Speed Demon and the missing ID.

I'm a man.

Well, at least when it comes to riding. I zip i zap i zoom i bend around curves like a racer and abuse people on the road with an "Eyyyyyy!" growled out like some gangster and generally wreak havoc. The only womanly thing i do when i'm on the bike is dangle my legs the old-fashioned Bollywood way in tune to the common and irritating 'Lalalalalalalala' background music of songs.

Yesterday, i was taught my lesson.

I met Sister K and her friend at WoodStock for lunch. (I had a big glass full of Kahlua Mousse that was dipped and bathed in Kahlua. Like the Kobe cows in whose skin beer is routinely - and lovingly - rubbed in, it seemed like the Mousse ingredients were infused with copious amounts of Kahlua individually, mixed, and were then doused in some Kahlua. That's how strong it was. And delicious.) Because i was getting late for work, i ran out, wore my helmet, wrapped my work ID-cum-swipe card around the bike handle, jumped on the seat and zipped. Three minutes away from work, as i was gloating about the fact that i managed to make it back in record time, i looked down at my dangling ID card to make sure it wasn't flying away.

The ID had gone. Vanished. No clue where, when or how. Wait, i figured the how. The hook that holds the ID card to the rest of the noose that's supposed to go around my neck was loose. The ID had fallen out.

I had to retrace my steps all the way back to WoodStock. And i had to do it real...slow. My panic was not how i would get back to work, but what the possibilites of a fake ID could be for anybody who could find it. It had my name, accompanied by a grumpy picture of me. I'm a Muslim, they could use that information and make me a terrorist!

Heart pumping, i went back. No, i crawled back on my bike, scanning every inch of the asphalt for a rectangular patch of plastic. People honked, some shouted, some tried to run me down (almost), but i didn't care. I needed my ID back, that's all that mattered.

I finally found it near WoodStock, on the service road i travelled back on. I was so overjoyed that i could have kissed it hard and long, except that many tyres had already left their mark on it. I did bite it, though. Okay, i bit the hook of the noose after inserting the ID to stop it from falling out ever again.

And then all the way back, i thanked God a bazillion times for not letting my ID fall into anybody's hands. And to show my gratitude some more, i rode back slow. Real slow. 

What if we've got evolution all wrong?

What if evolution was meant to get simpler, and not more complicated? If we're the beginning of the chain of things, with complexities and emotions and feelings and needs and wants and desires and all that? And that, as we actually evolved, we got simpler, less complex, more focused, clearer about who we were, what we were and what our purpose was? So that when we reached the single cell stage, we were stripped of thoughts and emotions and feelings and physical needs and knew just to multiply without a fuss? And what if then the single cell became a dot and ultimately vanished, and that was what death was?

What if we've got evolution all wrong, and that it's actually backwards? That this is not really evolution, but devolution? And that's why we suffer so much and are so uncomfortable in our skins, constantly seeking something, something elusive?

A workout by another name.

It's called an Insanity workout, but those of us attending kickboxing classes know it as, well, kickboxing. 50% of this is what our instructor makes us do. And he pushes us and pushes us and pushes us till we just want to kill him. It's also really true, this kind of workout will do miracles for people with a will power, because when your body gives up under the strain, only that will propel you. But i can guarantee, it's a physical high unlike any you'll have ever experienced.

In other news, i haven't gone for kickboxing in three weeks because of health issues, and i can see two months of hardwork unravelling as i eat and don't exercise. I miss it. I need to get back to it soon.

I need those abs by the end of this year.

Friday night.

I have no idea after how long i went out to socialise. I felt like a turtle emerging from its shell, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, like a marmoose...never mind, you get the drift.

It was a hip-hop party. And in keeping with the theme, i wore a black dress with a slightly plungy neckline covered up by a series of strings of silver pearls. And i wore silver pencil heels.

And i danced. And danced and danced and danced.

And i died. Because i made a grave error in judgement - i wore heels and danced thinking i could take it. As a matter of fact, i couldn't.

My legs felt like they were full of tiny soldier corpuscles that were tearing through my muscles in their fight to emerge into daylight. They hurt like mad. They're still hurting, which is why i've taken so long to post this.

And i think i bust my right knee in some way. I can't step too hard, otherwise i collapse like a ton of bricks.

Bottom line, never wear heels and dance. Especially high pencil heels. Especially when you know you're no longer 21 and 52 kilos. Glamour can go soak its fucking head, just be comfortable because remember, you have to live in your body for the rest of your life. And i can assure you that right now, my body's not too happy with me or my brain.

On the brighter side of things, the party was good fun, like a coming-back celebration. I'm half-out of my comfortable, numbing shell now; it's only a matter of time before the other half comes out.

