Feeling chatty

I figure that I have not had a single meaningful conversation in three days. And I do not know which of these sentences is the tragic part. “*I* have not had”? Because I am a professional, living in a metro city, married and active on various social media. “Meaningful”? Because isn’t meaning highly over-rated and isn’t life made up of small little inconsequential things building up under your feet into a mountain, so that after years have passed, you see that you cannot even see the old you down there. Or is it the part with “three days”? For three days isn’t that long. You could see faces shoving magazines in your face at the traffic signal, every single day, and even if it’s class-ist, I can imagine some of them not having had a real conversation ever. Not one they consciously thought was meaningful anyway. I think the most tragic part is that I come to the blog. This blog isn’t supposed to be a muddled web of my various existential crises. I always imagine that my great granddaughter will probably be a historian and aching to know more about her roots, one day she will brush the dust off an old forgotten journal printed out of a badly-designed webpage, in the midst of all the family photos, and she’d read about a long-dead me and think “hey! the old woman was okay.” Maybe she’d be appalled by my lack of ambition and put it down to “women of those times” or maybe she’ll be shocked by the colourful language she’s sure to find here, if they are not pansy archaic terms by then. Maybe she’ll find me funny in how we sometimes find the writing of women we know were struggling with corsets and other cruelties, despite those realities. In any case, I’m not sure she’ll want to read about how I wanted to talk about how rude the house help is getting these days and shouldn’t we be hiring someone else, or listen to me complain about the lack of time to fix up a rather important medical appointment.

But that’s the thing. My mountain of realities is building up. When living in this construction, we need to talk about plumbers and distances and weather in different cities and new shiny devices and apps and spicy gossip and food and vague fanciful future plans. It’s only when we’re recounting life, when we reach the peak, that we can talk about who we are and who we have been without needing all those crutches. Old people, you all are so under-rated. Does it sound age-ist? It’s not, because I know I already want to take some younger-than-me people by the shoulders and shake them and say “WHY DON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME? I *know* THIS SHIT.” It is getting worse every day, and I’m sure to be the kind of mother who says “Did you not hear Mama?” in a passive-aggressive tone with a slightly cocked head, deadpan expression to boot. So it is all the more amazing to me that in the face of our refusing-to-have-kids-just-yet, eating-bad, being-careless-with-our-health, sleeping-late, driving-drunk ways, our elders are only giving us little polite reminders that our hoo-has need to get more active soon or that we need to shed that lard. I would’ve been all “TONIGHT IS BABY-MAKING NIGHT, DAUGHTER. YOUR UTERUS ISN’T GONNA BE FOREVER YOUNG.”, shows my track record thus far. Anyway. That memory-erasing digression aside, I was saying that meaningless conversations really make up meaningful conversation. *Pause for applause* But it’s true. If I am to go by my own pattern, most often I don’t need to even talk about “so where is this going, honey?” or something to that effect. (Essentially, the honey had better know where this is going by now. I’m a bad navigator.) I get pissed off because why should it be me reminding myself 5 times this week that the curtains need to be dry-cleaned; why can’t it be more collaborative; why can’t you remind me once for chrissakes; and is this is the lot of us women for the rest of our motherfucking lives? These kind of sentences that get women the undeserved drama-queen reputation are what are often bubbling under my calm exterior (that’s a joke) . Just getting this out makes me feel rebellious. And then I go marching to the dry cleaners. Am I obligated or pressurized by the societal pressures that subtly underline the gender differences between men and women, and infiltrate the part of our brains that controls “Responsibilities” and fucks with it? Don’t re-read that sentence. I can tell you the answer – it’s not that. It’s just that some people care and some don’t about some things. My husband cares a LOT about the crashing sound of a phone falling on the ground. It wakes him up from deep sleep and ask “KYA TOD DIYA”. I routinely kick my laptop off the bed (it’s not large enough for the both of us) and sleepily say “oops! but now you’re in a better place. you can’t fall any lower. i’ll pick you up in the morning. k thx bye.” You may now reverse the positions in case of dirty curtains. Dirty curtains (and their other kith and kin – chipped furniture, leaking taps, younameit) bring up in me the complex and heady nausea comprising of my mother’s strong belief that when I run my own house I’ll only feed my family Maggi for 18 years straight and my intense desire to prove her wrong,  my personal macro-mode visualization of germs crawling everywhere, the thought bubble I imagine on my guests’ heads thinking about the curtains being Dust Caves, and the WORST, the pressure I feel to impress my house help. So I know I’ll do it (or “get it done”, the new mantra of our generation). All I demand is that someone listen to my smart once-a-year and on my awesome-lonesome thought idea of doing this noble deed. All I get is silence or “they are not thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat dirty”. Like I’m imagining things. Why is it that all this sounds vaguely liberal, vaguely oppressive and vaguely feminist? Because that’s how we have conditioned ourselves recently. We read so many gender-based atrocities that our antennae are up. I know I do it. The reality is sometimes very different. So I have begun checking myself and seeing things with a, let me call it Fifth Wave Feminism (TM), lens. It involves swapping the positions of the man and the woman and seeing whether what they are saying is acceptable otherwise. “You’re going for a walk tomorrow. Have you *seen* your paunch?” I cannot even imagine the hysteria if the man (and not the woman, as the case is) in the couple I’m thinking of, had said this. But today, when a woman says it, it’s a total reflection of the Saffola ad aunty who’s been staying up nights making detailed excel sheets on which vegetable oil is the most “aapke dil ka khayaal rakhne waala“. But you cannot tell her about this Saffolaness (T-fucken’-M) of hers, because she finds those ads appalling. So you just nod and say “I know, so sexist”. Fun!

