REFLECTIONS

A Visitor at Night

2010-10-05T18:16:00.006+05:00

I spotted him from the window close to midnight. He was a brown long-haired breed. Although the terms 'long hair' and 'short hair' are usually associated with cats, in my cat conscious mind, it seemed fine. He was gaunt and hungry and had obviously not eaten for days.

After a bit of whistling and coaxing he followed me up the stairs to our flat on the second floor. He stood waiting patiently outside the door. Luckily there was an unopened pack of Parle G biscuits at home. He looked up expectantly, cocking his ears. I poured out the contents of the packet in a plate and placed it under his nose. He looked at the biscuits longingly. Sniff he did, but eat he wouldn’t. That was certainly puzzling behaviour for one whose ribs showed through an emaciated frame.

My more perceptive sister brought a bowl of cold water. He jumped up at the sight of it and lapped it to the very last drop. His thirst quenched, he settled down contentedly to finish the biscuits in peace.

The Hands

2010-04-18T22:25:00.000+05:00

The hands
They reappear again
This time in a multitude
Clutching wildly at the handles
Flailing
Swaying with the motion of the train
Some fair and plump
Some with red painted talons
Others brown and gnarled with leathery skin
Stretched across the knuckles
Marked with pigments and freckles
And badly chewed nails
Hands that have seen better days
Decorated with gaudy baubles and bangles
That speak of dull marriages
And even despondent lives
Hands that hold on
For dear life

The UR series…

2009-12-22T14:06:00.002+05:00

Ursula: My new phone has a wonderfully relaxing alarm tone unlike yours that literally shocks you out of your sleep.

Rebecca: Ok. Let’s hear it.

(Soft lilting notes play in the background as Ursula gives a demo)

Rebecca: Doll, this is more like a lullaby than an alarm!

Ursula: How rude!

Rebecca: No wonder it never wakes you up!

Ivy

2008-12-08T00:04:00.004+05:00

That somnolent branch
Bottle-green, solitary
Dewy and alive
After a drizzle
Sits on a red brick wall
And moves with the balmy breeze
Breaking my morning reverie

I gaze at it
Framed in the grimy window
Of the Mumbai local
As toes in battered chappals
Scuttle up and down the bars

For a moment, I forget
The repugnance of reeking
Filth on the tracks
And the jostling-for-space human flesh
As the babel of screams
Turns into a fading echo

Not Quite Toeing The Line

2008-05-27T20:40:00.010+05:00

This is a first. I haven’t been inside a mall for a month now. My broken metacarpal doesn’t permit it. Now I feel far too restless. Nobody at home pays any heed to my demands for that particular variety of organic brown rice and green tea infused with lemon, mint and honey. For weeks I have been a sitting duck for their ministrations.
Sigh.
I never thought a spot of spot jogging would put me under house arrest. Or “a compulsory holiday,” like my doctor declared. Just like dear old Reggie who would ski all over the slopes without incident only to come home and slip on the bathroom floor. I guess it is after all like Ram says, “Es Muß Sein.” It Must Be.
Besides the pain and the terrible inconvenience to me and the family (to say nothing of the two crutches), I must admit it hasn’t been all that bad. No rush hour traffic, no smelly trains, no malodorous commuters, no grubby platforms. No sprint runs to catch the local, no gymnastics to get in and no sukha bhel.
There were of course friends to regale me with tales of paranoia, hypochondria, matchmaking and summer recipes. Some even paid a visit. It’s a pity that my synthetic blue plaster did not allow for any autographs. The faraway beau, for his part, sent sweet nothings for the beleaguered bone.
I have an appointment scheduled this week. May the X-Ray show healing. Then it is back to the grind. Not that I mind.
Mind it!

Wuthering Heights: A Prelude to Ecstasy

2008-05-01T14:45:00.000+05:00

In two different worlds
We roamed the moors
Together
Hearing the anguished words
Of doomed lovers
Merge with our own
And ricochet off
The pauses in our dialogue
And the eternal rocks beneath

LDR Musings

2008-05-01T14:14:00.002+05:00

Late night calls.
E-mails.
Kisses.
Lost And Found.

