An Uncanny blog from a Baleful child

Shit Happens. Life sucks, and then, you die.

God sure has a very twisted sense of humor.

This is the tale of a Girl who has lots o'time to spare

Come take a glimpse of the world I live in... Where neighbors seldom love you, where people have more hair on their armpits than their heads, Where grammatical errors are are a way of life, and everyone is 26.
And that's just their IQ, nevermind their age!

Monday, July 19, 2010

The Indian Wedding

Yes. It happened.
And, how?!
15th July, 2010

Well, I went to Soni's Parlor.
"Ahh.... Jyoti! Getting married, huh?" Soni teases. My sister affirms this with a nod and a grin. The two ladies start to laugh.
"And, Sangeeta? What will you do today?" She asks, brightly. 
"Oh, I know! Why don't you get your legs waxed?" She asks, tilting her head. I turn the thought over in my head. 'Why haven't i ever gotten myself waxed in all this time? Sounds like such a good idea....'
Or, atleast, it did. Before i heard the most agonizing scream from the lady sitting in front of me, getting her arms waxed.
'...that's why.'
"I.... think i'll pass." I risk a gaze at the woman who, now, is writhing in pain.
Razor Razor Razor Razor...

16th July, 2010
Today is the "Sangeet" and "Mehendi" (i'd gotten the henna applied two days ago, but that's irrelevant) ceremony, and the Ganesh Puja also happens today, itself. My sister sits in her bandhani sari, while i get myself into my blue lehenga.
I've already dressed myself up at three-forty in the evening, when we receive a call. 
"Hello?" My mother begins. "Where are you?? People are pouring in already!"
They're at the hall. At three-forty. Whereas, they should be there at four.
I turn toward my sister, horrified.
"People have started coming in..." 
"WHAT?!? No way! These are Sindhi* people! they're never on time!" She says, her hair all odds and ends.
"Forget the language, they're INDIANS! Have you ever heard of an INDIAN coming in early in a function?! Most of the post-mature births happen in India!!" I wail.
Without wasting much time, Hema Aunty, our beautician, begins to fret around, trying to get my sisters' make-up on. I sort myself, and try to get my NEW pair of killer-heels on.
"You're wearing that?" Hema aunty asks. I grin at her, a little ignominiously
"Ok..." she says, uncertainly. 
'Best of luck trying to torture your feet..." is implied, but not said.
The Ganesh Puja is over with, and we're back after my sisters' dress-change. I see a few people on the floor, dancing to old, yet up-beat songs.
Time to go nuts.
And that's exactly what i do. I kick my shoes off, and get on the floor. all the people i know are here already. Reena, my sister's best friend(at work), Neema, her best friend (since college), Madhu Bajaj (The kind lady who lives in the opposite building with her delusional son and a bore for a husband), and my cousins. I start off with dancing solo, before moving on to Reena.
At one point, during a song, she goes down on one knee, and gives me her hand, which i kiss, pull her back up, and twirl her around with.
"Not allowed in India." Neema chimes in. I dance to a few punjabi numbers with Neema, and Madhu Aunty (who seems possessed. Really, she's sixty-one, and has danced more than my mum has in a life-time, who's seven years younger). Most of the men/boys present seemed to prefer watching the girls dance in lieu to shaking a leg themselves.
In fact, the only other guy(excluding my "Jija") who comes down to the dance floor is Tejas, my brother-in-laws' best friend.
Who's a great dancer.
You can assume whom i danced with next, right?
My sister and her 'almost-husband' are singing songs to entertain the public, two-thirds of which has gone home.
"Ok, we've made an entire plan about how to steal the shoes of the groom," My cousin, Ameeta, begins. Well, it's a ritual where the sisters of the bride steal the grooms' shoes, and ask for a sum of to return them back.
"We're going to steal the shoes." Natasha says.
'Nice plan, very innovative.'

17th July, 2010

The Haldi rasam of the groom took place today. To all those who don’t know, HALDI is a Hindi word meaning “Indian saffron” or "Turmeric", which is ground with water into a paste, used to give the esteemed a fairer glow. We had rented a bus, (which came two hours late) and went to Malvani, to attend the function. I had the kheer in my hands, which was almost two liters in volume, and was meant to be finished by the groom, who had digestion problems.
When we arrived there, I, as the sister of the bride-to-be, had to start off the first rasam- doing the puja mean t for the groom. The "tikka" was applied, and the sweets were fed, i washed his head with a pink bar of soap, and made him drink the kheer and eat the namkeen.
All the young siblings of the bride did the same, and then, the actualy haldi rasam was carried out.
The important (see: old) women of both families sat down and applied a bare minimum of haldi on his head, both arms, and feet. I wasn't up for that. Instead, i dipped my hands in the dish full of turmeric, and smeared it generously on  his face, arms, and feet. He groaned in defense, and my cousins rejoiced the shattering of the status quo. 
After a while, i introduced myself to Ginni and Ritu, the cousins of the groom.
We sat and talked at length, where my older cousin Sanjay began flirting with them and my other cousin, Ameeta, began showing off with her "Anglo-American" accent.
Which, strangely, wasn't there just an hour ago.

18th July, 2010

The big day...
."Hurry up! hurry up! We haven't got all day!!" My mum screams her way into the room, only to find me in my choli. She stares at me awkwardly.
"It looks nice," she begins, "But it's raining outside, you'd better wear something else of your lehenga, or it'll get wet."
So, i ended up wearing the petticoat of my mums' sari as a bottom, and a dupatta to cover the top. I covered my head, and ran outside into the car, which took us to the venue of the marriage.
I braced myself. As soon as the car stopped outside of the hall, i hitched up the petticoat, revealed my killer heels to the world, and ran head-long into the hall.
Which was so exquisite, i was dazzled. 
The stage had a canopy made of a gold-colored fabric on it, with assorted red flowers. I gasped. I looked up at the huge chandelier overhead in a daze.
My sister came into the hall shortly after. She was not bedazzled. Instead, she was doubled over with laughter.
Because i looked silly standing in the middle of the hall staring up at a chandelier.
Some people must really get their priorities straight.
1:00 pm
"Oh. God." My sister breathed.
"Akshay says he's on this way." Akshay is the groom.
"Wha-ha-hat?!? Why the hell is everyone hell-bent on coming early?!" I turn from the mirror, shocked. If he left at one, he'd reach by two. And he had to be here with his entire family no time before two forty-five in the afternoon.
Nobody from our side could receive them, because nobody was here.
Except me, but there was a slight problem with that.
I was dressed in my baby suit then.
2:50 pm
After I've dressed myself in my teal colored lehenga-choli, I rush forward to see the groom and his family. My mother is ceremoniously inviting him in, while my father is at a sheer loss of words. I stand next to my mum, and peer over at the guests and relatives of the groom. Ginni and Ritu smile sweetly at me, while Tejas flashes me a wry grin. I sneer at him, and advert my gaze. Dattu uncle (father-in-law of the sister) points down at the grooms shoes, and mouths 'Take... and... run...'
And that's exactly what i do. I snatch his shoes, give everyone a wide grin, and run back to my dressing room, where i hide them in my cupboard.
The girl has taken her seven oaths, the boy has taken eight. And, now, the Pundit beckons me to light up the havan**. My mother and all my aunts have already started crying. I roll my eyes at them and look around the audience, only to meet gazes with my best friends, Sugi-Sama and Gemini, and my cousins. The Pundit has the seven virgins come forward and start the process of teasing the bride and groom. I go first, i have to put their heads together, and make them see each other in the tiniest mirror in the history of the most tiniest of mirrors. This is to check if the bride and groom can see. And for doing this, i was awarded with five-thousand rupees.
These are the days when i wish i had a few more older sisters.
The wedding is over with, and my sister has already proceeded to the stage for the reception. My sister is the belle of the ball. She dresses herself in a maroon sari, and has her short hair tied back, and has put he rest up in ringlets, which are fanned delicately around the nape of her neck. 
I'm in the dressing room again. For returning the shoes, i received a ransom of Rs. 7,000, which is quite expensive for just one pair of shoes. I have decked myself up in a beautiful red lehenga-choli, and have let my hair loose, so they flow down my back. My friends come in, and shower me with sweet compliments. 
"No photos on facebook, ok?" I say.
"Are you kidding? It's already on facebook." Gemini says,  and we click a few photographs together.
I leave the dressing room, and walk up to the stage, my killer heels still on my feet. On the stage, i greet all the close family members and friends of the bride and groom, who whisper "You look lovely" in my ear ever two minutes. After all that, i sit myself down next to Tejas and Ginni.
"You look good," Ginni says, smiling at me. 
"Good? She looks awesome!" Tejas chimes in, and I look away from them in embarrassment.
I make matters worse still, Ginni leaves me alone with Tejas.
I try to talk with him without spluttering with mortification, before my mother calls me to the other side of the stage, to receive the guests.
I knew then, that this would be the longest part of the entire day.
After refusing to have picture clicked by many of the guests in the hall of the sister and I, and being sort of dysphoric about the amount of people in the hall, i sit down on a sofa, right in front of the stage. A boy, no more than nineteen, comes forward to serve me some water. I look up at him and, without quite meaning to, give him a wide smile. I've never been this happy before, watching my sister with Akshay, all pink and sparkling and joyous. And i wanted everyone to know just how happy i was.
Which was a mistake, since my father blew up with anger and dismissed the poor fellow rudely.
I walk up to where dinner is being served. My sister and my brother-in-law are seated at the longest table, grinning from ear to ear at each other, and the silver plates in front of them.Though they are dead beat, and don't have an appetite left, and are just a few minutes away from collapsing of exhaustion, they are elated. They are the happiest people in the entire room- happier than i am. Happy with each other.
I ate a few spoonfuls and left.
It was i could do not to cry.