So yes, in my book of Sanity Preservation 101, it is fast becoming the best idea to stop thinking everything in terms of gender. That chaatwallah did NOT make me wait because I’m not as loud as the burly guy; it’s because I’m short and he couldn’t see me. That salesman did NOT ask “sir hain?” after ringing the doorbell because he thinks I don’t wear the pants in the household, it’s because I WAS wearing a gamchha on my shoulder. That mobile phone shopman is NOT only talking to my husband because he thinks women don’t understand technology, it’s because I asked him where the keyboard is in a touch-phone. Five times.

Khair, this wasn’t supposed to be this kind of a post. I just wanted to talk about the fact that I hate Fridays and love Saturdays. But, good talk.

Sometimes meaningless stuff makes the most meaningful conversation. Just not this time 🙂

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Vignette

We had an unexpected holiday here yesterday. Mumbai apparently was going to vote.

I was having a confused, confusing day. One that starts in fits and jerks, and maintains that pattern. Through the day, between the few bouts of inspired productivity and attempts to finish all boring housework before the actual weekend commenced, I stole about three naps of differing lengths. Not to mention, the deep sighs. Even as my brain went “WTF was that sigh for?”, I just could not stop myself from sighing again and with greater emotion this time.

We had planned an evening out, because more often than not, not stepping out on a day we didn’t have to go to work is the “stuff losers are made up of” in this house. I really tried to pep myself up. I even showered. Once there, I refused to buy anything. Now the husband was getting concerned. So I tried on a polka dotted blue top, and thought I’d buy it. Then I sighed at the cash counter and momentarily considered not purchasing it. The husband’s skeptical look and the cashier’s swift card swiping ensured no such thing happened.

At dinner, despite being on a steely resolve to ignore all carbs after 6 for the last five weeks, I found myself grabbing the bread basket more than once. After a detailed internal monologue recounting which is making me doubt my mental wellness at the moment, I ordered a pasta dish that I struggled to share with the husband. When the husband – who comes fitted with a sweet jaw – gingerly suggested dessert, I didn’t even hem and haw and quickly jumped to the “yes! but we’ll share it” part. It was dulce de leche ice cream, and I remember licking the spoon and stopping short of licking the cup; I may or may not have completely denied saying I’ll share it.