(I didn’t know about the acronym till I got into one.
The beau is back)

Luckless

2007-04-18T12:47:00.000+05:00

Darius' eyes finally met those merry brown ones whose attention he had been seeking for a fortnight. He had stood in the aisle unable to control himself from staring down at her. Even as passengers pushed and biffed him in their rush to alight, he stood mesmerised. That was the first day. He had gathered curious looks from passengers at the time. Since then he had exercised restraint.

He took the same bus, the 714 from Dockyard to Marine Lines. The bus lurched heavily, thrusting headlong into the traffic. At every signal, it stopped with the motor still reverberating and then picked up speed overtaking tiny two-wheelers till its next halt. It’s intermittent motion mirroring Darius’ thoughts. He knew that she eyed him, or at least he liked to think that she did. Maybe surreptitiously, her spectacles helping her to steal furtive looks at him. And now as she glanced at him over the sheaf of newspapers she held in her hands, he felt the blood rushing up to his ears. And why not? Wasn't he good-looking, well-built and decently attired?

Her hair was tied in one tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her exposed ankles were always fastened with thin brown straps. Wasn’t her footwear like that of a schoolgirl’s? Brown shoes and black buckles. Only the socks were missing. He smiled. Why did the picture of a homeless owl enter his head whenever he thought about her?

The bus felt unbearably hot. At every detour it took, Darius cursed inwardly. How long would he have to undergo this ordeal? He had saved enough to buy one of those small cars. He lapsed into a pleasant reverie, thinking about driving his car to the bus stop where she’d be waiting. He would roll down the windows in style and offer her a lift. She might refuse at first, shyly and timidly, he would insist and then she’d accept, smiling. He would drive her to work, breathing in her perfume, listening to music, talking and laughing. And then he would do it everyday. Well, almost.

He felt comforted to see her safely ensconced in the place reserved for ladies. It was always the same—the window seat in the third row on the left. She looked oddly familiar. Today, he would get off at Marine Lines and follow her, only to see where she lived. Maybe with her parents or better still in a hostel.

She shifted in her seat, folded her newspapers, collected her bag and got up, wading through the crowd to get to the door. He followed, hoping to alight immediately after her. In his effort to be right behind her, his right foot came heavily on her and left an ugly imprint on her dainty brown shoe. She eyed him with disgust. "You creep! Are you blind or what? Can’t you see where you are going?" she snarled at him. Some passengers snickered. "Sorry," was all he said, before he slipped away.

Zephyr

2006-03-13T11:37:00.000+05:00

In the desolate fields lies a tree that’s dead.

Charred to the roots with scavengers for blossoms.

The heat is oppressive, the breeze engulfs you, leaving a film of dust.

Two old villagers have furtive eyes.

And only the birds fly into the yellow haze

with cries that pierce the sun.

Mayhem and Sadness

2006-02-16T15:09:00.000+05:00

The attack by Shiv Sainiks at the Nallasopara function is shocking, horrifying and brutal. I read about the incident in the papers, saw the video on TV, and it was disturbing. And the function was not even held to celebrate V Day, which people assembled tried to explain.

A crowd of hooligans broke down the door and barged into the hall. Some of the men, groped at women, pulled them by their hair, pulled their clothes, slapped and kicked them. The men who tried to protect the women ended up being whipped themselves and were beaten with iron rods. A distraught girl clung to other members in her group, and one man went up to her and slapped her hard. She cried in pain, and he would have kept hitting her had someone not intervened. The DJ who had taken a loan of Rs 4 lakh for his equipment, now just has the broken pieces to behold.

Among the attackers were four councillors of the Nallasopara municipal council. How could the TV crew just film it so nonchalantly? Only a handful of the goons have been arrested.

And these vandals have the gall to say ‘Jai Bhavani’ at the end of it, chanting slogans, and laughing after molesting women, hitting men, pilfering the jewelry and watches and even pocketing the samosas and cold drinks at the party. Why this dislike for V day celebrations? What can be achieved by the utter denigration of some citizens who just assembled to have a good time. Are there no other pressing issues—poverty, education, unemployment? Why leave this trail of destruction? At least stick to the ideology of Shivaji Maharaj if nothing else.

