Vacation Diary

Sniffing raindrops
and musty books
An afternoon with Gringoire

BRB

Idle thought: We tag each other and make them write about books and music and likes and dislikes. Why don’t we tag people and make them go for vacations? That way, the fun never stops!

I’m going to start a vacation meme when I’m back!

Ups and Downs

was too busy looking down all this while and never realized that there is an up and when I finally did look up there WAS an up and now I am caught between the joy of knowing that the up is looking down at me with kindness and the shock of knowing that I am not as high up as I thought I was

Killarification

I am not doing an MBA at Harvard.

I am not marrying an Uzbek or an Indian or anyone.

Colours gets an award for the coolest comment ever!

Gibberish

Today I went to a VIP bags showroom, and looked for travel bags. Two bags that can carry 25 kilograms each. They looked so big on the outside. And had so little space on the inside. In two months, I am expected to pack my world into two (heavy) bags and leave for a land far far away to do something I’m no longer used to. Something that will cost me more than I will be able to repay in many years to come. I’ve been trying to come to terms with this fact with varying degrees of success for many months now, but the bags really scared me today.

I wish I had not promised someone that I would not worry about this.

Am talking to my DMAIC friend as I type this. DMAIC stands for Define, Measure, Analyze, Improve and Control: the five step approach to improving the efficiency of processes (Six Sigma gyan). But with her, it refers to Don’t Marry An Indian Chap, a mistake she has made and is determined to stop me from making. Apparently Indian Chaps are all chauvinistic pigs, and will squash my individuality. They will expect me to be the perfect homemaker and the perfect professional at the same time. And their parents will suck my blood.

So I will pack my two VIP bags and go far far away and marry an illegal Uzbek immigrant and set up a dhaba in Notting Hill. Anyone who reads this blog gets a 10 percent discount.

PDA

This is a rant against PDA: not the handheld kind, but the hand-holding kind. Sis, who belongs to the next generation, tells me that PDA stands for Public Display of Affection.
I’ve seen countless arguments in favor of PDA, which convince me that it is perfectly okay for people to cozy up (note the archaic use of language) in front of all and sundry. I’m not supposed to object in my silent and invisible way to the sight of love-lorn (“love” being highly doubtful in some cases) couples lolling on sofas in a coffee parlour or suchlike in the middle of the day.
However. I object. Very muchly. When I “don’t” go to Lodhi Garden except for an occasional morning walk, I am respecting the privacy of people who cannot find a place to be alone together in this city. But when I am walking into a coffee shop at four in the evening with someone who is strictly a friend, I do not want to see people making out. And don’t ask me to ignore them because I cannot. And don’t ask me not to notice their uncouth behaviour towards the rest of the world.
Hypocritically enough, this does not bother me in a non-Indian context. But in a country where the girl’s neighbor’s sister-in-law is sure to see this scene, and the girl and the boy are sure to break up after they have realized that their families will never accept them, and the girl’s prospective groom’s uncle will make enquiries about the girls “crackter” in the neighborhood, PDA seems like carelessly imported goods.
On the other hand, maybe I should scout for an old age home for myself.
If anyone who reads this disagrees with me, just leave a smiley. Indulge a lunatic. If, by any chance, you agree, do leave a comment and surprise me.
Joker Anna: You can leave hugs. That kind of PDA is totally acceptable!

Raindrops

It has rained a little and the clothesline is a necklace strung with shimmeing droplets. I am smiling because I know that when I step out and flick my forefinger against the clothesline, the droplets will all fall to the ground at the same time, and will create - for a moment - a curtain of diamonds.

And who knows, tomorrow it might just rain again!

Made Up

I must have brushed past a woman who was wearing many different kinds of make-up. Suddenly, I was led by my nose back into my schooldays, to the highlight of every year in terms of the number of free periods it generated: the Annual Day.

The school believed in mass participation, and so even if you had no special talent, you were thrust on stage as part of a group of 200 hoarse voices welcoming “our parents dear” in ridiculous color-coordinated frocks. And lots of make-up.

Annual Day was the only time I smelled make-up. Tonnes of compact, lipstick, rouge and what-have-you. Generously applied by teachers over the faces of girls whose mothers had paid for the three-inch thick layer of goo on their darlings’ faces.

