Like a Rolling Stone

All the time I was working the past couple of months, I fantasised almost obsessively about this week -- my first as an utterly useless, aimless, prospectless, worthless, jobless member of the great Indian loafers club. I mean, what would I do? Where would I be? How'd it feel?


And, everytime, a hazy motion picture would start playing in my head. 

***

A lithesome girl, with somewhat of a resemblance to me, rises in time to shut off the alarm. A quick brush and she heads off for a run at the picturesque jangal-mangal park. At the park, she is PT Usha on dope. In the next hour, she completes her twenty rounds and is forced to stop when other runners plead with her to leave because of the complex she is giving them. 

Back home, she showers and readies to break fast.  At the table, her hand effortlessly ignores the leftover pizza and the freshly grilled cheese sandwiches and reaches instead for her favourite -- oats and orange juice. 


Then, as always, she arrives before time for class. Naturally adept at learning alien languages that were never meant to be learned, French n'cest pas difficile pour elle. "If it was not for your last name, the size of your hips, your love for gongura, and your country of origin, you would have certainly been mistaken for the French," the professeur tells the beaming girl. 


But it's only still the beginning. By the end of the day, she has, aced through her calligraphy lessons and her cooking classes, completed her visit to the lending library, spent time at the NGO, won a chess tourney with her non-virtual boyfriend, sifted through her freelance assignments. All, in time for bed. 


She completes her nightly routine and slips into bed with a contended smile. She is already ready for the next day. 

 ***

Now folks, that is what should have happened.  This is what happened. 

Everyday: Woke. Thought about running. Ate. Went out. Watched movie. Ate. Thought about French class. Read book. Slept. Cooked. Ate. Double Grilled Cheese Sandwiches. Went out. Thought about calling lending library. Played chess with virtual boyfriend. Went out. Bought calligraphy set. Met Jughead or Amen. Read 51 sex tips men want women to know. X BOXed. Went out. Came back smelling like smoke and booze. Read comics. Thought about the video. Slept. 

Not exactly as I imagined it would be, but pretty much how I'd want it to be. 

Grrr.

I'm going to use Blue Shirt's head for target practice.  Really, I am.  It will be like this. His head will pinned to the wall between rows of balloons in the shooting stall, at the carnival where I go every year. And then I will go pop! pop! pop! and poof, he'll be gone.  Okay, so given my exceptional hand-to-eye coordination and natural arm strength, NOT to mention the size of his pig head; all chances he'll come out of it unscathed, but that's completely besides the point. You get the point. I want to kill him. 


Now, there's three people in the entire world that I feel like that about, you understand? HIM, that loony Smugface (who is always offering to help when I say I want to kill myself) and of course, Devilkid (who was born and genetically designed to make my life miserable). 


Only, I can't seem to rid myself of any of them. And this one, I've been putting up with for like years. Okay, so maybe he's just this side of cute, can come up with a wisecrack or two and, knows me very, very well. But that's it. He's SO insufferably arrogant, and SO mean. Definitely deserves this much blog space, NOT.


But today, I tell you, he went too far. TOO far. How dare he doubt if I'm good enough to snare the celebrity husband that i'm pining after? This is it. I'm so totally done with him. Long time readers of the blog need not snort. This is only the 4569th time in the past seven years I've said that. But I promise you, this will be the last time and you all know I am woman of my word.  If you don't know anything of the sort, well, you will find out now.


Baah, now what I was saying? Yeah, so he's a dog. Whether he thinks I can do it or not, I'm going to marry NK and that's that.  If for some reason should NK not consent, (which frankly, I don't think will happen. After all, it's not like I'm some crazy, creepy fan who watched Hyderabad Blues once and then decided to marry him), I will resort to us touching noses, which will be considered and blessed as holy matrimony under the Eskimo tradition.


"Realistic ambition", is it? "Buy me ten pairs of bunny slippers if I marry NK, each in different colour", will he?  Hah! There. Now, that will show Blue Shirt. 

Blank Verse

Two very blogworthy incidents happened today. 


In one, a lifelong wait comes to an end. Today, I saw him. He's everything I ever imagined he'd be. Now, I just have to find a way to make him marry me. 