Sugar rush.

I'm not a big fan of U.S.Pizza pizzas, but their brownies? Ohmigodtheirbrowniesaretodiefor! A layer of walnuts followed by a gooey, sugary centre and a fine base. So sinfully good that i think i am bordering on the obsessive. And they're close to my workplace. So maybe i'll order a batch every day.


Yum.

Uncommon knowledge about The Nebulous One.

I love wrapping presents. And i'm quite good at it.


I wanted to be an Archaeologist when i grew up.


I used to love writing poetry in my younger days. Now i love writing short stories.


I used to laugh a lot and be happy most of the time. I miss those days.


First nights spent all alone in new or unknown places always keep me up till dawn. I only fall asleep when i see the first rays of the sun.


I cry when i watch movies.


I'm an only child. But i've always wanted an elder brother.


I never stop fighting for the things i believe in, unless the thing i'm fighting for shows that it's pointless to fight. Sometimes, i don't stop even then.


I know what it's like to wait for someone you know is The One.


In my moments of absolute guilelessness, i'm quite an accident-prone person.

Happiness is a dash of Yellow.

This picture takes me to a happy place. I hope it does the same for you.

Prodigy Friday.

So this is how easy starting over is.

I came back from a week in Leh on Saturday. Anything i say about the place won't come close to what it really is. And it's supremely beautiful in every way.

I went with 15 other women, all of them total strangers brought together by Women on Wanderlust. It was a great experience. I made new friends, had loads of fun and was glad that i was with a group of women who were mostly non-bitchy and non-political but so game to change plans and try new things.

It was like starting a new life. Starting over. I didn't want to hear from anybody back home. I didn't think of the life that existed, waited for me back in Bangalore. I only called my parents. I had no desire to talk to anybody else. I wanted to be nobody's shoulder to cry on, ray of hope, or world of love. I wanted to be, for me. I didn't think. Imagine that! I didn't THINK! I was lost in the scenic beauty of Leh. There was no work, no love, no worry, no stress, nothing. Just taking the day as it comes; having fun didn't take any effort. And that's when i realised that it would be so easy to let go of everything, of everyone. It would probably be a good thing too, because Leh healed me in ways i didn't think was possible. It did so much good to me without my realising it.

I hate being back. I've had severe fits of anger already, and fights that could have been avoided. But it's true. I still want my escape. I want it to last longer. I don't want to get back to my life. I'm being forced to, but bloody hell i'm going to put up a fight.

This time tomorrow...

... I'll be spending the night at an unfamiliar airport. Waiting to board an early morning flight to an unfamiliar place. But over the next six days, i hope to get familiar with it. Soak it in. Smile a lot. Experience a certain lightness of the heart and mind. Take decent pictures with my new 16GB card. Wear new clothes. Pack stuff in a new strolley i bought this evening. Wear new shades. Make new friends, perhaps. And come back refreshed.

Pray that i survive the night tomorrow. And the nights away from home that will follow it.

Planting a thought: our life revolves around four-letter words. Mostly.

s ago, in a moment of shared solitude, a couple of us got talking about life. And one of us came up with this theory: four letter words ruin our lives.Weeks ago, in a moment of shared solitude, a couple of us dug a little deep into our souls for answers to things that were happening to/around us. One of us then came up with this hypothesis, so to speak: our lives are ruined and ruled by four letter words.

Don't think it's true? See.

Love. Life. Fuck. Hate. Feel. Hope. Real.

Haven't we all fallen on our faces because of at least two of those words? I have, because of all.

'Kill Me' for the day.

Q: What are love bites given in a drunken state called?
A: Hic-ies.

Why Jensen Ackles's character in Supernatural and I are kindred souls.

We're both tortured souls.

We've got strong defense mechanisms in place - hard, uncaring, cold on the outside. But when stripped off the layers, not-so-bad people underneath.

We're both kidas by nature.

We say it like it is, no mincing words.

When it comes to loving people, there are no half-measures. It's all in or nothing.

Our gut drives us.

We've got our inner demons waging a war against us, and we're losing steam battling them. But hell, we're still putting up a fight.

We're both badass.

That's a good start, i think.

Picture courtesy: http://images4.fanpop.com/image/photos/

It's alright.



I can feel that honeyed voice next to my ear, that hand holding mine, consoling me, telling me that it's going to be okay. Just, give it some time. I doubt it will be, but i'll heed your advice Corinne Bailey Rae, because you make me believe in it.

Note to self.

All it takes is a moment of weakness. A moment of extreme vulnerability that you cannot fight, do not want to fight. And so you give in. You set aside the weeks and weeks of resistance, a tiny glimmer of light that there can be life beyond this - even if it's not the life you want - you set aside all of that and you take that step.

