag or sticking up things on peoples cubes) - bottom line we are not on talking terms coz he doesn't like being mocked at and he won't 'get over himself'. I am relieved, Demeter liked him so much that i could never turn to voice what I felt! Now i am at the liberty of not being nice coz the people i like, like them.
Actually Androgyne is alright and all but some people are not just 'the long run people'; and what is the point in surrounding oneself with passing faces? Yes, I know I am unjustly critical and overly judgmental. Frankly, I am just bored of him and i don't wish to bother myself with himself anymore. Yup, That's it - and in the true Dadhe tradition 'how does it matter to me if you exist, darling? And when it doesn't matter, why spent my energy on you?

* this post is a strict ventilator for saturated frustration.

My Time

There is something seriously wrong with the boys of my generation - a year ahead and a year later - and I can't stand the ones born in 1982!
Grrrrr.... :(

Yes, Yes; Love To You Too!

This post may sound like a paradox. Though, I am a romantic beyond repair, Mills and Boon is not my idea of romance, so is Valentine's day or the epic play Romeo and Juliet for that matter. Guess what did i do on the V-day? Absolutely nothing! I ducked Drama King's invitation for the fear of being compelled to meet and wallow in the deluge of love songs. I ignored Beach Boy's calls, for I could not cough up a good excuse to avoid meeting him.

In the afternoon, Demeter and I got talking about love and sex in B'bay. {The city is divided into the colorful evil and the colorless evil - B'bay and M'bai respectively. It remains evil though and I love this devil of a reclaimed land!) The B'bay part loves to party, make love, romance, fart with art, cry in the opera, eat smelly cheese, work as if they would get fired, and live like today was their last day on the planet. Though most of us shuttle between the two worlds, I largely grew up in the 'duh and dude land', so my sense of morality is convenient, confused and chaotic - almost like the usage of the word 'fuck' or 'whatever'.} 


Demeter on the other hand has her world divided into 'I believe and I can't fathom'. Love for her should be penguin-like, so Byron's loves are not love at all. Chilmom was raised on the diet of 'one man, many wolves', so for her, 'her man' is the only man she'd every give any thought to. For Childmom, love is duty, a moral responsibility.

Demeter and I got on into a heated- 'love is not this - not this either' discussion and concluded that love has many faces. Each face is as true and honest as the other one.

I can't really define love anymore. For Demeter it is her unconditional trust in the penguin. She was lucky to find her soul mate at an early but I am unsure if I will settle for that 'soul mate' thing. (Though I definitely believe in it and desire one too.) I am wary of the magnitude of compromises that one has to make to sustain all this. She gave up her study scholarship to be with him.

The G-girl gave up her 'full bright' South Hampton scholarship for the donkey she is now married to. Does love demand all this? Is it worth it, in the end? G-girl was my biggest disappointment - I openly jilted her, when she broke the news. I only remember her sad helpless face, pleading me to 'understand'. I wish I had drowned her then. And later when I received her wedding invitation, I wished I had done it instantly. Surrender was her definition of love, she had risked it all, for a disheveled man she wanted to wake up with for the next 50 years of her sordid life.

Control is love for V, he believes that love is malleable and the person in love like a swaying blade of grass - Control the wind and the grass will bring you all the fragrance you seek. That is V's definition!  

Adventure for Style Icon is what love is meant to be - he enjoys that edge, the tight rope, the second guessing, the mind game, the 'daily crises management' situation. 'Now, that's love' is how he often puts it -

 For the Wise capitalist it is barter, equalization. Love is something that completes you, you must seek and be with a man that fills in all your blanks and vice-verse.

For Black Pearl it is madness - a violent madness that surpasses every emotion.

For Mushy it is solitude, he'd often say, ' You know you are in love when you share your silences in perfect nudity of emotion.' I have come to understand that, the skin and the barbs do not differ for most devotees of this form of love.

