Random Monday

Ek fairness cream jo sab kuch karta hain.

Ha, sab kuch. Aapko gora banata hain, jawaan banata hain. Ghar saaf karta hain, barthan dhotha hai, kapde dhotha hain, khaana banata hai, jhaado-poncha martha hain, baccho ke sussu-potty dhotha hai, subah-subah aapko neend se jagaatha hai, aapke liye chai-naashta banata hai. Raat ko kahaniyaan bhi sunata hai. Zaroorat pade tho khujli bhi karke deta hain.

Aapka fairness cream kya karta hain?

Do you want it to be translated into Inglees? Alright then.

A fairness cream that does everything.

Yes, everything. It’ll make you fairer, make you look younger. Cleans your house, washes vessels, washes clothes, cooks, does sweeping-swabbing, cleans your kid’s sussu-potty, wakes you up in the morning, makes chai-breakfast for you. Tells you stories at bedtime. If required, it’ll do scratching also for you.

What does your fairness cream do?

P.S 1:- No, haven't gone bonkers. Have you seen the new Olay fairness cream ad? If they make anymore fairness creams, all Indian women are going to look like ghosts.

P.S 2:- Please go read this lady’s blog if you haven’t yet. Very different, very funny.

Just love this song.


Edited to add: Yippe! The Youtube thingy works! Thanks, you guys! :)

The 10-day 'You' Challenge- Seven Wants

I had almost forgotten about this.


1) Money
What? You thought I was some Mother Theresa types?

When I had just finished my M.A., I was one of those who didn’t consider money very important. I was all “What matters is whether I learn the job well and how much I love my job. Money is the last priority.” Ya, that lasted for like, four months. Being perpetually broke is not a great state of being, you see. And it’s not like I want crores and crores of money. No. I just want enough. And how much is enough? I guess that’s relative.

For me, enough would be- if I suddenly get the craving to eat something, I shouldn’t have to think twice about it. If I see a pretty saree and want to buy it for mom, I shouldn’t have to forego something else for it. If I want to buy a bottle of Scotch for dad, I should be able to do it without worrying about whether I’ll have enough money to buy ration for the month. There’s a pretty watch that I think my sister will like, I want to be able to buy it without any worry. If someone in my family falls ill, I want to be able to catch a flight and get there as soon as possible. Or if I fall ill, I should have enough for the hospital bills (which can be exorbitant) If a friend needs money, I want to be able to lend it to him/her. When I’m tired at the end of the day, I want to be able to take an auto without worrying that that’s my dinner money I’m spending and will now have to manage with Maggi.
Is this asking for too much?

2) My own house.
Beautiful houses take me to orgasmic heights (Oh c’mon. Loosen that muscle, will you?). I’m an absolute sucker for them. I’ve stared at houses on the road enough to make the watchmen suspicious of me. I have practically drooled over those coffee-table books that you find in bookstores which have pictures of gorgeous houses. And a house of my own is one of my fondest dreams. I have it all planned out in my head. What the rooms will look like, the verandah (very very important), a ‘nook’, a large airy bedroom with lots of windows- I have it all mapped out. Now all I need is lots of money- or a rich husband, whichever happens first. ;)

And if I want to paint my bedroom purple, I damn well will!!!

3) To travel
I want to see at least my own state properly. People here in Hyderabad tell me “Wow, Kerala is a beautiful place no? Aleppey, Munnar, etc..” And I’m like “Err..ya. So I’ve heard!” I haven’t seen my own state properly! I need to go back there as a tourist one day and roam around. And then I want to travel the rest of India. There’s so much to see, so little money (it’s amusing, isn’t it, how I connect everything to money. Or maybe not. Sigh…).

4) To open a bookstore.
No surprises here, since I love bookstores so much. I want to open one of those quaint little stores with stone benches outside and winding wooden staircase inside (yes, I’m a BIG fan of Enid Blyton). Not too big, but a cozy little place where people can come sit and read and unwind.

5) My own bakery
Isn’t it heavenly, the scent that greets you when you walk into a bakery? I love it. I’ve always been fascinated by cakes and pastries etc. And some day, I want to learn how to bake those wonderful things and start my own bakery. Of course, that I might end up eating most of the things myself is another matter.

6) To write a book.
Ha… someday.

7) To be an awesome cook. And have a fabulous kitchen.


I love cooking. Especially if there is someone else to cook for. If I’m alone, I’ll probably cook just Maggi or pasta or khichdi. But if there is someone I can cook for, I give it my best. It’s the second best feeling in the world when others appreciate my cooking, the first one being appreciation for my writing. And I’m not the kind who can manage with just three spoons and two utensils. I need specific vessels for everything. And I obsess for days if I mess up a dish. It’s the only positive trait I managed to inherit from Mumsy darling.


# Is anyone out there as much a lover of old Hindi songs as I am? Here's one of my all-time favourites.
By the way, how do I add a Youtube video to my post as not just a link, but the actual video?

In case you are scratching your head over what this is all about:-
Ten Secrets, Nine Loves and Eight Fears.

Shades of blue

FB is like this annoying ex-boyfriend who I have broken up with but still can’t stop talking about, even if it is to bitch about him. Remember Carrie obsessing over Big?

So while I’m happy that I deactivated my account, I leave no oppurtunity to tell people that I quit FB. I get some sort of weird pleasure when they get shocked and ask me why, and I answer “Because I got bored.” Some think I quit because ‘something happened’. Some think I’m just plain mental to have quit. Some others think I’ll be back sooner than I can say ‘I’m bored.’

So here’s the real reason why I quit.

