2015 in review

The year 2015 didn’t really start on a great note. I got hurt, got my entire extended family hurt, and ended up feeling like the biggest fool on the planet. But then, I survived. Once I cut out the toxicity, I was able to quite magically recover, almost instantaneously.

Somewhere down the year, I learnt to smile again. Be myself again. Be funny, be loved, and be great at what I do for a living. I learnt to drive. Went for long drives by myself. Treated myself to a vacation with some amazing friends. Met new people. Made new friends.

A few months later, self-healing in the form of reiki reached me. What started off as a one-time, what’s the harm in trying project, has now become a permanent part of my life. The positivity, the ability to react to situations without getting too emotional, and to heal myself and heal others has been quite a life-changing experience.

And then I started running. With marathoners. Alongside passionate runners. Though it happened by pure chance, I got hooked. I loved the runs. I loved Cubbon Park in the mornings. The sweaty realizations. The calm determination to keep up with the others. The painful stretches afterward. I fell in love.

I moved out. I moved to a bigger, more beautiful place. Closer to work, but more importantly closer to peace. The quiet of the new place has instilled a new sense of peace within myself. A close friend is now a mother. A closer friend is well on her way to become one. I have become a proud aunt this year.

I have always wanted to see snow. I have grown tired waiting for someone who will take me there. And so I am going to the Himalayas. I have never gone on a vacation by myself, let alone an arduous trek. But by the end of 2015, I would have those two items crossed off my bucket list.

So, in conclusion, I would say the year turned out pretty amazing. Life remains beautiful.

I wonder

The finality of death scares me. It is like reading the last chapter of your favorite book. As it slams shut, so does your complete identity. What you liked, how you talked, who you hated, how you laughed.

You are just a mere reconstructed memory. Sometimes glorified, sometimes damned, but mostly forgotten.

Sometimes, I wonder how it would be if I knew you were slipping away to the other side of the rainbow.

Would I have kept up the promise of laying with you on a bed of grass, watching planes roar above our heads? Would I have talked about my dreams and your fears? Would I have not just laughed heartily at your jokes but also comforted you in your dread? Would I have given you a goodbye hug instead of a nonchalant wave, the last time we had dinner together? Would I have been more me if I had known you only had 10 more days here?   

I wonder.

Inked

Getting a tattoo is just like going through a breakup. It is messy, painful, you lose blood and some sleep, but it is totally worth it!

Stage 1: The act

The minute the needle starts piercing through your skin, and you lose the first drop of blood, you begin to think if it is worth it at all.  And this is when the tattoo artist starts looking like a dopehead who will not hesitate to plunge his needle right through your heart if you make even a slight whimper.

Scissorhands will scissor your hand right off

Stage 2: Denial

The morning after I got inked, I woke up to a plasma-oozing kitty cat that was now permanently etched on my skin. Permanently. No looking back. I flipped so much and so hard, and my screams rattled the neighbourhood. And then the denial began – Maybe the ink won’t stay. Maybe it will run out.  Maybe my hand will be good as new the day after. Right? RIGHT? No.

Stage 3: Anger

In exactly 48 hours, your beautiful tattoo starts looking like this:

The kitty-gets-dipped-in-slime tattoo

Yes. Scabs form, it becomes itchy, the skin feels tight, and you would do anything to get that goddamn heavy feeling off your heart (and your wrist, in this case). I also wanted to kill Mr.J, my genius friend and tattoo-partner-in-crime for talking me into this!

It did not help that a trip home was scheduled around the same time. If my mother’s glares could kill, all of you would have been sitting across the fire singing Kumbaya for my peaceful passing.

Stage 4: Guilt

So the tattoo is there but it still does not belong to you. After the scabs fall off, a thin transparent layer of skin forms over the tattoo. In tattoo-lang, it is called the onion skin. This does not fall off until the Halley's Comet zips past the sky five times. And then the introspection begins: So, why did I do this to myself? What went wrong? Was the tattoo an overcompensation for my other failures? Does the tattoo really look like a cat? What the hell was I thinking? Do I even like cats? 

Stage 5: Depression

The onion skin just does not fall off. The ink looks faded. Your friends still scoff. WebMD makes life tougher with all those graphic articles about how chemical tattoo dye infections can result in possible amputation. And your hand still needs baby oil every couple of hours, to not look like King Joffery at the Purple Wedding.

My wrist could die a hundred times like this, and my onion skin would still be there!