The Drama King's love is an acetic mix of horror and plight - he is a freak magnet to begin with and that defines his love. All his women are a little off the hook - be it the bald artist who is making an ice boat and will sail in it in the Arabian sea, or the cold, crazy Cat-woman or the pimple infested health expert, or the twangy ' i think i love you - but hang on, maybe i don't' woman (I can go on ...).

I can't point out a singular common aspect amongst their loves or lovers. They all are so different, so unique and its still 100% love.

Torch and I had our ways of loving and getting over. It doesn't take much for love to happen or fizzle; and it doesn't mean that the way we felt about 'the' person before that sublime moment was not genuine. The Metrosexual concurs with us. We three are as authentic as any human can be, just that we stop feeling the 'feeling' when we cross a certain threshold. We are yet to figure out why?! Our excuses often are ' I'm a whore, I'm a bitch, I'm a man' - respectively.  

The V-day was a disaster for Torch, she was packing when I called to inquire if she needed some chores to be done. On her cuss word marathon, she was audibly upset and desiring to put up a garage sale - of the men who thought they loved her. "I can sell each one of them, and what is worse, they want to be sold by me! Almost begging. I hate this day, I feel I am so unfair, a heartless whore. I'm so F-ing harassed by this love business!”

In sync, we wanted to burst the heart-shaped balloons, feed fancy cakes to street urchins, rob every ones dinner and wine money, and save them the heart burn of  'fuck me - fuck you' aftermath that would follow months later. Love for Torch is in freedom, in the wind in her hair and no backpack on her back.

For me, as I am yet to figure - I often feel love is slipping under someones skin, more comfortable than yours and leaving a little of you that can never be claimed, rejected or pulled out. Like diving in a rising wave, at that 3-second magical moment, much before it caresses the shore and sucks itself back in, to dissovle into the sea.

Words

Words are sometimes literal, metaphoric or invisible; they have texture, feeling and sound. Most people do not realize that words breath as individuals do and if you observe, you may even feel their breath. Sometimes they are jumbled up, sometimes they are different from the effect they have, and sometimes they mean nothing close to the way they sound. Words amaze me, when they casually fit in one mouth and are uncomfortable in another, or when they surface suddenly and make a sound that is familiar to a fragrance.

Recently, I unconsciously squirmed when I heard a man say 'I will ping you', or 'Tinkle me when you are free' - the words Ping and Tinkle don't sound weird otherwise, but from a man (with a raucous voice) they sound funny - almost like they had gender preferences. Maybe words do have gender preferences.

Words are also elitist and denote a certain temperament - like the words cantankerous, moribund, absolution, obliterate, ophidion, penumbra, runic or simply the word waif. Often in the Monk's text I find words that sound like vespers warning a dying sun - daring him a revenge - “deviant humor ventures forth, unassuming koalemos in unfortunate range”. Or Wasabi's, following of the fundamental meaning in the word fundamentalist - or my usage of the word chauvinist. Talkathon treats words like doodles on a page - and in ways they turn out to sound and look interesting. She would write something on these lines - 'What was once when, then they forgot when, why, which, how, and everything became what - I am tired of the 'what' in USA.' Or the way Mush writes - 'Can a man ever challenge his future without reclaiming his past? Can glory ever come to a fraught mind? Is this why Alexander failed? I ask you if you can forgive my smelly socks and my unsavoury stew?' Like the paradox laden Black Pearl's work , “I stand strong on weak knees.” Or the love element in every sentence that Drama King weaves - 'the love is in the loathing my dear, I want to burn, burn, burn - par ab intejzaar aur sahi (however there is still some time for that).

The word unconditional is attached to one abstract concept - love, and another process - rearing.

Language is often like a river that takes the qualities of the land it flows on. It moulds itself according to the terrain, words come to life and disappear. They form and move into oblivion, and finally they take on a different meaning altogether. However, the text is always a little less important than its context.

The word separators wheel power, actually 'separators' wheel power. Power lies with the hierarchy, hierarchy decides the base, the base decides the super structure and the super structure decides the codes of a language, which in turn decide facts, truths and popular realities; moulding history, myth and culture.The separator is a stupid long space bar, a forefinger's space between clustered letters.

