Abhi Mami's Daily Gyaan

Remember Me? The Girl In The Grey T-Shirt?

2015-03-28T10:38:00.002-07:00

Am I the only one left in the world who still wants to dress comfortably? Am I the only one who still thinks it's okay to repeat a dress, or to borrow one from your roommate? Am I the only one who has financial constraints, the stubborn blindness to "50% off" advertisements, the miserable feeling of wanting to be an adult and failing so tremendously?

Am I still the only one who is resistant to raised eyebrows, remarks about my "grunge" sense of fashion, men who want to buy me clothes because "Don't you have a short dress?".

I do. But I will not dress up in any way that you specifically take the time to ask me to. And I will not "wear what I want" because you finally gave me approval. I heard that sigh. I saw that scrunched forehead.

I am neither that girl, nor that kind of a girl, or that "type" of a girl. I am a girl, but of my own merit. Anything that ever adorns my body is of my own making- dark circles, hairy flab, wobbly thighs included.

Am I the only one who wants to slip into a baggy grey T-shirt just to look like I feel-
able, hard-working, unafraid of a little sunlight or dirt, unconcerned about broken nails, not feeling less capable than a man on the same job, like a self-made woman who doesn't need a cleavage to be better than him?

Am I the only person fighting to be myself in a roomful of unblemished, glittering, aesthetically attention-seeking perfection? Should I even need to fight?

And then you'll call me proud. And then you'll say, "She's that kind of a girl".

"BABOI"

2014-12-02T22:08:00.002-08:00

A new word that I'm trying to accustom myself to. I don't think there's a substitute for it even in my mother tongue, though Kannada and Telugu are sister languages. But there's something about the word that does not just indicate surprise. And today, I found out what it was.

There I was, huffing and puffing, marching my way to office (late, as usual). I was wearing something "nice", but it was hidden beneath my blue jacket. Despite slow-roasting beneath the layers of garment, I was kinda assured that no one would say "She was asking for it".

But it happened regardless (surprise, surprise!). I walked past a parked auto. Two drivers having an animated conversation with each other stop to look at me. The second I pass by, there they go "BABOI".

I had ample opportunity to have a middle-finger moment, but what do I do? Throw my head back and chuckle. Also, blush slightly. Strange as it might seem, I came across to myself as "That kind of girl". But then again, it wasn't much of a shock.

In personal evolution terms, I seem to have gained the ability to both accept my body and detach from it. I am no stranger to sexual harassment- groping, "offers", advancements, violations, what not. But these have served to turn my mind into a pretty sharp weapon. I can smell a creep from across town, I can anticipate harm even when the violins are playing. I give no benefit of doubt and quickly avoid undesirable situations.

I guess it's because I feel so safe within my head that even without pepper spray, I no longer care who cat-calls at me, or what they might do. The auto drivers in question were actually quite harmless. Had I approached them for a ride, they'd have quoted about thirty rupees extra at the most (so says my intuition).

So, yeah. They said "BABOI". No, no. They sang it-- "Baaboooiiiyyy!". And I smiled. It's okay to live in the spirit of "I'm sexy and I know it". Right?

Notes on Artificially Supported Social Lives (1)

2014-10-10T12:15:00.000-07:00

Online dating is rad and everything but for obvious reasons, we begin with the assumption that the other person will go out with you. Ergo, we miss asking the question. "Will you go out with me?"

Even though the question seems fairly straightforward, it's not. Really. The circumstances make it so very, very difficult for guys. I believe that's the case especially in India. So guys just go round and round and round the bush, beating it till all the leaves fall out and still don't pop the question.

"Will you go out with me?"

And ever since I can remember, I've always been the one to manipulate the guy into asking. Except for R*, but then again, he has a "girlfriend". I miss being asked out properly. I understand that guys on OKC will never get around to it. But when am I going to meet a man in real life who would stop and ask

"Hey, will you go out with me?"

[Watch the Short Film "Signs". Do lives like this only exist in fiction? Boo-hoo.]

The Deepest Love is:

2014-09-02T04:38:00.000-07:00

You. You know who you are. I know for a fact that you'll never put this on a public forum. Maybe you're unsure of the way you write. I really don't know, re.

But what you've written deserves to be read. Poor me, I don't have enough conviction to write about Love, if left to my own devices. But I'm telling you, if this isn't poetry, I don't know what is!

So, ladies and gentlemen- presenting these few rare lines that might never see the face of paper. I urge you to ponder over them and reconcile your thoughts with your personal truth:

The deepest love is creating Beauty out of passion, in your Solitude;

Carving out your imagination, Setting your soul on slow fire;

Building the path between your beautiful mind and your Undying Soul.

Let the rivers go wild and flood the caves,

But centuries hence it will be found by someone brave.

Then they will look up, mesmerized.

Then they will remark- "Oh! They made it... Out of Love!

Intro.spectrum.

2014-09-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

When you really think about it-

You know the days that make you blue, you know the red days, the dead days, the bright yellow sunshine days, and the pale green sickie days. You know you're a different person every day and every minute, but you also know you're the same. There is no explaining the you-ness of you. Nobody will ever get it (sometimes not even you). So, you're happy to let the world think that you're a certain set of characteristics and you can live up to that projected image.

Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to hold with everybody. The people who love you tend to love you excessively and the people who hate you tend to trample you more than necessary. To many, you are only "dear", "sweetest", and "darling"; and to the blessed few, you are "bitch", "pussy" and "chicken". I can close my eyes and easily recall a long list of people and put them under the following labels: Uptight, Gossip-monger, Compulsive stoner, Hyper-masochist a**-hole, Simpleton... For all my preaching, I DO have a big bunch of people with one-term labels.

This, I can easily justify for myself and for everybody- we need to sort things out inside our head and keep them categorized at some level. You aren't pre-loaded with Excel, extendable memory storage and a huge RAM. You have to keep the mess of information as simple as possible to avoid lunacy.
Life is too short for us to understand ourselves, let alone other people. And we NEVER remember that everybody else is fighting the same battle. We're too egocentric in our need to be understood and hence, we become vulnerable to offence.

We are never going to understand the nature of our existence completely. So, as long as no real harm is being done to you, build yourself some objectivity and allow space for other people to use their one-term labels. It's an absolutely necessary evil for sane survival. I guess if we understood this enough, we would attack people lesser and we would even perceive lesser attacks upon ourselves. Acknowledge, kindly, that other people are spectra within themselves. If you can't find the time or make the effort to get to know them better than their label, at least don't hold it up against them. Keep it to yourself as a matter of fact, without malice. Find it in yourself to be tolerant, if not loving.

Lately, there has been a little something going around in lieu of Teachers' Day. People are naming the ten people who made an impact on their lives. I don't think it's any different from picking out your favourite colours. I mean no offence to the people or this practice. It's a very good thing to remember the ones who have changed you for the better. But the point I'm trying to make is, EVERYBODY changes you for the better. Every person has a certain impact upon you. You may not like the presence of some of them in your life, but you've got to see this much- people are either inspiring you to be something better or motivating you to not become worse (thus enabling you to stay better). Unless you don't want to be better (which of course, you don't), you can perceive people's presence in your life as a good thing in every little way.

"Being", in itself, can be infinitely more easier if you could just discount the by-products of the human condition. Zooming out a little, you can see that there is little point to being any "-ist". No point to being Racist or Feminist or Idealist. You have enough trouble just being yourself. Kindly concentrate on that first. Be not insecure that someone at the other end of the spectrum is bad-mouthing you. You are not isolated. You are always surrounded by the colourful people of the same wavelength. As for the others, allow them their bandwidth.

Like my friend Vivek says, "Men should stop being masochists, women should stop being feminists, and everyone should just write code!". To paraphrase, let go of your impositions of the ideal world. Kindle your passion and work on something that you care about. Make the world a special place in your own way. We cannot change colour at the moment, but we can hope to hit another prism in the evolutionary timeline and become, even if for a moment, united to colourlessness again.

[Also read Vivek's own brand of gyaan. Common sense these days needs to be put back in perspective:
Vivek's note]

The Destiny of Now

2014-04-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Dani,

I'm going to have to remind you of the days when I had to call you "Daniel sir" because I was the student and you are the teacher. The days when I lost my head inside a pile of books and instant coffee every evening in the cafeteria, with no one to speak to but the ghosts inside my hollow ribs. The days when you finished back-to-back evening classes and came around to feed your hungry self and bought my last cup of coffee for the day. You sat and patiently listened to my pointless ramblings about the world, my rookie opinions on postcolonial theory and what novels I was currently reading. Our conversations mostly revolved around your classes, my exams, my future plans and then books. A smattering of other things too, until one day in November, you gave me a small red copy of The Bible in which I find my peace every time life drags me down. I can't thank you enough for introducing me to a God who lives in paper that's as thin as a dream in winter.

It wasn't until the very end of my final semester when your heart stepped out of your formal shirt and said "I wish we had met earlier." Indeed, two semesters were too short a time to have known each other, but by then we knew enough about ourselves to securely say that we were friends. When things were bleak for me, you were my rock. My absolute rock.

A few days later, you said to me again "I really wish we had known each other earlier." I told you something then, and I'm going to tell you the same thing again- not because you need to hear it, but because I need to remind myself of my own half-a-rupee philosophy.

I don't think we should have met any earlier than we did. No. Life is well versed in drama and the timing it has is spot on. If you had met me any earlier, I wouldn't have been that zombie eyed piece of tragedy; if you had met me any later, you'd have been put off by the apathetic sharp tongued cynic I had turned into.

No, you met me at just the right time- when you knew me by face but not by name, and despite trying to beat the morning bell yourself, you slowed down and asked me on the staircase "Are you alright?"

It was the drama of the moment. So precise, so magnetic, that it kept drawing us to each other in corridors and coffee counters, and you asked over and over "Are you okay?", until one day I admitted that I was not, after I was finally convinced that someone cared.

I am recounting all of this because I just realized that there was one more important lesson hidden in the drama of "How Dani and Abhi became friends". Every day was special, every conversation was insightful, and every moment was fruitful because we fully lived in it- We made the best use of Now.

We never spoke of a yesterday and we never thought of a tomorrow. We were always where we were. That time of my life was indeed a gift because the Present was not the most neglected moment. No, we were aware of the onset of each moment and we welcomed it with rationality that had a touch of humanity. I realized moments ago that I ought to do it all the time. I ought to live in the present.

It is remarkably stupid how much I've been neglecting the present moment. More so, today.

Today, I've been busy putting myself in the cross-fire of the past and the future.

Okay, Dani. Time I make a little "life update". I could have called you and told you but because I'm such a Drama Queen, I'll make this a big deal and all.

Less than 48 hours ago, it was what I would have called a "Happy Anniversary!", had I still been with M*. I had a little bit of a meltdown in the middle of the night. After all, this is the first time in an obscenely long time when the "anniversary" isn't the anniversary. Had I been with M*, I would have probably had three such meltdowns and five screaming contests a month for every month we've been apart. But I did love him until it burnt its way into the manner of my existence. But with the distress so distant, waves of good memories and happy times were drowning my exam-season brain until I was sobbing senseless at a dirty wall in a dark hostel corridor.