Okay!! Maybe not that bad. But waiting for this piece of skin to fall off has been the longest wait of my life.

Stage 6: Sweet, sweet freedom :)

And just like that, one day you wake up to this beautiful tattoo, shiny again, beaming at you. 

Inked!

And despite the melodramatic and symbolic crumbling of life that was supposed to be explained through this post, all you have got to remember is that - it always comes back together! And just like that :) 

Can you breathe?

Emotions. Desires. Ambition. Expectation. Death.

And when death precedes them all. When you invite death. When you willingly submit yourself at the altar of everything that ends; how hopeless would you have felt?

How utterly devoid of hope? 

Imagine being locked inside a room. Just a dark room. No windows. No doors. No beginning and no end in sight. You could have called though. One call for help. 

How resolute did you feel when you hid in the bathroom and drank out of the bottle? And later when you cried in pain? And much later when your body started giving up? 

And when the doctors tried to puncture holes in your throat to help you breathe, did you want to fight? Did you regret your decision? Did you think of your favourite song? Did you think of all the great journeys we have had together?

Do you remember the time both of us almost got thrown out of the bus for being raucous? Do you remember the innumerable times you bailed us both out of trouble? Do you remember our long conversations on the sidewalk?

You, with your long hair and graceful eyes, mindful of the boys staring at us; yet dismissing them with a callous flick of your head. You were beautiful even without trying. Have I ever told you that?

You are gone now. Just like that. And I am trying to forget. To forget the shaky voice that told me you were dead.

But, your credit card bills are due. Your message on my phone still remains unanswered.

Can you breathe? I sure can’t.

Do not speak the truth

I was reminded of these lines that I learnt in my sixth standard Sanskrit lessons a few days ago:

satyam brūyat_priyam brūyan_na brūyāt_satyam_apriyam ।

priyam cha nānṛitam brūyādéṣha dharmaḥ sanātanaḥ

Manu talks about Sanatana Dharma in the verse. The translation ' Say what is true, say what is sweet, but do not say what is true but not sweet, nor say what is sweet but not true. This is the perennial wisdom.' (courtesy: blog.practicalsanskrit.com)

In essence, he says do not speak harsh truths or (more dangerous) sweet lies. This knowledge was imparted by my teacher, when I was very young, and too naive to grasp what it actually embodied. However, the verse stuck on to me and I have followed this philosophy all my life.

What is truth? It's purpose is not merely to set the speaker free, but also to empower the listener. If a truth is being said just to clear the speaker's conscience, but adds absolutely no value to the listener, or goes to the extent of hurting them, then it should not be told.

For instance, let's assume that a friend, after saving up some money from his first job, buys you a gift, which you do not particularly like, what would you do? You could either bluntly state the truth and say that you did not like the gift, or choose to say nothing at all, and accept it graciously. Here, the gift is not just a mere material indulgence, it has a strong emotional undertone because it has been brought out of love. It has been chosen carefully and has been given to you with respect and love. In such a case, the truth becomes obsolete. If you still chose to speak the truth, then it is equivalent to using the truth as a tool to satisfy a very selfish purpose – putting your mind at ease.

Truth is powerful. It can set you free sometimes, but it can also shatter the world around you. I believe you can brutally honest to yourself and to others too,  as long as your truth does not harm them. Once, I was travelling to a friend's place for dinner. She had come all the way from the UK and was calling a select group of friends for some dinner at home. She had started cooking for all of us as soon as she had woken up that day and even kept text messaging her attempts at making dinner. In short, she was excited to have us over. However, I reached late because I started late and as a result got caught in the traffic jam. Now, when asked why I had reached so late, I could have said 'I started late' or 'I got caught in traffic'. While the first one is the truth, the second reason is partially a white lie. 

If I told her that I had started late, it would be truthful. It would set me free. It would help me enjoy the rest of the evening, but it would upset her. It would amount to her thinking that she was cooking for someone who did not even appreciate her time (which was never true). It would ruin her end of the evening. In such cases, does it really make sense for a person to know the truth? It does not do her good, it does not do anyone good - it probably teaches me to start ten minutes early next time I go to her house.  So, doesn't it make sense for me to hide under the white lie and keep everyone happy? 

So, each time I want to pass a comment on what I really think of a shirt someone is wearing, on why a friend is holding onto the past, on why a certain idea will never work out - I think. I think several times. Will speaking the truth help the person in the smallest way possible? If not, I do not shy away from saying a white lie and repeating it, if happiness is the solace the person is seeking.

