Deep in the Deserts of Depression.

You switch moods like a chameleon, hoping they will be able to see beneath the shape-shifting. Only to find that they're all too busy covering up their changing colours themselves.

You think the world owes you something for being who you are, only to discover that the world doesn't really care.

You believe that all existence is about procreation, and then cry your heart out over infidelities.

You depend on so many things to make yourself happy, only to realise that at some point it's all bound to leave you, all alone.

You knock on a door, expecting someone on the other side to greet you with open arms. Only, the arms are busy holding somebody else.

You trust yourself on being a strong believer of many things, only to find out that the heavens are merciless to those who believe they can write their own fate.

You keep wondering how to get out of this impenetrable pit of self-pity, only to learn that all it takes is will power to get over it.

Mathematics, Death and Lessons of Life.

Last night, my Math teacher from school was struggling for life at Mayya Hospital.
Last night, I heard of his condition.
Last night, I was caught between going to see him and not seeing him.
Last night, I half-consoled myself by calling his daughter and telling her I would come this morning to see him.

This morning, my procastination was laid to rest with my teacher. He passed away last night.

Let me begin at the beginning. It's going to be a fairly long post, because I have a lot to say, a lot to regret.

I joined Stella Maris High School in 1994-95 and passed out in 1998. In those three years of schooling, I was exposed to a plethora of cultural activities, clubs and academic opportunities that the school was well-known for. My parents had tried for admission there when I was in the third, tried again when I was ready for high school. The first time, the headmistress had accused me of not being educated enough to join, the second time I got in because two years earlier my cousin had passed out as a topper and a School Pupil Leader. They must have seen potential.

I hated being judged, still do. I hated the school all the more because they let me in on the basis of my cousin being there. Most of my eighth standard passed in teachers sizing me up in comparison to my cousin, trying to guage my intelligence, how good I was. I carried my head high, nose up in the air - only I knew it wasn't snobbishness, but insecurity and a fear of being hurt, judged.

By the end of the first year, though, I proved my potential. Thanks to a highly caustic, non-secular remark by Ms. Ananthalakshmi. I had just become part of a 'group', and was busy talking with them during class when Ms. A suddenly picked me out and sprung a Physics question on me. I didn't know what to say, I was so unprepared for it. So she asked me what I spoke at home, and I said Urdu, and she mumbled, "Oh, Muslim. That's why." All the things I'd heard about her being a nice soul flew out of the window. Ever since, I tried hardest in her class and by the end of the year, I was one of her favourites. I remember her maun vrat days most, days when she never spoke and instead gave us things to write or read, using sign language.

Then I was part of the Drama Club and Literary Club. I took part extensively in dramatics, volleyball (my favourite game ever), Hindi essay competitions, won stuff for the school etc. etc.

My first encounter with Master Balachandra was immediately after a play we'd put up to introduce the Drama Club. He smiled and congratulated me on a good performance.

My second encounter was when he taught us Math in the ninth standard. And the tenth.

He was a superb teacher, rewarding us when we did well and chiding us when we didn't. He spoke to us like we were intelligent adults. I remember getting chalk thrown at when I was talking in his class once, and another time getting into an argument with him over some test marks or something. He was great fun in class, and even better outside of it - school trips, events and sometimes, even counselling. He loved his students, and we in turn reciprocated the feeling.

Then graduation happened, and I left school with one thought - although I loved the place, the education and the memories it had given me, I would never come back. For a very simple reason - favouritism. Something that happens even in my work life. There are students who are expected to come back, without care about the rest. Students who promise tremendous potential as alumnis, students who need to be taken care of. I wasn't for it. And the only way I could refuse to let it affect me was by never going back. I went only once, when the school felicitated me for scoring the highest marks in Hindi in the board exams. That day, when I met my teachers, most were... indifferent. Except, I remember, Master Balachandra and a few others. He was rushing to class, but stopped and chatted with us anyway.