PARADOX

In less than 48 hours from now, I'll be on what I'd shriek with excitement and say "Yay! Date!". By now, you've lost track of the number of guys I talk about. This is someone I haven't told you about yet, mostly because I don't "know" him very well myself. He's one of those guys who looks different from picture to picture. Talks very little, but when he does, he blows my mind. Has the kind of brain and wit and sense of humour that makes me want to keep the contents of his skull all for myself and pickle it to preserve it, just like a creepy person. He's like Spider-man- I think I know him, I don't know how; I think I like him, I don't know what about him that I like. He is such a bloody mystery, it drives me CRAY-ZAY. I think about him when I'm supposed to be studying for my exam (like right now) and I think about him even when I'm writing the exam (like today, yesterday, day before yesterday... you get the drift). It's exciting! I'm dizzy with adrenaline. I day-dream on floaty clouds and I re-read all his messages till the words paint themselves in a haphazard graffiti on my retina and eventually, my REM sleep.

I like it that I don't have to use stupid emoticons while talking to him and he still gets my jokes. Words are enough. Though, if I had to use emoticons, I'd use the one with the big hearts popping out of the eyes.

And he's so hot *HOT*, that it should be made illegal.

So Dani, you can imagine in what state my mind was in. On one hand, history had me in a high tide of nostalgia and on the other hand, mystery had me hopping on one foot with extreme impatience. And all the while, it was causing so much tension that I forgot how to be in the NOW.

Look at the drama of this moment, Dani. Life is so perfect at this thing. The difficult things are gone, the good things are probably coming. But I'm still myself right now, my heart firmly in my own possession. The drama of the moment, Dani, is not about what was or what will be. One is beautiful history and the other is a heated mystery. The Destiny of everything belongs in this moment- a drama- the act of turning the page of my ongoing autobiography.

Becky Bloomwood's Guide to Financial Management

2014-04-21T07:46:00.000-07:00

This is the book that never happened. Becky was always up to her eyeballs in debt. She could never-ever Cut Back and she kept trying to Make More Money. She spent more, too.

So, here is some real Daily Gyaan. How to save money. Without a bank. All the ideas below have been tried and tested by me and they have WORKED.

#1
Never spend a twenty.

You don't come across twenty rupee notes often. So you put them away. Eventually, you'll have loads of twenty's and you'll find your stash one day when you need it. A very dear friend of mine used to do this and I have to thank him loads for the idea.

#2
Pretend-spend.

You know you shouldn't be buying that bar of chocolate. And you know you really don't need a pair of black pumps. So, what do you do when you're on the end of the month budget-diet?
You pretend to buy whatever you bought and you put that money away.

#3
I am satisfied.

You have given into an indulgence. You got yourself a pedicure, or you read a book from the library, or you ate vanilla choco chip ice-cream. Are you happy? Are you satisfied? Is it a 10-rupee worth of satisfaction or can you part with a 100 rupee note?
Put the money away.

Let me know how it works for you. Leave your ideas in the comments below.

Mirror, Mirror.

2014-04-20T14:14:00.000-07:00

A writer would find it strange to hear the line "I am not as poetic as you are."

Sitting across the table is a nice man she has grown to like, and has made her feelings known; and he says to her "I am not as poetic as you are."

"Rubbish," she wants to say to him, "Poetry does not begin with me. I am not the poetry."

She turns to the mirror on the wall next to the table, briefly tempted to put the chopstick in her hair and she catches the eye of her poem in the reflection.

"The poetry is in the mirror," she wants to tell him "I examine every hair on your head, every pore of your skin in secret, in the mirror- when I think you are not looking and my heart is not racing. I examine where your hand is on the table, and the button on your cuff. I wonder if it will reach out to mine and hold it. I dare not look at it directly because the blood will rush to my face and the silliness of my hammering heart will be given away. I look up slowly and look at you quietly looking at me- that steady equanimity of your face warms my insides. When we finish our meal and rise to leave, you will hold me in your arms. Then I shall see us in the mirror, my head barely grazing your shoulder, and think to myself 'Look how happy they are. How wonderful they look together!', and then kiss you goodbye.

Poetry, my love, is not inside me. Poetry is in the mirror. Poetry is everywhere.

Now language- language is inside me. And I use it with vixen-like precision to charm the poetry out of the mirror, out of the chopstick and out of the dim lighting above, and let it crawl under your skin until every inch of your body bursts in gooseflesh."

A Perfect World

2014-04-20T01:29:00.002-07:00

Your perfect lover lives inside your head.

Your perfect friend lives inside your head.

Your perfect family, children, pets live inside your head.

Your entire world is inside your head. So, when you look outside, share the beauty of the universe with your perfect world. Give them the love they need and deserve.

All your angels are inside you when your demons can't think of what else to do.

My Body of Lust.

2014-02-25T16:31:00.000-08:00

04:36 AM

My real problem is that I have drunk far too much coffee to be able to sleep. I cannot. I am wide awake, tossing in bed for over an hour. And my mind is very, very active. Like it always does, it is thinking of all the things under the sun, regardless of what relevance it may have in reality.

I am thinking about lust. I am thinking about what I would do if someone grabbed my ass on a crowded bus.

What I would do is not something people would normally do. But knowing me, imaginary setting or not, I WOULD ACTUALLY DO WHAT I'M ABOUT TO SAY (Very powerful Drama Queen Genes, I have):

I would turn around and look him in the eye and say "If you really HAVE TO grab my ass, at least do it like it is supposed to be done." (momentary pause) "If you don't know how to use your fingers, how will you pleasure your woman?" (wait for incoherent, indignant blabber) (Laugh briefly but deliriously. Must sound like I just spit in his face)
"A real man can talk to a woman and actually get her. A man who grabs asses will only grab asses for the rest of his life. Speaking of... (MAJORLY TURN ON SEXY VOICE) what have you got there?" (Very slowly, very deliberately trace fingers from the front of his body, around the waist and into his back pocket. Almost grab his ass. Pull his wallet out instead, very quickly) (Expect a startled response)
"Shh" (It helps to put a finger on his lips. Yuck. But helps) "I don't want your money" (Pull out any ID card. Preferably a government ID)
"I'm going to get off at the next stop and leave this at the (name of nearest police station). Go pick it up from there" (Expect immediate protest. MAJORLY TURN ON SCARY ANGRY VOICE.)
"If I hear so much as a WORD from you!" (Glare. By now he is convinced you are someone powerful/with powerful connections)(Point a finger at him. Keep it there for five seconds minimum. Do not break eye contact)

*

I know all this sounds very fancy. Very improbable. But you have to believe me when I say that I will do it. I'm that kind of a girl who is extremely comfortable in her own body. If a man touches me, no matter how inappropriately or how unexpectedly, it would really not affect me. I am full of hormones and I am reeking of sensuality. It is both my blessing and my curse. A curse because sometimes I can't figure out whether my behaviour is due to hormones or whether it is an undiluted expression of my femininity. I am the kind of girl who flirts with three men simultaneously, in the same space. I am the girl who is not bothered about who's looking when I wink at a man across the crowd. I am the girl who does not break eye contact. I am everybody's definition of an 'easy','slut'. Put a Scarlet A on my door.

But what I am is my greatest strength. My biggest defence.

We have karate classes at the ladies' hostel I live in. I haven't attended them. When a friend asked me "Why not?", I said to him "Defence is a mental thing". I may be wrong, in your opinion. But I strongly believe it is. No matter how hard I train, my strength will never be equal to that of one or more men. I'm built that way. Average height and almost no upper body strength. And that is exactly the case with most women.

Women have been oppressed for ages. And for VERY GOOD REASON. Because, if we knew how to be ourselves and not be what society taught us to be, we would be pure danger. If men have managed to oppress us, it is only by sheer muscle power. But their internal constitution is as strong as the contents of a baby's diaper.

Just for ONE MINUTE, I want you to forget what society taught you about how a woman should be. Think of a man who hates you, or someone who has told you outright that they're not attracted to you. Think of a man in a very formal relationship with you, or has even claimed to be your father figure. Hell, think of any man you please. All it takes for you is the brush of one finger-tip, for one second, over one inch of his skin. Game Over. If you mean it to be a sexual expression, it will definitely work. Sometimes, you don't even have to mean it.

The problem with most women is that they are afraid of letting slip the fact that they are sexual beings. Okay, so you don't have to do it with every guy who passes by. But acknowledge the fact that it is the single, most powerful force that exists in the male-female dynamics. Use it to your advantage. If a man letches, do not be afraid of letching back. Showing them that you are angry will only give them a kick out of it. But showing them that you have greater sexual perversion will completely put them off.

Learn how to grab a crotch without hurting anything but their ego. It's not a man's balls, but a man's ego where it hurts most. Kick it hard.

Make this your new Mantra: "Is that the best you can do?". Men always tend to overestimate their sexual skills and they worry more about performance than about putting a meal on the table. No matter what happens, be brave enough to look him in the eye and say "Is that really the best you can do?"

Do not lose your temper. Use all that energy to implement your Right to Equality to Sexually Harass.

I have not been raped (in the traditional sense, at least), and I can't claim to know how horrifying that is. But I've been harmed in moderation, enough for myself to be insensitive about my own body. As I understand, anything that happens to my body can be healed. But what I have is a mind of steel. It can never be tarnished, but what it contains can corrode everything. Of the many strengths my mind possesses, one of the greatest is my crass fearlessness for sexual expression. I take pride in being the 'easy','slut' that I am. It was neither easy nor of any pride to the mother who raised me, in order for me to get there.

But I know this- If a man ever manages to physically overpower me and rape me, he's only a weakling looking to validate himself. And when he is done, for all the trouble he took to commit a serious crime without thinking twice, I am going to say "Is that really the best you can do?".

06:03 AM

Post-editing note: I mean only the men who mean us harm. While men can be sexually manipulated, those who have a productive life are absolute gems. I know quite a few of them personally :-P

A Pre-Menstrual Stream of Consciousness

2013-12-22T01:17:00.002-08:00

A ten-minute cross sectional depiction of the pre-menstrual female mind in real time.

02:37 PM IST

Can people really be so careless about punctuation? I mean, it's only a comma for God's sake. Proof-reading is shitty business. Wait. I AM getting paid for this right? I'm not going to do more charity. Like seriously, I'm so broke.

Oh shit! I was supposed to go shopping today! I wonder when she'll have a holiday again. And BRUUUNNNNNCH! I forgot brunch with Kums! Not that it makes any difference now, I only woke up at 11 and.

Shit, I haven't showered. Why hasn't mum yelled at me yet? What's the bloody time! Oh, where's lunch? Not that I want to eat more rice, I've gained enough weight already. Like seriously! Can you see that damn flab? And when I go back to the hostel, I'll just have to eat even more rice.

Is my stomach hairier than usual? Is that even possible? I wonder where K* gets her stomach waxed. I mean, who even does that?

I've got to go to the parlour, by the way. I have no idea when, though. Just before I leave, perhaps (?) so I can be all silken smooth in time for New Years'? But WHENNNN?

I'm due on the 24th! I'm due on the 24th! I don't want the parlour lady looking up at my period panties when she's waxing my legs. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

WHERE IS MY BOYFRIENDDDDDDDD? WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BOYFRIEND WHEN I FUCKING NEED HIM? I WANNA DO IT NOWWWWWWWWWWWW!

