Let me tell you a story of a young girl living in Madras back in the mid-80s.

She went to a very famous school known for its high standard education it imparted to the few girls who were lucky enough to make the cut; in kindergarten. The school was run by catholic nuns and had its high standards of learning, discipline, and a good share of the affluent. The quarterly tuition was a little more than what an average middle class income family living on a single income could afford. Yet, there was no compromises to be made on the quality of the cornerstone that such families build their lives on. So she went to school there, wearing a white uniform and a red tie and learnt to speak flawless British English, how to eat with a spoon the right way, and how to cross your legs every time one sits down. She got to peak into the lives of chauffeur driven daughters of celebrities and business icons from her place on the road as she stood for the bus that would take her back home.

Sporting two well oiled long braids she trudged on, her only consolation being that she scored well in her subjects and if not for being completely lost and missed in a sea of Lady Di and Dimple Kapadia’s hairstyle and perfect white uniforms, folks (especially the teachers) would remember her for those answers to the questions. She was quiet and shy for the most part, speaking only when spoken to and to an extent enjoyed the anonymity of her existence. It was not like she was a sad girl, just quiet, and withdrawn and not visibly happy. Wearing a slight tongue thrust, she lived in her own imaginary world, waking from her reverie only when necessary. She had a few friends, very few. One stayed with her from when she was in 3rd grade and then there were a couple who joined on in 5th grade. She was the most comfortable with her 3rd grade pal. They came from different communities and lifestyles, but it was like they knew what each was talking. She felt the need to be nurtured and the friend nurtured.

Every year there would be an excursion. She would go, because one just goes for excursions. Her mother would pack her loads of pulao or tamarind rice and she’d bring it all home because no one really wanted to eat the boring stuff during an excursion. Some did, but mom packed more than what was necessary. The food was always exciting, with sandwiches and other luxuries and unheard of snacks were brought out during that day. Girls were nice for the most part and she enjoyed them. That was the fun part. Then they’d take out their portable tape recorders and play music. Music she was clueless about. She’d listen to them play and jive anyway. She’d wish her mother would allow them to play those tapes at home. Friends offered to make her copies, that she refused. What was the point? Her mother did not appreciate screaming music and so it was not allowed at home. Indian, traditional kinds were always welcome. Even her dad had to give up on his small valuable collection of BoneyM and ABBA, because of the noise it created. The only songs she would remember for ages to come.

9th grade came and she was becoming a teen, where the pressure to fit in seeped up onto her and knowing fully well that a haircut was out of question and silently thanking the nuns for the leveling white uniform, she hoped to at least broaden the scope of music. From what she heard during lunch break, a young African American had made some amazing brilliant music and had won the Grammy awards for the same. Thriller, they called it, true to the music that it was made of. The hums were everywhere. The bathrooms, the benches across the lined driveway, the assembly lines before the prayers, the evening walks out of school towards home. She desperately wanted to be a part of it all. Especially considering that yearly excursion was coming up soon and she knew the music that would be played relentlessly. She heard bits and pieces of it, but could never make out the words. One girl told her during last year’s excursion: “If you put your ear close to the speaker and listen with your eyes closed, you’ll get them soon. American accent isn’t too hard.”

It was time she did her homework. But how does one do homework without being taught, or without doing research or picking up a book? Perhaps a tutor?

So gathering nerve and willing herself to walk outside of her corner seat, she walked up to another classmate of hers who knew the songs well and asked her during the lunch break: “V, this song that comes in Thriller that all of you are talking about? Do you think you can write the words out for me?”

V: “Oh, which song do you want?”

She in a stupefied voice: “Which song? Oh, I don’t know.”

V with a smile: “The popular ones are ‘Beat It’ and ‘Thriller’. Will bring it on Monday.”

Monday she received this ruled notebook paper with V’s scrolls, filled both sides with a different song.

That excursion, she sang at the top of her voice and had the best time ever. People started noticing her.

