I was travelling to TVM a few months back, chugging along in Sabari Express, a book in hand, mind wandering. It was raining, and since I was travelling in sleeper class, I was having a hard time trying to shut the windows to keep the water out. I had got the side berth, and the one opposite mine was empty so far.
When the train reached Coimbatore station, a man got in and occupied the seat in front of mine. A middle-aged man, tall, moustached, wearing a safari suit. When I travel alone, I don’t chat up with any of my co-passengers. I bury myself in a book, or look outside the window (Point #8 under the first heading of this post totally makes sense, you know). I don’t talk to anyone, and if anyone tries to make conversation, I utter a few non-committal words and send clear signals that I’m not interested in talking (which brings me to the question, why oh why have I never had any good-looking, charming guy as a co-passenger? Never happened. Not once.) Unlike my mother. Oh she’s a talker, when she gets onto a train. By the time the train journey is over, not only will she know their names, she will also know their horoscopes, what time they were born, what time their children were born, what course their children are studying, which bench they sit at in class, what colour sari they wore for the wedding, and will suggest names for a child to be born. And the cutest thing is, she’ll come and share all this with the rest of us, very animatedly. :)..
So anyway, back to the person who got in from Coimbatore. He asked me whether the seat was taken, I nodded a no, and looked back quickly down to my book, afraid that a second longer might lead to an unnecessary conversation. After a few minutes, he asked me what I was reading. I showed him the book (I don’t remember what it was). He then asked me what I do.
“I work for GE”. Back to my book.
“Oh really? As what?”
“As a Communication Consultant.” Admire the rain.
“That’s interesting! What do you have to do in your job?”
Ok. Let me take a second here to mention another thing. Being the self-obsessed person that I am, the moment someone starts taking an interest in me and what I do, I will lose all interest in the book.
“ Well, I basically have to deal with all the internal communication happening there. Mailers, posters, presentations, etc.” Standard line that I dish out to everybody.
“Ok. So what did you study?”
I did a monologue for about ten minutes (Ya, turns out, I didn’t have all that much to talk about myself. Sigh…), during which I told him that I studied in HCU, worked in radio , what my hobbies are, and that eventually, I would like to write book.
Then I asked what he does. He told me he’s a DySP with the Tamil Nadu Police, stationed in Salem. Ah, that explains the scary moustache, I thought to myself. We then got to talking. The spotlight shifted from me to him. (Ok, maybe not a spotlight. A tubelight. Fair enough?) I was very interested in knowing about his line of work. We’ve only seen police officers on TV and movies, travelling around in those jeeps with the red light on top, jumping out of it even before it comes to a halt. I almost asked him whether he was carrying a gun as well, then decided not to. So he told me his cases, about the times he has put his life at risk, etc..
He then asked me, whether I’m a Hindu or Christian. I told him that I’m a Hindu. And just to be polite, I asked “What about you?”
“I’m a Hindu too. But I’m a devotee of Jesus. Jesus was there when I needed him the most. There was a point in my life where I feared I had lost everything. My father’s business had failed. My mother was ill. I was not able to get a job. Every avenue was closing its doors on me. Then one day, I decided to end my misery by ending my life. I got into my room one afternoon, closed the door, and tied a rope to the fan. But just as I was about to put the rope around my neck, I fainted. I then had a dream. In my dream, Jesus came to me and told me that he will always be with me, and not to end my life because my family needed me. I had never experienced anything like that before, but I remember waking up a totally different person. I was suddenly filled with hope and optimism. From then on, gradually things started to smooth out. I applied for a police job, i got through, my dad’s business recovered, I was able to support my family. I went to church, and still go, unfailingly every Sunday."
“But didn’t your family not have any problem with it?”
“I met with a lot of opposition from my family because of this. My dad threatened to throw me out of the house. I had to secretively go, and thankfully for me, I got married to somebody who is also a believer in Jesus. Now me, my wife and our two daughters together go to church every Sunday.”