It's been eight years since I passed out of Stella Maris. I think about school every once in a while, remember the good times I had, sometimes am even tempted to go back but never do. It's something I have been proud of- the fact that everytime I leave a place, I never revisit it. Thus far, I mistook it for being courageous enough to leave the past and move on.

Then things happened to my teachers - Mrs. Bhagyalakshmi lost her son and her father (I think) and she went to pieces; Ms. Kalavathi, who taught us Geometry in the most arbid but adorable manner, passed away; the high school principal changed. The incidents tugged me towards school, but I never made it.

Today, as Mr. Balachandra is already on his way to his allotted space in the afterlife, I realise that it wasn't really courage that held me back, but cowardice. I was afraid of rejection, of not being recognised, not being somebody to anybody who were once so much to me. It's a fear that, after 23 years of 'growing up', I have never been able to overcome.

Which is perhaps, why, I cling to people I grow close to. I become dependent on them. And in the process, I dissolve boundaries marked with a 'private' board and mess just... mess things up. I just lost a dear friend that way today. But I do hope he stays happy.

I regret not going to school last Sunday for the fest, where Master Balachandra bumped into my mother (who's a teacher too and had accompanied her school children there) and asked after me - how I was, where was I working and so on. I regret not going to school and speaking with my teachers, spending more moments with them to cherish. I regret not smiling back at my grandfather when he was on his way to the hospital where he would breathe his last - he gave me a smile that said so much, and I hate myself for not reaching out halfway to meet him in that moment.

It's not just regrets that reinforced their way into my life today, it's also a lesson - two actuallty - that I learnt.

I understood what it means when people say, "Live every moment like it's your last." I think realising that anything could happen to you any moment makes you be so much nicer towards people, so much kinder towards yourself. You become human, and expect yourself to make mistakes. You make an effort to reach out to those who were close to you, who you lost touch with, and rekindle warm feelings between you, to feel good about things when life takes a turn for the worse.

I learnt that the only way to come to terms with life is to come to terms with it yourself. I was grieved yesterday to learn about my dying teacher, life ebbing out of him with every passing moment, the same man who walked jauntily into class, spread cheer around him, made us laugh, made us cry, moulded us into better people so we were able to face the world outside the protective walls of convent education. I needed to talk to somebody about him. The first person I turned to was a friend I value more than my life - he said he was mind-fucked and would call back a little later; then the friend who I lost today - he said he was busy; and finally, a friend I turned to but the soothing words offered just seemed like an act.

I remembered what it was like to be alone again, I remembered how I used to be able to deal with these things myself, and how I'd lost the habit because I now depended on people for emotional fulfillment. I questioned the wisdom of it, and am still trying to draw a conclusion.

I wish I could make the regrets go away.
I wish I could untangle this web of emotions.
I wish I could have gone yesterday to visit Master Balachandra.

Compromise.

This is a continuation of the 'If Marriages are made in heaven' piece.

A piece of information kept hidden in the recesses of my mind was brought to the fore while I was travelling today. Talking about the middle path - that of an unsatisfying marriage that can't be put an end to simply because of society or whatever other reasons - I just realised that I'd heard of one such wedded couple years back from a classmate. I pass their house everyday, and never fail to wonder how they manage. It's weird, really - they live in different sections of the same house, with different gates leading up to it, different rooms, bedrooms, living rooms et al. The only thing they probably share is the kitchen. It's been an arrangement in practice for decades.

Given this, I have a thought to share aloud: why do people get married in the first place if they're going to decide to go their separate ways? Is that brief period of togetherness worth a lifetime of moving from one partner to the other, or regaining the freedom that's the prerogative of singlehood? I've even seen it among a handful of friends, had a taste of it first-hand.

Really, I'm confused.

"Oooooo, shiver me timbers!"

There's a new little 'rule' I've added to my everyday routine: complimenting at least one person a day, and genuinely at that. It's just something that's stuck to me since I read this little booklet titled 'Life's little rule book'. It had things like, 'make sure you buy great books even if you don't read them' and 'always keep a flower on your desk, even if it's a wild flower'. There are plenty of little rules I still follow but don't remember what they are because they've become such a habit.

