...Vande Mataram, is apparently, the question.
My most recent memories of Vande Mataram are from the A.R. Rehman directed version of it (very soft, very pretty), and then, Shubha Mudgal's knock-your-socks-off rendition (with the absolutely trippy video featuring this woman, who just by the way, would totally be second on the list of women whose babies I would want to have, If I ever turned lesbian. Oh I'm not supposed to say that out loud? Oh shush! You're the internet, internet, and if I can't bare my soul to you, then what use is a soul, I ask you!).
The first time I heard Vande Mataram sung (circa 1988), the only thought that crossed my mind was, "Oh pretty tune! It's the national song? Oh okay."
Was I flooded with feelings of nationalism? No. Did it appeal to the patriot in me? No. Do you know why? Because I hadn't a clue what it means. Nope. Not a one.
The song, you see, is in Sanskrit. Not exactly the Lingua Franca of the average Indian, let alone your average (and that's me being SO generous) eleven-year-old NRI.
And I'd be willing to bet a whole lot of money, that the cretins squabbling over whether or not it should be sung, haven't a clue either.
And yet, there's this.
*sigh*
***
Oh and while we're on the subject of songs, here's one that's been making perfectly seasoned, slow-roasted, melt-in-your-mouth seekh kababs of my heart (and also, not related at all, but I think I'm hungry).
Naina: OST Omkara, Lyrics: Gulzar, Music: Vishal Bhardwaj
Nainon ki mat maaniyo re, nainon ki mat suniyo,
Nainon ki mat suniyo re
Naina thag lenge
Jagte jaadu phukenge re, jagte jagte jaadu
jagte jaadu phukenge re neenden banjar kar denge
Naina thag lenge
Bhala manda dekhe na paraya na saga re
nainon ko toh dasne ka chaska laga re
Nainon ka zehar nasheela re
Baadalon mein satrangiyan bonve bhor talak barsaave
baadalon mein satrangiyan bonve, naina baanvra kar denge
Naina thag lenge
Naina raat ko chalte chalte swargaan mein le jaave
megh malhaar ke sapne bije* hariyali dikhlave
Nainon ki zubaan pe bharosa nahi aata
likhat parhat** na rasid na khaata
saari baat havaai*** re, saari baat havaai
Bin baadal barsaaye saawan, saawan bin barsaatan
bin baadal barsaaye saawan naina baanwara kar denge
Naina thag lenge
Jagte jaadu phukenge re jagte jagte jaadu
jagte jaadu phukenge re neenden banjar kar denge
Naina thag lenge.
Beg, borrow, download, if you have to, but listen to this song. If you loved Gulzar before, this song will make you want to get down on your knees and worship him.
P.S. There is some amount of dispute of about some of the lyrics. I have written what's made the most sense to me, the asterisked (I'm not sure if that's a real word) words according to the internet versions of this song are:
*dije
** parakh
***hamari
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
A Letter
To the man who walked his math-impaired daughter down the perilous road from multiplication tables to differential calculus. The personal swimming instructor, raag identifier and consoler of weepy, red-nosed four- year-olds whose heroes have fallen. On celluloid.
That dresser-up of rag-doll-sleepy-school-goers, doll's-arm/leg/head-fixer. Tiffin-packer, chocolate-wafer-adder.
Patient-sitter-through of makeovers by six-year-olds, who think that salt-and-pepper hair in at least six bristly ponytails, with a minimum of three bindis on the forehead, is so him.
Photographer of horrific moments - like fancy-dress parties and clown faces.
Embarrass-er of daughters, by playing ancient recordings of said-daughter's-five-year-old-voice soulfully singing:
"Laila main lailaaaa! Aisi hoon lailaaaa,
Har koi chaahe mujhse, milna akelaaa!"
Hummer-of-tunes, never-singer, non-dancer.
Lover of books, The Beatles, and order. Watcher of every. single. news bulletin.
To the maker of the best chicken curry in the *whole* world.
Happy birthday, Papa. May this be one of many, many more.
That dresser-up of rag-doll-sleepy-school-goers, doll's-arm/leg/head-fixer. Tiffin-packer, chocolate-wafer-adder.
Patient-sitter-through of makeovers by six-year-olds, who think that salt-and-pepper hair in at least six bristly ponytails, with a minimum of three bindis on the forehead, is so him.
Photographer of horrific moments - like fancy-dress parties and clown faces.
Embarrass-er of daughters, by playing ancient recordings of said-daughter's-five-year-old-voice soulfully singing:
"Laila main lailaaaa! Aisi hoon lailaaaa,
Har koi chaahe mujhse, milna akelaaa!"
Hummer-of-tunes, never-singer, non-dancer.
Lover of books, The Beatles, and order. Watcher of every. single. news bulletin.
To the maker of the best chicken curry in the *whole* world.
Happy birthday, Papa. May this be one of many, many more.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
I can walk English, I can talk English!*
This post, and more so the comments on it, reminded me of my own puzzlement with Indian English, when I moved here twelve years ago.
I was sixteen when we moved from Nigeria, right after my grade ten (and yes, we called them grades one to twelve. NOT classes one to twelve, NOT standards one to twelve. *Grades*) board exams. Owing to the bubble environment we'd grown up in, I spoke a strangely stilted Hindi, and very fluent, but very weirdly accented English. It wasn't Nigerian English and it wasn't Indian English. The closest I can come to describing it is, as a cross between Indian and British, with a touch of American thrown in for good (or maybe not) measure.
"But why should you have any of those accents?!", you ask. "I have NO idea", I say.
Hey, I didn't make The Bubble, I just lived in it.
The accent was never really a problem though. At least, not as far as making myself understood was concerned. Getting people to stop thinking I was snooty bitch because I wouldn't (I couldn't dammit) speak in Hindi, was of course, another issue altogether.
But I'm rambling again.
Episode 1:
The first time I was let in on the gossip going around in school, I was told in hush-hush tones that persons x and y were 'going around'.
Me: "Going around? Going around what??"
Random Girl in Class: You know... they're having a love affair!
Me: A LOVE AFFAIR?! But..but they can't have a love affair! They're in school!
RGiC: So?
See, till then, the only time I'd ever come across the words 'love affair', were in Mills & Boons novels and heavens! Love affairs were things that grown-ups had. They were, you know...sordid and occasionally even featured (oh fetch me my smelling salts!) *sex*!
So yes, I was quite scandalised, much to the puzzlement of the RGiC, who began wondering whether Indians in Nigeria were like, really backward, 'cos y'know, like, everyone goes around dude.
When V and I started dating, I proudly informed RGiC that we were 'going out' (by which, of course, I meant that we were seeing each other).
RGiC: Going out? Going out where??
Me: We're not going anywhere, we're just, well...he's my boyfriend now.
RGiC: Ohhhh! You mean you're going *around* now!
Episode 2:
In Indian English, it is understood that when you use the word 'parlour', you mean a beauty parlour (or 'salon', if you prefer).
So I'm on the phone with n and she asks.
N: Haan, so where are you right now?
Me: In the parlour.
N: (after three seconds of confused silence) Isn't this your ghar ka phone number?
Me: Hunh? Yes it is. Why?
N: Tera parlour tere ghar ke paas hai?? Do you have an extension there?
Me: What on *earth* are you talking about?! Parlour ghar ke andar hota hai shaayad? And this is the main phone line...the extension is upstairs.
N thinking: MAN these Nigerian Indians are a weird lot!
Me thinking: MAN this woman makes lesser and lesser sense every day!
And all because English is a very funny language.*
*Part of this dialogue from an old Amitabh Bachchan movie, Namak Halal.
I was sixteen when we moved from Nigeria, right after my grade ten (and yes, we called them grades one to twelve. NOT classes one to twelve, NOT standards one to twelve. *Grades*) board exams. Owing to the bubble environment we'd grown up in, I spoke a strangely stilted Hindi, and very fluent, but very weirdly accented English. It wasn't Nigerian English and it wasn't Indian English. The closest I can come to describing it is, as a cross between Indian and British, with a touch of American thrown in for good (or maybe not) measure.
"But why should you have any of those accents?!", you ask. "I have NO idea", I say.
Hey, I didn't make The Bubble, I just lived in it.
The accent was never really a problem though. At least, not as far as making myself understood was concerned. Getting people to stop thinking I was snooty bitch because I wouldn't (I couldn't dammit) speak in Hindi, was of course, another issue altogether.
But I'm rambling again.
Episode 1:
The first time I was let in on the gossip going around in school, I was told in hush-hush tones that persons x and y were 'going around'.
Me: "Going around? Going around what??"
Random Girl in Class: You know... they're having a love affair!
Me: A LOVE AFFAIR?! But..but they can't have a love affair! They're in school!
RGiC: So?
See, till then, the only time I'd ever come across the words 'love affair', were in Mills & Boons novels and heavens! Love affairs were things that grown-ups had. They were, you know...sordid and occasionally even featured (oh fetch me my smelling salts!) *sex*!
So yes, I was quite scandalised, much to the puzzlement of the RGiC, who began wondering whether Indians in Nigeria were like, really backward, 'cos y'know, like, everyone goes around dude.
When V and I started dating, I proudly informed RGiC that we were 'going out' (by which, of course, I meant that we were seeing each other).
RGiC: Going out? Going out where??
Me: We're not going anywhere, we're just, well...he's my boyfriend now.
RGiC: Ohhhh! You mean you're going *around* now!
Episode 2:
In Indian English, it is understood that when you use the word 'parlour', you mean a beauty parlour (or 'salon', if you prefer).
So I'm on the phone with n and she asks.
N: Haan, so where are you right now?
Me: In the parlour.
N: (after three seconds of confused silence) Isn't this your ghar ka phone number?
Me: Hunh? Yes it is. Why?
N: Tera parlour tere ghar ke paas hai?? Do you have an extension there?
Me: What on *earth* are you talking about?! Parlour ghar ke andar hota hai shaayad? And this is the main phone line...the extension is upstairs.
N thinking: MAN these Nigerian Indians are a weird lot!
Me thinking: MAN this woman makes lesser and lesser sense every day!
And all because English is a very funny language.*
*Part of this dialogue from an old Amitabh Bachchan movie, Namak Halal.
Trial by...
Why do trial rooms have those strange doors? You know, the ones that look like they ran out wood so they just sort of fitted in whatever they had left over and hoped that people wouldn't be that upset about the world being able to see their socks?
Only, there is a much more disturbing aspect to these doors, which I discovered when I went shopping for a pair of jeans* yesterday.
Woman walks into a store. Woman does not like pushy sales people. As if on cue, she is immediately accosted by one.
Stud Boy Sales Guy: Hi ma'am! Can I help you?".
Woman: I'm...ummm...looking for a pair of jeans.
SBSG: Sure ma'am! What waist size?
(at which point SBSG looks at woman's midriff appraisingly and says, "I know size x**!", and saunters off to get it)
Woman: Actually, I want a size x+1, in dark blue...with a regular rise.