Phew! That was a really long post, right?

* Sindhi is a language spoken in sindh(now in Pakistan) and Kacchh(Gujarat.)
** The Fire around which the bride and groom take nuptial rounds.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Well, I'm Back.

My little vacation lasted three entire months in city Z, and i still wish I could go back soon. Well, that doesn't exactly count as a vacation, because i was made to join a high-school in said city on the 19th of April, 2010. There are a lot of things i would love to write, but i wouldn't want to bore the few readers i've managed to have. So, I'll get to the gist of things.
For a start, I love my new high-school. But, if one has read my first post, i have mentioned clearly that i do not like change.
Inspite of that, i'm happy in city Z. It's just that the people are friendly, the roads are safe, and the western Expats are, for a change, not complete idiots. And they look funny trying to swim back toward an abra.
Well, for most people my life in city Z will be quite drab, with all the torrid affairs i've been having with people as Winston S. Churchill, Acton Bell(Anne Bronte), William Shakespeare, Anton Chekhov, Paulo Coelho, Sidney Sheldon and the like, them being the crème de la crème of great writers. Though i do not agree with many of W.S. Churchill's thoughts as in "The Great Democracies", but i like the way he's written, nonetheless.
Today, my father and my sisters' in-laws are sitting around, talking about booze and stag parties.
"In Goa, when they come from the bar, they look like the dead!" Jyoti's Mother-in-law means the boys my to-be brother-in-law has befriended.
My dad falls into his pool of reminisce, when the loved to drink -though not too much- and liked to appreciate the "finer things in life". He is broken out of his reverie, by the sudden chatter about "haldi" rasams and "Lehenga-cholis".
As usual, i shake my head and resume my typing- it being my answer to everything.
All of my professors are worth remembering, but my favorite of them all is Shirin Chandy, my english teacher. She trusted me inspite of knowing me the least, and i loved the sophistication with which she conversed with everyone.
I've come back for a month to attend my sisters wedding on the 18th of this month.
And I just LOVE marriages.
I'm just glad she's not joining the Mafia...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Ek "AAM" Ladki ke "AAM" Kisso ki "AAM" Kahaani

"Hockey is India's National Sport.
Cricket is India's religion.
I am an atheist with a strict "no-stick-on-field" policy."

March is a month that begins with the dreaded board exams, stress, anxiety, electric bills, chewed-up fingernails, "Emotional Atyachaar" mania, and the end of a non-existent winter.
March is a month that ends in relief, payrolls, stressing on marks, farewell parties, convocations, tears, silent promises to stay in touch and, of course, Summer.
Think "Summer".
Think "Yellow". "Think "sunshine".
Think "The Delhi Fashion Week", "Swimsuit season", "New openings at pretti slim", "Price hikes on Sunscreen", "Fat women top-naked on public beaches", "Fat women in tight see-though white kurtis", and "Mindless Ogling".
Think "Dollops of sunscreen", "Summer clearance sales", "Cute guys top-naked on public beaches", "Sweating on the wrong places", "Long drives", "Avoiding public transport", "Avoiding your neighbor", "Avoiding the sun", "Avoiding men who smell like dead rats or kitty-litters", "Excessive deo", "Long working hours", "Sweat-soaked clothes". Think "another excuse to shorten the length of that dress"
Think "Mating season", "holiday migrations", "another dollop of sunscreen", "minimal make-up","sunburns", "aloevera".
And, then think the BAAP of a fruits---
A summer delight in India during the scorching summer months, they are the only reason people in India still believe that God exists. The coming in of Summer brings with it new items to menus of large urban indian food outlets. "Mango-chaas", "Mango icecream" "Aam ras" "mango milkshakes, mangoes, mangoes, and plenty more mangoes that are sold in every alley, every shop, every busy street of the City that never sleeps. Why, summer is the only season of the year when Mumbaikars look at a glass of "Maazaa" and say, "Know what? I think I'll pass..."

Here I sit, my precious, ripe, juicy, yellow mango in the very palm of my hands. My first bite, first lick, first slurp, and every other first that i left out is finally happening today. Gluttony takes over and I begin to devour my prized mango with animalistic vigor. Call me what you like, but I'm a sucker for mangoes.

I remember the tree outside my aunts appartment which always had ripe alphonsos five days after the Ides of March. Nice, ripe, juicy yellow mangoes always hung on the dainty branches elusively. My brother used to go up the tree and pluck them, and I used to hold the ladder up. He fell on me one day. We never plucked mangoes together after that.
I always hated that bastard...
Oh, well.

This month, I've decided to go to city Z in the Middle East from here for a holiday with my mum and sister. After a lot of negotiation, mum has agreed to travel to Z, which is two hours and 2,560km (approx.) away from Mumbai.
My birth city is the most beautiful, clean, lush, peaceful and excruciatingly BORING city in the entire world.

Yes, no cursing on the highway, no public tantrums, no mooning, no picketing, no harrassment, no NOTHING.

My only sources of enterntainment are 1) the frequent number of accidents on the streets right next to the 2)cemetry just a few yards outside of my house.
Well, shit.
But fretting I shalln't do, for throwing expats off an abra is what i shall do if the city gets too boring.
As someone had said, "When the going gets tough, the tough haul people into the sea for the heck of it".

Mangoes, anyone?

Friday, March 19, 2010

Pink Panther is a Giant Rock

Have you ever laughed so hard that you wet the place where you were sitting?
I haven’t. I just haven’t met with someone who has, so, just checking.
Well, I have laughed so hard today, I think I just gave myself a hernia. And, no, it’s not because I realized that the idiot on third was doing a man. I watched Pink Panther today for the hundredth time.
To all those who do not know already –I have no life.
There’s this inspector here with the name Clousseau. And boy! Is that guy a LUNATIC! He left Romeo wayyy behind him.
Romeo and Juliet wasn’t a tragic love story. It was a comedy.

