Friday, April 27, 2012

Shit dosent happen. It accumulates. When you’re at home, doing nothing, for as long as I have been at home doing nothing (I’m counting down to the end of the 3rd month), a lot of things get put in perspective. For starters, the amount of shit that a couple can collect over two years and then again, the amount of shit that a single person can amass over the last 10 years. My god, I have so much shit it’s not funny. As a non-working person for the last 3 months, I’ve realised, you don’t need all this shit. No wonder our stay at home ‘home-maker’ mothers never felt much affiliation to anything other than the absurd interest in plastic dabbas and collecting a heap of polythene take-away bags. This collectment of shit is an occupational hazard. You have a shit meeting, you step out for lunch at the mall, you see some new hair serum that promises everlasting silkyness and because you feel like it, because u need that silkiness so badly right about now and just because you can, you buy it, thereby adding to an already overflowing collection of hair serums at home. I have 7 bottles of hair serum (for straighter hair) and 3 bottles (for silky hair). Then there are 17 bottles of shampoo, yes 17, I’m not shitting you. 6 moisturisers. 4 facial spritzers. 15 bottles of perfume. 2 bodysprays. And I’m not getting into the amount of makeup I have. It’s too embarrassing. The funniest thing is, after the cursory first time, I will always go back to my standard head and shoulders, no conditioner, no serum, Neutrogena sun-screen, no moisturizer routine. Please tell me I’m not mad and there are others like you out there. Also what does one do with all this shit? Anywhere to donate like clothes donations?

Wednesday, March 28, 2012


I dont think I'm who I used to be anymore. Last night I re-read my entire set of posts and I didnt remember writing half of it. Its been 3 proper years since I stopped writing effectively though. Its most annoying also to recall that the stoppage occured at the precise moment when a serious relationship took off. So typical.

Can I make amends? Will I write more? Time will tell?

Did I mention that I'm moving to the capital? It isnt very happy news for me. I have to call a city I have largely abhorred home. I'm trying though to be positive about it. Think about the space, think about the winter, think about cheap shopping and lovely silver jewellery. But mostly, I try not to think about my last day in Bombay.

Does anyone come here anymore? I didnt think so. Thats why I decided to log into blogger and write right here in the dashboard. No writing offline and copy pasting into blogger. Bold like that! Hah!

Also, I will/am starting a small clothing line. It dosent have a name or anything yet, so suggestions are welcome. Primarily western silhouttes with Indian work on it. Will post the FB link page here as soon as it is ready.

Jokes about me becoming a behenji in anarkali suit with gucci glasses perched on my head and swatting flies in Shahpur jat will not be entertained.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

I have a slightly unhealthy obsession with my umbrella. Not a vulgar one. Just the sort of obsession where I don't let it out of my sight until we are safe at home. Mostly it has to do with my ability to lose umbrellas on whim. One auto ride and poof its gone. Most times I don't even remember where I leave them. But not this one. It's Majestic. Large, black and yellow striped, with football club logos on it. The Handle is thick black foam with Metal endings. The top is so sharp and deliciously pointy that I can wear the shortest skirts in autos and not care about being teased. One threatening pointy jibe from my Umbrella is all it takes to scare anyone away. It makes me feel 'rich' and 'hep'. Like the first time in school your parents finally caved in and bought you a Bensia pencil over bloody Nataraj.

The husband, feeling rejected and behind in the race has now also gone and bought an umbrella in a bid to rival mine. His is Grey and Black striped, and just as large. The handle is hard, opaque plastic. It's also from some premium store in some premium mall, while mine is from Shoppers stop. Its also about Rs 200 more than mine.

What he doesn't realize is that, when its folded up, the Grey edges of the umbrella, ruffle up to meet the transparent handle and it all adds to up to looking very...pretty.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

What Happened since I last blogged

1) I forgot my username and password to this blog and have taken an hour of permutations and combinations and answering "whats your secret question" to finally log in.

2) I got married!

3) I married a fellow blogger!

4) I hate my job. But can't bring myself to quit.

5) I went to London. Twice!

6) I've decided I will live in London for the rest of my life. My husband dosent know this. Yet.

7) I'm still feeling like I bit into something pulipu when i say 'my husband'

8) I lived in with the man for 8 months before we married. Best. Decision. Ever. That way we finished our 'first year is the worst year of marriage' phase before we got married.

9) I lost 5 kgs and put on 5 kgs about 7 times

10) Two of my friends are getting divorced, one already divorced friend remarried and one that married last year is already pregnant

11) This married world is VERY different from that unmarried world. I was not expecting this.

12) My shopping disorder has magically cured itself. They say acne also clears once marriage happens. Still waiting for that miracle.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Bad Blog!