In fond memory..

It has been a year already. And Syed continues to inspire us to do wonderful things that we never thought we would. His close friend and an equally wonderful person, Sathya, painstakingly organized a trip to an NGO called 'The Child' that takes care of orphans and underprivileged children. With the money raised, the children received white boards with markers, school uniforms, and lunch for two days. The home also received money to purchase a 2ft land. 

Thanks Sathya for the efforts taken. Thank you for making all of us a part of this wonderful initiative. There is surely no better way to remember a person as wonderful and unbelievable as Syed.

For those you want to contribute, here is the link of the NGO's website.   They also accept online donations. http://www.thechild.co.in/

I will remember you..

I still remember the first time I heard this song. Sitting quietly on the backseat of a car, overcome with so much emotion, and fighting away tears that were threatening to spill out.

As I struggled to look out of the window, to listen to the sounds outside, watch people pass by, anything but listen to this soulful music, anything to prolong bursting out into tears …

A  strong hand reached out.

A gentle yet firm hand clasped mine, entwining my feeble fingers, trying to invigorate and renew my hope. I resisted  the move first, but in my desperate need,  for a companion who understood and enjoyed the song as much as I did, I surrendered.

I surrendered to the music, to the hand, to the moment – and for a few minutes, I thought the music would last forever. Or did I think the hand I was holding on to, with my dear life, would remain forever?

The song was over in a couple of minutes, the loving hand stayed on for a while…

And then the music ended.

Silver jubilee celebrations

I know I am a bit too old to be talking about birthday celebrations, but who cares, I just turned 25 :) 

I am officially over the hill and my folks might soon give up their quest for finding my knight in shining armour :) I am closer to 26, and eventually closer to 30 too! 

I know this is just another day and just another year, but when the clock struck 12 and I looked around, all I could see were faces that meant the world to me. I still haven't figured out what I want to do, I have made a  lot of mistakes in choosing jobs, I still have to save up tons of money, but if there is one thing I have done right in all these 25 years, it is making the right friends.

Cheers!

What matrimonial sites do to you

When family friends, acquaintances, relatives, and the teacher aunty next-door (who by the way has been stuck in a terrible marriage for more than three decades), failed to set me up with a boy of their dreams, my parents finally took the plunge and signed me up for an online match-making portal. Online matrimonial sites are single-handedly the reason for me losing complete faith in humanity. Why you ask? Well, this is what they do to you:

1. They paint a perfect picture of happiness, joy, and love that will come to you if you make the decision to get married. For instance, look at that girl’s face – she is probably thinking, ‘I can’t believe I landed this dumb modeling assignment’.

But what does the website want us to believe? – ‘I am so effin happy because I found my knight in shining armor here, because that’s what knights do after they finish their rounds of horseback-riding and killing witches’

2. They want you to believe that the possibility of finding the ‘one’ is just a few clicks away. Phrases like how a ‘relationship manager’ could help you find your ‘life partner’ for a ‘premium price’ are thrown at you randomly to make you feel like a complete idiot for not signing up earlier.

3. They somehow manage to convince your ‘tambrahm’ folks that this is the next best thing after filter kaapi and The Hindu of course. Sample a typical conversation that I have with my mom:

Amma: Tambrahmmatrimony match says 80%... What’s the problem now?

Me: I don’t like him. He is settled in the US. I don’t want to go.

Amma: 80% di. Not common.

Me: Amma…

Amma: These days, 80% rarity, girls picky, what to do…(trails away visibly upset…)

4. Increases the chances of finding the ‘one’ by separating the several million castes we have in India. Iyermatrimony, punjabimatrimony, telgumatrimony, and oh for the rich fellas we have a privilegematrimony too. Somehow I believe things would be a lot easier if the sites were classified on the basis of professions. Some examples would be -- ITmatrimony, CAmatrimony, engineersintheusawithfakeaccentsmatrimony. Some the subsites would be parentscreatedtheprofilematrimony, lookingforspeeddatingmatrimony, and oh the hypocriterebelmatrimony ( Profiles that say stuff like 'I am extrovert with a traditional outlook)

If you think, things cannot get worse, sample this:

There is a ‘Pride of the Community’ column in a popular matrimonial website that features a celebrity. Any guesses who is the pride of the Iyengar community?