Anyway, coming back to where I left off, compliments are something everybody gets. Surprisingly, even I get them. There was a time when it was impossible to handle them because I never knew how to react (these days, I've realised that the best thing to do is smile and say, "Thank you"), or I never saw myself the way people who complimented me did. I still don't. Which is why, when I got a few never-heard-of-before compliments, I was quite surprised. So surprised that I made a note of them, because I knew I'd never hear them again. Here's the list, it's not very long. Oh, by the way, it may seem like a fairly narcissistic exercise but what the heck, you only get compliments like these once!

Ahem... quoted verbatim:
1. You've got nice hands. (This from a man who thinks hands speak a lot about women, and are perhaps the most turning-on feature in her. And yes, I hit it off with him like a house on fire.)
2. There’s something you’ve done with your eyes today that makes you look ravishing. (Ooooo!)
3. You're a concept. (Well, it doesn't sound much like a compliment, but like I said, I'll probably never hear something like it ever again.)
4. You look like an old painting. (It doesn't sound too good, but {a}it came from an art director and {b}the dreamy look on his face said it all. Besides, I thought it was... charming.)

The comeback*.

* Thank you Moby.

The End. (No, the 'beginning' cliche doesn't follow.)

A friend who, i presume, reads (both) my blogs regularly, once told me in a burst of honesty (brought on by the truth serum or the vodka, i'm not too sure) that my blogging sucks. I also happen to have comments from an 'anonymous blogger' who's commented on my writing - 'boring', 'could have done better'... I wasn't too sure about what these people were talking about until i checked out a few other blogs by fellow bloggers. And boy, i sure did realise that my blogging does suck.

Hence i have decided, that from this day on, there will be no more trash adding to the already massive collection of junk on the infinite Web.

This blog is unofficially terminated.

Culture Chaos

Hampi.
The town (wish I could say city, sounds so much more glamorous) of ruins from the Vijaynagar empire.
The town that's brimming with temples, rocks and soul space.
The town where you're better off not wearing the Indian tag for all to see. Doing so is guaranteed to earn you the scummiest of looks.

It's understandable. Firangs probably give the commercial establishments more business. Why else would every other restaurant - like a Muthuswamy Tiffins - boast a sign board with "Recommended in Lonely Planet in 1985" printed on it in big letters? Why else would a child of eleven years sell postcards of Hampi saying, "Wudya la-ikh to bai some paostcards madame?"

Ground floors and first floors of homes are converted into rooms with double beds, hot running water, 'shower baths' and 'laundry'. Some others are transformed into dimly-lit, big tents flaunting posters of Lakshmi, Shiva and the Sun Gods over long tables set out for breakfasts, lunches and dinners. The menu has more of Chinese, Italian - even Israeli food - than it has Indian. The pastas and falafals are more palatable than the kormas and chapatis.

Take Prince, for instance. On our first night at Hampi, we went there for dinner. We were told the place was pretty well-known for its bhaang lassi. The day was a very active one and the restaurant was a hundered yards away from where we were staying, so we decided we could afford to get a little tipsy. This TDH (thank you, Mills&Boons) South Indian walked up to us and said in his accented English, "You'll have to place your orders quick, because the kitchen closes at ten". It was just five past eight.

Little did we realise what was happening.

I'm terrible when it comes to making up my mind on ordering food, so while my friends decided quickly, I mulled over what I wanted to eat. Next thing I know, the man is telling me, "Tell me fast ma'am" in his sternest voice. There was no need to hurry up, but he did. I was a little dazed and my friend came to the rescue, telling him to come back after a couple of minutes.

Meanwhile, the opposite table filled up with a bunch of firangs led by a North Indian stud boy who we affectionately christened MC - short for 'Madar****'. Aura study would reveal his to read as 'I'm cool because I've got a bunch of firangs eating out of my hand'. Oh puh-leez.