Shivrayanchya nakhachi pun sar nahi ahe tumhala. Kharach, parat ashya jantya raja chi garaj ahe...

At Kala Ghoda

2006-02-10T22:15:00.000+05:00

Finally, I could go for Kala Ghoda Arts festival after two years. Anya and I reached CST station at 10 in the morning. After an exceptionally refreshing cappuchino we cabbed it to the Kala Ghoda intersection. And arrived just in time for the heritage walk.

The guide, a cheerful young lad, lead our very enthused group through Elphinstone College and the David Sassoon library and garden. We gazed at those Neo-Gothic and Gothic wonders, with their corinthian circles on pillars and steeples on the rooftop. Elphinstone college for one, had a most impressive facade and an even more beautiful lobby with antique chandeliers. And it also has a staircase that looks straight out of The Haunting.

The exterior of DS library resembled a quaint holiday home more than a typical heritage structure. The peaceful garden within its precinct was where I later came back to in the evening. A wooden spiral staircase on the second floor led to the terrace which afforded a pretty good view of the city.

And after that we somehow managed to lose our group. So we went to Westside instead and while away a good hour there. Then it was looking at all the displays on the Kala Ghoda Footpath. From paraphernalia resembling bollywood sets, cartoons on ghise pite Bollywood dialogues, to astrology, mehendi, shoes, bags, clothes, papier mache, puppets, nameplates, jewelery—and lots more. It was a very carnival like atmosphere. There were some exceedingly eyecatching sketches for sale-those of the Gateway of India surrounded by a flight of pigeons and another of Flora Fountain in all its minute details were truly unforgettable.

And then Anya decided to get her face portrait done. A scrawny old painter sketched a very lifelike pretty Anya! Our next halt was at cafe Samovar. Indeed, a delightful eatery at the Jahangir Art Gallery, we pigged out on parathas, green mint chutney, an assortment of pickles and dessert: strawberry parathas with ice-cream. Yes, we reacted just as you did when we came across the food item in the menu. But to our disappointment it was nothing exotic, just rotis stuffed with jam and served with halved strawberries and a huge scoop of vanilla ice-cream. But sinful nevertheless!

We then spent a quarter of an hour gazing at some totally inexplicable paintings. Only the nudes needed no deciphering. The art works on the terrace were mostly landscapes. One depicted a cart passing through a foggy street in Old Delhi—although done in warm colours it looked very desolate.

That done we visited Max Mueller where Arzan Khambatta’s ‘I’m Only Human’ stuff was on display. Hmm, unusual, eyecatching, some spikey, others round and all in shades of brown.

And there was this other exhibition dedicated to the ‘Crow’ that had poems, essays, animations and paintings truly capturing our dear scavengers in all their glory! We headed to K R Cama for the screening of Arth, an arthouse women-oriented flick, with a great performance by Shabana Azmi. I really liked the song “Tum itna kyu muskura rahe ho?” Hmm.

Then Anya left, and I went to David Sassoon for the Non-fiction writing talk by Darryl D’Monte, Dilip DeSouza and Dionne Bunsha. Discussion revolved around books, media, journalism, falling standard of newspapers and blogs. Amongst the hundred of things that were talked about, D'Monte remarked that the MMRDA itself is situated on a bend in the Mithi river and so is the NSE. That was part of his reply to a question concerning 26/7 amd development issues in the city. Pretty Scary.

Then I sat through a few short films that were part of the 'Beats, Bars and Air Guitars' theme dealing with music in the UK. Ho hum.

All in all a very fulfilling and a happy day.

The Year Of The Dog

2006-01-30T15:01:00.000+05:00

Came across a horrifying news item today. Dogs are eaten in China. They are brutally butchered, most of them subjected to a slow and agonising death which supposedly tenderises the flesh and enhances the flavour of the meat.

As of now, the French SPA is crying out against this heinous crime. In fact, newspapers and magazines refused to publish pictures of the severed bloodied body parts of dogs as they were too shocking. It is speculated that thousands of dogs are consumed annually. Even Koreans eat cats and dogs. Dog meat is believed to have aphrodisiac and other beneficial qualities. Which weirdo would subscribe to this line of thought? And this practice is centuries old.