Ultimate star Kamalhassan – Yes! The man who has had two failed marriages, a long string of affairs, openly declared himself as an atheist, and is now currently living in with a woman he loves. Totally the poster boy for the conservative Iyengar community.

Did I mention the ridiculous profiles on the site? There was one ass who mentioned he only wanted girls who were ‘fair or very fair’. Some other gems:

• I want a girl who knows the national language Hindi (Since when did Hindi become the national language? It is an official language goddamit)
  
• I want a flexible match in the earning group of about Rs.3 to 4 lakhs per month, or an unemployed girl from a higher income group. (Translated as: Wants only rich girls. And don’t even get me started on the ‘flexible’.)
  
• Single daughter or single daughter with male brother/s preferred. (Again translated as: Non-rich girls don’t apply)
  
• Girl should be professionally qualified, employed/willing to work, very good looking, caring, traditional but with a modern outlook, and home loving. (Erm, my son, you can only find these women in the movies or Leo coffee ads. You know, the kind who wakes up at four, takes a bath, cooks, walks around the Tulsi plant ten times, prays for husband’s well-being, and then wakes him up with coffee)
  
• I want a girl who has been well trained in domestic responsibilities. (A maid you mean?)
  
• Quiet understanding, simple, broadminded, believe in co-existing, prepared to offer love and affection, have a feel for elders, knowing fundas of cooking, reasonably english speaking & educated and employed, family minded girl. (I just couldn’t go through this profile without flinching at the irony. The ‘quiet’ understanding with a ‘feel for elders’ part is just so creepy on several levels.)

My brother finds this whole process very funny and occasionally sends me profiles with grim jokes like ‘horrorscope’ on the subject line. This list could go on and on and make me sound like an absolutely judgmental ass who thinks the world of herself. Though this description might sound perfect on some counts, I am still stopping my passive aggressive rant so as to not ruin my ‘opportunities to get married’ on the interwebz.

To a wonderful friend...

As I walked into Sify nervously, during my fresher days, the apprehension and the worry I had would vanish in a jiffy, when I saw this tall, lanky guy, with his uncombed mop of hair, drinking chaai and laughing his heart out at some lame joke he had cracked himself. That was the quintessential Syed for you – carefree, obnoxious, and impossibly funny.

He was often spotted in several places around the office, but more often, perched on the desk, right next to his best pal Sathya’s computer. With his gelled hair, and a handkerchief tied around his wrist, he would look intimidating, but the mischievous glint in his eyes, would give his innocence away. From his pastel color shirts that would evoke a string of abuses from Gauthami (the most common one being, ‘Hey Syed, you look tootiful today’), to his sarcastic one-liners that would kill Ishwarya’s stories about her team, he taught us an important life lesson – never to take it too seriously. I still very vividly remember how he would endlessly mock Anusha’s habit of straightening her hair every few minutes and managing to piss her off completely.

During my endless late night hours at work, he would often stroll by, say something really nasty about the kind of work I do or how unproductive I was being, by working extra hours - of course, I would flare up immediately and say something equally nasty back and this would continue, until both of us laughed and went our separate ways. Now when I look back, I realize that it was his way of giving me a stress buster and teaching me to take a break.

Syed was every bit a person who actually celebrated his existence on earth. He would play practical jokes, laugh loudly, and strut around the office like it belonged to him. He was no doubt the show stealer in any group. When his pal Sathya got married, he waited patiently until all the girls with their expensive sarees walked on to the stage and then mercilessly sprayed foam all over the lovely ladies. The amount of physical and verbal abuse that followed still makes me laugh uncontrollably.

His niece, Alina meant the world to him. Sending us baby pictures and videos of her every other day, he would cherish every moment spent with her. There were several days when I couldn’t help but admire the wholesome love he had for her.

Syed was someone who could instantly lighten up a tense moment, liven up a boring party, and cause commotion. And to know that he is no longer around, saddens me to no end. But, keeping in mind his spirit and the yearning he had for everything cheerful and happy, I will remember all the fun times we have had together. I know he is in a better place now, he is still happy, and is probably driving someone else nuts in another world.

I do not think he can ever be fully gone – each time we think about a joke he cracked, a photo he sent, or a prank he pulled off, he continues to live life, indomitably on his own terms. May your soul rest in peace. We love you.

I just realized....

