(To those of you who really are not paying attention around here, I recently took a month off work and off other productive activities. It was a noble plan but one that refused to stick to the blueprint in my mind)
So are you one of those who think doing nothing is easy? It’s a cakewalk? Maybe you’ve even mentioned to someone that you’d love to live a life where you did absolutely nothing. BIG MISTAKE, my friend. I have just spent a month doing nothing, and I have news for all you do-nothing lovers. A month of nothing amounts to exactly that…nothing. Nothing to show for it, nothing to rejoice, nothing to bitch about, nothing to work towards and nothing to congratulate yourself for. Oh uh, I am sorry, I forgot, oh yes you do get something out of it, you get yourself a big fat ZERO.
The past month has been a death of sorts and a re-birth of an entirely different sort. When I decided to take one month off from work, it was meant to be the start of something monumentous. Okay, maybe to say that it was to be a ‘start’ is a bit optimistic, but at the very least it was meant to be a month’s hiatus from regular work craziness and a welcome to brief but supremely dazzling fun and excitement. I had even defined what the fun and excitement would be (albeit a bit randomly). I would learn something fantastic like jazz piano or karate (I know, I know). I would re-connect with nature…in Mumbai that would mean walks by the sea while listening to Katie Melua melt my heart or Usher making love in the club. I would have exotic cocktails and dinner parties at home, which would include (but not limited to, for all you lawyers out there!) a table set to perfection, music to suit the mood, an eclectic menu and great conversation. I was going to spend the month meditating and focusing on my positive affirmations. I was going to come out of this month a new and improved me, better health, better attitude. I was going to re-connect with old friends. Lunches, dinners, drinks, dancing, plays, drives, agony aunt, psychopathic counselor, I was going to do it all. I was going to read serious books (all those chick flicks could find another fan, I was going to defect over to the dark side). I was going to write. A piece a day…okay…let’s be honest, a piece every two days. Okay, lets’s be really really honest…a piece every five days. And finally, I was going to catch up on my sleep and tv watching. Now, for those of you who think I am being extremely superficial, welcome to the real me. And just for my ego, let me put this into perspective. I have not had a decent night’s sleep for longer than I care to remember (no funny thoughts here, please). And I barely watch a full episode of anything once a month. So no, as far as I am concerned, a full night’s sleep and watching tv are the Rolls Royce of luxury. I would even go as far as to say that I would swap a Swedish massage for these two. Er…actually on second thoughts, there’s no way that would happen, I take it back with immediate effect…the only thing I would put over sleep and senseless tv is a Swedish massage.
But you know what they say about the best laid plans. My plans invariably have a plan of their own. For starters, on the very first day, I re-invented the word ‘lounging’. Which means that I did nothing meaningful. I hung around at home. I was in my pajamas at 11 in the morning, at 4 in the evening, at 8 in the night. A month of finding myself was ahead of me. Sure I could take a day off to do nothing. I could find myself in the remaining 27 days. But as I quickly discovered, lounging is addictive. It’s a slippery slope. Even more so than tobacco, or alcohol or narcotics…it’s free and requires absolutely no application of any kind, mental or physical, no searching for suspicious looking dealers in shady bars, or guilty puffing on the footpath or stocking expensive scotch. No, all you need for this addiction is to keep your body still and turn the switch in your brain to the OFF position and you are all set. And so as with all things addictive, I lounged on day 2 , day 3 and day 4. By day 5, even my ever-ready-to- laze mind began to worry about this no-end-in-sight lounging.
So I finally pulled up my socks (I love the pun) and went for that long walk on Bandstand, right along the sea. The first round of walking was perfect. I looked at the setting sun and sighed with satisfaction – Ah, this is the life, the sea, the fresh air, the exercise, getting all those endorphins flowing, nodding to fellow walkers, timing the walk. Ofcourse, barely 3.5 seconds after this wonderful thought, I felt the first fat raindrop on my nose. It must be my own strange doing that the month I choose to take off to do all these great outdoor things is the wettest month of the year. Now walking in the rain sounds great. It even felt great initially. The first few seconds were so liberating, like as if I was finally taking a chance with life. But as the sweatshirt got drenched and water seeped into the socks, and starting making squeaky sounds, the rain started to fast loses its charm. And five minutes later there was no hope in sight, literally. There were no autorickshaws in sight on a road that is usually swarming with them. The rain was really coming down and I found myself cold and clammy with an entirely inadequate coconut tree for shelter. It rained nonstop for the next eight days. And I watched my walks literally go down the drain. It reiterates why I never ever plan on regular exercise. The plan inevitably gets jinxed….it’s all one big conspiracy to keep me from becoming any fitter / trimmer / any more gorgeous than I already am :-)
And so I decided to stay home and start some of that serious reading – I took the first important step towards that – I went shopping! I stocked myself with The Pleasure Of Finding Things Out, Surely Your Joking, Mr. Fenyman, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, The Tenderness of Wolves, Of Men and Mice, Paradise, Awaken the Giant Within. I stopped myself from picking up any cover with pink on it or with a remotely pleasant script. It was gut wrenching to choose war over psychological thrillers and science over sex, love and rock and roll. For the next few days I was nose deep in words that required a dictionary and thoughts that required a revolution. I am sure I emerged a more mature thinker and a better person somewhere deep down, but the process was not pretty. I loved some of the books and some I could not even finish. The bad ones were worse than watching paint dry but on a positive note, I had found a pretty effective cure for insomnia.
And for the bit that really got my goat: The rain would cause my Direct to Home television connection to go on the blink before the first drop even fell. It was so accurate that I began to wonder why the weather bureau didn’t link up with my tv service provider. My tv was able to predict rain far more accurately than the weatherman! My ultimate ambition of being a couch potato was proving to be far more difficult to achieve than I imagined.
So in the final analysis of things: There was no piano playing (too much work for what was meant to be time off from work). There was no learning something new (there was no way I was getting out into the rain to learn anything). There were no fantastic dinner parties (sure there were plenty of dinner parties, but regular drunken, dumb charade / Uno ones which do not qualify as fantastic). There was very little writing, for writing requires application of the mind and when the mind was as lazy as mine was, the only thing I my hand could produce were doodles of top caliber and I doubt anyone would want to decipher those. Friends who were normally free to hang out at a moment’s notice were completely indisposed that month – pregnancies, death in the family, freelance work, travel, ill health – you name it, they had it. As for the positive affirmations, I wrote exactly one down, it had something to do with being positive and living each moment to the fullest, which the month ended up being anything but. And seeing how everything else was going that month, I decided to not even bother with starting any meditation. I had seriously failed in being able to have serious fun.
But you know what, as the month came to an end, I gratefully embraced real life with both arms. The work and the running around like a headless chicken and the caring for people in my life and the confusion and the chaos and the laughter and the adventures and the craziness that is my life were so worth living for. It’s funny how it took a month of nothing for me to see it.
PS – I am quite sure that there is no word such as ‘nothingness’. I was aiming for the nothing equivalent of emptiness. So there.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Marriage, Mayhem and Mysore
So it was that time again to visit people from the past. Well, not my past exactly but the past of someone close enough to me for me to have by virtue of sheer proximity, imbibed most of his past....I'm not talking about the rowdy been-there-done-that past which includes vast numbers of drunken nights passed out in one's own puke and the days spent shamelessly chasing any skirt in town, yes even the ones who had buck teeth and acne and squint eyes and had the unforgiving task of teaching anatomy to dental school nineteen years olds who acted like fourteen years olds in the throes of puberty. No, I've got plenty of that past myself and don't need anyone elses, thank you. I'm talking about, well, the joyous past of friends and bonding and ...I am quickly reminded here that there isn't much of that goody goody nonsense in his past, but what the hell, I've imbibed the minuscule amount that exists anyway.
While the official agenda involved attending a wedding of an old dental school classmate in Mysore, the unspoken plan was to play hooky away from work, play hooky from most of the wedding, gulp all the free drinks we could manage AND hit 140 on the Bangalore - Mysore highway (er, hopefully the drinking like a fish and the flying too low would not happen on the same day, but in my life I can never be too sure of coincidences like these) . It did occur to me that we were a couple of doctors who doing really well and who were acting like cut throat first year hostelites - following the free food, free drinks and high speed in the invincible way that only broke and hungry students can. Through the course of the next day, someone did mention something about "they can take you out of the hostel but can never take the hostel out of you". Ever notice how the really bad lines are the ones that ring true the most?
So anyway, we're off to Mysore, driving my dad's 2002 Honda City (the one with the nice gentlemanly shape) from Bangalore. We reached Mysore in record time thanks to some great roads and some even better acceleration. We checked into a hotel and started getting ready for the pre-wedding bash. I wore a multicoloured cowl neck top with skinny jeans and shiny high heels. This was an outfit chosen with great care. The cowl neck was to make my neck appear longer, the skinny jeans was to make me appear skinny (bet you didn't guess that!) and the high heels was to add to the glamour quotient. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this was what I thought was acceptable for a pre-wedding bash (not 'function', mind you, but 'bash' which to me and to all those who speak English means non formal, fun, time to let the hair down ). So we show up at the venue which is a large hall, 100 white tube lights, 10,000,000 flying insects and outdoor wash basins with cracked soap. I step out of the car and my stilettos sink into 2 inches of muck. As I struggle to free the heel without dismembering my foot, I look up to see a huge banner draped across the parking lot with blinking red and blue lights, which said with no absolutely ambiguity, in size 72 font letters-
Welcome to the Happy Weeding of Shivkumar and Shailaja.
Your present is presence enough.
We nearly tripped over ourselves with laughter. So much so that it took me a while to realise that I was kind of inappropriately dressed for this 'bash'. There were two kinds of dressers at the pre-'weeding' thing. Type A dressers - those who looked like they were out buying vegetables for dinner - faded white un-tucked shirt, open sandals, sari border 4 inches above the ground, plastic or cloth bag / pouch in hand, talcum powder on the face. Then there were type B dressers - heavy silk saris, gold by the kilo, cravats, jackets, berets. But there were no jeans, no slinky cowl necks and sure as hell there were no cleavages to be seen.
My companion looked at me and grinned gleefully.
You're the official skin show for the night, he laughed, adding: Who would have thought you'd be the designated Pamela Anderson of the evening, he whispered in my ear.
Well, you're no Tommy Lee, I hissed back.
And that took care of that!
But confident as I was, there is nothing more discomforting than being under dressed in the truest sense of the word in a over lit room with a neck line 3 inches lower than anyone other woman's and the only ones to keep me company in that department were the type A dressers, the guys with the untucked shirts who has 2 buttons open from the bottom and 3 buttons open from the top. Infact from what I could gather looking at the vast expanses of their hairy chests, their shirts were being held together by only one loose button in the middle. But in the final analysis, they were men and their chests were far less interesting. I did try briefly to find dark corners to hide in, but the only ones dark enough were right next to the outdoor loos which on closer inspection had no doors, just slightly convoluted entrances. So I did the next best thing. I squared my shoulders, pasted a smile on my face and went in search of alcohol. I came back with rum and warm coke in a plastic glass...it really does not get more hostel-like than this, believe me.
I was introduced to all his old friends. The smart ones who spoke a lot and the quiet ones who looked, looked away, then looked back again, the boisterous ones who back slapped too much, sloshing alcohol all over my toes and the middle aged ones who just plain depressed me. The last ones were the lot that worried me the most. They were my age and yet seemed middle aged in a depressing way. The back was slouched, the waist was ballooning, the pate was balding (no not in a sexy way, but in a way that looked like the head was the focal point for voluminous fungal growth), their colours of life were between cement and muck and their biggest adventure involved travelling to Bangalore for a weekend.
We finally bumped into Aby, close friend, experienced corrupter, he was the one who introduced the bulk of their class to alcohol in their 2nd year and a wearer of loud shirts in every neon colour that exists and a burper of competition calibre.
So how you doing in Bombay eh? he asks. He's on his 11th glass I think (to be fair though, the plastic glasses hold about three sips...)
I'm doing well, I say. Polite conversation is hard when you're swatting flying insects and covering the mouth of your glass so that none fall in. Life's real busy, I add with a 70 mm smile.
Aah ****, he said, spittle flying all over, he then paused to slurp/suck it all back into his mouth before he continued: You guys never come to visit. Gone to Bombay and then you have become too busy, he continues.
He thought for a moment and then said - now poor bugger Shiva, he is married, now he too will disappear, he will get busy, yevery time we will call him, he will say he cannot come, wife is saying no, work in the house, this and that. Poor bugger.
I smile at Aby ranting. He is the unlikely alpha male. He has a thick bushy mustache, a huge stomach, the mouth of a sailor, calls everyone (sorry, yevery one) bugger or you fool, or idiot or f****** depending on his mood and his biggest claim to fame is his favourite statement: I can stand in the middle of the road in Kottayam without a shirt and girls' parents will throw 3 crores at me just like that to marry their daughters, hehe.
Er, to bring a little perspective to this, in no way is he better shirtless, infact his stomach and the folds of skin around it are enough to cause a traffic accident. What he means that even when he behaves badly, he is confident that all Malayali homes are dying to have him for a son-in-law. All I can see is that Aby has been saying this for six years now - there's still no money or girl flying in his direction, or maybe he just has not taken off his shirt as yet :-) But in his defence, he is lovable in an very small quantities! And especially so if you don't mind burps, farts and warts.
The bash which was actually turned out to be a 'function' in disguise ended up being fun. I had gained quite the fan following by the end of it. My partner had gained a lot of envy. The dean of the dental college who was in attendance wanted to talk to me. The bridegroom wanted to talk to me. This was our short conversation:
Him: So how're you liking Mysore.
Me: It's great. So congratulations, you're getting married. (Duh)
Him: Ahhaha yes I am. I came to Bombay once.
Me: Did you like it?
Him: Na, too fast. Cannot enjoy in a place like that. I like it here only.
During the entire conversation, the bridegroom did not look me in the eye. It may not have been intentional though, he was only 5 ft tall in dress shoes.
That's okay, he grinned back. Right now people are mistaking you for Aby's daughter.
Did I mention that my companion and I are best friends with no holds barred....
A big bunch of us went back to our hotel room to finally drink some cold liquor, only to find that there was no electricity and the generator was not working. Aby said a few more f****, bastards, KLPDs, WTFs (Aby was the undisputed king of abusive abbreviations) and we drank some more warm liquor and talked about college days, cheating in the exams, always borrowing money that never got paid back, falling in love, writing love letters that fell in the wrong hands, bunking class, failing exams despite cheating, canteen food and forging the Dean's signature or the parents' signature depending on the situation.
And at 4 am when I thought we had run out of things to talk about, questions about Mumbai started popping up - Isn't it too crowded? Do you make lots of money, you bastards? Are the people unfriendly? Why are the girls so skinny? Don't they know being that skinny does not look nice?