The separator is no larger than an inch of space - empty space, that holds ransom an entire body of work.

----
Language
A, aa
La
Lang
Gauge
Language
Languish
Anguish.

Stolen
Borrowed
Fused

Language
A scream
A silence
A voice
A meaning

Langue
Parole
Gross;
language double crossed.

Formless, spineless
Repressed, aggressed
Words.

What was –was, is – is
Can be…would be
Maybe…must be.

Language
Can’s
May’s
Must’s

Voices, words, meanings
Language: one’s identity.

I
Dent
Ity
Entity

Ity’s, Ism’s, Question marks.

Language--- claustrophobic
--- Anarchic

Hermo, Hetro, Homo, Trans, Bi: Hinglish
Lan(g)uaged

Borrowed
Stolen
Fused

Language- scent of black earth in white snow

Space. Time.
Chance. Power.
Politics of Power.
White, heterosexual, pure-bred, capitalist, hegemonic words…

Ah!
Anguish
Languish
Language
Gauge
Lang

Our tongue:
A double edged sword.
Mother tongue---father wars
Father tongue ---mother land.

Mind, a dumb dadaist.
Used, clichéd, hackneyed,
Language yours and mine.

Like a stray set of alphabet on a deserted page
Blank in a mob is language.
----
I miss PIES - I want to go back to class :(

Not Just Images

Every image has a story to tell. Every ray of light was waited for to be captured in order to make the image immortal.
These are some of my favorites - by very talented photographers.

Credits: Ankur Aras, Annie Leibovtiz, Danilo Lex, Greg Gorman, Hans Neleman, Helmut Lang, Lillian Bassman, Micheal Grieves, Rafiq Ellis, Robert Freeman, Sam Abell, Tarun Khiwal, Tasar Qureshi and Zubin Shroff.

There are many more, just that I don't know them, yet.

Terrible Child

The monk called me that last evening – I can’t deny that I am not one.

however, when is the right time to give up your childish dreams, forsake the teddy bear, or stop reading romance? “Either you dream about the real world or live in it.” - Monk's ‘get out of the box and get real’ gyaan, made me reflect,in its most serious definition.

I have fought it ferociously for years now, a certain part of me never wants to grow up, never own responsibility, be needy and remain a leech – something in yesterday’s conversation changed all of that. Between espressos, the vacuum sucked me in, causing a lonely space that I am not sure if I could live with – but I knew I wanted to be friends with that confinement.

I am not Jaw- breaker and I can’t get away by saying, “U know me na, main asi hi hoon. I know it’s terrible and I hate it too but I am super needy and cribby. What to do, I love u na.” I can’t be that – I am not that.

If I am not that and can’t be happy with this – what is that I am seeking? I need to choose my side now. And as i did today morn, I only pray that I don’t do a bad job of it.

Yes, its time to shed this skin.

Too Much Text?

Moss made a comment that ‘certain people write too much on their blogs’. Moss is inconsequential in the judgements he makes because they have a tendency to evaporate, like a la Chameleon's. However, he teaches me two things – where to retain ones child-like nature and where to absorb your spiritual self (no, he is none of the above – but people teach you either way).

I was thinking, maybe he is right, we do write too much. Blogs are meant for short funny matters that amuse your readers, or so we think. For me when I wanted to write, I knew it would have to be what I have and being cursed with ‘honesty on paper’, there is little for my imagination to stray. For me a blog is your space – you may write, leave it blank or caricature the world on it – the rest of the guiding/preaching world can go fuck its self to an orgasm. Yes, you can curse as well!

weekend - taunts and touch

Something very weird is happening to me. It is happening and I am just watching from faraway – unable to decide whether I want it to happen or not. It’s a new feeling, a new experience.