In the other,  I did it -- the really, really bold thing.  I quit the job. 


P.S: Dear God, I will do anything if you'll just arrange this for me. ANYTHING. Even believe in you. 


PPS: Jughead, I can't be more glad you are back. In the absence of a god, I leave this to you, my pimp. If anyone can do it, its you. 

Fools like me

I'm so, so, so tired, dear readers. I worked and worked and worked all week long. And today, I even made a phone call, answered three e-mails, collected my pay cheque and wrote four 60 word reports, all by myself and didn't even get a byline for it. Reap the rewards of hard labour, my ass. 


But that was not what has me so,so, so depressed, dear readers. Tookie and I have been in search of two things the last week --  One, people who will buy us kindles. Two, people who will marry us.  While the former can be anyone, we agreed that by the virtue of necessity, the latter have to be boys. 


That decided, even before Tookie said the word "k-i-n", Werewolf Singh, long time "friend" and fan who works in Amazon, no less, lent her his kindle until her happily married (to a rich investment banker) sister got her one from Dubai.  


Needless to say, the second wasn't even a search to begin with. Being the uber-cool gujju bred tam-brahm tecchie that she is, she could have twenty different rakhi-ka-svayamvar type things going on for her. 


Now, let's pan it back to me, dear reader. 


No one offered to lend me their kindle, let alone buy me one. Smugface, true to our equation, said he will send me money to buy myself a chocolate. Amen offered to get me momos. And, blue shirt said he will get me bunny slippers! So, between how mad I was at smugface and how much I love momos and bunny slippers, I forgot all about the kindle, dear readers.  But now that you think about it, isn't it so utterly sad? Doesn't your heart just bleed for me? *Flutters eyelashes* Don't you feel like following the link and adding one to the cart, and freely shipping it to me? Don't you? Don't you? Don't you? Okay, I suppose you don't. But its still sad, no? 


But this, dear readers, is what got my goat. As much in demand as I usually am in the adulterers, perverts, creeps, voyeurs market; the demand seems, strangely enough, inversely proportionate to my matrimonial market value!  How can it be? Why would any mother, other than my own obviously, not see me as perfect? I simply don't get it. But as all heroines of lore, I live with it.  But now you see dear readers, why I've been so, so, so blue?


However, I stand resolved. Now, I have a new raison d etre. To make more loving friends and become more marriageable, is of course, what a less evolved mind like yours would have obviously concluded. And you would of course, be wrong. 


My plan is, as always, almost lex luthoresque in its genius. What I have to do is simply turn into Tookie, snatch Werewolf Singh and elope with her intended. And, for that too I have a plan. If you must know, it will include vaguely cloning, rohypnol, makemytrip.com, hypnosis, a will, and a kindle. 


It's not simply that I call myself brilliant, you know.  

Me: "Banjara Hills"

Auto Driver (AD): "Where in Banjara Hills?" 

Me: "Road no. so and so" 

AD: "Left side, right side? "

Me: "Left side." 

AD: "Down aa, up aa?" 

Me : "Down" 

AD: "Before so so or after so so?" 

Me: "Before." 

AD: "Oh, next to so and so?" 

Me: "Bite me." 

AD : "$$$ only." 

Me:  "WTF? Why?" 

AD : "Traffic, madam!" 

Me: "So? It's a road, so there's traffic. You wanna fly or what?" 

AD:  Aaah..."U-turn madam"

Me: "What U-turn?"

AD: "The U-turn?"

Me:  "It's a straight road. No U-turns and all." 

AD: "No? Ermm..then rain, too much water here there."

Me: "So? How does that matter? "

AD: "Night no madam? "

Me: "Huh? So what, you have night blindness? And besides, its not even 10 o clock!." 

AD: "Aah. Half price, half price. "

Me: "Half price is only after 11, you dip shit!!!"

AD: "No, its from now." 

Me:  "Oh yeah? You want to check with that cop there? "

AD: "Ayyo, what madam, what you are doing like this." 

AD: "Okay, baah, if you are so miserly, give Rs 5 less, the roads are very dirty now"

Me:  "So you charge less on cleaner roads?" 