I wish he'd just hold me, you know. I don't want to cry. Okay, don't cry! I'm not going to cry! Shit! I'm about to cry! Stop!

I miss him, okay? What do you want me to do? There was that one time I was pretending to sleep and he sat by my pillow and stroked my hair and all.... Oh S-H-I-T-E, was that this boyfriend? It was this boyfriend only, no???? THINK, THINK!

Abba. Yes, it was this boyfriend only. He was wearing that blue shirt I hate so much. Okay, okay. Disaster averted. I just wish he'd do it more often.

But by the time I go back, he'll have moved to the other room. The one with the bathroom but without the balcony. Hmmm. I see the pros and cons there.

OH SHIT! WHERE ARE WE GOING TO HANG THE CLOTHES TO DRY?

~Fin~

02:47 PM IST

MOTHER OF CHARLES DARWIN! Who's your daddy?

2013-12-20T00:58:00.004-08:00

Evolution needs to get its priorities straight. And it should start cleaning up its act.

Let's imagine we're all inside a novel. The author begins writing with great enthusiasm- creates character upon character and "develops" them. They come in different shapes and sizes and each has their own balance of awesomeness and flaws. So far, we're understanding the author. And then suddenly, the author becomes really lazy and starts slacking. There are half-written characters everywhere and under-developed, incomplete sub-plots.

Before you know it, the 8-year old girl in the story is getting her period. There is one grown man groaning on a dentist's recliner and another that has gotten away without sprouting wisdom teeth. Those new generation monkeys in their family are born without a tail-bone. And in the spectrum between Sheldon Cooper and Christian Grey, there exist asexuals, sapiosexuals, and very sexuals. And from this diverse range of people, you get to pick ONE ideal partner (Damn you, Society) to have babies with and make sure your genetic line goes forth with adequate energy. Though now, a woman cannot make her decision simply by looking at how tall and lithe the man is and directly correlate it with his ability to hunt and feed the family. Right about here, evolution has confused things for us and complicated everything by not keeping all the characters up-to-date with each others' developments. (I'm not in a position to speak about how men pick their women, so you'll have to listen to this one-sided story.)

People have often heard me talk about men who qualify to be a "Darwinian Fantasy". I've been asked to define this term several times but I haven't been able to articulate it clearly. I'm going to give it a shot now and maybe make it clear, once and for all.

A man who qualifies to be a "Darwinian Fantasy" is basically a poster-boy for Charles Darwin's theory of evolution. He is both extremely "fit" and extremely "adaptable". He's the kinda guy Darwin puts a 'Quality Check- Approved' seal on and says "Ladies, this man will make a good daddy for your babies". While we don't hear Charlie's celestial voice from the heavens, we certainly know it in our jeans (oops, genes!) when we lay our sight on the man in question.

I put "fit" and "adaptable" in double-quotes because it has taken on different meanings for different women. It is neither cool, nor possible to generalize what these definitions are. Each woman has her own blend of preferences that is unique to her. And when we're in a world where the male : female population ratio is extremely skewed, we're allowed to assume the natural right to be picky about our men.

Some of us require that our men be at least 6 inches taller than ourselves (The Optimal Tippy-Toe Kissing Principle), while there are some women who are so tall that they don't mind being with men shorter than themselves but they really need these guys to not make such a fuss about it (The Non-Inflated Male Ego Requirement). There are some of us who have developed a very precise judgement about the amount of chest hair a man has just by looking at his face- is it tolerable or does this guy need a lawn-mower to trim it off? (The Chest Hair Density Factor)
Other important requirements include broad shoulders (Who wants to hug a stick?) and clean feet (The Smelly-Socks Aversion Catastrophe). There are some women who want their men to be extremely well built and there are others like me who just need the guy to be able to carry us from any point A to B(ed).

A physically attractive man just might convince you that he's the ideal daddy for your babies. But men don't have to hunt to feed us any more. Earning a living is an entirely different process altogether, these days. While any bloke can be attractive, only the smart ones become appealing. A woman must be able to hold post-coital discussions about things like Film Theory, Education and Retroflex Sounds. It is important for us to know that his brains can provide for two square meals and a Prada bag. And while they're being smart, we also prefer that they look smart- Suits, good shoes, Nerd glasses, whatever.

If you qualify these two parameters, then here's the next hurdle: Minimum Emotional Fuck-Wittage.
Dear commitment-phobes, if you are just looking to get laid, then make it clear. Kindly do not woo us more than necessary. Do not assume that "it is clear". If there's someone you're flirting with at the moment and if you haven't said it out loud yet, pick up the phone RIGHT NOW and say "Babe, I don't want a relationship with you. We just have some fun, yeah?"
Now, we understand that you guys have a manufacturing defect. That is why we ask for MINIMUM emotional fuck-wittage. In case you already have a girlfriend, then say so clearly. Do not say things like- I have a "girlfriend"- that will lead us to believe that you're simply in love with your job or something. You could either say "I have a girlfriend called *Jane Doe* who is a fair vanilla maiden with good tits" or simply not be with the girl whose existence you do not wish to acknowledge (you arseholes).
So, in order to be the daddy of our babies, we need you to be in love with us and not act like complete jerks at the prospect of being seen with us in public. We'd stoop so low as to be your arm candy for that, even.

Speaking of, it's nice to be shown off to your family and friends but we would certainly not want to hear "You see that chick? She's ma gal. I knocked her up", from some lanky college kid with baggy pants and back papers from three semesters ago. So if you're one such guy and a chick who is way out of your league is doing you, don't expect any further than that. And be extremely well stocked on the contraceptive front. Because Darwinian Fantasies are MEN.

I will not deny that it's not just the bulge in the front of your pants that we look for. That out-of-sight back pocket is very important to most of us. There are those extreme cases where eternally shoe-shopping bimbettes look only for men with money, regardless of everything else. But not all of us are like that (okay, we all want a guy who earns a little more than the average man, but hear me out,here). While the amount of money you have is some measure of your accomplishment, it's basically just for us to be financially secure (and not think twice about buying the hard-cover books in place of the cheap paper-backs). But if you have a passion to dedicate your life to, take pride in your profession, have the potential to reach heights and proactively strive to achieve them, stinking rich or not, YOU ARE the Darwinian Fantasy. Men with their daddy's money are SO un-sexy.

So, I think I've explained pretty much everything in adequate detail. Ladies, did I do justice to it? Gentlemen and Douchebags alike, do you now have a vague idea of what we want?

Are we cool now?

Once Upon a Dead Uncle

2013-12-12T22:52:00.000-08:00

His name was Vijayaraghavan- named after my long forgotten great grandfather. But for the people who still remember him, he will always be Viji.

My Viji periyappa, four years my father's senior, died of brain tumour at age of 30, long before my parents married and I was born. I know him only from an ancient portrait that hung in the family room, and the many anecdotes that my family has shared with me.

Much has changed since his death- the various members of the family moved on, took their lives elsewhere and eventually rebuilt the house in which they once lived. Nothing remained of the old house, or so we thought, until the sewage pipe got blocked. To avoid digging up the road, the engineer retained the old sewage pipe, but much to our dismay, it isn't taking our crap. From bottom-up, everyone in the three-storey building has been stumbling over themselves in panic due to the plumbing disaster. My father, who has never so much as changed a light bulb in the house, poked me awake this morning and demanded that I fulfill my duties as the daughter of the house.
"Find a plumber!" he bellowed.
"Okay" I said lazily and promptly went back to sleep.
Knowing that he is no match for my rolling slumber, daddy sat down with a sigh. "Viji," he began "Knew almost everyone on the planet. He would know just where to find a plumber." It had been ages since anyone spoke of Viji periyappa. The sleep still swilling in my eyes conjured the image of my dead grandmother, dressed in her old yellow sari, her imposing eyes suddenly softening at the memory of her lost son-

"Oh, how he loved little children!" she would say animatedly "He would carry one on each hip, one over his shoulder, one on his head, one on his nose!". Her stories were filled with how he would take me to the bakery everyday and buy me cream buns, flaky puffs and porous milk bread warm from the oven. The freshest, most delicious goodies just for Viji's niece because he was friends with the Baker.

My older aunt would pull a face every time my father was being his difficult self and talk about her other brother Viji. "How understanding that child was!" she would say "He would always let your father use the new things. Toys, clothes, you name it. And he would make do with the old"

Her son, who is 13 years older than I am, was once pampered by this Viji periyappa of mine. With a twinge of jealousy, I would listen to how Viji periyappa would take him everywhere on his bicycle. He never speaks of my uncle and I never understood why. When my aunt, his mother, also met her untimely end, I watched him descend into silence once more. It is then I understood that he is the kind of person who doesn't speak of his grief.

Another time, I found my grandfather's old diary. His handwriting almost indecipherable, he had filled pages and pages of yellowed paper with details so steeped in painful vividness that it brought tears to my eyes. I was 13 years old then, my curiosity suddenly flared by all the new details of how Viji periyappa suffered through his cancer. My grandfather, who was a journalist, had tried to make a note of all the facts. But as much as he had tried, even he could not keep the tone of helplessness out of his writing.

"Viji unable to remember the way home" one entry said "Was brought home by shopkeeper from two streets away"

The memory impairment worsened- "Viji awake at 2 AM. Unable to locate bathroom".

I remember pushing myself to turn the pages, without a break. Somewhere in the middle of the diary, the notes stopped abruptly. There were two lines in the handwriting of my younger aunt. They simply said "Viji no more. End peaceful."

I promptly took the diary to my other aunt. By then, the family had lost my grandmother, my grandfather and my older aunt to the tides of time. My aunt is now the only willing story-teller left in the family. Her eyes were moist as she opened up more stories of Viji periyappa, gently unwrapping all the wounded memories she had stored away.

He was an optimist, I learned. Even through his cancer, he never lost his will to be humourous. I will never find out how much he really suffered, but I know that he believed in the magic of placebo. Apparently, he used to speak of believing that he was cured to trick his body into curing itself. I don't doubt that he had done a fair bit of reading up. The avid reader that he was, sometimes, when I look into the expanse of our bookshelves, I find an aging novel in the depths- something that he had picked up for a train journey and promptly devoured its contents, the stamp of the Higgin-Bothams bookstore printed in dull blue on the first page.

My grandfather's brother, who never married, has always lived with us. Today, at the age of 82, he is the oldest member of our family. I call him Chikappa. For all intents and purposes, he has been the grandfather to me. My real grandfather died when I was four. All that I have left of him are his many books and his journalist's blood.

Chikappa was the first to find out about Viji periyappa's ailment. Apparently, when he found out, he didn't say a word to anybody, keeping the doctor's report to himself. Even Viji periyappa did not know that he had cancer, almost for an entire year. It was my father who told me about Chikappa's fortitude during that tough time, diligently taking Viji periyappa to the doctor regularly and having him treated. It was not until chemotherapy had to happen, when the truth came stumbling out.

More stories- My father went on about how Viji periyappa worked for Kirloskar. "Nobody cared about their products" he said "Viji was into marketing. He went to Bombay and sales shot up!". A people's man to boot, once again Viji periyappa's ability to entertain and empathise surfaced through daddy's memory.

Sometime in the early 80s, daddy had a hopelessly failing business. "Sometimes, I wouldn't even have the money to pay the shop's rent" he recounts "My father would be so irritated, constantly asking me to close business. But Viji used to hand me money every now and then without their knowledge."