There, I changed the template. I'm hoping something magical will happen now.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Prayers Pliss

I clearly wasn’t lying when I said I’d post everyday from Thailand. Lying to myself that is. Of course I knew I’d end up posting like 2 months later. I like being true to myself like that.

Sooo, whatall happened since then I can’t even begin to remember, but some two odd months later I can certainly tell you where I am. I’m very much in Bombay, but have been in bed the last 3 odd weeks with a slip disc. Yes, very sad. Don’t worry, it only gets worse. Soo much kann everyone put off for my Thailand trip that I had one hell of a horrid time.

First I had to celebrate my birthday alone in a very pretty hotel room, the prettiness of which I couldn’t even begin to bother about because I came down with bleeding (pardon the pun) UTI. Two more days of trying to hold my pee in, especially while on rocky boats out at sea for 2-3 hours at a stretch and I was ready to call it quits. Clearly like my mum says, us middle class people will never be able to reap the benefits of anything that comes free. And a free trip! Imagine the years of Brahmin punyam I’ve ended up obliterating in one damn week!

Then somewhere during my 101 bathroom excursions per day, my back started hurting like crazy. (whoever has that voodoo doll of me with the pin stuck in the spinal cord, pleassse remove it, I’ll give you whatever you want!). I was stuck somewhere in gorgeous Krabi. When I could take the myriad assorted types of pain no more I decided to take the shortest flight to the safest place – Singapore (literally a 40 min cheap and best flight, I was pleased to note)

I was kinda feeling ok at the end of 3 days deep rest in Singa, when I went and lost my phone in a cab. And this was not ‘any’ phone. This was a brand new Sony Aino my dear boy had birthday gifted me. Plus it had about 200 pictures of some of the most gorgeous beaches I have ever seen. (Again my mother quipped in “Ayyo Ramachandra! See that’s why don’t accept gifts I say! More free things! ”)

The boy was very sweet and forgave me instantly (I hope). I also just realized that one of the women who was with me on the trip borrowed my very cool trenchcoat and cooling glasses and she still hasn’t returned them. I’m going to count that as bad karma for her.

The following week, which was essentially new years time, the boy and me were to go to Singapore again. This was his official ‘meet my fockers’ trip. Again I was ill with the flu this time. In Singa, I was quarantined to a bedroom (so as not to pass it on to my sis’s baby) and literally got out of the house only the last 2 days. Poor boy was understandably horribly bored.

Desperate to get back to Bombay, because work shit was hitting the fan, that first week of Jan was a blur of film release related madness (all waste because our release was postponed) (again bad luck!). Sometime that weekend, the pain in my back was almost intolerable and one fine day I simply bent to pick up something and my back broke. One long harrowing evening in the emergency room + one dynapar injection later I was in bed, where I have remained ever thus (until now)!

I can regale you with horror stories of the cave in Thailand where I thought I was pretty much going to die drowning, or tales of my life threatening MRI experience, or what about long nights editing now with a not really recovered back, but you get the picture.

Prayers pliss.

P.S - Kindly note my joining of Twitter, something i realised existed just about 3 weeks back. Yes, I do live under a rock.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Birthday Month and other things

Since it’s been mentally long since I last posted, I decided I would put something up here, no matter how inane. Ok? Ok.

I saw ‘Orphan’ last night and got scared for the first time ever I think. Mostly because I saw it alone in the living room with the lights off and at 3 in the morning. I thought nothing but my bank balance can scare me, apparently I was wrong.

Anyway getting back to scary shit, my new workplace, (yes, new workplace), can be very scary. Which is odd because it holds the most number of Bhagwan ki moorti’s ever possible on a single plot of land. Especially the seventh floor. It has 3 conference rooms and a pantry. Not that that layout is supposed to be scary, but imagine large badly molded female dancing idols with coloured floor lighting at every corner, like some Ramsey set on steroids, while the rest of the corridor is in pitch black darkenessesss….infact yesterday we were in a meeting pretty late at night and my boss stepped out of conference room 2 and called me out with her. I thought she wanted to discuss some major behind the clients back chit chat and instead she wanted me to walk with her to the loo because she was scared of walking alone it seems.

And then in other news, the Baifrand and I finished this major house hunting in Bandra business. Not that we are moving in together as our parents will have their own private aneurisms if that happens. But for someone who is moving out of parental abode for the first time ever, it’s been fun to see him sweat, fret and palpitate his way through brokers and bandra bylanes. We finally found something that reminded him of his beloved North India, replete with Balcony and large open spaces. I was quite baffled to see such a large house in Bombay myself. But it’s been tedious to get the place together. Plumbing, electricity and Bai issue’s are all we deal with on the weekends (since we both work 6 day weeks, poor us).