Back home, I sighed once again and quickly burst into tears. About how nobody loves me anymore. That alarmed the husband alright. Then I went to sleep.

This morning, I could connect the dots backwards with crystal clear retrospection.

To those who may not get this one bit (and that definitely includes all men), issued in public interest: PMS is very real.

Family Matters

I don’t write too many posts about family. Maybe I find it hard to be mushy
here when I know what a pain-in-the-ass I can be to them in real life.. that
would be just wrong. Or maybe it is that I have a small little shadow of a
tragic Meena Kumari hidden in me, that loves to see and remember only the weird
parts of my childhood.. and trust me, they’re not all that blogworthy. Not that
the family knows about this blog anyway.

I like to think that through my childhood and teenage years, I oscillated violently
between being painfully shy with some people and insufferably sarcastic with
others. As a result, I was juggling those two personalities so often that I
hardly ever found time to be.. I don’t know.. normal! And if there was someone
who could disarm me and see me for who I was.. not to mention, completely
blackmail me.. it was my kid brother. Two and a half years apart in age, we
grew up friends.. or maybe, frenemies is the right term? 😀 I don’t know how
that could have happened, since through most of my growing up years, I
considered younger people to be creatures we were either supposed to be polite
to or to be dismissed high-handedly. Yet, right under my nose, someone younger
dared to not just treat me like their equal but sometimes, even bordered on
serious irreverence. Needless to say, there were many healthy arguments, some
unhealthy hair-pulling sessions and a few unthinkably rude things we did to
each other (slap marathons, anyone?).

And still, through the ups and downs of my life, I feel he is the one reason
I’ve stayed out of therapy. No, it’s not a support thing, it’s about seeing
life (and not just life in general, but exactly your life) through someone
else’s eyes and finding that it’s not so bad. For instance, every time my
parents fought when I was little, I was worried that there was going to be a
divorce and then who will I go and live with, and most importantly, WE DIDN’T
KNOW ANY LAWYERS! It really was the stuff of nightmares but I wouldn’t allow
myself to say it aloud to anybody. And then, a day before my parents 13th or
14th anniversary, my brother and I sat in our room wondering what gift/(s) to
buy them with a grand total of some 500 or 600 bucks. While we were still
arguing about getting some random picture blown up and framed or buying them
movie tickets, we heard them fighting about something trivial. I could feel the
knot turning in my stomach, when my brother – all of 10 years – remarked,
“I guess we don’t have to buy them anything anymore.” What might seem
like a sad or preposterous comment by someone that young (and I did act
suitably appalled at the time), made me see the humour in my compulsive fear
for the first time. Over the years, he has been the one person I could trust
with getting the most honest opinion including things like “make-up can
hide ONLY so much” and “you’re not obese. yet. give it time.”

It’s hard to appreciate things he says, but I think he knows he can be so
ill-mannered around only me. And in that one way, I am special (not that anyone
is aspiring to take my post soon). So yes, when parents of a young child worry
about getting a sibling for their little one, I understand their concern.
Because surely, that’s a more viable way of keeping the elder off the shrink’s
couch than any other I know 😀

I know that this is a rather weird post for a festive occasion, but here’s
wishing Mr. Maajra (insipid nickname based on a stupid story, because I refuse
to grow up) a very happy Raksha Bandhan that brings you all the good things.
Hopefully, some grey matter as bonus too.

😀

 

 

Hello, I’m..

Amidst all the babas and the slutwalks and the dancing politician ladies, I’m outraged enough to lose some of my narcissism. So I thought I’d reinforce it with a meme that’s been lying in the drafts for far too long. Honestly, this may be over a year old but I wrote the answers only now.