It was so odd how they spoke of Mumbai like it was a universe away, like it was Vietnam or Hawaii or at the least Harlem. An alien land, a foreign country. Something they didn't know and didn't understand and hence didn't like and were loathe to visit.
The next day the wedding went off well. Or atleast I assume it did. We made it for last 30 minutes. The first 2 hours of it were lost in groggy sleep - thanks to the fact that XXX rum had stopped suiting me ten years ago. And then ofcourse, I had to drape a sari. A part of me wanted to show everyone - So what if I had dressed a little adventurously yesterday? I can also carry off Indian nari with equal panache (completely untrue, I cannot even drape a sari properly, it took four tries, but what the hell, whose counting anyway).
We finally showed up in time to wish the couple. I stood with our huge gift in a snaking line that had about 175 people. Thank God we had gotten them a gift and had not thought that our presence would be present enough!!! When we finally got onto the stage, no small feat considering that my heels got caught on the coir floor mat every step of the way and the pleats of the sari were slowly beginning to unravel, we wished the couple, handed over the ever important present, smiled for the camera and then just when I was congratulating myself on how well the morning had gone, I tripped on the stairs down and fell flat at the feet of the ex-girlfriend.
3 days later, I was back in Mumbai. I was back in the city of fast lives and skinny girls. The 'weeding' had been an eye opener of sorts. These are the lessons I learned the hard way:
While the official agenda involved attending a wedding of an old dental school classmate in Mysore, the unspoken plan was to play hooky away from work, play hooky from most of the wedding, gulp all the free drinks we could manage AND hit 140 on the Bangalore - Mysore highway (er, hopefully the drinking like a fish and the flying too low would not happen on the same day, but in my life I can never be too sure of coincidences like these) . It did occur to me that we were a couple of doctors who doing really well and who were acting like cut throat first year hostelites - following the free food, free drinks and high speed in the invincible way that only broke and hungry students can. Through the course of the next day, someone did mention something about "they can take you out of the hostel but can never take the hostel out of you". Ever notice how the really bad lines are the ones that ring true the most?
So anyway, we're off to Mysore, driving my dad's 2002 Honda City (the one with the nice gentlemanly shape) from Bangalore. We reached Mysore in record time thanks to some great roads and some even better acceleration. We checked into a hotel and started getting ready for the pre-wedding bash. I wore a multicoloured cowl neck top with skinny jeans and shiny high heels. This was an outfit chosen with great care. The cowl neck was to make my neck appear longer, the skinny jeans was to make me appear skinny (bet you didn't guess that!) and the high heels was to add to the glamour quotient. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this was what I thought was acceptable for a pre-wedding bash (not 'function', mind you, but 'bash' which to me and to all those who speak English means non formal, fun, time to let the hair down ). So we show up at the venue which is a large hall, 100 white tube lights, 10,000,000 flying insects and outdoor wash basins with cracked soap. I step out of the car and my stilettos sink into 2 inches of muck. As I struggle to free the heel without dismembering my foot, I look up to see a huge banner draped across the parking lot with blinking red and blue lights, which said with no absolutely ambiguity, in size 72 font letters-
Welcome to the Happy Weeding of Shivkumar and Shailaja.
Your present is presence enough.
We nearly tripped over ourselves with laughter. So much so that it took me a while to realise that I was kind of inappropriately dressed for this 'bash'. There were two kinds of dressers at the pre-'weeding' thing. Type A dressers - those who looked like they were out buying vegetables for dinner - faded white un-tucked shirt, open sandals, sari border 4 inches above the ground, plastic or cloth bag / pouch in hand, talcum powder on the face. Then there were type B dressers - heavy silk saris, gold by the kilo, cravats, jackets, berets. But there were no jeans, no slinky cowl necks and sure as hell there were no cleavages to be seen.
My companion looked at me and grinned gleefully.
You're the official skin show for the night, he laughed, adding: Who would have thought you'd be the designated Pamela Anderson of the evening, he whispered in my ear.
Well, you're no Tommy Lee, I hissed back.
And that took care of that!
But confident as I was, there is nothing more discomforting than being under dressed in the truest sense of the word in a over lit room with a neck line 3 inches lower than anyone other woman's and the only ones to keep me company in that department were the type A dressers, the guys with the untucked shirts who has 2 buttons open from the bottom and 3 buttons open from the top. Infact from what I could gather looking at the vast expanses of their hairy chests, their shirts were being held together by only one loose button in the middle. But in the final analysis, they were men and their chests were far less interesting. I did try briefly to find dark corners to hide in, but the only ones dark enough were right next to the outdoor loos which on closer inspection had no doors, just slightly convoluted entrances. So I did the next best thing. I squared my shoulders, pasted a smile on my face and went in search of alcohol. I came back with rum and warm coke in a plastic glass...it really does not get more hostel-like than this, believe me.
I was introduced to all his old friends. The smart ones who spoke a lot and the quiet ones who looked, looked away, then looked back again, the boisterous ones who back slapped too much, sloshing alcohol all over my toes and the middle aged ones who just plain depressed me. The last ones were the lot that worried me the most. They were my age and yet seemed middle aged in a depressing way. The back was slouched, the waist was ballooning, the pate was balding (no not in a sexy way, but in a way that looked like the head was the focal point for voluminous fungal growth), their colours of life were between cement and muck and their biggest adventure involved travelling to Bangalore for a weekend.
We finally bumped into Aby, close friend, experienced corrupter, he was the one who introduced the bulk of their class to alcohol in their 2nd year and a wearer of loud shirts in every neon colour that exists and a burper of competition calibre.
So how you doing in Bombay eh? he asks. He's on his 11th glass I think (to be fair though, the plastic glasses hold about three sips...)
I'm doing well, I say. Polite conversation is hard when you're swatting flying insects and covering the mouth of your glass so that none fall in. Life's real busy, I add with a 70 mm smile.
Aah ****, he said, spittle flying all over, he then paused to slurp/suck it all back into his mouth before he continued: You guys never come to visit. Gone to Bombay and then you have become too busy, he continues.
He thought for a moment and then said - now poor bugger Shiva, he is married, now he too will disappear, he will get busy, yevery time we will call him, he will say he cannot come, wife is saying no, work in the house, this and that. Poor bugger.
I smile at Aby ranting. He is the unlikely alpha male. He has a thick bushy mustache, a huge stomach, the mouth of a sailor, calls everyone (sorry, yevery one) bugger or you fool, or idiot or f****** depending on his mood and his biggest claim to fame is his favourite statement: I can stand in the middle of the road in Kottayam without a shirt and girls' parents will throw 3 crores at me just like that to marry their daughters, hehe.
Er, to bring a little perspective to this, in no way is he better shirtless, infact his stomach and the folds of skin around it are enough to cause a traffic accident. What he means that even when he behaves badly, he is confident that all Malayali homes are dying to have him for a son-in-law. All I can see is that Aby has been saying this for six years now - there's still no money or girl flying in his direction, or maybe he just has not taken off his shirt as yet :-) But in his defence, he is lovable in an very small quantities! And especially so if you don't mind burps, farts and warts.
The bash which was actually turned out to be a 'function' in disguise ended up being fun. I had gained quite the fan following by the end of it. My partner had gained a lot of envy. The dean of the dental college who was in attendance wanted to talk to me. The bridegroom wanted to talk to me. This was our short conversation:
Him: So how're you liking Mysore.
Me: It's great. So congratulations, you're getting married. (Duh)
Him: Ahhaha yes I am. I came to Bombay once.
Me: Did you like it?
Him: Na, too fast. Cannot enjoy in a place like that. I like it here only.
During the entire conversation, the bridegroom did not look me in the eye. It may not have been intentional though, he was only 5 ft tall in dress shoes.
It was then time to get introduced to my companion's ex-girlfriend, a girl who was very pretty in college but who had now metamorphosed into a slightly harassed, matronly looking woman chasing after two kids.
That's okay, he grinned back. Right now people are mistaking you for Aby's daughter.
Did I mention that my companion and I are best friends with no holds barred....
A big bunch of us went back to our hotel room to finally drink some cold liquor, only to find that there was no electricity and the generator was not working. Aby said a few more f****, bastards, KLPDs, WTFs (Aby was the undisputed king of abusive abbreviations) and we drank some more warm liquor and talked about college days, cheating in the exams, always borrowing money that never got paid back, falling in love, writing love letters that fell in the wrong hands, bunking class, failing exams despite cheating, canteen food and forging the Dean's signature or the parents' signature depending on the situation.
And at 4 am when I thought we had run out of things to talk about, questions about Mumbai started popping up - Isn't it too crowded? Do you make lots of money, you bastards? Are the people unfriendly? Why are the girls so skinny? Don't they know being that skinny does not look nice?
It was so odd how they spoke of Mumbai like it was a universe away, like it was Vietnam or Hawaii or at the least Harlem. An alien land, a foreign country. Something they didn't know and didn't understand and hence didn't like and were loathe to visit.
The next day the wedding went off well. Or atleast I assume it did. We made it for last 30 minutes. The first 2 hours of it were lost in groggy sleep - thanks to the fact that XXX rum had stopped suiting me ten years ago. And then ofcourse, I had to drape a sari. A part of me wanted to show everyone - So what if I had dressed a little adventurously yesterday? I can also carry off Indian nari with equal panache (completely untrue, I cannot even drape a sari properly, it took four tries, but what the hell, whose counting anyway).
We finally showed up in time to wish the couple. I stood with our huge gift in a snaking line that had about 175 people. Thank God we had gotten them a gift and had not thought that our presence would be present enough!!! When we finally got onto the stage, no small feat considering that my heels got caught on the coir floor mat every step of the way and the pleats of the sari were slowly beginning to unravel, we wished the couple, handed over the ever important present, smiled for the camera and then just when I was congratulating myself on how well the morning had gone, I tripped on the stairs down and fell flat at the feet of the ex-girlfriend.
3 days later, I was back in Mumbai. I was back in the city of fast lives and skinny girls. The 'weeding' had been an eye opener of sorts. These are the lessons I learned the hard way:
1. When going to a wedding at a new place, dress like you think your mother would. It is better to be safe than sexy.
2. Limit interaction with the exes to the minimum. Grovelling at her feet is NOT becoming.
3. Do not call the Dean of the college by the wrong name. He will not turn a pretty shade of purple.
4. Carry a present no matter what the invitation says. A glittering banner at the venue may inform you otherwise.
5. Do not drink more than 1.5 glasses of XXX rum. If you can manage more than that without getting acquainted with the inside of the toilet bowl, you are a better man than I.
6. Wear a sari blouse that fits. You never know when you may fall and the sari may unravel to reveal a blouse borrowed from a friend who is 2 sizes too small.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Foot-Loose
I saw a pregnant woman walk by
her waddle could make a duck cry
and when she sat right next to me
she did it slowly to the count of three
her face held the knowledge of hidden joy
I could see her wondering - girl or boy?
her feet were swollen, tired and veined
the weight of two had them strained
she stroked her stomach like a lover
the subconscious act of an expecting mother
her breath was laboured, with none to spare
as if the baby was using up half her air
I asked her when she was due
in reply she turned a strange hue of blue
I looked more closely and my mouth opened wide
to reveal my foot that was stuck inside
Monday, September 8, 2008
Earth Calling Mr. Michelangelo
I paint. Colours, canvas, paints, brushes, inspiration, you get it. I'd like to make this very clear - I cannot draw to save my life ( I will eternally regret that nudes are out for me!!!). In second year of dental school, we had to learn dental anatomy in such detail that we were required to draw to perfection every tooth in the mouth. It took a lot of convincing to assure my professor that my initial few drawings of molars were infact actually teeth and not the lopsided stars that they appeared to be. But wonders of wonders, I sure can paint. Not that I do it very often. Inspiration strikes, oh, about once in six months and perspiration shows it's face about once a year. As you can imagine, all of this makes for one very rare painting.
For an artist who does not sell paintings, there are two options. Either you fill your home with your art, or you gift everyone you know a piece of your work and hope that they like it enough to keep it around for a few months before they look at it closely enough to say - what the hell is this painting about anyway or I'm not sure I really like this, or worst of all have them say - cheapskate, giving me one of her own paintings.
Several of my paintings hang at my dental centre and patients and visitors have been very kind in their remarks. However, even the most ardent fan has not offered to buy any of them (and I would sell them at a bargain that undercuts all other bargains). And so you can imagine my utter surprise when a visitor to the my centre took a huge interest in a large green and red painting in the reception area. The painting was done one late slightly inebriated night (well, what can I say, it was a rare moment when both inspiration and perspiration walked hand in hand through the door). The hazy trees and the hazy red poppies were perfect when I saw it in the light of the following morning.
For an artist who does not sell paintings, there are two options. Either you fill your home with your art, or you gift everyone you know a piece of your work and hope that they like it enough to keep it around for a few months before they look at it closely enough to say - what the hell is this painting about anyway or I'm not sure I really like this, or worst of all have them say - cheapskate, giving me one of her own paintings.
Several of my paintings hang at my dental centre and patients and visitors have been very kind in their remarks. However, even the most ardent fan has not offered to buy any of them (and I would sell them at a bargain that undercuts all other bargains). And so you can imagine my utter surprise when a visitor to the my centre took a huge interest in a large green and red painting in the reception area. The painting was done one late slightly inebriated night (well, what can I say, it was a rare moment when both inspiration and perspiration walked hand in hand through the door). The hazy trees and the hazy red poppies were perfect when I saw it in the light of the following morning.
And so, one full year after the painting was done, I was unexpectedly treated to the sight of a very distinguished gentleman viewing it critically. He first walked in front of it for about three minutes, looking at it from different angles. He then stood still right in front of it. He looked at it with his glasses in place. He then took his glasses off and examined it more closely. He then placed the glasses at the tip of his nose and looked at the painting with his nose stuck up in the air (I’d like to believe that the painting looked best when he looked at it in this position!). My receptionist all of a sudden got suspicious of this man who refused to sit, refused to say a word, paced the room like a zombie and gave the painting on the wall strange looks. In all her wisdom, she got up and not too quietly hid the tray of cookies and mints that we keep for patients. She then gave him a look that said – okay pal, now let’s see what you planning on flicking.
Do you know the artist? he asked me, giving me a cursory look.
Kind of, I replied, still not sure of what his game was and hence not wanting to give too much information away. This was all very espionage-like in any case – the dark suit, the two mobiles (one in his hand and another one somewhere else on him. I didn't get to see the second one, I only heard it ring once before he thumped the right side of his jacket and the unseen mobile miraculously went silent), the lack of pleasantries, the looking at the painting as if a secret camera was going to jump out any second. There was some kind of tension in the air that I could not put my finger on.
By this time, he was gently scratching the painting with a manicured finger. I wanted to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but I then thought it was too much of an attack for a painting that I had actually spilled Sprite on just as the paint was drying. Surely if anything, his gently ministrations would serve to only scratch off the sorry bits of dried liquid. And so I let him carry on caressing it.