AD: "Yes, yes." 

Me : "Okay, let's go on that other road then." 

AD: "No, madam,"

Me: "Why?" 

AD: "Just give me $$.$$"

Me: "Tell me one reason why I should give you that and I will." 

AD: "You are ladies." 

Me: "You sick gay bastard. What's has me being a girl gotta do with anything. Do I consume more petrol because I dont have a dick?! !"

AD: "Abba, why you are getting upset madam. I was, simply saying.  So what... you will pay $$$.$$?" 

Me: "Of course not, you dumb f***"Me: "Now f*** off, if you are not going to come by the meter." 

AD: "Meter not working madam" 

Me: "Why the f*** not?"

AD: "It's showing too much bill. Bad for you only. That's why I giving you better price." 

Me: "Very sweet of you, but I think I'll risk the meter."

AD:  "What madam, from that time. I ask just $$., see I earn *((#&*#& per day, and how much you must be earning, what is this tiny amount for you. Last word, what will you give?"

Me: "Ha ha ha. Heh heh heh. Hoo hoo hoo. Muahahaha." 

Oh, dear. Now there's a line you shouldn't crossed. Talking about my salary. Rubbing it in my face. Mistake. Big mistake. Wait, there I see it. A shovel. Plastic bags. Big suitcase. Trash can. Hyderabad is awesome like that. Eternally under construction. Everything you want, right there on the street. 

Me: Change of plan. Know the cemetery on Road no 3?  There, please. 

AD: Okay but that will charge madam, traffic, u-turn, rain, you know? 

Me:  I know. It's fine. 

AD:  You want to come back also? 

Me: Yes, but I think I'll need another auto. 

Anyone willing to get me outta here, put their hands up!

On the journey back from J, I was bursting at the seams with all that I wanted to write about about the past year. Things I did at J, the people I met, the friends I made, the stuff I wrote, the things I'll miss, the things I won't...everything. But now that I'm here, I have no idea what to write about. So I'm going to randomly ramble on for a bit okay? Okay.

When I first moved to Chennai, to say that I hated the city is like saying I dislike milk. Now, we all know I don't just dislike milk. Oh, no. If you want to get real technical, I detest milk in a let's-invent-a-time-capsule-so-that-I-can-slowly-dismember-the-parts-of-the-man-who-first-looked-at-a-cow-and-thought-let's-milk-that-and-drink-whatever-comes-out-of-it way.  Now, ditto that to Chennai. 

I detested every single thing about it. The atrocious auto-mafia; the average Chennaites idea of good food, the no-season-but-hell weather; the monolingualism, the omniscient odours; the non-inclusive locals; the number of Mc Ds and Subways versus the number of Sarvana Bhavans; the vulgar waste of space, power and size of every showroom in T Nagar; the meagre three multiplexes; the general height and sub-zero lookability quotient of the men; the three miles it takes to walk into Marina before you see the water, well, you get the idea, no? 

So, in the beginning, I would come back home as often as Tharoor got into a tweet controversy. But then something happened. What was home changed. With my room, my wall, my friends; my life had somehow moved to Chennai. Hyd  became a place I visited to meet the folks, eat at 10D, bathe in clean water, watch T.V and sleep. 

That way, whatever J was or was not, it was definitely survival boot camp. I learned to live in the middle of nowhere, next to a swamp, in a room with three females; go weeks without drinking water, bathe in stinky brown muck, eat raw maggi, be eaten by mosquitoes and get stalked by horny midgets every night. 

And the lecture hall, the open-book exams, the assignments, the crazy night talks, the lecturers, the class mates, the room-mates, the birthday parties, the walks on the beach, the movies, the booze, the ladies nights, the trips, the night-outs, the friends, the hostel, the canteen. To put it simply, it's the place I'll tell my kids about the way my Dad tells me about his days at IIM. 

I guess, in the end, my resentment of the city became irrelevant because of J. It all just ceased to matter, you know? Because for me, J was it. It was where I sat in class and listened. Like really, really, listened. And learned. And thought. And worked. Harder than I think, I ever did. It's where I fell in love. Found my hero. And, discovered my calling. 