The mere thought of eating dog dumplings is enough to make me throw up. As if killings goats, cows, pigs and birds weren't bad enough, even those furry affectionate darlings have to come under the knife.

New Year At The Cross

2006-01-12T00:37:00.000+05:00

I could not have imagined a more glorious way of welcoming the new year.

The five of us stood on a desolate cliff that overlooked the ocean. At a place called The Cross. And indeed, a pale white cross does stand out from the overgrown heather covering the hilltop. Known only to the locals, The Cross is the favourite haunt of couples. No wonder, Goa police keep patrolling the area.

We shivered in the wintry breeze. Nonetheless, we were glad to be away from the noisy carousing and come to this quiet spot that afforded such a breathtaking view. It’s a sheer drop from the cliff. There are rocks below, and then an endless stretch of the sea. Only faintly can you make out the horizon, the sky and the sea seem to merge. Like someone remarked, the night sky really looked like a blanket of stars.

And in the distance, were the lights of Dona Paul, then there was Vasco up left and a tiny row of lights lining the private beach at Cidade de Goa on the right. The landmass before us spreadout like an arc, and hundreds of fireworks erupted along that semi-circle.

Oh, the fireworks! I have never seen a more spectacular display! One after another, rockets burst into the dark midnight sky shimmering brightly in all the colours of the rainbow. Some glowed silver and golden for many seconds together. The sky became a riot of colours. Every time a rocket appeared, it would be like daylight. Some rockets flew high up and shone brilliantly before dying out, while others were not so luminous. And with each firework that exploded, we could hear a loud crackle up above.

If one rocket went off at the far right, another would appear in the centre and more would go off towards the left. Our heads turned and our faces shone in the light every time a firework hit the sky.

This went on for a full ten minutes. Afterwards, as everything turnded peaceful again, it was the sea that appeared to glow. A deep mysterious orange colour started to spread on the dark waters near our cliff. Actually, the water was reflecting the lights from the shoreline.

We sat down carefully and tried to dangle our feet over the edges of the cliff. The wind was bitingly cold. Now, we could only hear the waves. And even they seemed serene.

Time Stops

2006-01-11T19:53:00.000+05:00

A million specks of sunlight
Fresh mountain air
Bramble and cherries
Rustling of leaves
The whistling wind

Twilight followed by sundown
A forest filled with crickets
Faces dappled with moonlight
Under a starry night sky

Walking Into The Past

2006-01-11T19:51:00.000+05:00

I could not tear my eyes away from it. A solitary relic, it was incredibly beautiful—derelict and ruined yet regal. How could so many people pass it by without even a glance?

In spite of being in the midst of the busy thoroughfare, the area was strangely peaceful. I glanced up at the towering building. At first, I just stood still gazing at it. Inscribed on the arch of the front gate were the letters “THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE”. Around it were empty sockets that must have shone with bright lights in better times. I felt as if I had entered another era. I conjured images of the past—when this place must have been alive and full of activity. Men, women and children, all dressed in their Sunday best, to enjoy the evening matinee. The Royal Opera House in Mumbai ever since it was built only screened films. Had any soprano ever stepped here? I think not.

It was interesting to note the figures in the frieze right at the top of the structure. Each holding one musical instrument—the harpsichord, the violin and the cello amongst others. The figure in the centre appeared to be wearing an ugly black crown of thorns. I scrutinised it further and realised that it was just bramble. Further right, a Roman guard remained sentinel. They were beautifully sculpted.

I walked to and fro trying to absorb every brick, every angle and even the creepers around that encircled the struture. I wanted to feel every inch of the building with my fingers. There were hawks circling the hot afternoon sky. The withered ivy leaves around the wrought iron trellis of disfigured balconies fluttered gently in the wind.

The building looked onto the main road. Within its premises there was a small compound that was empty except for an old dusty vehicle and a dingy eatery. An incredibly long four-wheeler, it was parked in the centre of the compound and covered with a muddy cloth and layers of dust and dry leaves. I was tempted to lift off the cover to see the make of the vehicle. Must be another vintage oddity. And the makeshift restaurant was painted in yellow. The board said ‘Italian Mama Mia—Mama knows best’. It had a huge drawing of the Little Mermaid on one wall. So much for evoking the Italian ambience!

