Summer is Coming

Its not like I have anything to say. I'm only writing here because I have this thing I'm supposed to be doing right now but as you can guess, I'd rather do anything but that.  So here I am, wasting your time and mine but really, I can't think of one other thing to do at the moment. Apparently, neither can you.

Now that we are here,  let me tell you about my week.  To say that it was heartbreaking would be an understatement. My advice? Don't wait and hope for nothing. Oh, I know, they'll all say, the magic of thinking big and the secret to the universe or some such shit.  They're lying. There's nothing worse than feeling like a failure. Not.one.thing.

Actually, the one thing that is worse than failure is remembering all the other things you've failed at. Like math. (Running out of fingers since '95). Like boys (Why would I lie to the one boy who likes me that I'm seeing this other boy who I've not really seen in two years but now ever since I've lied, I really want to see).  Like jobs (All I want is a job that lets me travel and write and meet people and bake and help little children and has weekends and pays. The way people are acting, you'd thing that's too much to ask or something). Like rein in my weight. ("No, not a suicide vest, still my hips," I had to tell the lady at the airport).

And speaking of suicides, you know what else is happening? Weddings. So, so many of them that I feel like sleeping at the venue so I can just wake up and go to the next. If you are planning to invite me to yours, don't. It's a kindness, really. But if you really insist on me being a part of it,  can you just please live-stream it and then home-deliver the food? I'll even send your dabba back and a gift with the same courier fellow, promise. Just don't make me dress up and wear shoes and match things, I beg you.

Wow, I sound like such a jerk, don't I?  But if you really want to call me names, do you think you can call me a makeup slathered horsebeast or a stilletos and perfume lying horsebeast slagbucket . I've been meaning to call someone that ever since I read it but the only one I know really who has a horse-face is well, me. Since, we are in the mood for public humiliation, I might as well tell you about the boy from college who thought he was paying me a compliment when he said,  "you have a face only your mother will like." He was trying to say his mother, apparently.  Like that makes it better. Which reminds me, of course, of my favourite boy of all time whose favourite cuisine, he told me with great pride, was "fruit juice." And they ask me why I'm single.

For a person who started this with nothing to say, I'm sure am like an Energiser bunny today.  I would have loved to go on, and I don't even mean that snarkily, I have missed talking to you, it seems but I have to go do that other thing. By which I mean, that I'm going to go bed, try to slip into a sleep-induced coma and hope to never wake up.

On that cheerful note, I bid you farewell.

This be the year

Don't think I don't know what you are thinking.  I can sense your disappointment all the way over here through cyber space every time you come to the page and then leave upon seeing the cobwebs exactly as you left them last.

If you haven't already guessed, let me tell you how my new year resolutions are shaping up, one month into the year.  #epicfail dear readers, that's how. I needed a muse, a purpose, a sign from above, something to make me just sit the fuck down and write.

In the end inspiration arrived in the form of something entirely unpredictable-technology. To put it simply, if you are reading this, you have two things to thank for it - Swype and Morse code.

Lemme start at the start. Despite all my resolutions, for most of the month, I was in hibernation, refusing to see anyone's face until they lured me out of my room with tubs and tubs of ice cream. And then something happened and suddenly I have a life again.

It started with movies that refused to be watched at home - Catching Fire (for which I blame Ha), the Desolation of Smaug (for which I blame myself...), American Hustle (Will I ever lust after Christian Bale ever again?) And of course The Wolf of Wall Street (Matthew McConaughey, hello my new love.) 

Ahem. Right, so as I was saying, yes, it started off as innocent trips to the movies and now I'm busier than when I had a full time job. Which btw doesn't mean I was jobless then just that I thought I didn't have any time then but you should see me now....arrghhh, you get what I mean! This is why I don't write anymore dear readers, I am a complete mental case.

But anyway, let me at least attempt to finish this post while still can. So there I am in my warm little hole in the ground when it's suddenly time for amen s wedding! The amen with whom I share more memories than anyone else in the world, that amen.

So started the calls and the mails and the shopping lists. The bachelorette and the mehendi and the nikaah and the reception and everything before and after. There should be a dirty-cakes maker and a wardrobe leasing company and a thoughtful gift store made available to all friends of brides. It's the only way you are still feeling happy at the idea of anyone's wedding. 