So here’s a bit of me, because I always keep my eye on the ball: Q. Why does this lousy blog exist? A. For my grand-children to know the Greatness that is Me.

Every phrase needs to be completed with three answers about yourself. Easy to figure as you go.

I am

  • Generally at daggers’ ends with the whole world and a bit heartless in arguments
  • A typical Virgo –  as in extremely critical of myself (as of others), aware of my flaws and good at hiding them unless I decide to be self-deprecating 🙂
  • A borderline hypochondriac with several OCDs

I want

  • To ensure that my future turns out at least vaguely like I dream it
  • Many material possessions that WILL buy me a slice of happiness
  • To live only till I have all my loved ones around me

I have

  • A husband who loves me unconditionally
  • A temper I am not proud of, and an acidic tongue
  • A mother compared to whom I’m horribly inadequate (and quite happy with it)

I wish

  • People would say things like they mean them. Mind games make me feel tired
  • To accomplish something that I’d leave behind and would make me “feel” if not “be” successful
  • I’d be able to stick to things I vehemently believe in now, when they matter most

I hate

  • Obsession with religion
  • Women who perpetrate atrocities and social injustices against other women, in the name of tradition
  • A messy house

I fear

  • Dependence – physical or financial or emotional, of my own or that of my family
  • People morphing into worse versions of themselves
  • Uncertainty of all kinds

I hear

  • The helpless cries of less privileged women and children
  • The advice from good friends
  • My guilt, loud and clear

I search

  • The world to throw me a clue
  • For new things to try, whenever the opportunity comes
  • For interesting conversations in the most unusual prospects

I wonder

  • Why society matters so much to so many people? Isn’t a sizeable rebelling populace enough to change the face of society?
  • Why we feel out of control in matters that are in fact only in our own control? Like weightloss, saving money, relationships?
  • When I’d learn to cook a meal of soul-satisying rajma-chawal!

I regret

  • Having made a hasty and hence poor decision when choosing my job post-MBA
  • Having worn my emotions on my sleeve for a really long time
  • Having said things I shouldn’t have and not apologizing. Teenage did NOT suit me well.

I love

  • The security of coming back home to someone I love, respect and with whom I can always speak before I think. Then defend the spoken word with warped logic. Then make frustrating hypothetical comparisons. Still be undivorced 😀
  • Vacations involving beaches or cities with reams of historical facts
  • The whole process of looking up recipes, looking for ingredients and cooking something new
  • (Far too many things for just three points!)

I always

  • Make lists to remember stuff
  • Pray only when I’m in trouble and resolve to pray other times too
  • Worry about something or the other

I ache

  • For Delhi – the city of my childhood
  • For more girl pals who “get” me
  • For the day I’d make peace with who I really am

I usually

  • Make a huge fuss about hygiene
  • Seem aloof and shy OR cold and annoyed, when in new company
  • Am up for a good movie or eating out

I am not

  • Someone who can easily adjust in new places, because one of my OCDs is having things just so
  • Rigid, even in the most out-of-the-question arguments
  • Someone easily likeable

I dance

  • When I’m alone at home
  • To hardcore Bollywood mujak
  • Best when I’m a tad drunk

I sing

  • Completely off-key
  • Along to the ipod music in the car, many times
  • Two songs my brother HATES to annoy him

I never

  • Cough up the courage to be confrontational, when people are being unfair. Takes me an agonizingly long time to bring it up. When I do, I’m more likely to let it rip but the damage is sure to have reached epic proportions by then.
  • Give up a book no matter how much I’m dying to get on with life
  • Confide in anybody completely. It’s a control thing, I think

I rarely

  • Ever leave food on my plate
  • Come back from the mall without having bought something
  • Accept compliments gracefully

I cry

  • Out of frustration
  • When someone I love is in pain and there’s nothing I can do
  • When some old memories come swimming back