It all starts with Romeo , a young vivacious boy who is actually in love with a pretty little thing, christened Rosaline. She is –by no means whatsoever –Juliet. She doesn’t love him. He wants to die.
He goes to a ball, in a final attempt to win Rosaline’s heart. He meets Juliet and miraculously forgets about Rosaline. That’s the typical red-blooded male for you!
She loves him, too, but she’s actually the daughter of a family foe. He cannot have her. He wants to die.
One thing leads to another, and Juliet suddenly lands up in a garden. Juliet pretends to die so that they can get married. Romeo arrives a mere two minutes too early. [Which is why I don’t blame the Indian locals for always being fashionably late, by the way. Punctuality kills!] He sees “dead” Juliet. He cries over “dead body” of Juliet. He wants to die.
Ex post facto of some fool leaving a vial of poison unattended, he takes it, and drinks it all up. He dies. Boo Hoo.
Juliet wakes up. She sees dead Romeo. Now she wants to die. Poisons self, and dies, too.
No. this is not a romance. It’s comedy gold. Romeo isn’t a hopeless romantic –he’s just hopeless. Whosoever thinks he’s a wonderful gentleman has serious mental issues.
Can’t you SEE?! He’s not the most romantic soul in the world; he’s the most misunderstood psychotic there EVER was! The guy was obviously mad!! So it’s not a romance at all. It’s a tale of a guy who ran from an asylum in search of one girl, and ended up killing himself for a loose girl called Juliet. C’mon, Rosaline is undoubtedly hot. So this Juliet chick was evidently unchaste. I mean, why else would he let go of hot-hot Rosaline for pretty-pretty Juliet?
Fast Juliet became a heroic icon for women all around the world! An idiot who didn’t have brains enough to check for pulse and an “easy” girl made it to our history texts! I’m impressed…

Anyway, The Pink Panther is not a panther. It's the biggest pink rock in the history of the worlds biggest pink rocks.
The movie starts out with the murder of Xania's boyf, Yves Glaunt (Pronounced "Eves Glon"). I pity that name... I mean, his parents never gave him a CHANCE! No wonder he was so evil in the movie...
He was hated by everyone. He was rich and famous. He was cheating on Xania(Beyonce). And, to apologize for his misdemeanors, he provided her with a giant pink rock to put around her finger.
He is certainly the next biggest psychotic freak in the entire world, after Romeo. And Hamlet. That one definitely had a nut loose somewhere.
All this happened in France, the country of European Romance. The next time I wish to suicide, I'll go there.

Inspector Jacques Clousseau has taken up the case of Yves Glaunts' murder.
Inspector Jacques Clousseau is an incompetent, klutz of an idiot.
Inspector Jacques Clousseau solves the case and becomes a hero. He is next in like to become one of the most stupid famous-people, after a certain Indian Politician.
My favorite scenes from the esteemed are the following:
Clousseau is on the football field looking for Bizu, a suspect in the case. He hears a person coming their way.
"FOOTSTEPS!" he bellows, and walks closer to the sound. "It is a woman! ...Thirty to thirty-five years of age... five-four or five-five... wearing high-heels... and..." He sniffs the air. "...Chanel no. 5!"
Sic comes in a Russian trainer who ----wait for it....----- TRAINS!!
As I said, you must think I have no life as I am watching such utter crap right now.
You're right; I don't.
"Do you have high-heeled shoes in your bag?" Closseau points at the sports utility bag The Russian has and says.
"No." The Russian trainer who --coincidentially-- trains, says.
"At least a small pair of pumps?"
"Who are you?"
"Yuri the Russian Trainer."
"And what do you do, Yuri the Trainer?"
"I... train...?"
"Oh. So you are Yuri the trainer, who trains."
Then, Bizu, the suspect, gets murdered in the locker room with a dart aimed directly at the occipital lobe. Gilbert tells Clousseau about it.
"He got shot in the head," He says, slightly morose.
"Was it fatal?" Clousseau asks.
"Um... Yes." He finally says.
"How fatal?"
"I wish to speak with him."
What. The. Fuck?!
"Sir, he's dead."
After an array of weird contradictory misgivings [see Clousseau trying to seduce Xania in a hotel room but, instead, flooding the washroom and setting alight all the tapestries, getting caught with an enormous amount of punishable objects in the security check of a US airport, and being unable to say hamburger, hence getting deported to France for carrying weapons and a certain "dambergurte" in his pockets.] Finally, the killer was found to be...

                                                                              ...Yuri the Trainer who Trains!
He realized this as Russian Football trainers are always taught to use chinese herbs and shoot at the occipital lobe. Yuri was arrested at the Presidential ball. Clouseau also reveals that Yuri tried to kill Xania because she went out with Gluant and Bizu and ignored him. Xania is revealed to have the Pink Panther diamond sewn into the lining of her purse, having received it from Gluant as an engagement ring. Clouseau then reveals that he had seen the diamond in her purse while examining the photograph of his arrest, which also showed a view of her purse as it appeared to the airport's luggage scanner. Dreyfus, Clousseau's despotic senior, makes a clumsy attempt to take credit, saying his arrest of the Chinese envoy was a ploy to draw out the real killer. For his success, Clouseau wins the Légion d'honneur.

All in all, I think the movie was pretty good. It was better than the last version. That was slightly more... um... let's just say "erotically charged" than this one. A good watch, though. A comedy of errors--- and that's the movie for you!

P.S. For all those who haven't seen the movie --you've gotta be KIDDING me! And, sorry for spoiling the suspence...     

Friday, March 12, 2010

Of Kings, Jesters, and the Pursuit of the Limerick

See, I've never been very good at making rhymes, and this is probably my first time making a string of limericks. Or even one, for that matter. So, feel free to correct any lines that seem dysfunctional. And please, be gentle. I have a heart,, you know.
Here it is:
Says the Jester to the Prince, "Sir, you.
have married not one, but two.
It must be hard to decide
of whom to sleep beside.
In such a case, whatever do you do?"

The Prince says sheepishly, "'Tis true,
I am the husband of not one, but two.
And, since I cannot decide
of whom to sleep beside
I don't sleep with either of the two."

The Jester turns to ask His Imperial Majesty,
who has wed not a wife, not two, but three;
"So, how do you decide
of whom to sleep beside?
Or do you, too, sleep with neither of the three?"

Puffing up his chest, quoth he,
"I am the husband of not two, but three.
Since I, too, can't decide
of whom to sleep beside
I sleep with them all, you see!"

P.S. I thought of this over a cup of espresso, so if it's bad, I blame the coffee.
And, if it is good -- it's all me.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

My Bill at our Local Pizzeria

This was the bill I received at our local Pizzeria this afternoon:
I think that's just Gods way of saying, "Sangeeta, you damnable creature, the creation of Absolute Evil! 
You have maliciously disregarded the Dieties of the Heavens, for which you shall face our wrath!"
Or maybe just, "Fuck yourself, asshole." 
Well, he does get his revenge: that pizza's going straight to my thighs...

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Stranger things have happened...