Viji periyappa and my father looked like copies of each other. There is really no way one can tell them apart in an old photograph. Two peas in a pod they may have been, but my father never had Viji periyappa's carefree streak and a disposition for light-heartedness. Daddy's hearing disability has always put him at the edge of anxiety, driving himself to work harder and harder, constantly worrying about the rainy days to come.

This morning, when daddy was talking about how his brother would have brought home a plumber and have things fixed, he looked into the distance- "Viji had so much going for him" he said "He went and ruined everything."

"Huh?" I said, suddenly confused.

"Just like your brother" Dad said to me "Not a serious bone in his body."

The untainted, Utopian image of Viji periyappa that the family had painted for me was suddenly taking on a new dimension. Nobody speaks ill of the dead, and daddy spoke no further about it.

"Not a serious bone in his body". Did daddy mean that he was not prudent financially? That he never got around to doing adult things like investing in property? But he was barely 30!

"Just like your brother". Carefree, larger than life, friendly, social... Sagittarian. I was jarred awake. My Viji periyappa was Sagittarian. My mother often remarks how my brother resembles Viji periyappa. My aunt once said that it was just as well that my brother's birthday is on the 16th of December, Viji periyappa's was on the 15th.

All the story-tellers in my family, they've grown quite old, I realized. There will be no one to talk about Viji periyappa after a couple more decades, at the most. My veins fill with fondness for the uncle I never knew. For the simple reason that we belong to each other by blood, I feel all this sorrow. All these years, people have told me so many different things about him and for the first time today, daddy said something that wasn't so perfect. Viji periyappa had his own flaws. He was, after all, human. There is now an abyss in my memory of him- one that needs to be filled with all the details of his imperfections, the resentments he had, the regrets he wanted to erase, the sorrow in his tears, the knots of fingers when he wrung his bony hands in despair. Can anyone tell me more about it? I do not know. Will I ever understand who Viji periyappa really was? I think not.

I have spent about three hours writing out this accidental memoriam for Viji periyappa, just in time for his birthday. I am the last person who can do justice to his memory. And now I must wrap this up, for I have nothing more to say. I can hear daddy yelling at me from the other room. I should go find that plumber. That's what Viji periyappa would have done.

We, the Technologically Backward.

2013-11-30T01:13:00.000-08:00

You read that exactly right. I just referred to ourselves as "Technologically Backward". No, I'm not crazy. Um, no, my mother did not have me tested. And by the way, Sheldon Cooper is equally technologically backward.

This revelation came to me when my dad had one of his whacko conversations with me. I've always thought of daddy as a genius to the point of madness but I cannot deny the sheer brilliance behind what he said to me today. Consider this-

The idea of a cell phone would have been preposterous some 50-60 years ago. Owning cameras was a big deal in itself. People would have thought it mad to take pictures indiscriminately AND distribute it to the world FOR FREE. Bloody Nonsense! And making calls from anywhere? On a tiny device? Unthinkable!

And did you just notice how I put the camera before calling while talking about a phone? I must get my priorities straight!

So you would think- if people could not think of cell phones half a century ago, they were probably worse before that. Somewhere between the wheel and the cell phone, you can only see the arrow of progress pointing in one direction. Fine. Let's go by what you're thinking and we'll rewind a little bit.

Let's go back to 1916. Einstein published the theory of general relativity. He said that energy equals mass times speed of light-squared. When I parroted the equation to daddy, he grinned his widest grin and he said "Child, The Gita says that Matter and Energy combines with Light to form Life. Einstein? He's just paraphrasing."

Normally, I'd say "Up Top!" but I just wound up snorting on my rasam rice. Daddy looked at me, puzzled. He said- You talk of the Pushpak Viman, the Akshaya Patra, or the disrobing of Draupadi- people laugh at it, exclaim in disbelief and call it fiction. The Pushpak Viman is no different from the modern jet plane in concept. God is the guy who installed CCTV cameras everywhere and teleported to the place that sent out a distress signal. Draupadi had a tracking device in her Mangal Sutra, so Krishna knew what was up with her. People these days bluetooth songs to each other and the connectivity is lost beyond twenty-five feet. At the most, you Whatsapp something as measly and two-dimensional as a photograph. The Akshaya Patra received real, solid food everyday. How is that surprising? Maybe they were just more technologically advanced than we are.

Methinks that there is too much truth in what daddy said. We're all too happy to talk hours on end about the X-Men and cosplay at Comic Con but we cringe a little inside when we think of what our stories say about Asuras. It is so unfair to say that Ravan is a myth and Batman is literature. Maybe Ravan isn't a myth. Maybe he's just a mutant whose species was so statistically insignificant that it died out. Maybe Gods lived the way the stories claim they did. Maybe they had a Brahmastra which was more powerful than our nuclear missiles.

We're a technologically backward generation with no imagination. We are unable to acknowledge the ideas and the concepts behind the various things in our literatures. We are a generation that hopes to march ahead without looking back and learning from the past.

How did this happen to us, I wondered. Then the answer came to me-
We stopped innovating and started blogging.

The Mysteries of the Mundu

2013-09-22T10:52:00.001-07:00

Today, I faced the Peril of having no choice but to study... Until I remembered that it was The Kerala Cultural Fest Day! (Read: Onam Hang-Over Weekend). One look outside my door told me that despite not having one of those gorgeous white-and-gold sarees, I must dress up and GO. How can I possibly let something as lowly as homework to get in the way of cultural absorption? And so I went.

I regret going nearly an hour late because not only did I miss Rose's Welcome Dance Act (Rose is the Kick-ass Kutty from across the hall), the place was Crowded. With a Capital-C.
By the time I got a spot to sit and watch, we were half-way into the program. But the minute I caught my breath, I got the full blast of the Thiruvadirai dance. Now, I had seen plenty of these at Christ University- but this? This was what made my jaw drop and become one big O-for-Onam!
Of the six girls on stage, I knew only Shilpa; and throughout the performance, my mind was stuck on one thing- "Shilpa is beautiful". Hell! They were ALL beautiful. They were so beautiful, my heart was practically glowing with Joy. IN FACT, they were so beautiful that if Keats saw them, he would learn Malayalam just to rephrase "A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever", and do justice to their beauty. I think I've made my point- Malayali ladies are BEAUTIFUL.

Now I know that my friends from Christ University would come running to butcher me at this moment- I was there for three years and NOW I realize how awesome Mallu folk are? The thought of Revathi Rajeevan's narrow eyed stare scares me already.
But here's the thing- Christ University was SATURATED with Malayali folk. So much so that I was too overdosed to appreciate the high. And at EFLU, my new university, though the majority of people are Keralites, there are fewer of them in number. Due to the lowered density, I can now pick out and admire each Malayali person.... More about this later.

My thoughts were brought back to the Fest by the next act. And this one was a dance number. Today, I was introduced to the Adrenaline Mixtape of Malayalam music (You MUST listen to Pistah if you haven't already). And three of the most paavam girls I know were ROCKING THE SHIT out of the stage- Revathi Suresh, Fathima and Kruthika- My mind was truly and absolutely blown. And while I'm still talking about this act, I better mention the guys-
Welllll. I completely intend to pseudo-Mallu-fy myself and take part in next year's Onam celebrations. Let's just hope that Geo kid is around for me to shake a leg with.

From then on, all the thus far invisible men of my campus began taking the stage. And boy, oh boy, there is quite a collection of them! Malayali Men are officially my latest drug. I totally sympathize with Balu's Confusion Theerkaname problem because now Abhi Mami is faced with a whole Country of South Indian cousins to pick from! (By the way, Balu, nice dancing!)

Then came the cherry on top- How Malayali love stories happen in EFLU. A skit with more Malayali action. It is then that I realized how I was looking at it all wrong. It is not the matter of "SO MANY Mallu guys". It is the matter of "So many TYPES of Mallu guys". There they were- The tall Mallu guy, The long-haired Mallu guy, The Cupid Mallu guy, The Hot Mallu guy... An endless possibility of Darwinian projectiles that we women can throw into the air and find out what co-ordinates of genetic awesomeness the children will land on.

There is a Malayali guy I talk to on the internet (he is THE PERFECT stranger, to be honest) and I was telling him how I think Malayalam is an evolved kind of language because of the various consonant sounds it has- so many distinct tongue movements- I said. And he put it very simply: "Yes, we guys are good with our tongues."
The more I observe these men, the more I believe what he said. But arriving at solid conclusions and stating it as a verifiable fact needs... well, verification.

Mami's children must laugh at the thought. How hard could this feat be for Abhi Mami, the Gyaani of all Daily Life Wisdom? Like everything else, Mami shall take on the Mysteries of the Mundu... And slowly unravel it.

How Boob-ist This Sex

2013-06-09T04:08:00.001-07:00

Given that I have spoken enough about boyfriends, bras, menstrual cycles, female stereotyping and the like, I am sometimes asked whether I am a "feminist". Whenever this question is hurled at me, my inner Goddess arches her immaculate left eye-brow and hisses "Not likely". I have no problems whatsoever in the non-identification of the clitoris, the fact that Medusa cannot get her snakes into a pony-tail and the prospect of washing another man's socks for the rest of my life.

I'm all for making delicious three-course meals and shaking cocktails towards the end of the evening as the husband unwinds in front of the TV. I'm all for making puppy-dog faces and whining apologetically even though it is not my fault by any stretch of imagination, just because the boyfriend has "lost it". I'm all for behaving myself and not revolting when the father tells the brother "You can't be pansy and study the arts like your sister, you can't be a house-wife".

That may seem a poor reflection of my sense of self-worth and the position women-kind are held in my perception but I do, in fact, have a certain "female ideology" which I would like to refer to as Boob-ism.

Boob-ism, in my book, is defined as the motivation behind the massive female ego that seeks to protect its rights against male domination and cooking of paneer-mutter against free will (esp. when pre-menstrual).

Because I strongly agree with all theories of evolution, I believe that women must play the role of "care-taker" (unfortunate that in many cases, everything else comes second). But given that biology and reality haven't exactly kept pace with each other, leading us on to an age of prolonged adolescence, redundancy of wisdom teeth, working super-moms and blatant disregard for basic grammar (such as using conjunctions in the beginning of sentences), it is little wonder the "natural order" of things have flipped a little bit. Not to mention the extreme lack of uniformity in general female behaviour.

In one extreme of the spectrum, we have women painting vaginas on plates for their little "dinner party" and on the other extreme we have women with hopeless eye-sight and keep bumping into poles, door knobs, etc. while their husbands remain heavily inebriated. And then there is me- feminist by public opinion, victim by self-portrayal and boob-ist by very nature.

I am not alone in the psylent practice of boob-ism. The majority of women, whether they realize and/or agree or not, are of the same breed. We will do whatever it takes to be the "care-taker" and then *evil smile*, we will use it to our advantage when the time comes for a proper payback from men.

Raise your hands if you've ever heard:
Your mother say "You spent nine-months RENT-FREE inside my damn womb, young man!"
Your girlfriend say "And I suppose I was invisible when you were throwing up all over the bathroom floor after the party!"
Your sister say "Just because I'm a girl, you won't let me do it! Wait till I'm married and gone!"
Your grandmother say "Do I look like a maid to you! Wash that damn bowl in which you ate your tachchi mammam!"