We were silent for a while. I didn’t know what to say. I’ve not been the kind to go to the temple religiously and pray. I used to go during exams and festivals, but now I don’t go on those days too, because I feel it’s like bribing god. I believe in God, I don’t believe in bribing him to get my way. I light the lamp at home everyday, and pray at the wayside temples everyday. Does that make me any less of a believer? Does that put me on God’s black-list? If it did, then I’m afraid, God is no different from humans. Me and Him, we have a different kinda connection.
The train had almost reached Salem. The man got up to leave, and then he said something that really touched me. “God bless you, my child. I have never spoken to anyone about all this. I generally don’t talk to anyone in trains. But somehow, I felt like sharing this with you. It was as though God himself told me to share it with you. May you have a good life, and may you achieve whatever you want to in life.”
I believe that it’s not which god or religion you believe in that matters. You just have to have faith. The college that I studied in was run by Christians, and I often used to go to the chapel. Because it was very peaceful. I used to hear some of my Hindu friends who stayed in the hostel complain, though, about how the nuns used to force them to go to church. Is that how you can get a person to believe in God? By forcing them? I would turn resentful rather than religious, if I was forced to pray. My mother used to chide me for not going to the temple more often, and would drag me along when she went. But now, she basically leaves it to me to decide whether I wish to go or not. And she never had a problem with me going to a church either.
That person was not trying to convert me into Christianity or anything. He was just telling a tale of faith. I could either believe in it, or not believe in it.
I chose to write about it.
March 4, 2011
February 24, 2011
Dear Diary...
Back home from office, I had made up my mind to read and not waste time watching movies or FRIENDS yet again on my laptop. While browsing through my bookshelf, I came across it, hidden beneath the pile of books, as though it was a secret I wished to fiercely guard. My old diaries. Ah, I’ve spent so many Dear Diary moments with them.
I didn’t maintain a diary for many years. Just two- three, I think, that too sporadically. I was inspired by Betty from Archie Comics and started every entry with “Dear Diary…” And reading through them, I realised why I decided to stop writing them. They were much too dangerous. A personal diary attracts other people to it like a flame does a moth, especially if you tell them “Don’t read that. That’s my personal diary.”
When I was in school, and my teenage romance had come out in the open creating a furore, my (then) boyfriend and I decided to stop talking in school and used to communicate via a diary, with the help of a friend. It was fun, now that I think of it. The relationship may have ended long back, but I can never forget writing in the diary :). The excitement when our mutual friend came to me and handed me my little book of love, going home and waiting for mom to have her afternoon siesta just so that I could sit and read it in peace. And then elaborately writing a reply. Our hopes, our dreams, our angst, that little book was witness to all that. Then we broke up, but for some reason, I didn’t discard that diary. I forgot about it, tucked away inside an old backpack where I’d saved a lot of other stuff like greeting cards (whatever happened to that grand old tradition, I wonder), Dairy Milk wrappers, gifts, etc. Then one fine day, when I was in college, my mom happened to find it. And there it came, the tears. “What is that?? Why? When?” I explained to her that it was a long, long time ago, and that the book, along with its co-author, was a closed chapter in my life. Thankfully, she believed me. I didn’t waste much time in destroying the diary.
After that, I was a bit more careful with my diaries, even though I was the sole author of the following ones. My crushes. My relationships, my ‘It’s Complicated’s- they’re all there. My entire last year in college, the person I had briefly become (When I read the diary for that year, I’m amazed at that Divya. Who was she? Do I know her anymore? I think not. She was a much more sensitive person than I am now). And then my endearing words about my last guy. That break-up would’ve been impossible to journal or write about, which is why I never tried. If I feel much too strongly about something, I cannot write about it. And putting it into words would mean reliving it, which I don’t want to do. That chapter also is closed, sealed shut.
