Saunters

I just finished reading a book. On the earliest memories remembered and what they mean. I thought long and hard. And my earliest memory is of a kitchen that smelled of… well it smelled tangy and mysterious and not like detergent or food or spices or anything else you’d expect a kitchen to smell like. In fact, now that I come to think of it, it smells like my mother. Sort of. It has grey tiles. Not those dainty, polished ones but the big grainy sorts one finds in government bungalows. The sort that make you want to rub your heel against the floor to feel the slight grate. And I remember there is a shelf… quite low… stone. I firmly believe I don’t remember anything other than the floor or that shelf because I was short. Kids are, you know. So anyway.

This shelf must have had stuff… obviously… mom would consider it criminal to waste space. It’s strange but I don’t remember what she kept on, or rather in this shelf, for at my height then it was more of an alcove. Except for a pink plastic… I guess you could call it a basket for lack of a better word. And she stocked onions in it.
And I remember it so well because the earliest memory of my life is of dawdling in to that kitchen, up to that shelf, painstakingly upending the basket so that the onions tumbled out one by one and rolled into the remotest corners possible, then taking that basket outside and gathering those pink-paper-flowers-whose-name-I-never-knew and putting them in the pink basket. Dark pink against pale pink. And I remember being delighted and happy and pretending I was grown-up and that this plucking of flowers and putting them in the basket had a purpose crucial to the scheme of the world.


What is really strange is that this memory is complete in itself. I don’t remember whether I got scolded for throwing the onions, or for sneaking out without telling anyone or for bringing flowers into the drawing room and messing the place up. I don’t remember being praised for it either or being told that I had amazing resourcefulness for a child who had just learned to walk. It’s just this snatch of memory… on its own… alone.


According to the book, this means I am creative, aloof, sociable, impetuous, fixated-with-family, rootless, calculating, and either good with children or extremely daft with technology… I’ll get back to y’all on the last bit soon as I figure out what page 72 really means.

P.S. Strange how I got the tenses mixed up while reminiscing… and grammar has always been my strong suit. Damn.

Breaking Even

So what, if someone is a stubborn, wilful, misbegotten and childish person who can't see the wood for the trees when his/her temper is up and would seriously consider causing harm to him/herself just to prove a point? As long as he/she has great hair.

And A... you are still a prick... and all those other things as well. I like you regardless.

Job's Comfort

Not counting this post, 'I', 'me' and 'my' occur 79 times on this page. It would appear that everything is always about me. When did I get so self-obsessed?

Ironic. Because this is about me too, isn't it? For today, this makes me a little uncomfortable. Maybe tomorrow I'll love me again. Until then, I'll wish I was home so P could give me a hug.

Until then, I'll dive into chocolates like they are the goddamned Pacific... to hell with Atkins.

P.S. Maybe I am getting maudlin in my old age.

Random Pink Highlights

It pleases me to be writing so prolifically again. It’s not cathartic anymore… it’s a celebration.


After ages, I danced in front of the mirror and made pouty faces. Without music. Just because. And laughed.


I haven’t slept a wink for the past 75 hours… and am still as full of beans as the coffee can in the larder. I have no idea why.


I go out at 5.30 each morning and sit on the steps drinking coffee till the sun comes up.


I have three assignments and one exam due next week. I haven’t even thought about beginning. And I’m not feeling guilty or panicked. Frankly, I don’t give a damn.


I’m having shopping-cravings. I used to hate shopping.


My room is a mess. And it doesn’t disturb me at all.


I heard the Sutta song and remembered that class trip to some random centennial-lecture-nonsense, when the guys sitting at the back in the bus sang the song at the top of their lungs but dropped their voices and merely hummed the good bits while passing conspiratorial glances at each other. It was only when I heard the song later that I realized they were being gentlemen. And I remember being surprised at the revelation. Also the college concert where the crowd conned the lead singer into taking up requests and how everyone insisted on singing Sutta and he turned the mike towards us because he was ignorant of the lyrics. When we hit the chorus, he spluttered… I swear. And when we didn’t stop, he tried to compensate by turning the mike towards the guys and away from the girls. Sexist bastard. The guitarist was cute though.