Ohh yes! We will lull you into your free subscription of eternal female servitude, dress sluttily and scrub our backsides raw with anti-cellulite nonsense to please you and then bring it up in high-pitched name-calling unfairness when the moment is most crucial to us. And because the majority of us boob-ists are stuck with a majority of you gentlemen (almost), you will relent.

This kind of behaviour may see a sudden spike when we're PMS-ing. We'll throw a hissy fit first and then suddenly become sexually repulsive. It takes a lot of emotional resources to be nice to men when we're about to bleed ourselves to infertility. Therefore, we would rather not. Do try your best to placate us when we're in the middle of practicing boob-ism. It would help during the remainder of the month.

Vanilla Narrations

2013-05-17T11:12:00.001-07:00

When the idea for this piece of writing germinated inside my head, it was with a certain amount of sadness.

All I wanted was a vanilla day. Plain and classic. But it was more like... Lemon rice. It began with great gusto, there were a lot of peanuts that made it yummy, but in the end, all that was left was a lot of cold, yellow, unappealing rice. After much of today's unpleasantness, I thought I wanted to be vanilla. To just exist pleasantly despite being the least favourite option. But I suppose we can never be on the same page as fate, sometimes.

For some time now, I've been going into a little bit of a loss in life, generally.

First, I couldn't find my copy of Tiger Hills by Sarita Mandanna, no matter where I looked or whom I asked. It was a book that was desperately close to my heart. I've never felt a story as much as I have felt Tiger Hills. And when I bought it, I didn't exactly have a lot of money. I saved up money for quite a few months before I could get my hands on it. I can't buy the same book again because that particular edition has now gone out of print. And there is no way I can ever replace the little notes I made in the margins of the book. But over time, I stopped worrying so much about it. Maybe I'll find it, maybe I won't. I will buy myself another copy, eventually.

Today was slightly more interesting.

I almost got a picture taken with MS Dhoni and Chris Gayle, only I'm not in the frame at all. I did, however, walk away feeling like I did a bloody good job of whatever was assigned to me. Cricket(ers), in any case, is not my area of interest.

Post a little private event with these players, I was only at two different places that were quite close to each other. Between this place and that, I lost all my keys. I tried really hard to find them- I crawled under places and pestered security guards, plumbers and a fair number of colleagues. But in the end, the keys were gone with no sign of returning.
I admit I was a little upset for losing a handy pocket-knife in the key-chain and of course every key in the bunch had a spare somewhere. But there was this one particular key I had emotional complications with. That key was entrusted to me. While preserving the actual key was less relevant, what it symbolized made me cringe at the thought of having lost it.

I put aside the keys from my mind after a while. I asked dad to bring the spare key to me so I could take my bike back home. It was when I was waiting for my dad, I checked my wallet to see if I had enough money for petrol. And it was then, standing in the middle of my office, I felt as if some weird joke was being played on me. Exactly 750 bucks was missing from my wallet. I don't know who would take my 750 bucks and leave the other 70 bucks right where it was. Before I jumped to any conclusions, I called mum and asked her to check my pants pockets and my other bags. Surely enough, there was no money anywhere else.

There is only so much one person can lose in a day. It really got to me and I did sit down and cry and cry for a bit. I was even ranting in Achcha Kannada in my head, hoping that my mother tongue would ease the pain and make it go away. I was definitely upset and visibly dead.

When I got home, my mum asked me how much money I was missing. I didn't dare tell her the truth. I only told her that I didn't remember where I put some fifty bucks. She didn't buy it.
I was thinking about how I should have just had a vanilla day instead of all this hoopla. And just then, dad told me rather sternly that I had better finish the butterscotch ice-cream tonight (though I don't know why).
Being home, in the midst of all the warm weirdness of my family and a supportive boyfriend on Whatsapp, I philosophized many a thing. I told myself that money was just pieces of paper... That I don't really need money at the moment and the person who took it probably needs it more than I do... That it was a lesson that life was teaching me to stay simple and not have the chance to be extravagant... That I SHOULD have spent that money, anyway and I must have been a little stingy somewhere...

But none of this calmed me down the way my people did. Life is never going to be vanilla, especially for someone like me. But there will always be that dad who'll hunt down butterscotch ice-cream from anywhere, the mom who knows what you're hiding but continues to trust you, and that love who will stand by you and tell you "That's my girl", with a big, dimpled smile.

I'm fine, really. I have forgotten these mishaps already. I'm going to cash in my next pay cheque really soon and (try to) make myself a little prettier or (most likely) buy books. I hope whoever has my money really needs it and he/she simply isn't buying cigarettes. I understand if it just tempted them and all they wanted to do is buy something nice. I know what it's like to be told that you can't buy stuff for yourself or go out to some place nice. And to be quite honest, I've done both quite recently. Maybe now it's somebody else's turn.

After all, I really have everything I need at the moment. Perhaps some of my more wise friends are correct- money does not belong to anyone, at the end of the day. I think I should be glad that I didn't have the chance to trade pieces of paper with perceived value for colourful things I don't like, anyway. Maybe I'm just rationalizing. But I feel like I'm in a really good place right now.

What would really suck, however, is if this turns out to be one big joke and someone hid my cash and keys to give me a hard time. Then I'd be really crazy to have written all this, right?

Grow up, already!

2013-05-14T12:47:00.001-07:00

[This post is dedicated to Lokesh, whose Fresh and Honest, Cheap and Best coffee kept me awake through the boring bits!]

My brother is now in "that crucial point" of life where he has to slog his ass off to not be a total loser, if not a complete star. Indeed, it seems like only yesterday that I myself finished my 12th and whilst I'm still recovering from the trauma, my brother is already at it! And that obviously means he'll never get his bum out of a classroom or his nose out of a book... Well, ideally.

So tomorrow is his first day of Class 12. And before he needs to go to his class at 8.30 AM, he has to get himself to tuition first. 6-8 AM.

Now, all of us at home agree that he better take the morning classes and finish his day early so he can concentrate on other things but none of us are pleased to know that one of us needs to drop him to class every morning, morning after morning, for the rest of the year.

You see, my brother is not quite eighteen. He's seventeen and something... But still not quite eighteen. And because my dad is my dad, he won't let my brother ride a bike yet.

After I came back home from work today, I overheard my brother and my father arguing.

"I'm taking the bike, if it's too much trouble for you to drop me!" says my brother authoritatively.

"If you're interested in attending class, you might as well wake me up. I'm not going to lose sleep over your irresponsibility!" said my dad "And don't you dare take the bike! If the police catch you, I won't be there saving your lazy ass!"

A flicker of a memory. All thanks to Lokesh's coffee, I thought something passed my mind. The Justice Whats-his-name's review! What was Professor Rao saying?

Oh God, media laws! Media laws! I am the worst media student, ever!

Oh yes, the Delhi gang-rape case. And the accused minor boy. So after he had no choice but to receive a "juvenile's" sentence, the legal system kind of woke up and thought, oh yeah, he's almost eighteen and he did such TERRIBLE shit. People like him need to be tried like adults, yada yada. And then they had to cover up another gaping hole- that amended laws cannot be used in retrospection. Which basically means if they change the law because of this minor boy, they can't use it on him because he's already tried as a juvenile!

So it got me thinking... If my brother was caught riding a bike without a licence, he could be tried as an adult. Right. So dad wouldn't have to go running after him to "save his lazy ass".

But wait, I thought, There's something missing here.

Where's the flip side to it? I mean, if he can be tried as an adult for being almost-eighteen, he can also be given a licence for being almost eighteen! (The fact that my parents won't let him apply is a different story). Which also means, he could have gone out and voted in the elections that just got over for being ALMOST EIGHTEEN! Well, why not? He certainly has some political opinion!

Dear God! I think, I've actually managed to think critically.

This feels so new to me. Did education actually make me grow up? Jeez. Three years and a college degree DOES seem to make a difference, doesn't it? No wonder I keep getting words like "job" and "marriage" and "property" and "life insurance" hurled at me!

But it is so difficult.. So difficult to know when is it that we're old enough to do whatever.

Right back in the fifth grade, I remember how I wanted to get out of my bloody pinafore and start wearing a skirt to school. And when I did wear a skirt to school, I wished so much I had the legs of that fifth grade girl who didn't have hormones rushing all over her body and sprouting leg hair faster than cockroaches multiply.

When I was sixteen, I had the happy realization that I had reached the age of legally sanctioned consensual sex. But I settled for a first kiss. After all, it was "sweet sixteen", and the first kiss was sweet enough for my level of maturity.

At eighteen, with a part-time job to support my book buying needs, I felt old enough to turn my nose up at my father every time I ran out of bookshelf space because, well, it was my money, wasn't it? He had no say whatsoever.

But at eighteen, I also felt young enough to cry and complain about how everybody else gets pocket money and I was given the unreasonable responsibility of fending for myself, when I couldn't cope with college work and my job.

Same goes to my brother. At almost eighteen, he wants to be old enough to drive, but young enough to be woken up in the morning and coaxed into going to class.

So, basically, we're permanently stuck in one place, even as we move on and on in life.

At every damn point in life, you want to be younger... but you want to be older.

You could be 21. You want to be young enough to continue studying but old enough to move out and make your own life.

You could be 27, wanting to be young enough to date but old enough to "settle down".

You could be 32. You want to be old enough to have that second child but young enough to eye up that new girl in the office.

You could be 55. You want to be young enough to continue educating your younger boy but please, oh please, old enough to retire.

And the more we grow up, the more complicated everything becomes. We're all so strong and sure of ourselves because we've been through so much shit.

I was an alcoholic and I got out of it.

My girlfriend cheated on me and we got out of it.

I attempted suicide and I got out of it.

My partner ran away with all my money and I got out of it.

But when you're really old enough, you'll know that there's bigger shit waiting in the future. Because the more you live, the more you know, the more you complicate things like a pro.

Life is like this GIANT game of tetris.

At first, it's just a few blocks. It's fun. Silly, even. They're just floating down your gameboy and you're putting them in their place.

Then you get used to the concept, you know you've got to fill in all the gaps.

Then you like the pace. It gives you small challenges every now and then and your adrenaline is shooting up all the time and you're having such a great time.

And before you know it.... The blocks are out of control! They're falling at random. They're too fast for your reflexes to handle. Your screen is filling up right to the sky and you're going to lose, and lose and lose.

Oh. Game Over.

The disappointment kills you. You beat yourself up for it. How did this happen, you wonder. Then you realize where you went wrong. You device a new tactic to play the game more effectively. And you start again. Maybe last time you're game was done at Level 10. And this time you make it to Level 12.

You'll lose again, you'll start again. And you'll go some five levels further.

Until your battery finally dies, you've got an unspecified number of new games to play, fresh starts to have. And mind you, it will all be complicated in the end. If it doesn't get complicated, you will want it to. Because a game without challenges is not worth playing, is it?

Grow up, already. Play it right for as much as you can. Then make stupid rookie mistakes. Because every time you're ruined, there's a fresh start coming.

Will the Real Becky Bloomwood Please Stand Up?