...that I love myself :)

I was just clearing out my old mail from a long forgotten email ID and - wow what surprises it threw up. I was such a different person three years back. College projects that I so strongly believed that they would change the world, playing peacemaker between warring people in class, fighting depression myself… wow, somehow I seem to have lost that youthful stupidity now. The highly judgmental, bookish, biased opinions that I had a few years back make me cringe but also smile

I also happened to see a few mails I had forwarded to myself from my official ID when I resigned last year. All the congratulatory emails, awards, and praises that made me swell up like a bullfrog now make me laugh. I have always believed in hard work. Just as I used to burn the midnight oil for a 5 mark assignment in college, I still cannot sleep in peace, if I know I had turned in a crappy article at work. Now when I realize that all my efforts are now probably in some project manager's docket that is lying in the attic - I am forced to rethink.

So many emails and letters, flying back and forth between so many important and no so important people in my life - lashing out harsh judgments, counseling people, an occasional birthday wish, unmentionable crushes, the start of a new friendship, the sad ending….and each one of those emails made me smile. Smile and reflect on all the wise and stupid decisions I had made in the past. To cut the monologue short - Yes. I was uptight and serious, but that’s what I was and still am.

I may have given half a limb for an office assignment that meant nothing, but at least I tried. When I did get the credit, I knew I fully deserved it. I do have my weaknesses and a considerable share of mistakes, but these little imperfections define me more than my successes. Yes, I love myself :)

Finally here again...

After a brief hiatus, yes I am back to do my bit in adding to the already vast amounts of junk on the Internet. The past two months have been one helluva ride. Finding a new house, getting adjusted to the orange walls, making friends with my neighbor who plops her baby right into my arms claiming that the barely-three-year-old misses the ‘Didi’ already…

Finding a shortcut to my office which is only five minutes away even in snail mode, icing up the lady who comes to clean to arm-twist her into cleaning properly, feeling the breeze softly nudging against the curtains, waking up to a shivery cold morning, clattering my way through in the kitchen to make a hurried breakfast/lunch…though not as fancy as they sound, they are the little drops of happiness I find in an almost solitary existence.

With an extended vacation in my home town coming to an end in a few more hours, now it is time to come back to the Orangeness… :P I know this trip has made changes that can never possibly become alright anymore. I cannot offer anything but a meek apology for all the hurt caused intentionally or unintentionally. I also understand that it wouldn’t change anything but it is the least and the best I can offer before I get buried under the pile of pending work that makes me shudder even when I am only thinking about it.

And another update would be on my cat’s wonderful ability to produce kittens like popcorn. They just keep popping out of her every three months. So the latest addition to our family would be the completely adorable four little kittens that keep meowing the whole place down.

Every morning when they greet me with their big round eyes full of optimism and joy, I remind myself - life is not all that bad after all… :)

Senile musings...

Equations change. Priorities too. Rejection comes easily. So do tears. On a cold dreary night, you look at the ceiling to wonder if you truly deserve all that you get. You are petrified about losing the crystal you posses. Afraid of breaking it into thousand pieces. Driven by your fear, it has rolled off to a furtive corner. Never can it be reclaimed. You long for it but do not want it either. You wish you could close the door, latch it tightly, and never look back.

You have moved on, the room has been rebuilt, but the crystal still remains, haunting you with its absence.

Seven days, seven learnings...

Seven days at the temple city for a seminar on advertising and PR.

Results:

• Got burnt, fried, and scalded under the unforgiving sun.
• Walked at least six kilometers everyday surrounded by trees, evil noises, and nothingness.
• Perfected the 'zombie-like' walk while staring into the never-ending road.
• Got a tan that made/makes me look like a half-rotten vegetable. (Sigh..you know dark brown in some portions and normal in others)
• Understood that peacocks are the probably the most ungrateful creatures ever born on the face of earth.
• Made friends, a few of them, I am sure, for a lifetime.
• Became conscious of the fact that the time for taking a hard decision had finally come.
  Of course, learnt something on advertising as well :D

In sickness and health...

After a month of raging fever, headaches, and painful blood tests, I sat in the doc’s office, looking expectantly at the man scratching his head and chewing the tip of his pen.

Tapping the report with the side of the pen he just relished (Ewww!!!) he uttered the three words I did not want to hear, “You have typhoid”. My world crashed. After innumerable blood tests and x-rays and other tests that I have left out for the sole virtue of their being extremely complex to spell, this is what the doc had to say. I stupidly repeated, “I have typhoid?”