Somewhere deep down, you know it's probably not the right thing to do. But you WANT to do it. You believe that the weeks of resistance have earned you this little moment of letting your self-control slip. In fact, you believe you deserve it. And then, oh you poor delusional soul you, you believe that you can handle it.

Truth is, you can't. You can't deal with it. This was a mistake, you'll hear yourself say in your head. You'll let go and admit to being in love still, and with that you'll go right back to being hurt and feeling neglected and alone and desperate for attention from that one person who isn't giving it to you. There will be so many questions in your head, questions that run behind the answers you need, but you'll never ask them. Because you know that the answers you get are never going to be the one that satisfies you. In all likelihood, it'll just irritate and hurt you more.

You'll want him to open his eyes, to see, SEE, how easily you two fit together and slip into the normalcy of things. But he won't. Because he's him. And it's because he's him that you're so mad about him.

But you have to understand that it's also because he's him that you're in this state at all.

So yes, it really is easy to give in to weakness. But it won't do you any good, it'll never do you good. The why is simple, really. He doesn't want it.

Things you won't learn from Americans about Barbecues.

So, you know how when it's summer, Americans love making the most of it and spending the day out at the back of their houses BBQ-ing and sipping on some beer and making it all look like a breeze? Well, it's not as easy as it looks, i can assure you.

In our excitement to try out the newly-acquired barbecue and grill set at grandma's place today, my mother went and bought herself some boneless chicken, mushrooms, capsicums and giant-sized onions. And then, true chef style, she proceeded to marinate the chicken and dice the veggies. While i rode around town looking to buy coal for the barbecue, and came back with five kilos worth of coal and grubby black hands. (Coal's pretty cheap, by the way. 18 bucks for a kilo.)

Then we proceeded to figure out the best place to set up the barbecue. The space in front of the house was not an option because we didn't want the neighbours to see us. (Thank God we didn't grill out in the front, but for entirely different reasons.) We tried setting it up in the kitchen but that would mean the ceiling would resemble a black hole once we were done. Terrace, no. Too much work to shuttle between upstairs and downstairs for everything, plus it was hot. Since our choices were limited, the only one left was the back passage. So we set it up.

Next, i proceeded to line the base of the barbecue with foil. And then i put the coal grill on it. And then i put the grill. Now this is where it gets interesting: the instructions said, "Pour cooking oil or kerosene over the coal, and in 20-30 minutes, the coals should be hot enough to barbecue stuff on it." Because we're not Kerosene people, we poured cooking oil generously, lit a match and threw it on the coal with smug grins.

And then we waited. And waited. And kept waiting.

We poured more cooking oil. My mother tore up some cloth from somewhere, lit that and put it in. We burned 10 newspapers. We went to two neighbours begging for Kerosene.

Nada.

"You have to fan the flames!", said my cousin.

By then, i was sitting cross-legged in front of the barbecue, willing the coals almost telepathically to burst into flames. I turned to her and said, "Yes, for that, we need to have fire. We don't."

After half an hour of futile paper-burning, emptying three quarters of the big Homelite matchstick box and my mother throwing weirdass shit like Vinegar - that's how desperate we were - to set the coals on fire - my granmother, who had quietly been hearing the commotion from her bedroom, decided to put us out of our misery - "There's Kerosene under the sink!"

I don't think any of us have ever been so ecstatic to see fire as we were when we doused the coal in Kerosene and lit it up. It was be-yoo-ti-ful. So lesson number one: Use Kerosene only.

Then, the instruction manual said, fan the flames. Now that was a family affair. With the exclusion of my grandma and one of my cousins, every one of us took turns at fanning the flames. We're very proud of the little mound of muscle we've developed on our arms - some left, and some right. Because fanning the flames is a TIRESOME PROCESS! My God, i've never exerted myself so much physically other than in  kickboxing! Like, what the hell is that? And the bloody coals were kinda damp, so it took forever to get them going! So that's lesson number two: Always use dry, porous coal. And lesson number three: Get some serious fanning equipment so you won't need ten fans for yourself when you're done.

We started building the coal fire at 12:30 and were at it till 3:45. By the end of it, we weren't pretty sights. My hands were stained black and would have seemed more at home on a mechanic or a ragpicker. I still can't get the grub out from under my nails. Our faces were stained black. And the house, despite the verandah grilling, was full of smoke. And that's the biggest lesson from this thing: Barbecueing ain't no joke. You have to get down and dirty and sweaty and icky. Summer picnics and tables set on the lawn with pretty children running around and the mother smiling in a pretty summer dress as the dad looks on, giving a wideass smile and is giving you two thumbs-up? It's a myth. American fiction. An absolutely evil plot by hyper-imaginative minds to lure you into buying barbecue sets.