(SBSG stops in mid-saunter, turns around horrified)
SBSG: But ma'am, low rise is in right now!
Woman: Regular, please.
SBSG returns with jeans in hand and skepticism on face. Woman steps into the trial room, SBSG stands right outside, and that is when she realises; SBSG is standing right outside said trial room, which means, he is going to know when Woman takes her pants (trousers, if you're thinking Brit) off. Okay, so he can't actually *see* anything apart from sock-clad feet but still...he knows, and that's enough to make Woman want to climb up the walls, Spidey-style and then face whatever trials (pun unintended, but apt) come her way.
Woman, sadly enough, has never been bitten by radioactive spiders, so climbing up the walls is out. Lacking a plan 'B', Woman decides that a little Houdini-style-flexibility is the call of the hour.
Woman tries to squeeze herself out of line of vision (complicated, when you're in a 3x3 room) and try on jeans at the same time (a difficult maneuver, at the best of times). She is mid-wiggle into the jeans when she hears a voice.
SBSG: Ma'am, is it okay? Is it too tight?
(woman freezes, much like bunny trapped in headlights, only imagine bunny in inconvenient state of undress as well. Woman, however, not being bunny, eventually recovers enough to stammer out) Ummm...a little, yes. Can you give me the same style in size x+1?
SBSG passes it over the door.
SBSG: (at eager-beaver-best) Is it okay ma'am? Can I see?
Woman: (What?! No! You can most certainly NOT see, you dolt! What Woman *says* however, is) Uh...No?
SBSG: Is it tight around the hips?
Woman: (with tendrils of smoke beginning to snake their way out of her nostrils) Look, can I come out and have this conversation??
SBSG: (most obligingly) Ya sure!
Woman steps out and hands SBSG the jeans with an icy, "I don't like them, thank you." and a matching frosty look. SBSG, obviously never having understood the language of icy looks, takes proffered denims and further proceeds to dish out advice.
SBSG: See ma'am, the problem is, in proportion to your waist, your hips are too broad.
Woman first blinks in disbelief, then seriously contemplates whacking SBSG over the head with her handbag. Having been brought up to be polite and infuriatingly non-confrontational however, she regretfully discards this line of thought, instead, switching to that last weapon in the arsenal of the wuss, sarcasm.
Woman: (smiling brightly) Really? Thank you so much! I think you're *wonderful* too!
SBSG: (smiling brightly back, absolutely oblivious to the dripping sarcasm) That's okay, no problem!
And that would be the first, of three times in the last week, that random people have said to me, sentences ending with, "your hips are too broad".
Jeans fit weird?
"Your hips are too broad".
Slipped off the raft?
"Your hips are too broad".
Global warming?
"Your hips are too broad".
Is this fair, I ask you. Is it?
*Which, in Chronicus Skepticus' speak, translates into, 'I walked through the fires of hell', because my GOD, there are few activities* I *loathe* more than shopping.
**And just because you're the internet and know pretty much everything *else* that there is to know about me, is not reason enough for me to let you know my waist size as well. Some secrets are *meant* to be taken to graves alright? Let it go now.
Only, there is a much more disturbing aspect to these doors, which I discovered when I went shopping for a pair of jeans* yesterday.
Woman walks into a store. Woman does not like pushy sales people. As if on cue, she is immediately accosted by one.
Stud Boy Sales Guy: Hi ma'am! Can I help you?".
Woman: I'm...ummm...looking for a pair of jeans.
SBSG: Sure ma'am! What waist size?
(at which point SBSG looks at woman's midriff appraisingly and says, "I know size x**!", and saunters off to get it)
Woman: Actually, I want a size x+1, in dark blue...with a regular rise.
(SBSG stops in mid-saunter, turns around horrified)
SBSG: But ma'am, low rise is in right now!
Woman: Regular, please.
SBSG returns with jeans in hand and skepticism on face. Woman steps into the trial room, SBSG stands right outside, and that is when she realises; SBSG is standing right outside said trial room, which means, he is going to know when Woman takes her pants (trousers, if you're thinking Brit) off. Okay, so he can't actually *see* anything apart from sock-clad feet but still...he knows, and that's enough to make Woman want to climb up the walls, Spidey-style and then face whatever trials (pun unintended, but apt) come her way.
Woman, sadly enough, has never been bitten by radioactive spiders, so climbing up the walls is out. Lacking a plan 'B', Woman decides that a little Houdini-style-flexibility is the call of the hour.
Woman tries to squeeze herself out of line of vision (complicated, when you're in a 3x3 room) and try on jeans at the same time (a difficult maneuver, at the best of times). She is mid-wiggle into the jeans when she hears a voice.
SBSG: Ma'am, is it okay? Is it too tight?
(woman freezes, much like bunny trapped in headlights, only imagine bunny in inconvenient state of undress as well. Woman, however, not being bunny, eventually recovers enough to stammer out) Ummm...a little, yes. Can you give me the same style in size x+1?
SBSG passes it over the door.
SBSG: (at eager-beaver-best) Is it okay ma'am? Can I see?
Woman: (What?! No! You can most certainly NOT see, you dolt! What Woman *says* however, is) Uh...No?
SBSG: Is it tight around the hips?
Woman: (with tendrils of smoke beginning to snake their way out of her nostrils) Look, can I come out and have this conversation??
SBSG: (most obligingly) Ya sure!
Woman steps out and hands SBSG the jeans with an icy, "I don't like them, thank you." and a matching frosty look. SBSG, obviously never having understood the language of icy looks, takes proffered denims and further proceeds to dish out advice.
SBSG: See ma'am, the problem is, in proportion to your waist, your hips are too broad.
Woman first blinks in disbelief, then seriously contemplates whacking SBSG over the head with her handbag. Having been brought up to be polite and infuriatingly non-confrontational however, she regretfully discards this line of thought, instead, switching to that last weapon in the arsenal of the wuss, sarcasm.
Woman: (smiling brightly) Really? Thank you so much! I think you're *wonderful* too!
SBSG: (smiling brightly back, absolutely oblivious to the dripping sarcasm) That's okay, no problem!
And that would be the first, of three times in the last week, that random people have said to me, sentences ending with, "your hips are too broad".
Jeans fit weird?
"Your hips are too broad".
Slipped off the raft?
"Your hips are too broad".
Global warming?
"Your hips are too broad".
Is this fair, I ask you. Is it?
*Which, in Chronicus Skepticus' speak, translates into, 'I walked through the fires of hell', because my GOD, there are few activities* I *loathe* more than shopping.
**And just because you're the internet and know pretty much everything *else* that there is to know about me, is not reason enough for me to let you know my waist size as well. Some secrets are *meant* to be taken to graves alright? Let it go now.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Tag! Or 'Meme', if that's what YOU call it!
Well, since no-one *ever* tags me (and yes, I'm enough of a blogging newbie to sulk about it) I shall go ahead and tag myself! So there!
Also, I'm suffering from the worst attack of blog-clog *ever* (no wisecracks. I FORBID you to make wisecracks!) and I have read from reliable sources, that a tag is the best way! Cures it right away, it does*. So, here goes.
I'm thinking:
About these lines from the title song in Iqbal -
Guzre aise har raat raat,
Ho khwaaishon se baat baat...
- and I'm trying to remember the last time, if ever, I was this excited, this hopeful about anything (and no, romantic stuff doesn't count). You know the lying awake at night, thrilling with anticipation for the next day? Yes, that feeling. And I'm wondering, will I ever have it again?
And the answer is scaring me.
I said:
"Oh, what the hell!" and went ahead and did it anyway.
I want to:
Be in The Yellow Submarine song. You know how when you're listening to a song, you can see it happening in your head? The yellow submarine, the bells, the marching band, the happy stoned-ness of the whole picture? You can just see them all drinking beer and having a jolly good time, and in the picture? I would totally be the happy high guy echoing Ringo Starr as he sang,"everyone of uuuus (everyone of us!) has all we neeeed (has all we need!)! Sky of bluuuue (sky of blue!), and sea of greeeeen (and sea of green!), in our ye-he-llow submareeenn!".
Don't you?
I wish:
I was oh about ten kilos lighter...and about eight inches taller...and had a sharper nose. Who needs world peace when you're pretty, I ask you!
I miss:
Not caring about consequences. Or hell, not even considering that there might be any. "Consequences Shmonsequences!" is what I would have said, if you'd mentioned them a year ago.
I hear:
Everything wrong. And the few occasions I hear right, I misinterpret completely! I either have a hearing problem, or a perception problem.
I wonder:
At the fact that S and I are friends. It just seems so...unlikely. She's the kind of girl who lights an agarbatti every day in front of her potted tulsi plant. She also believes that if she touches the darn thing during her periods, it (the plant) will shrivel up and die. She's been fasting every goddamn friday for the last ten years and believes, really believes that 'God will take care of her'. Despite all the evidence to the contrary.
She has a room full of (ugh) stuffed toys, loves Madhuri Dixit and (Oh horror!) Hum Aapke Hain Kaun which she's watched FOURTEEN TIMES. Hold me up somebody, I'm fa-ll-ing.
Still, we're friends.
I regret:
Very little. Except the 'Oh what the hell' decisions.
I dance:
Well enough, but not better than n. That woman can *move*!
I sing:
Waaayy better than I dance.
I am:
in a funny sort of place right now. Y'know...in my head. AS IN, my head is IN a funny sort of place right now (and again, let's just skip the wisecracks, shall we?), NOT that my head is funny place to be in. How would you get in anyway?
I cry:
And then I get really mad at myself for being such a wuss.
I'm not always:
Soft-spoken. And those days, I am not a nice person to know.
I make with my hands:
A delicious mushroom and potato subji...and fish in *hot* mustard curry. Oh and music on my guitar...and dog-ears to mark my pages in books.
I write:
Much better in my head. No, honest. My head is filled with thrilling prose, but somehow, it doesn't get past my fingers. Damned fingers. *aside to fingers* I ought to chop you off for being so darned un-co-operative.
I confuse:
People...or so I've been told. Why that should be is beyond me. Far as I know, I'm an open book.
I need:
...do you really want me to get into this again? A NEW JOB!
***
I've been reading a collection of Carl Sandburg's poems, gifted to me by the Crazy White Girl (whom, sadly enough, I did not have the planned angry dance-off with, because the dance-off-erred did not show. Hmpfh.) and while I know that he's talking about Chicago, I can't help thinking that all of his poems seem to fit Bombay just as well.
Sample this:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Doesn't it sound like it was written expressly for Bombay? Sorry Carl Sandburg, and thank you Beth! :)
*And see? It works! Not only did the tag make me post, it made me do a Long Rambling Post!
Also, I'm suffering from the worst attack of blog-clog *ever* (no wisecracks. I FORBID you to make wisecracks!) and I have read from reliable sources, that a tag is the best way! Cures it right away, it does*. So, here goes.
I'm thinking:
About these lines from the title song in Iqbal -
Guzre aise har raat raat,
Ho khwaaishon se baat baat...