He then looked at me right in the eye and smiled a very charming smile, which immediately made two things happen. Firstly it made me put my guard up. I don’t know about you but I tend to get suspicious of people who are completely disinterested in me for the longest time and then in the matter of a split second they look at me like I am the centre of their universe! It makes me SUSPICIOUS in capital letters. But on the other hand, I was also relieved. Maybe he was normal after all and not in the business of being a psycho or a spy or several other dubious professions that came to mind.
How can I reach the artist? he asked, now at his charming best.
You’re speaking to her, I answered.
His face registered his surprise. Ha, I thought, let it not be said that I was a woman with no talents.
Have you thought about selling your art? he asked.
Of course I’ve thought about it. If only thoughts could generate actual buyers, I’d be in boom town, I said.
Maybe your thoughts are actually working for you and you just need to be patient enough, he said.
Huh, I think, is he indirectly saying he has a buyer for my hazy painting with fizzy drink impressions on it? Well on the other hand, it really was one of a kind, let this man try and find another like it, just let him try.
He was still looking at me expectantly. And so I asked the question begging to be asked:
Do you have a buyer, er, Mr…., er…, I stammer.
Mr. Kaushik Raj Kumar, he said extending his hand.
I shook it, disappointed that he answered the less important question.
So do you, do you? I asked. After all I didn’t want to show too much eagerness!
I might, he said smugly. I wanted to whack him across his head and kiss him at the same time.
What would you expect to sell this for? he asked.
I named my price. I thought of how much a decent painting that size would cost. I added some more to that amount. I had the good sense to not mention to him that I would have even sold it for 1000 Rs. just so that I could have my painting hanging in someone else’s house.
His eyebrows went up as he heard my price. Too much or too little, I wondered. He said nothing. He took his mobile phone that was in his hand and whispered into it for an indefinite amount of time. I was getting nervous. Should I interrupt him and tell him that I could scale the price down? But I stuck to my guns. I hadn’t sold a painting ever. No reason to sell myself short now. The thought made me laugh. He put the phone down.
My buyer would be interested in this. Infact he would be interested in 10 more paintings. Can you get them done in 3 weeks? he said casually.
3 weeks? Did he see my second painting hand anywhere? If he did could he please tell me where it was!
Let me think about it, I said just as casually, noticing that he had not said anything about the price.
He took some pictures of the painting. We shook on it. And then he was gone. Only, as he walked out the door, he turned around to say that the price was fine.
Too little, I berated myself. But I could not keep the smile off. I was an artist. I wanted to go to my window and scream out - Everyone listen up, I am an ARTIST. And if I had a buyer, I must be darn good.
That evening I sat at home and imagined what it would be like to be a selling artist. I did some research after Mr. Kumar left. Everyone in the know said that it was a very generous price for a painting, let alone one from an unknown artist and an artist who would probably never ever be famous….no, my friends do not mince words! But that also meant that my work was really good.
I sat down at my table, night glass of milk in hand and thought of why I hadn't thought of this before. Why hadn't I thought of making a business of this. Probably because I had never had an offer before, but despite knowing the obvious answer, I still pondered on the point. It made the fact that I had a buyer all the more sweeter. And I did the math. 10 times the amount that I had quoted was an obscenely large amount. I had to pinch myself. Was it really that simple? I suddenly had visions of me as a famous artist - Michelangelo or Da Vinci, spending my days in artistic and torturous ways, people not recognising or understanding my genius until long after I was gone...oh wait...that would not happen...my genius was being recognised right now :-) Maybe all the stars were shining down on me. This was Preeti Shining. Maybe I should buy my first lottery ticket.
I quickly reigned in my thoughts. Oh well, I could take a few evenings off work and paint the ten paintings. Maybe I could even get into a contract to supply more paintings to him. The possibilities were endless. And I was brilliant. And I was a tad bit confused. Why would an unknown buyer who had never seen my work and who had never heard of me, be willing to spend so much for one painting and commission ten more? Was there a catch somewhere in here ? I had never been this lucky. I had never even won a pair of socks, let alone a large payment fora painting. But I reminded myself that this was not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The elusive Mr. Kumar called a few days later. He said he needed to speak to me. I told him to come on over. Anyone helping me fill my coffers and appreciate my talent was more than welcome. He came over bearing a huge file of papers. Probably a file for his chartered accountant, I thought to myself. But as he placed it on the table in front of me, I realised that the file which contained about 200 pages was for me. I know I was hoping for a contract, but this? And in any case what kind of a contract ran into 200 pages? How many pages were required to make me promise not to recreate the same painting twice and to relinquish all claims to the ones that I had sold. Two pages was my guess and perhaps if my lucky stars were still shining, an additional page to say that I would be required to paint 20 exquisite paintings a year for a totally crazy amount (thoughts of making huge amounts of money doing nothing has been an ultimate fantasy). What the balance 197 pages contained was a mystery. And to read 200 pages in the middle of a work day would call for more brilliance than I possessed.
It's just a formality, said suave Mr. Kumar.
What is? I asked.
The paperwork, he said, casually shrugging.
Whats in it? I had to ask, though I really didn't care, it could have been a draft for a romance novel for all I know. What I really cared about was whether he was carrying the amount for my painting. I looked at his suit up and down, checking for what appeared to be a wad of cash (in other words, a bulge!) but could spot none.
He started speaking really quickly - It basically says that the paintings will be unsigned, you will agree to lose all claim to them and you will never talk of this deal or of these paintings or when they were painted or mention any knowledge of them to anyone.
My jaw dropped open. This was the fishy smell I had been getting all along. Someone was going to be taken for a ride with MY paintings. I looked at Mr. Kumar. He looked at me unflinchingly. He was obviously an expert at this. I foolishly wondered if he could see the 'BOZO' written on my forehead with the twenty five light bulbs flashing around it. I was being made a part of a scam and I was being paid a tidy sum of money to keep quiet about it. No lucky stars were shining on me except for the BOZO which must have been shining bright.
I shut the file. No actually, I threw the file in my dustbin. I wish I could squeeze the dumbstruck man in front of me into my dustbin. But it would have been a waste of a good dustbin.
That painting is no longer for sale, I said.
And with that I held the door open and kicked him out of the room. And that was that, I was no longer Michelangelo, I was no longer the to-be-famous artist (more likely I would have ended up the infamous artist) but I was back to being Preeti the accidental artist.
The last I saw of Mr. Kumar, he had sneaked back into my consultation room and was rummaging through the dustbin for missing page number 122 of the shady contract. I let him grovel like that, looking really silly with his butt stuck up in the air while I had the last laugh.
Do you know the artist? he asked me, giving me a cursory look.
Kind of, I replied, still not sure of what his game was and hence not wanting to give too much information away. This was all very espionage-like in any case – the dark suit, the two mobiles (one in his hand and another one somewhere else on him. I didn't get to see the second one, I only heard it ring once before he thumped the right side of his jacket and the unseen mobile miraculously went silent), the lack of pleasantries, the looking at the painting as if a secret camera was going to jump out any second. There was some kind of tension in the air that I could not put my finger on.
By this time, he was gently scratching the painting with a manicured finger. I wanted to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but I then thought it was too much of an attack for a painting that I had actually spilled Sprite on just as the paint was drying. Surely if anything, his gently ministrations would serve to only scratch off the sorry bits of dried liquid. And so I let him carry on caressing it.
He then looked at me right in the eye and smiled a very charming smile, which immediately made two things happen. Firstly it made me put my guard up. I don’t know about you but I tend to get suspicious of people who are completely disinterested in me for the longest time and then in the matter of a split second they look at me like I am the centre of their universe! It makes me SUSPICIOUS in capital letters. But on the other hand, I was also relieved. Maybe he was normal after all and not in the business of being a psycho or a spy or several other dubious professions that came to mind.
How can I reach the artist? he asked, now at his charming best.
You’re speaking to her, I answered.
His face registered his surprise. Ha, I thought, let it not be said that I was a woman with no talents.
Have you thought about selling your art? he asked.
Of course I’ve thought about it. If only thoughts could generate actual buyers, I’d be in boom town, I said.
Maybe your thoughts are actually working for you and you just need to be patient enough, he said.
Huh, I think, is he indirectly saying he has a buyer for my hazy painting with fizzy drink impressions on it? Well on the other hand, it really was one of a kind, let this man try and find another like it, just let him try.
He was still looking at me expectantly. And so I asked the question begging to be asked:
Do you have a buyer, er, Mr…., er…, I stammer.
Mr. Kaushik Raj Kumar, he said extending his hand.
I shook it, disappointed that he answered the less important question.
So do you, do you? I asked. After all I didn’t want to show too much eagerness!
I might, he said smugly. I wanted to whack him across his head and kiss him at the same time.
What would you expect to sell this for? he asked.
I named my price. I thought of how much a decent painting that size would cost. I added some more to that amount. I had the good sense to not mention to him that I would have even sold it for 1000 Rs. just so that I could have my painting hanging in someone else’s house.
His eyebrows went up as he heard my price. Too much or too little, I wondered. He said nothing. He took his mobile phone that was in his hand and whispered into it for an indefinite amount of time. I was getting nervous. Should I interrupt him and tell him that I could scale the price down? But I stuck to my guns. I hadn’t sold a painting ever. No reason to sell myself short now. The thought made me laugh. He put the phone down.
My buyer would be interested in this. Infact he would be interested in 10 more paintings. Can you get them done in 3 weeks? he said casually.
3 weeks? Did he see my second painting hand anywhere? If he did could he please tell me where it was!
Let me think about it, I said just as casually, noticing that he had not said anything about the price.
He took some pictures of the painting. We shook on it. And then he was gone. Only, as he walked out the door, he turned around to say that the price was fine.
Too little, I berated myself. But I could not keep the smile off. I was an artist. I wanted to go to my window and scream out - Everyone listen up, I am an ARTIST. And if I had a buyer, I must be darn good.
That evening I sat at home and imagined what it would be like to be a selling artist. I did some research after Mr. Kumar left. Everyone in the know said that it was a very generous price for a painting, let alone one from an unknown artist and an artist who would probably never ever be famous….no, my friends do not mince words! But that also meant that my work was really good.
I sat down at my table, night glass of milk in hand and thought of why I hadn't thought of this before. Why hadn't I thought of making a business of this. Probably because I had never had an offer before, but despite knowing the obvious answer, I still pondered on the point. It made the fact that I had a buyer all the more sweeter. And I did the math. 10 times the amount that I had quoted was an obscenely large amount. I had to pinch myself. Was it really that simple? I suddenly had visions of me as a famous artist - Michelangelo or Da Vinci, spending my days in artistic and torturous ways, people not recognising or understanding my genius until long after I was gone...oh wait...that would not happen...my genius was being recognised right now :-) Maybe all the stars were shining down on me. This was Preeti Shining. Maybe I should buy my first lottery ticket.
I quickly reigned in my thoughts. Oh well, I could take a few evenings off work and paint the ten paintings. Maybe I could even get into a contract to supply more paintings to him. The possibilities were endless. And I was brilliant. And I was a tad bit confused. Why would an unknown buyer who had never seen my work and who had never heard of me, be willing to spend so much for one painting and commission ten more? Was there a catch somewhere in here ? I had never been this lucky. I had never even won a pair of socks, let alone a large payment fora painting. But I reminded myself that this was not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The elusive Mr. Kumar called a few days later. He said he needed to speak to me. I told him to come on over. Anyone helping me fill my coffers and appreciate my talent was more than welcome. He came over bearing a huge file of papers. Probably a file for his chartered accountant, I thought to myself. But as he placed it on the table in front of me, I realised that the file which contained about 200 pages was for me. I know I was hoping for a contract, but this? And in any case what kind of a contract ran into 200 pages? How many pages were required to make me promise not to recreate the same painting twice and to relinquish all claims to the ones that I had sold. Two pages was my guess and perhaps if my lucky stars were still shining, an additional page to say that I would be required to paint 20 exquisite paintings a year for a totally crazy amount (thoughts of making huge amounts of money doing nothing has been an ultimate fantasy). What the balance 197 pages contained was a mystery. And to read 200 pages in the middle of a work day would call for more brilliance than I possessed.
It's just a formality, said suave Mr. Kumar.
What is? I asked.
The paperwork, he said, casually shrugging.
Whats in it? I had to ask, though I really didn't care, it could have been a draft for a romance novel for all I know. What I really cared about was whether he was carrying the amount for my painting. I looked at his suit up and down, checking for what appeared to be a wad of cash (in other words, a bulge!) but could spot none.
He started speaking really quickly - It basically says that the paintings will be unsigned, you will agree to lose all claim to them and you will never talk of this deal or of these paintings or when they were painted or mention any knowledge of them to anyone.
My jaw dropped open. This was the fishy smell I had been getting all along. Someone was going to be taken for a ride with MY paintings. I looked at Mr. Kumar. He looked at me unflinchingly. He was obviously an expert at this. I foolishly wondered if he could see the 'BOZO' written on my forehead with the twenty five light bulbs flashing around it. I was being made a part of a scam and I was being paid a tidy sum of money to keep quiet about it. No lucky stars were shining on me except for the BOZO which must have been shining bright.
I shut the file. No actually, I threw the file in my dustbin. I wish I could squeeze the dumbstruck man in front of me into my dustbin. But it would have been a waste of a good dustbin.
That painting is no longer for sale, I said.
And with that I held the door open and kicked him out of the room. And that was that, I was no longer Michelangelo, I was no longer the to-be-famous artist (more likely I would have ended up the infamous artist) but I was back to being Preeti the accidental artist.
The last I saw of Mr. Kumar, he had sneaked back into my consultation room and was rummaging through the dustbin for missing page number 122 of the shady contract. I let him grovel like that, looking really silly with his butt stuck up in the air while I had the last laugh.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
29 hours and counting
The past month has been a writer's disaster. Between vocabulary challenges, grammatical confusions and subjects that are either too riske to write about or just flat too boring, August has not been one to put down on paper (or screen). Mind space has been occupied with more pressing problems like how to throw a sudden dinner party for 18 when I have crockery only for 12 and how to fall asleep at eight in the evening and sleep right through an evening of my life without waking up to regret it the next day. Like I said...pressing problems!
Every time I sat down to write, there were forces beyond my self that would force me to stop.
- The doorbell at midnight (all very exciting, friends from an ad agency dropping in to talk life strategies and fight about ethics and gossip about whose seeing whom and whose cheating on whom and whose flirting with the boss). I readily exchanged a chance to write for a chance to sit with 6 very interesting, very smart, very funny and slightly drunk friends.
- A phone call from an ex boyfriend who had completely vanished from my world only to re-surface, strangely enough, as I was trying to write. Ofcourse I had to take the call and ofcourse we spoke for 3 hours, and it goes without saying that I had to reminence and mull and snort over several things in the hours after the call, all of which effectively spelled death for my article which was oh, about fifteen words at that time.