Then for resolution number I forget which: "learn a new skill". Now any one else would learn to sing or dance or draw or swim, but of course, not me. Being the over enterprising thing that I am, I decide to pick up Morse code, the one skill I'm guaranteed to never have a use for in my lifetime. That doesn't stop me from conjuring wild fantasies of a post apocalyptic universe where in the aftermath of a world wide technological breakdown, I am the sole hope of mankind, sending garbled messages at 1wmp speeds to Brad Pitt who I'll hook up with later on.  It's becoming harder and harder to concentrate during class while devising strategies to evade zombies/alien thingies but I will be ready when the time comes, I promise.

In other news, chances of travel on the cards. And exercise. And a job. And boys. And an ma. If even a few of all the things I want to happen this year happen, this will be the year.

P.S: First among new ventures circa 2014 - linesfrom. Feel free to contribute!

P.P.S: I want to say I'll be good and make up for the three weeks missed but maybe best not. But lemme just say, Swype? Big fan.

Yeah, so

This time, I have no excuse. I watched Avatar the Airbender and much of Kora and then the latest in Downton, Newsroom, BBT, Sleepy Hollow, Luther, Dracula and even HIMYM instead of write here. Absolute douche, yes. But you knew that about me already. So, I assume all is forgiven. Okay good.

So, let me tell you about October. For me, anything after August and before December are always the blah months. When nothing exciting ever happens and I'm counting seconds to the end of the year. This, therefore, was a pleasant exception.  No big things happened, no.  But a lot of small things did.

After months and months of wallowing in sickness and health,  Janaiah and I broke up. And not because he injected a B12 shot into my armpit, dear readers.  I was blind. Boys do this to me again and again and I still don't see it coming. Turns out, I wasn't his only patient. All this time, he had been seeing two others right under my nose, my lecherous neighbour and his son, no less, dear readers. How does one get past that?

But things got better. I went to Pune, drunk myself silly (in a blind wine-tasting festival), crushed on another wasted giant (who apparently recreates feasts from iconic movies, for a living. I resisted even that, dear readers, until he showed me pictures of his Hobbit table with chamomile tea and red wine. How can one resist that?), overdosed on five-star rooms service, hung out with Jughead and Bada and generally had a blast.

It doesn't end there, my cousin just came home with a pink bundle of fleece. Turns out that is a baby. She is the first girl in our family since, well, me.  I am her only aunt in the whole world.  Now, if she just can fast forward to 10 and something and see how awesome I am.

Kinky is getting married.  Kinky, the crazy ball-girl. Kinky, the shroom-cooker. Kinky, the trance-stealer.  Dear readers, if you knew Kinky, you would appreciate how much restraint and stoicism I am displaying here.  Along with Jennifer O'Neill, it remains the surprise of the year for me.

Oh, and I almost forgot, while I wait for The Good Thing to happen, I start at a new job tomorrow.  I'm going to be writing for a paper whose newsprint looks like toilet paper (which a surprising number of people seem to dig).  So yayy, me.

P.S - In yet another one of my self-help exercises, designed to test my commitment, fortitude and will power, I will be writing here once every week from now on. (starting December 1st or once I can decide which day of the week it should be.  Whichever is later)  So yeah, there.

No cure for a common birthday!

Dear Readers, 

I've been getting increasingly agitated e-mails inquiring about my health and well-being. (By the way how come you guys only write when I stop writing? Haan? Haan?) By the grace of Pfizer and Bayer,  I still live. And write.  Okay, so maybe not so much write.  But if I told you the number of things I'm currently doing (including but not limited to rubbing strange-smelling oils into my hair, read for 3 days uninterrupted {check out my goodreads. 35 books in the last two months, baby. And the janeeyrelaidbare was a mistake. No, I don't generally read erotica. Just vampire porn from time to time but hey, I'm a rapidly aging, red-haired, cat-hating vegetarian singleton, cut me some slack yeah?} and so on), your head would explode. No, really. It would go KABOOM! . 