- and I'm trying to remember the last time, if ever, I was this excited, this hopeful about anything (and no, romantic stuff doesn't count). You know the lying awake at night, thrilling with anticipation for the next day? Yes, that feeling. And I'm wondering, will I ever have it again?
And the answer is scaring me.
I said:
"Oh, what the hell!" and went ahead and did it anyway.
I want to:
Be in The Yellow Submarine song. You know how when you're listening to a song, you can see it happening in your head? The yellow submarine, the bells, the marching band, the happy stoned-ness of the whole picture? You can just see them all drinking beer and having a jolly good time, and in the picture? I would totally be the happy high guy echoing Ringo Starr as he sang,"everyone of uuuus (everyone of us!) has all we neeeed (has all we need!)! Sky of bluuuue (sky of blue!), and sea of greeeeen (and sea of green!), in our ye-he-llow submareeenn!".
Don't you?
I wish:
I was oh about ten kilos lighter...and about eight inches taller...and had a sharper nose. Who needs world peace when you're pretty, I ask you!
I miss:
Not caring about consequences. Or hell, not even considering that there might be any. "Consequences Shmonsequences!" is what I would have said, if you'd mentioned them a year ago.
I hear:
Everything wrong. And the few occasions I hear right, I misinterpret completely! I either have a hearing problem, or a perception problem.
I wonder:
At the fact that S and I are friends. It just seems so...unlikely. She's the kind of girl who lights an agarbatti every day in front of her potted tulsi plant. She also believes that if she touches the darn thing during her periods, it (the plant) will shrivel up and die. She's been fasting every goddamn friday for the last ten years and believes, really believes that 'God will take care of her'. Despite all the evidence to the contrary.
She has a room full of (ugh) stuffed toys, loves Madhuri Dixit and (Oh horror!) Hum Aapke Hain Kaun which she's watched FOURTEEN TIMES. Hold me up somebody, I'm fa-ll-ing.
Still, we're friends.
I regret:
Very little. Except the 'Oh what the hell' decisions.
I dance:
Well enough, but not better than n. That woman can *move*!
I sing:
Waaayy better than I dance.
I am:
in a funny sort of place right now. Y'know...in my head. AS IN, my head is IN a funny sort of place right now (and again, let's just skip the wisecracks, shall we?), NOT that my head is funny place to be in. How would you get in anyway?
I cry:
And then I get really mad at myself for being such a wuss.
I'm not always:
Soft-spoken. And those days, I am not a nice person to know.
I make with my hands:
A delicious mushroom and potato subji...and fish in *hot* mustard curry. Oh and music on my guitar...and dog-ears to mark my pages in books.
I write:
Much better in my head. No, honest. My head is filled with thrilling prose, but somehow, it doesn't get past my fingers. Damned fingers. *aside to fingers* I ought to chop you off for being so darned un-co-operative.
I confuse:
People...or so I've been told. Why that should be is beyond me. Far as I know, I'm an open book.
I need:
...do you really want me to get into this again? A NEW JOB!
***
I've been reading a collection of Carl Sandburg's poems, gifted to me by the Crazy White Girl (whom, sadly enough, I did not have the planned angry dance-off with, because the dance-off-erred did not show. Hmpfh.) and while I know that he's talking about Chicago, I can't help thinking that all of his poems seem to fit Bombay just as well.
Sample this:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Doesn't it sound like it was written expressly for Bombay? Sorry Carl Sandburg, and thank you Beth! :)
*And see? It works! Not only did the tag make me post, it made me do a Long Rambling Post!
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Damn I'm Good!
I cleaned up my desk today.
And that's the most work I've done all. bluddy. week.
Apart from mastering this ancient art, of course.
*sigh*
And that's the most work I've done all. bluddy. week.
Apart from mastering this ancient art, of course.
*sigh*
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Heartsick
I am sick of it all. I am sick of the ‘resilience of Mumbaikars’, sick of their ‘coming together in moments of crisis’ and of their goddamn ‘indomitable spirit’. I am sick of being stoic and cheerful and smiling in the face of disaster.
I don’t want to be ‘resilient’ anymore. I don’t want this city to ‘bounce back’ and I don’t want to display courage. I want this city to shed it’s ‘never say die’ attitude like yesterday’s muddy, bloodstained clothes.
Because you see what’s happening don’t you?
We are turning into victims of the worst kind of freeloading ever. We are being sodomized by the state and the worst part of it is that, we’re getting so used to it that it seems ‘normal’ now.
From the text of statement issued by the Prime Minister:
"The series of blasts in Jammu and Kashmir and in Mumbai are shocking and cowardly attempts to spread a feeling of fear and terror among our citizens.“
The Prime Minister has also appealed for people to "remain calm, not to believe rumours, and carry on their activity normally".
Also:
Shocked by the brutal terrorist attack in Mumbai, Congress president Sonia Gandhi, Union Home Minister Shivraj Patil, Railway Minister Lalu Prasad Yadav along with other officials visited Mumbai late night on Tuesday for an on-the-spot review of the situation.
'Shocking'? ’Shocked’? Took you by surprise did they, those terrorists? Never saw them coming, did you? Because you know, O great leaders of this country, you’re pretty much the only ones who didn't. The normal people, distressed and horrified as they were, moved right into action like they knew the drill. Like they were born removing mangled bodies from scenes of terror and destruction. Like severed limbs, and blood and remains of human bodies, were things that they’d seen so many times, they knew what to do. They queued up outside hospitals to donate blood; they offered food, water, shelter and solace to each other because this has happened before, and it can happen again.
I wonder if you get what this says about your government.
It says, Prime Minister, that you have been – how does one say this diplomatically? – uhhh, slow. That you have failed the citizens of this country so many times, that they’ve gotten used to it now.
They no longer wait for the ‘authorities’ to rescue them, because if they did, they’d have a long wait ahead.
Mumbai has been put in a state of ‘high alert’, which, according to Maharashtra Chief Minister Vilasrao Deshmukh, apparently translates as, “All schools, colleges and offices will remain open and run as usual.”
So, you know, just in case you made it home alive yesterday, you can tempt fate again today.
Read this: ”New York police heightened security on subways on Tuesday after train bombings in India killed more than 160 people, while officials unveiled high-tech devices designed to prevent just such attacks.
Police called the measures -- including increased patrols and more random bag searches -- a precaution, and Mayor Michael Bloomberg told reporters there was no specific threat.”
And in contrast, this: ”The morning after the devastating blasts on the Western railway line, life is back to normal for the ever-resilient Mumbaikars. Train services are running normally and people are not hesitating to take the local trains to work.”
And this move is being lauded. As courageous, and brave and ‘never say die’ (which is ironic really, because you don’t actually get to say it, do you? You just, die) and that's what puts terrorists off, isn't it? They're probably thinking, "Yeah, y'know, those Mumbaikars...they're a courageous lot, so no point bombing them anymore". Likely? You think?
America, is being cautious despite the fact that there haven’t been any threats, but us? Oh no! We’re the ‘resilient’ ones. We shall shoulder on bravely (in an exemplary display of bloody foolishness) because you know, we’re *Mumbaikars*. And pats on the back from the media and the fucking ineffectual government, are apparently, enough to make it go away.
I saw a couple of policemen standing outside the local train stations, but no signs of bags being checked, frisking, security checks, nothing. So for all you know, the terrorists could’ve walked into the station, left a couple of couple of packages of RDX around and sauntered out again.
I think our country's motto should be changed from 'Satyamev Jayate' (and we all know how true that's been) to:
"Live each day as if it were your last, citizens of this country, because you know, it just might fucking be."
I don’t want to be ‘resilient’ anymore. I don’t want this city to ‘bounce back’ and I don’t want to display courage. I want this city to shed it’s ‘never say die’ attitude like yesterday’s muddy, bloodstained clothes.
Because you see what’s happening don’t you?
We are turning into victims of the worst kind of freeloading ever. We are being sodomized by the state and the worst part of it is that, we’re getting so used to it that it seems ‘normal’ now.
From the text of statement issued by the Prime Minister:
"The series of blasts in Jammu and Kashmir and in Mumbai are shocking and cowardly attempts to spread a feeling of fear and terror among our citizens.“
The Prime Minister has also appealed for people to "remain calm, not to believe rumours, and carry on their activity normally".
Also:
Shocked by the brutal terrorist attack in Mumbai, Congress president Sonia Gandhi, Union Home Minister Shivraj Patil, Railway Minister Lalu Prasad Yadav along with other officials visited Mumbai late night on Tuesday for an on-the-spot review of the situation.
'Shocking'? ’Shocked’? Took you by surprise did they, those terrorists? Never saw them coming, did you? Because you know, O great leaders of this country, you’re pretty much the only ones who didn't. The normal people, distressed and horrified as they were, moved right into action like they knew the drill. Like they were born removing mangled bodies from scenes of terror and destruction. Like severed limbs, and blood and remains of human bodies, were things that they’d seen so many times, they knew what to do. They queued up outside hospitals to donate blood; they offered food, water, shelter and solace to each other because this has happened before, and it can happen again.
I wonder if you get what this says about your government.
It says, Prime Minister, that you have been – how does one say this diplomatically? – uhhh, slow. That you have failed the citizens of this country so many times, that they’ve gotten used to it now.
They no longer wait for the ‘authorities’ to rescue them, because if they did, they’d have a long wait ahead.
Mumbai has been put in a state of ‘high alert’, which, according to Maharashtra Chief Minister Vilasrao Deshmukh, apparently translates as, “All schools, colleges and offices will remain open and run as usual.”
So, you know, just in case you made it home alive yesterday, you can tempt fate again today.
Read this: ”New York police heightened security on subways on Tuesday after train bombings in India killed more than 160 people, while officials unveiled high-tech devices designed to prevent just such attacks.
Police called the measures -- including increased patrols and more random bag searches -- a precaution, and Mayor Michael Bloomberg told reporters there was no specific threat.”
And in contrast, this: ”The morning after the devastating blasts on the Western railway line, life is back to normal for the ever-resilient Mumbaikars. Train services are running normally and people are not hesitating to take the local trains to work.”
And this move is being lauded. As courageous, and brave and ‘never say die’ (which is ironic really, because you don’t actually get to say it, do you? You just, die) and that's what puts terrorists off, isn't it? They're probably thinking, "Yeah, y'know, those Mumbaikars...they're a courageous lot, so no point bombing them anymore". Likely? You think?
America, is being cautious despite the fact that there haven’t been any threats, but us? Oh no! We’re the ‘resilient’ ones. We shall shoulder on bravely (in an exemplary display of bloody foolishness) because you know, we’re *Mumbaikars*. And pats on the back from the media and the fucking ineffectual government, are apparently, enough to make it go away.
I saw a couple of policemen standing outside the local train stations, but no signs of bags being checked, frisking, security checks, nothing. So for all you know, the terrorists could’ve walked into the station, left a couple of couple of packages of RDX around and sauntered out again.