I don’t know if it is my imagination, or make-up really does smell stronger after it’s been on for a while. Prize distribution used to be last event of the programme, often a good three hours after the welcome song. The “parents dear” would be dozing off in the chairs in the auditorium, while the poor “prize winners” would be pushed into an empty classroom and made to sit quietly for the entire duration of the programme.

As luck would have it (yes, luck alone), I was always there in that room. All prize winners were supposed to wear the school uniform and the school blazer. I did not own a blazer for many years, and so I borrowed it from my best friend, who was taller, and the blazer sat awkwardly on my shoulders (as did the prize in my hand, in hindsight).

Despite our everyday clothes, we were all three inches deep in make-up. By the time we were herded to the backstage door and made to queue up in the open air on the chilly December night, the smell of make-up had overpowered my being. I was in a most unpleasant haze that made me forget everything. We had been made to practice bowing once facing the chief guest and once facing the audience, and then making a dignified dash for the wings. I don’t think I ever got it right. All because of the make-up smell.

And then I was there next year, winning a prize for Moral Science if nothing else. (Digression: I can totally picture a news item dated 2050: Ino Awl, the genius who proved Einstein’s theory of relativity wrong, discovered the cure for AIDS and prevented World War 3, was found hanging from the fan in his lab yesterday. A suicide note said that he killed himself when he realized that no cure would ever be found for those who had won too many prizes for Moral Science.)

The smell of make-up carries too much baggage for me. I detest it.

Book Meme

Deepak passed me the book meme, so here goes:

Volume of Books owned:
200? I don’t buy too many. One fine day I realized that between my two grandfathers, my ancestors had collected almost everything I’d ever want to read. That takes a lot of burden off my head!

Books I recently brought:
- The Lovely Bones: Alice Seabold. Don’t waste your money. Write to me if you want it.
- Reading Lolita in Tehran: Azar Nafisi. A real eye-opener. Great read for students of literature.
- Alice in Wonderland/Through The Looking Glass: Lewis Carroll. No essplanations required there!

Last book I read:
A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth. At page 135498763, I almost gave up, but I emerged triumphant. Whoever compared it to Middlemarch was an idiot. It is a draaaaaaaaaaag interspersed with moments of brilliance that are too few and far between.

One book that I couldn't finish:
There are too many and just thinking about them is making me depressed, so I pass this question please.

Five books I cherish:
- Les Miserables – Victor Hugo. You read this one novel and you have read all novels you ever need to read! Wish I could read the French original.
- Gulliver’s Travels – Jonathan Swift. High on sarcasm, low on preaching. Swift went mad towards the end of his life. So will I.
- Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray. Evil man, Remorseless sarcasm.
- Tom Jones – Henry Fielding. Mad man. Mad book.
- Howards End – Most wonderful portraits of women by a man. Next to madmen, gay men write the best books. (This meme is not being a nice politically correct meme at all! Bad Meme!)

Who can I pass this on to? I'll bug chugs , and Rash , and Joker this time.

:-)

It is not about reading a manual, donning diving gear, holding your breath, jumping in, and lashing about wildly in a self-defeating attempt to stop yourself from drowning.
It is about sitting on a rock, absorbed in a book, accidentally falling into the water, and discovering that you are a mermaid.

Champa

Standing in my first floor balcony, I can see the top of the Champa tree that grows next to my building. The dark green tufts of leaves are studded with bunches of sweet smelling white flowers. Neat little white flowers with yellow hearts. It's like the earth is holding up a giant bouquet to woo anyone who would care to step into the balcony.

That's what people must mean when they talk about Universal Love.

Sarkar: Bekaar

Showbaazi:

Bahut achchi thi. Camera aur light sahi jagah par rakhe the. Ramu bhaiyya ne apni buddhi galat jagah rakh di bas.

Music:

Bahut zor ka tha bhai sahib. Sachmuch. Khopdi phat gayi meri to. Abhi doctor se stich karva ke aa rahi hoon. Aur Abhishek ko baar baar Govinda kyun yaad aa raha tha?

