Goddess of Wanton Love

Second Best

2007-10-04T18:34:00.000+05:30

‘We try harder’

This was how Avis positioned itself when Hertz was leading the market. In a humble, smart statement, Avis gracefully slid into the backseat (pun very much intended), but made a memorable campaign out of it, a positioning statement that is studied now as a case study in business schools.

While the company made hoards out of humility, how many of us are really content with being second best? Or can even accept being second best? How many people really relish criticism – of any of their creations, their article, their music, their rajma? It is professional and mature to accept criticism, yes, and attempt to reach perfection, but just how many internalize the criticism to actually use it? Of course, when your boss tells you that your idea is impracticable, when you stayed up all night researching the concept, you say yes. When your wife says you cannot cook, after you left no stone unturned to make her a surprise dinner, you say yes. When your painting teacher tells you that you’ll never be a painter, when you have given the painting your all, you say yes. These yes’s are based on one simple assumption, that boss is a better businessman, wife is a better cook, art teacher is a better painter. They may not be the best, but they are better than you are. They know more. You become second best. And how many people can honestly admit, that they welcome that view? It may be true. But there is that inexplicable frisson of disappointment, an inaudible sigh of frustration, a silent cry of ‘Goddammit’ deep, deep down. Always.

I have a colleague who, apart from being my muse for this post, is also an obnoxious and possessive creative designer. Without a doubt, great at what she churns out of her Mac. But stubborn as a mule, a conformist to the archaic, and a professional nightmare, though when you gossip with her at the coffee machine, she is as sweet as candy. Her refusal to accept criticism completely limits her talent to what has been explored – but she is happy. She is not willing to be acknowledged as second best. She bludgeons her way though briefings and feedback meetings, and I can see that it hurts people to tell her to do it right, probably as much as it hurts her on hearing it. Not that I am the prophet of humility, but it is painful to see progress being stemmed in this way.

On the other hand, another one of the designers is always looking for comments, ideas, and feedback from her team and others. When she receives it, I have seen her tweak her creatives to incorporate the new information. One would think she is a pushover, but she deletes it right out if she thinks it adds nothing to improve the quality. If she thinks it works, she has no qualms about apportioning rightful credit to the originator of that idea. She is constantly looking for sources to sharpen her vision, and will not stop until she arrives at what she thinks is perfection.

There must be someone out there who is better at this than both of them, separately and put together. Most of us are second best to someone at almost everything we do. We may or may not exercise our right to say ‘Goddammit’, when someone brings it to our notice. But what determines whether we become a Hertz, an Avis or a Sharma Taxi Garage, depends purely upon how open we are, to knowing that we are always second best. And we’ll always try harder.

The Multitasking Mantra

2007-06-12T15:23:00.000+05:30

Multitasking is overrated. When men claim that they cannot do two things at the same time, attributing it to dilution of focus, they do a rather smart thing. They take care not to bite off more than they can chew. With women, though, it is expected. She must be adept at talking on the phone and feeding the baby at the same time. Especially in a job interview.

If the lady wants a job, she should preferably be single – being single, in some convoluted manner, symbolizes one’s independence. If she is married but without kids, uh, umm, ok, maybe she is more stable. But what about her husband? Is he a demanding fellow who will want her home on time every night? No? Good. Because now that we are employing you, lady, you must convince us that you have no home life and that your buddy-boy can manage without you. Newly married? Uh-oh. Is that going to be your excuse to get home early? The fact that you are in love and would still like to spend time with him? Snicker. Children? Let us not get into that. I understand, while marital status defines life stage, and life stage does have quite a bearing on routines, but I don't understand how life stage defines a person. How does being a newly-wed determine that one will run home as early as possible? And which book says that single-dom translates to ‘more committed to one’s work’?

The universe plots against women who want to have it all, and balance it out. All the diamond ads, that show the pendant-wearing woman expertly handling being a mom, a cook, an entertainer, an engaging conversationalist, a romantic wife, and a nine-to-fiver, are commonplace. Whether it is lipstick, jewelry or washing machines, no one cares. But the hotshot male executive, who is holding a baby in the boardroom, see that tug at your heartstrings. It is as clear as daylight. With women, multitasking is a hygiene factor. With men, it is the three extra toppings on the pepperoni pizza.

The man can come home early and cook a disastrous dinner one day a week, and expect to be treated as a darling for even thinking of putting in the effort. But the other four nights, it is the woman’s job, and this has nothing to do with the man not wanting to help. It is just a tougher time for her when he cooks, because it is a bigger mess, more energy is expended in trying to explain the exact recipe to him, and much more energy goes into cleaning up. But the fact that she may get out of work an hour early to cook dinner will label her ‘lacking initiative’ for life. Like initiative is directly correlated to your hours in the office, even if you are doing nothing. A half hour for gym? Lady, stay home, stay happy, stay healthy.

Some ‘fun and fearless’ magazines and websites also talk about how to compartmentalize one’s life, so that one aspect of life does not affect or disrupt another. Why do they forget that people, especially women, cannot be compartmentalized, broken up into bits and pieces, to fit predefined moulds of expected roles?

Maybe it is the women’s own expectations that have projected themselves on to the world. They expected so much of themselves, to be everything to everyone, and now her employers expect the same, and her family expects the same. Looks like there’s no avenue where she can outperform the great expectations without developing ulcers. But something has to bridge this chasm between the ‘thinking’ person and the ‘feeling’ one. Someone, at some job interview, has to realize, that the part that stays in office and gets paid, is connected, heart and soul, to the one that goes home and cooks. Someone has to realize, that if she is not looked down upon, and in fact encouraged to go home and fix the damn dinner and make sure that her family is getting the best – her – she will emerge better in her own eyes. She will feel those very feminine energies of self-worth from creating and giving, energies that unleash a whole new woman at work each day.

The Orange Sweatshirt

2007-06-07T13:30:00.000+05:30

Fashion is fun. What one wears can really reveal more about the person than words, actions, eyes or body language. It can reveal moods – a yellow teeshirt wearer is a happy person, and I apologize for the staleness of that deduction, but it is true. Preferences – someone who wears straitlaced suits to work, and is not open to exploration with wardrobe (atleast at work) is the person who is not likely to take too many risks with his boss. Someone who can twine scarves into belts is obviously creative, and obviously resourceful. Someone who owns a lot of jackets that are wearable inside out, and in different tones, is not content with one alternative for decision making, and probably likes to mix and match – will atleast try everything once. Someone who wears a different pair of earrings everyday, is excited by variety. The matching handbag or the matching tie person is comfortable with rules and routines (oh, they can break ‘em if they want to, but they are not natural rebels), and the wild child will wear red with purple. And the best part, a person cannot be labeled, the way he can be labeled through body language and the like. Because attires change everyday, if not twice or thrice a day. Every bit of information that can be extracted from one outfit, will morph the next day. And they can dig deep into their wardrobe, and their mood, and become whoever they want to be.

It is even more fascinating how a personal style statement evolves as one grows up. As a child, a personal statement is actually of the parents, how they dress up their new Barbie or new Ken. My mum would dress me up in completely ordinary, cute-girl-next-door frocks. Not many of them had lace, or puffs, or anything to do with pink. It was clear how down-to-earth and practical mum was. By the time they lost interest, school had begun. School uniforms, are actually garments that bring out the true genius in kids, as they come up with the craziest and most ingenious ways to set themselves a bit apart in a sea of white skirts and striped belts. The best-ever time for fads, and I’ve now realized, the best time for teen fashion to position themselves indelibly in their impressionable minds. It began with the knocking off of inches from school skirts – to rebel, to expose not just chubby knees, but a subliminal message, that we are not a separate race, and it is ok for the guys to hang out with us (mostly because at that time, the boys wore shorts - knee length pretty much the same). Then the sneakers trend sneaked in. Nothing other than pure white was allowed. From citing athletic prowess to be allowed a streak of blue or gray (people reporting to morning games for school team practices were allowed branded sneakers), to getting people abroad to send them branded shoes in total white, to combing shoe-shops to look for smart sneakers with the tiniest dots or skinniest lines – all options were exhausted. As we grew up, and teachers realized we were old enough to explore, we explored backpacks, Stick-‘em Stones, mismatched junk jewelry (styles that sold a lot that month were pairs of earrings with one lock and one key, and one sun and one moon), bracelets, pendants, hats, and watches. We learnt to accessorize – in short, we learnt how to make the best of any situation!

College showed us the importance of denim – few could get themselves out of their jeans. It started with jeans with teeshirts and sweatshirts for college (and for the guys, with collared shirts for formal days!!!), and evolved to jeans with sparkly tops and heels for partying. A trying and traumatic time of painful growing up (in school) had passed, where we explored and experimented to our hearts’ content, often unsuccessfully, and many a times laughably. We had reached a time when we were comfortable in our skins, the burning need to differentiate oneself had considerably simmered down, and the jeans complimented that perfectly. More importantly, now we were not being pushed into uniformity, like in school. Any occasional urge to be unique was satisfied by teaming the denim with a short kurta, jhola and chappals on one day, for a journalist look, a hooded sweatshirt, sneakers and a backpack for a sportier feel on another day, or the ends of the jeans turned up a bit and floaters and sunglasses for beach mode on a particularly sunny day. And if you were in a relationship, a boyfriend’s oversized sweatshirt was also quite a statement – a statement that was truly exclusive, because not many people are in that intimate a relationship in college times. If it was his university sweatshirt, even better. Newer denim textures and looks featured regularly from then on, low-rise, slim fit, boot cut, dark wash, stretch, skinny, and they were tried out and won their share of approval, but there was no pressing need to discard familiar styles – they were classic, comfortable, understated, and smart.