- The arrival of my next patient. I am testimony to the fact that it is a lousy idea to try and sqeeze some writing between patients. Sometimes I barely get in five thoughts and one word before my receptionist comes in to say the four o'clock is here. Besides thoughts do tend to get a little confused in my head. I found myself sometimes thinking of root canals while writing articles and thinking of article topics (er, think - funny, shoes, clothes, poetry, boys) while elbow deep in a mouth...it was a bad bad idea.
- The urge to move and fidget and do something physical even if it meant twiddling my thumbs. For a person who can sit still for hours on end (book, movie, sleep, faking exhaustion!), I have named last month Angsty August. My body was in some kind of unknown angst. I was fidgety, it was impossible to keep hands and legs still. If my body couldn't keep still, my mind was even more unfocussed. Thoughts would enter my head and fly out at 300 miles / hour. I was craving fresh air, I wanted to be outdoors, I wanted music pumping in my ears and I wanted to walk, or rock climb, or dive from a really high rock in a really blue sea. I wanted adrenalin and I wanted it now. Most importantly, I wanted to not have to think.
It was a conspiracy. I was not meant to plan. I was not meant to control. I was not meant to try too hard. Everything about last month was about not doing what you think you should be doing, but just going with the flow. It was about making 24 hours feel like an eternity and not the other way around.
Now that Angsty August has gone, I am back to what I do best - planning and dreaming. If I could plan one perfect day just for me, this would be it:
9 hours of sleep
5 hours of work
2 hours of reading
2 hours of writing
2 hours of walking
2 hours of movie watching
3 hours of eating (now you know my weakness, I like long relaxed meals and eating out)
2 hours of learning something
2 hours of friends (extendable to 8 hours if necessary)
That is 29 hours and counting...and it sounds just about right.
Every time I sat down to write, there were forces beyond my self that would force me to stop.
- The doorbell at midnight (all very exciting, friends from an ad agency dropping in to talk life strategies and fight about ethics and gossip about whose seeing whom and whose cheating on whom and whose flirting with the boss). I readily exchanged a chance to write for a chance to sit with 6 very interesting, very smart, very funny and slightly drunk friends.
- A phone call from an ex boyfriend who had completely vanished from my world only to re-surface, strangely enough, as I was trying to write. Ofcourse I had to take the call and ofcourse we spoke for 3 hours, and it goes without saying that I had to reminence and mull and snort over several things in the hours after the call, all of which effectively spelled death for my article which was oh, about fifteen words at that time.
- The arrival of my next patient. I am testimony to the fact that it is a lousy idea to try and sqeeze some writing between patients. Sometimes I barely get in five thoughts and one word before my receptionist comes in to say the four o'clock is here. Besides thoughts do tend to get a little confused in my head. I found myself sometimes thinking of root canals while writing articles and thinking of article topics (er, think - funny, shoes, clothes, poetry, boys) while elbow deep in a mouth...it was a bad bad idea.
- The urge to move and fidget and do something physical even if it meant twiddling my thumbs. For a person who can sit still for hours on end (book, movie, sleep, faking exhaustion!), I have named last month Angsty August. My body was in some kind of unknown angst. I was fidgety, it was impossible to keep hands and legs still. If my body couldn't keep still, my mind was even more unfocussed. Thoughts would enter my head and fly out at 300 miles / hour. I was craving fresh air, I wanted to be outdoors, I wanted music pumping in my ears and I wanted to walk, or rock climb, or dive from a really high rock in a really blue sea. I wanted adrenalin and I wanted it now. Most importantly, I wanted to not have to think.
It was a conspiracy. I was not meant to plan. I was not meant to control. I was not meant to try too hard. Everything about last month was about not doing what you think you should be doing, but just going with the flow. It was about making 24 hours feel like an eternity and not the other way around.
Now that Angsty August has gone, I am back to what I do best - planning and dreaming. If I could plan one perfect day just for me, this would be it:
9 hours of sleep
5 hours of work
2 hours of reading
2 hours of writing
2 hours of walking
2 hours of movie watching
3 hours of eating (now you know my weakness, I like long relaxed meals and eating out)
2 hours of learning something
2 hours of friends (extendable to 8 hours if necessary)
That is 29 hours and counting...and it sounds just about right.
Monday, August 18, 2008
It Happened One Evening At A Coffee Shop
I admit it. I am one of those people. I am one of those people who adores coffee shops. My love affair with these cozy little spaces which smell of warm coffee and harbour romance and writers and dreamers, spans a timeframe that can rival my love for books or my obsession for doing strange and mostly unattractive things to my hair. One of my favourite things to do is to find a cozy corner, get settled in and then lose time and myself in a book. Just the thought of this relaxes me. The actual event itself, the right coffee shop with the right mood with just the right combination of coffee bean aroma juxtaposed with just the perfect view (and in a perfect world, just the right smattering of intelligence and good looks within these glass enclosed walls), is unadulterated nirvana. And the funny thing is that I actually do not drink much tea or coffee at home. People close to me have correctly stated that i only drink coffee if I have to pay upwards of Rs. 75 for it!
Did you say something, I asked him with an expression of mild curiosity on my face (all faked, I was actually terribly curious. Maybe he was going to tell me I dropped my wallet).
The two women sitting in front of me were all of a sudden taking interest in what was transpiring here. So embarrasing for a insanely private person like me.
Can I see the book, he said. I gave him the book and looked away, just a little irritated. I mean couldn't he tell that my sole intention in sitting here was to read and what was the point if someone was going to borrow the book for a while, and leave me to ineffectively twiddle my thumbs. So I did the next best thing one does when one has nothing to do. I started messaging my friend to see if she was running on time. He held on to the book long enough for me to suspect that he was actually reading the back cover and the first chapter. It was either that or that he had pocketed the book and left the scene of the crime. But when I looked back at him, he was miraculously still there, still reading with a slight smile on his face (doctored, I suspect).
So who do you think lies more, men or women - he asks. I am blown away. For one, the question perfectly pertains to the book and how the hell had he figured it out by reading just the back cover. For two, what a brilliantly open ended question. He had already guaranteed himself an hour of conversation. Much as I tried to resist the temptation to answer, I could already see the words forming in my mind.
I think men lie more, I said. I refused to elaborate since I was still trying to not have this conversation.
I think women lie more, they just do it better, he said all the while smiling at me with those gorgeous gorgeous teeth.
So how's the book, he asked. Now I have never seen such empathy and eloquence in ones eyes when enquiring about a book. It was more appropriate for perhaps a question like - will he live?
And as I proceeded to talk about the book, he proceeded to move over to my table, much to my surprise and much to the entertainment of the two women behind me who had given up all pretense of having a conversation in favour of staring owl eyed at us. I'm guessing action in front of their eyes sure beat gossip behind someone else's back.
This, I told myself, was to make up for the fact that no one ever came up to me otherwise. Some force greater than myself was ensuring that I was now getting it in double doses.
So what do you do, he asked me.
I am a dentist, I said suddenly conscious that he'd wonder what kind of a dentist I was if I was sitting at a coffee shop at 6:30 in the evening. The lucky kind, I decided.
Oh great, he said, I need help with my teeth. Again he flashed me that perfect smile.
I seriously doubt it, I said grinning back.
We spoke about all the things people talk about when they first meet. Music, hobbies, friends, food. My book was long forgotten, which was so shocking to me since I usually open the book even before I sit. But I had forgotten that the one thing I liked even more than a great book is a fun conversation.
We discussed clubs. He told me that every time he went to a popular club he had the Chinese Box there.
What is that? Is that a game? I asked him, to which he laughed and laughed and joyfully patted my hand like I was the most endearing thing he had seen in a long time.
It's a platter that has all kinds of Chinese food on it, he educated me. He was learning more things about me than most people knew. For example he now knew that I had no taste for fine dining.
And we talked some more and laughed a lot. The two women behind us were staring at us with huge smiles as if they had personally played a role in boy meets girl. I looked at them and felt a little foolish. It was so obvious that he was flirting for all he was worth, in front of ten filled tables, approximately thirty curious people, without a care in the world. Why wasn't I telling him to bugger off? To be honest, I was more busy waiting for him to ask if I had someone special, just so that I could see his reaction when I told him I was married and had a child who had thrown up on me that morning. Or maybe I would fabricate twins. I was dying to see how he would extricate himself from a hopeless situation. Would he slink back to his table, tail between his legs? Would he get up and leave? Or would he change tracks and stop flirting so charmingly? But no, we spoke of everything but THAT.
A large chunk of our conversation revolved around him guessing my age. He started from 20, God bless him. I did give him a huge hint by telling him I was almost old enough to be his mother (did I ever tell you he looked young? Polished and well spoken and young. Could not have been more than 24 even if I added a few years to his age). He grinned back and said his mother was most definitely not 25. He added all the many years of my professional education (8) and then looked confused because that would make me much older than what he thought. I had half a mind to put him out of his misery, but this was way too much fun.
He asked for my number.
For your teeth? I asked him
Ofcourse. Whatever did you think, he grinned back.
And just like that I gave him my number. To all of you who think that it is really foolish of me to give out my number, I am DOCTOR, you people!. Everyone and their mothers have my number. Complete strangers have my number. About 200 dental companies have my number. My business board has my number. My website has my number. One more person would hardly make a difference. And so I gave him my business card with name, address, number, email and website, as I have to so many hundreds of people. I could see victory in the two women's eyes - Guy got Girl - they were thinking. Hardly, I wanted to tell them. It was more - Guy got Dentist's Number. Or Dentist got Patient, if he was really persistent and I was really lucky!!
He paid for my coffee. I tried to stop him but it seemed to involve too much of touching his arm and hand and torso and was only going to give him more pleasure than I wanted to. And so I did what the very rich do. I graciously allowed him to pay. I was only wishing I had had the foresight to order the special coffee with the hazelnuts and icecream. He said I could pay next time. I told him there would be no next time. He still paid (would have been rather awkward for him to wriggle out now). And then walked me to an auto outside. The two women probably though we were leaving together and I could literally see them judging the youth of today while secretly giving me the thumbs up.
As I walked into the restaurant where I was to meet my friend ten minutes later, I got a message from him.
'You are the sweetest thing ever'
Wow, with a line like that I now know for sure that he was probably not a day over 18! But hey, it's not everyday that I get to be called 'the sweetest thing'. And that is ageless. And so much fun.
And thus a cool evening not too long time ago, I was cocooned in my neighbourhood coffee shop, completely immersed in a great book, The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver. I was supposed to meet a friend at 7 :30 for drinks and dinner and had thus discarded my regular uniform of a pair of jeans and a top, for a slightly more jazzed up fashionable...well...pair of jeans and a shiny slinky top. I was looking forward to some time alone before what promised to be a long, loud and fun filled evening. I seated myself, smiled at the two women at the table in front of me and opened my book. A few moments later, a guy walked in. In a coffee shop with eight empty tables, how was it that he found it fit to come and sit at a table 5 inches from where I was. Darn. But I thought nothing more of him until three minutes later when he leaned over to my table and asked me a question. I looked up rather blankly, to see a pair of huge brown eyes, a close buzz cut and a delicate face with a very very nice smile (this dentist approved of it at any rate). Now let me state just for the record, I have sat alone in coffee shops all over the world, China, US, UK, Thailand, and yet have actually had very few guys try to start a conversation with me, and no I am not talking about the gay guys who flirt with me as a cover when they come in with their mothers or the geriatrics who need help with their trays and who then thank me by telling me all about their grandchildren. But very rarely (I can count the instances on one hand...er...actually on 4 fingers) has someone spoken to me without asking me to pick up their paper napkin or if the chair next to me is available or something equally as unexciting.
Did you say something, I asked him with an expression of mild curiosity on my face (all faked, I was actually terribly curious. Maybe he was going to tell me I dropped my wallet).
The two women sitting in front of me were all of a sudden taking interest in what was transpiring here. So embarrasing for a insanely private person like me.
Can I see the book, he said. I gave him the book and looked away, just a little irritated. I mean couldn't he tell that my sole intention in sitting here was to read and what was the point if someone was going to borrow the book for a while, and leave me to ineffectively twiddle my thumbs. So I did the next best thing one does when one has nothing to do. I started messaging my friend to see if she was running on time. He held on to the book long enough for me to suspect that he was actually reading the back cover and the first chapter. It was either that or that he had pocketed the book and left the scene of the crime. But when I looked back at him, he was miraculously still there, still reading with a slight smile on his face (doctored, I suspect).
So who do you think lies more, men or women - he asks. I am blown away. For one, the question perfectly pertains to the book and how the hell had he figured it out by reading just the back cover. For two, what a brilliantly open ended question. He had already guaranteed himself an hour of conversation. Much as I tried to resist the temptation to answer, I could already see the words forming in my mind.
I think men lie more, I said. I refused to elaborate since I was still trying to not have this conversation.
I think women lie more, they just do it better, he said all the while smiling at me with those gorgeous gorgeous teeth.
So how's the book, he asked. Now I have never seen such empathy and eloquence in ones eyes when enquiring about a book. It was more appropriate for perhaps a question like - will he live?
And as I proceeded to talk about the book, he proceeded to move over to my table, much to my surprise and much to the entertainment of the two women behind me who had given up all pretense of having a conversation in favour of staring owl eyed at us. I'm guessing action in front of their eyes sure beat gossip behind someone else's back.
This, I told myself, was to make up for the fact that no one ever came up to me otherwise. Some force greater than myself was ensuring that I was now getting it in double doses.
So what do you do, he asked me.
I am a dentist, I said suddenly conscious that he'd wonder what kind of a dentist I was if I was sitting at a coffee shop at 6:30 in the evening. The lucky kind, I decided.
Oh great, he said, I need help with my teeth. Again he flashed me that perfect smile.
I seriously doubt it, I said grinning back.
We spoke about all the things people talk about when they first meet. Music, hobbies, friends, food. My book was long forgotten, which was so shocking to me since I usually open the book even before I sit. But I had forgotten that the one thing I liked even more than a great book is a fun conversation.
We discussed clubs. He told me that every time he went to a popular club he had the Chinese Box there.
What is that? Is that a game? I asked him, to which he laughed and laughed and joyfully patted my hand like I was the most endearing thing he had seen in a long time.
It's a platter that has all kinds of Chinese food on it, he educated me. He was learning more things about me than most people knew. For example he now knew that I had no taste for fine dining.
And we talked some more and laughed a lot. The two women behind us were staring at us with huge smiles as if they had personally played a role in boy meets girl. I looked at them and felt a little foolish. It was so obvious that he was flirting for all he was worth, in front of ten filled tables, approximately thirty curious people, without a care in the world. Why wasn't I telling him to bugger off? To be honest, I was more busy waiting for him to ask if I had someone special, just so that I could see his reaction when I told him I was married and had a child who had thrown up on me that morning. Or maybe I would fabricate twins. I was dying to see how he would extricate himself from a hopeless situation. Would he slink back to his table, tail between his legs? Would he get up and leave? Or would he change tracks and stop flirting so charmingly? But no, we spoke of everything but THAT.