The only person I spoke to was the gurkha, who sat on a chair in the courtyard. He appeared to be in his sixties, had a crop of white hair and was of scrawny built—even he seemed ancient. He said he had been the watchman ever since this place showed the latest films released. He was very hesitant to talk. And somehow I did not want to persuade him any further.

The building was locked, there was no way I could get in. The sole occupant seemed to be a stray dog who lay asleep within the grilled portico. What would it feel like to be inside the cool, musty and dark interiors? Would there be a Phantom who haunts the lonely corridors?

There were some baniya stores built into its ground floor selling raddi and other scrap. An utter decadence of a once majestic edifice. I gave the Royal Opera House one last look and hailed a cab.

Half-Blood

2005-12-23T15:27:00.000+05:00

I finally finished reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. As always, I was glad to be able to sink into another Potter adventure. More so, after reading the Fan Fiction of the Half Blood Prince, which I admit was immensely exciting, but too melodramatic and implausible.

The most interesting parts of Rowling's book were Dumbeldore’s and Harry’s exurcions through the Pensieve as they revisited Tom Riddle’s past. The house of Gaunt, Merope and Riddle Senior’s ill-fated alliance, Merope’s death and the orphan Tom’s gradual change into Lord Voldemort—were I think the most intriguing parts of the 6th book. Apart from these insights into Voldemort’s past, there was not a single instance where You-Know-Who ever made an appearance.

Somehow Dumbeldore’s death didn’t wrench buckets of tears as it should have. And obviously there has to be a reason why he trusted Snape so much. In fact, even in the end, Harry admits that the Potions book had helped him—the bezoar saved Ron’s life, and even when he used Sectumsempra on the loathsome and pitiable Draco, Snape did not take away the book.

And of course, Dumbledore’s last journey with Harry, and the confrontation with the Death-eaters were other nail-biting moments. And who in heaven’s name is R.A.B? If he or she turns out to be some hitherto never mentioned character like Eileen Prince, then it would be difficult to find out. I guess I’ll just have to wait.

Rowling is good. But sometimes, she can be exasperating. Take ‘snogging’ for instance. What’s the big deal about it? First its Ginny and Dean and then Ron and Lavender and then Harry and Ginny ‘snogging’ all the time. Couldn’t Rowling use ‘kiss’ or ‘smooch’ for once? It was totally overdone.

Although, the Amortentia potion points out who Harry would really care or crave for, how could he suddenly become obsessed with Ginny? Yes, she’s a hundred times better than that silly Cho Chang. But why make it all Bollywoodish and part from Ginny at the end?

And the name of the good luck ‘Felix Felicis’ potion has to be derived from the characters of LM Montgomery’s Road of Avonlea chronicles. From ‘Felix and Felicity King’, children of Avonlea’s King family. I am not complaining, any slight reference to the Avonlea chronicles makes me very happy!

The 7th will be brilliant, there are more four Horcruxes to be found and Snape to be dealt with before Harry finally encounters Voldemort.

I wish we could have Sirius back.

Purr!

2005-12-05T14:55:00.000+05:00

Her name’s Miaow. She’s My Cat. Had been in hiding for some days, but I finally coaxed her out and put her back on my desktop. Ya, she’s a virtual kitty, but the most adorable one I have ever set my eyes upon.

Empty

2005-12-05T14:38:00.000+05:00

She hates disappearances. There’s this horrible searing pain that makes her go numb and feel totally forlorn and helpless. And tears like huge drops of rain keep trickling down her face. Is it futile? Lonely it will be.

Living LOTM

2005-11-17T12:48:00.000+05:00

I have discovered my personal Mohican war-cry. I never thought it would be such a frivolous daily thing. But it is. In fact, it came to me as a revelation today. Every morning, I declare it aloud mustering every ounce of strenght that I have. I walk up to the road, raise my right hand, hailing the object I want and scream, "AUTO!"

Childhood Dream Come True

2005-11-16T14:06:00.001+05:00

Yesterday was very eventful and oh so tiring. Twas the first time I posed for the cover of a mag (nah, it's not a woman's mag). There were five other gurls too. We had to pose as part of a choir and at least act as if we were singing.