Our food took twice as long to come as theirs. We had to put up with Buddha Bar dishing out fusion music - I'm not saying it's bad, but given the circumstances it just added to the pseudo-cool ambience. Then we had to put up with Harry Potter, played for the benefit of the little white kid in the group. Just when we were still contemplating leaving without having dinner, our food arrived. Fake smiles, ass-licking, accents... it's a wonder our fried rice and pasta were digested without too much trouble.

Disillusioned and nearing the end of our meal, we saw an Indian couple enter the place and take a seat close to the big gang. That didn't seem to have any effect on the TDH South Indian either. He ignored them as long as he politely could.

We paid our bills, didn't wait for the change, shook our heads in disgust and walked out of the place.

Shaayari (Ramblings Of A Manic Depressive Workaholic)

Kabhi kurta, kabhi kameez
Kabhi stole, kabhi dupatta
Aji in sab ko chodiye janab
Kaam se hamara pichwada hai phatta.

The heart wants what the heart doesn't want.

I promised to buy a Mercedes SLK Brabus, a Dodge Viper or an Alfa Romeo for someone. Someone special. Three years into my working life, and I still can't afford the rubber on the tyres of any of these vehicles.

Why is it so difficult to save? Why is it that as money increases, our needs do too? My initial days were spent travelling by bus. Now, even if one stops right in front of me, I ignore the conductor's screams and wave at an auto behind it to take me to my destination.

Maybe I'm too used to the good life. Maybe I'm just plain lazy. Maybe it's both.

Truth be told, I don't value money any more. And I'm ashamed to say it. I'm greedy for more, simply because I can't seem to have enough to do all I want. And what does that mean? I want to eat good food - it's my weakness, one that was kept in check while I was in college because money was limited. I want to indulge in retail therapy everytime I'm pissed with work or life - which is almost every day - not realising that my cupboard is overflowing with tops, pants, linen wear, salwar kameezes, even saris.

I want everything I see, simply because I can afford to buy it. Once in a while, though, that little thing usually asleep inside me - some call it good sense - stops me from spending needlessly. "Hey! I love that top, I think I'll look good in it. It's quite expensive though... But it's worth a buy, designer stuff..."

"Hold on to your horses honey!", says good sense, "Do you even need it in the first place? Can't you get something like it stitched with that cotton bit at home for a lot cheaper?" Ah. What would I do without dear ol' her?

Then there are the times when I'm broke. Oh, the temptation to indulge then!! To draw a bad analogy, it's like a bitch in heat - she wants to 'do it' real bad when she's least unable to do it. It happened to me just yesterday - not the heat part, but the temptation to indulge. When I went for dinner to 100 Ft. The place is charming. What takes the cake, though, is all the stuff spread out all over the place - clothes (sigh), footwear (siiiiiigh) and other lifestyle products. I must have left quite a few traces of drool behind. I wanted to pick up everything in sight (especially the bed and a pair of slip-ons - I kept gravitating towards them). I just didn't have the money for it.

Then there was the Anokhi store I went to in Mumbai. On display was the most gorgeous sari I have seen in my entire life. A mix of turmeric and mustard yellow, with gold checks woven in. A sight for sore eyes, I have thus far been unable to get over the trauma of not picking it up - it cost a mere six thousand bucks, almost half of my monthly income. I would have picked it up even, had not the prospect of not being left with money for the rest of my vacation scared me. And the fact that it would fall prey to my mother's constantly-on-the-lookout-for-something-gorgeous eyes.

These days I'm into comfort buying - I go book shopping when I'm down. It's a much cheaper habit, and one I don't regret in the least. So far, I've managed to amass a fairly good collection of books that includes Roald Dahls, Asterixes, other illustrated comics and miscellaneous authors.

Of course, I still crib about having plenty of responsibilities and not enough money to fulfill them. And I don't think it's going to change. Not even if my money keeps growing. Because, like I said, my needs will grow with it.

Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red. And Me.

I'm happiness, I'm depression, I'm choleric, I'm sanguine, I'm me. That's the succession of thoughts running through my head as I watched the plane take off from the Mumbai Airport and tremble onward over the sea. After a minor fiasco at the airport which involved going through a security check twice (and a little raised-eyebrow, "do you mind?" session with a travelling companion), I was glad to know I'd bagged the window seat.