Recent observation had me jumping on to my defence instantly – be it with the Crankyhag, Moss or even Androgyny. My vitriolic tongue spews counter attacks with unimaginable accuracy. For one, I wasn’t like this; secondly I am not too sure I like it. It goes against my principles of non-violence. And for propagating the same, I am seriously violent. I reflected on the way everything was happening and realised that I am unconsciously deciding what I want; but I am unable to convey what I don’t want. That frustration comes out in unappreciated smart-ass comments and physical violence against the people I don’t like. Then again, its not that I don’t like them – some of them are my closest buddies, colleagues and family – what I am unable to tell is that, “dear Soandso, this trait of yours affects me, it makes me uncomfortable and I think I am beyond ignoring it; so please refrain from behaving like that with me henceforth.”

Simple, ain’t it? I told myself that today. I had to figure out ways of telling them the same. I am not a bitch and don’t wish to turn into one either.

Another element in the weird-sphere is of touch. I have been a hug-n-kiss babe for a while now; apart from my profession, ‘the kiss on the right cheek (unless you have bad skin)’ drama was a part of me since college. I have aced the art of cordial hugs. Now, someone even trying a friendly touch gets me mad – I have become a mimosa plant. The way I cringe away makes me feel as though the other person is a bad case of psoriasis. There is zero humaneness, warmth or any friendly love in the casual shoulder hugs that I now give – and it’s not the people. I simply don't feel some people should touch me . Its like they will spoil something in me - I am afraid their negative energy will rub-off and I will be responsible for it.

It’s been a while that tears rolled down my eyes. Say probably a year or so. Today I finished the book and the moved to watching a movie on sorority. The rules were same: independence, happiness, courage, grab the reins of your life, respect your desires, stand by your decisions, live life, etc… the loss, gain and absolution of fears and hatred had me sniffing. Then came the boo hoo hoo - why are people the way the are and how can they be so cruel, etc... the usual drama.

Before watching the movie though, I had a random discussion with Childmom, who pointed to me that I have been erasing certain people from my life by avoiding them even in public. Well, I would agree, the other day I met the gang for dinner, Crankyhag joined us uninvited. Apart from the fact that I had to reschedule the tables, I decided to not converse with him for the lack of mutual subjects. Conversely, picked on me the second he sat. I was teasing Monkeybaby and he made unwanted remarks in intervals; finally I retorted and Wise capitalist gave me a dirty stare, as if I was the culprit! I wanted to smack her, but I didn’t want to screw my evening. I am here to have a good time and I might as well do that. I cut both of them out and concentrated on a fantastic meal with Con-artist.

As we parted ways, Cranky made another comment and that too before Wisecap, monkeybaby and childmom, I was on my best behaviour and returned it with a plastic ‘ya, right whatever’ smile. What pinched me was that my friends didn’t say a word. Next day morn, I pulled up Childmom for the same and she acknowledged her mistake, "km on everybody was there, what was the point of picking a fight. He is older to u na, ignore baby, ignore. And he means a lot to Chameleon, so forgive him. Ps. I can’t tell u how much he got on to my nerves; I had to spend my entire evening with him, before you guys arrived.’ Serves her good!

My question still stands, why have different faces all the time? I sent out a ‘please do not invite me if ‘he’ is coming’ sms to all. It was reciprocated with smilies, alright - whatever, you are over reacting, and I understand replies. This had to stop – so what if I had to be the one to start?

Beautiful People

For my Torch – who is leaving India in search of ‘interesting pastures’ Happy Journey, you shall find what you seek.

I don’t know anyone who does not like a pretty face, a figure enhancing dress, stunning heels or sparkling diamonds. Esp. in the metrosexual world is just as important to look good as it is to be bitchy. There is nothing wrong about it - we are greedy, selfish, superficial people, for whom the packaging surpasses the quality.

Is acceptance the first step to change? Now, not really. Acceptance is a way of comforting our conscience, accepting the satva with tamas. Being beautiful or ugly doesn’t improve the qualities within us. (The other day while walking down the platform, I brushed across a girl in a too obviously fake Versace; I was on the side of the train tracks and as the train approached I urged her to move in, and when she didn't I pushed her as the horn howled in my ears. She turned to call me a fat bitch just before I decided to turn around and apologise. I refrained, glared at her and called her an ugly mare with a fake Versace! I didn’t wait to see whether she was looking. Point is she wasn’t ugly or mare-like but I found her lack of civic sense, judgement and loose tongue - classless. I don’t think her looks compensated for those 45 seconds.)