Also last week, we both officially changed relationship statuses on FB. Now, I didn’t think this was such a big deal and actually I find the whole disclosing who you’re dating on FB business pretty lame. But then you can’t reject invite sent so lovingly no? So accept I did, only to be bombarded by ‘OMG’s’ and ‘when did this happens’ and ‘I’m soooo happy for yous’ and ‘when are the kids coming alongs’. The boy on the other hand had cleverly done some ‘do not publish this info on people’s feeds’ type scheme and he got away scot free.

And now, I’m going to make everyone jealous by telling them that I’ve been chosen to go on some major 5 star/Business Class type trip to Thailand, sponsored by the Ministry of Thailand to scout locations to shoot in untouched locales all over Thailand. Ill be in Bangkok, Krabi, Trang, Chiang Mei and Pai from the 14th to the 20th of this month. Anybody from there read this? No? I thought so.

Also I will be blogging from Thailand EVERYDAY (since I don’t know anyone on this trip...sniff). Also I will be spending my birthday ALONE in Bangkok. So please wish me, I will check this space regularly for the same. Best Regards.

Oh the birthday is on the 15th of Decembre!

Thursday, November 5, 2009

In the morning, I picked up a green kurta from P’s closet to match my faded blue fab India skirt. The kurta was a peculiar shade of neon green. Not something I would have voluntarily bought myself.

I realized I was trailing him a few moments after walking down the road. He was a good 30 paces ahead of me. He never turned around to look, which is odd if you’re looking for an auto, which he evidently was. He must have been getting out of his gate the same time I was exiting mine. A mild tilt of the head and he couldn’t have missed me. A mild tilt was inevitable unless he was wearing blinders. Missed that bizarre new born shoot green, missed the immediate realization that he was in the exact same shade of green. He would have made that comparison immediately. He was always rather fashion forward, braver while dressing than most men I knew.

I watched his thin frame walking cautiously ahead of me. He had gotten even thinner. It must be the stress of his mother’s death. His friend had sent me a message to attend the funeral a week ago. I hadn’t gone.

He reached the end of the road and I knew he would cross over to the other side and try and catch a rick, which meant he would be facing me soon enough.

I immediately pretended to be on the phone. He looked straight at me with sad accomplishment. It wasn’t the first time we had successfully avoided each other. It wouldn’t be the last. Though if he had been 5 or 10 paces ahead of me, we’re both absolutely sure we’d greet each other in high pitched hello’s. Maybe we’d even laugh about being in the exact shade of fab India green. Maybe.

Later in the day, the same friend who’d messaged me about his mother’s death meets me in an official capacity. He is a writer. He’s been writing for a famous director that I desperately want to nab for my company. He’s also published a book of graphic verse that he brings for me as an advance birthday gift he says.

I open the A3 size hard bound and immediately start reading. We can get to business in a bit.

The words that jump up at me are the sort of words you never forget. I’d spent hours lingering over them, over analyzing them and falling in love with them 6 years ago. Words that had sealed an infatuation as pure love.

“You didn’t write this did you”

“Of course I did….who else would”
he says bemused

“I feel like I’ve read them before” I lie. Of course I had. They were branded in my brain.

I’d mailed them to X years ago…maybe you read them then? The newer poems are at the end of the book

It almost seemed funny instead of upsetting after all these years. Maybe I’d replace the high pitched ‘Hello’ with a condescending ‘Nice Shirt’ I decided.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Now Playing: Kings of Leon : Sex on Fire

It’s that time of the year again, when Ganpati’s at the back of trucks, tempos, cars and cycles are being taken out to sea. So living near the said sea as any Mumbaikar would know is at the top of the most pitiable list. Not only are you mostly under house arrest, you are mostly under your bed like dogs during Diwali because it’s so insanely fucking loud. So much for swine flu dampening things. Then the two fools I have for neighbours have decided to ‘host’ Ganpati this year, this means endless competitive bhajans, one Maharastrian style, one Gujarati style going at it simultaneously. Do you pity me now?

Today started off on a bad foot, literally. My mum who is here to help me get better (I had the flu 3 times in a row and topped it off with a stomach infection) was just telling me “paathh nade di..” (watch where you’re walking), when my chappal clad foot went squishingly into the freshest pile of doggie poo. “it’s a good sign” my mother declared albeit hesitantly, saying as an afterthought “better if it was cow dung…tsk, why wasn’t it cow dung…yenna di, atleast cow dung le naddekimattiyaaaa?”
I kinda wished it was cow dung too, the shit was fucking hard to wash off and smelt like hydrogen peroxide on acid, if that’s possible.

I proceeded to friendly neighbourhood ‘Suburban Diagnostics’ in Lokhandwala to get a full body health test done. While at it, my brilliant sister instructs my mother to get me to do a Pap smear as well. I know what this is going to lead to, but arguing in front of my mother will only verbally state the very obvious so I shut up and book the test.

“Can you add a Pap Smear test to that please”

“You are married madam?”