He nodded gravely and scribbled the names of all medicines that he could remember. “Complete bed rest, no physical or mental strain”, he droned. Dad sniggered at the mention of mental and pointed to his head and signed ‘empty’ with his hands. I rolled my eyes. It was his old joke about how I did not have any brains and therefore the question of mental strain did not arise.

The evil doc did not stop with this. He gave me a graphic description of how my intestines were being eaten by the typhi viruses every minute. I immediately started counting the number of wreaths that would arrive at my house if I died.

For three weeks after that I could only eat food that even the scruffy neighborhood cat rejected. Meanwhile mom devised this intricate diet routine that involved feeding me with fruit juice and tender coconut water at times that did not hinder her daily dose of afternoon soaps. Banished to my room for a month, with only the ceiling fan for company, I watched the blades in fascination as they fused into nothingness when the fan gathered speed. (And I had always thought babies were really stupid to gurgle at a thing as mundane as a ceiling fan.)

On some days I would sleep on for hours together, only waking up to take medicines every six hours. On better days, I would curl up on the living room sofa watching soaps with mom. Sometimes I would throw up dinner as soon as I finished washing the dinner plate. Lunch would follow in a matter of minutes. Dad would retort, “Don’t come out yet. Breakfast is on the way. By the way, don’t throw up the tablet. It is three bucks”, and chuckle at his own joke.

Honestly, though I felt miserable at times and loneliness depressed me to no end, the flurry of ‘get well soon’ messages and calls really made my day. Close friends came home and my boss gave me a month off without thinking twice. Also, the neighborhood cat curled up next to me everyday and we became so close that it started following me around the house. Of course, I also enjoyed all the attention and basked in glory when I finally returned to work.

I mean, how much more lucky can a person get :)

Red queens of the dark night

…by Theatre Nisha - a commendable effort I should say! The play is about 2 hours long and delicately weaves the story of about 10 prostitutes (or 9??) from different time frames. The play starts with Rishyasringa, an excluded hermit, who lives among the trees and has never seen women. A courtesan named Tarangini is then sent to him to woo him and break his vows, but is later beheaded. This part was a bit surprising, because according the Ramayana I have read, Shanta, the daughter of King Romapada is sent by him to break his vows and they get married too. Tarangini’s seduction and Rishyasringa’s emotions when his vows of abstinence are washed over by the waves of his new-found desire were sensuous and beautifully crafted.

The next episode is about an old couple who try to save a prostitute from her pimp. The old man gets killed in the process. The last scene where his wife cries over the dead body was extremely realistic and poignant. Then, there is an episode of an ordinary man who works at the barracks, and another one about a prostitute who kills her owner and convinces a bartender to lie for her in front of the policemen. These were pretty short and interesting nevertheless.

Another episode on Urvashi’s curse on Arjuna was misplaced. Urvashi desires Arjuna and when he refuses, saying that she is mother of his race, she curses him to live among the women in his 13th year of exile. Urvashi’s vilification to a mere prostitute was way off mark and uninspiring. This episode was very ‘sleep-inducing’ according to kiki, and only me, vamp and kiki clapped for this because it ended with GP’s aalaap (for the uninitiated, an aalaap is the ‘aaaaa’ part of classical music, in the simplest terms possible).

The last episode had Bala, the director himself, playing the part of a torturer (cleverly named Fuehrer) during the Nazi regime. He torments a woman until she accepts that she is a homosexual whore and then kills her. This episode was exceptionally intense with an unforgettable climax.

The play was haunting and enjoyable, but the episodes were unconnected and very long. The literal translation of Sanskrit texts into English became lackluster after a while. With uncomplicated costumes, very few lights, a flautist and guitarist for background music, the stage looked minimalist and sleek. A few episodes only had an inconspicuous bench serving as a prop and still looked stimulating.

All the same, it is refreshing to see that theatre (and conservative Chennai) has come of age. Hats off to Bala for this attempt at portraying prostitution so daringly and not succumbing to clichés.

My birthday and more...

Whoa!! I am still reeling under the fantastic birthday bash I had on Friday. I don’t usually celebrate birthdays; probably because they remind me of how closer I am to getting wrinkles, wearing bifocals, and growing gray hair! But this year, I cut three huge chocolate truffle cakes, got a dozen bear hugs and priceless books.