But looks are very important and one often can get away with a smile. That gets me to befriending beautiful-looking people. A name in history is ‘Plastered face’; since childhood, we all have our knee jerks - mine was being fat, hers was being short and ‘not fair enough’. She pioneered in calling me names on being the fairest/ prettiest chick in class. Starting with chalk, flour, plaster of paris, albino, tube light, etc… needless to say we never became friends. But the colour bar scarred me for life till I entered college. I have crossed many like me; all of them were pretty but seriously flawed in their own way.

At the coffee-skimmed-milk parlour almost half a decade ago, Century slut claimed that I had the guys I wanted because Indian men dream of a ‘white cunt’ – "it’s the colonial hangover, you know!" I took serious offence to it then, coz it wasn’t the truth. I have since then dumped everyone who wanted anything more than what was in the offing. I have lost some really nice people in the bargain - they were left with large question mark and a ‘u don’t exist for me’ look on their face.

Then I met Torch. She was the only chick I knew my ‘all guy’ friend circle. When I saw her, I couldn't help but stare, she was everything a guy wanted, and everything a girl wanted to be. But Torch being tight arsed, eyebrow twitching, nasty remarks expert - was unapproachable. We sat at the same table and I smiled at her, she gave me her ‘what the fuck are u smiling at’ look but seconds later smiled back.

We have since been friends, and the kind that teach each other about life. On our last pajama party, her confession was a stunner, "K i hate to say it but you my bitch are the most beautiful chic in chicland - and I am so f-ing jealous of you.' Coming from her- it was the most insincere, fake but best compliment I have received under d influence of alcohol. “That idiotic smile u have, twinkling eyes and the happy look - compels one to smile back only to be on the safe side. You have been the best bitch I know, bloody bitch, I am so f-ing going to f- your case to not feel the vacuum” and she loves bitches!! The hugs after that were tight warm and filled with more wine screams!

Torch is the in model of the group. There is a bias - I am beautiful not because I look good, I had known that eons now. When in the bevy, I just wait for my turn as they pick out guys for entertainment tonight. Or wait for all the guys to finish staring at the gang and then turn to look at me. I often end up pimping them through the evening and land up alone on my way back home. (No i don't feel bad about it.)

They are pretty women, like d metrosexual genius is a pretty boy. He knows more about botox than most professionals do, he is not gay, doesn’t swing either! And he doesn’t go out with average looking women. (friends r exceptions, thank you!).

Today beautiful is being Gay and being Gay is in vogue. If u are gay, it is taken for granted that u have an amazing sense of style, looks and oomph. The editors of straight men’s magazines are gay; make that obvious- looking closet gays or single cynical men who haven’t had sex for a decade (in the least)! But they are termed genius; like a pretty face is just a pretty face; a gay writer is just good in the columns of fashion and gossip. I don’t deny any of that, but super straight men are also good at this game.

Torch being in the fashion business laughs at gays –‘they are poor souls – and the worse bitches. You can’t help but pity them – they are on no side of the fence and have to serve on both sides of the fence. Imagine watching a naked woman when you could almost puke at that sight or shave a straight model’s crotch. Also they have to follow the rules of being gay – they don’t have the freedom to be themselves. Once you pronounce yourself as gay, you cease to be everything else after that – including human!

That was my first on the other side of the fence perspective of gays. Torch had sensibilities that changed a lot me. One clear instance was after her first hard earned Charles and Keith shoe broke – she cursed, not cried. ‘bastards can't make shoes for humans, can they? She picked up her keds, and threw strappys in the bin – I was shocked, don’t u want to mend them I asked? K its just a fucking shoe, and it frigging hurts to wear it! It was profound, although it may not sound so.

I will miss all the ten min meets – the tight hugs, the ‘bloody bitch’, the smiles, the beauty treatments and most of all I will miss the classy bitch – Torch, have a great life. And don’t call me! Lol, I ain’t gonna cry.