I’ve never been one to express myself vocally. I fail miserably when it comes to that. I will probably end up cracking a joke(a lame one, while I’m at it) and hurting the other person. Be it with my friends, or my family, I can never tell them how much they mean to me. What I can do, is write. That’s the only thing I’ve been good at. So whenever possible, I write it and try to convey it to them. In the form of little notes, mails, forwards on books (I make it a habit to write a few lines on a book before I gift it to somebody, and my friends do the same for me. I love that.), or dedications on blogs. Even now, I may have stopped the practise of maintaining a daily journal, but I carry a notebook and a little diary with me all the time. And in them I scribble down, lyrics that I like, poems that I find good, proverbs I like, thoughts that I have. Because, no matter how much of an e-citizen I may be, I still find pleasure in putting pen (or pencil) to paper. The beginning of short stories, a random line that came to my mind but doesn’t really fit in anywhere, they all go into my diary and notebook. I had been out with a couple of my friends, and when I opened my bag, they saw my little diary. They asked why I carry it around, and I frankly told them “To write down something if I feel like it, no matter where I be.” They found it a little amusing, but having known me for so long, they weren’t surprised.
I continue to collect diaries and interesting notebooks. I have a friend who makes it a point to buy me interesting notebooks whenever he finds one. I do not write daily stuff in them. Just quotes and lyrics and all. And some very personal stuff. There is joy in writing that. And even greater joy in taking it up later and re-reading it.
I continue to collect diaries, in the hope that someday, I will open it and write, “Dear Diary, Guess what…”
I didn’t maintain a diary for many years. Just two- three, I think, that too sporadically. I was inspired by Betty from Archie Comics and started every entry with “Dear Diary…” And reading through them, I realised why I decided to stop writing them. They were much too dangerous. A personal diary attracts other people to it like a flame does a moth, especially if you tell them “Don’t read that. That’s my personal diary.”
When I was in school, and my teenage romance had come out in the open creating a furore, my (then) boyfriend and I decided to stop talking in school and used to communicate via a diary, with the help of a friend. It was fun, now that I think of it. The relationship may have ended long back, but I can never forget writing in the diary :). The excitement when our mutual friend came to me and handed me my little book of love, going home and waiting for mom to have her afternoon siesta just so that I could sit and read it in peace. And then elaborately writing a reply. Our hopes, our dreams, our angst, that little book was witness to all that. Then we broke up, but for some reason, I didn’t discard that diary. I forgot about it, tucked away inside an old backpack where I’d saved a lot of other stuff like greeting cards (whatever happened to that grand old tradition, I wonder), Dairy Milk wrappers, gifts, etc. Then one fine day, when I was in college, my mom happened to find it. And there it came, the tears. “What is that?? Why? When?” I explained to her that it was a long, long time ago, and that the book, along with its co-author, was a closed chapter in my life. Thankfully, she believed me. I didn’t waste much time in destroying the diary.
After that, I was a bit more careful with my diaries, even though I was the sole author of the following ones. My crushes. My relationships, my ‘It’s Complicated’s- they’re all there. My entire last year in college, the person I had briefly become (When I read the diary for that year, I’m amazed at that Divya. Who was she? Do I know her anymore? I think not. She was a much more sensitive person than I am now). And then my endearing words about my last guy. That break-up would’ve been impossible to journal or write about, which is why I never tried. If I feel much too strongly about something, I cannot write about it. And putting it into words would mean reliving it, which I don’t want to do. That chapter also is closed, sealed shut.
I’ve never been one to express myself vocally. I fail miserably when it comes to that. I will probably end up cracking a joke(a lame one, while I’m at it) and hurting the other person. Be it with my friends, or my family, I can never tell them how much they mean to me. What I can do, is write. That’s the only thing I’ve been good at. So whenever possible, I write it and try to convey it to them. In the form of little notes, mails, forwards on books (I make it a habit to write a few lines on a book before I gift it to somebody, and my friends do the same for me. I love that.), or dedications on blogs. Even now, I may have stopped the practise of maintaining a daily journal, but I carry a notebook and a little diary with me all the time. And in them I scribble down, lyrics that I like, poems that I find good, proverbs I like, thoughts that I have. Because, no matter how much of an e-citizen I may be, I still find pleasure in putting pen (or pencil) to paper. The beginning of short stories, a random line that came to my mind but doesn’t really fit in anywhere, they all go into my diary and notebook. I had been out with a couple of my friends, and when I opened my bag, they saw my little diary. They asked why I carry it around, and I frankly told them “To write down something if I feel like it, no matter where I be.” They found it a little amusing, but having known me for so long, they weren’t surprised.