Post graduation, work and other subsequent activities took us to the realms of formal attire – getting dressed up for presentations, interviews, lectures, dinners and most importantly, dates. Sure, dating was happening in jeans as well, but now one had grown up, and the next lesson was to learn how to mask one’s intentions, thoughts and opinions, till the time it was acceptable to reveal them again – as we learnt to hide our true selves to get our way and make our way, the jeans were shown the door, only to be picked up for after-work or after-dating hours. Now we started realizing how great the men actually looked in suits, which to me was that they look cuter when shaved, gelled and smelling good – which is not necessarily how they are all the time. But for good looking, well-groomed men, we learnt to lower the stakes and accept that there is an unshaven side, but as long as it is not in front of us, it’s fine. As for us, we went into the skirts, pantsuits, salwar-kurtas, and sarees – and were amazed at how fantastic we were looking with our reality hidden! The dark, soft materials were making us look slimmer, sexier, and with the vulnerability tucked away at home, confidences were at an all time high. Makeup was discovered, and elegant jewelry, minimalistic handbags, slim heels with tapering toes, clean, streamlined accessories. One had to give up red, pink, purple, yellow, and limit adventures to gray, navy, maroon, tan, and obviously, classic black, in plain, checks, pinstripes, what-have-you.

As our personal style statements were transforming in line with our maturity and attitudes, we noticed fashions evolving with time with the evolution of public opinion, trend and the growing knowledge and awareness of discerning consumers. Fashion crept into everything; everything had to look sexy to appeal to anyone who thought he was anyone. It made its way into every known product – from paint and window dressing to mobile phones and laptops, from coffee mugs and lampshades to sinks and bathtubs. Everything was customized to whatever extent it could be, to define as much as it could of the owner’s revealed identity. Everything acquired color schemes. When being in a relationship was passé, we got as individualistic as we could get. When committed relationships came back into fashion, we went back to sweatshirts (but only the boyfriend’s).

Some trends fizzled out fast, like wearing gym clothes outside the gym, lipliner darker than the lipstick, fake tans, platforms, blond hair on Asians, dotcoms, Kajol’s sister, the Rang De Basanti-type silent outrages, and night shifts at BPOs (not that fast, this one – but it did). Some keep going in and out of fashion – wavy hair, lipgloss, pastels, Alice bands, the color pink, going to business school, marriage, and women’s lib. Some old rules reinvent themselves and become the newest statement – huge watches, wearing brown and black together, yoga, adventure sports and vegeterianism. Some are forever, like blue jeans, kitten heels, Chanel No. 5, clutch bags, the tux, any version of the little black dress, New Year’s Eve in Goa, candlelit dinners, Al Pacino, and F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Yet, even with all the changing fashions and mind-boggling choice, sometimes I still long for that faded, old, orange sweatshirt – comfortably worn-out, familiar, soft, warm, smelling vaguely of the boyfriend’s cologne. Bright, yes, but didn’t attempt to stand out. Always around, no choice involved in deciding to pull it on, and knowing everything will be fine tomorrow, even while panicking to finish coursework late at night for a paper the next day. It was a simpler time.

Writer’s Blog

2007-04-28T22:07:00.000+05:30

Apparently, all this time that I haven’t had a single inspiring thought, and have been cursing myself about how incompetent and unimaginative I have become, there was another soul that I know of who was going through a similar dry spell. And maybe so many others that I don’t know of. And while we were ‘unassuming’ enough to call it a ‘drying up of thoughts’, according to the comments, it is more commonly known as writer’s block.

Only, it seems even more pretentious calling it that than calling myself Goddess. I can be Goddess, but Writer is way too exalted. Those are people who have printed words attributed to their name, words that many others read, relate to and remember. Bloggers are mere mortals, not writers. Bloggers are generally opinionated fools (there you go, I’m one), mostly churning out ‘Dear Diary’ posts. Of course, there are the more worthy amongst us who keep up with news and trends and current affairs, but again, that is reporting. Many of the pages I frequent, most of whom are solid writers, whether published or otherwise, are transitioning to travel phases in their lives. So their posts are now limited to photos of their sojourns and a descriptive line or two. Not much writing. Some are outraged by the unending coverage of Gere-Shetty and Ash-Abhi. Some are exploring the joys of wine and fine dining. And some are sharing recipes.

Then there are the timid – who are actually extremely talented writers, but don’t write anywhere but their own notepads, occasionally sending a few lines on group mails to people they know – because they don’t think they write stuff important enough for people to read. Personally, that is a loss to blogosphere. Because these guys are writing direct dil se. And that's what is so beautiful about this (blog) world. There is always someone, somewhere, who will read what you wrote and think, wow, that happened to me! Where are the people who are writing this?

"some words can put you to a nice calm...while some could really make you uncomfortable...the only thing that inspires me to write is when I feel love all around me...and when I have that feeling...I see a story in everything...in every person... in every moment...in every mistake we have made...in every evening that we have spent with ourselves...in every breath we have taken...in every person we have known...in every heartbreak we have had...in everything that has touched us...the space around you is packed with ideas, stories and writing...you can't escape it...it will get you...sooner or later..."

- dedicated to a dear, dear friend who doesn't blog

The Good, The Bad, The Beautiful

2007-04-25T06:34:00.000+05:30

It is officially over. The strike, not the marriage (phew!). During all this time, while I was playing, or pretending to play, good wife and housekeeper, not one incident stirred me enough to write something good. All the time spent in experiments with Italian cooking and makeup (no, not just Italian makeup), movie marathons, shopping sprees, entertaining, and trying to roll a perfectly round chapatti, left no room for the bad girl. The girl who lived her life in small apartments and not to forget quite an expensive hellhole in Bombay, just so she could live alone. The girl whose weekends were a haze of vodka in the evenings and Big Macs the next afternoon. The girl who freaked out enough to plan an entire day at the salon when her best friend announced her engagement, and the girl who used her kitchen for a bar.

OK, maybe it wasn’t all the bad girl. But it wasn’t completely good either. Good girls don’t order takeout everyday. Good girls don’t stay out till morning. Good girls get married at a certain age and then move to wherever their husbands’ careers take them. Good girls cook dinners and keep them warm till the husbands come home. Good girls make friends with their husbands’ friends no matter how infinitely annoying they may be, give up their entire lives, and are nice to the husbands’ bosses. They look nice when out with their man, have impeccable taste while decorating, and oh, good girls don’t smoke. Or drink more than one cocktail, for that matter. But mostly it is wine. White.

All said and done, yes, literally, because both avatars have been tried, they cannot coexist. The bad girl is reckless and rebellious and guilt-free and has no one to think of herself. The good girl is on a perpetual guilt-trip, because every decision affects someone other than her. And as much as I would like to blame it on the husband or the job, these girls have nothing to do with the presence of, or lack of, either element. Being good is considering others, being bad is considering yourself. Or the other way round. Being good is denying most pleasures, being bad is indulging them. Being good is 25 going on 40, being bad is 25 forever. And something I just cannot shake off, I have had more stuff to write about as the bad girl. The good girl comes home from work and reads the newspaper while she starts dinner, because she didn’t read it in the morning because she was making the bed and the breakfast. The bad girl comes home, kicks off her shoes, lights the one cigarette of the day (hey she can be good too, she has almost quit!), fixes herself a drink, and switches on VH1. Dinner can sod itself. (I’m reading too much British chicklit). The good girl lives for everyone’s approval. The bad girl doesn’t care.

But being both is the inner tug-of-war. The good girl knows she can’t give in to her instincts all the time. The bad girl tells her to take a hike. Maybe that is the lifelong challenge. Maybe, that is the beauty of it all, of having choices, of being whoever she wants to be, of being all that she wants to be. The good, the bad, and the beautiful.

The bad girl is up right now, at 3.30 in the morning, because she just had to write this down. The good girl is hopping mad, telling her she so won’t be up in time tomorrow. Bite me, sistah.

Nameless

2006-12-24T12:51:00.000+05:30

Hi…(shyly).

Hey, long time! How are you? (Pretending to be nonchalant)

Not bad. As long as there’s alcohol. (Smiles). So, don’t see your husband…

Yeah, he had to stay home. Becoming a workaholic, that man. Even I could attend only ‘cos I had to fly into town for some meetings…but I’m not complaining, just glad they had a reunion! How’s the family?

Wonderful! Home never gets old! My sis is getting married, by the way.

Oh my god! Really? That’s lovely! When is the wedding? Arranged or love?

In May. Completely arranged. But she is happy. So, you tell me, how’s married life been?

Exciting! (Winks).

Well, chalo, let’s catch up later…(Slightly uncomfortable).

Sure. Nice to have seen ya…(Shifting feet as well).

The eyes conveyed something that spoken words didn’t. They said,

There’s so much to catch up on, have a drink with me?

Of course, I thought you’d never ask!

Tu nahi sudhrega bhai! Shaadi ko kitney saal ho gaye? Abhi flirting band nahi honi chahiye?

On my deathbed, dude. Only then…ha ha ha…

God, it’s been so so long! Sometimes I wish we had kept in touch.

Yeah, so did I. but neither of us worked at it. There was just so much anger and confusion.

Hmmm. True. Sometimes, I still wonder why.

Because it would never work. You knew and I knew. But we just had such a great time, no one wanted to face truth.

We did live in a fantasy, didn’t we?

Yup. We did have such a good time, remember Goa? But hey, life had to bring us back to reality. Life does have strange ways to get one back on track. Nahi?

You’re right. How come we never talked about this? We could have ended up being friends long ago.

Well, I tried (indignantly). You are the one who shut me out!

Hey, I was a broken man!

Blah! You pretended to be all wise and all, when you were just being a pain in the butt.

That’s so charming. You’ll never change.

Remember your idiotic jokes? Hey, the one with the uncle?

You remember that one?

I remember ONLY that one!

Well, you refused to speak to me as well.

Well, I was furious at you for being such a wiseass.

I was scared. I told you. I was just protecting myself.

Doesn't everyone?! You didn’t trust me. That was all. And I didn’t wanna bribe you.

Are you saying I lost you ‘cos I didn’t trust you?

Wah! What a line! A bit too late on the ‘lost you’ line, honey. This is the way it was meant to be, and you did know it before I did. ‘Cos of which, you were as hurtful as I was.

You are right, I treated you rather shitty as well. Call it even?

Absolutely.

I’m so glad we talked about this. We should have done this a long time ago.

Don’t tell me I didn’t try.

Don’t start again. Let’s please not jump at each other’s throats, and try and stay the way we were…? We were awesome as friends.