People never cease to amuse me.
Humans are the most wondersome and mind-bloggling creatures there ever were. How is it that one will easily believe someone who says that there are more there a billion stars in the sky, and yet question one when they tell them that the paint on a park-bench is wet?
Human nature is odd to the Zenith.
People see no harm in someone with an exorbitant libido, but if a person has a dimished one, conflicts and allegations are thrown around at the asexuality of the esteemed. A Belgian Priest such as Georges Lemaître saying that the Big Bang exists isn't good enough for us. But Newton, Einstein, Hawking, and Friedman saying it made all the difference to the world.
So what is it that makes people choose such odd decisions? Does a mere degree signify that everything a person states is politically or diametrically correct? Or is it power? Or a homogenous mix of both?
Well, i'm not too sure of that, myself.
Taking an example into account, I'd once walked into Dr. Irani's clinic on a wintry morning with a copy of "The Economic Times" under my arm. I was in a Mickey Mouse jersey and blue faded jeans, coughing and wheezing like a dying chimpanzee. Then, i took the paper and started to read, occasionally telling the woman next to me about price hikes and an overall sensex review. Do you know what i learnt?
The Economic Times is quite the accessory for anyone who wants to be taken seriously. You'd bitch and gossip about the receptionist, complain about the coffee, even crack lame jokes about sex, and people would see you as an intellectual "with broader interests".
What? It's the Economic times, for chrissake! You need to be a "learned intellectual" to read AND understand those.
Sames for anything Franz Kafka wrote. This was the conversation between me and a cute guy in the BEST today:
"Um..." he squints at the book in my hand. "Is that a book by --"
"--Franz Kafka? Of course, yes! It's a compilation, actually. The individual novels are rather pricey..." I trail off, and then smile brilliantly.
"Oh!" Cute-Guy smiles. "So, you read the stuff he writes?"
"Why, yes! In my opinion," I clear my throat. "The Metamorphosis was a splendid novella... It's such a shame to see people being so critical about it. I think it was immensely entertaining in a rather wise way."
"Wow, you have some enticing views." the smile on his face widens.
I've never read "The Metamorphosis". I don't even know what the fuck it's all about. And i'm pretty sure is a novelette, and not a novella.
"...So, do you find him good enough to read?" He asks, turning his entire body toward me.
Please, I'd rather watch "Glen or Glenda" instead of read the crap he writes...
But, since you're cute, I'm not going to tell you the truth.
I'm going to lie!
"Absolutely!" I widen my eyes at him. "His books are extremely high-IQ, like, so it can stump the layman. But these," I point at my green 'Compilations of the Great Works of Franz Kafka'. "Are mere translations, you know..."
I sure hoped he did, cuz i had no idea what i was getting myself into.
"Oh yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow at me in curiosity. "From what language?"
What language...?!
Ok. Ok. He's from Hungary, so....
"GERMAN! G-German. He's Hungarian. He was born in Prague, which was earlier a part of Austria. But, now, Prague is in Czech Republic." I nod my head intelligently at him, watching him stare in amused ineterest. Suddenly, i find myself cringing at my semi-british accent.
"Whoa! How do you know all of this?" he asks, a reporter in the charming disguise of the Cutest guy to ever sit next to me on a crowded bus.
From skimming the back of the book when you weren't looking?
"Oh, hes a reknown writer. Who wouldn't know?" I cock my head to the right.
"Right. Say, what are you reading right now?"
Fashion catalogues in Cosmo?
"The Novella 'America'."
"Oh?" He asks me to continue, and bends slightly toward me. And now, he's so close, i can practically smell his aftershave.
That's a really nice smell...
"Yes, its first chapter is 'The Stoker'. It was his greatest piece work even before being included in 'America'."
"Say, what's it all about?"
"The story begins as a sixteen-year-old boy named Karl Rossmann arrives at the New York harbor on a slow-moving ship. We are told that Karl has been sent to America "because a servant girl had seduced him and got herself with child by him." As he's about to come ashore, he remembers that he has left his umbrella. He asks a young man with whom he had been briefly acquainted during his voyage to watch over his trunk as he runs to get his umbrella, and the boy---"
"---Is the Stoker?"
"Yes." I nod.
"Wow," He says. "You've read alot."
What?! Dooood, that's, like, only the first two pages of the entire deep-shit novel! For all your cuteness, not so much with the listening.
"Yes, it's quite long. And stretched."
"Like a rubberband?" He grins, and i burst into peals of laughter.
Your sense of humor sucks. It's a good thing you're cute.
"Like a rubberband." I stare up at him, and he moves closer.
"Well," his voice grows throaty. "What else has he written? Something," He curls a lock of my hair. "Interesting?"
Yeah. His will.
I shift away, nervously. "Th-the Castle?"
Wh-which is b-b-boring!!
"Mmmm..." he stops twirling my hair, but shifts in closer again.
Please don't ask me what it's about. Please, don't. Please don't. Please, Please, Please----
"---What's it all about?"
"Politics..." ....I hope?
"Sorry, my Stop's here. G'bye!" he smiles at me as he gets up to leave.
"Bye!" Phew!
So, after all this adult brainstorming session, too, i do not know how and why people decide that one persons opinion is more superior to the other. People believe all that they are told, but they question the most obvious of facts.
Why that's the case, i'll never know. Because this world is a haven of mad people. After all, stranger things have happened...

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

How to take care of Kids the Sangeeta Way OR ...Why the sh*t is there a BABY on my couch?!

*NOTE*: To all those parents who love their children, do NOT follow the regimen provided.

Illumination engulfs me as I begin to open my eyes to the agonizing world of misery and self-deception. A constant sound gurgles disconcertingly in my mind as I stir in bed. I gather all my strength to shuffle around for the blasted alarm. God, the sound is unnerving! When I find it –which is after an eternity of groping and profanities (courtesy of me)–I pick it up gently and throw it on the floor. Mom’s going to kill me for breaking this one… I close my eyes and drift away to a more alluring world of pink skies and chocolate bunnies. When I finally am positive that I’ll not a get a wink of sleep now, I haul myself off my bed, unsteady and bleary-eyed, and walk slowly toward the bathroom.
“Toothbrush… my… toothbrush… Where the… is my toothbrush?!” I scratch my chin, half-crazed with sleep and anger. Cabinet after cabinet, I use my coarse vocabulary to its zenith, looking hastily for the device of human creation that kept me from having the certain cavities my mother would put her will on to happen. While on my hurried quest for the pink, chewed-up toothbrush, my eyes landed on the mirror. I looked like a trailer-trash mom with eyes dripping off Kohl. I shuddered at the sight of me. Reminds me of that “TALKING TURLEEN” doll with the rollers, cigarette and a c-section scar.
Seriously, a c-section scar?
Yes, I was kinky enough to actually undress dolls and check out what they looked like. Even if they were NOT mine...
Washing off the kohl from the rims of my eyes, I continue my quest for the abducted toothbrush. A series of swear words slip casually off my tongue, and my hands moved diligently on the islet of spits-villas and faucet-waterfalls. I turned over each box of tissues, medicines, and miscellaneous, but the occasional swearing continued to flow. Sighing a bit, I finally took a finger, added a dollop of toothpaste (Mint! Yummy!) and cleaned my teeth. I then resorted to flossing my teeth and fetching my towel for a quick shower.
After dressing up, I walk into the Drawing Room, pick up the Daily, and resort to dropping down on the couch and reading it, like I always do.
"Be careful. There's a baby on the couch..." My mother says.
Ahh... my sweet, innocent, delusional mother. I make The Face at her, the one i usually make at people just before i prove them wrong. I shuffle around on the couch.
"OYE!" I yelp and jump off the couch, almost running away from the puddle of animal matter.
I can't believe it. She was right. There IS a baby on the couch.
"B-but... But...."
How can she be right?! I made The Face! This is wrong!! This is so goddamn wrong!!
I want a lawyer.
"It's moving." I say to my mum.
"It's a girl, sweetheart," she says, her almond eyes glittering with motherly joy and affection.
Now, usually, when most girls see such an expression -the one my mum had on her face -they widen their eyes in disbelief and begin to shower all possible attention on the foreign baby, treating them as their own.
Instead of doing what most girls would do, I simply cock my left eyebrow at my mum and, giving her the most disturbingly grim expression, i resort to conquering the knowledge the Daily has to provide to me.
Now, i have nothing against babies -nothing at all! It's just... i haven't the slightest clue of what to do with them.
Babies are like boys; first, you don't know how to kiss them, and, when you figure THAT out, you don't know what the hell to do with your hands.
The baby stirs -on MY couch, sleeping on MY pillow, drooling over MY blanket -and yawns lazily.
Life is so unfair, its not even funny.
Soon, she wakes up and, goggle-eyed, she stares up at me.
I'm not very good with Kids, boys notwithstanding. Let me give you a step-by-step guide to taking care of kids my way.

  • Baby opens eyes: Ahh... another day... OF TORTURING, CRYING AND NAPPY-CHANGING!! ~~A little bit bit of pee on the sofa, topped with fresh baby drool. Just how i like it.
  • Baby stares at Sangeeta, and Sangeeta stares at baby: A Divine discovery.
  • Baby's state of mind and Body
Body: Smiles at Sangeeta
Mind: Not Applicable
  • Sangeetas state of body and mind
Body: Stares at baby like a freaking lunatic
Mind: "...uh?!"
  • Baby
Body: Pulls toes with hands and laughes (I don't blame him...)
Mind: N/A
  • Sangeeta
Body: Perspiration, nervousness, temporary aphasia, horror, more perspiration and acute nausea.
Mind: "Why is it so #$!&ing HOT in here?! Where are we, in ASIA?!
...Oh wait...
  • Baby
Body: *Horrifying shrieking similar to that of when a colossally large woman with six-inch heels steps on ones foot. Seriously, either ban overstuffed people, high-heeled shoes, or the combo of the two. It's murder, i tell you!*
Mind: Food! Food! Food! Goo-goo-gaa-gaa! OR N/A
  • Sangeeta
Body: Perspiration, nervousness, temporary aphasia, horror, more perspiration,acute nausea, and surreal calm.
Why did i have to think of that?! C'mon, there's a BABY in the room....

So, you see, i could never be worse with a child. Believe me, if you were to ever leave a new-born within fifty yards of me, he's sure to develope atleast one type of psychological disorder. SO, if you hate you're kid, send him to India! He'll be taken care of well.... Really well...(Cue satanic laughter followed by a strange hacking noise and awkward spluttering.)