I continue to collect diaries and interesting notebooks. I have a friend who makes it a point to buy me interesting notebooks whenever he finds one. I do not write daily stuff in them. Just quotes and lyrics and all. And some very personal stuff. There is joy in writing that. And even greater joy in taking it up later and re-reading it.
I continue to collect diaries, in the hope that someday, I will open it and write, “Dear Diary, Guess what…”
February 23, 2011
Ain't no matter if you're black 'o' white
I grew up in the Fair & Lovely era, like many of you. I was part of the generation that was obsessed with being fair, least of all in spirit.
You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all been through it. Wanting to look fair and lovely. There was a time when I’ve experimented with every damn face cream in the market, or anything that would make my skin lighter. I was obsessed, to say the least. Because in my eyes, being fair was equivalent to being beautiful. And can you blame me? My sister was fair, my mom was fair, her entire family was fair. I took up on my dad’s genes, in every sense. I inherited his looks (lucky him, right? I know), his skin-colour, his adamancy. Sadly (or not, now that I look back) I didn’t inherit his genius for science. I tried my hand at it, but we all know how that went.
I can’t exactly put my finger on what triggered off this obsession with being light-skinned, or when it started. All I remember is tubes of fairness creams, tins of talcum powder and hours spent in front of the mirror. It’s not like my parents ever treated me lesser because I was darker than my sister was. Neither did I get picked on at school by my fairer friends or get excluded at games. No teacher left me out of cultural activities just because I probably needed an extra layer of make-up on me. Yes, mild jibes would come once in a while, but nothing that was life-scarring or anything.
I guess it was the typical Indian psyche that I acted on. There were so many ads on TV that showed the dark-skinned girl left behind in the race of life and love, and the fair-skinned beauty rising up to the occasion and claiming her spot at the top of the world, that I also wanted to be that confident fair girl. The girl who will always be confident about her looks, the girl who will have a line of boys behind her, the one who realizes all her dreams, the one who gets recognized. And then three were the popular girls in school who were fair and popular and had the maximum number of guys vying for their attention. I didn’t want to be left behind. I used to do everything possible in my ability (and my dad’s pocket) to be that girl. If anyone suggested a face pack that would be good for my skin, I’ll use it. If there’s a new cream that’s being shown on ads, I’ll have it soon as it is out in the market. I would read obsessively about beauty tips and how to make your skin look better. I would not eat vegetable or fruits, but would rather put them on my face. If my mom had trouble making me eat any, she would say, “It’s good for your skin”, and it would go in instantly. (She still tries that old trick with me. What can I say. Your daughter's grown up, Mommy!)
Then as I grew older, I realized that the colour of your skin is of least importance. (And no, I will not go into clichés and say that it is the colour of your heart, not the colour of your skin that matters. Because, well, I’m no authority on that.) To all those people who said “ She’s so pretty, even though she’s dark” with the tone of surprise, I used to bear my fangs and defend my colour sisters. I would say, and still continue to say, “What do you mean, even though she’s dark?? Can’t dark women be beautiful??!’ And then I would go on to take the examples of Nandita Das, Cleopatra, and now, of yours truly :) . I had even considered filing a case against all these fairness cream companies for portraying the whole thing in such a bad light, for making the country a difficult place to live in for the dark ones. For being the main reason why people give matrimonial ads that go “Wanted Bride: Fair and good looking, education doesn’t matter”, “Wanted Bride for Tall, white, handsome boy. Studied till 10th standard. Did we mention white and handsome?”, for being the cause of so many dowry deaths in the country, where the father had to pay a few lakhs extra because his daughter was a tad darker than her husband, and when the money still failed to make her any fairer, they killed her, or worse, for the girl not getting a groom at all.