A large chunk of our conversation revolved around him guessing my age. He started from 20, God bless him. I did give him a huge hint by telling him I was almost old enough to be his mother (did I ever tell you he looked young? Polished and well spoken and young. Could not have been more than 24 even if I added a few years to his age). He grinned back and said his mother was most definitely not 25. He added all the many years of my professional education (8) and then looked confused because that would make me much older than what he thought. I had half a mind to put him out of his misery, but this was way too much fun.
He asked for my number.
For your teeth? I asked him
Ofcourse. Whatever did you think, he grinned back.
And just like that I gave him my number. To all of you who think that it is really foolish of me to give out my number, I am DOCTOR, you people!. Everyone and their mothers have my number. Complete strangers have my number. About 200 dental companies have my number. My business board has my number. My website has my number. One more person would hardly make a difference. And so I gave him my business card with name, address, number, email and website, as I have to so many hundreds of people. I could see victory in the two women's eyes - Guy got Girl - they were thinking. Hardly, I wanted to tell them. It was more - Guy got Dentist's Number. Or Dentist got Patient, if he was really persistent and I was really lucky!!
He paid for my coffee. I tried to stop him but it seemed to involve too much of touching his arm and hand and torso and was only going to give him more pleasure than I wanted to. And so I did what the very rich do. I graciously allowed him to pay. I was only wishing I had had the foresight to order the special coffee with the hazelnuts and icecream. He said I could pay next time. I told him there would be no next time. He still paid (would have been rather awkward for him to wriggle out now). And then walked me to an auto outside. The two women probably though we were leaving together and I could literally see them judging the youth of today while secretly giving me the thumbs up.
As I walked into the restaurant where I was to meet my friend ten minutes later, I got a message from him.
'You are the sweetest thing ever'
Wow, with a line like that I now know for sure that he was probably not a day over 18! But hey, it's not everyday that I get to be called 'the sweetest thing'. And that is ageless. And so much fun.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Flush-Wordy
Some days there's a whole lot to say
And words trip over each other
Erupting out in a gush
Other days like today
Words are silent with decay
Like water stuck in an ancient rusted flush
And words trip over each other
Erupting out in a gush
Other days like today
Words are silent with decay
Like water stuck in an ancient rusted flush
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Doctor, My Pain Has Subsidized And Other Tales From The Chair. Vol 2
Dentistry is no laughing matter. Coming to the dentist is often a sombre occasion - there's nothing funny to be found in between a root canal and 3-inch thick tartar, no matter how deep you dig. It's all serious business of pain relief, more efficient chewing, better smiles and greater confidence (well there you have it, my 25 second elevator speech on how I help humanity. How many of you can say the same, ha? ha?? Let's not get into a discussion right now on how many of you actually WANT to say these things, especially the chewing part.... ). But if you think that dentistry makes for a boring day, I am happy to report that the biggest laughs and faux paus come from the patients themselves...in house entertainment to rival any prime time sitcom. Let me clarify, it's not that I laugh at patients, but what can I do when Mrs. Vaswani tells me that her pain has subsidized! I look at her in earnest and want to ask her how much her pain costs now with the subsidy.
Sometime the fun is in the topic of discussion. For example I spend about thirty minutes explaining to Mr. Reston that teeth move. And for most of that time, he looks at me strangely, a little doubtfully. I can see him wondering if the dentist has been drinking.
I explain to him that the teeth do not develop legs and start walking. Teeth drift. They drift very slowly. But drifting is moving.
He summarises - So what you're saying is that some day soon my teeth will 'drift' into my gullet or glide into my palate. What a load of bullock.
I look at his red face flushed with the beginning of anger, his stubborn tone, his hair standing on edge and I do the only thing that a self respecting doctor can do when faced with an excessively argumentative patient - I change the topic and ask him if his bad breath problem is solved.
Or take for instance the matter of repairing a broken tooth. Sometimes teeth break in such a way that they cannot be repaired. And the last time I looked, a dentist was not God. Abhay is one of my favourite patients. He's relaxed on the chair (he falls asleep during treatment on a regular basis), he trusts my treatment and judgement and this helps me treat him to the best of my capabilities. Yet, early Monday morning he walks in carefully cradling I piece of tissue in his palm. I know of his long term relationship with a girl and for a second think that he is going to show me some jewellery that he has bought for her. At the back of my mind, a small voice is asking why he would be carrying said piece of jewellery in a tissue in his palm. He unveils the tissue to expose a crown of the non-jewelled kind.
The top of my tooth just cracked off, he says.
I look at it and yes, he has in his hand the entire crown of his molar. I peek into his mouth and see just an empty space where the molar should be. An xray reveals a tooth broken beyond hope. And yet, Abhay is as hopeful as ever.
We can stick it back right, he asks
No we cant, I say.
Can't we just glue it back on, he says. And then for my benefit he adds - Superglue? Fevikwik?? Fevicol??? Kwikfix???? I wonder at his familiarity with various glue materials.
This is not a cocktail stirrer. It cannot be 'glued' back, I say.
How about if we keep it in place with a rubber band which bands it to the next tooth, he asks.
Wont work, I tell him honestly.
Ok, he says, what about if we drill a hole in the root and screwed this top back onto the root, he asks.
It's not like a screw on your washing machine fell off, I tell him, feeling the need to put things into perspective.
But perseverance is Abhay's middle name.
The last thing he said to me before we both burst out laughing is - Lets take the root out too. Then we can weld the crown back to the root and it can be placed right back into my gum.
I do know this - if I ever decide to do research in how to fix a badly broken tooth, Abhay is the first person I'll call.
And sometimes you just cannot help but laugh at the silliness. Arjun is a well known model and has been a patient for the past several months. We're just about to start his treatment when his phone rings. He picks it up and tells the person on the line - I can't talk now. I am in the middle of a shoot!!
A dentist has a tough job. We occasionally have to deal with paranoid partners, as in the case of Nikhil and his girlfriend. Nikhil is getting a smile makeover. It involves veneers, crowns, teeth whitening and many hours on my chair. After the third day of treatment, he tells me that his girlfriend is getting mad at him because he seems to be spending so much time with me.
As if on cue, his girlfriend (whom I have never met before) barges into my operating room and says - Anytime I ask him where he is, he says he's at the dentist.
I look at her benevolently and start to explain how this is a long procedure with no short cuts, but she is on a roll and I cannot get a word in edgewise. When I stop talking, I realise that she is saying - He's with you at nine in the morning, at two in the afternoon, at eleven in the night.
I tell her, he maybe with me at nine in the morning and at two in the afternoon, but I have no idea who he is with at eleven in the night and it sure as hell aint me.
Nikhil responds intelligently by burying his face into his hands....
Most recently, it was Mr Lall who was getting a root canal done. I had placed a temporary filling in his tooth (the temporary filling is a bit rubbery). He calls me later to say that the 'bubblegum' that I had placed in his mouth was getting loose and should be take it out and throw it or could he chew on it for a while!!!
I rest my case.
Happy smiling everyone.
Sometime the fun is in the topic of discussion. For example I spend about thirty minutes explaining to Mr. Reston that teeth move. And for most of that time, he looks at me strangely, a little doubtfully. I can see him wondering if the dentist has been drinking.
What do you mean, he say for the fifth time, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
I try to look as professional as possible as I say this - Well if there is an empty space near a tooth, it will tend to move into that space. Or if I shape a tooth for a crown and the crown is not fixed in time, the tooth can move in any direction and the crown will no longer fit.
He looks increasingly uncomfortable with this information and says, you tellin' me my teeth are moving? Will I'm tellin' you that they're not.I explain to him that the teeth do not develop legs and start walking. Teeth drift. They drift very slowly. But drifting is moving.
He summarises - So what you're saying is that some day soon my teeth will 'drift' into my gullet or glide into my palate. What a load of bullock.
I look at his red face flushed with the beginning of anger, his stubborn tone, his hair standing on edge and I do the only thing that a self respecting doctor can do when faced with an excessively argumentative patient - I change the topic and ask him if his bad breath problem is solved.
Or take for instance the matter of repairing a broken tooth. Sometimes teeth break in such a way that they cannot be repaired. And the last time I looked, a dentist was not God. Abhay is one of my favourite patients. He's relaxed on the chair (he falls asleep during treatment on a regular basis), he trusts my treatment and judgement and this helps me treat him to the best of my capabilities. Yet, early Monday morning he walks in carefully cradling I piece of tissue in his palm. I know of his long term relationship with a girl and for a second think that he is going to show me some jewellery that he has bought for her. At the back of my mind, a small voice is asking why he would be carrying said piece of jewellery in a tissue in his palm. He unveils the tissue to expose a crown of the non-jewelled kind.
The top of my tooth just cracked off, he says.
I look at it and yes, he has in his hand the entire crown of his molar. I peek into his mouth and see just an empty space where the molar should be. An xray reveals a tooth broken beyond hope. And yet, Abhay is as hopeful as ever.
We can stick it back right, he asks
No we cant, I say.
Can't we just glue it back on, he says. And then for my benefit he adds - Superglue? Fevikwik?? Fevicol??? Kwikfix???? I wonder at his familiarity with various glue materials.
This is not a cocktail stirrer. It cannot be 'glued' back, I say.
How about if we keep it in place with a rubber band which bands it to the next tooth, he asks.
Wont work, I tell him honestly.
Ok, he says, what about if we drill a hole in the root and screwed this top back onto the root, he asks.
It's not like a screw on your washing machine fell off, I tell him, feeling the need to put things into perspective.
But perseverance is Abhay's middle name.
The last thing he said to me before we both burst out laughing is - Lets take the root out too. Then we can weld the crown back to the root and it can be placed right back into my gum.
I do know this - if I ever decide to do research in how to fix a badly broken tooth, Abhay is the first person I'll call.
And sometimes you just cannot help but laugh at the silliness. Arjun is a well known model and has been a patient for the past several months. We're just about to start his treatment when his phone rings. He picks it up and tells the person on the line - I can't talk now. I am in the middle of a shoot!!
A dentist has a tough job. We occasionally have to deal with paranoid partners, as in the case of Nikhil and his girlfriend. Nikhil is getting a smile makeover. It involves veneers, crowns, teeth whitening and many hours on my chair. After the third day of treatment, he tells me that his girlfriend is getting mad at him because he seems to be spending so much time with me.
As if on cue, his girlfriend (whom I have never met before) barges into my operating room and says - Anytime I ask him where he is, he says he's at the dentist.
I look at her benevolently and start to explain how this is a long procedure with no short cuts, but she is on a roll and I cannot get a word in edgewise. When I stop talking, I realise that she is saying - He's with you at nine in the morning, at two in the afternoon, at eleven in the night.
I tell her, he maybe with me at nine in the morning and at two in the afternoon, but I have no idea who he is with at eleven in the night and it sure as hell aint me.
Nikhil responds intelligently by burying his face into his hands....
Most recently, it was Mr Lall who was getting a root canal done. I had placed a temporary filling in his tooth (the temporary filling is a bit rubbery). He calls me later to say that the 'bubblegum' that I had placed in his mouth was getting loose and should be take it out and throw it or could he chew on it for a while!!!
I rest my case.
Happy smiling everyone.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Hello and Goodbye
Goodbye
friendships that don't mean much
mechanical days and tired nights
focussing on things that in the long run mean nothing
viewing the world through dark and cynical eyes
bad books and worse music
mourning the past and obsessing over the future
unmindful of the present
agonizing over boys with issues
agonizing over boys, period
monday morning blues and saturday night highs
loss of freedom and spontaneity
planning for the next 1 year or 10
broken dreams and failing courage
giving up and losing out
living incompletely
Hello
living preciously
living passionately
living
(Written on the eve of taking a one month break from work. Star gazing, bonding with friends, rediscovering old loves [er, of the non-human kind], basking in eternal love [yes, of the human kind] and living fearlessly are under-rated professions in my opinion and I look forward to a month of doing them justice)
Thursday, July 10, 2008
All Left Feet
I peep around the door and see a huge room with about 20 couples. Lots of youngsters, but also quite a few grey heads. There is some Latin music playing in the background. The sense of anticipation is so high, I can feel adrenalin shoot through my veins as if I am at the start of an Olympic race. But no, this is something of far less national interest and of far greater personal interest - I am joining a dance class session at the Bangalore Club. My parents recently signed up for this dance class and they cajoled the instructor into letting me try a session out when I was visiting. I haven't been this excited since...er...well....to be honest, since Brian tried to hold my hand in high school (that was the very first of my hand holding experiences and tragically still rates as my all time high) . In my mind I can already see myself gliding across the floor. I can see myself doing twists and little marches and twirls and all the while looking fantastic while staring into my partner's eyes and making great conversation...yes, my mind is a wicked thing and I firmly believe that my power to hallucinate is one of my greater talents.
Alan is our instructor. He's there in track pants and a t-shirt that says - Chicks fall for guys who dance. I like him already. Most others have dressed up for the occasion - not sure of it's a Bangalore thing or a Bangalore Club thing. Since all the women get to dance with all the men (as in you don't just stick to your partner but you shift partners at every step), I can see that care has been taken with creaming hands, painting nails, spraying on the deodorant, then spraying plenty of perfume over it, shaving off the 4 o'clock whiskers and shoes polished to a reflective shine. It is all in all quite a grand affair for a dance class. Even the youngsters are well dressed and non-grungy. How cool is that.
Most of the class has already had a few sessions of Salsa. As the Salsa music comes on, the groups deftly divides itself as efficiently as Moses divided the Red Sea - men on one side, women on the other. This is where everyone re-caps their steps without partners. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. More precisely it is 1-2-3-clap-5-6-7-clap. The steps are easy enough to pick up by watching the others. The basic salsa step is a forward backward step. If you can manage to shake your hips and arms along with the footwork, and at the same time miraculously manage to not look like a rabid dog, you then know that you have a bright future in the dance world and you can then work on upping the 'sexy' quotient. For me, the challenge is more on looking 'human' and less on looking 'sexy', a problem I recognise right away. But hey, I am getting into the groove, I am doing the steps right and feeling a wonderful sense of liberation. I am thinking that I should have done this years ago.
And then suddenly it is time to pair up. I am paired with a man who dances like Fred Astaire and smells like the Malboro man - a heady mix of cologne and tobacco which magically transforms the aura around him. The only problem here is my two left feet are no match to his perfectly performing ones. When I bump into him and step over his feet for the second time, he kindly asks me if this is my first time. I start to nod yes, which causes a seconds lack of concentration and my two feet finally trip over each other and I fall flat on my face. The dancing comes to a complete stop, people rush over, my parents (who until then, I thought were kind people) are laughing away in a corner and wondering if they should tell anyone that they are related to me, I sit up far more embarrassed than hurt. It has taken me a mere 6 salsa steps and fifteen minutes to learn that dancing is indeed rocket science and I am the equivalent of a third grade imbecile.