I had absolutely nothing to do on it. I mean, I had stopped updating status messages (my creativity had shriveled down to the size of goat poop), I hardly uploaded pics, I never logged on to chat, I rarely changed my profile pic, I had stopped linking my blog posts also. And yet, I logged on every half an hour. For what joy? God knows. And then when I see that nothing new is happening, I would get pissed off all over again. I would worry over taking a good picture so that I would get a lot of likes and comments on it. Taking pics was not about preserving memories anymore. It was for the sole purpose of uploading it on FB. And the quirkier the picture, the better. Normal is boring, you see.

The worst part? I see my friends- girls I studied in school and college with- getting married and having babies. First the green-eyed monster rears its head. Then the blue-toned monster takes over- depression (what an irony that the colour of FB is also blue). Depression that I’m not married, that I’m not even close to getting married. That I don’t have a baby. That the only vacation I take is to TVM and B’lore. That I’m constantly broke by the end of the month. That I don’t have a kick-ass figure like that old friend who used to be fat in school. That I don’t have radiant skin and perfect hair like the wife of the most geeky guy in class. That compared to many people I had studied with, I've reached nowhere in life.

It was getting stressful. And frustrating. Honestly. I mean, ya, I know I should be thankful for a lot many things that I have in life. And I am thankful for all that.

But sometimes, I just go into one of those moods where I mope and mourn over what I don’t have and how badly I want it. Where it hits me real hard that I have absolutely no direction in life.

I’m sorry. I’m just going through a crappy phase right now. Will be back with less-depressing posts soon. If my creativity hasn’t shriveled down to the size of a mustard by then. I promise.

The 8th wonder- Television

Imagine a buxom blonde, big boobs, pearly white teeth, silky straight hair. In a colourful bikini. She’s one of the participants on a contest-type show. The audience is cheering her on. It's one of those shows that has been dubbed, so the white American host is speaking in flawless Telugu as though he was born and brought up in Machlipatnam.

The contest? The blonde has to hold a chaddi in her hands in the way you hold it when you’re about to wear it (please, I cannot get any more descriptive than this). Then holding it a few inches away from her body, at a little below knee-level, she has to jump into it and out of it. Into it, out of it. Into it, out of it. You get the picture? She has to get both legs into it and right up to her bikini-clad bums each time, only then it is counted. She is given a minute to jump in and out of the chaddi smoothly and given points for each time she does it perfectly. Then everyone claps.

Imagine a guy wearing a t-shirt and an underwear doing the same thing.

Now imagine what I must have gone through watching this on TV last night on Maa Junior (their perception of what is 'junior' is skewed, clearly). I vaguely remember the blonde being gifted a jewelled underwear for her wonderfully wet-dreamesque performance.

Maybe I wasn’t missing all that much when I didn’t have a TV, after all…

The old monk who sold his rum.

So the story goes, there was once an old monk who lived in one of those lands that are always so far far away. He was a travelling monk. He had denounced all worldly pleasures and used to roam around the land. He was given food by kind people. He was dressed sparsely, a simple saffron robe protecting him from the elements of nature. He never spoke much and only uttered a few chants to bless the people who gave him food. But he could always be seen muttering something under his breath, maybe prayers.

He walked most of the time, head bent low and arms swinging on his sides. He only carried with him a saffron-coloured cloth bag, in which he kept all the things he owned in this world- a string of prayer beads, a notebook, a pencil carved out of wood and a bottle of rum. The rum kept him warm during the harsh winter days and nights. He made it himself. His forefathers had taught him how to.

One day, when he was out on one of his walks, he passed by an inn. He was stopped short by the heavenly fragrance of something delicious being cooked. He generally didn’t give in to temptations like this. He was a monk, after all. But this time, he couldn’t resist. He walked into the inn and up to the manager.

“What is that heavenly scent wafting from your kitchens, oh good man?”

“That is the scent of a new dish that we’ve discovered, oh monk.”

“What new dish?”

“It is made of rice and chicken mixed together, with spices and other things. It’s called Chicken Biryani.”

“Would you be so kind as to let me savour it, good man?”

“But of course! I cannot refuse a pious man like you! Please have a seat.”

As the inn-keeper walked out of the kitchen with a plateful of Biryani, his wife, who had overheard the whole conversation, flew into a rage and hissed at her husband. “What do you think you’re doing?! The rice and chicken, and especially the spices, are very expensive. We spent a lot of money on buying the stuff. How can you just give it away for free??!!"

“But dear woman, he is a monk. I cannot take anything from him. Plus, I don’t think he carries any money with him.”

“I don’t care. I cannot give it away for free.”

The inn-keeper reluctantly walked up to the monk with the heaped plate and told him shame-facedly “Oh good monk, please pardon me. But my wife is unwilling to give this dish away for free, as it cost us a lot to prepare. We would require payment for this.”

“But I do not have any money.”

“I understand, oh monk. Is there anything else you can give in exchange?”

The monk rummaged in his bag and pulled out the only thing he could bear parting with- his bottle of rum. He handed it over to the inn-keeper, who accepted it gratefully.

“Thank you, good old man. I hope you enjoy your meal.”

The monk took a bite. He closed his eyes and let the taste of the dish sink in. He seemed to be at peace. “This is delicious. Would you mind pouring me a bit of that rum too, dear inn-keeper?”


And that’s how the monk sold his rum. He passed on the recipe to the inn-keeper,who perfected the art of making it and named it after the person who has sold it to him. Old Monk Rum.

And that’s why, to this day, Chicken Biryani tastes best with a bit of Old Monk Rum.



P.S:- No offence to monks, sages, any community, religion, or class of people. I request you to take this with a pinch of salt and a plateful of yummy Biryani.

*To know the actual story, kindly go Google it up. And send me a link if you find it.*

Dedicated to a certain somebody for introducing me to the Old Monk.

*Images courtesy Google.