Would you believe that just the make-up took six hours! At first the make-up artists even suggested that some wear wigs. We all resolutely refused. But when we saw what one wig (long curly blonde hair) could do to a person, we all wanted to wear wigs! I can safely say that I was told that I didn't require one. (Ahem!)

The jargon the make-up artists used was interesting. From "Draw the eyebrows on her", to "Do the nose-cutting" and "Contour the cheekbones" and so on. Hmm. The shoot was fun. We had a ball of a time. Finally my dream to pose as a model had come true.

But good lord, the pancake make-up, smiling till it hurts, and becoming a mannequin is not as easy as I thought it would be.

We all had to starve till the shoot was done, lest the lipstick and all other goo came off. When we finished, it was evening. No wonder models look like they have come from some famine-struck area.

Gecko Love

2005-11-14T00:19:00.000+05:00

I can stand roaches. I have conquered my fear to the extent that I can actually try and attempt to catch a roach by his-whatchamaycallit-whiskers or moustaches or is it antennae? Anyway. But not if it's a big flying cockroach. That's the scariest thing ever.

But lizards? I mean for God's sake! Have you ever seen a lizard from close quarters? They come in all shapes, sizes and colours! Black, brown, yellow, creamy and more! And I have seen them do the most atrocious things ever. Once, when I was waiting at the doctor's, a big wicked gecko came and mercilessly ate a cute lil butterfly on the wall. And I was witness to the whole scene. Right in front of my eyes! Then there was this another gecko, who once passed something silvery down the wall. I arrived at the conclusion that he pooped. Eeeeeeyyyyyyeeeeewwwwwwww!

This is nothing.

At summer camp, the baddest and biggest gecko came and landed on my left shoulder from nowhere. I don't know how, but I grabbed hold of it and threw it far away. A Herculean task. And I didn't even scream. That's because we had just been dismissed from a briefing our Camp Guide, Korde Sir conducted. You must have met him too if you went to summer camp. A hulk of a man, he's was recently arrested for parading as a fake police officer. Anyway, when he was speaking, an unfortunate crow had started cawing loudly. And Korde Sir, as was his nature, removed his gun and shot the sad crow. Maybe the crow knew it had it coming. And the poor dear fell from his tree into the well below. In spite of his floating caracass, some greedy students still drank water from the well. We were in the jungle you see. I am glad I did not scream.

I have to stop digressing, lest the geckos feel neglected.

And I once killed a gecko myself. Unintentionally. It got caught in the sliding windows in my balcony. I shrieked my head off like a banshee. It trembled, it suffered, it writhed in agony and it died. I can never forget that. Well, dad used to kill geckos when we were kids. Nine times out of ten, geckos got away and only left memorabilia behind. A thin longish piece that danced before our eyes. Fascinating yet horrifying!

And now, we come to this this truly macabre incident a friend told me long ago. She was at a party. And you know what, a gecko entered her shirt (on the back, sorry to dissapoint you, snicker!). Trust a gecko to do that! The girl twisted her hand behind, caught hold of the gecko in the shirt and ran home. On her way home, her grasp turned to be a strangehold of death for the gecko. She reached home bloodsoaked. It's a miracle she got over that incident. Personally, I would have needed therapy. Long sessions, many sessions. But I can be trusted to pass on the fear of geckos to the shrink too.

Ok, that's enough for one day. I live in mortal fear of lizards. Be that as it is, I still feel that baby geckos look sweet. Yucky, but sweet. No, I do not ever want a catharsis, ok! Not even if a solitary lizard is remotely involved! Is there a law where geckos can be fined, say, if they come within 1000 yards of you? It's time we did.

Some Silly Facts & My Comments. Equally So.

2005-11-14T00:16:00.000+05:00

A Cat's jaw cannot move sideways. (Whoever tried to do that needs to be beaten to a pulp, and get his ears boxed. Ideally, he should flagellate himself)

In Vermont, the ratio of cows to people is 10:1. (In Mumbai, it's the opposite)

Crickets Hear Through Their Knees. (Does a mad inventor want to make a knearing-aid?)