I am not always

  • Non-judgmental
  • Fair
  • A loveable daughter

I lose

  • Some battles for the sake of the war 😉
  • Sleep when I’m worried
  • My cool for a WIDE variety of reasons

I’m confused

  • About the direction my professional life is taking
  • About why my definition of God must conform with anyone else’s and cannot be personal
  • About whether I expect too much from myself, others and even situations

I need

  • Financial security
  • My personal space to be clean and uncluttered
  • To be connected through the phone or the internet at all times

I should

  • Learn to be more detached and not take everything personally
  • Cultivate more patience
  • Save my sarcasm for only those who get it

I dream

  • Of having all the time and no obligations in the world to do all the nothing I want
  • Of having kids 🙂
  • Of vacations and celebrations and surprises and successes

I had great fun doing this. So many things to think about my favourite subject – Me!

I’d love for some people to take it up: Pepper, Dipali, Tamanna, Chandni, WSW?

The Unemployment Diaries – II

I’m unemployed. God knows I needed some time off. I had convinced myself about it too. But then, like I always do, I managed to plunge into this funk where the words dance around my head – “Unproductive” and “Jobless”. It’s not like I’ve not enjoyed the break. After many years of deadlines, it seemed like I was running myself into a wall, specially with the last job being so completely mind-numbing. And the sudden freedom sure felt like oxygen to the sputtering half-dead. I travelled – Singapore, Delhi, Bangalore, Udaipur, Jaipur, Ajmer, Chittor, Pushkar, Guwahati, Nagpur, Punjab, London – in a space of six months. I found the time to actually watch end-to-end World Cup matches – three in the stadium!  I read whatever came my way – books, articles, magazines, news, blogs. I watched movies, read up imdb bios of lesser-known actors and got hooked to new TV stuff. Shopped for ingredients I didn’t know existed, experimented a lot with cooking new stuff, with better results than I expected. Cleaned up my diet a bit and started ingesting previously-yuck!-certified foods like yoghurt. Organized cabinets, went through several loads of dry-cleaning stuff, unearthed some still-packed wedding presents and discovered new goodies. Found the courage to plant two tiny saplings in my barely-there window ledge. Missed fewer gym sessions than I did earlier. Took up a freelance assignment in the same field of work, and though it’s dragging along uneventfully, it’s been a tiny effort at working for myself. Shopped on weekdays when stores were less crowded and there was nobody to rush me. Stayed up late every night and slept in every morning. Got long overdue pedicures and haircuts. And yes, I looked forward to every weekend when my friends and the husband would be as jobless as me. Would have loved to do many other things that’ll wait for another time.

It’s been detoxifying in many ways and it has helped me gain perspective on many personal and professional fronts. Things that make me happy and why. Things I wish I’d thought about more earlier. Things I need to change about myself. Things that were far bigger in my head than they really are. Things I never stopped to notice. And blessings I often forgot to count. The more the distance I put between myself and the corporate rat race, the more meaningless the last few years of my life seem to be.

However, as you may point out, I didn’t blog as often as I said I would like to, and not even as often as I did before the break (also missed blogging on the fourth anniversary of this blog 3 months ago!). For one, as fun as I might make this sound, there are always phases when you feel your worth is decided by how many hours you clock on an actual worklog. And the only posts that brewed up at such times were whiny and angry – stuff I refrained myself from putting up on the blog. Secondly, there are certain things about this situation that make me insecure and I didn’t want to bare all my cards in an open blog. The only posts I wrote were the times I was reassuring myself that I was alright 🙂

Over the past month though, I’m back to being edgy and prone to snap. The feeling of time slipping from my grip has returned. I’m in the middle of an unshakable funk that envelopes me. My bed is my island, and one day last week, I panicked a little bit at the thought of how many hours I had spent with my ass parked right there. Seemed like it’s time to step out again into the big, bad world and swim with the flow.