I have moved on and am now officially over dragons. It’s now witches.


I love being 21. I love feeling alive. It’s exciting. It’s intoxicating. It’s fun.

While I’ve been writing this, I’ve been grinning. Not smiling – grinning. Something has changed. And I haven’t a clue. But I wish stuff just stays this way. As long as I don’t flunk.

Update: I also just won Spider Solitaire with four suits. I am good.

Nicknaming the Rose

Alternatively titled: Why I think Shakespeare knew jack about mothers.

Each time I leave home for a substantial amount of time, dad gives me a hug while my sister stands around shuffling her feet looking uncomfortable. Within a few days, mom calls to tell me my new name. The name she calls me by till I make her angry at me and she forgets. So far I have had seven names. Hand-picked, personalized, delicious monikers. One almost lasted two whole days.

So you see I'm not just a bitch. I'm a lucky bitch.

And if you ever read this mom, then please note that the human brain is not fully developed till the subject in question has attained a reasonably mature age... which is usually pegged to be somewhere around the early 20s. Till then we are all just half-brain-retard-type people. And that mom, is my excuse.

Serendipity

Less than five days back, the fire alarm woke me up at 6... yes, in the morning. Fire drill.

Less then three days back, the flat downstairs forgot to turn the furnace fan on while deep-frying... the smoke tripped the fire alarm again... redundant, but not afraid to make itself heard. Aside. I know quite a few people like that too. Aside over.

Today, there was an actual fire.

I was in class at the time.

My life gains meaning. Again.

Fun facts: Since baring the wailings of my romance-starved soul to the world as of last post, the traffic on inst. site has gone up from 4 visits a day to 17. You, my dear readers, will rot in hell.

Nothing, and I repeat nothing, could make me want to watch a chick-flick that ends on a happily-ever-after so that I could spend the night downing coffee and rewriting the ending to kill the hero or watch a grand war movie where a lot of hunky-male-type-men end up dead. Other than the horrible feeling of being in... well... liking someone.


Just a thought in passing you know. Only in passing. Which is why I don't have a title for this.

Incontrovertible Facts of Life

As penned down on reams of Red Rooster napkins while waiting for the boarding call at Tullamarine. Including ruminations on the vacation in Melbourne. And in no logical order at all.