I think our country's motto should be changed from 'Satyamev Jayate' (and we all know how true that's been) to:
"Live each day as if it were your last, citizens of this country, because you know, it just might fucking be."
Monday, July 10, 2006
More Than a Bird, More Than a Plane...
(Warning: Minor spoiler ahead.)
I was six years old when Superman flew his one-arm-outstretched-red-cape-fluttering way into my heart. Six feet four in his socks, with his twinkly blue eyes and lopsided-smile, he was warm, and convincing and *believable* (I was six; I believed in everything. Fairies, goblins, elves...you name it, I believed in it).
I remember being fascinated by the way Lois fainted, after Supey deposits her safely on the roof of the Lonely Planet building; the graceful buckling of the knees and the half-circle-sway and I remember thinking that if I ever fainted, that would be the way I'd do it*!
I still remember word for word, the interview-on-the-rooftop scene, and the rife-with-innuendo conversation between Supey and LL, (which was of course, completely lost on me then. Elves, remember?) and I remember going all *mushy* when Supey, with his shy smile, replies to LL’s question about girlfriends saying, "If I did, you'd be the first to know, Miss Lane."
All together now, "Awwww!".
That was, however, a very long time ago.
The new superman, via Superman Returns, however, came nowhere close to it (my heart, that is). That Brandon chappie, while tolerably cute, was not a patch on the original Supey, the Supey of my childhood.
Sure, there was the hot bod and the outfit**, but minus the charisma (and the pretty face) of CR, he just wasn't, you know...convincing. Not as nerdy Clark Kent, and definitely not as Superman.
Brandon Routh is everything that the original Superman was not, i.e., cold, insipid and well...fluff.
All the characters, and I mean all of them, were weak, watered-down versions of the originals. And the story had just about as much substance as a diet cracker.
Kate Bosworth had zero, zero spunkiness. Now Margot Kidder wasn't pretty in the conventional sense, but y'know? She had personality. Now there was a woman who looked like she had a brain...and a spine...and a heart. KB was so busy being all dewy and purty and lost-little-girl, she forgot to be Lois Lane. And a Pulitzer for chrissake? For a book titled "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman"?! R-i-i-i-ght.
The kid playing Supey's and KB's love-child was IN-CRED-IBLY annoying. With his look-at-me-I'm-wise-beyond-my-years expression and the now-patented I'm-an-unsure-kid walk, one was very tempted to pick him up and shake him and say,"stop with all the Joel-Haley-Osmont-ing kid, because you're not!".
Then there was the execrable Kitty something-or-the-other, who could be best described as 'ugh'. Not dumb-blonde-with-a-heart-of-gold like Miss Tesmacher, just really dumb.
There were a few watchable moments in the movie though; the plane-landing-in-the-baseball-field sequence (although you'd think KB would be a little more than just wobbly, post all the smashing-into-the-plane's-interiors that she'd done) and the bank robbery sequence. But that was about it.
Superman Returns, is at the end of the day, a movie which leaves you with mixed feelings. Disappointment, that it doesn't live up to Superman;The Movie, but also a strange feeling of relief that, well, at least your childhood memories are untouched.
* It didn't work. The mental note, i.e. The only time I ever fainted, it was more 'Wobble, wobble, wobble...Crash!', than soft-knee-buckle and half-circle-sway.
** The significance of which was explained to me recently, by a well-informed friend. Did you know that supey, being, well, a super man, was supposed to be super in (ahem!) every way? And that contrasting colours (like bright red against bright blue), draw the eye like nothing else? And that poor Supey had to wear some very uncomfortable ummm…substantiating pieces along with his suit?
I was six years old when Superman flew his one-arm-outstretched-red-cape-fluttering way into my heart. Six feet four in his socks, with his twinkly blue eyes and lopsided-smile, he was warm, and convincing and *believable* (I was six; I believed in everything. Fairies, goblins, elves...you name it, I believed in it).
I remember being fascinated by the way Lois fainted, after Supey deposits her safely on the roof of the Lonely Planet building; the graceful buckling of the knees and the half-circle-sway and I remember thinking that if I ever fainted, that would be the way I'd do it*!
I still remember word for word, the interview-on-the-rooftop scene, and the rife-with-innuendo conversation between Supey and LL, (which was of course, completely lost on me then. Elves, remember?) and I remember going all *mushy* when Supey, with his shy smile, replies to LL’s question about girlfriends saying, "If I did, you'd be the first to know, Miss Lane."
All together now, "Awwww!".
That was, however, a very long time ago.
The new superman, via Superman Returns, however, came nowhere close to it (my heart, that is). That Brandon chappie, while tolerably cute, was not a patch on the original Supey, the Supey of my childhood.
Sure, there was the hot bod and the outfit**, but minus the charisma (and the pretty face) of CR, he just wasn't, you know...convincing. Not as nerdy Clark Kent, and definitely not as Superman.
Brandon Routh is everything that the original Superman was not, i.e., cold, insipid and well...fluff.
All the characters, and I mean all of them, were weak, watered-down versions of the originals. And the story had just about as much substance as a diet cracker.
Kate Bosworth had zero, zero spunkiness. Now Margot Kidder wasn't pretty in the conventional sense, but y'know? She had personality. Now there was a woman who looked like she had a brain...and a spine...and a heart. KB was so busy being all dewy and purty and lost-little-girl, she forgot to be Lois Lane. And a Pulitzer for chrissake? For a book titled "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman"?! R-i-i-i-ght.
The kid playing Supey's and KB's love-child was IN-CRED-IBLY annoying. With his look-at-me-I'm-wise-beyond-my-years expression and the now-patented I'm-an-unsure-kid walk, one was very tempted to pick him up and shake him and say,"stop with all the Joel-Haley-Osmont-ing kid, because you're not!".
Then there was the execrable Kitty something-or-the-other, who could be best described as 'ugh'. Not dumb-blonde-with-a-heart-of-gold like Miss Tesmacher, just really dumb.
There were a few watchable moments in the movie though; the plane-landing-in-the-baseball-field sequence (although you'd think KB would be a little more than just wobbly, post all the smashing-into-the-plane's-interiors that she'd done) and the bank robbery sequence. But that was about it.
Superman Returns, is at the end of the day, a movie which leaves you with mixed feelings. Disappointment, that it doesn't live up to Superman;The Movie, but also a strange feeling of relief that, well, at least your childhood memories are untouched.
* It didn't work. The mental note, i.e. The only time I ever fainted, it was more 'Wobble, wobble, wobble...Crash!', than soft-knee-buckle and half-circle-sway.
** The significance of which was explained to me recently, by a well-informed friend. Did you know that supey, being, well, a super man, was supposed to be super in (ahem!) every way? And that contrasting colours (like bright red against bright blue), draw the eye like nothing else? And that poor Supey had to wear some very uncomfortable ummm…substantiating pieces along with his suit?
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Grey
She was in a good mood that day. Giggling, playful and occasionally, teasing. She watched them, a smile playing on her lips, as they did the silly yet endearing things they were prone to doing on days like these; smiling gleefully at the sky and squinting when their eyelashes caught raindrops, sticking their arms out of windows, doors, canopied balconies, as if hoping to catch a cloud and set it free.
She watched them as they scurried about, looking like colourful mushrooms which had swallowed giant spiders. And then laughed hard as a strong gust hit the mushrooms and flipped them upside down, into a field of swaying multi-coloured, many-patterned poppies on decidedly wobbly stems.
They really were quite amusing.
The others were smarter. None of the pointless running around in flimsy (supposedly) protective skins, none of that they-can’t-get-along-without-me silliness, no exaggerated self of self-importance, which was, in her opinion, the way it should be.
“They should be taking shelter” she thought. “Huddling together in the shade of trees, under rocks, in caves…they should be frightened.”
And slowly, the familiar annoyance of being taken for granted began creeping up on her.
“Enough of being the all-loving, all-caring, all-goddamn-giving one. It’s never enough and they’re never grateful, never even said thank you! Instead, they leach; take what they need right then, never replenish and never, ever clean up after themselves.”
“They need to be taught a lesson”, she thought, “taught that you can’t use others endlessly, with no thought of the consequences”.
“Try this for size, little ones”, she said, seething with cold fury, as she gathered up all the loaded clouds, flung them on the city, and watched them burst…sending them all scurrying, like little rats .
I apologise for the bleakness of this post. I *like* rain (mostly), really I do, but I’ve been marooned at home four days in a row, and it’s getting a little depressing now.
She watched them as they scurried about, looking like colourful mushrooms which had swallowed giant spiders. And then laughed hard as a strong gust hit the mushrooms and flipped them upside down, into a field of swaying multi-coloured, many-patterned poppies on decidedly wobbly stems.
They really were quite amusing.
The others were smarter. None of the pointless running around in flimsy (supposedly) protective skins, none of that they-can’t-get-along-without-me silliness, no exaggerated self of self-importance, which was, in her opinion, the way it should be.
“They should be taking shelter” she thought. “Huddling together in the shade of trees, under rocks, in caves…they should be frightened.”
And slowly, the familiar annoyance of being taken for granted began creeping up on her.
“Enough of being the all-loving, all-caring, all-goddamn-giving one. It’s never enough and they’re never grateful, never even said thank you! Instead, they leach; take what they need right then, never replenish and never, ever clean up after themselves.”
“They need to be taught a lesson”, she thought, “taught that you can’t use others endlessly, with no thought of the consequences”.
“Try this for size, little ones”, she said, seething with cold fury, as she gathered up all the loaded clouds, flung them on the city, and watched them burst…sending them all scurrying, like little rats .
I apologise for the bleakness of this post. I *like* rain (mostly), really I do, but I’ve been marooned at home four days in a row, and it’s getting a little depressing now.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Leeeaaving (or hoping to) on A Jet Plane (and we're taking this hope thing FAR!)
You travel, we pay.Isn't that a lovely, lovely line? Why don't people say this to us more often?
Well the finalists are up and we happen to be one of the chosen ones (and by golly we're surprised!).
We have no idea on what basis the final selection will be made, but we have our fingers, toes and eyes firmly crossed.
We're also chasing a chicken to sacrifice at the altar of the OTB gods, but the damned thing keeps getting away. There's a slab of wood close at hand and we're making a determined effort to stay away from black cats, ladders and spilled salt. A string of nimbu and mirchi has been duly hung up on our Macintosh and a horseshoe has been pinched from it's owner (let it go darn hoss! You can get another one!).
We think we're all set now. Oh wait, wish us well, blog-people?
Update:
The results are in and it turns out we're not the one. We're a *little* disappointed, after all, spending other people's money is just so much more fun!
Ah well! For those intent on walking, the road goes ever on...
Chicken Little and Other Stories
Ever since the bird-flu outbreak, the SB has sworn off poultry in it's many glorious forms - boiled/fried/scrambled/omelett-ed eggs, tandoori/fried/curried chicken and even pastries* which might have egg as an ingredient.