And that's the biggest lesson out of the BBQ: If you really have to, get somebody else to do the dirty work for you. You just sit and eat. Because the only good thing coming out of the entire process is the food. Amen.

Have you ever rode in the rain?

I'm happy to say that Bangalore's stopped being a moody bitch and gone back to being its usual calm, composed self. It's been raining here almost every day. And every night. When there's no rain, there's a cool breeze soothing people's tempers and making up for the lack of April/May showers.

Catholic Club will have hosted its annual Mango Showers again. Traffic will be horrible everywhere (I spent half an hour on the roads on my way to kickboxing class, trying every possible shortcut i knew. In the end, i threw a fit on my bike, behaved like an immature stuntwoman, hurt myself a little and made it to class half an hour late). Love will blossom alongside the little buds on freshly-greened trees. And i will ride in the rain.

It's a lovely feeling, it is. Now that i have mastered the trick of braking right, i enjoy the soft pitter patter of rain drops as i ride slowly, taking comfort in everybody else's hurry to get home while i sail away in no rush whatsoever. Sometimes, i stop by Di's workplace and meet her at the Chai shop for a piping hot plastic cup of tea that's the size of my thumb. We talk about things. What's happening, what's new, how the plants in her balcony garden are growing, how i'm doing. The sun filters through the leaves, my helmet shows off its bald, dewy head, and all is well with the world.

Except, sometimes, when our little chats have ended on a melancholic note, i never know if the rivulets of water flowing down my face are raindrops or tears.

Picture shot with my Sony Ericsson J10i2 camera.

I would like to...

- Wake up feeling like i have a fresh start
- Receive flowers
- Go on long drives on good days, with music and a map for company
- Receive flowers
- Wear hickies with pride
- Sleep for two whole days
- Be told "I love you" every once in a while
- Travel for the rest of my life
- Own a piece of land with a farmhouse and a bunch of 200 year-old trees
- Grow a lemon tree
- Make people understand that i can't always be strong
- Be taken care of sometimes
- Have my space sometimes
- Own my own place and do it up and throw parties and dinners and lunches and movie nights
- Age gracefully

When words just don't do the job.

There's been a raging war inside my head, between Me and Me, trying to resist/give in to calling you. I wonder how long the battle's going to last. I wonder who's going to win.

Stuffed turkey.

When i get down to thinking about it, i realise that i share a lot of traits with the flightless bird of Thanksgiving. We're both:

- Short and stout.

- Restless.

- Blessed with a sixth sense that tells us when we're in danger.

- Beautiful looking. When compared to the Archaeopteryx at least.

- Fated to get stuffed with food, regardless of whether we will it for ourselves or not.

But we both definitely don't share a bald patch and the little appendage dangling under the chin. (Thank God for small mercies.)

To elaborate on the last common trait, Sister K and i took my cousins to a new eat-out in Indiranagar. As an aside, the speed at which places are coming up in that area, it'll soon replace the astonishing fact that six babies are born across the world every second. So, anyway, this place is called California Pizza Kitchen - CPK for short - but it looks more like Buckingham Palace's dining room in size. The food isn't bad but not as tastefully done as the decor of the place.

As is always the case with us, we over-ordered. And we struggled to finish it. And just BECAUSE i am BIG, i am always treated as the disposal bin into which all leftovers go. So i ended up eating quite a bit and then, because i'm a moron like that, we ordered dessert too. In all fairness to Sister K, she ate most of the dessert. I ate some and then felt bad for the table because it hadn't had any to eat, so left some for it too. My cousins ordered for the Ice Cream Sundae and almost gagged at the sight of a giant glass full of ice cream, cream, nuts and chocolate that arrived. Of course i bullied them into eating it all up, and of course i took generous bites of it too, thinking it would melt through and fill the little nooks and crannies of my stomach.

But, surprisingly, on the way to drop my cousins off at Grandma's, i realised that there have been worse stuffed turkey days in the past. On those previous occasions, i could feel the food pressing against my chest cavity and all the way up to the entrance of my food pipe (the light at the end of the tunnel?), but last night, i only felt it pressing down on a point just above my stomach. Tiny relief, but at that point, any would do. Just goes to show that the food really wasn't that great. On the other hand, the place was. Nice, i mean.

Maybe next time i'll choose a different location for my Stuffed Turkey act. Perhaps that other new place on 100 feet that'll make a bird like me feel right at home. Guess why?

Because it's called Peacock.