• Photographs, videos and words can never do adequate justice to magic.
• Relationship-wise, I am the human volleyball. Or the broken GI Joe figurine everyone wants to trade with their best friend’s weird-shaped-cornflakes collection.
• If you’re on time, everything else will be delayed.
• In this day of supersonics and console-games where everyone tries to bash each other over the head, in the game and out, pen and paper remain the best thing to have been invented.
• The best discovery? Coffee machines of course, and you cannot convince me that something so exquisitely sublime was invented by mere mortals. I know the hand of Mother Nature when I see it.
• Travelling is best with people who don’t mind driving down interesting looking dirt lanes to see where they end. Also who have no sense of private property.
• Food never cooks if you stand and watch. The minute you go to the loo, it burns and sticks to the pan. Scrub-the-pan time in such cases is always inversely proportional to the time left before class starts.
• Bill Bryson is the new Fa Hien.
• You don’t really know how to spell Fa Hien either.
• Everyone except Indians thinks 36 degrees is good weather. One can forgive this in the English… they build monuments to gherkins. What is everyone else’s excuse?
• Good friends never remind you of the belly dance you did in the pub when you were sodden drunk. They merely put the video up on You Tube.
• Dark skin is the new blonde.
• Gulal tastes awful.
• The best places are places where you end up unintended – usually as a loo-stop.
• Watching random flights taxi up the runway before take-off is exhilarating. Watching ditto taxi down ditto before landing isn’t. It’s one of the quirks of modern technology.
• If you have holi colour on your face, people in Melbourne stare.
• Broken noses are nicer. Not too broken you know. Just a wee bit.
• Hanging out in air-conditioned malls in summer is universal.
• Shoes for babies that make squeaky sounds with each step taken and occasionally light up when the mood strikes them are universal too.
• Haldirams’ ditto.
• Chaat is nicer if someone else makes it. And grubby hands do make for better chaat. There’s no need to go “ew” because you know it’s the truth.
• The bathroom is the messiest when it’s your turn to clean it.
• Most kids are obnoxious. And tantrumy. And they smell sumfing awful. And they talk too much. Thank gawd I was never like that. Except for the talking too much bit that is.
• We get up at 6 in the morning to go to school, college and to work so that we have enough money eventually to be able to sleep in till when we feel like. By the time, we wisen up and retire, we are either insomniacs or dead. Capitalism, like Marx said, is a bitch.
• With particular reference to Australia: The cutest animals have the sharpest teeth. Also, the tinier the creature, the more the venom. Which still leaves the sharks. It isn’t all one huge beach party. Not at all.
• If you remembered to bring along your charger, your mobile, adapter, ID cards, passport, credit cards, concession tickets, map of the region, handmade sketch of the transport system copied from the internet, extra pair of shoes, extra pair of jeans, your own special non-friz-type-hair-gel-thingy, a book to read, your glasses to read them with, a pair of scissors for just in case, a bottle of water and biscuits in case of nuclear fall-out, then in all probability you forgot your toothbrush. I did.
• Virtual people make for the best of friends. Once you actually meet them, you can’t be as mean to them anymore.
• Garfield had the purr-fect life.
• Meg Ryan is the goddess of candy-floss and happily ever-afters. Meg Ryan is a multi-billionaire. Meg Ryan is alone and probably spends Saturday nights watching re-runs of either Larry King Live or You’ve Got Mail. I think there is a pattern here. If I only knew what.
• I feel affronted if people don’t stare.
• Grocery shopping never finishes in one trip. One always forgets the bread.
• Inter-specie love is perfectly acceptable if between an average-looking girl and a koala called David. Just a thought in passing you know. Any resemblance to any such girls or Davids that exist is purely coincidental.
• When depressed, chick-lit does the same for the hormones as chocolate. But then, so does suicide.
• I miss Garfield.
• Words that sound luverly: stallion, Spain, dark chocolate, flamenco, Peugeot, penthouse, antiques, Piazza del Castillo, Irish folk, whimsy, French window, wee, fireplace, free pizzas, midget, ember, home, sparkle, musty, coffee and kitten.
• If you take out a pen and paper and pretend to write in lounge number 6 at Tullamarine, people stare. Reverently. Or at least that’s what I like to think.
• In the train, usually, Asians sleep, Australians read, Europeans stare in the distance or look out the window. And Koreans take pictures.
• Bed and food is best at home. For everything else there is MasterCard.
• Playing holi while listening to kajrare invokes the rain-gods.
• The more the cramped-er.
• Taking 26 photographs of oneself and deleting all save that one particularly nice one is not vain or self-obsessed. It’s merely practice for being on the cover of Time.
• Watching 5 year olds go boogie boarding when you can’t even swim puts all that education into perspective.

I can now throw the napkins away. Finally. But I think I’ll keep the ketchup.