Take-off is one of the most amazing sensations I have ever experienced - everything inside you just...dips, and rests in the soles of your feet. The air hostess announced that we were required to keep our seat belts on as we were going over water. I peeped out of the window and saw muddy waves running over each other, classic KS style. (Yeah, it just struck me - one wave riding on top of the other to see who reached Nirvana faster.) I continued watching with wide-eyed wonder as the airplane travelled almost perpendicular to the ground, over the sea. For a minute I even considered the possibility of us crashing, and me turning into an evil water nymph, wailing all night.

But that wasn't the best part of the journey.

It happened out of the blue. Literally. Clouds ripe with rainwater had closed in on us from all sides, casuing major turbulence and messing with the navigation systems to the extent that we went a little off the route. Finally, we emerged through the deceptively calm mistiness into pure cloud land - milky white clouds all puffed up and drifting around languidly. I was just about to get back to my book - ironically titled "100 shades of white" - when I saw it.

A rainbow. Pastel against the backdrop of clouds. And then vibrant with colour as we crossed cloud country towards a clearing that revealed the colours of the earth in all their glory - dark brown with precise, geometrical patterns of rich green.

I refused to let the vision dissipate, pressing my nose against the glass, foolishly thinking that now, now I could tell people where the rainbow comes from. I wasn't interested in knowing where it ended. I didn't want it to end because it filled me with renewed hope about life. It restored my faith in all things good and pure. It filled me with an insurgent energy.

Then reality happened, and the rainbow vanished. I kept catching glimpses of it, so light and fleeting. But it was enough. I was a new person again. My mind's eye captured the vision in a freeze-frame - the vision of a rainbow thrusting upwards out of nowhere and disappearing into nothing.

Seeing it from 80,000 feet below is exciting, but seeing it from up there...wow. I don't know how many others have seen it from up there, I don't know what they felt when they saw it. But for me, it was an experience I'm not going to forget easily. Life holds many disillusionments for all of us. But it's easier for me to tackle them now because I have this most beautiful image of a rainbow traipsing with me across the sky.

I was strapped in a plane. It was free. I was full of passivity. It was bursting with life. And it was kind enough to infuse some in me too.

Terracotta Dreams

She watered the plant in the terracotta pot
Like she nurtured all her dreams within
It’s where her life ended distraught every night
And a new barren day would begin

She knew the terracotta was fragile, that it could
Break at the exertion of the slightest pressure
Just like she knew she would listen to her parents’ wishes
And slaughter the hopes that she cherished as her treasure

She touched the terracotta with each loving finger
And felt its smooth surface under her tips
She closed her eyes and savoured the feeling
Letting a soft sigh escape through her full lips

She wished her life was just as smooth
Just as purposeful and devoid of pain
She wished with every pore of her being
She wished for it again and again

Then suddenly, with the dawn of a day
Came the news that she was to be married
She ran to her parents seeking some solace
And begged for the event to be tarried

Refused her freedom, she couldn’t bear the thought
Of her hopes and desires getting bruised and battered
Like a sick animal, her only refuge she sought
Only to find the terracotta shattered.

The seeping of life...

Bleah...not a very positive way to start off a piece, but i'm not feeling too positive. I'm feeling...bleah. What a way to make a comeback to blogging after...almost a month (too bleah to calculate exact number of days). That's what a cold does to you. Just drinks up all your energy like it's some squash or something.

It begins with a little wriggle in the nose, like a damn waiting to burst but just biding its time. A little burning behind the eyes, that makes you squeeze them shut real tight and water. A little itch in the throat, the kind that makes you want to claw your flesh out and reach the itchy region. Incidentally, have you tried scratching your throat by doing really weird gymnastics with your tongue? It is such a relief, but a temporary one. When the itching gets back at you for trying to get rid of it, you just go berserk. And you behave like a dog with a bone stuck in its throat.