But because I'm inscrutable and mysterious (and not lame and transparent as evidenced during this year when I got face read TWICE this year by Sunny baba who told me good days would be here by 24th August {Do I look happy sunny baba? Do I? Do I?} and Kutty Sir who asked me in the kindest way possible to something about my commitment phobia and my zero self worth {which made me bawl and bawl until I passed out} but let's forget them freak shows. Can I also take this opportunity to ask #boy1, #boy2 and #boy 2.5 and boy #3 -- did you know? What was my tell? I don't want to anyone to ever know I like them. Until of course, they sign a written declaration of intent . But not a minute before. Not one minute. Help me!!! Okay, this is definitely not going as planned. Let me jump out of the parentheses now before grammar lady jumps out of my memory and stabs in my insomniac daze). 

Because I'm inscrutable and mysterious, I will only tell you the approved and censored material that I've noted in my commonplace book. 

Yes, I read Lemony Snicket. And so should you.  

Now, where were we? Right. So I read somewhere that there is no cure to a common birthday but I disagree, your honour {oh harvey, I watch the abomination that is Suits for you. Will you be my Batman?}. I have one word for y'all -- Alcohol. And one word of advice, if I may. "Pre-game."  So there I was in Blue Frog (which EVERYONE I know said I should go) and whatddya know, free entrance et all, and I knew it was going to my night! 

The next two hours will forever be etched in my memory, dear readers.  Here's how I remember it.  

Enter. Galactic Senate {where's leia or padme}. *Blink* Food. Drinks. Projector comes on. *Blink* Jalapeno Poppers. Puke. Vodka. Sigh. *Blink*  Palestine conflict. Goats.  Blood. What are they screening?! *Blink* Vodka. Blood. Iranians. Boom. Subtitles. Vodka. *Blink*Aunty slides into booth in front of me.  Hair. Zero visibility. Bombs. Vodka. *Blink* West Bank. Torn limbs. Trees. Vodka. Broken Camera.*Blink* Subtitles. Blurry. Hair. Aunty side please.  Vodka. *Blink* Giggles. Aghori. Me. Outside. Rain. Smoke. Clove. Vodka. *Blink* Enter. Belly dancing music. Army. Blood.*Blink* Giggles. Samwise. Me. Badda. Smoke.*Blink* Risotto. Puke. Tanks. Stone pelting. Blood. Tears. Are those cows? Giggle. *Blink*  Vodka. Smoke. Hair whirl. Aunty exits. The End. *Blink* 

Think about me, dear reader.  I survived that. I giggled through Palestinian slaughter on my birthday. No, no need to talk about my Karma.   

(Hello readers, look at my cake. Now back to me. Look again. Now back to me. Sadly you can't have mine, but if you stopped eating rubbish and switched to fondue, yours could smell like mine.  Look down, back up. Where are you? On a blog with a cake that smells like mine.  Anything is possible if you are an old smurf! Ha ha ha ha ) 

  

You think I've lost it. But not so, dear readers.  This year is all about venturing into the unknown, doing the unthinkable, conquering the unbeatable... or something.  

You asked for it. For me. For the 25-year-old-me (who's reading so much young adult, it's pathetic. And sad, like watching my 75 old neighbour trying to lure me into his lair by wearing polka dotted underwear. 

Okay, fine. I go sleep now. 

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! 

-x-

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 Shaadi.com, 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. 

-x-

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. 

-x-

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?

-x-

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.

 -x-

Night

 “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. 

Na na na na na na na na na

The Original

Two Face.Get it? 

Just look at the strokes, will you? A linc pin, ladies and gentlemen.

Were photoeditors always this cool? 

No, really?

I'm flattered you think so.  But no, it didn't just pop into my head. Inspired by this genius on deviant art.

B+

You know, this year wasn't supposed to be like this.  Because I already endured last year.  Survived the relationship-that-wasn't. The job-that-wasn't. The new-city-that-wasn't.  The end-of-the-world-that-wasn't.  But this year, this year was going to be better. That was the deal.

But, no. This had to be the bleakest, suckiest, unluckiest and most painful year I've had yet. And it's not even half done yet.

Having said that, I'm still keeping my chin up, dear readers.  Because this year I'm being an optimist.  Even though since I've decided to be one, all the things I've got are the trauma of (i) losing an iPhone (ii) getting a root canal treatment (iii) finding out A has a girlfriend (iv) finding out B might have a thing for me (v) having Smugface/Mad Prof turn my olive branch into whomping willow and smash it back in my face (vi) getting into a weird cat-fight with Aghori, my soul-sister (vii) seeing the mother in HYMYM (viii) going broke (ix)  (x) having my hair turn red.