So yes, even though, this royal life agrees an awful lot with me and my lazy ways, it’s time to dust that CV again and go hunting. This time, hopefully, I’ll tread carefully and land somewhere more promising. About time this life was lived on my own terms. Sure it’s a painful journey of trying to answer questions about this “sabbatical”, but I’ll find a way.

Wish me luck, and come back soon-ish. I hope to right some wrongs, and post more often in my run-up to landing a half-decent vocation 🙂

Notes from Mohali

Note: Very cricket-fanaticky post. Choose to skip if you’re sick of cricket or *dramatic gasp* hate it!

Born into a cricket-crazed family, I am just one like billions of Indians. However, like everything, my family had to work on making me like them here. You see, I was the one who rolled her eyes when my brother would start narrating the 43rd over of some 1989 Titan cup final bowled by Venkatesh Prasad complete with details of the long-retired batsman’s batting averages. The brother lives, breathes and eats cricket. He is that annoying sibling who would always be doing that bounce-the-ball-off-the-walls-with-a-bat thing till the sound of tuk-tuk became one with your heartbeat and breathing pattern. The father? He is the person who watches ONLY cricket and news.  News about sports, that is. There used to be a huge void in our dinner table conversations when Team India decided to take a break during the year. To better describe, my father is that PSU employee who has travelled long distances in a train with a radio stuck to his ears for the better part of the journey listening to Lala Amarnath drone about the proceedings of a very forgettable test match. The mother, well, once shocked me when I found her sobbing away because Sachin had been bowled by some *insert inappropriate un-parent-like word*. She understands so little about cricket that it is a wonder in itself she still watches it, but she trips on the emotions of the game far more than most people I know. Me? I had ADD. I’d support Steve Waugh and “that kameena” Ricky Ponting  just to spite the brother. I’d insist my mother cook me “something nice” just when the cricket match was on, and go on a repeated loop of “nobody loves me”.. many pizzas were ordered by way of this modus operandi. I’d bug my father no end to change the channel THE SECOND the over finished, when he obviously wanted to catch the replays.. this slowly strengthened my case to bring a second TV in the house. However, the mania rubbed off when I wasn’t looking. In the middle of all this scheming and plotting, I got my own memorable moments of cricket. Sachin’s devastation of Tom Moody. Ajay Jadeja’s knock in that quarter final. Alan Donald’s last ball desperate run. Srinath’s and Kumble’s winning last-wicket partnership. Maybe all Indians remember these. They remember the atmosphere, the people they were with, who said what, how it ended, the celebration afterwards or the deep personal remorse they felt. I do too, with all these details, and the knowledge that they miraculously turned into a cricket-convert when I was gunning for the absolute opposite.

What I didn’t know, however, that I was about to be married into a cricket-crazier family. The boyfriend, now husband, would go into long monologues right before or after a match but naive louuu didn’t read the signs. He nonchalantly mentioned that he had been a participant in the Harsha Bhogle Dream Job commentary contest, but I.. err.. wasn’t paying attention. I felt the blow the first time, when he said he HAD TO be at the Brabourne on a weekend night for some IPL naansense, because Sachin was playing. Since then, it has just been a series of shocks. His family is of course involved too. The father-in-law easily travels 200 days a year, and his entire schedule is built around India’s cricket calendar.. and let’s just say, IPL has added to his “bag of woes” 😀 And FIL’s father? He suffered a major stroke about a year back, and his only demand the day after his surgery was if he could please get access to a TV so he wouldn’t miss Sachin’s innings in some “very important” match.

Obviously, in my case, a family that watches Sachin belting the crap out of the opposition together, stays together. So how could I pass up a chance to watch the World Cup semi-final at Mohali when husband and FIL managed to get passes? There was also the tiny bit that I will NEVER refuse to go to Chandigarh – a place from where I have many stories of childhood and of my parents as a young couple. But I kept dilly-dallying because of silly reasons, till someone mentioned that the semi-final could just be India versus Pak. That moment sealed it. Ofcourse, India hadn’t even convincingly made it to the Quarter Final stage at that moment.

