I hate her fake smile… she is only doing her job but then I hate her job
I hate leaving… leaving any place: old home, new home, Kolkata, Mumbai, campus
I hate leaving… leaving people, people like my little niece- we worked hard for two days to get to know each other, and now I don’t know when I will see her again, I don’t know if she will remember me, I don’t know how much I will miss in her life- the next time I meet her she will probably start her anorexic journey, she will run her race in the right direction and she will like boys (arrrghhhhh…..)
I hate it when my dad calls me a shaMBA, a wasteful spoilt brat, a consumerist materialistic prodigal
I hate waiting… waiting for sms replies, gtalk replies, for phone calls, for tickets, for trains, for people, for the perfect life
I hate hype and the fact that “poverty porn sells” (with due acknowledgements to the person who came up with the term) and I still can’t get over the fact that the UPA government claimed its “due share of credit for providing a conducive democratic environment”… all for nothing!! SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE IS NOT AN INDIAN MOVIE
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Me the "machhi"
Large dark eyes, silky short hair, chubby cheeks… meet my cute and adorable niece, all of two and a half years, a walking talking Japanese doll. But do not, I repeat do not underestimate her!! She is very much a matured, young lady (well, lady may be stretching it a little too far), who can’t yet read or write, but who shows off as she solemnly sits with a book and a marker, who goes to her “Butterfly” school in her green and yellow butterfly uniform, who runs in the opposite direction during her event and proudly declares she reached the finishing line before everybody else, who dances with complete strangers in Goa, who walks very fast and politely wishes people “good morning” on her way, who takes care of her appearance as she dresses herself in her short skirts and Shoppers Stop tunics and puts on hideous lipstick and big bangles, who firmly occupies the drivers’ seat in the car and fastens her seatbelt all ready to drive, who tries to make herself useful around the house as she runs errands and who dismisses her little sister as a helpless “baby”…
My weekend trip to the picturesque township of Haldia Petrochemicals (3 hours from Kolkata) to my sister’s place was spent in complete awe of my niece as I went back a couple of decades and found myself reciting nursery rhymes (it never fails to surprise me how well I remember Humpty Dumpty learnt twenty years back, while I struggle to memorize HR basics learnt in the last semester) with full enthusiasm, as I chased her down in the open lawns, as I took her for piggy back rides, as we fought for the last bite of the Kit Kat bar and as we cried together when it was time to leave…
She is my little angel, and I am a sucker for the way she calls me, “machhi”, the cuter version of “mashi” (aunt)
My weekend trip to the picturesque township of Haldia Petrochemicals (3 hours from Kolkata) to my sister’s place was spent in complete awe of my niece as I went back a couple of decades and found myself reciting nursery rhymes (it never fails to surprise me how well I remember Humpty Dumpty learnt twenty years back, while I struggle to memorize HR basics learnt in the last semester) with full enthusiasm, as I chased her down in the open lawns, as I took her for piggy back rides, as we fought for the last bite of the Kit Kat bar and as we cried together when it was time to leave…
She is my little angel, and I am a sucker for the way she calls me, “machhi”, the cuter version of “mashi” (aunt)
Friday, February 20, 2009
The other side of the story
Yesterday, I woke up to a sms from a friend, “hey, congrats! Your dad is in the papers. Mint, first page…” Now, I am not a fan of Mint, or for that matter, any business newspaper (yes, I am an MBA, so what?). The only thing I read in Economic Times is the Dilbert strip and the editorial. But as soon as I got the sms I jumped up and logged in to check the online edition of Mint (a new personal low). So that was what my dad was cribbing about the night before when he called- he doesn’t like the press, especially perky young journalists who ask uncomfortable questions (may be that’s why I am so enamoured with the profession). As the page uploaded, I stared at my dad’s pic, complete with a tie and blazer (he hates that outfit), screamed at my mom and grandmom and the three of us stared at the pic together… before long I was shamelessly forwarding the link to some of my friends who knew me well enough and hated me well enough to not judge me as an arrogant vain brat! Then again I called up my dad, super excited, and congratulated him. He seemed a little taken aback, and then calmly told me, “Did you even read the article, or just looked at my pic? The point is that my company is in trouble and the results aren’t exactly great, so all that publicity is actually negative publicity. But of course, you are too illiterate to appreciate the gravity of the situation…” I was, but who cares, my dad was in the papers, not something that happens to a middle class girl every day, and I had every right to be foolishly excited!! And then, I went back to thinking…