She still isn’t sure if it was MJ, the lyrics, V, or the age that she decided to break free, but in 10th grade, she slowly came to be recognized as the one who makes all girls laugh, cracks a joke, is witty, breaks into accented perfect French and will one day become a linguist, and was even nominated for the House Vice-Captain. Despite her oiled two braids, her pimpled brown skin, and unwaxed arms, folks knew her by name.

No one wants to be defeated
Showin’ how funky and strong is your fight
It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it

She’d never forget those lyrics and what they mean to her. Thanks MJ. May your soul rest in peace with the comfort that you sure saved some lost souls out here.

Came across this wonderful collection of essays, biographical sketches, poems and anecdotes by various real strong women out there in the world in an anthology of sorts titled: “33 things every girl should know“

There are some gems within, that brought some amazing eye-opening visions into my muddled head and I can only imagine what a source of strength, resilience and hope it can give to a young girl coping with adversities and the realities of the world she grows into. The stories, mostly subtle also drive home a point to ultimately value and treasure the fine young lady that one is within each of the girls, and most importantly to become a sensible level headed human being despite it all. Someone that’s strong yet sensitive to one’s own self while knowing when and how to prioritize the needs and wants at different levels.

33 different stories told by real women, and this one story stuck out to me. An explanation as to why one would behave the way one does, despite the age.

When a 55 year old woman jumps with joy like a 6 year old getting her first pink bike, or when the old man breaks down into tears when he discovers his favorite book isn’t lost after all, or when a teenager plays with her barbies in her closet, or when the grandmother secretly stashes the lollipops that her grandson brings form phoren, or the time when a 35 year old man whines at the sight of a flu.. (oh, okay the last is a flaw more than an attribute to this concept, but we’ll let that slip) … and similar such behaviors.

When we act out of our prescribed age bracket. The occasional random acts or thinking patterns of neoteny that almost all of us exhibit, some brazen enough to not care how they are portrayed to others (like me) and then the large bunch of closet “juvies”.

I like this concept of Sandra Cisneros that she explains in the essay; Eleven (an excerpt here) and the downloadable pdf here.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

I like that concept. Now, I can go sulk in a corner or throw a fit at the husband and claim to be an irrational 12 year old. Except that it may just not fly with him as much considering my 12 year old’s a precocious little bundle that am massively proud of myself and I may just look more stupid than well, cute.

O well, thank heavens for blogs.

You know how we say “you wouldn’t know what I am going through, coz you aren’t in my shoes.”, in an apologetic tone mostly, or occasionally snapping at folks who try to comfort us, to empathize and even to reason, make us see better, feel something apart from what we feel?

I’d imagine it is hard? Unless, of course we have been in their shoes or similar pairs of shoes, it is a challenge to take that step and understand what they are going through. Not for the lack of trying, but then again, we hope to throw different perspectives n the same situation because for starters, we cannot convincingly look at it like how the person does.

Forget real life for a second and for a moment think of all those movie actors and artists that we watch on screen. They play a wide variety of characters, ones that we love to hate, ones we adore, and all in between. There are many who are known for their exemplary performances including facial expressions, the tears on demand – the ones that heave the shoulders and the ones that stop short teetering along the eyelids, the guffaws that need to look natural during the 36th retake of the scene, the rage the camera needs to capture to rile the audience , and the love and romance that needs to look real between two strangers to convince the real couples watching them.

It’s easy for us to play critics I suppose. Much easier than wanting to take that time and reflect on the challenge that the artists face.

These artists, they stand in the middle of a crowd, lights on them, pressure to deliver with a few dozens pairs of eyes watching their every move looking for that perfect capture. They are asked to sing romance, jive, cuss, sneer, tease, play a joker and they do. ..and we watch them, and some stay in our minds longer than others, and some fade quickly away. Chalking it to the fact that they are professionals, we move on. Forming opinions, loving them, sneering at them and scoffing, quick to rate.