But when you hit rock bottom things can only move up. I stand up to discover that my new partner is a cute young chap who looks extremely nervous at partnering the new girl whose dance moves involve intimate contact of her face iwth the floor. I gather up my fast fading courage and draw my thick skin closer and I start to dance cautiously. Maybe because this boy isn't as good a dancer or maybe because falling is the absolute worst thing that can happen to me, but my initial trepidation and self consciousness evaporate. I start doing the steps right, of course I have to stare at my feet all the while without which my mind goes blank and I cannot remember the next step. Alan keeps telling me that dancing is all about romance and social interaction and staring at my feet means that I am completely ignoring my partner. I smile at him, all the while wanting to grab him by the collar and let him in on the secret that staring at my feet has less to do with being unsocial and more to do with keeping myself upright instead of horizontal on the floor.
Alan moves onto a new step. It involves holding the right leg at right angles to the left one and then moving the left leg behind the right one and moving your body the other way, then twirling and finishing it off with a hair combing action...I wasn't kidding when I said this is rocket science. A few practise rounds of this and those who can dance are looking pretty darn good. Those who cannot dance look like they are on the verge of a grand mal epilepsy attack. My mom has mastered the steps pretty well, her habit of doing things precisely has permeated into her dancing. My dad on the other hand has a non-existant sense of rythmn, he cannot tell his left from his right and no matter how hard he tries, he can only start the first step on the third beat! With all these handicaps, his salsa looks like he is playing tennis on the spot. I suspect that I look like drunk toddler when I dance but by now I am having too good a time to care.
It is a one hour class. I get the chance to dance with all the guys. The tall one who has to bend at his waist to hold my hands. The young one who has to count loudly to keep his feet in time. The aggressive one who insists on showing me all the wrong steps (like I wasn't doing enough of that all on my own). The good looking one whose eyes I look into, never mind that I don't get a single step right with him. The 65 year old who stops to catch his breath after every 3 steps. The cute one who dances so well, the only thing I can do is stop and admire. The corporate one who decides when to start and stop and delegates the job of keeping the beat to me. The Bollywood one who keeps looking at himself in the mirror and (oh horror) keeps pouting.
The dancing class is over too soon. Did I learn to dance over that one hour - probably not. But I did learn that I would love to try it again. I imagine that in a hundred classes or so, I just might learn to be slightly graceful, to not step on too many toes and to smile and keep beat at the same time. But I know that I'll start enjoying the process from the first step.
Alan is our instructor. He's there in track pants and a t-shirt that says - Chicks fall for guys who dance. I like him already. Most others have dressed up for the occasion - not sure of it's a Bangalore thing or a Bangalore Club thing. Since all the women get to dance with all the men (as in you don't just stick to your partner but you shift partners at every step), I can see that care has been taken with creaming hands, painting nails, spraying on the deodorant, then spraying plenty of perfume over it, shaving off the 4 o'clock whiskers and shoes polished to a reflective shine. It is all in all quite a grand affair for a dance class. Even the youngsters are well dressed and non-grungy. How cool is that.
Most of the class has already had a few sessions of Salsa. As the Salsa music comes on, the groups deftly divides itself as efficiently as Moses divided the Red Sea - men on one side, women on the other. This is where everyone re-caps their steps without partners. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. More precisely it is 1-2-3-clap-5-6-7-clap. The steps are easy enough to pick up by watching the others. The basic salsa step is a forward backward step. If you can manage to shake your hips and arms along with the footwork, and at the same time miraculously manage to not look like a rabid dog, you then know that you have a bright future in the dance world and you can then work on upping the 'sexy' quotient. For me, the challenge is more on looking 'human' and less on looking 'sexy', a problem I recognise right away. But hey, I am getting into the groove, I am doing the steps right and feeling a wonderful sense of liberation. I am thinking that I should have done this years ago.
And then suddenly it is time to pair up. I am paired with a man who dances like Fred Astaire and smells like the Malboro man - a heady mix of cologne and tobacco which magically transforms the aura around him. The only problem here is my two left feet are no match to his perfectly performing ones. When I bump into him and step over his feet for the second time, he kindly asks me if this is my first time. I start to nod yes, which causes a seconds lack of concentration and my two feet finally trip over each other and I fall flat on my face. The dancing comes to a complete stop, people rush over, my parents (who until then, I thought were kind people) are laughing away in a corner and wondering if they should tell anyone that they are related to me, I sit up far more embarrassed than hurt. It has taken me a mere 6 salsa steps and fifteen minutes to learn that dancing is indeed rocket science and I am the equivalent of a third grade imbecile.
But when you hit rock bottom things can only move up. I stand up to discover that my new partner is a cute young chap who looks extremely nervous at partnering the new girl whose dance moves involve intimate contact of her face iwth the floor. I gather up my fast fading courage and draw my thick skin closer and I start to dance cautiously. Maybe because this boy isn't as good a dancer or maybe because falling is the absolute worst thing that can happen to me, but my initial trepidation and self consciousness evaporate. I start doing the steps right, of course I have to stare at my feet all the while without which my mind goes blank and I cannot remember the next step. Alan keeps telling me that dancing is all about romance and social interaction and staring at my feet means that I am completely ignoring my partner. I smile at him, all the while wanting to grab him by the collar and let him in on the secret that staring at my feet has less to do with being unsocial and more to do with keeping myself upright instead of horizontal on the floor.
Alan moves onto a new step. It involves holding the right leg at right angles to the left one and then moving the left leg behind the right one and moving your body the other way, then twirling and finishing it off with a hair combing action...I wasn't kidding when I said this is rocket science. A few practise rounds of this and those who can dance are looking pretty darn good. Those who cannot dance look like they are on the verge of a grand mal epilepsy attack. My mom has mastered the steps pretty well, her habit of doing things precisely has permeated into her dancing. My dad on the other hand has a non-existant sense of rythmn, he cannot tell his left from his right and no matter how hard he tries, he can only start the first step on the third beat! With all these handicaps, his salsa looks like he is playing tennis on the spot. I suspect that I look like drunk toddler when I dance but by now I am having too good a time to care.
It is a one hour class. I get the chance to dance with all the guys. The tall one who has to bend at his waist to hold my hands. The young one who has to count loudly to keep his feet in time. The aggressive one who insists on showing me all the wrong steps (like I wasn't doing enough of that all on my own). The good looking one whose eyes I look into, never mind that I don't get a single step right with him. The 65 year old who stops to catch his breath after every 3 steps. The cute one who dances so well, the only thing I can do is stop and admire. The corporate one who decides when to start and stop and delegates the job of keeping the beat to me. The Bollywood one who keeps looking at himself in the mirror and (oh horror) keeps pouting.
The dancing class is over too soon. Did I learn to dance over that one hour - probably not. But I did learn that I would love to try it again. I imagine that in a hundred classes or so, I just might learn to be slightly graceful, to not step on too many toes and to smile and keep beat at the same time. But I know that I'll start enjoying the process from the first step.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
We Are Just Good Friends
Some questions are eternal. They serve to eternally perplex and eternally amuse. My favourite quintessential eternal question is - Can a guy and girl be just good friends? It's one of those age old questions, one that has no right answer and yet it begs to be asked every now and then.
Ofcourse the ambiance in which this question is asked determines the quality of the answers you get. Ask it during a mellow evening, 3 beers down and Doors playing in the background, and chances are you'll get to hear some very funny experiences and some very honest opinions. Ask it at a less opportune time (like just before entering a meeting, if you have really bad judgement) and your guaranteed response will be a cold sharp look.
I'm sitting in a bar with a friend, rock music on the side and potato fries in our mouths. This is the perfect setting to delve into shady conversation such as this.
Can a guy and girl be just good friends? I ask her. Her being Priya, an old friend and someone who has just exited her 15th relationship in half as many years. Probably not the most appropriate person to get an opinion on being just good friends with a guy , but hey, she's candid and opinionated and she could be just what I need to get this question answered.
Sheesh ofcourse they can, she replies, all the while trying to make eye contact with the rocker looking fellow sitting on the opposite side of the bar. She continues - The pre-requisite is that each has to be physically repulsive to the other, otherwise there is always the danger that chemistry may creep in through the back door.
This from the girl who is drop dead gorgeous...but then again she can just about spell platonic. Hmmm, maybe she does have a point here.
So does a platonic friendship rely on smelly fungal feet, black teeth with holes in them and 300 gigantic warts? I turn to ask her this but am instead treated to the eye rumba between her and the rocker. I am guessing that those two are not heading up the platonic street any time soon.
I ask this to another friend, Sara. She's petite and bubbly and adorable and has been married for ten years, but not without her share of guy adventures.
Sure a guy and a girl can be friends. But I have found that a guy and I just cannot be good friends, she says ruefully. She puts it down to the fact that she thinks she sends out wrongs signals inadvertently, she is all green lights where reds should be glowing. Hence she has cut men friends out, no men, no complications. And yet despite her best attempts, her stubborn signals must be shining bright for she's is always the one to get hit on when when we go out, she has old boyfriends (and boys who were friends) constantly trying to get back in touch and a series of new men trying to get her number. In her defence, I have to say that the only guy she actually hangs out with a lot is someone who is awfully cute but obviously someone in whom she senses no danger and someone she introduces as 'my best girlfriend'.
I ask a guy I have known for quite sometime now. Can you and a girl be just good friends?
I'm just good friends with you, are'nt I, he asks with a twinkle in his eye. According to him, this is a question for an 18 year old. They are apparently the only ones who should be racked with strange and meaningless questions like this. Once you have crossed 30, you should only worry about the monumental questions like, how can I keep from balding and how can I make it last longer? We giggle together like the old friends that we are.
This question is irrelevant to an 18 years old, I tell him. Most 18 year olds can muster up enough chemistry even with a tea pot.
It's all age related, he insists. Then he elaborates - At 18, every girl you see has potential. At 30, you are probably in a relationship and it becomes easier to be just friends with other girls. At 70, the only friendship that exists is of the platonic type. Chemistry at this age is related to how quickly the aspirin tablet will dissolve in water.
Okay, so here's a new twist to an old tale. Can a guy and a girl be just good friends despite some initial chemistry / attraction? Are'nt there people we all know who were attracted to each other, maybe even went out for a bit before realising that they worked better as friends than as a couple and have stayed great friends ever since?
They probably can be friends even when the attraction exists, my friends says after chewing on the thought for a while. He continues - but as long as there is some amount of attraction, under no circumstances, not even accidently, should she try to look any prettier or touch his hand or kiss his cheek or say she missed him and wear a blouse with the top button undone!
Our final conclusion is that minor attractions can be managed if the girl acts like a bitch, dresses like a nun and keeps a room's distance between them.
It appears that being just good friends is hard work. Either there needs to be replusion of some sort. Or one foot needs to be in the grave. So what about people who really are just good friends? Work colleagues? Gym buddies? Singing in the same choir? Drinking buddies? Movie buddies?
They're probably people who just dont find other people sexually attractive, says Arpana, close friend, confidant and someone who has managed to convert even the most complicated of relationships - her marriage - into a platonic state of two good friends living together as flat-mates. She says that opposite sexes can be great friends, but only if the friendship is not complicated by lust. You can never be friends with a guy you fantasize about. I agree completely. No point playing Scrabble with a guy and pretending to think of a word that starts with an s and ends with a t, which will fetch you 22 points, when all you are dying to do is run your fingers through his hair. Bad bad idea.
So here is the final conclusion from a bunch of been-there-done-that people. As a girl if you want to be good friends with a guy, you need to be terrible looking, mean, married and not in touch with your sexual side. As a guy, if you want to be good friends with a girl, you need to leave your testosterone at home and belch a few times for good measure.
As for me, I do think guys and girls can be just good friends. It's got do with being with the right people, being happy with other aspects of your life, being in a satisfying relationship, having areas of interest with your friends and trust . Have I had strange vibes from guys I thought I was being just friends with? Er, yes, especially in those hormone driven college days, but I moved beyond it or through it depending on how important the friendship was.
But today I am good friends with several guys. Fun, intellegient, talented guys. And I dont look at them as 'guys', I look at them as friends. And we're just good friends. No complications, no issues. And you know what this means right - Either that I am acompletely unattractive pain in the neck or that I'm one of the luckiest girls in this world.
Ofcourse the ambiance in which this question is asked determines the quality of the answers you get. Ask it during a mellow evening, 3 beers down and Doors playing in the background, and chances are you'll get to hear some very funny experiences and some very honest opinions. Ask it at a less opportune time (like just before entering a meeting, if you have really bad judgement) and your guaranteed response will be a cold sharp look.
I'm sitting in a bar with a friend, rock music on the side and potato fries in our mouths. This is the perfect setting to delve into shady conversation such as this.
Can a guy and girl be just good friends? I ask her. Her being Priya, an old friend and someone who has just exited her 15th relationship in half as many years. Probably not the most appropriate person to get an opinion on being just good friends with a guy , but hey, she's candid and opinionated and she could be just what I need to get this question answered.
Sheesh ofcourse they can, she replies, all the while trying to make eye contact with the rocker looking fellow sitting on the opposite side of the bar. She continues - The pre-requisite is that each has to be physically repulsive to the other, otherwise there is always the danger that chemistry may creep in through the back door.
This from the girl who is drop dead gorgeous...but then again she can just about spell platonic. Hmmm, maybe she does have a point here.
So does a platonic friendship rely on smelly fungal feet, black teeth with holes in them and 300 gigantic warts? I turn to ask her this but am instead treated to the eye rumba between her and the rocker. I am guessing that those two are not heading up the platonic street any time soon.
I ask this to another friend, Sara. She's petite and bubbly and adorable and has been married for ten years, but not without her share of guy adventures.
Sure a guy and a girl can be friends. But I have found that a guy and I just cannot be good friends, she says ruefully. She puts it down to the fact that she thinks she sends out wrongs signals inadvertently, she is all green lights where reds should be glowing. Hence she has cut men friends out, no men, no complications. And yet despite her best attempts, her stubborn signals must be shining bright for she's is always the one to get hit on when when we go out, she has old boyfriends (and boys who were friends) constantly trying to get back in touch and a series of new men trying to get her number. In her defence, I have to say that the only guy she actually hangs out with a lot is someone who is awfully cute but obviously someone in whom she senses no danger and someone she introduces as 'my best girlfriend'.
I ask a guy I have known for quite sometime now. Can you and a girl be just good friends?
I'm just good friends with you, are'nt I, he asks with a twinkle in his eye. According to him, this is a question for an 18 year old. They are apparently the only ones who should be racked with strange and meaningless questions like this. Once you have crossed 30, you should only worry about the monumental questions like, how can I keep from balding and how can I make it last longer? We giggle together like the old friends that we are.