2013-05-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

Some two weeks ago, I picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on a whim. And I ended up reading the entire HP series like an obsessed person. Re-living my childhood is something, but the more I read it, the more fascinated I was of JKR's writing. I just can not describe how perplexing it is for me to take note of how an intricate plot falls in place across SEVEN books. As it happens, I have been itching to write some kind of serious fiction for a while now. And my plot somehow never sustains. So I thought maybe I should read a few series of books and that would give me an idea about plot-structuring.

Once I was done with the Harry Potter series, my fingers inched towards the paper-backs in my book shelf, like they had a mind of their own. Before I knew it, I was thumbing through Confession of a Shopaholic, and Shopaholic Takes Manhattan and Shopaholic Ties the Knot and... (you get the picture).

.... but the Shopaholic series is not meant to be "studied". That would be just unnatural. Like giving your dad a petrol allowance or shaking someone's left hand. Rebecca Bloomwood is not to be studied in a framework of novel-writing rules. Because one can't study oneself that way. The reader becomes Becky Bloomwood. Chick lit is like that. Before long, I was Rebecca Bloomwood and every two minutes I was thinking "Why don't I have a Louis Vuitton handbag?" or "God, I need a new pair of shoes".

I mean, here I am, doing this awesome internship and getting paid bucket-loads (It's bucket-loads because I've promised myself not to buy any more books until I finish all that I already have). And what am I doing with my money? Nothing. I bought a pair of contact lenses and that's going to last a year. I went to movie and bought lots of cake. So basically, nothing.

I mean, I'm Becky Bloomwood. How can I not have anything to wear? How can I not have a TV career? How come my boyfriend isn't Luke Brandon? Oh, come on!

So paramount was my craving that I finally put my book down and went out. Out, to a shoe shop. I said to myself "Screw functional! I am NOT buying anything in black!" and I march right down, try every pair of sandals on display, I almost buy a pair of yellow pumps with cute little bows on them. But I settle for something colourful in green and blue and whatnot. I am so proud of myself that I march up to the guy and say "I'm gonna buy these". So he wraps them up and puts them in a neat little box and hands it over the counter. The moment my fingers wrap around the cords, a whoosh of joy sweeps down my stomach. It's all mine! I just have to hand in a few bits of paper and it's all mine, mine, MINE!

So I look up expectantly at him and ask "How much?"
"Three-fifty" he says flatly.
I'm gobsmacked! Will I never. 350? That's all? I mean, I thought I'd bought shoes that would come up to some 1199.00 or some such fancy figure. I mean I really wanted to SPEND money on MYSELF. It just didn't seem fair!

So in a daze, I hand over his three-fifty. And in two seconds, he's thrusting thirty bucks back in my hands. I look up to him startled, and he says "Discount, ma'am. Just for you".

And I just want to PUNCH HIS FACE. I mean, who gives a goddamn discount to a person who isn't even bargaining? The entire point of my shopping trip was gone. Poof. Just like that!

But still, I had a new pair of shoes. I come back home and I put them away carefully. Then I start up my computer. While it's booting, I'm thinking of boots, and then shoes and then my brand new pumps. So I take them out and try them on. And then I check my e-mail for a bit. It's junk, junk, spa discount!, junk, horoscope, I-ching oracle, junk, e-mail from office... Hmm. The e-mail from office must be important right? So I open that first and to my surprise, I spot a smiley-face (which is rare for my manager). As I read it, I realize that it's an invitation to a dinner party. I RSVP immediately and I'm suddenly on party girl mode. I want to be in a Vera Wang cocktail dress all of a sudden, with glittery heels and everything. Except... I don't have a Vera Wang dress. And no glittery heels either.

So I'm planning my outfit when somebody pings me on FB and tells me how great I look in my DP. Genius! I could go with THAT outfit. And I pick out my freshly washed light blue jeans (with Swarovski crystals on the back pockets) and a plain green cotton top that hugs my body in just all the right places. And, wait for it, my new shoes would go perfectly well with it! So I put my clothes down with a little glow of satisfaction. I'm being Becky Bloomwood at last, aren't I? Maybe I'm a little short on the Luke Brandon part. My boyfriend doesn't own a multi-million pound, successful PR agency exactly and we don't go to the country for long weekends. But that's ok! All that matters is that I had a party the next day and I was so prepared!

Then I experimentally try on some make-up. There are two boxes of eye shadow that I never use. So I open them first. There's a tiny brush in the box with a small sponge-thingy on the other end. I really don't know how to go about it but I bravely put on some glittery stuff on my closed eye, and then on to the other. Now my eyes look all glittery and sparkly. And it's a kind of maroonish/brownish thing that looks great on me. Then I pick up an eyeliner and do my eyes. There's a HUGE tube of mascara. By now I feel really brave so I shut my eye and apply it vigourously. And then I stop. And look.
Oh God, I look horrible. Make-up is not one of my skills at all. It looks more like a paint job, to be honest.
So I put away all my make-up in my little orange bag and with a flump, fall into my bed.

So the next day (which is today), I take my time to get ready. I wash my hair and give it a blow dry. I feel all fresh and happy. I make a big drama out of dressing. I wear my jeans and admire the sparkle on my bum, I wear my top, yada yada. And when I'm all done (even the mascara, and it didn't look bad at all!), I look at myself in the mirror and there is a little glow of satisfaction. My eye make up hasn't blurred my contact lenses or anything. I put on my blue Vera Wang jacket. It makes me look a little bit like Nancy Drew. And that's alright. I wasn't going for biker chick, anyway.

My ride to the office is a black-exhaust filled floaty dream of sorts. And when I get there, I don't really work. I watch the telly a little, I play a bit of Criminal Case, I pick an argument with my boyfriend (so not Luke Brandon), and I jot down a couple of points for my report. Casually, I pick up my phone and I have a new message. I frown. I don't want it to be my boyfriend again. But when I open it, I'm completely flabbergasted.
"I was too shy to mention it, but you look really great today" it says. I look up shocked, and that person is sitting right across me. And nammappanaanegu (swear on my father, I say) he had such a poker straight face, my God! I could hardly believe it was the same person who sent that borderline flirty text to me.
I sit back and relax. He just paid me a compliment, that's all. I'm going to say Thank you and leave it at that.
The couple of people sitting around me get up and leave for a bit and then it's just that person and me.

"Is that a new watch?" he asks me all of a sudden and reaches out to my hand and examines it.
"Um.." I say, not knowing what to tell him.
And very bravely, he traces his fingers down from my wrist to my fingertips and cracks one of my knuckles.
I withdraw my hand (quite sharply).
"Is something the matter?" he asks.
"Just don't do that" I say and walk away.

Before I know it, my helmet is swinging on my arm and I just want to go home! To make matters worse, it began raining.

I get back into the office and find myself a quiet corner. I sit down, head in my hands and gather my thoughts.

About half an hour before that, my boyfriend had said to me "You're too nice to say anything to anyone. No wonder guys think you want them to get all over you." And how vehemently I argued, only I know. I was so cross at being labelled "easy". Well, I wasn't was I? Hadn't I just walked out on someone?
A Luke Brandon-ish someone, a small voice says in my head.

Suddenly, my whole fairy-tale crap-trap collapses around me. I want to get into a baggy gray T-shirt and tie my hair up in a messy bun. That's exactly what I want to do. I don't want my two coats of mascara and three inches of Broadway Bronze lip gloss any more.

I was SO SURE that nobody eyed me up that way. Not after wearing the same bloody gray T-shirts day after fucking day. I was the girl people pointed at and said "she doesn't look like a girl from any angle". And now I couldn't be a girl without someone wanting to hold my hand.

Confused and half-way angry, I wondered, does it really take a glittery bum and an underwired bra for someone to realize that they were in the presence of a woman? Is it me or are men just being men? Do the other girls get felt up every day (cuz believe me, they're hot as burning hell!)?

Wait. Pause. Rewind.

Ok. I'm not Becky Bloomwood, am I? I'm that nerd with no fashion sense with my nose stuck in a book. I'm a... BIBLIOHOLIC, ok? Not a shopaholic. And I'm not going to meet any Luke Brandon. I'm just going to argue away to glory with my existing boyfriend and read books. And not look nice. Exactly. I'll never look nice again. It's not what I should ever do in life- looking nice... and stuff.

I mean, I'm the same bloody person even when I wear lopsided glasses and big gray t-shirts (that I mostly nick from my boyfriend). And I happen to be a damn nice person too. I don't have to look nice to be nice, do I? And if someone doesn't bother to notice me on a non-dressy day, they've got no right to spew their testosterone all over me when I'm dressed up.

It stopped raining after a while and I just upped and left. I get a million phone calls from my friends asking me where I am and why I haven't shown up at the party. One of them is really quite distraught and threatens to end our friendship unless I show up. But I just put one foot in front of the other and walk over to my bike. I get mud all over my new shoes. I really liked my shoes but all people had the time to notice were.... Well, my boobs, actually.

I really don't feel like a party girl any more. And I'm definitely not in the mood for a Vera Wang cocktail dress and glittery heels. In fact, I remember, my legs are just about as hairy as my dad's at the moment. I'm just a girl who wears the right kind of bras, at the most. Yep. That's about all the credit I get under "fashion".

I head back home, thinking about "cognitive dissonance". And that, folks is the Daily Gyaan for today.
"Cognitive Dissonance" is that awkward moment when you think how sick his stubby fingers look on your arm but your body is developing involuntary goosebumps. It is that difference between your ideals and your reality that makes your life all the more shittier.

That's all folks.

How my Boyfriend made love to Nicotine and Fell into Deep-Tee's Boobie trap.

2013-03-06T08:58:00.000-08:00

So a senior of mine told me to "watch out for that test in practical psychology that measures your masculinity/femininity". I finally got to take that test and unsurprisingly, I'm strongly masculine, it says. (Please note: It has got nothing to do with the bike I ride.) (Double Note: No, seriously.)

Some people have a big problem with the way the test is structured. Apparently, it's too "stereotypical" for their liking. They use the word "stereotypical" like it's the colour of shit. Let me give you a piece of Daily Gyaan, here. Stereotypes have evolutionary survival value (happens to be my favourite type of value!) and we all have millions of stereotypes and use them everyday. If you didn't stereotype Biker Chicks to be hot, you wouldn't chat us up (looking to get laid = evolutionary survival value). And many of you think that BECAUSE I ride a bike, I'm butch, masculine, etc. Not true at all, I've always been a tom-boy. (Ask SKPS 10 B boys).

And some of you (those who are looking to get laid) INSIST that I'm just putting on a mask to cover up my insecurities. That I'm really, really a softie inside; that I'm feminine, sensual, etc. and put me in the other end of the spectrum.

(See who's practicing "Strongly masculine"/"Strongly feminine" stereotypes?)

Nobody wants to put me in-between.

The fact that I love wearing baggy-gray T-shirts (shop for them in the Men's section), that I would any day buy a black sports bra in place of a (black) lacy, push-up, that I wear no make-up, jewelry, etc. is REALLY all about who I am. I'm at my sexiest in boy-clothes and boy-bikes.

But there are those days where there's a coat of mascara on my lashes, an ear-ring at my almost invisible piercing, and something that hugs my figure- I dress up for dates, okay?