I wish we could, and I really want to, dude, but after the alco wears off, life will take us back to reality again.

She saw the knowing acknowledgement of that statement in his eyes, and two people walked away from each other. Because of an indescribable, but nameless connection. Not lovers, not friends, not a couple, nothing. Nothing but having once wanted to take care of each other. Look out for one another, cover each other’s backs. Collect assignments, save a seat at dinner. Bring back something from each trip to the city, teach a hypertense woman to relax. Life’s reality doesn’t deal with nameless connections.

Randomness, A Bit

2006-12-21T17:37:00.000+05:30

Random observations over a really rainy weekend:

Men are way more vague than women. There are more interpretations to a man’s words than a woman’s. Mostly because they use so few.

If the phone plays music when it’s on hold, the office seems much larger than it is. It may be a three-strong firm, if they play music while transferring calls, it will seem like thirty.

There is no pleasure in home-made golgappas. It is the quintessential street food which must be filthy to be tasty.

Opinionated people think they are the smartest. As one opinionated friend of mine put it, ‘We are of the opinion that we are smart.’ If only someone could correct them.

The names of best friends get clubbed together in conversations, the way even couples’ names cannot be clubbed. Paris-Nicole, Munna-Circuit, Leena-Tanvi, Naina-Ruchika, Adi-Sarang. What I could never figure out is why one comes before the other. Is it the more famous one, or the more dominating one, or is it simply because it sounds nicer that way?

I feel the hungriest when I cook.

It’s a rare, rare situation to actually like your boss.

Rainy days are too gloomy.

I am bored.

Flutterby Effect (Butterfly Effect in Negative)

2006-12-12T11:23:00.000+05:30

Dilbert had very correct views on management. It’s bullshit. A lot of common sense, packaged and branded into a bunch of theories and hypotheses and abbreviations. MBWA. Management by walking around. Are you saying managers were so dumb as to not realize that the most effective way to influence people is to be with them and make yourself available? What’s the use of Theory X and Theory Y? Type A or Type B? Country club management or Impoverished management! Excuse me while I die snickering.

I have similar views on chaos theory. The very name is an oxymoron. A theory for chaos? Are you kidding me? This is actually all stemming from a largely crappy movie that I watched last night…Butterfly Effect. The theory basically propounds that the flutter of the wings of a tiny butterfly can cause a tornado across the world. Basically saying that the initial action, a tiny flutter, could cause a chain of reactions to begin, which ultimately leads to a tornado somewhere in the world. Ok, I am saying ‘basically’ a lot. I will stop.

So, to put it in normal human terms, a little action of yours could set into motion a series of reactions that could lead to something really tremendous. Which is what the movie was all about. It was this jumbled melee of scenes, trying very hard to tell a story. But it did get me thinking. About how utterly dumb it is to theorize v. v. common sense. It’s like theorizing how my writing this post, will lead to something huge happening. Biggie. I know actions may have varied outcomes. Everyone knows! Control is redundant. I could write this post, and some scientist could kill himself by reading it, or kill me, because his life’s work involved chaos theory. Or, I write this post, and lots more, and with all the practice become a published writer (Yes it is a cherished dream). Or, I write it but I forget to post, so it just stays put. Or I write, I post, and then…well buddy, who the hell knows? And this, devotees, is the whole point. In my world, you can’t theorize chaos. Or common sense. Or life. The butterfly wings fluttering is supposed to have caused the tornado. Does that also mean that if the butterfly didn’t flutter its wings, the tornado wouldn’t happen?

No Place Like Home

2006-12-07T12:34:00.000+05:30

So armed with something old (the old boyfriend), something new (a new resident permit), something borrowed (some curling mousse from a friend), and something blue (ummm…ok nothing, but shopping will remedy that), the task of decorating a new home awaits me. It’s a spanking new apartment, with color-coordinated furnishings and state-of-the-art fittings, in fact some which an average middle-class Indian may take some time to figure out, because an average middle-class Indian home doesn’t support such applications. It’s pretty, airy, and HUGE. But after a month of living there, it’s still not ours. I want to make it perfect, but I don’t know how.

When does an apartment become a home? How does the space get personalized? Do you put useless scented candles in every shower and ridiculous knick-knacks that husband’s boss gifted you at your housewarming party? Photos of your wedding on the nightstand, as if to remind yourself that you DID get hitched! Flowers on the dining table, but the fake ones, because you are not housewifey enough yet to be bothered to change old flowers every three days. Framed paintings of palm trees in muted hues so that they go with the beige-and-coffee décor. Or get an entire paint job into vibrant purple and chocolate and orange, kyunki har ghar kuchh kehta hai.

How can it become home if one hardly spends any time in it? For me, it’s still ok to have a gaping hole filled up with gray cement when the air-conditioning was put up. Or a full-length dresser mirror, which was defaced by a little cousin with glitter-happy fingers, who hoisted herself up on it and drew stars all along the borders. A glass shelf cracked cleanly down the middle, on top of the sink in the guest bathroom, because some idiot (me) put a candle right below it when there was no electricity. Homemade potpourri on tops of cabinets, not pretty like the store-packed ones, but way more effective. Windchimes that are placed along the outside corridor, and hit you on the head everytime you walk past.

Oh, there’s my answer. The little imperfections of a lived-in space, which really make it a perfect home.

Girlfriend in the Gulf

2006-12-06T18:48:00.000+05:30

I’ve been thinking. Today’s the day I’ll reactivate my blog. Today. Ok, today it is. And in the confusion of getting married and moving and setting up a new home AND learning to cook AND getting a new job, it didn’t happen. But yes, today is the day.

This blog, my blog, my window to a rather inspiring, crazy world, has been such a good friend. It kept me alive and warm, through many a rough patch. But I ignored it when I needed a friend most of all. A strange country, weird names, crazy outfits and crazier languages, accents and even crazier women – it took some time to absorb it all. I needed a girlfriend. I so missed them. I needed to talk and bitch and laugh and share. I needed my blog.

Today this crazy woman came waltzing into the office. And looked at me. Her eyes twinkled. And finally after months of pining for those crazy women from college, who used to be just like me, who didn’t throw you strange looks if you smoked or corrected their grammar, who pretended to be snooty but looked for bargain labels and picked up three hundred bottles of shimmery nailpolish because it was Buy-One-Get-One-Free, who always complained about the way their hair looked and spent about one-fourth of their day turning it into something it wasn’t, who thought Cosmo was trendy and read it in a group, but really preferred reading material that was much tamer, and what’s more, knew about it the whole time that they were reading the Cosmo, who had a healthy inquisitiveness about the gay community (and didn’t raise an eyebrow in this situation, that I’m talking of the gay community while talking of girlfriends – they would just know the two topics weren’t related!), I knew I had found my first girlfriend in the Gulf.

I dedicate my comeback post to all my girlfriends. A crazy crazy bunch.

I Think. Therefore I Am Whatever I Am.

2006-07-23T11:27:00.000+05:30

I wrote this yesterday. But it got uploaded only after struggling the whole night with blogger and internet connection. So if you feel that the goddess has just rediscovered the joys of writing and can't stop, go ahead. Think it. You are not too far from the truth.

Or better still, don't think. Don't think too much. Apparently it's not good for health or sanity. I am often admonished that I think too much. I don’t see how that is so bad though, it keeps my mental muscles supple and sprightly. I think so much because of a bad habit of too much reading and an overactive imagination. I admit, it is a bit extreme to watch Final Destination II and then freak out on ‘Highway to Hell’ when it suddenly starts playing in my car, on a CD which someone else popped in when I wasn’t looking. Or reading a sleazy Sheldon novel about MPD, and then start imagining what it would be like if the goddess had multiple avatars.

Ok, it’s a lazy Sunday morning, I have just devoured a yummy pure bong breakfast of ‘luchi aloobhaja’ and chilled black grape juice (ok this part is not so bong), and have sat down with the laptop. (Such a bong Carrie, no?) Mum is lounging in front of the TV and scouting for grooms for the goddess. I know! Grooms???? Granted, she is doing it for the heck of it, the goddess has already found her god, and is very much keen on producing little gods and goddesses to keep the goddess tradition alive. But it still doesn’t make me stop thinking. About different lifestyle scenarios with the different samples she picks up. One can actually cook and doesn’t need the girl to do it, just focus on her career! Can I help but imagine what a life that would be? Sure he won’t get a convent-educated, fair, beautiful blah blah…but he would get a goddess not interested in cooking at all and in lifelong awe of the man’s skills! One wants an organized bride, who will take over while making the move abroad. I don’t get the connection, but it’s perfectly cool with me!

Other thinking scenes? How I can maim the woman who interviewed me yesterday. For life. She made me miserable about looking for opportunities. Put her in a darkroom and fill it with bees (courtesy The Crush). How I can think up weird flavors of icecream, because I had something called Ferrero Rocher flavor last night - some of the first ones would be gud, kheer etc. (courtesy Enid Blyton – yeah I used to read her as a kid). How I can replace Hermione in the next Harry Potter movie. Maybe even become Ginny so I can have an affair with Harry himself! Or better still, make a movie myself, with the most complex plot ever.

My favorite one. How I can eradicate Playstation and all similar contraptions from the face of the Earth. My god that’s some deep thinking.

Uski Safedi Meri Safedi

2006-07-23T10:58:00.000+05:30

It’s the banker’s curse that she was born with insane urges to write and an inborn talent of thinking that it helps her destress. It feels like coming home, coming back to blogspot. The goddess is at the brink of that stage in life where 24 hours become tight to pack in all that one wants, needs, and has to do. And the goddess stands corrected. Banking and writing do not go together.

Coming back to the topic at hand. Part of tagline of popular ad. Worked wonders. This line got stuck in the psyches of everyone who watches TV. But for me it’s the one feeling I see in everyone without fail. Sometimes subtle, muted, but always there. Some everyday examples:

‘So you think she’s prettier than I am?’

‘I need a bigger car man.’

‘That wire over there…what do you think that is? It’s not bothering you? Oho…obviously, your house is rented no? Bothers me because this house is my own.’

‘That guy got sent to the UK after a mere four months.’