Nothing can convince him. Not the explanation, "But it's been cooked at above 100 degrees Celsius and everyone knows that 70 is enough!"; not the government's declaration of the state's bird-flu-freeness; nope, not even Sanjay Dutt in all his shirtless** (and arm wrestling with an animated chicken) glory.
The SB refers to this unreasonable, unfair rejection of normal-breakfast-food as being 'risk averse'; we, to send home a point, run around the house screaming that 'the sky is about to fall on our heads any moment now and we'd better take cover!'.
In adherence to the non-interference treaty of September '05*** however, he cannot stop, hamper or protest against *our* consumption of poultry. Except for frowning in disapproval whenever we cheerfully call up the corner store to send us a dozen eggs.
Which is why, it is even more fun to call him into the kitchen when we're making breakfast and say, "Look SB! Yummy fried bird-flu!", and watch him turn some very interesting shades of purple.
Such fun!
*Souffles and mousses (in which the eggs ARE RAW!), he is, inexplicably enough, okay with.
**An honour, previously conferred upon Salman the Unbelievably Lucky.
***"I will not presume to know better than you, what is good for you, so help me god."
***
In other news, we have discovered that we're quite terribly susceptible to the enthusiasm-bug. By which we mean, a couple of words at the right time, at the right place, and we're absolutely bubbling over with the stuff.
One (seemingly innocent) conversation with a certain somebody (you know who you are...Yes! You!) about the benefits of fitness, and we're thinking - "Hmmm...he has a point there. You DO feel better after a run...it would be great if we could fit into that pair of jeans again...Oh! Remember that slinky black dress*?! We'd forgotten all about it!! We could wear that!" - and from there, it's just one small step to showing up in the gym all shiny and happy and scaring-the-daylights-out-of-the-gym-instructor.
We are blinded by visions of shopping for doll-sized articles of clothing and slipping into them with nary a wiggle, and don't even notice the rest of the people in the gym, slowly backing off from the earthquake, the epicenter of which is us. We run up to the instructor after every couple of minutes, deluding ourselves that the look in his eyes is the 'you-go-girl! of non-verbal communication, when it is actually the okay!-crazy-lady-on-the-loose-people!-man-your-stations-NOW! of it.
The problem with the enthusiasm-bug is, it lacks foresight, or no wait, what it lacks is near-future-as-in-what-will-happen-tomorrow-foresight.
So now, while we *do* believe that fitness is a good thing, we're pretty sure that being this enthusiastic about it, is not.
Because today, we woke up, no closer to the body beautiful, but with a gait that bore a striking resemblance to the Tin Man's, pre-oiling. And feeling like a herd of elephants slow-danced over us the night before.
Ouch.
* Yes. We do own a slinky black dress. It is tucked away with all the other 26"- waisted (wasted?) outfits in the Wardrobe of Hope.
Nothing can convince him. Not the explanation, "But it's been cooked at above 100 degrees Celsius and everyone knows that 70 is enough!"; not the government's declaration of the state's bird-flu-freeness; nope, not even Sanjay Dutt in all his shirtless** (and arm wrestling with an animated chicken) glory.
The SB refers to this unreasonable, unfair rejection of normal-breakfast-food as being 'risk averse'; we, to send home a point, run around the house screaming that 'the sky is about to fall on our heads any moment now and we'd better take cover!'.
In adherence to the non-interference treaty of September '05*** however, he cannot stop, hamper or protest against *our* consumption of poultry. Except for frowning in disapproval whenever we cheerfully call up the corner store to send us a dozen eggs.
Which is why, it is even more fun to call him into the kitchen when we're making breakfast and say, "Look SB! Yummy fried bird-flu!", and watch him turn some very interesting shades of purple.
Such fun!
*Souffles and mousses (in which the eggs ARE RAW!), he is, inexplicably enough, okay with.
**An honour, previously conferred upon Salman the Unbelievably Lucky.
***"I will not presume to know better than you, what is good for you, so help me god."
***
In other news, we have discovered that we're quite terribly susceptible to the enthusiasm-bug. By which we mean, a couple of words at the right time, at the right place, and we're absolutely bubbling over with the stuff.
One (seemingly innocent) conversation with a certain somebody (you know who you are...Yes! You!) about the benefits of fitness, and we're thinking - "Hmmm...he has a point there. You DO feel better after a run...it would be great if we could fit into that pair of jeans again...Oh! Remember that slinky black dress*?! We'd forgotten all about it!! We could wear that!" - and from there, it's just one small step to showing up in the gym all shiny and happy and scaring-the-daylights-out-of-the-gym-instructor.
We are blinded by visions of shopping for doll-sized articles of clothing and slipping into them with nary a wiggle, and don't even notice the rest of the people in the gym, slowly backing off from the earthquake, the epicenter of which is us. We run up to the instructor after every couple of minutes, deluding ourselves that the look in his eyes is the 'you-go-girl! of non-verbal communication, when it is actually the okay!-crazy-lady-on-the-loose-people!-man-your-stations-NOW! of it.
The problem with the enthusiasm-bug is, it lacks foresight, or no wait, what it lacks is near-future-as-in-what-will-happen-tomorrow-foresight.
So now, while we *do* believe that fitness is a good thing, we're pretty sure that being this enthusiastic about it, is not.
Because today, we woke up, no closer to the body beautiful, but with a gait that bore a striking resemblance to the Tin Man's, pre-oiling. And feeling like a herd of elephants slow-danced over us the night before.
Ouch.
* Yes. We do own a slinky black dress. It is tucked away with all the other 26"- waisted (wasted?) outfits in the Wardrobe of Hope.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Picky! Picky! Picky!
Behind ice lies J&K Govt-Governor chill
For people who have chosen to bow down in worship to a stalagmite, for it's resemblance to a penis*, they're awful fussy.
*And it says some rather worrying things about you, when out of all the symbols in the whole wide world you could have chosen to symbolise divinity, you choose a penis.
Religion is so strange.
For people who have chosen to bow down in worship to a stalagmite, for it's resemblance to a penis*, they're awful fussy.
*And it says some rather worrying things about you, when out of all the symbols in the whole wide world you could have chosen to symbolise divinity, you choose a penis.
Religion is so strange.
Monday, June 19, 2006
On a Clear Day...
...and if you look really closely at the picture, you can see (no, not 'forever', smarty-pants) a sliver of the sea.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Dating 101
In response to QS. Gemini's list of dating dos and don'ts, and the posts it spawned here and here, we present to you ladies and gentlemen, an alternate point of view. Note, we do not say right or wrong (although we might think some points are), we say, 'alternate'.
Why we're doing this is a bit of a mystery since our dating days are far behind us (and this is said with a ninety-ten mix of relief and regret), but we felt it was necessary to mention that QSG's list is QSG's list; different women, different lists.
In blue, we have snippets from QSG's post, the rest is our response to it.
1. He doesn't pick you up. Now, we all have cars, and its not about gas prices. There is something romantic about him picking you up and getting the door for you.
We don't expect him to. If he happens to be in the vicinity, then sure, drop by and pick us up but it's a bit unfair to ask him to drive half-way across town just to pick us up and then drive back all the way to the intended date-destination.
If the date ends at a late hour, or specifically at an hour we don't feel completely safe travelling alone, then we expect to be dropped home. Note, this is a situation specific to India. We don't think this would apply to the US/UK (again, this is an assumption based on what we've heard from women-friends who have lived in these two countries) .
We've never consciously thought about whether or not doors are being held open for us; you reach the door, you open it. What's with the waiting? The few times we have had doors held open for us, we have been a little startled and quite amused (in an 'oh how quaint but sweet' kind of way).
We do NOT like having chairs pulled out for us. We're always a little wary of the timing; will he manage to position the chair before our butt descends on it? Will we end up sitting on half a chair? What if the chair doesn't make it on time? What if we end up on the floor?! *sigh* It's a situation that's just *so* much better avoided.
2. He picks a cheap restaurant.
A preferred situation would be if the destination is mutually decided upon. Economics is irrelevant. We'd be equally happy walking along bandstand munching channas, as we'd be at The Saltwater Grill. We think we'd like the channas at bandstand more, though.
If it is a place that the gentleman has chosen, the only requisites are that it should NOT be shady (as in, dark, dingy, with a predominantly drunken male clientele) and said gentleman should be familiar with it.
3. He expects you to pay, or decides to go dutch. Now, I am very independent and make okay money and take care of myself. But, am still old fashioned enough to want my man to take care of me. Is it so bad?
Errr...we think so. We really, really do not want to be taken care of...or, not this way at least. It's in situations like this that the rabid feminist* (as opposed to the normal everyday feminist) in us wakes up and goes berserk. We feel genuinely squirmy and uncomfortable if we're, well...paid for (We know, we know. NOT reasonable, but we *did* say rabid feminist didn't we?).
4. He dresses poorly. Like him to look sharp. Does not mean wearing and showing off every label he has (Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren - seriously, get over it!)
This is venue-dependent. It would be *most* horrifying if he showed up in designer togs (and we don't like soppy fops anyway) for a walk along Bandstand. It is more important that he be comfortable in whatever he's wearing. Seriously, we would have a lot more respect (and affection) for a man who can walk into a posh restaurant in jeans, a t-shirt and floaters, and feel completely at home.
Any donned clothes however, *must* be clean (no last night's pizza toppings and no, NO sweat stains!). Gentlemen wearing said clothes should (preferably) be showered, shaved (unless you can carry off ze sexy stubble) and at the very least, deodorised.
5. Tries to get too touchy feely. Now, seriously, back off! Women can be very irresistible, but some self control is good!
Agree completely. We know women are often accused of sending out mixed signals as far as the touchy-feely issue goes, but though they might be subtle, the signs (green or red) are there. It is important that said gentleman knows how to read them.
6. Is too cheap to order dessert. Now that is the best part of the meal. That's all I can say!
Maybe he just doesn't *like* dessert? We know we don't. And if you want dessert, then you can go right ahead and order can't you? It is highly unlikely that he will stop you.
7. Ogles at cleavage - yours or someone else's!
Get up and walk out. This is not just a dating no-no, this is NOT someone you want to be with.
8. Boring. Boring. Boring.
Tough one. While carrying on a conversation is your responsibility as well, if you've tried and failed, then maybe you're just not suited to each other. We know we're positively *dead* boring to some people, and too-bubbly-for-our-own-good, to others.
9. Questions include whether or not you have a green card, how much you make, can you cook, do you like to do dishes...etc...duh!
Get up and walk out. Unless of course, you're terribly proud of your green card, how much money you make and doing dishes is a hobby with you (in which case, congratulations! You've found your man!). We like to cook but it seriously pisses us off if we are asked whether or not we can*. Especially if the asker cannot, and insists on making inane statements like, "Oh I can eat!". You can! Ya don't say! You are SO cool!
Bah!