Ladies:

MMS matlab Multiple Mangal Sutra. Sab ladies log ne do-do mangalsutra pehne the. Hopefully do alag-alag pati ke liye nahin. Sabne aadi-tedhi bindi bhi lagayi thi. Aur woh Kajol ji behen…. Line maar rahi thi solid. Lahaulvilakuwat. Ek aur behenji theen. Boli to kuchh nahin, par unke face pe likha tha: “main weight gain kiye bina Shefali Chhaya banna chahti hoon.” Supriya Pathak to bahut royi bhai sahib. Kya bataun. Katrina Kaif bhi thi, agar kisi ko pasand ho to.

Gents:

Sabhi bahut achchi acting kar rahe the. Mujhe lagta hai Ramu bhaiyya sahi bole: Amitabh ka ladka Amitabh se achha hai. Bhagwaan kare ladka khoob tarakki kare. Aur jo KK bhaiyya hain kya kaatilaana acting karte hain maloom? Woh to baap-bete dono ke baap hain. Ramu bhaiyya ne agar ek kahaani likh di hoti in teenon becharon ke liye to kya unki amma ki gaiyya mar jaati?

Result:

Aisi hi ghatiya movies ke liye piracy waale samaaj seva karte hain. Hamare saath jo gaye the, unki kursi mein kaante ugne lage, to hum log movie khatam hone se dus minute pehle hi bhaag liye. Kisi ne poori dekhi ho to bataana bhai sahib. Shayad end mein hi kuchh dekhne laayak raha ho. Koi item number ya kuchh? Waise kam kapdon waali behenji bhi is picture ko nahin bacha sakti.

Baavra Mann

Baavra mann dekhne chala ik sapna
Baavre se mann ki dekho baavri hain baatein
Baavri si dhadkanein hain, baavri hain saansein
Baavra mann dekhne chala ik sapna

- OST, Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi

Birthday Greetings!

This blog is celebrating the birthday of Inky's Godpapa(ya) today. May he always write wonderful poetry, and inspire her to write too.

Happy Birthday Godpapa! I would not dare to write you a birthday poem, so I asked Philip Larkin to help. Here is one of his poems that I want to dedicate to you:

New Eyes Each Year

New eyes each year
Find old books here,
And new books,too,
Old eyes renew;
So youth and age
Like ink and page
In this house join,
Minting new coin.

Love,
Your child Inky

Laddoo Singh

Laddoo Singh has left the following message on my Orkut page:

Laddoo: i like to make stranger friends that why i m addii like to make stranger friends that why i adding u.......chalo aap aapne baare me kuchh batao

He could not have hoped to make a "stranger friend" than me in this lifetime!

Common sense (File Not Found In My Hard Drive) tells me that these messages come in because the first question Orkut asks you is your "relationship status". And if you are single, you can't blame Laddoo for trying his luck.

So I've changed my "relationship status" to "committed". The word, used in a sentence, can be understood thus:
"I have committed a grave error by registering on Orkut as single."

There is really very little choice Orkut offers in the relationship status drop down list. There should have been a text box in the form. (evil laughter)

Weather Report

Have finally figured out what the problem is with Delhi weather these days.
The atmosphere has turned into a giant rasgulla.
The air is always heavy with moisture, and leaks sticky liquid all over you if you brush past it. Even if you don’t move, it will smother you to death.

- This weather report is dedicated to the 1000 rasgullas I have eaten in my six weeks of jaundice. Now I am a human rasgulla trapped in a rasgulla.

Aside to The Heretic: I tried sleeping off the dementia. As you can see, it did not work.

Realization

How do the creepiest of the creeps who I was once forced to be acquainted with track me down and insist on talking to me?

I am sure I interacted with decent/interesting/sane people too, and those people never talk unless they are spoken to.

Horror of horrors! Am I their “creepiest of creeps?”

Huh!

For reasons too complicated to get into here, I walked into my room a couple of nights ago to see my dear sister watching Kkkkusum on Sony TV without switching on the sound. I did what anyone who has a younger sister would do in the same sleepy circumstance: I watched it with her.

Suddenly, there was a fashion show happening in the serial, with the much-married male lead sitting and watching people walk the ramp in a pub-type-thingy. It was a show with a difference, and as the screen in the background proclaimed in huge letters, it was a jewelry exhibition sponsored by a major jeweler.