‘My cash-in-hand is a bit less, but hey, I got too many other perks, customary laptop, Blackberry, yearly trips to the US, and I can work from home, too!’

And something I said myself. ‘She does NOT have a better blog!’

And a classic one. Married friend to bachelor, ‘Married life rocks!’

Now, I have nothing against the feeling. I get too much of it myself anyway. It’s quite a motivator. But what is it called? Jealousy? Competition? One-upmanship? I like to think of it as a way to tell myself that those levels, are achievable. Just because someone has demonstrated it, by getting there himself. But I don’t like the fact that it is so outer-directed. It’s like being dependent on an outside force to bring out a better you. I’m not preaching, but it makes me feel helpless to depend on something out of me to show me which stars can be reached. Earning hefty dollar salaries before I turn 24. Snagging a successful husband, having beautiful kids, and managing my life like supermodel-cum-supermom. Cooking up a mean prawn curry with steamed rice, and baking the best cookies in the world, at the same time rattling off facts and figures in morning meetings with my team, wearing Bipasha suits like in Corporate. Writing such a sexy piece on my blog that it gets picked up by some really popular site and takes it unimaginable heights, so much so that I get offers from publishers. Having effortlessly sleek, manageable hair, which stays put no matter which style I whip up.

And everytime someone will get to even a little of all this, I will feel, ‘Uski Safedi Meri Safedi se Zyada Kaise?’

And everytime I feel it, there will be some advertiser making big bucks out of a kick-ass campaign, which feeds on the most deep-rooted feeling in a human. I still can’t name it jealousy. Till den, uski safedi.

The Myth of Professional Relationships

2006-06-06T22:52:00.002+05:30

Been a long time. Work’s been tough. Sometimes life’s obligations just get ahead of themselves. Met some incredible new people. Discovered some amazing stuff about old ones. I have this thing about discoveries. Every time some little fact of life strikes me, all of a sudden, I treat it as a discovery. Or a realization. Like when I came back home and realized that smart-ass kid brother is like a best friend now. Like when you see you family and friends around you on graduation day, and you suddenly realize that they all love you so much, and how lucky you are to have them share a special day with you. I always let these realizations hit me headlong. So what if they aren’t big? The drama attached makes sure you remember it, and that’s what the point is. People should keep their eyes open for such realizations.

Another such realization this week. I have often heard people rant about ‘professional relationships’. With their bosses. With colleagues. With clients. Actors with actresses, marketing departments with ad agency guys, Students with instructors. People in Delhi complain about work culture in Bombay being so much better because of the professionalism in their work relationships. Sure, I don’t have that much workex, but in 24 years of life-ex, I have realized that there is absolutely nothing called a professional relationship. And if there is, it doesn’t work.

Wait. Before you launch into an indignant, and may I have the honor of saying, logical counter-attack, I may as well warn you, it will not appeal to the logic of the Goddess, so save it. I stand firm on my view, that professional relationships, if there is any such thing, have no chances of succeeding. One simple reason. A relationship must be personal. For a bond to flower, to grow and to prosper, it needs effort and nurturing, a very personal touch. I never had a professional relationship with anyone. My bosses were mentors and teachers, and neither role can work if they don’t have a certain father-figure-feeling about it. The only female boss I had was a tough taskmaster, but a dear friend and partner-in-crime when it came to making fun of less-talented colleagues (OK I hang my head in shame). My Math teacher in third grade is still my favorite, after decades, only because she treated us like her own children, even though I hate Math! The colleagues I learn most from are the ones who take me out for a beer after they have made me feel like committing suicide for making stupid mistakes out of sheer dumbness. My boss these days questions me about mundane stuff that is impossible to remember unless you have a spreadsheet in front of you, and his speed is sort of ‘flying with the riddler’ type, and he totally grabs every opportunity to make me feel like an utter fool. But the same guy shields me like an older brother from the superbosslady, who is terror personified, and never fails to throw a friendly wink my way when something particularly unpleasant was mentioned. Bombay, Delhi, who cares? People everywhere are the same. Just as long as there is that personal touch in those relationships which take up about 12-14 hours of your day, they are bound to succeed, and life will be so much happier. It’s so much nicer to work in places where you’ve made a surrogate family and tons of friends. Sure there are boundaries which are not to be crossed, and there are balances to be maintained, but which relationship doesn’t need those two things?

I have no professional relationships. That’s why I feel like going to work on Monday mornings.

Postmortem of Pain

2006-05-22T21:23:00.000+05:30

I’m gonna begin this with a very trite phrase – smile and the world smiles with you…and you know the rest. Well, it’s bullshit. The truth is that the power of pain is much deeper and profound than the sharing of laughter. So you share a couple of beers and lewd jokes with the guys from work – you can do that with anyone. But with the people you forge the bond of pain, it’s longer lasting than any other bond, other than maybe the one of blood.

I recently learnt about a special characteristic of manic-depressive people. They are actually very charismatic, intense personalities – who draw people to themselves through their pain. I thought back to most of my relationships – albeit unsuccessful – most were based on this bond. Not that I am manic-depressive (I’m not, believe me…won’t u? batting eyelashes suggestively) but somehow my entire sex appeal was centered on my ability to express the pain that I have seen (I pride myself on having seen a few more bitter facets of life than most of my peers, and coming out unscathed). And men thought themselves to be giant grislies who could protect me from the big bad world.

And it’s not just men, true to Goddess tradition! You take friends – any friends – the friends who have known your bitter past and failed endeavors and known the pain you have encountered – will always be closer than the ones with whom you share the beers. Think of the people who were around when you flunked math, the people who took you home after you puked all over and passed out from an alcohol overdose, the guys who took you to hospital and stayed up nights when you had a liver infection and were away from family and got nauseous at the mention of hospitals, the ones who gave you a shoulder to cry on when your first crush started going out with the basketball team captain (assuming YOU were NOT the basketball team captain), when you didn’t crack that interview on which you thought your life depended, when your lover cheated on you, when your dad had surgery, when your business didn’t take off and you lost all your capital, the list is endless. The people who heard you cry in the shower, when you were turning up the faucet so that the sound of the water would drown out your moans of pain. The people who saw you curled up in the fetal position, trying to block out the rest of the world, because you didn’t have the strength to fight with it anymore.

Pain binds. And real strong. It binds unknown families together when they strive for justice when movie theaters catch fire and innocent lives are taken at Page 3 parties. It binds institutions together when they raise their voices against unfair reservations. It binds cities together when it’s flooding and family members are unreachable, nowhere to be found. When you wade through neck-deep water, it makes you hold hands and cross roads. It binds nations together when tsunamis happen, and little known people become famous overnight for the hand of help and faith that they extend.

Yes, there is a lot of fear, panic, resentment, anger, sadness, loss, hatred – but at the base of it is pain. Could be yours. Could be someone else's that you can feel. Just pure, inescapable pain.

Not for the Faint of Heart

2006-05-21T20:56:00.000+05:30

The mind works in mysterious ways. I don’t know the way yours works, and you don’t have to know mine. There’s no way you’ll know mine. That’s ok. That’s what words are for. For bridging the gap between your thoughts and mine. Your thoughts have their own pattern. So do mine. I don’t ask anyone to decipher the pattern. I have a truly difficult and complicated one. My mind can flit from one topic to another, seemingly unrelated, but I can find, even develop patterns between those wisps of thought. I suspect most women can do that. And when they put it to words, they are accused of babbling. Because they touch a topic briefly, are reminded of yet another matter which in some inexplicable way, relates to the first, and take off on that. So the logic is not straight, but it’s present. So what if Mr-I-Look-Straight-Ahead can’t figure it out? My male friends have pointed out I blabber nonstop, although of all of them enjoy it. In fact, they actually ask me if I’m unwell, if I haven’t talked for ten straight minutes. Male critics of my writing have told me rather unkindly, that I lose thread of what I’m trying to say. Yeah. I do. Bite me. I also come back to the origins, and I have fun all along the way. Dude, if you smart enough to catch on, stay. If it’s too much, please run another way. At the end of it, I’m pretty sure I have made the receiver of the communication understand exactly what I was trying to say. Whether I had to talk too much to explore all my thoughts to come up with the exact topic, or whether someone had to ask repeated questions to figure it all out is immaterial. I have poetic license. Plus I have the license of femininity.

If you are male, and you got the above paragraph and agree with it, please tell your girlfriend/wife/lover, that she is lucky to have you. If you don’t agree with it, try and accept it anyway. You will be richly rewarded, I promise you.

If you are female, you know what I’m talking about anyway.

If you are either, and you haven’t understood, why the fuck are you still reading? Not reading this, but reading at all?

A Readymade Friend

2006-05-21T10:39:00.000+05:30

My creative juices are certainly flowing. It’s amazing how a bit of Bacardi can do wonders. Or maybe I was just too frustrated today. Not that I’m inebriated…takes a lot more than a bit of Bacardi to do that to the Goddess. Anyway, tonight was spent with family. The only advantage of drinking with buddies is you can drink a lot more, plus you can light up. Drinking with family is a lot more sophisticated. No cigarettes. And very controlled drinking. Quarter the number of drinks i usually have. But Bacardi is Bacardi. Good music. Folks treating you like an adult. However, smart-ass kid brother is highly amused. Making faces at sis trying to be all adult in front of people for whom she’ll always be a kid. But the guy’s really cute. He was this cute when he was a lot younger. He would fall all over himself to please me. He idolized his cool-sister-with-all-the-answers. He used to make up stupid games for me, when we were latchkey kids, and we’d spend hours amusing ourselves after school, waiting for parents to come back home. Watching TV was always more fun with him around – we’d bitch about the same silly songs and ads on air, he was a gifted mimic, and whether he was doing a Dharmendra or Shahrukh, his mimicry was bang on. He’d always thought I was a brave lady, but it was always him who got rid of the lizards in the bathroom. He’d stroke my hair and put me to sleep, even fan me when there was no electricity.

