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."

-Anonymous

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---

THINK MANGOES!

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?

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.
What?
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.
Again.
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.
Again.
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?"
"No...?"
"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?"
"C-completely!"
"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...     

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.

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...

*Sigh*

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?"

Nope.

"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?"

Fuck.
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?"

...Uh?

"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?"

No.

"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?"

Fuck.

"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...

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.

HOW  TO TAKE CARE OF KIDS THE SANGEETA WAY

STEP 1: THE BABY WAKES UP

• 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.

STEP 2: EX POST FACTO OF WHEN THE BABY WAKES UP

• 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?!"

STEP 3: EX POST FACTO OF ALL THE WEIRD GOGGLE-EYED SMILING

• 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 #$!&ing HOT in here?! Where are we, in ASIA?!
...Oh wait...
#$!&...

STEP 4: BABY CRIES

• 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.
Mind: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! IT'S LIKE THE WRATH OF SATAN!!  IT'S... IT'S LIKE VALENTINE'S DAY ALL OVER AGAIN!!

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...