This is the time when as a member of the audience one should ask the question, “How would I do in his shoes?”

For the most part, I’d imagine to laugh, smile, kid, horse around is a lot less challenging. It should come naturally, and it doesn’t require much prep work. Except of coures if one’s a sad sack. Then well, that’s work. But for the most part, I’d think the darker, deeper, thoughtful, tragic roles, require some spadework. It requires understanding the character, the mode of thinking, the situation and the reaction that’s expected of the character and then to be able to hold it all together and portray it convincingly enough.

That’s a heck of a lot of brain cells firing if you ask me.

Many chalenging roles come to mind, and among the stalwarts who portrayed them, my favorites include Savitri, Smita Patil, Suhasini. These actresses can show angst at a depth that can reach right into you and rip your heart out. There are others of course, but I am partial to these wonderful ladies.

A true artist’s resume covers a variety of roles that harnesses their capabilities to be versatile and malleable enough to pick up a charecter and own it. Many real life roles are based on well, today’s living breathing persons. Situations are easier to imagine, we see shades of people and minds around us all teh time. The urchin, the job-seeker, the loner, the loser, the snobbish rich kid and so on.

What if you were playing a role that is very hard to understand and relate to. Like mythological roles:

For instance, Bhaktha Sabari. To play a staunch devotee of Lord Rama, immersed in the love and affection of the divine Lord. To show it all, while acting like one was thousands of years old, the happiness, the satisfaction and the happy tears, when one cannot understand what it is to be her. How does one think and imagine the range of that role. When the audience is mesmerized into believing that they are indeed transported into

Similarly, think of Draupadi. How about Surpanaka? How about a woman abused and raped. The mother whose son has died. The female artist who plays a man’s role. The man who plays a female (and not look like he stopped mid-way)

Some roles are just difficult to imagine yourself into. Some roles you wouldn’t want to imagine yourself into. Under both these instances, an artist would probably imagine the next best situation that could bring the same kind of emotion onto the foreground.

Like for instance, there’s a lady called Kisa Gowthami who loses her son, and bemoans the loss in an intensity that a mother only could. She runs to Buddha to ask for a miracle, she needs her son back. It’s an attachment that she is bound to. There is deep angst, there is an unfathomable situation, one that a mother in real life will not and cannot bring herself to imagine. Yet, the show must go on. The artist reflects and brings to the surface a pain that’s close to her heart, one that will mimic the agony of the character onto her face and body.

I know what I will be thinking of. The misery will be real. It cannot be anything but real. The lips will quiver, the eyes will brim, the voice will choke and the agony will show. It isn’t hard if the pain’s real. ..and that is precisely the secret of how those actresses manage it all.

One must be true to the art they are passionate about. If not, it’s time to pack their bags.

Problem:

You land outside a center for son’s class. The doors are shut and the access requires for the teacher to buzz doors open. The doorbell’s busted. 3 minutes left and the son gets antsy.

Wife’s solution:

1. Stress and curse under breath for a full minute, before wheels churn.
2. Ask son to check if he has the teacher’s phone number written somewhere in his book.
3. Drive into an alley, put blinkers on, and shield the toddler’s incessant questions on why the car was parked and not going the usual route.
4. Check phone to see if the phone number was miraculously saved. Realize it isn’t and wonder why.
5. In the meanwhile, try calling another parent who also attends the same class. No answer.
6. Use the handy iPhone and check gmail to see if the number’s in any email.
7. Acknowledge that gmail’s superior search function in the new updated iPhone system is useless, unless the right query’s inserted.
8. Think.
9. Realize with glee that the teacher had indeed called, but sadly 7 days ago.
10. Quickly stroll through the calls and find a number that could match the time when the call was received.
11. Thank iPhone’s feature on saving all missed calls.
12. Dial.
13. Get a voicemail that says “am out of the country, but here’s my sub’s number”
14. Memorize the said number rattled out in a tone that resembles a desi version of Kramer on caffeine.
15. Dial the number.
16. Get the sub to open door for husband waiting outside.