When he started growing up, that was the worst phase of our relationship. He always talked back, and I never got used to not being fawned upon anymore (he did it a lot more than my parents). At times it was pretty evident he hated me. He refused to do anything that was asked of him. He refused to listen to reason. We’d go for months not talking to each other. Until one day I realized that I had felt the exact same thing from fourteen to seventeen. But too late, I was away at college. We hardly spoke.

Now that I’m back, he is a strapping young lad who refuses to let me out alone after 9. I’m some eight inches shorter than him now, and he crosses the roads with an unshakable grip on my wrist. He arranges for his friends to give me extra driving lessons. Tonight he and his friend came to pick me up from work, and then we drove around, (OK I drove hehe), each moment the realization seeping into me that these are two young men, with whom I now relate on a totally different level. Now I’m not annoying older sis who’s gonna rat on them. Now I’m cool young woman, and they have this strange sense of pride in being able to hang out with me and connect with me on the same level. It’s like the relationship was itself a fledgling, which has grown the way we have. I think smart-ass kid brother was actually showing me off tonight. Finally, something warming my heart after a totally horrid day.

Thank god for smart-ass kid brother. Growing up as a single kid would have been damn lonely. And I’d never have had a readymade friend when I came back home.

Keshta Beta-i Chor

2006-05-20T19:37:00.000+05:30

Today is fault-finding day. Worst part being – I’m not the one finding faults with the rest of the world, like I generally do all day long. Today this bitch is having her day. Everyone’s bitching about me, and to my face! Is it my fault the bloody markets crashed? My fault that a rogue circular, some smart people who call themselves the Fed and the London Metal Exchange decided to ruin everyone’s day to the tune of 4 lac crore bucks? Dude, I can’t even dream up that kinda moolah. Still, the clients who used to swoon over my voice over the phone are calling and screaming at me in unattractively loud voices. And not just because of the crash. Part of my job as of now is to ensure a smooth handover from my predecessor, in simpler terms, weaning away clients from his old manager to a new one. Again, it is not my fault that I was a greenhorn, so this happened after three months of the last guy leaving. Not that it is my boss’s fault either, but a couple of clients who pride themselves on their financial acumen, and who probably fought with their wives in the morning or the night before or had their toasts burnt, decided to give me a taste of their medicines. Add to that the suicidal Sensex and voila!

To add insult to injuries. My Old Boss is leaving, and he is also undergoing a similar handover process. He has to hand things over to New Boss, who is one enthu-cutlet. In the last 4 hours he has poked his nose in my business about 400 times. Not to mention 4000 peeks in my mailbox. OK, so I exaggerate. Big friggin deal. And he’s not even cute. Anyway, when I asked Old Boss about mad clients, New Boss decided to amble in. I shut up immediately. Old Boss mumbled something like ‘vildikusitlettr’ and fell silent. Later, the man chose to call me into his cabin and give me what he thinks was a ‘fatherly chiding’ about me blabbing about clients in front of New Boss. I’m dumbfounded. Am I supposed to keep this data confidential to keep up the guy’s image, so New Boss can later make a fool of himself and then rip me apart further, because I’m the second-in-command? Nice try. And to think I had actually shut up when New Boss came in.

Now Old Boss is sad about leaving. He really loves this branch. He has become a father figure for his subordinates. And he is taking his depression out too, on poor-ole-me. What is this sponge-like quality I tend to display, that all and sundry can dump their misgivings on to me, so I can go ahead and post my own on this why-me post? If I wanna take off for a solitary drive, it’s my fault for not listening to daddy, because itty-bitty-baby-boo can’t drive on her own yet for chrissakes. If after a long day of dealing with clients, I don’t have the presence of mind to not babble in front of boyfriend, it’s my fault for not having the courtesy to string two sentences together coherently. If I ask for clarifications from Old Boss, (come on, asking questions is good!) it’s my fault for not selecting the right opportunity. It’s my fault I did my job and got people to invest, and it’s my fault that markets tanked. It’s totally my fault that Barca won. And it will be my fault when Spain takes home the World Cup. (I hate footy. I’m just doing this to seem cool, in retaliation to a ‘How to reach cool-dom’ post, which was plain uncool. But yeah, you can’t find fault with my general knowledge.)

Ok, I’m done. It’s Saturday again, and I drink to forget.

JA KICHHU HOLEI GINNI BOLEN, KESHTA BETA-I CHOR…

You've Got Blog!

2006-05-15T19:58:00.000+05:30

One goes through life wishing it had some element of the movies in it. Waiting for a sweetheart who has gone on a trip for the summer, would be over in a cut to a storm and the lovers kissing in the rain. Growing up will happen in a victory run on an open road, where little pattering feet will grow into strong, capable legs. A plain-jane-Jassi transformation to a sexy, glamorous Jessica would happen in a toss of a glossy mane (and save us the torture of metal-flashing smiles in the process). Getting to know another person and falling in love would take one song only. A brilliant idea would suddenly manifest itself not while on the toilet seat, but while sipping a latte rather sexily on a quaint countryside café. And of course, love would happen over the internet.

In one of the most significant turns in the lives of the Goddess, she went to find her prince, and ended up falling in love all over again with a fellow blogger…and her life-movie began. No names, no identities, just a barrage of shared interests and a feeling of finally finding that kindred spirit. He religiously reads everything I spew. Consistently acts on my advice, as to him, I’m a veteran!!! Praises my posts. Flirts outrageously well. Strives to please me. Has that devotee thing nailed. Is quite a master of these double-entendres which even the Goddess doesn’t get. Till a few days back, he had me pretty riled with some material he had written. I was livid. So we had our first blog-fight. Happily, it didn’t blow out of proportion (like it always does with my real-life boyfriend).

Even he doesn’t know a few things. I know I act like this self-satisfied bitch who is bent upon being called Goddess and stuff. Maybe he likes that. Maybe he likes the insufferable arrogance. But he doesn’t know I visit him first thing every morning to see if he put up anything new. Check mail to see if any new comment from him came in. Go back to previous posts and try and find links to past conversations. He inspires me to write. He is making me fall in love with him everyday. I don’t know whether he feels exactly the same way though. Never had the balls to come clean and make an attempt to broach the topic so directly.

Meanwhile, Find-Prince-Mission wasn’t half bad. Had the time of my life actually. The man is quite a gem. But I think I have fallen in love with someone totally new. Sure, go ahead. Judge the Goddess all you want. Is she not entitled to choice in life? If an old relationship doesn’t cut it anymore, and something new, more exciting takes its place, can you blame her? Oh, and you can also laugh at poor Goddess, so naïve, so ridiculously naïve. Who even knows what kind of a creep he may be? Like in Indian chatrooms on the net, seedy men who are mirror-cracking material in real life and are incapable of carrying out a conversation with a woman, and not because of their looks at all. But I just know, he is a real person, and he will be exactly what I imagine him to be. Come on, you think Meg Ryan would have ever gotten any mail if she had started thinking like this?

What about my current guy? Oh, he is the guy who surprised me with his secret identity, this fellow blogger mentioned above, one of my ardent devotees. He started taking time out from his no-time-to-breathe schedule and began to blog, just to get a taste of my world…as I had started talking about it so much lately, just to be able to relate to how I felt about writing. Ok, I admit, I felt like quite a fool when I realized that I never realized it was him, and pouted and sulked till my roothna and his manana reached a satisfactory extent (satisfactory for me, that is), but how can I not fall in love with this man everyday, who finds something to surprise me with everyday, who is my inspiration everyday, who makes me fall in love with him everyday? Yup, this is my movie-love. I got my real life Tom Hanks.

(He is rather kicked about the success of his newest prank. And much relieved that I didn’t start flirting with the unknown guy first. Maybe I should give his PS2 a whirl??? Guessed correctly again…I hate it.)

Love Beckons the Goddess

2006-05-10T16:23:00.000+05:30

I’m floating on air. Literally. I’m not walking on the ground anymore.

The past few days have brought enough to my plate, most of it meant to be good, but turning out disastrously unfortunate.

Had read The Mistress of Spices, and loved it, but chose to watch it as well, Aishwarya’s pseud accent and all. Decided that Miss Rai sucks. Her accent sucks worse.

Went through a ton of individual birthdays squeezed into three days. A lot of expenses :-(

Bought a shining new car. Banged it twice in two days.

A could-be devotee called. Goddess was fast asleep and gently snoring. It was but 2 a.m.

Got smart-ass kid brother out of my hair, and got him a part-time job. Turned out that the timings are so that I will have to drag myself from my snug environs to let him in at 4 in the morning.

But tonight, all of this will get canceled. The goddess is off to find her prince. (I coulda said God, but how cheesy would that be lol). Underground for a week, I’d predict. Don’t wait up…

Momo-Pyaar

2006-05-08T11:42:00.000+05:30

Years earlier, I had seen this ad in HT, about how your kid was all drinking this smart breakfast drink which made him smarter…so smart that he pointed out typos in the newspapers. And yesterday, I saw the mother of all typos, in the same newspaper. Well, the mother, because it was directly applicable to me for all the digs I have to endure courtesy my blog identity. The review was of a new Chinese restaurant in Delhi, which apparently serves yummy-my-tummy WANTONS!!!!!

Ok, so I have opinions, I let loose on this blog, but I’m not that concerned a citizen that I’ll shoot off a mail to HT. (I did think about it, but naah.) But I am pretty sick of being jeered at with the name ‘goddess of momo-pyar’ by my smart-ass kid brother, and lots of other creatures who think I look chinky, so I must be talking momos. So once and for all, you lesser mortals with no sense of spelling, and especially HT,

WANTON = willful, unjustifiable, licentious, wayward, immodest

WONTON = what Sanjay Dutt needed to identify his captor in some godawful movie I saw last year. What was that again? Yeah – Zinda.

SO,

WANTON ≠ WONTON

I don’t think I’m ever eating WANTONS again!

Happy Budday Mommy!

2006-05-07T17:33:00.000+05:30

Today’s my mum’s birthday. Old woman, that. Her body shows her age, has weathered two kids, multiple surgeries, and limitless radiation and chemo. But her face is a child’s, innocent and line-less. Her soul is clear and free. Her mind is still eager to soak in all the learning she can find. Nature would have been bang on target had I been made her mum instead!