J! *Sob* *Sob*. 

Oh, I know, this is my city. My favourite place in the world. But then I look around and see him. He has a job, a car, a home and a girl here. His life is here. Not mine. I need to leave. Start again elsewhere. 

Are you listening, God? 

Go week, go.

It's done.  The offer letter has been signed, sealed and returned.  In one month, Grouchy becomes the intrepid reporter. Till then, she's so jobless, she is painting her nails a new colour everyday.

Yeah,  I know. If I'm going to continue writing these one liners, I should just maybe convert to Twitter or something.  But here's the thing - I don't know what to say.  

Okay, so yes, I got the job. But it sucks. Because I'm not proud or particularly even happy about it, you know? How can you be, when your best friends and roomies and classmates are still without jobs? No one seems to remember that it's still early days yet and they'll all be placed eventually! So, for now, we are still the enemy.

I get the antagonism. I do.  I didn't even try for the job. F***, I didn't even want it. I took it because it was  handed to me on a platter. Maybe that's what makes it so much worse, that it was so easy for me and that I didn't even care enough either way, when so many more who genuinely wanted, cared and worked it, didn't get it. 

J is a boiling cauldron now. Every few hours, tests are written, names called, interviews given. Then the lists come and faces fall.  For every fifteen happy ones, there are a hundred and fifty disappointed ones.  Amongst these, we walk.  Apologetically, sheepishly and carefully.  Not knowing what we can say that will not sound  offensive, piteous or condescending.  

Two days and I already hate it.  Being on the outside looking in. I need everyone to get placed, ASAP! Then at least, friends can be friends again.  

Until then, I go underground and hide.  

Peace out. 

Thank you God.

Aren't you a nice God, God?  You couldn't even wait for a day, could you?  You had to show off.  The one newspaper I respect, I walk out on. The one newspaper I don't respect, I'm going to collect my offer letter from. Thanks a lot, God. You were real nice.  

Dingbat Bravado

As I do with most hypothetical questions, I've often speculated wildly about what I would do if I was ever put in a life-or-death situation. On the train, I was forced to find out. Surprising even myself, I didn't crumble. In fact, it seems that I'm capable of being completely sangfroid and that I have the presence of mind -- the kind I didn't even know I had -- to think up a P.O.A and execute it to successfully enough to extract myself from a sordid mess. 

But I did! 

And then, after it was all over, I cried. Uncontrollably. Like something really terrible did happen. And then, I escalated the patheticness to a whole new level. I called Blue Shirt and cried some more. I don't even know why I called him. I was horrible. I sobbed and sniffed and snivelled.  I don't think I cried like that even when Goofy died.  It's a natural reaction, everyone tells me. Sheesh! Still, am I a sissy or what?  Meh. But the important thing is that all is well that end's well, n'est ce pas?

Aside: (to a girl) Never call a guy when you want comfort. He will try to "help" by either offering you advice (which is really, the most obvious things you can do in the said situation...like you're incapable of already having thought of it yourself) or try to diffuse the situation by coming onto you, both of which are things you do NOT need at the moment. Call your best friend instead. If you can't get through, try again. And again. At the least, she will say the right things and let you cry in peace, which is all you really wanted anyway. 

Okay, I'm just being extremely mean and ungrateful here. Grouses aside, I would have completely lost it if it hadn't been for the calm reassuring voice of reason that Blue Shirt was. He always makes me feel silly and overtly sentimental every time I say anything remotely personal. It usually riles me enough to forget my misery and clam up. This time too it worked like a charm. The waterworks stopped instantly.  So quite some credit to him, I think.  

I know, I know. It sounds much too much like one of our chronicles, but rest assured it's not. As cited on the list, I'm way past that port.  


So, am I ever going to cut the crap and get to the point, explain what the life-or-death was. Trust me, I'm trying. Every time I start, I find myself unwilling to continue. It's been three days since it happened. I still can't sleep. I have nightmares when I try to. So, I walk around making light of it, acting like I'm fine, that nothing's amiss. Because ultimately nothing did happen, right? Right. 