The morning of the Pak-WI QF, I tweeted that if Pak won that day and Ind won the next day, my Mohali tickets would be worth everything. And guess what? They were. I’d never forget the emotion and the excitement that ran through the air on March 30th, 2011 in that stadium. Imagine thousands of people just screaming their lungs out because they can’t believe they’ve made it there. Imagine seeing the Tricolor everywhere with a few flashes of the Green-and-White, but the same passion in every face. Imagine that absolutely unconscious, uninhibited jump-from-your-seats reaction about a 100 times in the game. Imagine many hearts forgetting to keep running and many hands folding in prayer instinctively, every time a review opportunity came up. Imagine an entire stadium going delirious at the very sight of Yuvraj and Harbhajan, because well in Mohali – Singh is King, and the stunned silence when Yuvi walked out in a space of 5 minutes. Imagine the crowd standing and singing Vande Mataram when the 8th wicket fell. If there was ever a religion that could and should bind people together and make them keep the faith, Cricket suits the bill for India. My family is already a convert, and I’d glady subscribe.

Of course there were those moments that one chooses to forget. The anti-Pakistan slogans that had nothing to do with sport, and could easily have been avoided. The embarrassment that comes with war and terrorism references being shoved as posters in the face of Pak supporters. I’m no bleeding heart and of course I wanted India to win (and by that coin, Pak to lose the match), but I wish I could show them that we didn’t mean the insult. It was a bit of getting carried away and losing the plot. I wish I could show them that in the heart of our hearts, we only care about the sport and this is just a case of a misfired sense of humour of a troublesome few. We did our bit in telling some idiots to take it easy, but it was hardly a setting for changing world views and individual philosophies.

 However, there are always people who bring a smile. A rumour that quickly picked up during the first half of the match was that every time one Pakistani lady in our stand got up to get herself some water or food, an Indian wicket would fall! Guess who got VIP treatment for the rest of the match and was served right where she sat, by the cops!! 😀

Lastly, I may be biased here, but I have to say that it was all the more fun for me because it was Mohali. Maybe because my default setting when I’m over-excited is to launch into very violent and very raucous Bhangra, and I didn’t feel alone being like that in Mohali? Or maybe for the first time, I could sing along to all the local music being played and wasn’t bothered how bad I sounded? Or maybe because the post-match celebrations in the streets looked completely Bollywood-ish with cops joining the masses, and forgetting about disciplining traffic!

As the last battle looms large and India prepares to get the cup home, I am preparing for Wankhede. Yes, I’m going to be there. Bleeding blue, like always.

Here’s me @ Mohali, an hour before the match began.

For you, India, a thousand times over

That time of the year

Yep, I’m cooling my heels in the ‘wait’ part of the tedious long process at work I’m faced with right now (refer earlier work-related posts for clue to what the hell I’m talking about). So I’ve obviously been ‘unswamped’ with work (this is their way of dealing with things: make things temporarily better for complainant and tiptoe around the elephant in the room).

That means I’m obsessively stalking blogs, commenting when I have something to say, twittering (which doesn’t mean tweeting, because I just read people’s tweets. It’s funny that I don’t mind making a fool of myself on my blog with 1000+ word posts, but in 140 words, I do 😀 ) and adding new blogs to Reader. Outside of work hours, I’m also addicted to online Scrabble (anyone else here who has the same problem? Lexulous or something else?). I’ve unsubscribed from a couple of blogs in the last week too, because they’re so rhetorical and well, unintelligent (DO NOT roll your eyes just because *I* said *that*).

To summarize, my virtual life is bigger than my real life at the moment. I constantly need to remind myself when I’m in The Matrix and when not 😀

Blogging has taken a backseat because of this and also because I don’t want to whine over the work thing all the time. But that also means missing some important parts of the drudgery that’s my life. Someone the other day asked me if I “write a blog to relive the moments some day”. The answer is no, I blog so that when I have a kickass life some day, I’ll have me of the past to point and laugh at. Zimble.