A donkey will sink in quicksand but a mule won't. (Poor you, mule, poor you)

Pigs can become alchoholics. (Lonely booozers can now have some company. Don't eat them pigs. Become pals. If you eat pigs you will die of the Mad Pig disease. It's true)

A woman's heart beats faster than a man's. (Could it ever be otherwise? Duh!)

Human thigh bones are stronger than concrete. (Any volunteer for a live demo?)

It only takes 7 lbs of pressure to rip off your ears. (Ye Gods, protect my purdy ears!)

One year, Elvis Presley paid 91 % of his annual income to the IRS. (EP, we can understand)

The heaviest dog on record is an Old English Mastiff named Zorba who weighed 343 pounds and measured 8 feet and 3 inches from nose to tail. (Jesus Christ, Zorba, Man, I mean Dog, no err Doggess, what a name! Why didn't you ever pay a visit to the Ogre in Jack and the Beanstalk? His delight would have known no bounds)

Hmpf

2005-11-11T00:46:00.000+05:00

They say that Indian women who speak English with an accent are basically insecure. Going by that logic, those who speak the same language with a regional accent have to be the most secure people alive? Hoo-haa. And what about those who speak in a neutral accent? Simple. Neither here nor there. Losers!

I am getting cynical. From where do I get my inspiration?

Perception Or Delusion?

2005-11-10T22:42:00.000+05:00

The question is: Do I really suffer from solitude, more so, in slumber?

The Count's Cousin

2005-11-09T16:44:00.000+05:00

Count D and I must have something in common. For one, my skin sure can burn under the sun. Moreover, I am an owl. Obviously, I am giving in to my usual heightened sense of melodrama...

But seriously! The other day I walked into a room and there was a power outage. And this was definitely not the first time. And I have had a soft corner for these err... creatures. Blame it on Empathy.

While I am convinced about my leanings, I consider myself more fortunate than others. Although, I dislike incense, I love garlic. And yes, I have survived the most brutal stake once.

SOS!

2005-11-09T11:01:00.000+05:00

If I thought life couldn't get any more miserable, I was wrong. At first I looked happy to see it. I thought it was what it appeared to be. But alas, horror of horrors! When I opened it what do I see?

A Spam Comment. Ye Gods!

Spam is my virtual stalker. He follows me everywhere, and slashes me daily. (Obviously, Spam is a man. Chances of him being a woman are one in a million). Somebody please kill Spam for me. The reward could be worth the effort.

What is the matter with me? Suddenly, I seem to talk non stop, the only thing that can cease this chatter is cello tape. But even then, the thoughts, millions, billions and trillions of them refuse to go away. I am not complaining. Actually I am.

I am totally sleep deprived. And I am glad to have a blog.

2005-11-07T17:14:00.000+05:00

And birds go flying at the shhpeed of sound...

2005-11-06T17:26:00.000+05:00

Jane Get Up And Brush Your Teeth

What do you get when you can’t find your toothbrush for a day and a half?

And if your thoughts keep bubbling inside you like frobscottle and make you forget to do your dental thing? The tragedy of the situation is more evident when you keep buying brushes and mint-waxed floss by the dozen and yet only a miracle lets you find either when you actually need it. Kinda like having the right change in your purse when travelling. And nobody at home cares to help you find your pathetic toothbrush(es). Of all the things in the world. Except for mommy dearest.

A smile as bright as sunflowers.

Fill in the blanks anyone? Bright and y_ _ _ _ w. Crib. Crib. And then crib some more.

This time, however, sis came to the rescue.

2005-11-06T17:17:00.000+05:00

Biblical? Far From It

Church Mouse. Fat Mouse. You couldn’t locate a more superficial pair. The word is ‘hollowness’ –of sentiment. The pompous Fat Mouse always pampered the leccaculo Church Mouse. (Before you look up the thesaurus—it’s of Italian origin and means ‘arse-licker’. Tiresome, really.)

And then, predictably, Church Mouse stabbed Fat Mouse in the back. Sure taught him a lesson or two.

Hurrah!

2005-10-24T00:03:00.000+05:00

No More Pups!

I have decided to put an end to the saga of 'puppies' who only seem to increase in number. I should nip it in the bud! I am sick and tired of it. And can some people not take a clue! I don't think I can smile, sit pretty and act demure any longer. Not that I ever made a conscious effort to do so earlier. I was just too chicken to say my sentiments out loud.