He was a typical simple, suburbian Bong guy raised in the small town of Asansol, not too ambitious, with typical simple middle class dreams (or the lack of them). He did well in school, but did better in sports. He went to St. Xaviers to study Chemistry Honours, and then succumbed to the usual pressures that affect a teenaged boy, new to the city life. Bad habits, hostel life, active Naxalite Politics of Bengal, competitive football and yes, serious obsession with Communism (Marx, Engel, Lenin, Che Guevara… he read them all) and very little of Chemistry, resulted in the inevitable- a 2nd class in graduation, and therefore no admission to M. Sc and therefore wrath of my grandfather, who refused to support him anymore. The next step was to get into something which was easy to get through and did not have a qualifying cut off in graduation. The only option was C.A. and so by elimination he tried his luck in something he had no background in. For somebody who had never done accounts, who wasn’t a commerce guy, who had never heard of double entry accounting, it wasn’t a good start. I don’t know how he managed to clear his C.A. in his first attempt with an impressive all India rank (hard work and application I suppose, something I am not used to), but thereafter it wasn’t smooth sailing either. He decided to get married when he earned a “handsome” salary of 1500 bucks per month, most of which went into house rent and baby food for me. My earliest memories of my dad go back to the time when he used to accompany me to my landlord’s flat downstairs to watch Mahabharata on Doordarshan and patiently explain it, when he carried me on his shoulders for hours as we explored the zoo in Kolkata every year during winter vacation, when he would wake me up after coming home from office much to mom’s annoyance and read to me and disappear to Liluah every alternate weekend to play cricket or football with his friends. While my mom worked hard to raise me into a “cultured” young lady (she enrolled me to godforsaken classes for Bharatnatyam, art and swimming), my dad was the one who spoilt me, who let me explore my wild streak, and yes, who dressed me up and photographed me randomly. And somehow I managed to grow up, with terrible manners, cheering for Azharuddin, fighting over who is superior between Monica Seles and Steffi Graf and reading Satyajit Ray and Enid Blyton: since my dad liked them, I never doubted that they were the best! And one advantage of starting out with nothing, is that you get to celebrate every little thing: television, phone connection, internet, a new car, and finally a new house- I was involved in each of these purchase decisions, and solemnly informed about the sacrifices I will have to make in order for us to have these things.
As he climbed up the ladder, he made it a point not to get along with his bosses and there was a time when he permanently carried a printed resignation letter in his pocket! He wrote long letters to his superiors, and got it proof read by me. Very often he would come home and gleefully tell me how good it felt to give a piece of his mind to a “stuffed, left brained jerk” (I am not naming names… he is kind of famous). And once, when a frustrated CXO asked him, “What’s your problem in life”, he replied, “You are!!”… So yeah, my dad kind of rocks, and while personally I think he would have made a better philosophy professor, he must be a pretty decent finance guy too…
But yes, that man in the papers is still my dad, somebody I pee-ed on, someone who signed my report cards with a sigh, someone who taught me to play cards, someone who wrestled with me when I was obsessed with WWF… and yes, someone who still doesn’t know how to knot a tie and waits for me to go home so that I can do it. And yes, he is definitely much more interesting and not a boring pompous guy spelling out meaningless jargon- why would anybody publish that shit is beyond me…
He was a typical simple, suburbian Bong guy raised in the small town of Asansol, not too ambitious, with typical simple middle class dreams (or the lack of them). He did well in school, but did better in sports. He went to St. Xaviers to study Chemistry Honours, and then succumbed to the usual pressures that affect a teenaged boy, new to the city life. Bad habits, hostel life, active Naxalite Politics of Bengal, competitive football and yes, serious obsession with Communism (Marx, Engel, Lenin, Che Guevara… he read them all) and very little of Chemistry, resulted in the inevitable- a 2nd class in graduation, and therefore no admission to M. Sc and therefore wrath of my grandfather, who refused to support him anymore. The next step was to get into something which was easy to get through and did not have a qualifying