And, of course, there is a baby on my couch "Because my mother said so".
Mom, I'm not fourteen anymore.
That was ages ago.
Seriously, parents have to come up with better lines...

Friday, February 26, 2010

A note to the Idiot who drank my last Cuppa Joe

Since I knew I'd be too drained to type this down, I just took a picture of it while it was still hung on the bulletin board. Click to enlarge...

This is why I should never be allowed to go more than 27 hours without coffee.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

I hate to burst the Indian Bubble.

Indians are very schizoidal. We have a knack from coming up with an array of neologisms, half of which are merely words that have a condemned pronunciation.
And that's not it.
We also conveniently MAKE up the spellings of the words we pronounce differently. Sic today, i have sought to officially calling it BUBBLEBURSTIN' Day, where i shall cast aforth light on the various words most of us make up without having the slightest clue of it.
  • Presumptious (Obsolete!): Today, this word is officially known as presumptuous, the pronunciation being presump-choo-us. This word is a hybrid from the verb 'presume', which, in Latin, is Janus-faced in a way the it not only means "to suppose", but also, "to take liberties". An anecdote about Sir James M. Barrie aptly illustrates; One day, he opened the door on a reporter he didn't want to see.
  • "Mr, Barrie, i presume," the reporter says.
    "Yes!" The, usually calm, Mr. Barrie snapped back and slammed the door shut.
  • Prophesize (sic): The word is prophesy(the last syllable pronounced as sigh) and the noun is prophecy(the last syllable being pronounced as see).
  • Portentious: The word is portentuous, which comes from the noun portent (strange signs or omens)
  • Unctious: Though this word is found on Webster's Second and Third, this word doesn't exist. The word is actually unctuous, again, the choo sound quite audible. It means to be oily in a suave, insincere manner. The words unctuous, annoint, and ointment come from the same Latin verb.
  • Unequivocably(which, by the way, is Unequivocally Wrong!: The word is unequivocally,meaning without any qualifications, absolutely, clearly, and unambiguously.
  • Undoubtably(again, undoubtedly wrong.): This word, without any doubt, is undoubtedly, and not undoubtably. Both this and the former words have common mistakes.
So, that's all for today!

P.S. I wrote all this not because i am a purist, but merely because i am preoccupied with the purity of a language and its protection from the use of foreign or altered forms.
P.P.S. I do not know if that was tautology, or a juxtapose. I'd appreciate if someone could help me with that.

Friday, February 19, 2010

The Call: An Odd Spool of Humiliation and Quintessential Revelation

It was very difficult to connect with our folk and peers in the late eighteenth century, when one had to travel miles just give a hello. People of that era were extremely poor, the courtesy of their Colonial rulers, and, hence, found it even harder to commute from a place to another. As cited on wikipedia, "Proto-industrialization is a phase in the development of modern industrial economies that preceded, and created conditions for, the establishment of fully industrial societies". Initially using surplus labor available during slow periods of the agricultural seasons, proto-industrialization led to specialization in both industrial production as well as commercial agricultural production. As the protoindustrialization came close, families saw the independence of women, allowing them to work outside of the house. Many simple machines where made during protoindustrialization.
Industrialization, like it's primitive form, has its roots from eighteenth century London, where a massive increase in agricultural productivity known as the British Agricultural Revolution enabled an unprecedented population growth that freed a significant percentage of the workforce from farming, and helped to drive the Industrial Revolution.
China and India, while roughly following this development pattern, made adaptations in line with their own histories and cultures, their major size and importance in the world, and the geo-political ambitions of their governments.
Currently, China's government is actively investing in expanding its own infrastructures and securing the required energy and raw materials supply channels, is supporting its exports by financing the United States balance payment deficit through the purchase of US treasury bonds.
Meanwhile, India's government is investing in specific vanguard economic sectors such as bioengineering, nuclear technology, pharmaceutics, informatics, and technologically-oriented higher education, openly overpassing its needs, with the goal of creating several specialisation poles able to conquer foreign markets.

And Sangeeta? Well, she invested in stealing XKDC's Mathematics Manual from the esteemed math teacher. Said teacher was handing out lab manuals of all students to me and Aaa-khi*, when i casually slipped in the fact that i lived close by him. Instead of merely letting me get a glimpse of his Domain of Errors, the manual was dumped atrociously in my hands by her, a smile and a "Get Out" included.
Well, Shit.
So, i ride home toward tension and anxiety. For a start, i'm not really SUPPOSED to have it. In fact, i don't even KNOW where XKDC lives. I only know of his vicinity, but that's it. Au contraire to popular notion, i've never met with his mother. I've only seen his papi, and i've never even had to priviledge to talk with him. Ok, i COULD'VE. But i chose not to.

I value my life.

A typical phone call by an ordinary person to an ordinary person, traditionally, is placed by picking the phone handset up off the base and holding the handset so that the hearing end is next to the user's ear and the speaking end is within range of the mouth. The caller would then press buttons for the phone number needed to complete the call.
A typical phone call by me to XKDC, weirdly, includes rapid pacing, sweating, nausea, temporary aphasia, more nausea, helplessness and, then, passion-struck pathos. In this phase, i finally pick up the and dial the ten digits i had grown accustomed to remembering. Nervously, i place to phone near my ear.
"DING DING DING! The Number you have called, is currently Busy, Please try again Later."
#@!& you.
I dial again.
"DING DING DING!" #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING DING!!" (grrrr) #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING-" #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING-" #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING DING!"*grumble*
Exasperated, i sit on the ground, wailing.
And that was yesterday, i.e. on thursday.

Today, i made a speech. Yes. I figured that i'd get nervous if i tried to talk with him without memorizing anything. So i wrote down what i'd say.
For a start,
"May i speak with XKDC?"
Yes, i was so nervous, i doubted my abilities to say even the simplest of sentences. So, i began practicing.
"May i speak with XKDC, please? No? Well, fuck YOU!"
Ok, i wouldn't have said THAT, i'd just say "Screw you", instead.
"Right. I'll remember that."
But, as luck would have it, i found his number to be busy almost all day. Everytime i pressed, "REDIAL", i'd hear the definitive "DING DING DING!", meaning that the bastard was talking to someone. But, FOR THIRTEEN HOURS?! What, is he having sex with his LANDLINE?! And i'm all ready with the speech, too!

I'll try after a few hours...
It's 9:49pm. And i'm giving one last try to this phoning business.
"If he doesn't pick up now, i'm never calling him again. Isn't that what he wants??"
Suddenly, as though by magic, i hear the ringing tone. My eyes fly open.
"~~~Hello?" A velvet voice breaks the pattern of my thoughts. With a rush of energy, i sit up straight, staring awkwardly into space.
"H-hello? Is XKDC there?"
Shit. Shit shit shit. Mega-shit. Double-mega-shitty-shit-shit. Someone up there must be having a really hard time keeping a straight face whilst watching me squirm.
I frantically turn the pages of my notebook, looking for my speech . For some weird, contradictory reason, i am unable to find the speech.
"Um... Hi, It's me... Sangeeta."
"Hi...." he says something else.
I began to get worked up all over again. WHERE THE SHIT IS IT?!I ask him if he'd be coming to school or not; we have an exam this monday. Then. I tell him of how i just called to tell him that i have his manual with me.
"How did you land on it?"
"Well, ma'am distributed them all, so, i brought yours... By the way, have i ever told you that your choice sucks?"
"Yeah, i know that..."
"Well, i was wrong. It doesn't just suck -it sucks MAJORLY!"
"Chood na..."
"No, seriously, Fluorescent Orange and Fluorescent Pink?! What were you thinking?!"
It sounded like he was snorting in good humor. But, really, this conversation wasn't going so well. For a start, he sounded distracted. And also sounded as though he was smiling. Believe me, i can hear emotions. Then, on top of that, there was the sound of rustling paper from my side of the line. To all those who don't know that that's not supposed to happen: that's not supposed to happen.
"Why do you sound drunk?!" I can't resist asking. Suddenly, i regret saying that.
"I'm having my dinner right now."
"OOOoooohhh! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you..."
"I-I can't talk to you right now, i'm having my dinner right now." He says curtly.
I smile. "Goodnight. 'Bye."
I cut the phone. I then look down. There's my speech, in the galore of my handwriting.
Wait a minute!
When i HAD the speech in my hands, the number was busy. When i was completely off guard, he picked up the wretched phone.
This just shows: God is against me...