That's cold. The parasite, the scum, the...the...the ha chooo! Sniffle. I'm just sitting in front of my PC at office and typing like a zombie. I'm not listening, I'm not responding, I have loads to do and I don't care. Siiigh...cough cough! See? I can't even breathe easy!

If the Almighty made us sit on top of the universal food chain, why why why did he not get rid of the...the...the parasite that can bring us right to the bottom level with one sniffle?

I can just imagine the darn thing in my body...one miniscule thing out to party in me at my expense. And there, as it sucks all the energy out of my cells, it calls its friends over to join the gala affair and they drink!!! Drink like there's no tomorrow, like they're drinking out of the fountain of youth or something, the greedy parasites!! And then they'll get so drunk, they'll hitch up with some female parasite and go bonk! bonk! bonk! And the next thing you know, I have littler parasites in me, running loose in my body like its a bloody playground without boundaries!!! And then they'll all drink drink drink like there's no tomorrow and the whole process will be repeated. And then they'll go bonk! bonk! bonk! again and they'll be in bed as long as it takes to create millions more parasites, and then they'll party again! And i'll be in bed too, all alone, sulking, my nose running, writhing in pain. All sick and wiped out and drained of my oh-so-precious energy.

Siiiigh...cough cough! I think I just need to take a ColdAct.

"Kill Me" for the day...

Q:
Which coffee shop do lawyers go to?
A:
Barrister.

Life isn't exciting...or so thought Narcissa.

Everybody says, “My life lacks…you know…excitement.” I myself complain about it all the time.

For most women my age (I think), excitement predominantly stands for a…fling. (Some would disagree and say, a man.)

Not abnormal, but a craving of sorts. Sometimes I feel it too. It’s like I’ve been in and out of troubled waters all my life, and suddenly I’m faced with a bloody placid lake. (Nope, I’m not talking about the movie that goes by the same name, minus the bloody of course.)

Of course, the craving's rare because I have (thankfully) realised that I’ve had my share of men (for now). For breakfast and lunch, but never for dinner – it gives my conscience indigestion. I have also realised that even without the odd binge, my life has been, and still is, a lot of fun. I’ve done a number of things that I can look back on and say, Wow, did I actually do that?

I participated in the first Channel V Pop Stars Hunt because I wanted to miss classes. And the experience was one I’ll always remember… I sang in my ‘fairly-better-than-a-crow’ voice (or tried to sing) in front of Sandeep Chowta and Shubha Mudgal. Take it from me, VJ Gaurav’s ears are larger than life (make your own conclusions out of that) and Sushma Reddy looks like God made her using white paint – she’s that fair.

I rode on the Thunderbird of the ex-CEO (India), Royal Enfield Motorcycles. (Save your breath, I was the pillion.) This was when my friends and I went to Mahabalipuram (Chennai) for three days. On our first day there, our engineer friend spotted the CEO, walked up to him, chatted and before we knew it, he was riding the CEO’s Thunderbird. I volunteered to go along. My best friend, who was sharing this woo-mama chemistry with him at the time, has never forgiven me for riding with him. But what the heck, it was superb. And the Thunderbird… a different high altogether.

I wrote lyrics, and sang in a rap album for a rap star from…can’t remember now. Just for the record, and for the faithless, this one’s true. Another fun experience, and a pretty embarrassing one too. The rapster's name is Naresh and I remember seeing him the first time at office – he sang a rap song for K in front of the whole office on Valentine's Day. Naresh wanted me to write lyrics in Hindi – they would become the chorus of the song – and sing them. Sometimes, when I find it incredible, I listen to the CD it’s copied on to. I never, ever want to sing like that again.

I won a National Award in poetry years ago. Got nothing more to say about this one.

I, or rather my work, was the only Indian finalist among 24 finalists in the 3D Direct Mailer category at the Asia Pacific Advertising Festival. A worthwhile feat if I may say so myself, considering I've spent just three years in the profession.

I was shortlisted for the State Level Volleyball team, but I declined. I must have been insane to do that, but it's too late now for regrets. Of course, if one looks at me now, one finds it hard to believe the story. But hey, looks can be deceptive. (Ah, the joy of clichés.)