* Again, a wake-up call for the rabidly feministic us. Again, not really reasonable. We mean, we wouldn't be annoyed if he asked us if we liked painting (or anything else). But this question (in our head) just reeks of gender stereotyping.
10. Eyes clearly suggest that he is desperately looking to get laid. Only.
Get up and walk out. Unless that's what you're looking to as well and, well it's all okay then, isn't it?
All that said, when we were dating, our filters were C&H and Terry Pratchett. And we're happy to say, they worked just fine. We have never regretted dating any of the filtered-through, although the memories of the rest of the dated send us running down the what-the-HELL-were-you-thinking-woman-road.
Ah well! You're only young and foolish once. Thankfully.
Why we're doing this is a bit of a mystery since our dating days are far behind us (and this is said with a ninety-ten mix of relief and regret), but we felt it was necessary to mention that QSG's list is QSG's list; different women, different lists.
In blue, we have snippets from QSG's post, the rest is our response to it.
1. He doesn't pick you up. Now, we all have cars, and its not about gas prices. There is something romantic about him picking you up and getting the door for you.
We don't expect him to. If he happens to be in the vicinity, then sure, drop by and pick us up but it's a bit unfair to ask him to drive half-way across town just to pick us up and then drive back all the way to the intended date-destination.
If the date ends at a late hour, or specifically at an hour we don't feel completely safe travelling alone, then we expect to be dropped home. Note, this is a situation specific to India. We don't think this would apply to the US/UK (again, this is an assumption based on what we've heard from women-friends who have lived in these two countries) .
We've never consciously thought about whether or not doors are being held open for us; you reach the door, you open it. What's with the waiting? The few times we have had doors held open for us, we have been a little startled and quite amused (in an 'oh how quaint but sweet' kind of way).
We do NOT like having chairs pulled out for us. We're always a little wary of the timing; will he manage to position the chair before our butt descends on it? Will we end up sitting on half a chair? What if the chair doesn't make it on time? What if we end up on the floor?! *sigh* It's a situation that's just *so* much better avoided.
2. He picks a cheap restaurant.
A preferred situation would be if the destination is mutually decided upon. Economics is irrelevant. We'd be equally happy walking along bandstand munching channas, as we'd be at The Saltwater Grill. We think we'd like the channas at bandstand more, though.
If it is a place that the gentleman has chosen, the only requisites are that it should NOT be shady (as in, dark, dingy, with a predominantly drunken male clientele) and said gentleman should be familiar with it.
3. He expects you to pay, or decides to go dutch. Now, I am very independent and make okay money and take care of myself. But, am still old fashioned enough to want my man to take care of me. Is it so bad?
Errr...we think so. We really, really do not want to be taken care of...or, not this way at least. It's in situations like this that the rabid feminist* (as opposed to the normal everyday feminist) in us wakes up and goes berserk. We feel genuinely squirmy and uncomfortable if we're, well...paid for (We know, we know. NOT reasonable, but we *did* say rabid feminist didn't we?).
4. He dresses poorly. Like him to look sharp. Does not mean wearing and showing off every label he has (Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren - seriously, get over it!)
This is venue-dependent. It would be *most* horrifying if he showed up in designer togs (and we don't like soppy fops anyway) for a walk along Bandstand. It is more important that he be comfortable in whatever he's wearing. Seriously, we would have a lot more respect (and affection) for a man who can walk into a posh restaurant in jeans, a t-shirt and floaters, and feel completely at home.
Any donned clothes however, *must* be clean (no last night's pizza toppings and no, NO sweat stains!). Gentlemen wearing said clothes should (preferably) be showered, shaved (unless you can carry off ze sexy stubble) and at the very least, deodorised.
5. Tries to get too touchy feely. Now, seriously, back off! Women can be very irresistible, but some self control is good!
Agree completely. We know women are often accused of sending out mixed signals as far as the touchy-feely issue goes, but though they might be subtle, the signs (green or red) are there. It is important that said gentleman knows how to read them.
6. Is too cheap to order dessert. Now that is the best part of the meal. That's all I can say!
Maybe he just doesn't *like* dessert? We know we don't. And if you want dessert, then you can go right ahead and order can't you? It is highly unlikely that he will stop you.
7. Ogles at cleavage - yours or someone else's!
Get up and walk out. This is not just a dating no-no, this is NOT someone you want to be with.
8. Boring. Boring. Boring.
Tough one. While carrying on a conversation is your responsibility as well, if you've tried and failed, then maybe you're just not suited to each other. We know we're positively *dead* boring to some people, and too-bubbly-for-our-own-good, to others.
9. Questions include whether or not you have a green card, how much you make, can you cook, do you like to do dishes...etc...duh!
Get up and walk out. Unless of course, you're terribly proud of your green card, how much money you make and doing dishes is a hobby with you (in which case, congratulations! You've found your man!). We like to cook but it seriously pisses us off if we are asked whether or not we can*. Especially if the asker cannot, and insists on making inane statements like, "Oh I can eat!". You can! Ya don't say! You are SO cool!
Bah!
* Again, a wake-up call for the rabidly feministic us. Again, not really reasonable. We mean, we wouldn't be annoyed if he asked us if we liked painting (or anything else). But this question (in our head) just reeks of gender stereotyping.
10. Eyes clearly suggest that he is desperately looking to get laid. Only.
Get up and walk out. Unless that's what you're looking to as well and, well it's all okay then, isn't it?
All that said, when we were dating, our filters were C&H and Terry Pratchett. And we're happy to say, they worked just fine. We have never regretted dating any of the filtered-through, although the memories of the rest of the dated send us running down the what-the-HELL-were-you-thinking-woman-road.
Ah well! You're only young and foolish once. Thankfully.
Monday, May 29, 2006
If I Could...
I would watch you sleep, see your dreams chase each other behind your closed eyes.
I would listen to the whisper of your soft, slow breath.
I would wait till the morning slid in through the curtains, and gently nudged you awake. Be with you, as you made the journey from last night's dreams to the reality of another day.
I would sit there, curled up and comfortable, on the couch by your bed, and inhale the second-hand-smoke from your first cigarette of the day.
I would watch you, as you threw off the sheets, slipped your feet into your chappals and shuffled off into the kitchen with a resigned sigh; I would smile at that.
I'd listen for the contented bubbling of the percolator, as it prepared your first - of four or more, depending on what kind of day you were having - cup of coffee.
Black, no sugar.
I would relive the countless mornings that we'd gone through the same routine - sleepy mornings, cigarettes, slippers, coffee - and I would wonder; would you do things differently, if you knew I was there?
If you knew all of us were there?
This post, incidentally, is in answer to the question Amit asked, about what you would do if you were invisible.
I would listen to the whisper of your soft, slow breath.
I would wait till the morning slid in through the curtains, and gently nudged you awake. Be with you, as you made the journey from last night's dreams to the reality of another day.
I would sit there, curled up and comfortable, on the couch by your bed, and inhale the second-hand-smoke from your first cigarette of the day.
I would watch you, as you threw off the sheets, slipped your feet into your chappals and shuffled off into the kitchen with a resigned sigh; I would smile at that.
I'd listen for the contented bubbling of the percolator, as it prepared your first - of four or more, depending on what kind of day you were having - cup of coffee.
Black, no sugar.
I would relive the countless mornings that we'd gone through the same routine - sleepy mornings, cigarettes, slippers, coffee - and I would wonder; would you do things differently, if you knew I was there?
If you knew all of us were there?
This post, incidentally, is in answer to the question Amit asked, about what you would do if you were invisible.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Mumbai Blogger's Meet
One's very first blogger's meet was attended, and while one cannot speak for all the attendees, one had a jolly good time.
The words flew fast and furious, as a multitude of topics were discussed - ranging from programming, photography, marriage, sexuality, previous blog meets and of course reservations - disputed and dismissed, sometimes all three at the same time.
We apologise profusely to those bloggers, whom we might have deafened/frightened/horrified with our...errr...vociferous (?) reactions to the issues being discussed.
Our impressions of some of the bloggers (because we didn't get to speak to all of them as much as we would've liked to):
1) Amit was a lot less vocal than we expected. Although to be fair, he would have had to be a lot more than just vocal, to be heard above the din (yours truly being one of it's main contributors).
2) The Idea smithy was all spunk and fire and feminism and SO the kind of woman we'd *totally* ask out if we were a guy. Or gay. Since we're neither, we'll just say, she's awesome fun.
3) Evenstar, dainty and delicate and Juliet-like; one could almost picture her standing in a latticed balcony, leaning her cheek upon her hand. Until she mentioned, in her soft voice, that she'd just gotten back from attending an anti-reservation protest at Azad Maidan (which turned out - as she discovered later - to be a pro-reservation rally, but hey, she was there. Which is more than we can say for ourselves). The things these Juliet-like women get upto these days, I tell you!
4) Sakshi was just like her blog; straightforward and very chilled out.
5) Oh then, there was the mysterious Mr. Gera (whom we find mysterious primarily because we have no idea what his first name is) who spent a lot of time explaining how, if you took the code from the back of his t-shirt, and inserted it into the script on the front of his t-shirt, you would get four small camels.
We're terribly unclear about how exactly this was supposed to happen, but there you have it.
Mr. Gera helpfully added - in between turning round and round to show everyone the front and the back of his t-shirt - that it was 'absolutely useless, but totally cool'.
And you know, somehow, at that point of time? It made perfect sense.
6) The Bombay Addict, as his name suggests, a true blue Mumbaikar. From Uttar Pradesh. We found we had a bit of a wavelength-matching-thingy going on here. Until he played devil's advocate over the reservations issue, after which we screamed and bit his head off. We're sorry we bit your head off, Anupam.
7) Then there was young Akshay, of Trivial Matters who was, pestered incessantly to hire us as his pappu* (person who brings him chai, polishes his lenses, sets up camera...you get the idea), declared undying love to, and proposed marriage to, all within the space of five minutes, under the benevolent influence of two gimlets.
Akshay, displaying remarkable intelligence for one so young (also, one who consumed in succession, one baby milk shake** and two (or was that one?) mojitos), declined all three proposals. Smart kid!
8) The bachpan-ke-buddies from Rajasthan, Parijat and Piyush, were quite unlike what we expected IIT students to be. I mean, you know how you definitely expect IIT students to be intelligent, but not a whole lot more than that? These two were *bright*. And refreshingly laid-back.
9) Vijay. Who came, who saw and who was probably left speechless with horror/shock/disbelief because he spoke all of ten words in the four hours that he was there. Although he did take up the difficult task of typing out all fifteen names and URLs and then mailing them across to all fifteen of us. Thank you Vijay!
The rest of the attendees (whom we *really* wished we could've spoken to more) were, Zack, Saket, Anthony and Selvin.
All in all, it was an evening well spent. To quote a certain famous blogger, fun came.