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

The Farewell- A Contorted mix of Energy and Lesbianism OR The Littlest Things Matter the Most

Click click click click.
I brush past an array of students buzzing outside the school hall, waiting to enter the start of our first -and, possibly, last -ever farewell. My six-inch heels click weirdly against the gravel and i crunch past senior boys who seemed to have an affininty of incessantly staring at my butt for no reason. But, i didn't care, then. All i cared about was----
I click away toward the Gemini's* house. She'd called me earlier, telling me to come home. She, apparently, wanted to show me the varied dresses that were worn by her, Sugu-Pugu* and Ice-Kitten*. With the last whiff of nervous energy that my body had attained -fearing that i would be the only one is corporate wear -i heave myself toward the door. I had the perfect outfit out for this, too. My corporate satin shirt with lace trimmings from Westside, jeans from BHS [what's strange to note about them is that though they really ARE from BHS, they have the word "Sexy" written on their back-pocket. Well, that sure explains the weird staring...] and my bag from the Camel market [Camel market stuff is actually GOOD stuff. They're all at half off. Isn't that good?], and the most amazing heels from Catwalk that i only bought 'cuz of my shoe-fetish.
Oh, yeah! Did i mention that i have shoe-fetish?
No? No?!
Well, i have shoe-fetish.
I ring the door-bell.
"Hi! ~~I look HIDEOUS!" Gemini says as she opens the door.
"~~this school has taught us..." Sugu-Pugu trails off behind her.
"Do i look like i'mma girl going to a strip-club?!" Ice-kitten whines.
And the world spins on its axis~~~~
"Strip-club?!" I scream.
"Yeah, look at me!" she whines.
That's the most special thing about Ice-kitten*; no matter how much she whines and nags, she always manages to look cute. Just like a real kitten. I stare at her, from head to torso. Because, for some reason, i cannot look beyond her chest-region.
Oh, no no. The Lesbianism doesn't come in here.
"That necklace is so PRETTY!!" i scream.
"Lemme see what you're wearing!" The girls say in unison.
"Oh, I..." I put my leg up in the air, bent at the knee. "... am in love with THESE." I point at the six-inch torture adorning my feet.
Almost instantly does the room get filled with a hoard of shieking, maniacal female laughter that sounds close to the frantic squawking that i had to hear on the 14th of this month[as you may recall].
I still have the nightmares...
"So, whats this," I say, "About you looking like you are going to a strip-club?" I look at her again. She seems to look normal. She has a nice black top with white sequins on it, and a black skirt to go with. And....
"...Are those..." I look down. "Ankle-length boots?"
"Yeah, nice, huh?"
"Nice? I think i'm in love...." I look up at her.
"....right." She turns around and walks toward sugu-pugu.
"Do i look ok?" she asks. "Is the skirt too short?"
"What, are you kidding me?!" I say. "Zenith's* skirt is way~~~~y shorter! It's like, even if she DIDN'T wear a skirt, it wouldn't make much of a difference!"
"Are you sure?"
"Uh-huh... Say..." I begin. "Can i see those?" I point at her feet.
"Sure! Go ahead!"
At this precise minute, she turns around and bends forward. Suddenly, from being face-to-face we're... butt-to-face... I stare at her behind. That's a nice behind. Not too plump like most indian girls, and not flat. Could give even MY butt a run for my money... Not bad at ALL... reminds me of that song from Sir Mix-A-Lot. Yeah, sure, it's extremely racist; but we hate whites, too! How did it go, again?
Oh, yeah!
"I like big butts and i cannot lie.
You 'otha' 'brothas' can't deny,
when a girl comes in wi' an itty-bitty waist an'
a round 'thang' in yo' face, ya get sprung!
Wanna pull out on yo'r tough,
'cuz ya noticed that the butt was stuffed...."
Ice-kitten turns around and looks at me.
"What?" she asks. I stare up at her, my head still cocked to the right, the mouth slightly open.
"...Yeah..." I look at her, turn around, and walk away.
Today, I like big butts. Tomorrow, I'm getting married.
What has this world come to?!
"We will light the lamp of Knowledge, and everyone will be give a candle of knowledge. The first will be lit by our very own Principal." one of the teachers says into the microphone.
"Kiss-up!" I say, only to hear a murmur of giggles erupt behind me.
The teachers huddle up in groups and walk toward the students with lit candles. The unlit ones are handed to us.
"Here," my class teacher hands a candle to me. I stare at it. This is the candle of knowledge...? This golden, swirly, waxy thing with what looks like bird-poop on it is the candle of knowledge?!
"If thats the case, then knowledge is everywhere!!" I wail.
"You're right!" My teacher says. "All of us have knowledge. We must only share it with others. Thats what counts."
Knowledge is actually a bird-poop covered candle. No wonder school stinks!
My class teacher bends toward me, trying to light up my candle for me. it doesn't light up. She tries once more. No show.
And once more.
And again.
And again. But the candle doesn't light up.
I move my candle toward that of my friend in front of me.

"...and now you may all blow out your candles." the principal says. I blow mine, and so does the entire hall. Now, the hall is filled with double its volume of smoke. People all around me are coughing, and blowing at their candles in vain. Some are sneezing, and some others have covered their mouths with their respective hands. I shuffle around to see whats up with the others. Suddenly, i spot XKDC* laughing with Chilly Flakes* in a far corner.
Invariably, my jaw tightens and my grip around the candle strengthens.
"...Sangeeta?" Someone says.
"What?!" i snap at them. she beckons me to look down.
Oh, my God.
"I broke it."
Thats right. I broke the candle of Knowledge. I broke the fucking candle. Since everyone's staring, this must be bad. I turn to sugu-pugu and show it to her. She giggles.
Sangeeta broke the candle of knowledge. Why does this not surprize her? Then, i think of something else.
This was a very symbolic event. My hearts envy led to the tightening of my grip on the candle, sic it broke. It is said that when there is anger and hatred on the mind, the power to think logically diminishes. This was just what happened -i was so angry that i didn't realize the breaking of the candle in my hand. This was like Gods own sign.
It's always the littlest of things that matter the most...
"Where do we get the energy to do things from?" Sugu-pugu asks, twirling the hem of her dupatta in her hands.
"Well, I get the energy to message from my mum, who pays for my phone-bills." i say.
"No, no. Where do you get the energy to do work?" she says, a little irritably.
"From food, we trace it to crops, which are green..." Gemini says
"And so- " Sugu-pugu begins
"-we get the energy from the sun." Gemini completes the sentence.
"Exactly. Now, where does the sun get energy from?"
"Heat." Gemini says.
"How is heat formed?"
"By the presence of Helium on the surface of the sun?" I say.
"It's hydrogen, actually..." Gemini trails off.
"Yeah. the reaction between Deuterium and Tritium(Hydrogen Isotopes). In ordinary cricumstances, the radioactive tritium actually decays into helium-3. But, on the sun, they bombard into each other and form helium-4, the cause of heat on the surface of the sun. In the reaction, a nucleus (mostly of the Triton) is discarded and 17.6 MeV(mega electron volts) of energy is released as an appropriate amount of mass converting to the kinetic energy of the products, in agreement with E = Δmc2."
Of course, this cannot be proven true in many other cases, such as that of anti-matter (specially anti-protons/anti-hydrogen).
And, of course, that isn't what i said. I said
"The reaction between two protons, or, two hydrogen ions, creates a vast amount of energy from mass. This energy is from the fusion reaction used to make helium on the surface. Hence, the heat."
What? These are teenaged girls! The last thing they wanna do is listen to an entire chapter out of The Physics of Inertial Fusion" from the mouth of a girl who sounds like a drunken boar falling into a pit full of shit!"
"In other words, we get energy from protons -" Sugu-Pugu begins.
"-which are everywhere. Exactly." Gemini chimes in.
"It's like with carbon," I say. "Our body is composed of carbon in varied different forms, and, yet, if we try to eat burn toast -carbon in its purest form -we fall ill."
"So, our entire existence relies on protons. Just radioactive matter! The littlest thing in the entire universe... and it matters the most!"
To think that such an award-winning ass was formed the courtesy of decaying radioactive matter.
That is so pathetic!