“Er… but madam this test is only for married womens”

“It’s a cervix test for cancerous cells, how does it matter? Plus, I know what it entails”

(Male nurse steps in)

Madam, please understand this is only for ‘married’ women”

“I KNOW!, I would like to have it ANYWAY”

“She is above 25 years, so she should be able to take the test”
my mother says, knowing exactly what all this ‘married’ hoohah is about but wanting to hold up the Bambi innocence I’m clearly not displaying.

“Ok Madam, we will book the test” the nurse says resignedly. Its hard to say if she does it thinking we are uneducated hypochondriacs who are simply insisting on this test, or knowing that we ‘know’ she ‘knows’ exactly what is the bone of contention here.

Once inside the testing rooms, thankfully my mother has been made to sit outside and I have to deal with the nurses alone. The Male nurse looks at me worriedly from a far corner of the blood collection room. In the seconds that I close my eyes wincing from the pain of the suction during blood collection, Male Nurse has sent an elderly female representative to talk to me in hushed tones. The elderly female actually, and I mean actually, covers her mouth on both sides like the blinders that Shahid Kapur wears in Kaminey and asks in a damn loud whisper “ARE YOU HAVING THE SEXUAL INTERCOURSES??”

“……Yes” I say surprisingly unsure, still trying to fathom the extent of worry on this elderly females face. Maybe this is not just about not being a virgin, maybe there is some major shit that will hit the fan if I’m unmarried and take this test. Maybe they need me to sign off on some legal document, maybe they need some sample from the ‘husband’ to compare or something I decide.

My unsure reply tends to worry her further. She decides things need to be broken down further to make me understand. She holds her mouth blinders up again “ARE YOU HAVING THE BOYFRIENDS?”



All this is happening as the blood collection lady is busy at work beside me, labeling my test tube, burning and cutting the needle, rubbing spirit on my bleeding vein and taping it. I have failed to notice the smirk she has on her face till she interrupts elderly psycho to ask me point blank “Are you sexually active my girl”

“Yes, occasionally”

“Then you qualify, all she wants to tell you is that it is a penetrative test”

“Yeah exactly”

“Let her take the test”
she says authoritatively to elderly nutcase and the case is finally dismissed.

After what was again surprisingly a painful test, when everyone said it wont be, I went out feeling suitable annoyed. Except I didn’t know who to be angry with. The parochial marathi mulgis at the counter who should simply allow people to take a test, no questions asked, or at least no questions asked SO many times, or my mother in front of whom I cant simply say “I’m sexually active” even though its something she knows fully well but refuses to acknowledge. But then why would she want to I guess… so I just felt annoyed with myself instead. It’s far easier that way.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Take your life in your own hands and what happens? A terrible thing. No one to blame

Jong did more than just inspire me to write. Infact, ‘How to save your own life’ (which is where the famous line from above is from), a paperback, much cello taped version that was lying in the vast library of books I had growing up, was the book in which I read my first ever sex scene. And it was the book in which I first even realized what sex was, what fit in where, my own 6th grade sex ed class, my own community hippie parents explaining it to me over supper, breaking the news to me in a fun, not grossly uncomfortable way, and mostly that it was a wonderful experience. The fact that sex lead to procreation was actually something I realized much, much later. I was eleven.

The book also therefore, inadvertently shaped much of my sex life. Subconsciously of course. It made me not put too much thought into losing my virginity, relieved me of that burdensome guilt. It taught me how to actually enjoy the act. To have sex for the sake of pleasure and not because I wanted to please someone. It made my early twenties seem almost sublime. I felt all the chutzpah a young girl should feel. I winged it like Jong.

What the book didn’t teach me was how to deal with my twenties in India, as an, at the heart of it all; love sick soul. I couldn’t wing it and walk away. I couldn’t pretend I had those hippie commune bred parents who’d throw flowers on my cosmic copulating bed, I couldn’t be constantly torn between serial monogamy and one true love. Especially since I realized slowly that I only wanted the latter.

I couldn’t be like Isadora Wing. I couldn’t be like Erica Jong. When I went back to say goodbye to my house before it got torn down a few months ago, I found the book and re-read it in one sitting. But this time, the book seemed lost and vapid. Not unlike the state it was physically in (it was about to die a silver fish eaten death). The Isadora who had overwhelmed me with her ziplessness, suddenly seemed depraved and deranged. Lonely and deluded.

I almost felt like what Jongs daughter Molly had articulated in her memoirs – ‘Girl, Maladjusted’ , of living under her mothers sexual shadow, ‘of the emptiness she encountered in trying to live out the sexual liberties lauded in her mothers work’.
It was a coming of age of some sort for me. I suddenly felt free of the book. Free of what it had subconsciously alluded to me in some way at that pliable age.

And then again I realized, it had done me just that…. I had something to blame.