Surf's Up

Almost everyone I know has yearly rituals of one sort or another: people visit their hometown once a year, people visit Vaishnodevi once a year, people throw a party once a year… in fact I know people who jog for five minutes once a year (I do it twice… smirk!). Also, I’m pretty sure I know people who brush once a year, only they don’t ‘fess up.
I, as always, am a class apart. So I, unlike mere mortals without an ounce of ingenuity and gumption, sprain my ankle once a year. I’ve been doing it pretty consistently now for… oh… the past four or five years at the very least. Big sprain, small sprain, swelling, redness, itchiness, come rain or shine or exams… I’ve been there, done that… over and over again. You might think that it is difficult to manage… but that is because it has already been established you lack ingenuity and gumption. To me, it comes naturally. I don’t have to do a thing… I smile, I put a foot forward, and sprain the other foot… it’s really that simple.
But this year, things are a trifle unique. This is the first time ever that I have sprained my foot in Brisbane. Maybe because this is the first time I’ve been in Brisbane… who knows? So anyway. Here I was. At the beach. Reading a book. Looking gorgeous (I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that my reminisces are always in sepia and hence, I always look better in retrospect… maybe I was Dadaistic art in my previous life). And then I take it into my mind to let a friend teach me how to surf. Tangle in my sarong (luverly… borrowed… sigh!) and trip before I reach inst. friend. Ta-da!

The upside is that I’ve finally mastered the Zen art of cooking… close your eyes, reach into your shelf of the fridge (the “your” bit is optional), take as much of what-not as you can, put all of the said what-not in a microwaveable dish, take things to their logical conclusion and microwave everything thus transferred into the microwaveable dish. Voila… el sumfing-meaning-yummy-co.

So… basically I’m lame and I cook… if I don’t go to a parlour for the coming two weeks and grow a moustache, my own mother wouldn’t know me from Sanjiv Kapoor. And that just about sums up the past three days. That and Butterworths’ Legal Studies Series edition of Indigenous People and the Law in Australia (1st edition, 1995). Of everything else in this post, it is only the last mentioned that is highly recommended. For the rest… ad astra per alia porci.

Siyaah Haashiye

Travel Tip: I am ashamed to confess that I never could distinguish who is from where just by looking at them… not even the Chinese… I keep thinking they are from Burma. Or, horror of horrors, via surnames… so no, I do not know where Mehras come from… or Sharmas… I just know the Iyers and Chatterjees and that I think is because mom used to tell me about them in her bedtime stories. Aside. If she told them to me, do they not then become my bedtime stories instead? Aside over. And yet here, I can always thump my chest with conviction and proclaim to all, sundry and Australians that awast there matey… behold there a damsel from India… yes, it is just the damsels… it’s not that I have anything against Indian men… on the contrary, I am purr-fectly fond of Chunnu-the-chaatwala… it’s just that the men don’t wear gendero-national-blah indicators in the form of kaajal… or insist on calling it kohl. In fact, in most cases inst. kaajal is also eminently indicative of age and/or ideological leanings of the particular specimen in hand… it is quite easy for the expert to tell apart a feminist from an anarchist from a deconstructionist from a bebopper from a librarian predicated solely on the quality, quantity and strokes of kaajal involved. So now you know… not that you wanted to… but Jeopardy worked in mysterious ways.


Flow of Reason: “The Shop Around the Corner” followed by “You’ve Got Mail”… that my freiend, is the flow of reason… and I am going to let that misspelling remain as much as it is against my firm convictions that the Giant was the first Chipko… because it is a statement… and I’m out of kaajal… and if you hadn’t guessed that by now, then you don’t exist.


P.S. In continuation of living with Mallus in Hyderabad and learning Malyalam, I am now living with Columbians and Germans and Slovenians and Japanese and learning Korean… I personally view this progression as highly typical of my life thus far. You might not… but you don’t exist anyway so what the hell.

First Impressions

At least P would like the title. So yeah... I'm here in Brisbane. And I have no first impressions... I slept through them all... but I like being here... very different from home... a lot more no-clothes parties for one... and the foliage is amazing... it's like living in the middle of the jungle... with salons and pubs and cafes and ATM machines and regular bus service to other jungles.

But what has reah-lly stuck is the food... mainly because yours truly can't cook... at all... not one teensy bit... no sir... not me. Not even pasta... so for two days I was surviving on Maggie, which should now just be declared the national food of India and be finished with... then today my flatmate (bless her!) taught me how to make pasta... turned out quite well actually... I'm growing up.