However, now, another hypothetical question -- What if it had?

Observations I'm making when I'm not sleeping

1.  All men are gay until proven otherwise.

2.  There's nothing like the look on your mom's face when she's just seen you watch dirty dancing and then you tell her that you're going dancing. 

3.  When I find out that the guy I like has a girl,  I don't hate the guy, I start liking the girl.  Talk about hopeless.   

4.  Assignments are unnatural. Surely, man was created with a higher purpose than to argue why one -ism cannot replace another?  

5. A strange foreboding that I'm going to ape the Chicago cousin and marry a Tambrahm. Venda god, venda!  Don't let it come true. Not that. 

6.  Switchboards are evil. They make you feel like an intruder in your own house. 

7.  How do I find out the one thing I want?  And, not the hundred things I don't? 

8. Wolf is a mega cute techie from Delhi going to the States to become a corporate cockroach. What a waste.

9.  I'm going back to Chennai to sit at placements for a job I don't want and a degree I have no use for. Yuck. 

10.  Not being able to sleep before 6 A.M every morning is turning me into an incomprehensible but certifiable nut-case. 

Martians and Nightmares

Do you believe in Karma? No? Well, you should. Because I do. Strongly.

I laughed at people who had boring topics to do for their dissertations. Now, they are all going to be doing fine.  No one cares about those topics, no one even wants to read 'em.  Even if the evaluators do, by the time they get to the end, they're going to be so out of it, they'll remember just the A of the alphabet and give them that. 

But, I couldn't choose something like that. Like the art of face reading, advantages of fish spas. sexual patterns of earthworms. Or why humans can eat dogs, is earth really round or could it be flat, should garlands be made of 1000 rupee notes or 10 rupee coins?  

No. 

I had to go and choose Michael Jackson -- the one celebrity in the world you'll love or hate but are incapable of being neutral about.  And, the dissertation went to the one person in the entire world I prayed for weeks it wouldn't go to -- The Martian. He's from outer space. There's almost nothing he doesn't know about. In the off chance that there is, he'll look it up. Not how like you and I earthlings would look it up, a glance in the Wikipedia or something; no, sir, not these Martians. 

They volley satellite signals with their counterparts across all planets in the galaxy, (they recognise Pluto as a democratic republic even if Earth doesn't) urging their comrades to look up all recorded files about the subject since the beginning of time from hieroglyphics to the yet to be written records (including the back up files of the crystals stolen by Lex Luthor) and cross check them with their records at home base. Then they transmit these gazillion Terabyte packets back to Earth through the Martian's own laptop with endnotes citing related articles on how-to-deal-with-suicidal/homicidal-students-after-Martians-grade-their-dissertation-papers.

I have nightmares about the Martian.  Like in the Minority Report, I can see him on a I-wall in my head - hawk-eyeing every misplaced comma, every undotted i and every uncrossed t, every word, sentence and line. Every flaw, every loophole, every error. 

Be that as it may, considering that it's out of my hands, now I have new ones about the viva voce. 

The Martian: Why this fellow Michael Jackson?

Me:  I like his hat. Nice, no?

The Martian: Why should I read your dissertation? 

Me: 'Coz you can't do anything else with it? 

The Martian: Why is it so vague?

Me: It's strictly on a need-to-know basis. 

The Martian: Why is so badly written?

Me: Ask the guy who wrote it.  

The Martian: So, do you think Michael Jackson likes young boys? 

Me: I like young boys. Don't you? 


The Martian: Was there something you were trying to convey? 
Me: Yes. I don't like dissertations. 

The Martian : I'm giving you an F

Me: A+ ? 

The Martian: C+

Me: A-

The Martian: C

Me: A

The Martian: B+

Me: B+

*** Notice Board... Grouchy: F ***

Me: I thought we had a deal?

The Martin: In your dreams. 

The Blue Mug: life and other things

Why I am subjecting myself to this when I just finished writing a 1000 word chapter for my dissertation and have a presentation in the class on climate change tomorrow, is just one of those random things I do in life but can't explain why.  It must be sheer boredom, I reckon.