cut off in graduation. The only option was C.A. and so by elimination he tried his luck in something he had no background in. For somebody who had never done accounts, who wasn’t a commerce guy, who had never heard of double entry accounting, it wasn’t a good start. I don’t know how he managed to clear his C.A. in his first attempt with an impressive all India rank (hard work and application I suppose, something I am not used to), but thereafter it wasn’t smooth sailing either. He decided to get married when he earned a “handsome” salary of 1500 bucks per month, most of which went into house rent and baby food for me. My earliest memories of my dad go back to the time when he used to accompany me to my landlord’s flat downstairs to watch Mahabharata on Doordarshan and patiently explain it, when he carried me on his shoulders for hours as we explored the zoo in Kolkata every year during winter vacation, when he would wake me up after coming home from office much to mom’s annoyance and read to me and disappear to Liluah every alternate weekend to play cricket or football with his friends. While my mom worked hard to raise me into a “cultured” young lady (she enrolled me to godforsaken classes for Bharatnatyam, art and swimming), my dad was the one who spoilt me, who let me explore my wild streak, and yes, who dressed me up and photographed me randomly. And somehow I managed to grow up, with terrible manners, cheering for Azharuddin, fighting over who is superior between Monica Seles and Steffi Graf and reading Satyajit Ray and Enid Blyton: since my dad liked them, I never doubted that they were the best! And one advantage of starting out with nothing, is that you get to celebrate every little thing: television, phone connection, internet, a new car, and finally a new house- I was involved in each of these purchase decisions, and solemnly informed about the sacrifices I will have to make in order for us to have these things.
As he climbed up the ladder, he made it a point not to get along with his bosses and there was a time when he permanently carried a printed resignation letter in his pocket! He wrote long letters to his superiors, and got it proof read by me. Very often he would come home and gleefully tell me how good it felt to give a piece of his mind to a “stuffed, left brained jerk” (I am not naming names… he is kind of famous). And once, when a frustrated CXO asked him, “What’s your problem in life”, he replied, “You are!!”… So yeah, my dad kind of rocks, and while personally I think he would have made a better philosophy professor, he must be a pretty decent finance guy too…
But yes, that man in the papers is still my dad, somebody I pee-ed on, someone who signed my report cards with a sigh, someone who taught me to play cards, someone who wrestled with me when I was obsessed with WWF… and yes, someone who still doesn’t know how to knot a tie and waits for me to go home so that I can do it. And yes, he is definitely much more interesting and not a boring pompous guy spelling out meaningless jargon- why would anybody publish that shit is beyond me…
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Dark Knight... tribute to anti heroes
I watched Dev D after I had already read rave reviews on one hand, and heard cribbing friends (mostly male) chastising the movie as “unconventionally bad”, “exploring female sexuality aggressively” and “a complete waste” on the other. While my brother continuously complained, I found it refreshingly different even if it didn’t live up to all the hype and expectations. But one thing that it did do was strengthen my obsession with anti heroes- Abhay Deol, as the protagonist who plays the modern day Devdas is a typical loser that your parents do not want you to grow up to be. And that is precisely what makes his character so damn real and attractive: he is weak, he is confused, he is vulnerable, he is flawed and “conspicuously lacking in heroic qualities”, i.e. he is like US!! While literature and art have exploited the anti hero concept over the ages through glamorous characters like Mephistopheles (Faust), Yossarian (Catch 22), Hamlet, Macbeth, Holden Caulfield (Catcher in the Rye), Satan/Lucifer (Paradise Lost), Randle McMurphy (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s nest), Becky Sharp (Vanity Fair), Patrick Bateman (American Psycho), , Tyler Durden (Fight Club), Victor Frankenstein (Frankenstein), Gollum (TLOTR), to name a few, my personal favourites are:
Shylock: From the Shakespearean villain in the romantic comedy, “The Merchant of Venice”, Shylock has emerged as the tragic anti hero, an angry inconvenient man destroyed by an unjust quibble in the law, a good man undone by a tragic flaw, his inability to control his rage against an overwhelmingly powerful society that will never recognize his generosity and never accept him. His famous speech “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes?...” screams of his insistence on his basic right to self respect even as a Jew.