Husband’s solution:

1. Mutter ‘Oh’.
2. Call the wife.

It’s been a bit of a long day and I still had some emails to finish before dinner. Instead of opening documents, I clicked on the reader and there it was 1000+ unread items. Once upon a time I was aghast and I’d feel hugely guilty about all that fine hardwork that was spent on writing those and I was being bad not reading them. These days, few things faze me. I eye the reader like a Floridian would watch the weather channel.

I glanced down quickly, and saw that Nehavish had this post up. I clicked and by God, it unfurled a deep liberating me from its slumber. It was so darned atrociously funny and just plain out of the world daring that I laughed for a long while. Here it is.

It’s  MC Hammer’s single.- You can’t touch this.

I watched the gold pants storm the store and I laughed with such glee and I did what comes naturally (I’d assume) to anyone; I got up and started dancing. The daughter of course rolled her eyes ever so slightly and walked right past me. They are used to me I guess by now, breaking into a dance just out of the blue while stirring sambar or folding clothes, or burst (completely out of tune) into a song the kids’ friends are over.

Watch this one:

See that girl in pink top/kurta. That’s me right there. No, I mean, not me as in me me, but that could very well be me. I went further and imagined myself in the traditional dress doing the kind of free dance on the streets of DC. I imagine a bunch of us girls could very easily pull it off, though we’d be banned from entering our school the next day on grounds of sacrilege or some such! *sigh

In any case, this isn’t about dance or the music. It’s about just getting up and letting yourself go. No inhibitions. People who know me in real life will attest to the fact that I belong to the rare breed of folks who don’t think twice on just getting up and letting go. Rules, formalities and sticking to social obligations can take a hike and a long one at that when I set my mind on something. Mostly impulsive, I don’t mind and in fact enjoy the occasional frolic into the space-where-the-sensible-woman-hasn’t-stepped-before. Something that went disappeared for awhile in the early part of the year as parts of me shrunk within as a defensive mechanism and reaction. Similar to a snail that retreats into its shell when alarmed or attacked.

I know I won’t be going back to completely where I was, but believe in the saying “live free or die”.  Seriously, what’s the point otherwise anyway? So yes, when was the last time you did something completely raw, basic and uninhibited? Something that you didn’t think twice about how you are seen by others, or the impression you create or worried that you were flouting some rules. .. and if you did, you did it anyway?

Here, let me go first: many incidents come to mind, and I’ve already written about one here, and then there’s always the school and kid events that I go bersek in, the times when with no warning whatsoever do a mean imitation among the girls, dress up strange and weird to take Halloween pictures to post on blog , volunteer at events that require mindless participation, break into “Miss Mary Mack” with a bunch of 7 year olds while the rest of the moms look like I’ve lost it, run straight into the water sprinkler with the kids, jump into a group of 18 year olds at a graduation party and show them the desi moves instead of sitting still and playing “aunt”.. and the list goes on.

Your turn. So tell me, who’d join me in wearing those gold pants and break into a dance? Yes yes, it’s a dare. ;-)

I am tune-deaf.

This coming out of someone who indulges in classical dance is well, not a respectable confession by any shot. When I say am tune-deaf, it means am not very successfully adept at listening to a piece and recognizing the raag(raagam). I absolutely enjoy carnatic and classical music, something I listen to at least once a day, so yes, it’s a bit tragic that I haven’t developed that skill. I am good at picking up the tune, to replicate and then transfer it around, know my bases and can choreograph based on the nuances of instruments and the layers within. But ask me to spot a raaga and I sadly am in a quandary.  Guess 4 years of learning Sa re Ga ma Pa Da Ni sa didn’t help, coz I was doing it for my parents’ sake than out of my own interest. Interestingly, both dance and music go hand in hand and though the theory hasn’t drilled itself into me, I am thankful am not tone-deaf!