I’ve learnt to accept my colour, and better still, learnt to love it. The day someone called me dusky, my own skin started to seem exotic to me. I realized I need not worry about having marks on my face, because how much can really be visible on a brown skin. I do not obsess about tanning, nobody’s anyway going to come up to me and say ‘Oh my god, you’ve become so dark!”, because quite frankly, how fair was I in the first place?! I don’t care a damn that my matrimonial ad might not have the words “fair and beautiful” on it, nor do my parents worry about finding a guy for me for the lack of those qualifiers. I used to think that only certain colours would suit me, sticking to mainly greys and blacks and dark colours. But now I go first for the purples and greens and oranges. I do not worry about not getting male attention, because if a guy has to judge me based on my colour, he’s not worth it anyway. Fair may or may not be beautiful, but dark needn’t always be ugly.
And hey, no offense to any of my fair-skinned friends and family. I still think you all are good-looking :). You’re fair, in colour and in spirit.
If Rajnikanth can be a superstar, so can I, eh? ;)
Does anyone remember the song 'Karappu thaan yenakku pudiccha colouru..' ?
You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all been through it. Wanting to look fair and lovely. There was a time when I’ve experimented with every damn face cream in the market, or anything that would make my skin lighter. I was obsessed, to say the least. Because in my eyes, being fair was equivalent to being beautiful. And can you blame me? My sister was fair, my mom was fair, her entire family was fair. I took up on my dad’s genes, in every sense. I inherited his looks (lucky him, right? I know), his skin-colour, his adamancy. Sadly (or not, now that I look back) I didn’t inherit his genius for science. I tried my hand at it, but we all know how that went.
I can’t exactly put my finger on what triggered off this obsession with being light-skinned, or when it started. All I remember is tubes of fairness creams, tins of talcum powder and hours spent in front of the mirror. It’s not like my parents ever treated me lesser because I was darker than my sister was. Neither did I get picked on at school by my fairer friends or get excluded at games. No teacher left me out of cultural activities just because I probably needed an extra layer of make-up on me. Yes, mild jibes would come once in a while, but nothing that was life-scarring or anything.
I guess it was the typical Indian psyche that I acted on. There were so many ads on TV that showed the dark-skinned girl left behind in the race of life and love, and the fair-skinned beauty rising up to the occasion and claiming her spot at the top of the world, that I also wanted to be that confident fair girl. The girl who will always be confident about her looks, the girl who will have a line of boys behind her, the one who realizes all her dreams, the one who gets recognized. And then three were the popular girls in school who were fair and popular and had the maximum number of guys vying for their attention. I didn’t want to be left behind. I used to do everything possible in my ability (and my dad’s pocket) to be that girl. If anyone suggested a face pack that would be good for my skin, I’ll use it. If there’s a new cream that’s being shown on ads, I’ll have it soon as it is out in the market. I would read obsessively about beauty tips and how to make your skin look better. I would not eat vegetable or fruits, but would rather put them on my face. If my mom had trouble making me eat any, she would say, “It’s good for your skin”, and it would go in instantly. (She still tries that old trick with me. What can I say. Your daughter's grown up, Mommy!)
Then as I grew older, I realized that the colour of your skin is of least importance. (And no, I will not go into clichés and say that it is the colour of your heart, not the colour of your skin that matters. Because, well, I’m no authority on that.) To all those people who said “ She’s so pretty, even though she’s dark” with the tone of surprise, I used to bear my fangs and defend my colour sisters. I would say, and still continue to say, “What do you mean, even though she’s dark?? Can’t dark women be beautiful??!’ And then I would go on to take the examples of Nandita Das, Cleopatra, and now, of yours truly :) . I had even considered filing a case against all these fairness cream companies for portraying the whole thing in such a bad light, for making the country a difficult place to live in for the dark ones. For being the main reason why people give matrimonial ads that go “Wanted Bride: Fair and good looking, education doesn’t matter”, “Wanted Bride for Tall, white, handsome boy. Studied till 10th standard. Did we mention white and handsome?”, for being the cause of so many dowry deaths in the country, where the father had to pay a few lakhs extra because his daughter was a tad darker than her husband, and when the money still failed to make her any fairer, they killed her, or worse, for the girl not getting a groom at all.