This question is irrelevant to an 18 years old, I tell him. Most 18 year olds can muster up enough chemistry even with a tea pot.
It's all age related, he insists. Then he elaborates - At 18, every girl you see has potential. At 30, you are probably in a relationship and it becomes easier to be just friends with other girls. At 70, the only friendship that exists is of the platonic type. Chemistry at this age is related to how quickly the aspirin tablet will dissolve in water.
Okay, so here's a new twist to an old tale. Can a guy and a girl be just good friends despite some initial chemistry / attraction? Are'nt there people we all know who were attracted to each other, maybe even went out for a bit before realising that they worked better as friends than as a couple and have stayed great friends ever since?
They probably can be friends even when the attraction exists, my friends says after chewing on the thought for a while. He continues - but as long as there is some amount of attraction, under no circumstances, not even accidently, should she try to look any prettier or touch his hand or kiss his cheek or say she missed him and wear a blouse with the top button undone!
Our final conclusion is that minor attractions can be managed if the girl acts like a bitch, dresses like a nun and keeps a room's distance between them.
It appears that being just good friends is hard work. Either there needs to be replusion of some sort. Or one foot needs to be in the grave. So what about people who really are just good friends? Work colleagues? Gym buddies? Singing in the same choir? Drinking buddies? Movie buddies?
They're probably people who just dont find other people sexually attractive, says Arpana, close friend, confidant and someone who has managed to convert even the most complicated of relationships - her marriage - into a platonic state of two good friends living together as flat-mates. She says that opposite sexes can be great friends, but only if the friendship is not complicated by lust. You can never be friends with a guy you fantasize about. I agree completely. No point playing Scrabble with a guy and pretending to think of a word that starts with an s and ends with a t, which will fetch you 22 points, when all you are dying to do is run your fingers through his hair. Bad bad idea.
So here is the final conclusion from a bunch of been-there-done-that people. As a girl if you want to be good friends with a guy, you need to be terrible looking, mean, married and not in touch with your sexual side. As a guy, if you want to be good friends with a girl, you need to leave your testosterone at home and belch a few times for good measure.
As for me, I do think guys and girls can be just good friends. It's got do with being with the right people, being happy with other aspects of your life, being in a satisfying relationship, having areas of interest with your friends and trust . Have I had strange vibes from guys I thought I was being just friends with? Er, yes, especially in those hormone driven college days, but I moved beyond it or through it depending on how important the friendship was.
But today I am good friends with several guys. Fun, intellegient, talented guys. And I dont look at them as 'guys', I look at them as friends. And we're just good friends. No complications, no issues. And you know what this means right - Either that I am acompletely unattractive pain in the neck or that I'm one of the luckiest girls in this world.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
the mind vs. destiny
destiny is muscled, sinewy and strong
plowing through best laid plans
unheeding to what the soul wants
erect and unweilding it stands
but my mind has a mind of it's own
more fierce and willful than fate's hand
it knows my heart which destiny ignores
and i know life will always be grand
for as fate pulls and shoves with might
the mind fights tooth and nail
both may be matched in strength and wrath
but my mind will rarely fail
plowing through best laid plans
unheeding to what the soul wants
erect and unweilding it stands
but my mind has a mind of it's own
more fierce and willful than fate's hand
it knows my heart which destiny ignores
and i know life will always be grand
for as fate pulls and shoves with might
the mind fights tooth and nail
both may be matched in strength and wrath
but my mind will rarely fail
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Mini Arranged Marriage
Mini is getting married. To all of you who don’t know her (and most of you won’t since Mini is not really her name, you see), she is one of my closest friends. This is an event that marks miracles this side of the resurrection. To recap mildly, Mini is an aberration. She fits into her family the same way a pole dancer would fit into the knitting club. She is bold, they are conservative. She is reckless, they are planners. She stands a full head taller than them, they are...well...short people. Her family routinely discusses which planet they think she has dropped down from and regular blame is assigned for her faulty genes (her father’s father is the most popular culprit since his was the family had the rogues, the smugglers, the travellers and the thinkers).
Mini for her part, is an expert eye-roller. She can even roll her eyes with her eyelids shut. It has gotten to be such a habit that I am quite sure it has been taken the place of a nervous tick. She now does it involuntarily (much like her breathing) and at the most inappropriate times (like when someone poor unsuspecting soul is complimenting her).
Mini’s marriage (or more recently the lack of one) has been a source of conversation in her house since she was 21. Most girls in their family are married by the time they reach 24. 25 and single is considered a very dangerous place to be. 26 is considered dead. At 32, Mini is apparently a walking talking veteran ghost. Yet she remains unfazed. Her strategy, for better or worse, is that if you can’t beat them or join them, then ignore them. And she does it with such panache. Her not being married is not for her family’s lack of trying. There was the boy who wanted a homely girl, only to meet her and amend it to ‘quiet’ girl. Then there was the proposal where she was asked to sing. She did walk out of that one saying she was definitely underqualified for the position. There was also the boy who was 2 inches shorter than she was. She didn’t mind, he did, end of story. Her family even tried where there was no hope. The boy who was already married. Only that it was in an obscure court and could / would be annulled and could she please marry him now since he promised to get everything sorted out within the year. She was thrilled to have a reason to not talk to her family for days after that. She was 28 at the time.
A few weeks ago, Mini calls me. I can immediately tell that something is up from her deceptively calm voice that quivers just a little bit. Mini is only calm when things are going terribly wrong. Otherwise she is the human equivalent of an electric storm.
There’s a boy coming to see me, she says without preamble.
Boy? I am a bit confused.
Boy, man, whatever, she replies and I get it.
I don’t know what to say. We’ ve done the “wow, that’s great” routine way too many times. So I say the next best thing - oh no.
Oh yes, only now that I’m 32 it no longer qualifies as a proposal. They’re calling it the ‘Family Friends Visit’, she mutters.
What do you know about him, I ask her. I am always more curious about the boys than she is (I don’t think I even want to know what that says about me!).
She sighs. He’s a venture capitalist, he is with a bank, he’s 35 years old, he probably weighs 100 kgs and has bad breath, she rattles off.
I can help with the bad breath, I tell her.
I can literally see her rolling her eyes. Do you think mainly about teeth and nothing else, she complains.
I have half a mind to tell her that I think only of teeth and nothing else, but I do like to keep the image going that I have half a dozen important and interesting things perusing in my head and hence wisely keep my mouth shut.
He’s coming over tomorrow. Say you’ll come over and hang out with me so I feel like I have one friend in the room, she says.
Mini needing moral support is an alien concept. She normally has enough mental strength to booster the Indian army. But I am not about to say no and turn down the chance to be in the middle of more action than I’ve seen in a very long time.
I go to her house early the next day. I am dressed inappropriately in jeans and a t-shirt. Her mother gives me severe disapproving looks. I try to look apologetic. Mini is in her room. She has a list ready of all the things that she will not do. I first think that she is talking about her life, but soon realize that she is referring to the next 4 hours.
I will not walk into the room carrying a tray of tea. I will not wear a sari. I will not sing/dance/recite poetry/touch my toes. I will not attempt to make 20 bhajjias in 5 minutes. I will not look coyly at him and bat my eyelids. I will not cry afterwards.
I cannot agree with her more. Besides, the only thing she can do effectively with her eyes is roll them. Batting them is not in her repertoire, I point out to her.
She wears a beautiful cotton salwar kameez. In mild rebellion she ties her lovely hair up in a pony tail. Wears minimal make up which in my opinion only makes her look more beautiful. Puts on 3 inch heels which makes her very tall indeed. She’s ready.
The ‘family visitors’ have arrived. Mini is upstairs but her eye rolling has started as soon as the first hello is said between the prospective families. Her grandmother has already started her nervous cough.
This is all so blasé, she grumbles.
I look at her as strictly as I know how and say, Mini, no matter what, no matter why, please please do not roll your eyes when you get down there.
Her mother comes up to say that her grandmother is having a bad coughing fit in the middle of all this and can Mini please first get her some warm water and then come out to meet everyone. Mini puts a glass of warm water onto a tray and goes in search of her grandmother only to realize that her grandmother is sitting with all the visitors and that Mini has entered the room with the dreaded glass on a tray. I can see her kicking herself over breaking the first in the list of things-I-will-not-do, never mind that the tea is now a glass of water. Her family is creative at desperate times, I give them that. I give her credit for not rolling her eyes, though she’s had to keep her eyes remarkably fixed on her gran to prevent them from making their usual journey upwards. In all this Mini has yet to look at the boy, but I have had no such delays. As I look at him looking at her, I begin to smile. Maybe this day will be alright after all.
She finally stops glaring at her gran long enough to look around the room. As her gaze settles on him, I see her break another promise in her will-not-do list. She smiles coyly at him and bats her eyelids. The rest as they say is history. And no she didn’t have to do sit ups or sew a button in front of them. No he is not shorter than her in her 3 inch heels. And no he is not overweight, or geeky, or creepy, or just plain old, or boring (all the things she was worried about). And as she triumphantly informs me later, no he has does not have bad breath.
She’s getting married 3 months from now. More importantly, she is reformed. She tells him to drive safe. A few months ago, she would not have tolerated anyone giving her the same advice. A drive safe comment would normally push her into careening across asphalt at 100 km per hour. She now spends hours on the phone when in the normal case she is so distracted that it is near impossible to keep her on the line for more than 3 minutes even in a life or death situation. She now worries about whether he’s eaten enough. I am beyond shocked. The last time Mini worried about anyone eating enough was in 2002 when her dog fell ill. She now watches romantic comedies and cries when earlier her idea of a light flick was Kill Bill.
And finally, finally, she has stopped rolling her eyes! God bless you, Mini.
Mini for her part, is an expert eye-roller. She can even roll her eyes with her eyelids shut. It has gotten to be such a habit that I am quite sure it has been taken the place of a nervous tick. She now does it involuntarily (much like her breathing) and at the most inappropriate times (like when someone poor unsuspecting soul is complimenting her).
Mini’s marriage (or more recently the lack of one) has been a source of conversation in her house since she was 21. Most girls in their family are married by the time they reach 24. 25 and single is considered a very dangerous place to be. 26 is considered dead. At 32, Mini is apparently a walking talking veteran ghost. Yet she remains unfazed. Her strategy, for better or worse, is that if you can’t beat them or join them, then ignore them. And she does it with such panache. Her not being married is not for her family’s lack of trying. There was the boy who wanted a homely girl, only to meet her and amend it to ‘quiet’ girl. Then there was the proposal where she was asked to sing. She did walk out of that one saying she was definitely underqualified for the position. There was also the boy who was 2 inches shorter than she was. She didn’t mind, he did, end of story. Her family even tried where there was no hope. The boy who was already married. Only that it was in an obscure court and could / would be annulled and could she please marry him now since he promised to get everything sorted out within the year. She was thrilled to have a reason to not talk to her family for days after that. She was 28 at the time.
A few weeks ago, Mini calls me. I can immediately tell that something is up from her deceptively calm voice that quivers just a little bit. Mini is only calm when things are going terribly wrong. Otherwise she is the human equivalent of an electric storm.
There’s a boy coming to see me, she says without preamble.
Boy? I am a bit confused.
Boy, man, whatever, she replies and I get it.
I don’t know what to say. We’ ve done the “wow, that’s great” routine way too many times. So I say the next best thing - oh no.
Oh yes, only now that I’m 32 it no longer qualifies as a proposal. They’re calling it the ‘Family Friends Visit’, she mutters.
What do you know about him, I ask her. I am always more curious about the boys than she is (I don’t think I even want to know what that says about me!).
She sighs. He’s a venture capitalist, he is with a bank, he’s 35 years old, he probably weighs 100 kgs and has bad breath, she rattles off.
I can help with the bad breath, I tell her.
I can literally see her rolling her eyes. Do you think mainly about teeth and nothing else, she complains.
I have half a mind to tell her that I think only of teeth and nothing else, but I do like to keep the image going that I have half a dozen important and interesting things perusing in my head and hence wisely keep my mouth shut.
He’s coming over tomorrow. Say you’ll come over and hang out with me so I feel like I have one friend in the room, she says.
Mini needing moral support is an alien concept. She normally has enough mental strength to booster the Indian army. But I am not about to say no and turn down the chance to be in the middle of more action than I’ve seen in a very long time.
I go to her house early the next day. I am dressed inappropriately in jeans and a t-shirt. Her mother gives me severe disapproving looks. I try to look apologetic. Mini is in her room. She has a list ready of all the things that she will not do. I first think that she is talking about her life, but soon realize that she is referring to the next 4 hours.
I will not walk into the room carrying a tray of tea. I will not wear a sari. I will not sing/dance/recite poetry/touch my toes. I will not attempt to make 20 bhajjias in 5 minutes. I will not look coyly at him and bat my eyelids. I will not cry afterwards.
I cannot agree with her more. Besides, the only thing she can do effectively with her eyes is roll them. Batting them is not in her repertoire, I point out to her.
She wears a beautiful cotton salwar kameez. In mild rebellion she ties her lovely hair up in a pony tail. Wears minimal make up which in my opinion only makes her look more beautiful. Puts on 3 inch heels which makes her very tall indeed. She’s ready.
The ‘family visitors’ have arrived. Mini is upstairs but her eye rolling has started as soon as the first hello is said between the prospective families. Her grandmother has already started her nervous cough.
This is all so blasé, she grumbles.
I look at her as strictly as I know how and say, Mini, no matter what, no matter why, please please do not roll your eyes when you get down there.
Her mother comes up to say that her grandmother is having a bad coughing fit in the middle of all this and can Mini please first get her some warm water and then come out to meet everyone. Mini puts a glass of warm water onto a tray and goes in search of her grandmother only to realize that her grandmother is sitting with all the visitors and that Mini has entered the room with the dreaded glass on a tray. I can see her kicking herself over breaking the first in the list of things-I-will-not-do, never mind that the tea is now a glass of water. Her family is creative at desperate times, I give them that. I give her credit for not rolling her eyes, though she’s had to keep her eyes remarkably fixed on her gran to prevent them from making their usual journey upwards. In all this Mini has yet to look at the boy, but I have had no such delays. As I look at him looking at her, I begin to smile. Maybe this day will be alright after all.
She finally stops glaring at her gran long enough to look around the room. As her gaze settles on him, I see her break another promise in her will-not-do list. She smiles coyly at him and bats her eyelids. The rest as they say is history. And no she didn’t have to do sit ups or sew a button in front of them. No he is not shorter than her in her 3 inch heels. And no he is not overweight, or geeky, or creepy, or just plain old, or boring (all the things she was worried about). And as she triumphantly informs me later, no he has does not have bad breath.