There was a time when I was into poetry. But I used to write mostly about broken hearts – you know, how most poets begin to hone their skills. I had also noticed, I was a foul-weather poet – I never had poetry in me when I was happy. But the words would just tumble out when I was sad. Anyway, I wrote a poem for mum’s birthday. One of the few happy poems I wrote. And a happy poem, which satisfied my urges as a poet, somehow happy poems never seemed to justify the whole idea of it being a poem. I mean, woh shayari hi kya jismein kuchh dard na ho, kuchh sanjeedgi na ho…kavita who jo dil ko choo jaaye, aankhon mein aansoo bhar laaye…no angst, no torment, that’s no piece of poetry. But mum’s poem, was a happy-happy, skipping-along-singing-a-song kind of piece, I can’t imagine writing something sad for her, even when I saw her lying on a stretcher going in for her first surgery. She just gave you the impression of skipping-along even then!

Anyway, I wrote it one year, and she was touched. And she demanded that I write her a poem every year, whether there were any other gifts or not. I did her bidding for the next six years, if I remember correctly, but my reserves of poetry are dried up, and I can’t explain to her that I’m into prose these days. So today the tribute is up for the world to know what a special woman she is. My mother, my best friend, my kindred soul. Happy birthday, mum!

Have You Blissed Out Lately?

2006-05-03T22:57:00.000+05:30

Haha…I know I got you. Maybe I could have got you by the you-know-what had I mentioned directly what I meant by blissing out – yeah, I’m talking about the big O-hhhh! Still haven’t got it? Log on to Wikipedia and search by keyword ‘orgasm’ :-)

I know I could have written about Suryanarayan (bloody where did the second wife tapko from???), or Miss-Unconscious-Internalization (I’m not a plagiarist just because I did cut-paste jobs throughout MBA!!!), or the reservation issue (now I don’t friggin care), or the massacre in Doda yesterday, or even the Armenian airliner that crashed into the Black Sea about 21 minutes ago (as I write this)…in fact, I should be writing about it, because it is the thing to do with a blog aspiring to be of note! But there are just too many people writing about the news, and they are doing a much better job than I can ever hope to do. So do please log on to them…although that you will be able to do only in a day or two if you are doing so through Achlandia, as I’m just learning stuff about Blogger and pottering around with links and templates in the temple.

Coming back to the orgasm. Haha…I know I got you again! I’m talking only about the female orgasm here…because hey, whaddya know…I’m a female! And anyway, the male orgasm leaves naught to imagination, so no point discussing it. I actually feel bad for Indian women. Too many of them fake it, not many know what it exactly is, most do not know how to reach it, and few can tell their partners openly about what they want. According to surveys, (let me specify here that I’m not plagiarizing if I pick facts from other sites), only about 25 percent women ALWAYS climax during sex. With the remaining it’s touch-and-go or missed completely. Apparently, compared to the male version, the female O is an ephemeral phenomenon. And oh, 90 percent of men have successful trips to the moon 100 percent of the time!! Another cool observation – the occurrence of climax has nothing to do with successful reproduction for the female, so biology is unable to figure out why women climax at all! Whoa, are you kidding me? So left to pure logic, women don’t need an orgasm???!!! See? Told you logic doesn’t work.

This is not the worst of it! According to Ian Kerner, Ph.D., a certified sex therapist and author of She Comes First: The Thinking Man's Guide to Pleasuring a Woman, "many women complain that a single orgasm isn't enough to relieve the buildup of sexual tension," which can leave us with our own "blue balls." Hahahaha! So now you are saying that science cannot figure out why women have an orgasm in the first place, AND also that tripping out once is not enough. Make up your mind, Ma Nature!

Now for the whole sex-love dilemma – the world is divided in its opinion on whether the deed can be done without emotional attachment, or must you be in love with your partner-in-sin! A recent small-scale study at the Netherlands' University of Groningen found that areas in the brain involving fear and emotion are actually deactivated during orgasm. The study does go on to also point out that it is not so if you fake it… :-) However, I’m not sure if that indicates that sex can be detached from the feeling of love and attachment, as the orgasm is merely the culmination of the act. There is as much pleasure to be derived from foreplay and such, as there is from the orgasm. The Goddess regrets that she is not refined enough yet to detach the biological needs from the emotional ones. But science is again confused on this one. During the Oooo-hhhhhhhhhh, the hypothalamus releases extra oxytocin into the system. This oxy-boxy (Gimme a break. You think the Goddess actually even knows what the hypothalamus is?) is also knows as the cuddle-hormone, so that is how she will refer to it. This hormone is known to be correlated directly with the urge to bond, project affection, and protect. According to latest news, it may even be linked with our ability to trust! So now research says that the orgasm is both related and not related to the feeling of love!

So in a nutshell, the female orgasm is just about as confused as the females themselves. Who was it who said, not even God can understand women???

(Achtlandia freely confesses that this post has references from a few good articles floating on the net. However, she has forgotten the links, and will put them up when she remembers. Oh, sorry, when she figures out the linking bit on Blogger. Any assistance is welcome. The Goddess hates to cloud her Inner Eye with these mundane details that must be taken care of. )

Reinventing the Goddess

2006-05-01T16:58:00.000+05:30

Sex sells. And boy does it sell. You attach sex to anything and it WILL sell. People will watch it. People will read it. I had so many people complain to me that there was way too much sex in my first two posts. Yes, complaints. Stuff like:

'My god, do you ever think of anything else?'

'Dude, its reeking of sex!'

'The very name suggests a slut!'

'Someone no mortal man can satisfy ;-) ????'

It got me thinking. Maybe I was being too out-there. Maybe the whole idea of lust being sacred was too in-your-face. As I had promised, not all my subsequent posts were about sex. They started getting a bit more serious, somewhat slice-of-life. The minute it hit something concrete, something solid, something that real people actually care about (virtual people do not), people started complaining again!

'I thought u write well. What happened?'

'I didnt like your last two posts man. What happened?'

'Why the hell you getting so serious on life man? Mutual funds and all? What happened?'

What we see here is a clear case of brand dilution. The goddess must not waver from the topic at hand. She cannot be everything to everyone.

What the goddess wanted to prove, was that sex is not the only thing on her mind. She is of varied tastes and interests. And she definitely has a life out of the bedroom.

Will be keenly awaiting reactions on next post. It should be mind-BLOWING!

Why I Love Mutual Funds!

2006-04-29T19:14:00.000+05:30

Yeah, it is my profession. But I’m not going to rant about the risk-return factor, how they are so much safer than playing the market, or how they are so hot in today’s market…which is growing like Jack’s beanstalk…no end in sight. Or how they can be so much easier to monitor, how they can create a fully-diversified portfolio at much lower risk, how the workings are much easier to understand than the primary market, how professionally managed they are, how convenient and flexible they are…ok ok…I will stop... :-)

But this is not why I love them. I love them because I love to shop. You don’t have to believe me. But picking out the perfect fund is much like picking out the perfect pair of shoes. You have a certain design in mind. You have a certain in budget in mind. You visit a couple of stores, in a designated shopping area…possibly famous for footwear. You go to the best brand names…the brand pull is always a major contributor in the final selection. You try out a few pairs…you get a better idea of what you want – what is not only going to look the best, but also last the longest. You weigh the price against the quality. You see the material, the make, the finish, the color, how much it costs as compared to a similar pair elsewhere. The choice is immense. The variety is mind-boggling. You may have to see where the clearance sales are…yeah me talking about rollbacks here…in case the layman didn’t realize this similitude. If you want the classiest, sexiest pair, your research must be thorough. You have to look at what everyone else is wearing. You have to see what calls to you. You have to know what is in. You have to find out which brand is making waves. You have to find a salesman who treats your feet like her/his own, who can assist you in the perfect choice. For whom, the sale translates not just into commission, but also a sense of achievement in helping you find exactly what you were looking for. I have personally spent weeks looking for the perfect black, slinky number, and found it practically in my own backyard, and finally ended up buying three pairs, just because the salesman wasn’t pushing them on to me, but was at his wit’s end to help me look for the perfect pair. Of course, your friend/neighbor/cousin/roommate must have sworn to you about one brand or the other. If you are young, you obviously go for sassier choices, you take more risks. If you aren’t, you go for something tried-and-tested. Then you accessorize your wardrobe. You find the perfect belt or handbag or to match your new shoes. If the shoes are too snazzy, the rest of the outfit will have to be toned down. Or vice versa.

Yeah. It’s also that easy. You can tell me to go get a life, because, come on, how can I liken shoe-shopping to critical financial decisions? But you gotta understand a woman and her connection with shoes, and why I chose to liken it to shoe-shopping. If you are from Mars, do feel free to think of it as your latest attempt at gizmofying yourself. But for the average joe, it IS that easy, provided you have people like me! And when I say easy, I mean it takes a very similar amount of effort – hey, shoe-shopping needs just as careful an analysis of the market situations as gizmofying would need for the Martians…and don’t you go calling me a shoe-salesman…saleswoman…

And don’t worry; my less-than-traditional investment philosophy does not less of a principal banker make! I’ll show you…show me the money.

(P.S. Please note that I have not included the exact comparisons between footwear shopping and secondary markets. For any clarifications leave a comment.)

Bonus

2006-04-27T18:00:00.000+05:30

The electricity was out all night. Delhi heat was killing. At about two in the morning I realized I couldn’t sleep. Lit a cigarette and tried to relax. But not possible, increment letter and bonus declaration due tomorrow. One year at my first real job! Quite a few milestones…appraisal, confirmation, increment, bonus…

Didn’t realize when I had nodded off…when I woke up with a start I realized I had been dreaming…of cheques! Of a net-banking screen, where the salary credited transaction was way higher than my normal salary! Of the increment letters that carried some kind of complicated code, which one had to feed into his or her systems to find out exact amount of bonus and revised packages! And I had dreamt that I got hold of all the codes for people in the branch, and basically was lording my knowledge over the ordinary mortals who didn’t already know! Man, I never knew I cared so much about money! I never knew I cared about how much money versus how much everyone else had!