In our forthcoming ballet, there is one scene that moves me completely. Not scene per se, but the song that the scene is set to. The ballet is mythological and so the characters are Rati Manmadha doing their usual frolicking around. Over the past few rehearsals, I have had the opportunity to sit back and just watch during that part, instead of running around doing whatever it is that I do, and the divinity and joy of it sunk in slowly and completely. Last Sunday, I sat on the steps behind the stage and I teared.

Art has that power. Music surpasses it all when one can get submerged in the aksharas, the waves that synch it all and the harmony it produces. (Secretly I even thought for a second there that perhaps I was borderline Stendhal-ic!)

The song has been buzzing in my head for a while now and since we don’t have the recorded version and the orchestra is live, I walked up to the singer and asked her for the raagam. She said ‘Yaman’. Looking at my quizzical expression, she said  “have you heard SaraswatiChandra – chandan sa badan?” I drop my jaw. That song tops my favorites since 2000 (when a friend mailed it to me, yesyes, I am a cheat, I always get my songs over mails :-)) and now I know why I love it too. As soothing as it is, there was a peacefulness and romance that touches.

Got home and after some fair amount of googling, listening and reading up (and needless to say that’s all I’ve been doing), humming, listening consciously, counting beats, and figuring out the thread that ties all the songs together. A pleasant surprise that all of the bollywood numbers below are on my “Serenity Now!” playlist.

Raag: Yaman in Bollywood

1. Chandan sa badan, chanchal chitavan – Saraswati Chandra
2. Aansu bhari hain ye jeevan ki raahein – Parvarish
3. Jab deep jale aana, jab shaam dhale aana – Chitchor
4. Zindagi bhar nahi bhulegi – Barsaat Ki Raat
5. Bhooli huyi yaadon, mujhe itna na sataao – Sanjog
6. Nigahen milane ko jee chahata hai – Dil Hi To Hai
7. Is modpe jaate hai – Aandhi

Here’s a fine introduction and rendering of the raag yaman.

and continues on here:

..and then listen to this cutie!

Delightful? I leave you with a soulful melody.

ps: Am hoping to start back on my Friday song feature that apparently people liked enough to bug me consistently about it! ;-)

..and just coz am swamped enough at work and home and my brains are shriveling into dry beans, I decided to sneak in some time for some much needed simple fun. That’s when a conversation with bhel floated in, and I dug into the archives and found the perfect break I was looking for.

..and then I looped it into a micro-fiction fable on twitter and tweeted it.

the suspicious husband sat to listen to the bug he planted on his cheating wide & heard this: #fable – http://tweetmic.com/p/os68v…

..and in case any of you picky ones are getting distracted by the word “wide” and your brain hasn’t auto-corrected it to read the ‘d’ as an ‘f’ – then a big BAH! It’s the damned auto-correct on the phone, or maybe it’s my fat finger typing. Either way, doesn’t wide work just as well as wife?

Enough already, now go listen to what the husband taped..

My first audio-tweet. Woohooo!

This summer, three good friends are getting married. To different people of course, in case there was ambiguity in that line. All of them were blogging at one point in time (one sorta trudges along, one still writes well, while the other couple’s given up completely) and that’s how we got to become friends. Age nor distance mattered. We enjoyed each others experiences in words that we scribbled on our blogs with little to no inhibitions. Good old days they say of the ‘06-’07.

There was a rawness to the posts, to the comments. The blog world was still small, pure in many ways and sincere. An openness that stretched its arms wide and held one and all in equal honesty and trust. Friendships made during that period remained through the days, oscillating between silences, chats, phone calls and through a trust and warmth that crossed miles and bytes. Their comments at my space come easily back to me. I don’t have to dive into the archives to feel their presence nor remember the laughs that we shared on our silliness, the strength that they conducted into me during my time of need, nor the support their voices held.