I’ve learnt to accept my colour, and better still, learnt to love it. The day someone called me dusky, my own skin started to seem exotic to me. I realized I need not worry about having marks on my face, because how much can really be visible on a brown skin. I do not obsess about tanning, nobody’s anyway going to come up to me and say ‘Oh my god, you’ve become so dark!”, because quite frankly, how fair was I in the first place?! I don’t care a damn that my matrimonial ad might not have the words “fair and beautiful” on it, nor do my parents worry about finding a guy for me for the lack of those qualifiers. I used to think that only certain colours would suit me, sticking to mainly greys and blacks and dark colours. But now I go first for the purples and greens and oranges. I do not worry about not getting male attention, because if a guy has to judge me based on my colour, he’s not worth it anyway. Fair may or may not be beautiful, but dark needn’t always be ugly.
And hey, no offense to any of my fair-skinned friends and family. I still think you all are good-looking :). You’re fair, in colour and in spirit.
If Rajnikanth can be a superstar, so can I, eh? ;)
Does anyone remember the song 'Karappu thaan yenakku pudiccha colouru..' ?
February 15, 2011
I'm a girl
I will haggle with the auto driver and vegetable vendor for 5 rupees, but will buy a kajal for 400 bucks.
I will stand in front of a wardrobe full of clothes for twenty minutes and sigh “I have nothing to wear”, and yet, I will refuse to give away any of those clothes.
If someone is ill, I will give them a medicine and tell them to cut the drama and to stop over-reacting, but will bring the universe down if I so much as sneeze.
I will mess up my room if I want, but if someone else walks in and moves even a speck of dust, I will attack.
When I get a craving to eat something, I will pester my friends till they take me to a restaurant, and once there, I will order something entirely different on the menu. And eat two bites and say I’m full.
I will criticize Aishwarya Rai’s nose and Priyanka Chopra’s lips, but will practice the Miss India gasp with a dupatta-made-into-a-sash and a cardboard tiara with Turmeric-and-cream face-pack all over my face in the confines of my room.
Oh that movie that won all those awards? So zzzzzzzzzzz… But I will imagine my hairbrush to be a mike and my Barbie doll to be the statuette and give the thank you speech for that very movie in front of the mirror.
I have no idea who won the Battle of Waterloo or how many years the second world war was fought. But I will know which star couple is getting divorced and that Gerard Butler was yummy in 300.
I will claim to be modern, but If I see a black cat crossing my path,I will freeze and worry about what will go wrong that day. I will also notice that it was a very dirty cat.
If a tramp at the bus-stop letches at me, I will feel violated. If a good-looking guy doesn’t give me a second glance, I will feel offended.
If there are two eggs and a packet of Maggi at home, a typical debate between Me and Myself about what I should have for breakfast on a Sunday morning would go like this- “Hmmm, there are two eggs and a pack of Maggi. What should I have for breakfast? Or should I just skip breakfast altogether and have lunch in a while since it’s already 11. But I’m hungry now, so I guess I will have something to eat now. So should I have the eggs or maggi? If I have eggs now, what’ll I do for lunch, there are no other vegetables at home. Then maybe I’ll have maggi for lunch and eggs now. So how should I have the eggs? Scrambled? Omlette? Poached? Boiled? Scrambled will be nice, but I have no onions at home. So I guess I can’t make omlette either. So then I’ll have poached. But I had poached egg last night also and I’m a little sick of it. Maybe I’ll have Maggi now. But then again, what will I have for lunch?” By which time, it’ll be lunchtime anyway.