Nonetheless, my style didn't develop on its own accord. It was shaped and influenced by a lot of things- a critical aunt who scrutinizes the millimeters of my sleeve, a boyfriend who hates a gaudy chick, an interview with a designer who explained the importance of "fit", and a father who does NOT pay the bills. I can tell you about the time when I saved up money to buy a pair of (then) expensive (for me) 150-rupees-a-pair extra-long metal ear-hangings, the time I wore T-shirts that said "You're so FABULOUS" and "Break Dance Not Hearts". Surprised? I can tell you about the time that I could NOT, simply could NOT bear to make eye-contact with my boyfriend (shy came off) and now I DARE write THIS.

Like all girls, I want to be pretty. I was so jealous of my best friend when I was younger because she had every imaginable Barbie in the collection... And I had ONE. Minor Disappointments have plagued me all my life. Trust me, it's so frustrating when you don't get everything you want. So you develop passive-resistance. You find ways to be cool by being un-cool. You deliberately put away your daily-wear normal looking ear-rings to be "different" (Note to Tarun Surya and everyone else who asked: Story of my life). You don't go on a class trip with your friends because you've given up and don't tell your parents about it in the first place. Your dad doesn't take you ANY place (waste of money, waste of time, no holiday, why don't you learn how to cook instead, excuses endless).

I really can't help it if I don't have a human ATM at my disposal, and if people's idea of my pocket money is five-hundred bucks with unlimited validity. Some of us need even to pay our own way through college. We know what we would like to wear, but not necessarily own it. We may not go out clubbing every once in a while or even have a suitable party outfit (I still have that Jhataang Blue Ghagra-Choli from high school, though!). So we have to make do with acceptable, repeatable clothes. So we have to make do with baggy gray T-shirts and make do with the same pair of floaters for YEARS. And we wind up with dirty feet and square tan marks. I'd like pedicured feet, too, but after the last time (which also happened to be my first), I dare not even think of spending "somebody else's money" in three-digit figures. Yes, I get that from my dad.

But I swear I don't care... Or rather, I've learned not to. And for those of you who said "Oh my Gooooddd!" two sentences ago, really, I don't mind my folks. Your stereotypes are now at work and I can see what kind of a picture of my dad you're getting. That's fine. I'm not the only one. And it's not like I don't get anything. Apart from my two square meals a day, a roof over me head, sanitary napkins, etc., I get a bike, a laptop, my own internet connection, the freedom to write my blog and a rasam-on-demand... Which is a lot more than what lots of people have.

You see, I'm middle-class. I'm not the stereotypical aam-admi, but middle-class enough. That need not be such a bad thing because I still have a comfortable life. A comfortable life but with many Minor Disappointments.

What you think of me and how you treat me does not bother me because it doesn't make a difference. But I have these "close-few" whose opinion of me matters to me. Hence, the title of this post.

My boyfriend went on a trip to Goa with his classmates to celebrate the end of their last exams ever, Ever! And he has this girl in his class whom I don't like very much (girlfriend instinct). I happened to meet her for the first time on the evening they left and there she was, puffing on her cigarette (that she didn't pay for, beggar princess) and telling my boyfriend how she forgot to bring the bottle of whiskey that was "lying at home" (shut up, bitch, and dress decently). Now I'm sure her father intended for her name to be "illuminating". But this retarded bimbette mistook that for "Deep-Tee" (you're too fat, woman, you don't need a push-up bra! And get those vulgarly large boobs out of my boyfriend's nose).

Described above is a stereotypical "cool, chilled out chick". And my boyfriend (who happens to cool and chilled out... and thankfully humble) and she are pretty good friends. And along with a few others, they make the "in" gang (We're opposite poles in every way possible).

So they go off to Goa, get drunk, do the routine and then they pick a fine time to go shopping (did you find something slutty enough, Deep-Tee?). And Retarded Bimbette with the girl-gang orchestra said to my boyfriend "this dress looks nice, do you want to buy it for your girlfriend?". My till then shy-to-buy in front of others boyfriend called me and asked me if I wanted that gray (favourite colour!) dress. I asked him to describe it for me (only natural). He couldn't (also natural). I asked him to whatsapp a picture to me (practical option), he didn't want to at first but he had no other choice (leading to frustration).

And then I receive a picture of the ugliest, bed-spread material made, large flower printed (yuck!) gray dress (I wouldn't wear it while cleaning my house. That's what the bitch Deep-Tee picks for me. But of course, I bet she doesn't even imagine cleaning her house.)

But girl instinct kicked into action and I began discussing the merits/demerits of the dress. I asked him NOT to buy it. And my boyfriend began losing his patience (understandable. You don't have to have patience to shop). While I was in the middle of describing what a good dress (for me) looks like, due to some disconnect in communication, random babbling, etc. my boyfriend said "Do you even know what kind of girls wear this dress?"

It was like a slap on my face and it still rings in my ear.

He meant to say "Your parents won't let you wear it", I heard "It's too cool for you"

He meant to say "It's knee length", I heard "You don't get your legs waxed regularly"

He meant to say "You won't be able to wear it anywhere", I heard "You don't go out partying. It's useless"

And I definitely heard girls giggling in the background.

Suddenly, I wanted to say to my impatient boyfriend "If you don't want to shop for me, honey, for God's sake, don't"

But my boyfriend is the kind of bloke who likes buying nice things for me, so I held my breath.

I cried so much that night, I now have a bad cold and a snotty nose. My tears are still fresh, my tears are still NOW.

My middle-class lessons were my lullaby that night. I have no right to expect things from "someone else's money". And so I told him that I won't ever wear a scrap of what he pays for. And off came the silver ring on my finger and off came the pretty brown bead necklace from my neck. And I mean it honey, not a SCRAP of what you buy. EVER.

For once, the take away Daily Gyaan is non-radical, it's non-ideal. Here's some honest gyaan, some real information- What you can buy, What you want to buy, What you're buying at the moment- Your new Holy Trinity, Ladies and Gentlemen.

And don't you dare tell me how masculine/feminine I sound in this post! I only sound like me!

Unhealthy Ways of Eating Brown Bread

2012-10-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

I was lying on the couch this evening, wondering what the whole point of life was- Nothing to keep my mind occupied, no boyfriend's impending birthday to plan, crap reruns on TV. So I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my friend. I said to him: "What's the point of all this? Why live?", to which, he did not reply. And I lost the last shred of hope that remained.

I was restless, and something had to be done. So I changed the channel.

As fate would have it, MasterChef was on TV. So, there I sat watching people make potato look golden brown, putting yummy pink salmon on the frying pan, flambe-ing beef in beer, mushrooming all my favourite flavours, making chocolate sauce and generally kicking off my cravings. And I am the unfortunate child of a vegetarian home, without a chance of going out to buy myself some mouth-watering food (for I am broke and the sky then, looked like it would take a piss on me).

Something had to be done. So, I picked up the remote. No, I could not change the channel and I watched helplessly as one of the judges cut up the little pieces of heaven in a close-up shot. I was doomed.

I did a kitchen raid and a refrigerator raid in the hope of finding something... anything! But my entire house was devoid of comfort food. Not even a piece of chocolate stuck around. Even Bournvita was replaced by some fancy, over-priced protein powder. All I had was a big loaf of brown bread (BROWN!) and freshly made butter.

In all my life, my "cooking" was limited to instant noodles and boiled eggs. But today, I, Abhi Mami had the sudden inspiration to improvise on the available ingredients! And I made THIS:

Abhi Mami's Original: Pepper Butter Bread Fry

I'd be glad to share the recipe with you. Except, I don't know how to do it like they do in recipe books.

By the way, what IS IT about recipe books?? They have the yummiest things to make and the most BORING ways of telling us how to make it!

So, here's the recipe, Abhi Mami style! I made it, so it goes without saying that you can, too (No, my father and grandmother did not get food poisoned).

What I did was, I gathered my brown bread and butter. Looked through the masala rack and took powdered pepper and randomly, Kitchen King masala (or anything you care to use). I also found an onion rolling somewhere in the bottom of the vegetables, and for the lack of coriander, I used mint leaves (which turned out to be a good thing!). Of course, I needed a tiny bit of cooking oil, too.

What I did was, I chopped up the onion (it isn't funny, believe me! I was crying all the time! And that stupid, stupid knife was so UNYIELDING to my touch!).

Then I heated some oil in a flat bottomed frying pan and tossed all the onion in it. It sizzled and the onion looked all pretty and pink. There was this wonderful aroma to it, too! That's when instinct took over and I added powdered pepper, quite generously! Just as the onion was getting fully fried, I added the mint leaves. I tossed it around for five seconds and emptied the pan.

Then came the interesting bit.

I put a big chunk of fresh butter in the pan, which instantly sizzled and bubbled and melted like my heart does every time I see a man with firm buttocks. And I immediately added the masala (you can use any masala, I think. Even chilli powder if you're daring enough). Right after that, I tossed the brown bread in the pan. Ah, that was the moment of satisfaction! I watched as the brown bread soaked up all the butter in an instant! And I had to immediately add MORE butter and masala because it was disappearing... Like THAT! By the time it was fried in butter on both sides, the brown bread looked truly edible and heart-warmingly golden!

I "plated-up" the fried, gluttonous brown bread and put my onion and mint all over it. Oh, you should make it! You MUST make it! There was a carnival on my tongue! Butter, pepper, onion, mint and brown bread that finally did not taste like card-board!

Ah, the life! Ah, the couch! Ah, MasterChef!

Now, in conclusion, I must add that you can improvise this recipe any which way you like. But, a request from the creator- do NOT replace the brown bread. Yes, it will work out just as well with any other bread, maybe it will even taste better! But this recipe is a revenge against brown bread *evil laugh*

Nothing will give you more satisfaction than exorcising the card-board effect of brown bread and killing its over-rated appeal to middle-aged, cranky andro-pausal fathers.

That being said, not long after I ate my Pepper Butter Bread Fry (and loads of it!), my mum sent me on an errand which ended in a one-kilometre brisk walk. So much for decadence!

The F-Word in Moderation

2012-09-30T00:13:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has known me or has read my blog will agree that I need some serious grounding. I'm as loud, indecent and dangerous as all the fireworks of Diwali going off at once. I sparkle and bang incessantly (yes) and I don't stop at anything. A live-wire on the loose like me is not always pleasant either. With slight bi-polar tendencies and a definite Multiple Personality Disorder, it takes a super-human moderating factor to calm me down.

So, twenty years since the phenomenon called Abhi Mami, the universe finally realized that something had to be done. As a result, the namesake of a certain to-die-for werewolf (read Twilight) has been sent to me. You can be sure that he is something more than human mostly because he laughs in the range that only bats can hear (wherein I hear prolonged bouts of silence over the phone) and because he has the ability of controlling me by doing nothing at all. He even makes the perfect replacement for the excessive amounts of coffee I consume- strong, dark and hot- just the way I like it.

This werewolf of mine is so... NORMAL and even toned, with an appropriate laughter length of 1.618 seconds; proper and decent and un-flirty.

Un-flirty, but prefers to give me surprise visits, and personalized autographed copies of poems from a writer I love, pick up souvenirs for me from visits to historical tourist spots and indulges my (already) decadent palate to CHOCOLATE SANDWICHES! *sigh*

Like this but Better.

