Tuesday, July 23

Now, what was I saying?

I can explain.

My wrist just stopped working. On account of all the writing I do. Outside of this blog. For a living. No, not carpal tunnel. Megaloblastic anemia, it is called. Yes, I know. Given my -- how shall we put it -- 'healthy'-ness, you would never guess. What can I say? Size doesn't matter after all. 

The point being that I was advised to type as little as possible. Ergo, my absence. You know how promptly I blog otherwise. 

On the bright side, turns out, there is a medical explanation for my Dory-like memory. It's B-12,  dear readers, curse of the grass-eaters. So, because of severe and prolonged 'brain food' shortage, my neurons have been deep fried, says Patel saab, my doctor. Therefore the dizzying and mindless haze that is my mind. I knew it! 

On the not-so bright side, since I can't get this thing in anything non-meaty,  I've been spending most of my time outside Janaiah's house, waiting for him to awake from his drunken stupor so he can inject me with the blood-coloured shots that I've been prescribed to take (daily and then weekly and then monthly) for the next year or so. Failing which I'll slip into a coma, wither and die. Again, on the plus side, so now I can wait for Ryan Gosling to come and read to me.  Yayy, me! 


Did I tell you guys about Bumble Bee?  So, after our Side Bottom left us, after seven years of loyal service, I felt much like when Goofy died, and I thought I'd never want to get another car again.  But after contributing 88.9 percent of my salary (for the past four years) plus 4 phones plus an iPhone to Autos Anonymous, I thought it was time.  

In April, after many tears and recriminations, I finally bought Bumblebee. By bought, I mean half-mine and half-Citibank's.  Like an arranged marriage on, I have been smiling for the camera and telling everyone how it happened so suddenly and fortuitously and what a solid match it is. But in secret, I wistfully stare at a Beagle every time it passes me on the road.  That said, I have to admit, it's gotten easier though, I think I'm even developing an affection for Bumblebee. Like Aishwarya Rai, maybe I will realise that Ajay Devgan is who I should settle with, not Salman Khan.  Never Salman Khan.

But coming back to the point. Oh yeah, I drive now.  By which I mean I can make a car move forward. If it's small.  And during the day. When it's not raining. On a one-way road. Which can reverse on it's own.  And comes with a parking sensor. 

In completely unrelated news, I have started making friends with watchmen everywhere. I have no idea why though. 


Depp reminds me of a younger me.  Not as much because she's a lot like me as it is because of the boys she dates. This, even before she tells me about the love of her life -- Ice man.  I tell her he's not good news but she thinks he's The One.   

I want to tell her, that I know from experience, he's not The One.  That she'll date several more versions of Iceman and discover that she has a penchant for angst-ridden, over-achieving, smart-assed, two-faced, commitment-phobic, insensitive, egoistic, uncommunicative, jerks.  That, he is simply The Type.

But I don't say anything. If she is me, she'll find out soon enough. 


Two more weeks and twentyfouryearsgone.  Ah, well. The wheel weaves as the wheel wills.  So Samwise and I went to drink at HRC on her birthday and then sat and wrote all the things we have to do before we are 25. Except for, ahem, 1, 4, 7, 9, 11, 15, 18, 22 and 24, I seem to have done okay. Who'd ve thought, right?

Oh, oh, oh. Also, for the first time ever, I think I finally know what I want to do.  In life, I mean. Or, at least for the next two years. For a person who can't think far enough to plan her dinner, that's saying something no?


Now, to The Birthday.  I'm going to be in Bombay so I can be with Jughead.  And Aghori. (Both of whom are currently maintaining a radio-silence that's driving me mad but I'm hoping they'll come to their senses soon.) And Samwise. And Poison Ivy (Who I can count on for epic conversations.)

The last time I was in Bombay, I was standing on the insanely-crowded marine drive on New Year's  desperately trying not to cry.  The last time I had a birthday, I was in Goa, stone-cold sober and tragic and heart-broken.

So, anything above this and I'll survive 25.

Saturday, July 6


 “Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. The tragedy of man is that he doesn't know how to distinguish between day and night. He says things at night that should only be said by day.” 

Dawn, Elie Weisel.