The most interesting thing that happened this week was going to the play The Blug Mug, standing next to the stars and trying to be cool. It is a must-watch, the play. It's been a while since I saw a play that was genuinely funny, simplistic, and well.. real. This one was all of that. Ranvir Shorey is, by the way, everything that we girls think he is. What is it about guys who smoke that appeals to me so much, anyway? I must be deeply disturbed if that's what turns me on. 

Wait, I'm still so much better than Ha, who seems so starved that she says she's seeing her crush in this little boy she teaches in her class. That totally cracked me up. Now, there's disturbed if you've ever known one. Of course, I'm kidding. She's a total sweetheart.  

 Let's see, the most interesting thing before that was I think, going to Bella Ciao with RR. Doing the alfresco thing, talking as we always do of love and life, when he said, "above all, she has to be loyal; everything else I'll be okay with."  She, being the woman of his life. For just that, I confer upon him honorary leohood. For a Arian, he surprises me over and over. 

Surprises, well yes, that reminds me of a rather unpleasant one. Now, I have this habit of falling for guys I've never met. They are so much more interesting that way. So anyway, whether they are are not, I just build them up in my head to the point where they hardly resemble the real one. And then I see the non-virtual version and poof! It's all gone. Everything.  They will more often than not, resemble and act like a cross between a groundhog and an aye aye.  Another thing that goes onto the list. 

And more in sad news, I think I have managed to turn escapism into an art form. Flummox derives great amusement from my plight. It's tragic, really -- being at the receiving end of someones feelings you don't return in the least, the accompanied feeling of guilt, the discomfort, the helplessness, it's just too sad. My suggestion, don't tell anyone, ever. 

With that, I think it's enough said. Back to dissertation and climate change. 

Next week I will be reporting live from home! So long, soldiers.


Pic courtesy: www.buzzintown.com

Au revoir, Pondichéry

A quaint little café overlooking the sapphire-blue beach; soaking-in the sun, sipping lemonade, the Smiths in the background and snatches of conversation. 


Walks along cobbled streets, shopping for summer dresses,  aahaing a cafe here, ooohing a cottage there, a litter of labs totter down the side-walk, as a horse-driven carriage leaves us behind. 


A new morning, beginning with breakfast, sunlight streaming through the windows; smells of freshly roasted coffee beans and newly baked bread; and women in chic white, vermilion on their foreheads, snippets of french, talk of the auro and the ashram. 


At dusk, walking by the shore, watching the sun set into the water, smooth stone against  skin, wind in hair, salt on lips; carefully concealed memories surface and, threaten to choke. A masquerade parade passes by, throws across a safety, a new mask. 


Leaning on his shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep; dreams come. Too soon, a gentle shake, a reminder, return to reality.   


Time to get off the bus, it seems.  

A Joke: An amnesiac trying to forget

One click of a button. One drag of a cigarette.  One missed call in the log. One lone e-mail. One half of a photo.  One rogue memory. One song on the guitar.  One sleepless night. One worn out blue shirt.

One heartbreaking lie.

At last, a post.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight. 

That, my friends, is how many tries it took to get this line written. Not kidding. And, trust me, you don't want to know the kind of things that kept me from trying to post. But did I get the hint?  Obviously. Will I do anything about it? Of course not.  I write and you read.  That's the deal.  Go jump in a well if you don't like it. Or better? Watch Phir Mile Sur Mera Tumhara. 

So where did we leave off? *Goes to check* * Shudders* *Returns*  Well, after that, I returned to J.  It's at this point, before I venture further, that I will tell you about my trip from HYD to MAA.  I booked myself on this obscenely expensive Paramount flight which as y'all know is fully business-class. So, I'm thinking that I'm going to be seated alongside dashing-Forbes 500-young-entrepreneurs-of-the century-who-just-came-out-of-a-Raymond's-ad type men. What I got, I'll come to, in a moment.

Meanwhile, I'm checking-in and the lady at the counter says that I may not be allowed my brand-new-digicam in my hand-baggage because it's the Airport Security Awareness Week and so, I, being the really really retarded cow that I am, shove it into the nearest bag. The guy there falls all over my bag trying to load it and then finally puts a snap on it to lock it. 