And so am i.
Excuse me while i crawl into a hole and die.

*Names changed. Duh...

Monday, February 15, 2010

Weddings, In-Laws, and Politics, Oh My!

One of the main reasons most bachelors and spinsters dread the entire alliance of marriage is the in-laws. According to Merriam Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus, an “In-law” is “a relative via wedlock”. According to Sangeeta, an “In-Law” is “a fucking idiot with no sense of fashion who is just hell-bent upon making you look fat and ugly on your wedding day and, then, stealing all your jewelry and passing them off as their own”. In-laws are people who are ‘all “the” talk and no “the” do’, meaning, they are people who blow things way out of proportion, and then buy things from the Camel market while saying they are branded. Most in-laws have an uncanny habit of wanting to act like they are ravishing their D-I-L, while all the time they are merely being penny pinchers and being complete assholes to the same. But, In India, we do not dread just the In-Laws. We dread much else...

India is, indeed, a strange country. In every other country, marriages are categorized in five simple steps:
1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. They get married.
5. They live happily ever after.
For us Indians, of course, the steps are... welll, longer:

1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. Girl’s family must like Boy.
5. Boy’s family must like Girl.
6. Girl’s family must like Boy’s family.
7. Boy’s family must like Girl’s family.
8. A thousand rituals and political mudslinging later, Boy and Girl get engaged.
9. After another thousand rituals, they FINALLY get married.
10. Then, they live in a house together where they spend the rest of their sorry lives eating pizza from the carton and fighting for the remote all day.
This pretty much sums up a typical Indian marriage. Today, I went to my sister’s In-Laws’ place.
Why? Because I have no life. And because my sister is ill, but whatever…
The rendezvous was supposed to last an hour, us discussing the timing, the venue and apparels that would be involved in the marriage. Our heated debate lasted four hours, over which we discussed politics, the weather, how nice Aloe Vera is for the skin and how wonderful it would be if we could all just get along. There WAS no mention of the marriage in the entire tryst with the dreaded “In-Laws”. That’s just how marriages in India are: We always sought to do one thing, but instead end up doing another. It’s very common in India for a girl to fall in love with a boy, and get so attached to his family, that she ends up eloping with his brother.
“Mrs. Khanna, have you heard? Lara’s daughter ran away with the groom’s brother!”

“Oh, that’s nothing! Have you seen the amount of jewelry they ran with? Only worth a million rupees! How’s my diamond encrusted crown? Could give the Queen a run for her money, couldn’t I?”

Yeah. Sure you could.
You see, I have nothing against marriages – Nothing at all! It’s just the PEOPLE getting married that put me up in the spot. Really, why buy the album, when you can download plenty bloody albums for free? No commitment, no issues, no hassle, and they would never flirt with your best friend to make you jealous.
Trust me.
So, I was in a fix when I heard that Mother and I shall go meet the beloved parents of my brother-in-law who –in completely UNrelated news – looks like a seven-month pregnant Dick Dastardly.

How about we keep the wedding from ten-thirty to twelve and the reception from one to five?” Sister’s father-in-law says. Sure, uncle –if that’s humanly possible. Yes, and then, there is this other thing; Indian marriages are slow. Slow? That’s like saying, “Hitler was a tad aggressive.”

There’s a lot to an Indian wedding. Firstly, we start with the HALDI rasam, where the groom is made to sit on a stool with white shorts and a white shirt. To all those who don’t know, HALDI is a Hindi word meaning “Indian saffron” or "Turmeric", which is ground with water into a paste, used to give the esteemed a fairer glow. In the HALDI rasam, loads of fat women with no dressing sense and cleavages that could hold the Everest sing songs in death-defying tones similar to that of a desiccated gorilla dying at the gates of hell. In the midst of this crass cacophony, the sisters of the bride sought to tear the shirt of the groom from his body and then smear the paste on his torso. If that’s not bad enough, the mother of the bride gets to pull the groom by the nose and bring him to the staging of the marriage.
Then, the bride is to be dressed up. Now –and its customary –the weight of the bride must always be a quarter of the weight of her dressing gowns and her jewelry put together. Meaning, if she can walk, she isn’t completely dressed. And if she can't, she’s pure evil. Why, and the mudslinging after that? Goodness, it’s so freaky; I don’t even need to be funny about it.

“Arre, you saw Rajesh’s bride? Practically dripping gold and diamonds, no?”

“Of course she is. What do you expect from such [a rude Hindi word for OSTENTACIOUS] people? Bloody Ramgharias*!”

“Oh, my GOD! Rajesh’s bride is WALKING TO THE MANDAPAM**!”

“Such disgrace! Such disregard to our Hindu customs! Those fucking Ramgharias don’t deserve to live!! Even Lohars*, Jatts* and Rajputs* would give all they can to their only daughter! Rascals!"
If that’s not pudifying enough, the make-up palette comprises of the most hideous of colors in history of the most hideous of colors! The only two things an Indian bride can possibly look like is either a prostitute, or a forlorn fool who walked into the streets of Abu Dhabi in the month of Ramadan. It’s like the stylist has been plotting sweet revenge against the poor bride all his life!
“How’s the bride?” asks the stylist from hell.

“So hideous, I think my eyeballs have started to bleed!” The assistant says.

“I know she is, but…” he thinks for a moment. “I STILL think she could look worse…"

Nobody can be more humiliated in one night than the Indian bride and groom are on their wedding day. That’s why it felt so bad to be sitting in front of the In-Laws (read: Aliens from Pluto) and discussing the wedding.
Why? ‘Cuz I’d have to be the sorry soul who escorts (read: carries) the bride to the Mandapam. In other words, my back is going for a TOSS.

I hate weddings…

P.S. *- These are Sects and Tribes in the Sikh religion.
**- The wedding venue.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

On Crows, Parrots and the Day of Love

"Happy Valentine's Day!!!"
Yeah, yeah. Shut the fuck up.

My day begins quite ordinarily; too mundane, to be precise. I just get off the bed, brush my teeth, eat my breakfast, and checked out my cell. 
  "Hie! I'm getting myself a new book from Landmark and i'm gonna watch , too i'm so happy!"
And happy fuckin'-tines's day to you, too, Ice-Kitten.

I walk toward the window. A beautiful tropical parrot sat directly opposite me. How glossy are her feathers... The red beak was, as though, embossed in the scenic loveliness of the neighborhood trees...