The trip back home was a whole other story though. The trains were running terribly late, because of something called a 'Jumbo Block' at Borivli. When it did arrive (the train, that is), it was packed closer than a can of sardines and we ended up getting a full-body-massage with essential oils of everybody else (eeewww, I know. Totally). But you know what? This compartment, that's hot and humid and filled with five times more people than it was ever meant to hold; there's no screaming, no tempers flaring. In fact, the women are smiling, some are actually laughing and everyone is helping everyone get some place to stand. Dupattas are being cheerfully disentangled, children are being pushed towards their mothers, single chappals are being laughingly returned to their owners.
Do you see why I love this city?
*Because *everyone* seems to have a more interesting job than we do!
** Which was a disturbing shade of pink.
The words flew fast and furious, as a multitude of topics were discussed - ranging from programming, photography, marriage, sexuality, previous blog meets and of course reservations - disputed and dismissed, sometimes all three at the same time.
We apologise profusely to those bloggers, whom we might have deafened/frightened/horrified with our...errr...vociferous (?) reactions to the issues being discussed.
Our impressions of some of the bloggers (because we didn't get to speak to all of them as much as we would've liked to):
1) Amit was a lot less vocal than we expected. Although to be fair, he would have had to be a lot more than just vocal, to be heard above the din (yours truly being one of it's main contributors).
2) The Idea smithy was all spunk and fire and feminism and SO the kind of woman we'd *totally* ask out if we were a guy. Or gay. Since we're neither, we'll just say, she's awesome fun.
3) Evenstar, dainty and delicate and Juliet-like; one could almost picture her standing in a latticed balcony, leaning her cheek upon her hand. Until she mentioned, in her soft voice, that she'd just gotten back from attending an anti-reservation protest at Azad Maidan (which turned out - as she discovered later - to be a pro-reservation rally, but hey, she was there. Which is more than we can say for ourselves). The things these Juliet-like women get upto these days, I tell you!
4) Sakshi was just like her blog; straightforward and very chilled out.
5) Oh then, there was the mysterious Mr. Gera (whom we find mysterious primarily because we have no idea what his first name is) who spent a lot of time explaining how, if you took the code from the back of his t-shirt, and inserted it into the script on the front of his t-shirt, you would get four small camels.
We're terribly unclear about how exactly this was supposed to happen, but there you have it.
Mr. Gera helpfully added - in between turning round and round to show everyone the front and the back of his t-shirt - that it was 'absolutely useless, but totally cool'.
And you know, somehow, at that point of time? It made perfect sense.
6) The Bombay Addict, as his name suggests, a true blue Mumbaikar. From Uttar Pradesh. We found we had a bit of a wavelength-matching-thingy going on here. Until he played devil's advocate over the reservations issue, after which we screamed and bit his head off. We're sorry we bit your head off, Anupam.
7) Then there was young Akshay, of Trivial Matters who was, pestered incessantly to hire us as his pappu* (person who brings him chai, polishes his lenses, sets up camera...you get the idea), declared undying love to, and proposed marriage to, all within the space of five minutes, under the benevolent influence of two gimlets.
Akshay, displaying remarkable intelligence for one so young (also, one who consumed in succession, one baby milk shake** and two (or was that one?) mojitos), declined all three proposals. Smart kid!
8) The bachpan-ke-buddies from Rajasthan, Parijat and Piyush, were quite unlike what we expected IIT students to be. I mean, you know how you definitely expect IIT students to be intelligent, but not a whole lot more than that? These two were *bright*. And refreshingly laid-back.
9) Vijay. Who came, who saw and who was probably left speechless with horror/shock/disbelief because he spoke all of ten words in the four hours that he was there. Although he did take up the difficult task of typing out all fifteen names and URLs and then mailing them across to all fifteen of us. Thank you Vijay!
The rest of the attendees (whom we *really* wished we could've spoken to more) were, Zack, Saket, Anthony and Selvin.
All in all, it was an evening well spent. To quote a certain famous blogger, fun came.
The trip back home was a whole other story though. The trains were running terribly late, because of something called a 'Jumbo Block' at Borivli. When it did arrive (the train, that is), it was packed closer than a can of sardines and we ended up getting a full-body-massage with essential oils of everybody else (eeewww, I know. Totally). But you know what? This compartment, that's hot and humid and filled with five times more people than it was ever meant to hold; there's no screaming, no tempers flaring. In fact, the women are smiling, some are actually laughing and everyone is helping everyone get some place to stand. Dupattas are being cheerfully disentangled, children are being pushed towards their mothers, single chappals are being laughingly returned to their owners.
Do you see why I love this city?
*Because *everyone* seems to have a more interesting job than we do!
** Which was a disturbing shade of pink.
Friday, May 12, 2006
I Laughed...
...till I had tears running down my face. And random office people gathering around my cubicle, with worried expressions on their faces. Which made me laugh even more.
This woman (or at least I think she's a woman) is hilarious!
This woman (or at least I think she's a woman) is hilarious!
Thursday, May 11, 2006
O Happy Day!
I feel all happy and warm and fuzzy inside, blogworld.
And I'm feeling this way because the Desperate Housewives have been caught red-handed. Or bloody-knived. Or whatever term you use to indicate the end of absolute, utter machiavellianism.
Confused?
Let me explain.
Me: One of the quiet ones. Come to work. Do it. Inform all concerned. Leave.
Key characteristic: Dependable, unobtrusive.
Boss: Sweetheart (in the absolute, complete nice-guy sense). Dream (as opposed to dreamy, although some women do find him that as well) boss - in the sense that, he's got the very rare characteristic of making people *want* to work with/for him*
Key Characteristic: Very intelligent, very perceptive and a great buddy.
Desperate Housewives: The official team-bitches. Average (and I don't think that's bad) workers, above-averagely-intelligent women, both of them.
Key Characteristic: The knives they carry around, sharpened and ready for stabbing, into the first unsuspecting back.
What had been happening blogworld, is that these two, for no known reason, had been using guerilla tactics against yours truly. Nothing very obvious, but things like going up to the boss and telling him things like, 'Don't you think this would be a better way to manage project a?' or, 'project b needs to cover so-and-so aspects, don't you think?', specifically when I wasn't around (a and b, being my projects).
Then there were the standard kitty-party-aunty techniques - the whispering and giggling every time I walked by, or spoke on the phone or even came back to my desk for the love of god (and what on earth is so frantic-whisper-worthy about that??)! Oh and then there was the incessant gossiping on sametime (the intra-office IM. This is significant; it'll make another appearance further into the story).
Now the DHs are widely known as prize bitches - it has been said that if they had MPD? They'd be bitching about their alter-egos. They're that bad.
I had spoken to boss about this and he, in his characteristically sage manner, told me to not give a fuck. He told me that there would always be some people who'd dislike you, even if it's for no other reason than that other people like you. Which was some consolation but not enough blogworld, because, well...I'm not used to being actively disliked. Let alone, disliked enough to be schemed against**.
And then this happened.
After a meeting with the DHs, boss walks back to his desk only find this message on his IM, "Isn't he dum?! i mn he dsn't knw wht he's tlking abt!", and it's from one them.
Boss decides to play along, types back: "Ya I knw..."
DH1: "Ya! Dnt knw hw he got ts job."
Boss: "Srsly"
DH1: *stony silence* (because she notices that DH2, whom she is supposed to be having this conversation with, hasn't been typing)
At this point, DH1 turns saucer-wide eyes to DH2, who's completely oblivious to everything because she had no idea that she was being bitched-to.
DH1 realises the horror of the situation, just as boss bursts into loud guffaws and summons both of them to his cabin.
He shows them the typed conversation and then sits back, and with unnerving patience, listens to their fumbling, clumsy explanations and sorry excuses. And then gives them three kinds of hell. And tells them that if they're so unhappy with how things are done around here, well then there's the door.
Somedays, I absolutely *love* my job.
* Like those few professors in college, whose classes you'd *always* attend because they just made everything so damned interesting.
** I know that sounds really dumb, but see, like I said, I'm unobtrusive. And quiet. And I mind my own business. So...well...get my point? I think it takes a certain amount of *effort* to dislike someone whose actions don't affect your life at all. And that someone would so go out of their way...well, that makes me a little queasy.
And I'm feeling this way because the Desperate Housewives have been caught red-handed. Or bloody-knived. Or whatever term you use to indicate the end of absolute, utter machiavellianism.
Confused?
Let me explain.
Me: One of the quiet ones. Come to work. Do it. Inform all concerned. Leave.
Key characteristic: Dependable, unobtrusive.
Boss: Sweetheart (in the absolute, complete nice-guy sense). Dream (as opposed to dreamy, although some women do find him that as well) boss - in the sense that, he's got the very rare characteristic of making people *want* to work with/for him*
Key Characteristic: Very intelligent, very perceptive and a great buddy.
Desperate Housewives: The official team-bitches. Average (and I don't think that's bad) workers, above-averagely-intelligent women, both of them.
Key Characteristic: The knives they carry around, sharpened and ready for stabbing, into the first unsuspecting back.
What had been happening blogworld, is that these two, for no known reason, had been using guerilla tactics against yours truly. Nothing very obvious, but things like going up to the boss and telling him things like, 'Don't you think this would be a better way to manage project a?' or, 'project b needs to cover so-and-so aspects, don't you think?', specifically when I wasn't around (a and b, being my projects).
Then there were the standard kitty-party-aunty techniques - the whispering and giggling every time I walked by, or spoke on the phone or even came back to my desk for the love of god (and what on earth is so frantic-whisper-worthy about that??)! Oh and then there was the incessant gossiping on sametime (the intra-office IM. This is significant; it'll make another appearance further into the story).
Now the DHs are widely known as prize bitches - it has been said that if they had MPD? They'd be bitching about their alter-egos. They're that bad.
I had spoken to boss about this and he, in his characteristically sage manner, told me to not give a fuck. He told me that there would always be some people who'd dislike you, even if it's for no other reason than that other people like you. Which was some consolation but not enough blogworld, because, well...I'm not used to being actively disliked. Let alone, disliked enough to be schemed against**.
And then this happened.
After a meeting with the DHs, boss walks back to his desk only find this message on his IM, "Isn't he dum?! i mn he dsn't knw wht he's tlking abt!", and it's from one them.
Boss decides to play along, types back: "Ya I knw..."
DH1: "Ya! Dnt knw hw he got ts job."
Boss: "Srsly"
DH1: *stony silence* (because she notices that DH2, whom she is supposed to be having this conversation with, hasn't been typing)
At this point, DH1 turns saucer-wide eyes to DH2, who's completely oblivious to everything because she had no idea that she was being bitched-to.
DH1 realises the horror of the situation, just as boss bursts into loud guffaws and summons both of them to his cabin.
He shows them the typed conversation and then sits back, and with unnerving patience, listens to their fumbling, clumsy explanations and sorry excuses. And then gives them three kinds of hell. And tells them that if they're so unhappy with how things are done around here, well then there's the door.
Somedays, I absolutely *love* my job.
* Like those few professors in college, whose classes you'd *always* attend because they just made everything so damned interesting.