Heathcliff: I did not like Wuthering Heights (dad, if your are reading, Classics AINT the best thing that happened to literature), but the only thing that kept me going till the end of the novel was the character of Heathcliff- the typical romantic Byronic hero whose all consuming passions are enough to destroy himself and the world around him. Passionate, dark, brooding and vindictive, he crosses the fine line between love and obsession, as he grows into a bitter haunted man devoting his life to vengeance.
Dorian Gray: Dorian Gray, the protagonist of Oscar Wilde’s only published novel which churned out a lot of controversy, is an extremely handsome, slightly naïve, young man who becomes enthralled by his own beauty and obsessed with the idea that beauty is the only thing in life worth pursuing. Consumed by a new hedonism, he sells his soul plunging himself into a series of debauched acts. His portrait serves as a reminder of the effect each act has upon his soul, with each sin being displayed as a disfigurement of his form, or through a sign of aging, while his external appearance remains as fresh and beautiful as ever.
Lester Burnham: The 42-year old advertising executive in the critically acclaimed movie “American Beauty” depicts everything that’s wrong with America- he is a self proclaimed loser in a dead end job with bosses he doesn’t respect and a dysfunctional family that doesn’t respect him. However, he suddenly finds something to live for as he gropes his way through midlife crisis and becomes infatuated with his teenaged daughter’s friend. As he becomes obsessed with his desire “to look good naked”, his life around him falls apart. My personal favourite moment in the film: When Angela asks him, “how are you?”, he smirks, and replies with a tinge of surprise, “God, it's been a long time since anybody asked me that… I am great… I am great”- and he certainly wasn’t!
Travis Bickle: Robert De Niro’s portrayal of a young, lonely and depressed cab driver gone vigilante in the movie “Taxi Driver” is a great example of how the darkness can seep in. First off, you tend to sympathize with him, but his motives remain unknown throughout the film which makes it hard to stay with his actions, especially as it becomes clear that he’s not completely all there, and then the assassination attempt of a political candidate seems straight out evil until he saves a child prostitute, but his head is so messed up you don’t know why he’s doing anything any more, making even heroic actions seem, well, really creepy.
And finally, the best of all…
Scarlet O Hara: The protagonist of Margaret Mitchell’s novel, “Gone with the Wind” is my favourite female fictional character, slightly ahead of Elizabeth Bennett of “Pride and Prejudice”. Not conventionally beautiful, she is wickedly attractive, selfish, shrewd and vain. She repeatedly challenges 19th century society’s gender roles and is the least stereotypically feminine of women and also the most disliked character of the novel. Scarlett's ongoing internal conflict between her feelings for the Southern gentleman Ashley and her attraction to the sardonic, opportunistic Rhett Butler—who becomes her third husband—embodies the general position of The South in the Civil War era.
Windy and pretentious, the antiheroes leave an indelible mark on us. The overweening pride and the arrogance mark their culmination. We see him not as the knight in the shining armour but as a darker counterpart of the hero, or the dark knight.
Shylock: From the Shakespearean villain in the romantic comedy, “The Merchant of Venice”, Shylock has emerged as the tragic anti hero, an angry inconvenient man destroyed by an unjust quibble in the law, a good man undone by a tragic flaw, his inability to control his rage against an overwhelmingly powerful society that will never recognize his generosity and never accept him. His famous speech “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes?...” screams of his insistence on his basic right to self respect even as a Jew.