When I joined this bank fresh from campus, I had not really cared too much about the package, the benefits, the hidden costs, the perks. Before placement, I felt the raw pressure of getting placed in a good brand. After placement, I was just excited about my profile, which would not only give me an exposure to the industry, but also let me utilize my creativity to the fullest (no I’m not faffing. I mean it!) . I wasn’t even aware of HR policies in the industry, rather I didn’t bother to find out. I anyway believed in taking things as they came. Learnt how to live alone. Crossed bridges when I came to them. Life was not pre-planned and charted out. I knew of people in MBA who had posters of dollar notes instead of Brangelina. I never got it. Not that I didn’t have ambition. I just wasn’t the kind who calculated her GPA after indiv subject results were declared. I didn’t even see what others had…after all it was all comparative…I didn’t even care about attendance, extracurricular GPA (yea we had that too!). I was just pleased that I could be of some use to my family after having mooched off them for 23 years! Even the ‘breaking news’ of the record salaries weren’t eliciting the standard response from me – ‘we should have got in this year!’ I was satisfied for the moment with a challenging job with a lot of potential and a comfortable lifestyle.

Even after settling in my role, I didn’t know what was to come at the end of the year. I never understood why people got so crazy about who got how much bonus. People covertly trying to check each other’s accounts for what amount has been credited…after all bankers, them! Uska bonus mere bonus se zyaada kaise?

The branch is buzzing. In about 10 minutes the letters get distributed. No one has been able to work today. I still can’t figure out what the big deal is.

So why am I on tenterhooks?

Long Live the Goddess

2006-04-10T21:09:00.000+05:30

Apologies for the slew of posts...but had no access to blogger for sometime...anyway, will be underground for sometime again, so enjoy till then...Long Live the Goddess of Wanton Love!

Men are like Taxis

2006-04-10T21:02:00.000+05:30

I did think of listing out the men in my life once. Not like dad, bro or chacha-mama, but the romantic links. But at the time I had thought of it, there weren’t that many. Today, at this juncture of life, I can boast of having seen enough men, naked and otherwise. And I still can’t find a common thread between them. Everytime I dumped a guy, or a guy dumped me, I would say the same thing – All men are the same! Trouble is, they are not. Each one is a namoona in his own right. Though there is one thing. They pride themselves on being exclusive distributors of LOGIC. Go figure. And another. There will never be a man who is trying to win you over, and will not say, I’m a born masseur. Wanna try?

The first guy was that first crush in school. The first ever. He was definitely the cutest kid in my grade. I had a crush on him even before I knew what a crush meant. Or even what I was supposed to do if we ever did get together. It was just being happy that he looked at me a couple of times in class. And happier that he wasn’t pulling my pigtails, and pushing me down! Although yeah, that would have meant he liked me, but I was willing to give that one a miss. Would have been too embarrassing in the schoolyard in front of everyone. Anyway, in later years I got quite a reputation as a ball-buster…had he pushed me down I may have started right then and ruined any chances we had. But sadly enough, a year later this girl joined my class…who would later become my best friend, but at that time, all I wanted was a voodoo doll. I met this guy again later in life. Merchant navy. Tall, fair and handsome. But he had lost that childlike sweetness in his face which I had fallen in love with in the first place. There ended my first romance. Twelve years later.

Then came S. He was devilishly handsome, yet had this centered, mature aura about him. But he brought back painful memories of my childhood, when he also fell for another girl, who sadly again, became another one of my closest friends. They made the perfect couple – fair, light-eyed, just perfect. I always had a strange feeling since then, that the babe and I became friends only through our common loathing of S. As fate would have it, the man took up the sciences as we progressed. And forgot to shave after that for the rest of his life! I mean, what good is being handsome if it’s all under the dark, coarse bush of a beard? She lost interest, definitely, and I developed short-term amnesia. Heard he has become a dentist these days. Chalo, I do hope he shaves now, cos his women patients would really have a good time in the chair.

Of course, every woman has that one bad boy she would die to sudharo-fy! This one was the basketball team captain, tall, dark, muscular, positively divine. I never saw him in anything but the blue team uniform (showed a lot of skin, I must add – it was part of the charm). Mahogany skin, glistening with beads of sweat, bright, shining eyes, and a killer grin, even white teeth, I remember every detail, as I was a part of the group of junior girls who would sit by the court and secretly lust after her respective team-member. But he was older, and nothing ever happened as his sister was another goddamn friend (I think this is why I stopped befriending women – they always came in between!) But one time he did bring me chocolates, and to this day I wonder what would have happened had I not been such a prude! Last I heard of him he was off representing the country in Busan. Sigh…

Now I was growing up. Men were becoming less of lust objects and more of utility appliances. Someone to hang out with during break-times, be my date for the dances and farewells, and generally be around when required. And this was becoming tough to find. I found one almost-eligible candidate, but he turned out to have this remarkably irritating strut, so he had to be eliminated. Otherwise he was perfect in every way, just that he thought he was god’s gift to schoolgirls.

At one point of my life (this was to be repeated later), I was torn between two perfectly wonderful men. One was a downright charmer, a total Aladdin-lookalike, I mean, he wasn’t a cartoon, but I find that also one of the more good-looking cartoons to be seen. That rogue, he could make anyone laugh. The other one oozed sex-appeal, again a basketball player. Apparently these days he is doing more weed than women.

As the days left in school dwindled, the number of guys that were in heat was going up. There were these arbit men who tried to kiss you, or touch something, or ask corny questions. ‘Can I feel you tonight?’ Feel this, dude. (Pity you can’t see what finger I’m holding up). Once we were all playing dodgeball, and by chance, in the middle of all the running around, some guy’s hand brushed against my chest. I think he dreamt about that one for nights after that, as the game had to be suspended for a while till he got his breath back from all the coughing and giggling and blushing!

In college, I found the perfect man.

Or so I thought. He was a genuine guy, yes. He was honest, caring, sweet, protective, had oodles of talent and charm and wit. He was well read, his vocabulary was widespread, his grammar impeccable! He was ambitious, sporty, elegant, and smelled good. Even now, if he’s anywhere around, I’ll be able to tell him by his smell. The whole package, basically. But a man that perfect does not exist now, not ever. Slowly, but surely, the tantrums surfaced. The constant whining for space. The escapist attitude. The pure selfishness and cruelty of a Bluebeard, If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you! It’s rather sad, he was otherwise quite an angel, but a baby angel. And I was not old enough to handle a baby yet.

When you have slept with the same man throughout college, you need some flavor in post-grad! And boy, available there is a lot! I was almost depressed that I was the kind of chick who needed to form an emotional connection with a guy before she did him, even if it wasn’t a major connection. A number of meaningless romances ensued. Where both parties were trying to figure out the connection, but apart from coursebooks and movies and cheese dosas, nothing worked. Of course, there was that one knight in shining armor, who’d sing I’ll be there, when I should be around, and to his credit, he was. But just in college.

A special mention here for my two best friends, and possibly the two most important men in my life. Very few people, let alone men, can truly stand by a person through thick and thin, have their share of fights, and get on with their friendship with dignity and respect. One can’t buy people. But these two people can. Of course, they don’t need money.

These days again I found two to ponder over. Sweet men. One is so responsible and reliable and trustworthy, that you just feel like sleeping in his arms. You feel safe, protected. But don’t expect any passion, any fervor, any feeling. The other has the most incredible smile I have ever seen. It makes him look so yummy, I think it’s his smile that lights up his entire persona. He can make anyone laugh, and few men possess the kind of creativity and sparkling wit this guy has. But he’s the kind you send out on an errand on Monday, and don’t expect back till Thursday.

‘Tis but human nature to not realize the worth of what one has and ache for what she can’t have. I am still into the wrong man. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaalp!

A Job for Setia Uncle

2006-04-10T20:56:00.000+05:30

Last year, when I was getting placed, the retail boom was supposed to be in the nascent stages. No one really wanted a job in retail…no matter what the newspapers/profs said. It wasn’t paying as much as you expected from a job out of B-school, it wasn’t as glamorous, and it was certainly nothing to write home or tell your friends about. And in the age of celebrity placements (just a term I coined for those placements which make you an instant celebrity, whether just in your college or plastered all over TV is irrelevant), retail still didn’t have much favor. Until today, when Reliance’s retail venture is shopping all around and picking up the goods. All for a higher price, of course. Head honchos from all over are in talks for some of the key positions in the ventures. What the hell, they haven’t spared the kirana guys either. Oops, sorry, it is the kirana guys who have stopped worrying about where their shops will go, as long as they can land a plum position with Reliance. Lol.

However, apparently these kirana guys are not skilled enough to do justice to the positions that they hope to land. With 97% of the market in the unorganized sector, is it not a bit silly not to realize that resources within the unorganized sector will be the key to organize the market? Have they not serviced household communities for years? Have they not spent their lifetimes anticipating the demands of each particular household they serviced? Have they not perfected their skills in being the customer interface? Have they not seen the kids grow up and do the shopping instead of the parents, seen the generation shift enough to realize the importance of moving with the times? Are these not the faces that are going to be the catalysts in the weakening of the consumer resistance to the newer formats? So the other skills can be imparted easily right? The product knowledge is already there, the sophistication can be learnt. The service has already been learnt, the quality will follow. The loyalty has been achieved, the consistency will be picked up.

The words are already there, the language can be learnt.

Sure, get the big guys for the big jobs, you need em. I still don’t want a job in retail. I will not add much value to that store you are opening, but Setia uncle might just.

Welcome to the O.C., Bitch

2006-04-10T20:51:00.000+05:30

I never miss the O.C. It’s the most hilariously boring ‘original drama series’ there is in the world of telly. And yet, I watch it. And I’m hooked. It moves fast, it has a high level of diversification in each episode, it’s unpredictable (OK, not that much, but with every twist one thinks…Ugh! Omigawd!), and it helps that Benjamin Mackenzie is the hottest thing since the microwave. (OK, lame old _expression, but it’s true). The first season ended recently, with Ryan leaving the O.C. And I will not tell a lie. I wept!