Over time, daily comments on each other’s blogs reduced to chats that reduced further to emails to phone calls. Is reduced even a right word there? It is a graduation correct? I would believe so. Yes, let me clarify that it was the frequency that reduced while the closeness only graduated levels.

This evening’s email conversation went like this with one:

what is your address? I would like to send an invitation….

Am so happy you thought of sending one to me. Really. :)

oi! what is this! How can I forget you and A? You are the one who helped.

:-) It’s all u silly. Wish you the very very best. Am so happy for you *hug

he he…, Did you just cry? Tell me Tell me… Man girls are so silly… I send one invitation and they start sobbing like a baby! tell me, did you just cry?

Yes. They didn’t fall, kinda stuck in the throat. :)

:-)*hug

Nothing fantastic about that conversation, and no great flooring sentiments expressed, but it left me happy. Deliriously so too. You see, not only am a sucker for friendships and for what they stand, I also happen to value the bond of marriage and what it makes of a man and a woman.

Here was this guy whom I knew since 3 years ago who has changed from the nonchalant attitude throwing little brat to a responsible gentleman planning and working towards an ambitious career and life along with the lady of his dreams (whom he met right here on the blog). Can’t imagine this but yes, the kid will be a married man this July.

Then I thought about my other friend who has been nothing but a darling in more ways than I can think of. There’s a precociousness about her that am quite positive she is not aware herself, the one that is the cornerstone of her carefree attitude towards life and the stability of mind that she exhibits on demand. She ties the knot with her man in June and her unique wedding invite arrived in the mail yesterday as a pleasant sweet surprise.

And then, there’s a girl becoming a wife in September who is sweet as much as she is patient, wise and sensitive.The more we spoke (infrequently as we came together when both got quite busy with our lives) the more I got to know her and just like that, she has risen in my eyes as an amazingly strong person and more so for her age.

This post here is dedicated to the three of you. Congratulations and God bless!

The husband and I enter our 16 years of life together this weekend. I reflect back to the institution of marriage, the sentiments and beliefs that we bring together at the start of the journey, the different routes and forms the expectations and opinions mold us into and then the foundation that holds us together despite it all.

Standing at this stage in life, (and not that am kidding myself into believing that I know it all) if there are a few things that I’ve learnt and one does tend to pick up things as we go along, is this:

The days immediately ahead will be heady. The excitement of togetherness and belonging is a drug you will get high on and may last a fairly long enough time. You will notice that people tend to change with days, times and situations. Many change together, some don’t, some change in different directions. You may even tend to become the person that your spouse may not recognize anymore.

It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. What does matter however, is the bond one shares and will most likely share forver. It gets named differently at different stages in life and it takes different forms of expression, and no, one can’t just throw it all under the word ‘Love’. It can start as a fondness, as lust, as romance, as friendship, as simple love, affection, respect and regard and care, and ultimately land in fondness again!

Most definitely with time, one occasionally loses track and sight of each other, not intentionally, but due to the pressures and responsibilities one bears as a couple. Kids, parents, social pressures, careers and obligations. It’s alright. It’s alright to lose track, it’s alright to fight and it’s more than alright to find fault and get exasperated. It shows that you are tuned to the person enough to react.

Through this all, the only true things that will take your through many anniversaries and treasured memories is respect and tolerance. Respect for each other’s opinions and for what you agree upon and to tolerate the ones that you don’t agree upon.

You know what they say about life being a full circle? It is true. I believe that the husband and I have re-disovered each other after all these years, during the course of our extremely busy juggling lives we lead with demands weighing down on us in different directions. It’s different now. It isn’t the giggling 20 year old kind, but a sedate silent kind. The kind that you know that no matter what, this will stick.

Each stage is special in its own way. The sooner one accepts that change is inevitable and learn to adapt with all that comes your way, the pleasurable a relationship.

…is one big cartoon show. The sidekicks occasionally change depending on situation but no, seriously take a clip at any given moment in time, put it into teeny little boxes and there I have a nice little cartoon strip.