On the plus side,  I now see why optimists are always so happy.  The biggest hope of them all? It's the certainty of death.

Have you seen my owlet?

The Things I tell people. In my head.

1. A: I like you. 

2. B: I like A. 

3. Smugface: I hate you for not even trying. And I hate that I hate that. 

4. Dark Lord: You came back.  Thank you.  

5. Amen: I'm sorry I'm such a shit friend. 

6.  Ma: I know you are scared. But I'm not marrying that Samsung salesman. Don't you think if all I wanted in a man was that, I wouldn't have found him myself? 

7.  God: I get it. Learning my lessons now. Please hold. 

8.  Mad Prof: I don't believe you. 

9.  Mongoose: It took you to make me want to be a journalist again. 

10.  Fedora: I quit. 

Circa 2013

This year


I turn 25 and I want it to mean something.

I want to write more. live more. love more.  Build more bridges, burn less.  Read new authors.  Watch old movies.  Get drunk. Dance wildly. Learn to swim. Travel everywhere. Shop smart. Enjoy the fall.  Throw a party.  Push my limits. Be selfless. Learn a sport.  Think less. Date more. Walk every day.  Cook. Experiment. Drive.  Be young. Be less afraid.  Smile often.  Earn more.  Spend more. Not wait. Go get.  Make friends.  Discover music.  Dress up.  Say yes.  Cycle.  Go out.  Think big. Get fit.  Find a cause. 

Be happy, you know? 

 

The Spa Scare

Apart from it being utterly time pass, there are few incentives to my job.  But from time to time,  there is the occasional perk.  Namely a restaurant review here and a movie review there.  And still yet, a spa review in between.  Like this Monday when I was called over for the same at a fancy-pants hotel. So here I am, sitting in the locker area waiting for the sauna to ready. 

 At the sound of the beeper,  I take off my thick snowy robe and step into the darkness.  I'm blinded by the steam and the wet heat.  A minute inside and I'm bored. So I begin to imagine I'm a Fernando Botero nude and start to pose this way and that, singing and swaying. Five minutes later, the beeper goes off again and the steam slowly starts to thin. I turn around and my heart stops. 

A figure begins to emerge. There's someone else in the room.  Even before I can process this, I'm running outside, my scream still stuck in my throat. I slip and fall.  My worst fear has come true. "This is what happens when you read so much about serial killers. They'll know. And they'll follow you. And they'll hack you into pieces when you are in the shower. And then leave the CSI team a clue written in your blood on that mirror there," is my last thought.  Still, I scramble out on all fours into the locker area before he can grab me by my feet and drag me back inside. 

I clutch a towel and run to the door.  It's locked.  The swipe card is back in my locker.   I look back. There's still no sound from the sauna. I walk back, each step leaving me more and more numb with fear.  I reach into the locker when I hear the door open and the soft thud of footsteps. I sink into the floor.  But I'm strangely relieved. This is the end and my legs are waxed. 

I feel a hand on my shoulder but I still don't move.  Now, it's saying something. But I don't understand.  It leaves me and walks into the sauna.  "Getting his tools," informs the voice in my head.  But something is wrong.  Too much time has passed. 

I slowly look up. The glass door to the sauna is ajar. The figure is exactly as I saw him last, still as a statue and creepily motionless.  A woman, who I slowly recognise as my therapist, latches on to him while reaching for the water bottle I've left behind. She lets out a little 'hiss' as her hand touches the hot stone.  

Feeling returns to my body and she passes me the water.  "It's normal to be dizzy after the steam. But you look very pale, please relax," she says.  

"What's that," I ask, pointing.  

"It's a sculpture of the Fengshui master, Guo Po. To promote, how do you say, positive vibes and inner peace, you see?" 

"I see."

"Are you ready for your massage now ma'am or do you want some more time in the steam?"

"Back in the steam? No. No. No no no." 

"Ma'am?"

"No, thank you. I think I'll take that massage now." 