Do feel free to judge me for watching this, (and even some Jassi and Anjaani Ladki once in a while). But it is really funny. The only thing that comes close is Takeshi’s Castle on AXN I think, where LOL is real. One can’t help but roll on the floor laughing. I mean, a girl gets inseminated by mistake, then decides to keep the baby, not knowing who the father is, meanwhile facing multiple, life-altering accusations/tribulations, and yet, smiling through it all. No wait, that’s merely an _expression again, because people cannot stop crying on that show. I’m not heartless, but watching such pointless bawling can make you feel really good about yourself at times. And oh wait, all this while she’s falling in love with the real father of the baby, which she doesn’t know! This is good TV!

Coming back to the O.C., some slick and sexy times on Newport Beach…the bad kid tries to steal car, public defender is one do-gooder who can’t leave him alone, bad kid gets thrown out of house, calls public defender and gets picked up and finds himself in the thick of action at the high-and-mighty Orange County, where kids talk of Champs Elysees as a next-door retreat for the boring afternoons, sail to Tahiti while running away from home, couples split and get remarried to their friends’ parents, no less. And our friend from Chino keeps up the brooding-bad-boy act to get through this confusing phase in his life…possibly getting his ex pregnant in the process.

I love how unreal the show is. How the Cohens are so understanding about everything is beyond me…from bringing juvenile delinquent home, to husband being hit upon by gorgeous colleague, wife being kissed by ex-boyfriend-current-criminal, wife lending millions of dollars to ex-boyfriend-current-criminal, wife’s father being a tight-ass-son-of-a-bitch, and the list goes on. Another unreal bit is the transition from one partner to another – for everyone in damned Orange County – is as smooth as a hot knife slicing thru a slab of butter. No one looks back. No one thinks of the past. Very progressive, forward-looking people I say! Tell me, which employer gifted you a surfboard after a successful interview? And the most unreal bit is how Anna Stern can bounce her neck with every word she speaks! I’m glad Seth didn’t go for her, otherwise she’d have had to sleep with a crick in her neck for a long time to come…it’s a cute character quirk, once in a while…I love how Ryan can beat up people and burn down houses with equal aplomb. I love the fact that the point of the show is to prove that no matter how rich and happy you look, no matter how many Porsches and ponies you have, no matter what a perfect bod you have from all the yogalates, and the perfect highlights, there are dirty secrets in every household and you gotta learn to deal with it, and the only ways they can demonstrate it are old romances and dads coming out of the closet.

Welcome to the O.C.!

From DIDI to AUNTY

2006-04-05T12:36:00.000+05:30

Today an incident happened that forced me to think of the characteristics of the women I called ‘Aunty” my whole life. Not ‘Aunt’, but ‘Aunty’. You guessed right. A kid on the street called me ‘Aunty’!!! Right, I’m mortified.

Don’t do unto others…and that’s how the saying goes…I called Mom’s friends ‘Aunty’ all the time. I called her boss that, I called her few thousand relatives that…when I forgot what they were actually supposed to be called. I called any lady in a sari that. Called our household help that. Called my friends’ moms that. In fact to this day, at a ripe old age of…ok never mind…I still call those women ‘Aunty’. When I was younger, it applied to ladies above 30 I suppose, mainly married, with kids. Women in salwar-kameezes were generally ‘Didi’. To think that the kids in the neighborhood where I grew up, are calling me that! I’m not fat, I’m not married, and I don’t have kids! I don’t go to kitty-parties, I don’t wear saris, I don’t cook. I dress crisp, I have short hair, and no mehndi. None ever on my hands either. I don’t wear worn-out kolhapuris, I speak with a slight accent, I don’t spend hours in the beauty parlor! Never spent hours in the winter sun outside in the park either, with more ‘Aunties’, knitting, peeling oranges, and shouting at the kids occasionally. I have never worn jewelry beyond a pair of studs in my ear and a chain around my neck. Am not centered, focused, holier-than-thou. Oh, did I say I’m not fat?

It’s sad that I based my judgments solely on appearances. I’ve learnt my lesson! But the kid today could not have based her judgment on my appearance! I should not be subject to this agony of being likened to women who did all of the above, whom I called ‘Aunty’. I vow to not call anyone that from this day forward. Aunty mat kaho na!

All Music is Good

2006-03-23T20:41:00.000+05:30

Many sins have been committed. Many lives taken. Many hearts broken. Many dreams shattered. Many songs sung…

Remember talking throughout the night…just sweet nothings trying to make each other feel good about ourselves? Sharing moments at night was infinitely more potent for intimacy than any other time of the day, even on the phone ;-) Half a million dilemmas for half a dozen years. But that too was fun wasn’t it?

Remember your first record, your baby? Remember how passionately, how painstakingly it was put together? Bit-by-bit, note-by-note, track-by-track. I know you’re waiting…you’re waiting…you’re waiting…and I just watched the lines of concentration on the forehead shielding the genius behind, where all the music came from. You in a maroon sweatshirt, lovingly entwined with your guitar. You with your headphones, brows knit together in deep meditation to take the music apart, so you could rebuild it. You upset about second year results, and your piano came to the rescue, not me. Did you let me? Did we make music together, or was it just you?

This was no conventional love story. Not even one predictable scene of traditional lovers. No kissing in the rain. No walks through the park. No holding hands and walking into the sunset. But it WAS something.

What is it with people? When one is sad, why does he try to remember the good times to feel ok? What is wrong with embracing pain? Just letting it seep through your system…cruising through your veins…slowly unfurling its tentacles to clutch your heart…tightening its grip…grinding it to dust…

…All because the music upset me. I won’t be waiting…

Mum-and-Dad

2006-03-22T23:03:00.000+05:30

From some of my earliest childhood memories, one that stands out particularly clearly is me in my dad’s arms, posing for a photo, when my dad impulsively planted a kiss on my right cheek, and the camera flashed! I didn’t know whether it was the flash that startled me more or the impulsive sweetheart of a kiss! (My family didn’t believe in Public Displays of Affection). There’s also this time when dad took me shoe shopping when I topped my grade, and we went berserk picking up virtually everything I liked. (We weren’t that well to do, either). Or the time when I was away at college, and he begged me to come back home, and not take up a job in Mumbai, his voice all choked up, because he was missing me. (My dad is the Rock of Gibraltar, and I’m sure you remember the NO PDA).

Mum was the opposite. Cute and childlike. She’d slap me for some non-issue naughtiness and then cry for hours in remorse. It was easier being naughty with her. She was kinda naughty herself. Like this time I was being way too unruly to handle, and she brought out this huge blowup of a spider photo, to scare me into obedience, accounting for a lifelong case of acute arachnophobia. (Dude, you had to be there. It would have scared the shit outta any 6 yr old). And then she would scour out the corners of bathrooms everytime before I had to go, because I was now terrified that there’ll be some eight-legged freak lurking there. Or every Sunday that she’d make puri-aloo for breakfast just because I wanted it.

Mum and Dad. The coolest people in the world. The greatest couple in the world. Like they say. All happy families are similar. Their word was gospel. Their beliefs, the truth. Their actions, to be emulated. Their ideas, to be imbibed.

So when did they become real people, the gods in my life? So they who could do no wrong, when did they stop being right? The paragons of virtue, the providers, the caretakers, the parents. Was it when dad lost his business, and with it his drive, his ambition, his persona? Was it when mum started drinking? Or was it when the affairs started? Or maybe the bout with cancer? Or the second one? Jealousy? Hatred? Suspicion? Suicidal tendencies? Where? Where was the beginning of the end?

Don’t even start. This is not a plea for sympathy. Mum’s still mum. Dad’s still dad. They are just not mum-and-dad anymore. But yeah, somewhere along the way, I discovered I was a separate person. Different. Distinct. Yeah, so the belief system crashed. Everything that laid the foundation was untrue. All the ideas that shaped my life were, to say the least, bullshit. Then I realized they had managed to create a stronger foundation than I gave them credit for. Instead of trudging along with a borrowed system, they had somehow given me the tools to create my own.

Now they are not the people I idolize. They are just the people I love.

Virgin Blog

2006-03-21T13:58:00.000+05:30

I started blogging. Actually, the whole story started when I started reading the damn blogs…from one on to another…one link to another…until I decided these weren’t vella people writing about their lives and trials! This was some serious shit man! With values and opinions ruling the roost…then I come across the Blank Noise Project…and then onwards my fascination began.

First, I was stunned by the sheer size of the blogosphere! The sheer talent, the astounding knowledge of these individuals is crazeeeee! I don’t know which blog it was that actually inspired me into this, but well, now it has happened, and if you chance upon this…your rotten luck…because I’m just not too opinionated or value-oriented (I’ll accept anything you have to say, without shock/judgment)…and I like to talk about myself too!

And then I wrote my first ever post. Published. Then I would log on everyday to just see if someone did post a comment…and wonder of wonders…today someone did…and I’m oh so happy! Thank you, my first reader I’m guessing! Talk about motivation…

One thing more…contrary to what the title, again, leads you to believe…not all my posts will be about sex…(lol)

Why Goddess of Wanton Love

2006-03-11T17:23:00.000+05:30

Yeah, it means cow-adorned pastures…think what you must of it, but it is the name of some ancient Celtic queen, whom apparently no mortal man could satisfy! I chose this name for a number of reasons, which I will now list as the quintessential MBA…in point-format…

Now I am not saying I’m dissatisfied with anything ;-) but then it’s only once in a while that you hear of some female like this. Why is it only a man is applauded for his sexual exploits? A promiscuous man is indulged by society, whereas the promiscuous woman is a slut! Finally I found my answer to Casanova. I will flaunt my being the Goddess of Wanton Love, and be proud of it.

I am fascinated by the subject of sex. As is EVERYONE else. But it is just a coincidence that this allusion to sex is rather direct. This is not just about sex man! I will not, even by mistake, ever be satisfied with anything. I want to live alive. Doesn’t come by being satisfied with what you already have. So if you see it in a figurative sort of manner, I am just someone whose thirst cannot be quenched…and dude I’m so not talking about my pyaasi jawani…

The real name is Achtland. I added the ‘ia’ at the end for a subtle femininity…and for the fondness of a certain vodka…Saturday nights are for partying and partying only…Long Live the Gauls…hic!