TV soaps can be as brazen as they like about product placements, because viewers would need deaddiction therapy to peel their eyes off the screen, even if the producers swapped all the actresses playing the female roles during the commercial breaks (now why doesn’t someone use that evil idea?)

About the jewelry show: it featured – hold your breath – men wearing dhotis and stoles showing off elaborate necklaces (Nizam-of-Hyderabad-meets-Mrs-Chopra-of-Krrrol-Bagh designs). One of these chaps was Shayan Munshi, last seen (by me) in “Jhankaar Beats”.

For the life of me, I cannot imagine what the writers were thinking. What kind of people want to see dhoti-clad half-dead guys wearing obscenely showy women’s jewelry? If there is someone out there with a Ramleela-fetish, I’d love to make friends with the specimen.

Note: I just bought a mouse and connected it to my IBM Thinkpad. Now the stupid red dot on the keyboard does not approve of my promiscuity, and refuses to perform its mousely function. Dad will kill me if I cannot placate stupid thing. Anyone with suggestions please leave a message. Thanks. You shall be rewarded with a video recording of all fifteen thousand episodes of Kkusum. Without the sound.

Random Ranting

Since last morning, I’m feeling like Dementors have sucked my soul out of me. It is the joint result of the adorable Delhi heat and my overconfident forays into the human world before my jaundice is completely cured. I am feeling like pulp that needs to be out in the fridge right away. Power cuts don’t help. And I can’t even bear to think that I am cribbing when people are out on the road working in this heat. Please God: Showers of blessings we need.

At the library yesterday, the woman sitting opposite me was reading a guide to icing cakes for children’s parties, the art of lace-making, a tome on interior design, and a fashion magazine. She seemed to be a well-groomed young lass. The only reason someone would be reading this combo that I can think of is “the accelerated domestication project” that strikes many people at the “marriageable age”. When she left, the man on the next table pulled up the cake icing book and was leafing through it. Nice! I am sure he was going to head straight home and make red-yellow cakes for his kids. And the chap on the other side was actually reading a book titled “New Feminism”. Whoa! That was a first. His cellphone kept buzzing and distracting him from his masochistic pursuits. Now you are thinking that I was obviously too busy looking around to peer into my own book, and that I am a superbitch for criticizing everyone. Of course you are right.

I hate Chennai for sucking in people like a vortex. I could throw things at that steaming hot idli cooker of a city right now except it is too far and my throwing arm is not up to it yet.

Ok. I am done ranting. Back to work.

Cover Story

At the library today, I was reading a book whose cover was falling off. It had interesting text like “On the contrary, women never theorize, or indeed look at men.” And interesting student scribblings in the margin like “That’s coz men are typical and so boring.” Yes. This is part of my continuing education.

This post, however, is about the book’s tattered cover, which unearthed a painful tragic childhood memory. It was the third standard, the year I became the universally loathed usurper by defeating the pretty and popular girl who stood first in class an awful lot. My teacher, at least, was a kind soul who loved me like her own child. Or so I thought.

One day I went up to her to get my homework checked. She noticed that my notebook had no cover. A notebook without a cover was guilty of indecent exposure in my convent school. The teacher asked why my notebook was, well, unclothed. I replied that since my Dad was out of town, he could not replace the old cover, which had given way a couple of days ago. This was a true story, for the record.

The teacher did something I could never have imagined. She laughed out loud, waved my naked notebook in front of the class and said, “look everyone, here is a girl who cannot cover her own notebook.”

The devils I used to study with laughed like hyenas. I was too shocked to be embarrassed. I knew that half of these morons had trouble tying their shoelaces, and each one of them had her notebooks covered by Daddy or Mummy, but they had the nerve to join the teacher in laughing at me.

That day, I started covering my books myself. All my fourth standard books had higgledy piggledy covers carefully snipped and fitted by yours truly. In a year or two, I learnt many covering techniques and the covers became neat and elegant, and much better than Dad’s!

Some years later, we were visiting family friends. The son was two years ahead of me, and I saw his dad covering his Class Nine notebooks! I heard the class of eight-year-old devils laughing in my head.

I’ve seen people laugh at others so many times now: and known that they are guilty of the same crime. I cannot bear to do that. If you tell me a joke and I don’t laugh, that’s probably the reason why. Either that, or you’re a guy, and consequently so typical and boring.