She’s getting married 3 months from now. More importantly, she is reformed. She tells him to drive safe. A few months ago, she would not have tolerated anyone giving her the same advice. A drive safe comment would normally push her into careening across asphalt at 100 km per hour. She now spends hours on the phone when in the normal case she is so distracted that it is near impossible to keep her on the line for more than 3 minutes even in a life or death situation. She now worries about whether he’s eaten enough. I am beyond shocked. The last time Mini worried about anyone eating enough was in 2002 when her dog fell ill. She now watches romantic comedies and cries when earlier her idea of a light flick was Kill Bill.
And finally, finally, she has stopped rolling her eyes! God bless you, Mini.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Last And Final Call
I love flying. Admittedly for purely selfish reasons. I love being in my own coccoon of peace for two hours or ten, being able to watch movies back to back, being able to relish food that a hungry person would not touch normally, being able to read while the body moves at 800 kilometers per hour (amazing), for being completely cut off from the world with a very valid reason. But most importantly, I love the identity crisis that flying presents me with. Once I enter the airport, I am anonymous. Despite the fact that the ticket, the boarding pass, my passport, and all documents of any relevance have my name on it, when I fly I am anonymous. I am surrounded by 300 people who don't know me from Adam (er, Eve in this case). I can be whomever I want. I can be this gorgeous sophisticated girl who turns her nose up at everything (I carry this out to perfection despite my nose being a little too flat for it). Or I can be this giggly cute girl who smiles at everyone. Or I can be the pain in the ass who complains about everything. Oh, I relish the thought of re-defining myself if only for a few air borne hours.
Ofcourse then there are the flights that have forced me to be a certain persona despite my best intentions at being someone else. Like the British Airways flight that lost my luggage (again). Up until that time, I was Ms. Calm & Unruffled, my head did not turn even when the passenger in front of me threw up loudly. Yet the lost luggage miraculously transformed me into a screaming and shouting shrew, fighting for the 200 pounds compensation to buy new underwear and a few jackets - yes it was a matter of life and death, I yelled at them. Did they want the complication of death by hypothermia - cause of death: loss of baggage and warm clothes by careless airline? Or the Singapore Airlines flight where I was the ultra casual, torn jeans, thin t-shirt, well worn sneakers, no make up Ms. Grunge until I realised that I was seated next to the Fashion Editor for Elle. I did desperately attempt damage control by taking out the newest Estee Lauder mascara from my purse and waving it around like a wand hoping she'd notice that I was infact slightly fashion conscious - but she just looked at me though eyelashes that were like a forest and said - honey, I'm not sure if you know but that is expensive. I did deliberate laying out my Clinique and Mac make-up on my food tray, but for that I'd have to get into the aisle and then she'd see my ultra scruffed shoes. But my favourite was when I was Ms. Gothic - 1 inch thick black kajal on my upper and lower eyelids, funky hair, dark blue nail polish, nude lipstick, 10 black and silver bracelets, two silver crosses on my ears, a larger silver cross hanging from my neck and an all black ensemble where the t-shirt said BAD BOYS ROCK. The steward looked at me strangely as he seated me, I saw him glancing at my seat number, probably earmarking it as a source of future problems. About 10 minutes later someone sits next to me. I turn trilled at the prospect of scaring someone new when I see a very distinguished looking gentleman whom I recognise to be an extremely well known doctor. I spend the rest of my flight trying to convince him that I am a doctor too and that yes, I do have a great practice and no, I do not normally dress this way and no I am NOT a troubled teenager.
I recently flew to the U.S. on work. This time I was going to focus on the things that were important - the movies, the desserts, the sleep, catch up on my reading. I was looking forward to a quiet flight. I was going to be Ms. Not Interested In Talking and would have my iPod glued into my ears for good measure.
I sit back loving the seats, I go through the food menu, I scan the entertainment listings, boy was I in for the flight of my life. In hindsight, I cannot fathom how something that started so right, ended up so wrong.
It all starts when he sat next to me. He smiles, I smile. I look away, it is all part of the 'dont even think of starting a conversation' move. Twenty seconds later, he taps me on my shoulder. I look at him. His lips are moving. Does he not see the eyephone in my ears? I slowly take my iPod out.
Yes, I smile
Hi, he says, travelling to New York?
I stare at him in amazement. I am on a flight to New York and yet he asks me this?
Yes, I say for lack of a better answer.
I turn away. I turn the volume up on my music till I am sure he too can hear it. Twenty seconds later, he taps me again. I turn towards him incredulously. This time I can see his lips moving but I do not take my eyephones out. It is only when I see him gesticulating wildly that I realise perhaps he is trying to tell me something important. I take my iPod off and smile.
I hope you don't mind but I might snore when I sleep, he says sheepishly
No problem, that's what my head phones are for, I smile back
There is one more thing, he says, when they come around with the liqour can you please take two extra bottles of Black Label for me, if you don't mind?
Good for him, he has figured this out all on his own, I think.
As I plug into the in-flight entertainment, he drifts off to sleep. A few minutes later, I cannot understand why the movie has a strange background sound. Something like a drum roll. I fiddle around with the settings but cannot seem to get rid of the sound. It is at this stage that I also begin to notice some other passengers looking my way.
I have no option. I put the volume on loud and try and lose myself in George Clooney's eyes, a feat normally achieved without any effort on my part, but not today. I feel cheated. I briefly contemplate stuffing two pens up his nose or putting a wad of paper in his mouth but chicken out at the last moment. Just as I am staring at him in complete frustration, he opens his eyes, yawns loudly (I stop breathing for a minute lest there be any exchange of air), goes for a walk down the aisle and comes back with a Black Label bottle. I watch him surreptiously as I have yet to see him take a single sip of the stuff. He glances around furtively and then opens the lapel of his jacket and the bottle disappears inside. I stifle a grin, I can't wait for him to start loading up his jeans pockets with bottles.
In the meanwhile, I know my seat comes with a foot massage. Mine is wonderful and puts me to sleep almost immediately. A long, black, dreamless sleep, during which time, unknown to me, two more bottles have been delivered to the next seat. As I wake up and make my way to the washroom a little unsteadily, two air hostesses smile at me sympathetically. Another one comes to hold my hand and guide me into the washroom. I am perplexed.
As I exit, one of them asks me if I'm feeling well and says that a lot of liqour can sometimes cause dehydration when flying.
A lot of liqour??? Could they possibly be referring to my 30 ml of white zinfandel consumed 6 hours ago?
The airhostess continues unfazed. She has appearently seen many drunk passengers feigning sobriety.
Do you think a coffee would help? she asks me
Help what? I ask, really confused.
Help you feel better, she says
But I feel fine, just a little groggy, I insist.
She smiles knowingly. It's fine honey, she says. Most people are pretty groggy after a few Balck Labels.
I think the shock on my face finally registers.
But he kept telling us that his friend would like some more and we thought you were the friend, she says.
I march back to my seat distintively less groggy and significantly more angry. What audacity. How dare he. As I reached my seat, I note that he has his foot massage going on and is sitting with his eyes shut and listening to something on his headphone.
Finally when we get off the flight, I am almost tempted to ask for a refund. He on the other hand has arrived in good spirits. As he is disembarking, he confides in me - My friend in New York loves Black Label and asked me to get him some from the aircraft. The crew were really nice about it, I just had to tell them that it was for my friend and they kept giving me more without asking any questions.
Ofcourse then there are the flights that have forced me to be a certain persona despite my best intentions at being someone else. Like the British Airways flight that lost my luggage (again). Up until that time, I was Ms. Calm & Unruffled, my head did not turn even when the passenger in front of me threw up loudly. Yet the lost luggage miraculously transformed me into a screaming and shouting shrew, fighting for the 200 pounds compensation to buy new underwear and a few jackets - yes it was a matter of life and death, I yelled at them. Did they want the complication of death by hypothermia - cause of death: loss of baggage and warm clothes by careless airline? Or the Singapore Airlines flight where I was the ultra casual, torn jeans, thin t-shirt, well worn sneakers, no make up Ms. Grunge until I realised that I was seated next to the Fashion Editor for Elle. I did desperately attempt damage control by taking out the newest Estee Lauder mascara from my purse and waving it around like a wand hoping she'd notice that I was infact slightly fashion conscious - but she just looked at me though eyelashes that were like a forest and said - honey, I'm not sure if you know but that is expensive. I did deliberate laying out my Clinique and Mac make-up on my food tray, but for that I'd have to get into the aisle and then she'd see my ultra scruffed shoes. But my favourite was when I was Ms. Gothic - 1 inch thick black kajal on my upper and lower eyelids, funky hair, dark blue nail polish, nude lipstick, 10 black and silver bracelets, two silver crosses on my ears, a larger silver cross hanging from my neck and an all black ensemble where the t-shirt said BAD BOYS ROCK. The steward looked at me strangely as he seated me, I saw him glancing at my seat number, probably earmarking it as a source of future problems. About 10 minutes later someone sits next to me. I turn trilled at the prospect of scaring someone new when I see a very distinguished looking gentleman whom I recognise to be an extremely well known doctor. I spend the rest of my flight trying to convince him that I am a doctor too and that yes, I do have a great practice and no, I do not normally dress this way and no I am NOT a troubled teenager.
I recently flew to the U.S. on work. This time I was going to focus on the things that were important - the movies, the desserts, the sleep, catch up on my reading. I was looking forward to a quiet flight. I was going to be Ms. Not Interested In Talking and would have my iPod glued into my ears for good measure.
I sit back loving the seats, I go through the food menu, I scan the entertainment listings, boy was I in for the flight of my life. In hindsight, I cannot fathom how something that started so right, ended up so wrong.
It all starts when he sat next to me. He smiles, I smile. I look away, it is all part of the 'dont even think of starting a conversation' move. Twenty seconds later, he taps me on my shoulder. I look at him. His lips are moving. Does he not see the eyephone in my ears? I slowly take my iPod out.
Yes, I smile
Hi, he says, travelling to New York?
I stare at him in amazement. I am on a flight to New York and yet he asks me this?
Yes, I say for lack of a better answer.
I turn away. I turn the volume up on my music till I am sure he too can hear it. Twenty seconds later, he taps me again. I turn towards him incredulously. This time I can see his lips moving but I do not take my eyephones out. It is only when I see him gesticulating wildly that I realise perhaps he is trying to tell me something important. I take my iPod off and smile.
I hope you don't mind but I might snore when I sleep, he says sheepishly
No problem, that's what my head phones are for, I smile back
There is one more thing, he says, when they come around with the liqour can you please take two extra bottles of Black Label for me, if you don't mind?
I don't know what I am more aghast at - that fact that he feels comfortable enough to ask me this or the fact that he has mistaken me for his wife or sister or best friend.
I'm sorry I cannot do that, I say and firmly plug my earphone back in.
And the flight has not even taken off.
As the liqour cart is being wheeled around, he sneaks glances at me. I figure he is trying to muster up the courage to ask me again and so I pointedly stare into my book. I order some white wine for now and a Coke for later. He orders two bottles of Black Label. After forty minutes, he goes for a walk and comes back with one more bottle.
Good for him, he has figured this out all on his own, I think.
As I plug into the in-flight entertainment, he drifts off to sleep. A few minutes later, I cannot understand why the movie has a strange background sound. Something like a drum roll. I fiddle around with the settings but cannot seem to get rid of the sound. It is at this stage that I also begin to notice some other passengers looking my way.
As I take off the headphones, a very loud unnatural sound accousts me. A sound that overshadows the drone of the aircraft, that dulls the chatter of the other passengers, that even infiltrates through the inflight entertainment. It is the sound of a chugging locomotive going through a tunnel to a background orchestra of a hundred out of tune trumpets - by gosh it is his snore. No wonder he had felt the need to warn me about it. If only he had told me he makes a horrendous, painful, choking whining noise when he sleeps, but no, he chose to call it a snore which completely misled me into thinking it would be...well...a snore.
I have no option. I put the volume on loud and try and lose myself in George Clooney's eyes, a feat normally achieved without any effort on my part, but not today. I feel cheated. I briefly contemplate stuffing two pens up his nose or putting a wad of paper in his mouth but chicken out at the last moment. Just as I am staring at him in complete frustration, he opens his eyes, yawns loudly (I stop breathing for a minute lest there be any exchange of air), goes for a walk down the aisle and comes back with a Black Label bottle. I watch him surreptiously as I have yet to see him take a single sip of the stuff. He glances around furtively and then opens the lapel of his jacket and the bottle disappears inside. I stifle a grin, I can't wait for him to start loading up his jeans pockets with bottles.
In the meanwhile, I know my seat comes with a foot massage. Mine is wonderful and puts me to sleep almost immediately. A long, black, dreamless sleep, during which time, unknown to me, two more bottles have been delivered to the next seat. As I wake up and make my way to the washroom a little unsteadily, two air hostesses smile at me sympathetically. Another one comes to hold my hand and guide me into the washroom. I am perplexed.
As I exit, one of them asks me if I'm feeling well and says that a lot of liqour can sometimes cause dehydration when flying.
A lot of liqour??? Could they possibly be referring to my 30 ml of white zinfandel consumed 6 hours ago?
The airhostess continues unfazed. She has appearently seen many drunk passengers feigning sobriety.
Do you think a coffee would help? she asks me
Help what? I ask, really confused.
Help you feel better, she says
But I feel fine, just a little groggy, I insist.
She smiles knowingly. It's fine honey, she says. Most people are pretty groggy after a few Balck Labels.
I think the shock on my face finally registers.
But he kept telling us that his friend would like some more and we thought you were the friend, she says.
I march back to my seat distintively less groggy and significantly more angry. What audacity. How dare he. As I reached my seat, I note that he has his foot massage going on and is sitting with his eyes shut and listening to something on his headphone.
I try and control my temper as I do not want to create a scene in front of the crew. So I stick my headphones back into place and this time I try I really try to focus on the movie. After a while, from the corner of my eye, I can see that he is saying something to me. I look determindely at the screen, I ignore him, I refuse to look at him. I know that his voice is growing louder, but this is my space and I am not obliged to chare it with him. But then he starts gesticulating again, wild gestures which for some reason seem to be concentrated around the front of his pants. I finally look at him helplessly as I turn down the volume. I am just in time to catch him tell me, at the top of his voice - Your zip is undone.
All eyes turn towards me. I look down and he is right. Now I know and the entire plane knows that my zip is down and that worse still, I'll probably have to stand up to zip up.
It is the longest 10 hours of my life. I refuse to acknowledge him for the rest of the journey. He on the other hand now seems to think that we're best friends since we have crossed a personal line (my zip being down and all that). He talks a lot, I keep completely silent and shut my eyes.
Finally when we get off the flight, I am almost tempted to ask for a refund. He on the other hand has arrived in good spirits. As he is disembarking, he confides in me - My friend in New York loves Black Label and asked me to get him some from the aircraft. The crew were really nice about it, I just had to tell them that it was for my friend and they kept giving me more without asking any questions.
I know, I say wearily to his retreating back, as I finally pull my zip up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