I board the flight. Get seated next to Mr. Anchappaswammy who had just entered the 13th month of his pregnancy; wore bright orange and also ate half of the measly little sandwich that I was served instead of the four course meal that anyone said I'd get. The gorgeous guy that I imagined?  Sat next to a housewife whose ermm, god given girth and bosom blocked my view and thereby prevented me from stealing a single glance across the aisle. What with their size and all, we are the cattle class? I don't think so.  On second thought or look, in my case, these might qualify as poultry. 

Baah! The raison d'être of this 'animal story', is to tell you that the guy who fell all over my bag? The bloody f*** face flicked it! I can see it in my head now, very slow motion action-replayy and all. Yes, my brand new camera. And, my old memory stick and all the photos in it. In the Airport Awareness Security, no less. His Kārma is so going to screw him over, he has NO idea.

And so, I live. In angst and agony. Licking my wounds in private. Trying to let it go. 

Which is why, in the need to take my mind off it, I've been getting myself into so many kinds of things that I think I could as well have bought myself a new camera with all that money I spent. But hey, in my defence, some people drink when they are depressed. Others shop. I, spend.  

Last week, for instance, was so completely worth it!  Sunday or Monday or just call it what you want, watched Sherlock Holmes, I did. Now I would liked the movie if it was called anything else.  But this one, no. No. No! Didn't do a single thing for me.  The next day, a whole bunch of us went to Eden, this swanky all-vegetarian italian/indian place for dinner and guess what? I spot Krishnamachary Srikanth.  The chairman of the selection committee guy? Yes, that one.  I didn't even talk to the guy but I already know one thing about him - Henceforth, I'm not eating anywhere he eats. Eden sucked. So big. Another bait-and-switch. Seasoned non-resident Chennai people that we are, we didn't even bat an eye-lash.  

And day before? Kiwi Boy and I set off to the beach for some peace and quiet and the beach is lit up with a gazillion lights and had about two gazillion people on it.  A shooting scene in some Tamil flick, I understand. Don't ask me which one. I can't tell between one squiggle and the next wiggle in the language. What to do, tamil terriyada.  Whatever it was made the beach, for a change, seem quite pretty. 

Pretty takes me to yesterday when I finally made it to Dakshin Chitra - the awesome arts & crafts village on the ECR road. Trust me when I say, it's beautiful! Non-psuedo in a very non-aurovillian way and damn picturesque at that. I learnt pottery,  Kolams, basket weaving etc. etc. I'm out of steam. So all I'll say is that I clicked thousands of pictures for the tabloid (some of which I'll soon put up here, so I don't have to write a 1000 words)

I think after yesterday, I'm now fully qualified to be the perfect domestic help or for that matter, the yogya south-indian bahu. Hmmm. Nice choice, don't you think? Soon enough, the placements will start and since no one will ever pay me to write, I might as well decide between these and keep. The former, I'm thinking.  At least, I'll still get paid. 

Oh, oh, oh.  Tell me you guys saw the 22⁰ halo around the moon, last night? Really, kill yourself if you didn't. Okay, so I'm not too sure if it was even visible wherever you were, but out here, oh, it was so awesome. Before we knew what it was, that is. Once we found that it's not once-in-a-life time, we stopped with the UFO/poltergeist/werewolf/moonbow theories; yawned and went to bed. 

And today, boy, did we have some kick-ass visitors or what?  There were people from Sangam House come to deliver a lecture and it was such awesome fun! First, the speakers were cute. Very very cute.  Especially the goras - two Germans, a Korean, an American, a Brazilian and one Danish. The danish guy was a rake, wearing a blue shirt that he kept wanting to take off, he read us stuff that had us applauding for hours. And trust me, in J, that never happens. 

The week is not even over yet. Tomorrow, a bunch of us are going to watch Rann, lunch, an appointment at the salon, landmark and then, the turtle walk from midnight! Followed by an equally taxing Sunday when I'm going reviewing to at least a dozen restaurants.  Moral of the story being that I have to be tucking in now, if I have to be able to do any of those tomorrow.  

Off you go then. Toodles.