Heathcliff: I did not like Wuthering Heights (dad, if your are reading, Classics AINT the best thing that happened to literature), but the only thing that kept me going till the end of the novel was the character of Heathcliff- the typical romantic Byronic hero whose all consuming passions are enough to destroy himself and the world around him. Passionate, dark, brooding and vindictive, he crosses the fine line between love and obsession, as he grows into a bitter haunted man devoting his life to vengeance.
Dorian Gray: Dorian Gray, the protagonist of Oscar Wilde’s only published novel which churned out a lot of controversy, is an extremely handsome, slightly naïve, young man who becomes enthralled by his own beauty and obsessed with the idea that beauty is the only thing in life worth pursuing. Consumed by a new hedonism, he sells his soul plunging himself into a series of debauched acts. His portrait serves as a reminder of the effect each act has upon his soul, with each sin being displayed as a disfigurement of his form, or through a sign of aging, while his external appearance remains as fresh and beautiful as ever.
Lester Burnham: The 42-year old advertising executive in the critically acclaimed movie “American Beauty” depicts everything that’s wrong with America- he is a self proclaimed loser in a dead end job with bosses he doesn’t respect and a dysfunctional family that doesn’t respect him. However, he suddenly finds something to live for as he gropes his way through midlife crisis and becomes infatuated with his teenaged daughter’s friend. As he becomes obsessed with his desire “to look good naked”, his life around him falls apart. My personal favourite moment in the film: When Angela asks him, “how are you?”, he smirks, and replies with a tinge of surprise, “God, it's been a long time since anybody asked me that… I am great… I am great”- and he certainly wasn’t!
Travis Bickle: Robert De Niro’s portrayal of a young, lonely and depressed cab driver gone vigilante in the movie “Taxi Driver” is a great example of how the darkness can seep in. First off, you tend to sympathize with him, but his motives remain unknown throughout the film which makes it hard to stay with his actions, especially as it becomes clear that he’s not completely all there, and then the assassination attempt of a political candidate seems straight out evil until he saves a child prostitute, but his head is so messed up you don’t know why he’s doing anything any more, making even heroic actions seem, well, really creepy.
And finally, the best of all…
Scarlet O Hara: The protagonist of Margaret Mitchell’s novel, “Gone with the Wind” is my favourite female fictional character, slightly ahead of Elizabeth Bennett of “Pride and Prejudice”. Not conventionally beautiful, she is wickedly attractive, selfish, shrewd and vain. She repeatedly challenges 19th century society’s gender roles and is the least stereotypically feminine of women and also the most disliked character of the novel. Scarlett's ongoing internal conflict between her feelings for the Southern gentleman Ashley and her attraction to the sardonic, opportunistic Rhett Butler—who becomes her third husband—embodies the general position of The South in the Civil War era.
Windy and pretentious, the antiheroes leave an indelible mark on us. The overweening pride and the arrogance mark their culmination. We see him not as the knight in the shining armour but as a darker counterpart of the hero, or the dark knight.