High heels are sexy. So what if I have a twisted ankle and have to lie flat on my back because of a bad back for the next five days.
I will talk endlessly and not give anyone peace of mind. But when there is an argument and it is important to communicate and sort things out, I will give them the silent treatment.
I will say ‘I’m fine’ when that’s the last thing I obviously am.
I will say ‘Nothing’ when there is quite clearly something wrong.
If somebody asks me what’s wrong, I will talk about the billboard on the road, the 2g scam, Sonu Sood’s biceps, my grandmother’s fish curry, my neighbour’s kid’s new plastic ship. I will talk about everything but what is wrong.
I will forgive. Not forget.
I will tolerate the first time, the second time, the fifth time, the hundredth time. The 101st time, you’re out of my life.
When I say, “If you don’t know what you did wrong, then I’m not going to tell you”, chances are, even I don’t know what you did wrong.
I may not remember who I went to school with for 12 years, but that cute guy who I had a crush on who lived in the building next to my cousin’s who I visited during the summer holidays all those years ago? I will remember even a mole on his cheek.
If I’m depressed, I will not try to kill myself or get drunk. I will go get a haircut. It’s as simple as that.
If I’m angry with you, I will not even look at your face. Even if you’re a Greek God here on earth for an internship.
I will not remember the lessons I learnt in school, but I will know by rote the lyrics of obscure Hindi songs that no one has even heard of.
Organic chemistry and physics seems ridiculous, but Bollywood movies and crappy reality TV will totally make sense to me.
I may fall in love in an instant, but will take an hour and many choices to decide what I want to have for dinner.
I may lash out at a guy for not wanting to settle down and being commitment-phobic even after years of dating, but if a guy comes along who is very sweet and proposes marriage after a month of dating, I will think there’s something wrong with him and try to shake him off.
If I want to be left alone, I will make sure I take my space. But if a guy does the same, I will think that he doesn’t love me anymore.
I will spell Czechoslovakia in 10 seconds. But it'll take you a lifetime to get a sorry out of me.
If a girl is reserved, she’s mysterious and intelligent. If a guy is reserved, he’s spaced out and a whacko who’s probably a closet rapist.
I will retch after drinking a spoon of cough syrup, but vodka and wine will be next to nectar.
I will generalize.
I’m a girl.
Don’t try to figure my species out.
I will stand in front of a wardrobe full of clothes for twenty minutes and sigh “I have nothing to wear”, and yet, I will refuse to give away any of those clothes.
If someone is ill, I will give them a medicine and tell them to cut the drama and to stop over-reacting, but will bring the universe down if I so much as sneeze.
I will mess up my room if I want, but if someone else walks in and moves even a speck of dust, I will attack.
When I get a craving to eat something, I will pester my friends till they take me to a restaurant, and once there, I will order something entirely different on the menu. And eat two bites and say I’m full.
I will criticize Aishwarya Rai’s nose and Priyanka Chopra’s lips, but will practice the Miss India gasp with a dupatta-made-into-a-sash and a cardboard tiara with Turmeric-and-cream face-pack all over my face in the confines of my room.
Oh that movie that won all those awards? So zzzzzzzzzzz… But I will imagine my hairbrush to be a mike and my Barbie doll to be the statuette and give the thank you speech for that very movie in front of the mirror.
I have no idea who won the Battle of Waterloo or how many years the second world war was fought. But I will know which star couple is getting divorced and that Gerard Butler was yummy in 300.
I will claim to be modern, but If I see a black cat crossing my path,I will freeze and worry about what will go wrong that day. I will also notice that it was a very dirty cat.
If a tramp at the bus-stop letches at me, I will feel violated. If a good-looking guy doesn’t give me a second glance, I will feel offended.