** I know that sounds really dumb, but see, like I said, I'm unobtrusive. And quiet. And I mind my own business. So...well...get my point? I think it takes a certain amount of *effort* to dislike someone whose actions don't affect your life at all. And that someone would so go out of their way...well, that makes me a little queasy.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
How I Wish It Would Rain
'Mostly Cloudy'* says the weather report.
Who does that help, I ask you!
What's use is a 'Mostly Cloudy' forecast anyway? 'Mostly Clouds' don't help anyone! They don't rain (or not near my office anyway) and make it an honest-to-goodness rainy day. They don't let the sun come out, so you can't officially make statements about how it's hot enough* to fry an egg on the pavement. Or about how the couple of ice-cubes you just took out of the freezer, screamed and jumped back in. Or wonder why this kind of weather always reminds you of this painting***.
A 'Mostly Cloudy' day shows you glimpses of what it's got, makes you think you can have it and then flounces away. Like the worst kind of tease.
So there you are, almost feeling the cool breeze, almost smelling that wet- earth smell, almost tasting the sweet, spiced tea that an *actual* rainy day would bring.
You! Up there! Yes, you in charge of the weather. You've got a sick sense of humour.
*And doesn't this sound like a completely futile statement? It's almost like 'mostly omnipotent'...or...or, mostly dead. I'm not making sense anymore, am I? I'm sorry, clouds-not-raining make me MAa--a-a-A-D!
**Because it's not really that hot. It's just averagely hot, but with might-as-well-be-sitting-in-the-sauna humidity thrown in. Bleargh.
***Wilt-y clocks, I feel your pain.
Who does that help, I ask you!
What's use is a 'Mostly Cloudy' forecast anyway? 'Mostly Clouds' don't help anyone! They don't rain (or not near my office anyway) and make it an honest-to-goodness rainy day. They don't let the sun come out, so you can't officially make statements about how it's hot enough* to fry an egg on the pavement. Or about how the couple of ice-cubes you just took out of the freezer, screamed and jumped back in. Or wonder why this kind of weather always reminds you of this painting***.
A 'Mostly Cloudy' day shows you glimpses of what it's got, makes you think you can have it and then flounces away. Like the worst kind of tease.
So there you are, almost feeling the cool breeze, almost smelling that wet- earth smell, almost tasting the sweet, spiced tea that an *actual* rainy day would bring.
You! Up there! Yes, you in charge of the weather. You've got a sick sense of humour.
*And doesn't this sound like a completely futile statement? It's almost like 'mostly omnipotent'...or...or, mostly dead. I'm not making sense anymore, am I? I'm sorry, clouds-not-raining make me MAa--a-a-A-D!
**Because it's not really that hot. It's just averagely hot, but with might-as-well-be-sitting-in-the-sauna humidity thrown in. Bleargh.
***Wilt-y clocks, I feel your pain.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
The (NOT) Lazy Sunday Post
The perfect Sunday, is waking up to a paper with ten thousand inane supplements, which you will spend a good part of an hour reading. It's sipping a gallon of hot, sweet tea while you read the inane supplements. It is a perfectly fried egg, dusted with freshly ground black pepper and a sprinkling of salt.
Today was NOT that Sunday.
It started out with us rushing out of the house because we'd planned to have breakfast at this place called The Crepe Station, on Carter Road. Word of advice, do NOT go there before the clock strikes twelve; they have exactly one-third of the items on their menu (and this is the breakfast menu, for chrissake!) and the service is godawful. The waiter at our table seemed really pissed that people had actually come in for breakfast. I mean, what kind of losers go out for breakfast?? Also, it appeared that English was not his first, or second, OR third language. Every request we made was met with a look of supreme blankness, which had us worrying a little and forcing us to speak like so - "Can We Have A Sand-Wich Please? Cheese And Tom-a-to? No? But It Is On The Breakfast Menu!" - only to be informed by the very stoned looking waiter that, no, THAT stuff's available only after twelve o' clock. Of course! Who has breakfast before twelve! The very thought! After settling for the only items that seemed safe - scrambled eggs and toast (how wrong can you go with scrambled eggs and toast, right?) - we discovered that we were dealing with some very talented people indeed. The toast turned up in a pretty basket, stone cold and jaw-achingly chewy; the scrambled eggs, for want of a better description, porridge-y (zero, ZERO texture, bland as hell and with STRANGE LIQUID RUNNING OUT OF IT!! AAaarrggH!!). Remember that question I asked a couple of sentences back? About how wrong you could possibly go with scrambled eggs and toast? Hoo boy! Did I get MY answer!
Hennywaayy...Unmitigated-disaster-breakfast was made up for by beautiful, beautiful lunch (No, no. We don't live from one meal to another; there was a gap of a good four hours between 'em...honest!).
Goa Portuguesa, you are hereby conferred the title of Saviour of Sundays. For your glorious sauteed prawns, for your succulent, dipped-in-batter-and-deep-fried-rawas and last, but not the least, for your cheesy-but-sweet, Hawaiian-shirt-clad, guitar-strumming, eighties-Hindi-film-song-singer. If you're ever in Bombay, Blog-People, give 'em a try. You won't regret it.
The only, *only* disturbing part of this lunch date (and I'm turning into one of those people who'll find something to crib about in any situation, aren't I? Ah well, my blog, my crib-fest), was the family at the next table. Mr and Mrs. Lucifer (AKA, PAAPPAAAAA!!!-DEKHO-ROHAN-KYA-KAR-RAHA-HAIII!! and MUMMMEEEE!!-ANNIKA-KO-BOLO-BAITH-JAAYEEE!!), and their three precious little demon seed, AnnikaaAAH-bete-aunty-ke-table-pe-jumpy-jump-nahin-karte!, Aaryan-dekho-voh-glass-girne-vaalA-HAI and Rohan-bachche-tumhara-khaana-IDHAR-hai!
Mr and Mrs Lucifer saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in their three little *angels* lining up in front of our table and staring at us with frightening intensity. For extended periods of time. Or their using our table as support for whenever 'jumpy-jumping' took an unexpected turn (and so what if the people need to make a frantic scrabble for their lunch which is rapidly slipping off the table? What's lunch without a little panic attack?). Or little Rohan, grabbing my sunglasses for a little chew-and-drool session. It was only the timely entrance of the proprietor, which saved us from crawling under the table and bawling into the napkins.
I mean, I don't really have anything against people having children*, but seriously parents! I mean, has it occured to you that since *I* haven't signed up for the experience yet, it's not really *fair* to inflict your progeny on me? If they have not reached an age/the stage where they can sit down quietly and eat, do they *really* need to be taken to Goa Portuguesa? Order in! Go to McDonald's! Or at the very least, tie them up in their chairs**.
* Well, to tell the truth, I sort of do. Or no, wait, what I mean is, if you are having them, you should jolly well put a little bit of effort into making them behave relatively human.
** I know. I'm tempting fate here aren't I? I'm so going to be saddled with a kid that needs to tied up and strait-jacketed all the time. But you know what people? Whatever that child may be, what he/she will NOT be, is inflicted on society at large.
Today was NOT that Sunday.
It started out with us rushing out of the house because we'd planned to have breakfast at this place called The Crepe Station, on Carter Road. Word of advice, do NOT go there before the clock strikes twelve; they have exactly one-third of the items on their menu (and this is the breakfast menu, for chrissake!) and the service is godawful. The waiter at our table seemed really pissed that people had actually come in for breakfast. I mean, what kind of losers go out for breakfast?? Also, it appeared that English was not his first, or second, OR third language. Every request we made was met with a look of supreme blankness, which had us worrying a little and forcing us to speak like so - "Can We Have A Sand-Wich Please? Cheese And Tom-a-to? No? But It Is On The Breakfast Menu!" - only to be informed by the very stoned looking waiter that, no, THAT stuff's available only after twelve o' clock. Of course! Who has breakfast before twelve! The very thought! After settling for the only items that seemed safe - scrambled eggs and toast (how wrong can you go with scrambled eggs and toast, right?) - we discovered that we were dealing with some very talented people indeed. The toast turned up in a pretty basket, stone cold and jaw-achingly chewy; the scrambled eggs, for want of a better description, porridge-y (zero, ZERO texture, bland as hell and with STRANGE LIQUID RUNNING OUT OF IT!! AAaarrggH!!). Remember that question I asked a couple of sentences back? About how wrong you could possibly go with scrambled eggs and toast? Hoo boy! Did I get MY answer!
Hennywaayy...Unmitigated-disaster-breakfast was made up for by beautiful, beautiful lunch (No, no. We don't live from one meal to another; there was a gap of a good four hours between 'em...honest!).
Goa Portuguesa, you are hereby conferred the title of Saviour of Sundays. For your glorious sauteed prawns, for your succulent, dipped-in-batter-and-deep-fried-rawas and last, but not the least, for your cheesy-but-sweet, Hawaiian-shirt-clad, guitar-strumming, eighties-Hindi-film-song-singer. If you're ever in Bombay, Blog-People, give 'em a try. You won't regret it.
The only, *only* disturbing part of this lunch date (and I'm turning into one of those people who'll find something to crib about in any situation, aren't I? Ah well, my blog, my crib-fest), was the family at the next table. Mr and Mrs. Lucifer (AKA, PAAPPAAAAA!!!-DEKHO-ROHAN-KYA-KAR-RAHA-HAIII!! and MUMMMEEEE!!-ANNIKA-KO-BOLO-BAITH-JAAYEEE!!), and their three precious little demon seed, AnnikaaAAH-bete-aunty-ke-table-pe-jumpy-jump-nahin-karte!, Aaryan-dekho-voh-glass-girne-vaalA-HAI and Rohan-bachche-tumhara-khaana-IDHAR-hai!
Mr and Mrs Lucifer saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in their three little *angels* lining up in front of our table and staring at us with frightening intensity. For extended periods of time. Or their using our table as support for whenever 'jumpy-jumping' took an unexpected turn (and so what if the people need to make a frantic scrabble for their lunch which is rapidly slipping off the table? What's lunch without a little panic attack?). Or little Rohan, grabbing my sunglasses for a little chew-and-drool session. It was only the timely entrance of the proprietor, which saved us from crawling under the table and bawling into the napkins.
I mean, I don't really have anything against people having children*, but seriously parents! I mean, has it occured to you that since *I* haven't signed up for the experience yet, it's not really *fair* to inflict your progeny on me? If they have not reached an age/the stage where they can sit down quietly and eat, do they *really* need to be taken to Goa Portuguesa? Order in! Go to McDonald's! Or at the very least, tie them up in their chairs**.
* Well, to tell the truth, I sort of do. Or no, wait, what I mean is, if you are having them, you should jolly well put a little bit of effort into making them behave relatively human.
** I know. I'm tempting fate here aren't I? I'm so going to be saddled with a kid that needs to tied up and strait-jacketed all the time. But you know what people? Whatever that child may be, what he/she will NOT be, is inflicted on society at large.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)