He also has a valuable nutritive quality. He is my daily hard-boiled egg. Needs cracking but has an excellent sense of humor underneath- refined and super-human, again, and certainly healthy and therapeutic for my addled brains.

My werewolf once said to me: "Who's your daddy? You or me?"

But that was only the answer to: "What did the chicken say to the egg?"

(A nature versus nurture, et cetera debate was supposed to spring out of that)

His gentlemanly manner and constraint has had a binding influence on my usually uncouth social behaviour and has colonized and controlled my flirting etiquette. However, it took him three whole months of knowing me to finally mention the F-word. He only mentioned it. But we don't really do it. At least, not often. Or very blatantly. We even conceal ourselves from each other most of the times. And then we pretend that nothing happened. We implement the F-word every now and then, and it lasts all for about five minutes. It is rather fun I must say, and he always makes me want more.

Yes, we Flirt these days. But in moderation.

The Death of LOL :D :) :( ;(

2012-08-21T10:49:00.001-07:00

I feel like replacing my instant coffee with filter coffee, sit back Mami style and read long copy advertisements (Idea Courtesy: Joseph Thomas). I might even pick up some paper and write a letter to a friend. A five-rupee stamp would indeed be a lot cheaper than making a phone call, because as chick protocol goes, call duration can not be lesser than 40 minutes.

But what about SMSs?

Well, there is a 15-day ban on texting. We are only allowed to send up to 5 text messages a day until September 1st, 2012. I am absolutely not complaining. If matters were left to me, I'd even extend the ban. But hear me out before you come after me with your chappals-

We frustrated, pro-tunnel syndrome text addicts are yanking our hair out, drumming and tapping random things, and even biting nails to keep our fingers occupied. We keep checking our phone for a new message, only to find that our dearest BFFs have deserted us. We feel special if someone sends us a message, and if the same person sends all five of his messages to us in a day, we consider him worth marrying. We live in a strange world, to be measuring 'True Love' in terms of text messages!

I see several advantages of not being able to text:

1. 'To Text'- which is wrong grammar, by the way, can no longer be used as a verb.

2. Since you MUST call, I'd like to see if you talk like you text:
"see-en you see-em?" formerly known as "cn u cm?"
"LOL LOL smiley smiley" formerly known as "LOL LOL. :) :)"

3. Flirt, if you must, but don't reduce it to "sexting". No one, I'm sure, would call up someone and bombard them with phone sex. Therefore, it is safe to predict that any love birds that find each other in the next couple of weeks will have a really nice, clean and possibly long lasting love story.

4. No time pass, no time waste. We all have the opportunity to learn the meaning of 'Emergency' and we'll reserve our SMSs for REAL emergencies.

5. You'll realize you have a lot of free time on your hands and you will become more productive (Third blog post in three days, ladies and gentlemen). I'd recommend de-activating your Facebook account to become even more productive (Inactive between January and June 2011 and COMPLETELY worth it). If you decide to do so, let me know so I can mail the links of my future blog posts to you (or follow my blog!).

6. Calling up people will ensure sufficiently meaningful conversations and will also improve the average attention span.

7. Most of all, we'll lose the LOL, the inability to end a conversation without awkwardness, and shed all our meaningless smileys and replace them with real words.

So, the Death of LOL is a pretty good thing, if you ask me. May LOL rest in peace- as static and as dead as it was when it was alive.

Why I Need an Early Menopause: The Rant

2012-08-20T11:05:00.002-07:00

Maybe it's the hormone spill-over or something but in between sending hate mails to people I don't really hate and resenting my actions in general, there comes a time when I see my blood shed. A break within the break from normality when I'm reminded that- oopsie, we've got a bloody problem here.

I've gone over this for exactly one hundred months as of today. Ever since it started for the first time. The very bloody menarche. I'm no great with the biology of it but I really do try to rationalize the foul mood and the bad behaviour that stems out of it due to all this hormone curdling during one's menstrual cycle.

After every little girl's initial shock towards the blood, she learns to de-sensitize herself to it. She's conditioned to think of it all as "a natural process" and "it must happen" and "that's how it is". This mute acceptance and the ability to ignore the constant discomfort and pain is a skill that she must acquire. I was "gifted" with the ability to nurture a baby within me a little before the age of 12. Little girls these days receive this "gift" as early as when they are 8 years old (due to various factors and that's another story).

Have you ever stepped back from it and looked at it as something that is other than a necessary evil? Why the hormones? Why the blood-shedding? Why the foul mood?

What is it like for a woman to discover that her body worked for an entire month, gathering every particle of extra energy, consuming her nutrition to create a bed of blood in her womb for a life that never happened?
What is it like for a woman to know that it will happen again in another month's time?

What is it like for a woman to stand in her bathroom and look at the body she lives in and suddenly hate the ugliness of it?
How disorienting it must be for her- especially since it was the same body she admired just two weeks ago when she ovulated?

What is it like for a woman to lean against her bathroom wall, blacking out? What is it like for her to see her blood flow out uselessly? Her BLOOD.

I saw the tissue lining of my uterus leave me today- a soft blob with a semi-solid consistency on the bathroom floor. It was a part of me that was dead. It was a part of a prospective somebody that was dead. It had to go because it had hit a certain expiration date and my body could not afford to keep something stale inside me.

I know for a fact that my body made that blood bed with love. Biology textbooks call it the "placenta" but today, it looked like the neglected earth that was meant for the seeds of the future. And as I write this, my eyes foolishly fill up with tears.

It is in my nature to want to be a mother. No wonder my hormones protest when body isn't given what it wants. I am reminded of an entry from the Journals of Sylvia Plath. It goes like this:

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it. I can feel it when I think of human beings, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearance of hair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to the fine print, the swift, coloured motion of the twentieth century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolescence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times. Almost, I think, the unreasoning , bestial purity was best. Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

Similarly, I see how evolution has streamlined us to modern times. I feel that the bestial purity was best. A nature versus nurture struggle happens between my head and my womb. I sit here, pajamas stretched taut against my cushioning stomach and curving hips. I don't feel fat. I merely feel domestic. There is some innate compulsion to reproduce that I cannot deny myself.

On the other hand, I know I cannot sit around wanting to be a mommy. I know I have an internship report to hand in. I know I have some assignments to do right away. I cannot want to be domestic when I have to complete my B.A, M.A, M.Phil and several Ph.Ds.
'What non-sense! Mother, it seems', snaps Rationality at me.
I cannot escape the holy trinity of Achievement-Fame-Fortune. I cannot plant my bum at home and be a woman.

An early menopause is required. Let's be practical, here. Nobody needs babies in this day and age. Nobody needs a man, either. And there are plenty of babies lying around to be picked up, already, right? Menstruation is SO three generations ago. Why hasn't evolution made it redundant, yet?

'Who are you kidding?'. the motherly womb clucks back. I think of my Prince-Charming-In-Shining-Armour-Holding-The-Door-For-Me. Of course, I need to menstruate! How else will I have Prince Charming's babies? A boy, a boy and a little baby girl.

But in one colossal blow, reality sets on my menopause. Dreams are shattered. Deadlines are set. I prepare for college and life in general.

Why I Need an Early Menopause

2012-08-19T00:51:00.000-07:00

For someone who is missing the gene of Sports and physical activity in general, fun things should be made taboo. Not that I'm unwilling to square dance or do the limbo dance. I simply should not be allowed to because I'm generally kinesthetically challenged, and for 48-hours post physical activity, I can feel every tendon, muscle, ligament and bone joint in my body. Little wonder, then, that it hurts even when I yawn and laugh, after ALL that limbo dancing I did during the Literature Fest "Jabberwocky" in college.

I tend to be slightly attention seeking at all times but I didn't know that I could limbo dance quite like that. I didn't, in my wildest dreams, guess that I'd go so low (literally) to get someone's attention! Not to mention I received certain un-subtle comments about my "flexibility". For all those who took the liberty to ask me, or rather TELL me how I achieved my "flexibility", at least pray that the right guy noticed!

I digress.
*ahem*

As I was saying, physical activity is not for me, no matter how much fun it tends to be, because the biggest and most annoying consequence of it is that it tends to advance my period. Body pain, foul mood, cramps and wanting to curl up in fetal position is a highly undesirable combination. The realization of an empty uterus and a soft placenta that MY BLOOD made, ripping away from my insides and "that-womanly-feeling" further adds to the frustration. I may sound slightly dramatic here but it tends to put a lot of things in perspective:

(A)

Not only do you know FOR SURE that you're not pregnant, which reminds you that indeed you got no action this past month, you have to deal with the excess of (un-catered to) hormones, worry about the resultant pimples on your face and mull over the "Baby-name-of-the-season" that your mind has taken a fancy to (This time, it's 'Rainer', a nice sounding German name for my non-existent baby boy. God save my soul).

(B)

You have to curl up in bed and face the fact that even your beady eyed teddy bear is an annoying mass of nothing and have an imaginary conversation with the man it stands for.

(C)

You have to let some memories dawn on you, sickeningly- "Ooooh! Let's do lunch tomorrow! You tell me where, I'll be there. Blah, blah, blah, blah". (Why won't I keep my big mouth shut? Why? WHY?).

And then you have to tell that nice boy you like that you can't do lunch because of excessive limbo dancing and "woman problems".

I don't think I need to explain why I need an early menopause but I must tell you how many advantages it has got!

1. No reproduction issues: It's good for the planet! With the kind of population explosion there is, I might as well adopt a baby girl if I fancy (thus permanently putting an end to the argument with my mother about why my horoscope says that I can only have boys). I'll probably obsess less about stupid German baby names and by the time I'm ready to have kids, they'll probably come up with some stem cell solution if I want "my own biological" baby. If you ask me, the menstrual cycle should become an evolutionary redundance. I think we have enough people to last quite a few generations. And then we can deal with the stem cell mumbo-jumbo.

2. I can limbo dance all I like and not get my period early and therefore not want to curl up and die.

3. Menopause does not diminish sex drive, apparently (and unfortunately). Which is good in a way. But if it doesn't work out for me, I can pretend not to know this little fun fact, give up hopes on men and boyfriends in general and FINALLY do my CIAs on time!

4. I won't have to take medication for pain relief and I won't have to risk being addicted to them.

5. I won't have to run to the loo one thousand times and wake up all night no matter how XXXL the wings may be.

6. I can buy a nice pair of shoes with the amount of money I save on sanitary pads. Fuck it. IMAGINE THE NUMBER OF BOOKS I CAN BUY! :

My Flipkart Wishlist!

If one of my aunties read this post (and I sincerely hope they don't! Mami needs no other Mami, thank you!), they may come back and tell me "What kandraavi is this? You are only twenty years old, no? You will not get menopause and all right now only. When will you have children then? And if you have any problem why not use Stayfree? It is very good, I am telling you! Non-sense and all don't write, ammadi. The black bra post is funny, but. We are also modern and open minded only"

As a Mami in the making, I'd like to add that it is I who can do full justice to the definition of "modern and open minded" (I think. I am still not well adjusted to eight year olds talking about their "boyfriends". In plural, yes.) and I do have a problem which is why I'd like to STAY FREE. Thank you!

And in case y'all think I can't hit an early menopause because I'm only 20, I'd like to let you know that I'm not worried. I come in close contact with a certain iron-willed post menopausal woman every week who will surely lead me in the right direction to it.