I wrote a letter to UNICEF long, long ago saying I was interested in designing cards (they still come out with them), and I’d like all the proceeds to go to UNICEF. I never heard from them. Wonder why.

Plenty, plenty more things. But this seems like enough to cheer me up when I feel like my life has been worthless. It has been and will continue being exciting, because of the things I have done. Crazy things, whacky things, stoopid things. Things that will remind me, from time to time, that I should stay that way and never lose my warped streak of adventure.

"Kill Me" for the day...

Q:
Ever wondered why family trees grow downwards?

"Kill Me" for the day...

Q:
What is Neil Armstrong's favourite mithai?
A:
Ja-moon.

(Suggest a tub of popcorn, some cushioning under the tush and feet resting on a desk.) If Marriages are made in Heaven, where are Divorces made?

Certainly not in hell, I presume. I can think of at least three people I have known at any given point, who have got divorced because of extramarital affairs, domestic violence or just plain ‘we-don’t-have-anything-in-common-anymore’. And take it from me, these people have moved on to much better lifestyles and people. Was marriage made in heaven for them the first time round? Why would the Almighty want to play such a crass joke on any of them?

A guy I was interested in four years ago (or was it more?) was going through his divorce when I met him. After ten years of marriage (it was a funny story…they got married because they got physical), his wife had found someone else – a very close common friend of theirs. A year after the divorce, she married the friend, while he took a tour across India, came back, packed his bags and left for a new life. It was the first time I was ever involved with the man’s side of the story. And surprisingly, it’s not any different from a woman being jilted.

A friend of my mother was married to a man chosen by her parents (another interesting angle to the whole marriage affair – letting your parents choose for you – which I will explore if I have the patience to). All was well the first few months. Then the nightmares began. Violence, drunken abuse, familial insults, being bartered by her husband for money…the accounts are as many as they are horrific. She refused to live with him anymore, and she came back to her parents’ home. I don’t know if the wounds have ever healed, but she sure didn’t let them affect the rest of her life – she went on to do her masters, met her second husband there, took her time and then got married to him. They now have a brat for a son.

On the other extreme of course, you do have marriages that are indeed made in heaven. S and T recently, touch wood, have made it super together. It was a proposal my friend S got when we were in our second year of our bachelor degree days. I remember thinking secretly that she would end up getting married to the guy she said she would “dirty if she touched him, because his skin was so flawlessly fair”. And what do you know; she got married to him on Christmas, 2004. Before their first anniversary, they had the most beautiful baby-girl I have ever had the good fortune to set my eyes on.

Here’s another case study: P and R. From acquaintances introduced through somebody they both knew, to friends, to husband and wife, to soon-to-be mommy and daddy. P is one of those few people I have met who will live her life like she wants to, without offending set social norms. (Only if you try doing it will you know how difficult it is to do so. I keep trying, but my father gets so worried about ‘what people will say’ that after a point, I just give up.) R…well, all I can say about him is that he’s a great guy. On the occasions he’s let down his barricades (no offence Tee) he is awesome fun to be with. And they make the perfect couple – so tuned into each other (not mushy in public, thank God), each knowing what they want, working together towards what they’ve planned their life should be like… in a word, Wow. Someday, I wish to lead a life like that.

Then you have the danglers between these two categories – a majority of the society, if I might add – who are stuck in unsatisfactory marriages and are afraid to do anything about them. Because of society. Because they have children. Or just because they’re so used to taking shit from each other that they’ll feel masochistically bereft of their other halves if they leave.

These cases I can recount to eternity: like R and F. R who, influenced by (I’m assuming) the Mills and Boon Men of her time, insisted on marrying someone who was older and who came from a ‘noble’ profession. F, who was sure older to her – by over 15 years – and was a professor – as noble as one could get in those days. R, who was and will always be, a young woman at heart, full of generosity, warmth and genuine goodness. F who is practical, Id-oriented, loved by his friends and appreciated for his sense of humour. Things that keep them together after nearly 25 years of marriage? Their progeny, and the society. Years of endless abuse followed by a few months of separation, and R came back to live with F only because society was putting pressure on her. What will people say? What if people start bad-mouthing her? How will she get her child married? How long could her fading parents shoulder the burden of her and her child?