"Seeing a parrot in suburban Mumbai is lucky!" I smile to myself. Luck, and on Valentine's Day? God must love me! (^_^)
I grin ear to ear~~~~
~~~~Until a crow comes along.
"What a deceitful creature! It's making such a racket... huh? Wait. W-wait! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET OFF OF THAT PARROT! Let her fluff her wings and fly to the other side of the tree...."

She did just as i said.
She FLUFFED her beautiful emerald wings....
....and got gang-raped by four ugly crows.

Yes. My luck.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

My thoughts on New Moon, An adaptation of Stephanie Meyers' book w/the same name

Before we start, i just want to say:
  • Yes, i AM an ostentacious bitch.
  • No, i don't think Taylor Lautner's hot.
  • And, finally, YES, i think Robert Pattinson IS gay.
I just hope Sugi-sama or Ice Kitten isn't reading this... Anyway. here it is:

I saw 'NEW MOON' on the telly today. In my humble, and politically non-biased opinion:
You have a testosterone-charged Bella frantically running around on a suicidal spree, a shirtless Jacob frolicking on the sands of 'La Push', and i partically clad Edward trying to tell the Volturi that he WANTS to die, and a very hungry Volturi with little, or no acting skills, whatsoever.
Deep. Real deep.
I can practically SEE Edwards undying love for Bella in the dimples of his nipples, which -in completely unrelated news- are bronzed to the ump. And JACOB! Ahh.... he's such a great friend: he is giving free porno to a reluctant Bella, her love for him notwithstanding. How essentially moving. Really, i could CRY my eyeballs out to this pathetic attempt to making a movie.
Seriously, the only thing missing here, was Snoop Dogg singing 'Sensual Seduction' in the background. New Moon? This was 'Testosterone Rising'.
"Yes, Jacob, we know that you can withstand the cold- just don't push it into our faces by
taking your shirt off and running around half-nude!"
This 'New Moon', he takes off his shirt in the autumnal wind, next 'Eclipse', he'll freeze his testicles for Bella.
Such love is SO thought-provoking, right?
If you don't have the money for clothes, guys, I'm all up for a donation.


"I just heard i'm getting laid in Breaking Dawn. YAY!"
"I'm the hottest werewolf there ever~~
 ~~Wait. Is that Robert Pattinson without a shirt?? GOD, i'd tap THAT ass...."

"I gotta pee..."

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The Farewell and a Dream that Never

Dreams are vivid part of ones life. Dreams constitute ones own thoughts, beliefs, and day-to-day happenings. Dreams are the very heart and soul of our inner Self: They are the portals through which our subconcious communicates with our concious self. Dreams are also said to have a very large role in portraying ones own intelligence level to oneself. Recently, researchers have found that ones dreams are linked with ones own IQ level. This is possible due to the strangeness of our dreams. The more strange ones dreams are, the higher is ones IQ level. In the same pretext, the more dreams one has, the high his capacity to learn, and retain knowledge. I had a dream which i haven't been about to understand. This is odd, since i'm so good at it. No matter how intelligent my dreams are, i always seem to get what the gist is all about. So, anyone wanna help me?

this was just a simple dream about XKCD. I was in our class room, just the way it looks in reality. Except for the fact that not only were all my classmates there, but also the ones who come to REMS with me. We were on the last seat. XKCD and i were lightly talk we seemed to all be working on something or the other. So, as a joke, XKCD made me a card-like structure with a picture and a cartoon on it [excuse the pun]. So, naturally, i chose the cartoon [excuse the pun, again.] I cut out the cartoon and paste it in my diary [which, by the way everyone is interested in, seriously, if it's not personal, why is it called a PERSONAL diary?!] . Then he says something about me being a complete miser. "That is SO not true, XKCD!" I say to him, as i begin to walk all the way toward the other side of the class, right to where he is sitting. Invariably, he scoots to make room for me. I sit down there, and, before i know it, we've got our arms around each other. I'm on his right and, though everyone can see us, they don't seem to mind at all. Nobody interrogates us, or judges us for sitting so intimately together.

The best part about the dream is that its so casual, yet it feels so very delicate; so intricate. And the elation of it all, the loving joy... I've never been so happy after waking up from a dream.
But, then again, i've never cried for a dream only because it wasn't real, either... So...

In other, completely UNrelated news,

Ok, so, its not very clear. I'll write down what it says, instead:

Now, i know the timings totally suck, but hey! Atleast i've GOT a farewell at school. so that TOTALLY accounts for SOMETHING! I'm looking forward to it so much, i actually fell out of my chair when i read this message.

"I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL!I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL! The timings suck, the dress codes totally drab and the venue's straight from hell, but~~~~

Jeez Whiz! I'm as excited as a fat person is about cake!
Or as i am about cake...

Ummm...Yum... Cake...!


Saturday, February 6, 2010

An extract

This is just an extract from the novel that i'm thinking of writing. It's still crude, as the end product will be much more superior to this draft, but i will post this, anyway. The ray of hope still shines through, doesn't it?

'I didn't decide to die.
Nobody decides to die. sometimes, its not a choice. Everything else can be chosen. Everything.
but death is a necessary end. It isn't an option. I'm not deciding the end. I'm merely ending the novel before the due page.
So, you see, i haven't DECIDED to die. I'm not one to decide what starts and ends in this world. I only decide to do the things i do.
We are all born with a certain religion, an ethnicity, in a place at a certain time in an era that, as we grow, we call 'yesterday'. I could've changed my religion. But, here, i chose not to.
i chose not to, simply because its the easier option. I could've changed homes, changed ethnicity to an extent, get a sex-change or even try to surgically MAKE myself white. i chose not to. simply because it was an easier option.
So, i haven't decided to die, because death has to happen, as it will. it's not a decision. i cannot choose to do something that is bound to happen, anyway. i have merely increased the speed of time by altering the aspects of my life and of those around me.
It's not that i do not have control over my life. It's mine, after all.
Here i stand, in front of the mirror at seven in the morning. I usually wake up at four thirty. Of course i have total control. i choose my bedtime and the time of my rising. Ordinarilly, i wake up one minute before the alarm rings. i stare at the ceiling till it rings, and then shut it off after that. I then proceed to running toward my bathroom, almost slipping over the rug, and then start brushing my teeth. by four fifty two and seven seconds, i'm in the shower, trying hard to keep the shampoo out of my eyes. it's around five twelve and a second when i pat myself dry, stare at myself in the mirror, and rush toward the wardrobe. by the time it's five thirty and fifteen seconds, i'm in my formal wear, and- briefcase in hand -i am walking toward the sedan. I reach work at six and, ten minutes and forty-eight seconds later, i have already assigned five tasks each to most of my subordinates.
So, not only do i have complete control over my life, i have the same over the lives of others- not to mention the course of time, itself. Now you see? We can choose to do things, but we can't choose to die.
I am not Veronika. My life is not a novel, and Paulo Coelho is not my literary father. I do not have any spiritual awakenings, and neither have i lost the hold of the strings that defy the perfection, that is me.
I still stare at me in the mirror. The only difference is - she isn't me. She is a middle-class low-life with no social life, no friends and bags under her eyes. Her eyes are puffy and red, swollen are their lids and rub-lines are what adorn them dearly. Her hair are a messy tuft on her head, and lines, of what look like effervescent tears, are running down the rouged cheeks. She is a girl who left her home after her parents tried to sell her to her wealthy uncle for two sacks of rice, She is a girl who stole bread from houses, clothes from their lines and made fire from torn paper and broken matchsticks. The only possible similarity between us is our age.

Who is she?
What is she? A microbe? a bag of chemicals born of the sin that two people committed, that they still regret?
Just a reminiscent of lust long disintegrated? What??

She makes mistakes, she lies, she cheats, she steals, she cries, then laughs. She loves, she loses, she cries some more. She hurts, she bruises, and the tears cease to stop. Is she made of salt water? or sand? Or just a wandering spirit who found shealter in a random body? Who is she, anyway? A 'nothing-special girl'? A nobody? A random soul in a crowd of a zillion random souls? A spec of dust? A scrap of filth?
She may be all or none of these, but she'll never be me.
I'm the youngest executive to have reached the top of the career ladder in five years of doing the things i do. I have the perfect life, the perfect job, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect social life. I have a great appartment, a splendid pay, my own wine cellar -but then again who doesn't?
Oh. Sure. She doesn't.
And yet we stand at the same level. Yet we see each other when we look in the mirror. Life is strange, is it not?
Out of the blue, green, electric purple, techno burple, and every other shade and tint the common man ha s made acquaintances with, a bony hand moves toward me. Invariably, my hand moves toward. the two hands touch, and burst of light, heat, and electricity begin to reverberate through my entire body. Our hands quiver against each other, both perfectly manicured, both with a slight chip on the left-hands pinkies' nail. I move closer, and the teary-eyed girl copies me to the ump. I begin to feel the hand i have beneath my palm. It's not fleshy and knotty, like mine. It's hard, and cold, and lacks a typical human feel to itself. It had definitive scratches on its surface, too. Time and unfortunate razor accidents had worn out the wall between the Nothing and the Everything of the chimeras of divine imagination. I place my cheek on this wall, and she reciprocates. I melt under this union, as the fire of me and the ice of her meet, and, suddenly, her cheeks aren't so rosy anymore. The known sting gets caught in my eye, as the wall acquires an odd moisture from a source unknown to me.

I didn't decide to die.
Nobody does.

I pull away from the illicit embrace which i wholesomely share with my nemesis. I look into her eyes. There it is, the warmth. The sadness, the humility, the mortification of being alive and being of not use to this world, or the next.

Nobody decides to die. They merely provide sleep to a moribund life, which will end, as like, as not.

I look down at the watch on my hand. Passively, i reach for my cell phone.
"I am one hour twenty minutes and twenty-two seconds late for work," unthinkingly, i reach for the clothes on the rack behind me. Counting the minutes, i plan my perfect life , where my perfect self shall reach work to realize that all the fuckers who work under me are slacking off, like the humans they are.
I could've ended the book here, i could've stopped time.

I chose not to.
Only because its the easier option.'