Monday, February 16, 2009
On a day like today
So last night I dreamt that I was dying, and instead of getting all paranoid and scared I calmly reflected back on the things that I would miss if I died, say right now…
I will miss waking up next to my pair of expensive shoes, staring at them lovingly first thing in the morning, hugging them and going back to sleep…
I will miss my solitary walks, with the music playing on my ipod and random thoughts running through my indulgent mind…
I will miss the first feel of the warm shower after a long hard day (well, a long day… haven’t really had a hard day in a long time)…
I will miss munching on junk food while I watched umpteenth reruns of FRIENDS on my laptop or read a no-brainer Chetan Bhagat type book…
I will also miss struggling through “classics” or so called “good books” and wonder why they became so acclaimed but then it will all be worth it when my dad breaks into an appreciative smile when I tell him that, “See, I did read so-and-so book”…
I will miss the million dollar look on my mom’s face when I bring her tea after she is back from work and how quickly that look changes into pain when she tastes it…
I will miss being photographed… and then again, I will miss cribbing about how hideous I look in snaps (or in real life)…
I will miss sitting through nail-biting finishes in a high scoring cricket match (and no, T20 is NOT cricket) when India finally wins chasing down a huge score…
I will miss the people in my life- there aren’t too many, but the few that are there, I will really really miss them…
I will miss the late night auto rides, a little high, a little tired as I lean against someone and he brushes the hair off my face…
I will miss the memories and the embarrassment when someone catches me smiling vacuously for no apparent reason…
I will miss text messages…
And I will also miss reading random blogs and stealing their ideas…
I will miss waking up next to my pair of expensive shoes, staring at them lovingly first thing in the morning, hugging them and going back to sleep…
I will miss my solitary walks, with the music playing on my ipod and random thoughts running through my indulgent mind…
I will miss the first feel of the warm shower after a long hard day (well, a long day… haven’t really had a hard day in a long time)…
I will miss munching on junk food while I watched umpteenth reruns of FRIENDS on my laptop or read a no-brainer Chetan Bhagat type book…
I will also miss struggling through “classics” or so called “good books” and wonder why they became so acclaimed but then it will all be worth it when my dad breaks into an appreciative smile when I tell him that, “See, I did read so-and-so book”…
I will miss the million dollar look on my mom’s face when I bring her tea after she is back from work and how quickly that look changes into pain when she tastes it…
I will miss being photographed… and then again, I will miss cribbing about how hideous I look in snaps (or in real life)…
I will miss sitting through nail-biting finishes in a high scoring cricket match (and no, T20 is NOT cricket) when India finally wins chasing down a huge score…
I will miss the people in my life- there aren’t too many, but the few that are there, I will really really miss them…
I will miss the late night auto rides, a little high, a little tired as I lean against someone and he brushes the hair off my face…
I will miss the memories and the embarrassment when someone catches me smiling vacuously for no apparent reason…
I will miss text messages…
And I will also miss reading random blogs and stealing their ideas…
Sunday, February 15, 2009
So it was Valentine's Day...
He took me for a long drive in his red wannabe “sports car”, instructed me to fasten the seat belt (a concept alien in the small town of Asansol), pressed on the accelerator and zipped through the highway, as I turned up the volume of the stereo. He took me to his favourite place, where he often came to be with himself, we reclined the seats, lay on our backs and talked…
We watched “Mumbai Meri Jaan” on his laptop when “Dev D” didn’t work out. He asked me not to undertake such heinous terrorist activities. I replied that there are no certainties in life and I can’t promise it, but, yeah, there was almost 97.5% chance that I wouldn’t…
We experimented in the kitchen. Then he made some exotic Jasmine tea, while I watched and treated myself to yummy Amul milk powder (I think that’s the best invention after chocolate)…
We bought a huge cake and candles and wolfed down three ice creams without stopping to breathe, the last one being called “Happy Moments”…
He told me stories about his college, his friends who had never been with girls and yet carried condoms in their wallets, “just in case”, his dreams of doing something path breaking (something related to programmable logic controller or PLC- I didn't understand a word of it, but I listened all the same), his football team, about being hit on by a gay guy in a public toilet and about how lost he felt at times…
And then, before we knew it, it was 2 in the morning, and he slept off, like he always did, with his arm round me. I whispered, “I love you” and he grinned back and said, “Thanks”…
And so that was it- my two days with my kid brother ended just like that, as he hugged me goodbye and went back to college while I embarked on a long and lonely bus ride to Kolkata thinking about my favourite cousin, but more importantly, one of my favourite people, my confidante, my 20-year old friend, philosopher and guide who strictly declared that I should only marry a guy with a Skoda… Sigh!!!
P.S. I also bought 2 pairs of expensive shoes. Yes, I hate Valentine’s Day “celebrated” by greeting cards manufacturing companies to make thousands feel miserable…
But I did spend it someone I love, and I did what I loved the most (well, second most) - shopping!!!