The day started with several calls and messages from friends and foes :). Yeah, anybody who calls me at 12 with the sole intention of waking me up gets segmented inside my brain as a foe automatically. My roomie included! But I did forgive her for the lovely bracelets she gave me.

I reached office to baby pink roses and a gazillion birthday wishes. I have never felt so pampered ever before. To top it all, I cut two surprise chocolate cakes and got my face plastered in chocolate syrup and slabs. All thanks to S’d and everyone else who chortled at the sight of me licking cake from my nose. The name on the cake was not very flattering I should say! One had a ‘Happy Birthday Geek” (I so hate Gau’mi) on it and the other one had a ‘Happy Birthday Pogo” (Apparently I look like a cartoon from the POGO channel. Some cheek!) . I also got a gorgeous green kurta and ‘Brick lane’ a book by Monica Ali. Thanks mates!

GP then called me up to say she wouldn’t be able to meet me today due to other engagements. I grumbled about it to Vamp, who suggested a visit to his new house to cheer me up. I readily agreed! All the way to his house, I kept a low profile, muttering vague things about getting ditched on a birthday.

When we finally waded through the impossible traffic, and reached his place, I opened the door to find GP, Kiki, Aks and most importantly another chocolate cake :). This time I am not even mentioning what was written on the cake! GP and her tricks. I always fall for them.

Vamp gave me the whole ‘Lord of the Rings’ collection. After a yummy dinner with 10 others, I crashed at Procky’s place. Me and Kiki encountered a cockroach that flew around the house. Kiki kept running from one corner to another with a broomstick in hand. The sight was so hilarious that I started laughing uncontrollably. The cockroach wiped my smile away by settling down inside my handbag. Later, with an Outlook and Baygon spray we finished the job.

I ran home next day morning, to find an unnamed package. ‘The Black Swan’, by Nissim Nicholas Taleb was inside it. Before I could go into the dreamland of some unnamed mysterious caped crusader, who would sweep me off my feet, by surprising me with unnamed packages, Mom asked me to check with Unz. When I did, I realized that it was indeed Unz who sent it. So much for my dream, but nevertheless, thanks a bunch for the brilliant book!

At the end of it all, I felt immensely lucky to have such friends. It takes a lot to organize surprises just to make my day special. After all, my friends are the best! :)

A Splendid Sunday

(Note: This was written last week. Due to time constraints and an impossible workload, here it goes…late by a week :) )

• Woke up only at 7.30 A.M.
• Watched the morning news interspersed with Tamil songs, sad VJs, and of course a hot cuppa coffee.
• Missed home and therefore coined the term ‘home-sounds’. (Home-sounds include Dad furiously devouring the newspaper. You can actually hear the segmenting of news into ‘Ignore’, ‘Bah’ and ‘Yay! Comics’ inside his brain, strains of humming from the bro-in-loo, mom’s kitchen clatter, and my own unheard complaints about the monopolization of newspapers by the male population in the house.)
• Hummed Kishore Kumar and made breakfast.
• Ate what I made (which was not what I intended to make), with Frank McCourt giving me company.
• Cleaned out cupboard amidst roomie snores and iPod songs. Found Rahul Nambiar's autograph safely tucked in between books. Removed creases and tucked it back again in between books.
• Made Rasam with Oregano seasoning I saved from Pizza corner. Roomie christened it Italian Rasam.
• Went for a play titled 'The Pregnant King' by Theatre Nisha that resulted in pointless discussions about the concepts tackled by the play, and of course tea and chutney sandwiches at dear ol' Yusuf's.
• Had yummy dinner at Bessy with a bunch of chatterboxes who refused to shut up even for a minute.
• Returned to hostel, tired, but content.

A splendid Sunday indeed…

Realization...

I stooped down to smell them. But I could only see the sullied mud beneath.

I reached out to listen. But I could only see the wiry stalks that drooped.

I tried to hold them. But I could only see the thorns that pricked.

When I realized,

The mud beneath was clearer than my conscience,

The wiry stalk was stronger than my heart,

And the thorns were not as perilous as an aimless mind,

I stooped down again.

By then they were already safe, in another hand.

Celebrating Friendship.

Yesterday was Friendship day!!!

I am not a great follower of these days… Nor do I believe in such days, including birthdays... :)...Yes, I don’t celebrate my birthday!

But an incident that happened yesterday and today, made me fully realize and appreciate the actual meaning of the maxim...’A friend in need is a friend indeed'
:)