This morning between packing lunches and gulping coffee down, I flipped the paper and pulled the Style section of the Post. I know what you’re thinking. Who reads the cartoons first, but then again, answer me if you will, why would anyone want to read morbid, blue tape politics and serious notes of the world first thing? Start pleasant and fun I say.

So yes, I open and I chuckle. I scroll down further and I start laughing. Then down further and I start giggling, and then the irony hit me and oh boy, it all came jiving together. I then did what any self-respecting blogger does. I ran to the system to get online versions of all those strips to take screen shots to post. Only thing is that the toast burnt so I couldn’t go further than just saving ‘em all and re-do the whole sandwich for brown bag thing.

So before the day slips away figured I’d document on how my life is a potpourri of caricatures:

• Where the hey did the first 6 months of this year go? O wait, don’t answer, I know. It’s been one heck of a roller coaster ride, but hey, it’s eventful June already!

• Never a day passes when am not searching for something that should be in its rightful place. It started, oh I donno, maybe 10 years ago, and continues in varying degrees of search and rescue missions. This here has actually happened at home a couple of years ago. The daughter used non-stick cooking spray to spray the patio table to use her marbles, a freak science experiment if you will. Munchkin’s usage has exceeded all imaginations and borders.

• That is precisely how we welcome the son home. Every time. Interspersed with short, high-pitched whines.

• Story of my life at work to the letter, with just a small change. I do work and some more (than my usual hours) and just haven’t got paid for it yet, coz well, I haven’t billed yet, coz well, there isn’t a code in there as yet. Yeah.

• This little brat of a kid at one of those ridiculously insane noisy kid parties, asked me if I needed a tissue to wipe my nose. At least he was polite enough to say “Hey aunty, you have something on your nose!” Then I caught him whispering to a bunch of pint sized specimens. It could very well have been on how to scare the micro-pint sized girls who were behaving like they deserved it, or it could have been a “look-at-that-aunty-who-has-a-shiny-booger-on-her-nose-and-doesn’t-know-it!. Go figure.

• A conversation between the daughter and son on any typical day. They switch sides according to who is feeling like the boss of themselves at that point in time, but the gist remains. Oh, and of course they aren’t deciding what they want to be when they ‘grow-up’ but more on what’s happening in the next few hours in their life. Such far-reaching visions they exhibit at that age. Daughter uses “whatever” and son uses “Talk to the hand” occasionally to replace “dismissed”.



• Munchkin. Replace ‘grampa’ with any name. Mom, Dad, Sister, Brother, Granma, Grandpa. Yeah.

***

What? This IS a fine post. Yes, it’s original, and no, it isn’t recycled, and yes, I put some time and thougt into it, and no, I do care for what I write here! Am so swamped, I despair that all my fantastic original post ideas are dying a slow rotting death in my head.

But I still hold hope. Next post, will be a kick -ass review. I promise. O, talking of reviews, I “binged” (tell me it sounds cheesy and not any bit like saying I googled) my site and apart from being disappointed on what it threw up, I found that some kind soul found my review of KKrish charming enough to add it onto Wikipedia. Heh, cool eh? Sweet of them, though, I really had a question. Of all the reviews – KKrish? Seriously? I don’t remember the movie, forget the review, except that Hrithik’s biceps resembled Sridevi’s you-kn0w-what in her pre-bollywood days. He looked like what you’d get if you could mix all of the genes from a very grown up Mowgli, Popeye and Tarzan.Eye-able for a whole 10 seconds before the eyes scream “have mercy”!

Just coz all you fine people are popping in religiously and since I have no time to fill with more interesting, fun, entertaining or wise words, here’s what’s happening at my other space.

First Aid - It took awhile for the seed to finally form shape and it did, like it should.

Raindrops - a silly fantasy that I took and added in my usual good measure of gray.

Hope you like, let me know either way. There. Not here. Please?