We watched “Mumbai Meri Jaan” on his laptop when “Dev D” didn’t work out. He asked me not to undertake such heinous terrorist activities. I replied that there are no certainties in life and I can’t promise it, but, yeah, there was almost 97.5% chance that I wouldn’t…
We experimented in the kitchen. Then he made some exotic Jasmine tea, while I watched and treated myself to yummy Amul milk powder (I think that’s the best invention after chocolate)…
We bought a huge cake and candles and wolfed down three ice creams without stopping to breathe, the last one being called “Happy Moments”…
He told me stories about his college, his friends who had never been with girls and yet carried condoms in their wallets, “just in case”, his dreams of doing something path breaking (something related to programmable logic controller or PLC- I didn't understand a word of it, but I listened all the same), his football team, about being hit on by a gay guy in a public toilet and about how lost he felt at times…
And then, before we knew it, it was 2 in the morning, and he slept off, like he always did, with his arm round me. I whispered, “I love you” and he grinned back and said, “Thanks”…
And so that was it- my two days with my kid brother ended just like that, as he hugged me goodbye and went back to college while I embarked on a long and lonely bus ride to Kolkata thinking about my favourite cousin, but more importantly, one of my favourite people, my confidante, my 20-year old friend, philosopher and guide who strictly declared that I should only marry a guy with a Skoda… Sigh!!!
P.S. I also bought 2 pairs of expensive shoes. Yes, I hate Valentine’s Day “celebrated” by greeting cards manufacturing companies to make thousands feel miserable…
But I did spend it someone I love, and I did what I loved the most (well, second most) - shopping!!!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
This post is for her...
I was all of six months when I met her… she was of course a new born baby, and I took it upon myself to pass on all the wisdom and experience that I had accumulated in 26 weeks. But that’s where my seniority ended. In the next couple of years, she made it amply clear who was the boss around the house. Ours was an unequal friendship- she wore the pants in the relationship (literally) while I stuck to my frilly frocks and skirts. Calling her a bully would be an understatement…
She was my landlord’s grand daughter and therefore she assumed it was her right to order me about while I complied meekly…
She was big and strong with short hair and whenever we played “house”, she would automatically be the “man” leaving me to do all the dirty work- cooking, cleaning, washing…
When we played “bus bus” she would always be on the driver’s seat as I squeezed myself behind her hanging on to her promise that the next day it will be my turn to be in the front seat. Well, I am still waiting my turn…
She usually reached her peak of excitement around 8 p.m. when I would be all droopy and sleepy, but no, she wouldn’t let me go home. She would scream and pull my hair until I gave in and stayed back letting her win yet another game. I still have a scratch below my right eye as a proof of child abuse…
She was my partner in whatever silly games we invented to keep ourselves busy, the silliest being “Shobaike dekhe paliye jaoa”…
We went to different schools and she charitably agreed that my school was a little bit better than hers, simply because it was a co-ed school…
She came to me and cried angrily when her mom ran away with another man when she was only eight years old and together we vowed, well, something…
She was the one that I practised my dance moves with as we sang along to Chitrahaar every Wednesday night…
She learnt Rabindrasangeet, I learnt Bharatnatyam and together we put up a show on the streets every year on Tagore’s birthday that the whole neighbourhood came to watch…
She broke her leg and became bed ridden for three months and I gave up playing as I sat with her on evenings and chatted together and put on weight together…
She dated my best friend from school- of course it’s besides the point that the guy doesn’t talk to either of us now…
Now I met her again after years- a young lady (still big, still boyish and still innocent) fighting it out on her own in Delhi, working late night shifts, traveling four hours a day, dating yet another friend of mine, she is still my oldest friend, she is still the same old Manta- a little loud, hearty with a heart of gold and I am still a little scared of her and I still miss her…
She was my landlord’s grand daughter and therefore she assumed it was her right to order me about while I complied meekly…
She was big and strong with short hair and whenever we played “house”, she would automatically be the “man” leaving me to do all the dirty work- cooking, cleaning, washing…
When we played “bus bus” she would always be on the driver’s seat as I squeezed myself behind her hanging on to her promise that the next day it will be my turn to be in the front seat. Well, I am still waiting my turn…