If there are two eggs and a packet of Maggi at home, a typical debate between Me and Myself about what I should have for breakfast on a Sunday morning would go like this- “Hmmm, there are two eggs and a pack of Maggi. What should I have for breakfast? Or should I just skip breakfast altogether and have lunch in a while since it’s already 11. But I’m hungry now, so I guess I will have something to eat now. So should I have the eggs or maggi? If I have eggs now, what’ll I do for lunch, there are no other vegetables at home. Then maybe I’ll have maggi for lunch and eggs now. So how should I have the eggs? Scrambled? Omlette? Poached? Boiled? Scrambled will be nice, but I have no onions at home. So I guess I can’t make omlette either. So then I’ll have poached. But I had poached egg last night also and I’m a little sick of it. Maybe I’ll have Maggi now. But then again, what will I have for lunch?” By which time, it’ll be lunchtime anyway.
High heels are sexy. So what if I have a twisted ankle and have to lie flat on my back because of a bad back for the next five days.
I will talk endlessly and not give anyone peace of mind. But when there is an argument and it is important to communicate and sort things out, I will give them the silent treatment.
I will say ‘I’m fine’ when that’s the last thing I obviously am.
I will say ‘Nothing’ when there is quite clearly something wrong.
If somebody asks me what’s wrong, I will talk about the billboard on the road, the 2g scam, Sonu Sood’s biceps, my grandmother’s fish curry, my neighbour’s kid’s new plastic ship. I will talk about everything but what is wrong.
I will forgive. Not forget.
I will tolerate the first time, the second time, the fifth time, the hundredth time. The 101st time, you’re out of my life.
When I say, “If you don’t know what you did wrong, then I’m not going to tell you”, chances are, even I don’t know what you did wrong.
I may not remember who I went to school with for 12 years, but that cute guy who I had a crush on who lived in the building next to my cousin’s who I visited during the summer holidays all those years ago? I will remember even a mole on his cheek.
If I’m depressed, I will not try to kill myself or get drunk. I will go get a haircut. It’s as simple as that.
If I’m angry with you, I will not even look at your face. Even if you’re a Greek God here on earth for an internship.
I will not remember the lessons I learnt in school, but I will know by rote the lyrics of obscure Hindi songs that no one has even heard of.
Organic chemistry and physics seems ridiculous, but Bollywood movies and crappy reality TV will totally make sense to me.
I may fall in love in an instant, but will take an hour and many choices to decide what I want to have for dinner.
I may lash out at a guy for not wanting to settle down and being commitment-phobic even after years of dating, but if a guy comes along who is very sweet and proposes marriage after a month of dating, I will think there’s something wrong with him and try to shake him off.
If I want to be left alone, I will make sure I take my space. But if a guy does the same, I will think that he doesn’t love me anymore.
I will spell Czechoslovakia in 10 seconds. But it'll take you a lifetime to get a sorry out of me.
If a girl is reserved, she’s mysterious and intelligent. If a guy is reserved, he’s spaced out and a whacko who’s probably a closet rapist.
I will retch after drinking a spoon of cough syrup, but vodka and wine will be next to nectar.
I will generalize.
I’m a girl.
Don’t try to figure my species out.
February 8, 2011
The sound of booze-ic
This was posted on my FB account first. Thought I'll share it here as well. After all, it is my magnum opus. :P
"Dedicated to my dear friend Arun John -
Do,a beer, a pint of beer.
Pray, a drop of old monk rum.
Whiskey,a range,to drown yourself,
Bar,for many the chosen one.
So,a bottle of smirnoff red,
Ha,a peg to drown sorrow,
Eeee,if i go on i'm dead!
And that'l bring us back to...you..oo.oo..
FYI: Please do try to make it to my memorial service. Arun will let you know the details once he's murdered me.Thankyouverymuch"
"Dedicated to my dear friend Arun John -
Do,a beer, a pint of beer.
Pray, a drop of old monk rum.
Whiskey,a range,to drown yourself,
Bar,for many the chosen one.
So,a bottle of smirnoff red,
Ha,a peg to drown sorrow,
Eeee,if i go on i'm dead!
And that'l bring us back to...you..oo.oo..
FYI: Please do try to make it to my memorial service. Arun will let you know the details once he's murdered me.Thankyouverymuch"
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