I ask myself, what’s the point? None of us is going to take this society to our graves, leave alone the society remembering us after we die – unless we happen to be a Page 3 personality or a highly promiscuous one (both of which more or less go hand-in-hand these days).

After all this thought-provoking soul-searching – some would call it venting – I still haven’t come any closer to figuring out the answer. For some, marriage is a release. For others, a bondage. Likewise for divorce too. As I try to give my meandering, frustrated thoughts a perfect end, I wonder how many couples and divorcees will be able to tell me that if marriages are made in heaven, where divorces are made.

"Kill Me" for the day...

Q:
What was the Tiranga called when the British were ruling in India?
A:
Firanga.

Free writing...tried it before?

We used to have this exercise in college during our so-called 'Writing skills' classes...Free writing. (It's besides the point that all writing is free, considering the money most people - the likes of Rushdie and Archer and wannabe NRI-who-knows-India-as-Amma-and-Amma's-pickles Arundhathi Roy not included - make out of it is next to nothing.)

This kind of free writing was practiced to get the pen to flow as freely as one's thoughts. It was to remove whatever writer's block each one of us nurtured in our heads. (Like, "i need to smoke up before i can write man!") The idea was to put pen to paper and keep filling it, without giving the ink any respite. The idea was to just let your thoughts...flow.

Miracle of miracles, it never failed to work.

I'm facing that kind of a block right now, the reason being - Ohmigod I'm writing a blog! Something that'll be read by millions, trillions, gazillions! (Assuming there's life on other planets, that is.) I can't just write nonsense and let the world judge me by that! (Which as a rule shouldn't matter now, because i have been filling my blog with just that all this while.) that's why i'm going to try and do some free writing.

Here comes N, the aggro surdy (aggressive sardarni for nincompoops) to do some 'mwah mwah'ing in the air that Ni breathes and say, "Helllooo Daarling...how are we doing today?" They're moving on to banal things like, "I got a massage done yesterday, and it was soooo awesome!!!" (must have been even better for the man giving her one, assuming it was a man.)

"Ooooh, love those earrings! Where's you get them from?" and "So, how's the male scene in your life?" Suddenly and all-too-abruptly, this social kitty-party gossip is pierced by a shrill laugh.

Not of a woman's, but of Mr. RD. Deceptively large, his voice is just as much an opposite - hoarse and brittle. (Not really, but hey, this is free writing and i'm at the mercy of my thoughts!)

P just came - my scapegoat in the agency. I love bullying him around, and since he hasn't objected to it so far (except to say, "you're lucky, my mother told me not to hit women" or "some day, this volcano will burst"), i'm assuming he enjoys it too. kinky as it sounds, it's not.

P blogs too. His blog is called nonsense diaries. I read it one day and was surprised to discover that P is a better writer than he is an account person. Wonder why he didn't get into writing. Must have been his parents. Or his girlfriend.

Speaking of girlfriends (Ni is drinking water right now, i can see it from the corner of my eye. RD says, "Hi Clemi Da"...), i have this 'friend' - Pr. Frustratingly calm, unresponsive and stubborn. A complete jerk and a ******. I keep teasing him about his non-existent (or so he tells me but i don't believe him) girlfriend, and he just takes it. I was like that once upon a time.

Once upon a time, there were a man and a woman. And thanks to them, there was a world full of people - men and women of all sorts - some of which have already been profiled in the beings of N, Ni, RD, P and Pr. If all of us are descendants of Adam and Eve, why are we all so different? Or maybe when we strip away the layers, we aren't so different at all. We are all animals, here for the sole purpose of procreation. Maybe that's where the similarity begins. And ends. Tch tch.

"Kill Me" for the day...

Q:
If humans procreate,
What do germs do?
A:
Germinate.