She usually reached her peak of excitement around 8 p.m. when I would be all droopy and sleepy, but no, she wouldn’t let me go home. She would scream and pull my hair until I gave in and stayed back letting her win yet another game. I still have a scratch below my right eye as a proof of child abuse…
She was my partner in whatever silly games we invented to keep ourselves busy, the silliest being “Shobaike dekhe paliye jaoa”…
We went to different schools and she charitably agreed that my school was a little bit better than hers, simply because it was a co-ed school…
She came to me and cried angrily when her mom ran away with another man when she was only eight years old and together we vowed, well, something…
She was the one that I practised my dance moves with as we sang along to Chitrahaar every Wednesday night…
She learnt Rabindrasangeet, I learnt Bharatnatyam and together we put up a show on the streets every year on Tagore’s birthday that the whole neighbourhood came to watch…
She broke her leg and became bed ridden for three months and I gave up playing as I sat with her on evenings and chatted together and put on weight together…
She dated my best friend from school- of course it’s besides the point that the guy doesn’t talk to either of us now…
Now I met her again after years- a young lady (still big, still boyish and still innocent) fighting it out on her own in Delhi, working late night shifts, traveling four hours a day, dating yet another friend of mine, she is still my oldest friend, she is still the same old Manta- a little loud, hearty with a heart of gold and I am still a little scared of her and I still miss her…
Monday, February 9, 2009
What's common between sex and cooking?
It seems no big deal when others are doing it, but when you get down to it, you realize it’s damn hard work…
The first time, you usually bleed…
Initially it’s pretty unpalatable, but you get better with practice…
To spice it up, you got to experiment…
Long foreplay is half the battle won…
Chocolate is a pretty good back up…
And if nothing works out, you can always order home delivery…
The first time, you usually bleed…
Initially it’s pretty unpalatable, but you get better with practice…
To spice it up, you got to experiment…
Long foreplay is half the battle won…
Chocolate is a pretty good back up…
And if nothing works out, you can always order home delivery…
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Peaceful Easy Feeling...
That may be an Eagles anthem, but it defines my life perfectly. I have always taken the easy way out, not sweating the small stuff, giving in, ambitious but not too ambitious, studious, but not enough, fighting my way through, but not being consumed by it, caring but not enough to destroy myself… whatever I have done, I have put my soul into it, but then again managed to retain a part of me which is aloof, independent and above everything, a part that has carried me through my failures, through broken relationships, through hardships, through life while I made other plans!
As a kid, I spent most of time in the streets playing while my classmates ran from one tuition to another…
As a teen I managed to gain obscene amounts of weight as I ate away to glory while my friends were on the anorexic highway…
For my graduation, I dropped my “dream” (or my neighbour’s dream) of being an engineer and settled for a “lowly” B.A. in economics…
Then I chose MBA simply because it paid well and not because it was my burning desire to “make a difference” in India Inc when I would rather have done a masters in English Literature…
Went through placements without having to fight it out in a single GD, without sucking up to the Director or without a decent GPA...
But now, for once, I am being strong (or at least trying to be), for once I am not giving in, for once I am not taking the easy way out, for once I am not settling for a compromise, for one last time, I am willing to risk it!
As a kid, I spent most of time in the streets playing while my classmates ran from one tuition to another…
As a teen I managed to gain obscene amounts of weight as I ate away to glory while my friends were on the anorexic highway…
For my graduation, I dropped my “dream” (or my neighbour’s dream) of being an engineer and settled for a “lowly” B.A. in economics…
Then I chose MBA simply because it paid well and not because it was my burning desire to “make a difference” in India Inc when I would rather have done a masters in English Literature…
Went through placements without having to fight it out in a single GD, without sucking up to the Director or without a decent GPA...
But now, for once, I am being strong (or at least trying to be), for once I am not giving in, for once I am not taking the easy way out, for once I am not settling for a compromise, for one last time, I am willing to risk it!
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