Mom should be happy... exchange has taught me what she never could (of course because I never would)... to look at the lowest shelves in grocery stores, to add 1 litre of water to 100 grams of pasta and a spoon of tomato pesto, to open a bank account and to save polythene bags for future use. Who'd have thought?

Aside: My flat has a laundry room downstairs... and next to that room is another window with a placard propped in it which reads "Danger: Crocodile Nesting"... I like it here already. And this has no significance here but I really want to say it... crikey!

Swiss school needed

So. I can't eat with a knife-and-fork... therefore there's no point even talking about chopsticks. No small-talk-skills possessed at all... not even the weather dammit! Grooming is limited to wearing lip balm. I'm officially a corporate failure... and I'm not even in the corporate world yet. My education system has failed me... so has Chunnu-the-chaatwala... excuse me while I curl up and play dead for a while... there's no need to make detours though... just step over me... I won't mind.

Also I hate the new font on Blogger... what happened to democracy... or did I sleep through it all... again?

Mush Remembered: An Obituary

Mush watched: When Harry Met Sally (for the nth time), Sleepless in Seattle (for the 1st time... can you imagine!), Must Love Dogs, Frankie and Johnny.

Mush attempted-to-be-watched-but-given-up-due-to-various-reasons-including-but-not-restricted-to-food: Tristan and Isolde, Pretty Woman, My Best Friend's Wedding, Perfect.

Mush heard: On assorted radio channels... one that seems to have most recall value is a mushvaganza called "Love Hour"... I'm not letting the radio name my kids... or dog.

Hot chocolate consumed: None (I'm watching my figure... and no, you're not invited)

Coffee consumed: None (we were out of coffee... it's almost like survival camp here)

Rather tame, if you ask me... next time I'm going naturist... that way I don't have to shop either.

Down with feminism

Post recollected. Post deleted. I am un-desperate again.

Waking up

I don't believe in destiny but there are certain things I've always known about myself... for instance, one day I'll learn to make chocolates at home... one day I'll go to Paris and backpack across Egypt... and London... one day I'll have an apartment in a high-rise overlooking a very busy road... one day I'll have a secretary who'll make coffee the way I like it... one day I'll have a library dressed in ebony which will be bigger than the rest of my apartment put together... one day I'll have red heels and will speak Spanish... one day I'll have a 'patchwork cat' called Nefertiri... I've always known all of this will happen to me.
So yeah... I've been to London. A magnificent anti-climax. My dreams are so much more prettier... which is a lot more comparatives in one sentence than is grammatically allowed. But what the hell... the secretary will take care of all of that... right after she gets me my coffee.


(Some people never learn... I sympathize mom)

Deprecating Criticsrant – Alphabetically

Abdomen abdominal abduction aberration abeyance abhorrence abidance ablution abnegate abominable abominate abomination aboriginal aborigines aboveboard abrogate abscission absolution abstemious abstinence academic academician accelerate accommodate accompaniment accordion accumulate acetate. Achillean achromatic acknowledge acknowledgment acoustic acquiescence acquisition acquittance acrimonious adherence adjuration administrator admonition adoration adulterant advertiser aeronautics aerostatics affectation affirmative aforesaid afterthought agglomerate aggrandize aggravation alabaster alcoholism alderman aldermanship alienable alleviate alteration alternative. Amalgamate amateur ambidextrous ambiguous ambitious ambrosial ambulance ameliorate. Americanism amphibious amphitheater amusement anachronism analogous anathema anemometer anesthetic. Anglophobia animadversion animalcule annihilate annunciation antecede antecedent antechamber antediluvian antemeridian antemundane antenatal anterior anthropology anthropomorphous anticlimax anticyclone antipathize antiquary antiseptic antispasmodic apothecary.