Anyhoo, so, lots of things have happened since I last spoke here: I did my best time ever on the treadmill *taaliyaan* (No, I’m not revealing the numbers. It’s embarrassing compared to what some of you do). I decided to fast for Karva Chauth and still can’t understand why it makes me regressive or sexist. Apparently, fasting is a strange way to express love. Ummm, well, so is inconveniencing others for processions and actually blocking roads for days together and playing Bollywood inspired bhajans as an expression of prayer.. try speaking against that, and you’re promptly branded “unsecular”. Whatever, I can live with being a bit regressive – I’m over-progressed on other fronts 😀 One good by-product of doing the Karva Chauth pooja was that I got to know some ladies my age in my neighbourhood – yayyy!! for ending the anti-social neighbour streak.

This reminds me: No social, political issue seems to be big enough to make my blood boil anymore. There was the Arundhati Roy thing where I got into a long-winded comment-comment badminton on someone’s blog, with very little emerging from it. Post that, I thought long and hard about the SC vocabulary debate on live-in relationships, the Adarsh housing society thing or the Commonwealth Games fiasco, but nothing seems to be instigating enough for me to jump out of my (metaphorical) chaddis and wave my fist at someone. Possible reasons:

Yeh sab chhoti baatein hain, kuch bada karo bhai! OR

My office people have taken the mickey out of me. No mickey for stupid national issues. Boo. OR

I’m finally a Mumbaikar.. my high tolerance level and my louuuue-ly spirit, you know. I can haz more corruption and endure it without a second thought. OR

I’m just tired of arguments with bloggers when they seem to be wedded to the posts they wrote. I mean it’s all very nice that you have an opinion but I’m sure your brain has more space than needed by that one opinion no? I hope you’d use that space.

Well well well. Now that November has struck, I’m super excited: A weekend full of endless binges has been lived through. Let’s just say I’m a huge blob of biryani and kebabs and prawns right now, and I’ve successfully neutralized several years of workouts. That when I haven’t been working out for several years 😐 A weekend of debauchery and ghar ka khana and taash is planned and looked forward to, over Diwali. And then lots of fun is anticipated the next weekend with a friend getting married. Really though, I am mostly interested in his first marriage to a tree.. We’re going to demand he consummate the union 😀 Next up are a few days of wallowing in self-pity as the husband travels around the country and saves it from falling apart (I give myself these reasons to endure loneliness. Very depressing yes?) Then’s our wedding anniversary.. yesssss, a year of being married.. how time flies! I’m sort of looking forward to travelling to Cal this time and maybe ingest a gazillion amazing puchkas everyone raves about (notice my single-track, unwavering and determined focus on food!) Finally a vacation planned over Christmas with family to Singy – my first Singy trip it’s going to be. Matlab, awesomest days ahead.

Right now, though, there’s a few things on my mind:

1. Spring cleaning. Nuff said. My mother’s already guilting me about her having sunned the woollens. The only effect it has on me is missing winters and woollens and Delhi. And the only way I make up for it is by inhaling more kaju katlis at the speed of light.

2. Parul‘s book. I’m super disappointed that I wasn’t able to send in my entry for the By The Water Cooler contest 😦 Par, koi na. I’ll buy the book for sure. And you should too. I’ve read Parul’s first (Bringing Up Vasu) and it was fantastic.

3. I ran into this school-friend of mine in the office today! She has joined this organization and I wish her luck. My own horror stories apart, here’s wishing you good luck, youknowwhoyouare 🙂 (Yes, she reads this blog) 

And oh, there’s the small issue of getting my resume ready and finding another job which I seem to have postponed till 2011. I kid. I’ll deal with it sometime in between my various holidays. I will.