Buri Nazar Wale, Tera Muh Kaala

1.Okay, really, like WTF?!  All this while I've been going on and on like a miserable fuck and no one even thought to tell me. Y'all suck. I want to make you guys pay, but I'm guessing you already have. Anyway, enough. New rules. Until Something Really Happens, no boys on the blog.

2. 45 days. 18 books. Eight behind the required run rate. I have to finish the reading challenge, dammit. It's the only thing I decided to do this year. If I don't, I'm going to bin all my resolutions for the new year. Okay, I have to say it. I'm just so, so sick of reading on the Kindle, dear reader. I just want to hold a real book. which smells of paper. has a cover. and which I can spill things on. which looks different from the previous or the next book. which I can put next to my pillow. and sleep.  Can someone gimme a bunch of those, please? Pleaseee?

3. Now, this is not really on the list but am I the only one that thinks Daniel Craig = dopey eyed construction worker/self-mutilating monk from Angels & Demons. Oh, and Skyfall?! "The Best. Bond. Movie. Ever." "Dark, supple, and punctuated with moments of unanticipated visual brilliance." Are you kidding me?. I'll take Home Alone 3 over this cheap, campy joke, thank you very much.

4. On the work front, I'm waiting for a Good Thing to happen.  If it does, it will change everything.  I'm pretending like I don't really care but I do, dear universe, I really, really do.  Can you conspire to make it happen? Before the end of the year, if you don't mind. I'm aging by the minute here.

5. Inspired by Jughead and the Dark Lord, for the first time ever, a weight-watch ticker. Hit The Golden Number by 31st December.

PS: "Until Something Really Happens."  "A Good Thing." "The Golden Number." Why am I talking like this?  All in good time, my friends. All in good time.

All or Nothing

Today, I did something I'm rather proud of.  Something the stubborn, passive-agressive me of six-months ago would never done.  I was fair. I was just. I talked. And, I listened.  I won't pretend it was easy. Losing a friend. But I did it anyway.

I'm still a little underwhelmed. But I'm told that's what happens when you go with a plan.

I admit, I always overestimate people I like.  I think them the smartest, the coolest and the nicest.  Again and again, I give them every benefit of doubt. I think no less of them when they've wronged me.  Short of murder and rape,  I forgive them pretty much everything.

So, the only thing that can make me truly dislike them is them.  When they do things even the idiotically-loyal-me cannot overlook. Still, I hope.  I wait and wait for them to prove me wrong.

When they still don't, one day, I switch off.  Take them off my radar.  Call it a day.

As I did today.

I said my goodbyes. Found my closure.

Now, I move on.

Thanksgiving comes early to Castle Grouchy

Thank You, The Great Indian "Oktoberfest" --  It seems I can like beer after all which has made me think about ALL the other things I've written off all these years (neatly labelled under "HATE") but should now try again. Pigeons? Math?  Driving? Relationships?

Thank You,  my very expensive and very gay hairdresser for inquiring if I am particular about the length of my hair and not waiting for me to reply before you chopped off my inglorious tresses. I wanted to hit you then, when you shouted across the floor, "Thanks for letting me go all the way!" but in hindsight, I'm a happier girl today. Every one's been complimenting me on my new look. Someone even said I was looked very pretty. ("Just like Johnny Depp in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory") But still.

Thank You U.N Summit, for keeping me occupied and out of office for the soul-suckingly boring month that is October. For extracting from me a pound of flesh. But more importantly for making me meet Nadir. When you slipped into my hands the Prime Minister's speech in full sight of the rest of 'em, is the moment when I fell a little in love with you, heart of my heart. Why did you have to be married? Why?!

Thank You, Smurfette for that weekend.  All the luxury indulgence was much appreciated.  The morning after however was one of the scariest experiences of my life, courtesy of which, I'm going to be abstaining from aqua vitae for a long time to come. Oh, and maybe from bath tubs too.  Because this is a family oriented blog (Dafuq), I can't recount the sequence in detail.  (Just know that I almost did an Elvis and that you are very lucky I'm still here.)

Thank You, Smugface and NYT,  for killing every desire I've might have had for you both.  I never want to date anyone whose name starts with V. Ever. Ever.

Thank You,  networks of the world, for giving me back BBT, Grey's, Merlin, Vampire Diaries and everything else, now I have something to do while I wait to grow old and die.