Apotheosis apparition appellation appertain apposition appreciable apprehensible approbation appropriate aqueduct aqueous arborescent arboretum arboriculture archdeacon archaeology archipelago arrangement. Arthurian ascension aspiration assailant assassination assimilate atomizer atonement atrocious audacious audition. Augustinian auricular auriferous authenticity autobiography automaton autonomous autonomy autumnal auxiliary aversion avocation azalea. Baconian bacterium barcarole barograph barometer baritone battalion beatitude believe belligerent benediction benefactor benefice beneficent beneficial beneficiary benevolence benevolent benignity bequeath bereave bibliomania bibliography bibliophile bibulous biennial bilateral bilingual boisterous bombardier botanical brigadier. Britannia brokerage bureaucracy. Cadaverous calculable capacious capitulate caricature carnivorous catastrophe. Catholicism cauterize censorious centiliter centimeter centurion ceremonial ceremonious chameleon characteristic characterize chateau. Christendom chronometer circumference circumlocution.

Circumnavigate clairvoyance clamorous clandestine coagulate coalescence coincidence collaborate collapsible collegian colloquial colloquialism commemorate commissariat competitive complacence complaisance complication comprehensible comprehension comprehensive compulsion compunction concession conciliatory concordance concurrence condensation confectionery confederacy confederate confinement conflagration conformation congenial conjugation connoisseur consanguineous conscientious consecutive conservatism conservative conservatory consolidate conspicuous constellation consternation constituency constituent consumption. Contagion contagious contaminate contemporaneous contemporary contemptuous contiguity contiguous continuance continuation continuity continuous contradiction contradictory contraption contravene contribution contributor contumacious convalescence convalescent convenience convolution convulsion cornucopia coronation corporeal correlative correspondence corroborate corroboration cosmopolitan cosmopolitanism counterbalance contortion counterfeit counterpart countervail courageous creamery credulous criterion crustacean cretaceous. Debonair deciliter. Decalogue decimeter decapitate deceitful.

Aside: This post has single handedly brought the blog readability index of yours truly up from elementary to genius... here's thumbing things at you Rant-man. Long live random web dictionaries!

For the record

Yes... I did wake up in a bad mood... give me Robin McKinley or give me sleep. Or chocolate. Actually, make that and chocolate please... to go.

10.04 AM is such a dreadfully awful time to be writing posts. It's almost like having a job.

Saying Grace

I love the idea of cosmic souls. I love the idea of hot chocolate fudge... the real thing and not what they simply pass off as fudge when it's actually sundae. I love the idea of ruby red. I love the idea of sword-fighting... not fencing. I love cats. I love dogs. Sometimes even kids. The smaller the better. I love the smell of fire. I love being right here right now, even though I sound like a Backstreet Boys' track gone horribly wrong. I love the idea of evenings and nights. I love black. I love penthouses and studio apartments with french windows overlooking busy streets. I love not having peptic ulcer. I love that my nose is a little broken... I think it lends me distinction. I love blues and slow music. I love fast music. I love waltz. I love salsa. I love rea-hlly dark chocolate. I love words. I love being an artist manquee. I love having money. I love the internet. I love laughing with people I like. I like smiling at people for no reason... I love it when they smile back. I love the idea of being a little psychotic and self obsessed without having to be apologetic about it. I love being able to do everything I want to do. I love being loved.

I hate that I just might wake up in an atrocious mood tomorrow and that Frankie and Johnny may not be on.

Curiosity...

... killed the cat. One wonders why.

That's all.

(This is my The-Devil-Wears-Prada moment... please observe silence for a few beers)

Spelling Arrivederci: To See If I Can

I have arrived... and strangely enough, despite being me, I don't quite know whether I should italicize have or arrived. And hence:

1) I have arrived.

2) I have arrived.

Take your pick. Either ways. After two bus journeys, misguided (unguided?!?) autorambos, assorted traffic signals, two blisters on different feet, and two-and-sumfing inch heels. And they say Alexander was a fighter? Ha!

And what about those dragons, hmmm?!? Faster Igor... faster.