Next time, if someone does act ham, I will scare the living daylights out of him! Sigh! Dear Lord, give me the strength to do so, and please let not my friendly and kindly and disgustingly empathetic disposition come in the way!

2005-10-23T23:07:00.000+05:00

Kindred Spirit

A 'Kindred Spirit' is what Anne of Avonlea used to say. And what greater joy can there be than in finding one-sometimes unexpectedly. Or after knowing a person for sometime and then realising that he/she is a kindred soul after all!

2005-10-18T01:15:00.000+05:00

Conversation 1

Ursula: Oh why did God have to create these terribly creepy crawly creatures? I wish there weren't any mosquitos, cockroaches and lizards.
Rebecca: I can't say that I disagree with you. But if you were to ask a gecko, I'm sure, it would say, "Oh God, why did you create humans? They are such a nuisance!"
Ursula: But we humans are God's favourite creation-that is obvious for all to see. I still want to know why God these created unwanted pests.
Rebecca: Well to know the answer, I guess you would have to achieve self-realisation.
Ursula: Yes, but then I would also love the mosquito.
Rebecca: True.

2005-10-06T13:52:00.000+05:00

Hmm

I did consider myself to be old-fashioned when it came to certain issues... of course, my ideas and perspectives changed with time... The following is from an article I had read long ago-it hits the nail on the head, is powerful and universally relevant:

"It needs to be said out very loud that sex is not about making love and making love is not about penetration, ejaculation and orgasm. It needs to be quickly understood that genital sex cannot be connoted as mainstream sexuality and that virtue cannot reside only in a woman's vagina; it can well be in a male body.

Virtue, after all, is an internal state, virginity is a choice and the vagina is an anatomical structure. There are two messages that need to be changed- that maleness is not a natural endowment, rather a precarious state which you must achieve at all cost. That the penis has a mind all of its own and once aroused it has to do its own thing."

2005-09-01T15:47:00.000+05:00

TT Time

Played TT at work after so long. I just love the game. At work, we have this vestibule on the first floor equipped with a makeshift gym and a couple of TT tables littered around.

Post-lunch we have a walk around the office premises and if time permits we have game of TT. A floor to ceiling glass wall on one side imparts a very surreal look and feel to the place, and this is further emphasised by the bas reliefs that stare at you. A huge mirror makes you conscious like never before. Passers-by in the corridor above get a full view of this recreation area (peeping toms included).

Today, when we played the room was really hot. The ball just appeared to flow across the table in smooth fluid movements, gracefully. I won both the games.

2005-08-29T14:17:00.000+05:00

Pot On A Wire

On Saturday, the 27th was Dahi-handi (celebrating the birth of Krishna). I was meeting a hairstylist at around 5 pm.

When I approached her place, the roads were teeming with people, and D'Mart was closed (arrgh...my shopping had to be postponed!).

I could see men crawling all over the place-there was a stage set-up with local politicians presiding over what appeared to be a function set-up to commemorate the birth of Lord Krishna. The loud speakers kept blaring Marathi folksongs.

I managed to squeeze through the crowd and reached Mam S's home. From her balcony window I could see the wire (or ropes) on which the earthen pot was hung (some two storeys high). While I couldn't see the human pyramid that clamoured to reach the pot and in turn break it, I could see the wire getting tugged every time they tried.

Finally, a loud cheer erupted from the mob. Some bits and pieces of the earthen pot and curds and other fine material fell through the air. At the same time, the loudspeaker played the "Crying/Laughing" baby's clip that you get on the Internet.

But what really surprised me was the song "Brazil...la la la la ..." by Vengaboys that followed immediately and people danced and made merry! An English pop song during Janmashtami celebrations, presided over by saffron clad brigade?

People will do anything for an evening of revelry.

2005-07-10T14:23:00.000+05:00

Finally, I can now put down all the thoughts that have hitherto been merely brewing in my head. Now, where shall I begin?

Right now, I am listening to the ultra-soulful J'Attends from Black Hawk Down, performed by Hans Zimmer- so its like feeling all's well with the world.

Life has not been that bad after all...