I'm a sick child

Hate the way illness can be revelatory. Have been down with fever (again. Hmph) for less than a day at the most wickedly innopportune time of the week (always, always around the weekend, the bloody buggger).
AA and I had plans. Grand plans involving doing the cool-chicks-with-attitude-and-lappie (her word for new laptop, my paryayvachi would be 'slut') thing at Passion (wi-fi-shi et al), though I had more of 'online-sex-with-strangers' plan within plan (knew there was something out of tune about 'online' sex. Until I realised that it's been so long, I've even forgotten it's called 'cyber sex'!). Anywhoo, after the establishment of sex appeal to none in particular (since the men we want to impress are shadow-ghost delusiory creations of our sick minds), we were to be driven by Nandu to TC (rechristened henceforth teeshee by me) and spend the night reducing the length of our lives by choking, for hours, in a basement pub full of roaring loud music (that I am unfortunately not hooligan-type crazy about), carbon dioxide exhaled by millions of sweaty bodies (with very less clothing at times, so when you emerge non-Moses like from the sea of bodies in front of the loo, you might find yourself smeared with sweat you did not create), a dense massive cloud of cigarette smoke hanging low from the ceiling (as we periodically contributed more density to it), gently looking over us while we kill our livers, as we sip beerblasters. I'm not being sarcastic; illness giveth one clarity. This really is what happens, and I enjoy all the self-annihilation once in a while. This saturday was gonna be one of those, the initiative engineered by none other than yours truly. And Sunday, oh Sunday. Jive class and then girlie evening out with the rotund and anytime-into-labour Ghachi Beti, and AA. (Also had in mind taking mum to Asian Roots for free facial on Saturday, courtesy voucher flicked from freebies at work, but never mind).

Aneeeways, back to the sorry sordid state of being this very second, as I sit in a hot-hot hellhole (AC not allowed), wiping sweat off sleeve as I tap tap away, and eat sorry mouthfuls of the most boring sabzi in the world - Aloo Beans, cooked to salt-only perfection by none other than the ghoul o' the kitchen Eeshwari - with watery yellow dal and phulka. But am ashamed to admit that even this tastes wonderful after the sordid gruel I consumed in the name of lunch, consisting mainly and solely of Eeshwari's Khichadi, a recipe I imagine she must've learnt and perfected over several laborious years spent in a rat-infested kitchen, in a Bollywood-style oppressive jail where food is another form of torture. Irony it is, that the cause of my fever is always attributed to my legendary status of 'poor eater' by my folks (I repeat myself for the zillionth time - Must, must impress folks when young; whatever you do after the age of five will determine your image for the rest of your life). So while they fret over how I'm not eating any of the sabzis I did not eat as a child (inlcuding tinda, tori, ghia, eans, green leafy vegetables, all of which I consume in hearty proportions now, despite the magical touch of Eeshwari's cooking) and getting this fever shit, I'm lying half-dead on my sweaty bed, dreaming of - you could never guess it - creamy Shahi Paneer and Paneer Shimla Mirch from Colonel Kebabz. And the sorriest part of the dream is that the sabzis are leftovers from last night, which apparently, according to dream logic, pj too and Proofaholic ordered while working late. And my mouth is watering as Kamla ji takes the frozen ghee in the name of sabzi out of the fridge and dumps it unceremoniously in the frying pan. Could anything be more pathetic?

When I was a kid (ohh. Here we go again...) I used to be psychotic about the falling ill thing. I always wanted attention, but was too proud to ask for it, and so, gave the impression of being such a self-sufficently morose child. So I loved the idea of falling ill, when mummy and papa would sit by my side and put those ice cold pattis on my forehead, and people would come to meet me with red roses in their hands, and everybody would want to administer freshly made home remedies to me, for which I would slowly, sadly, tragically, pathetically, wearily hoist myself on to my elbows from my horizontal perch on bed, and open my mouth to the beat of a very, very pathetic shehnai-type background score right out of a crappy late 80's movie selection from the hollows of pre-cable matinee Doordarshan. Alas, I never hardly ever fell ill when I was a kid. Or maybe I did, and recovered so quickly that I do not have any memories of it. Now, when I do fall ill (not too often, ahem, the last time I got viral was in October, ogay?), I'm a sick mix of I Want Attention and Leave Me Alone. Like, all of last night I was sick and had no energy to get up to find a crocin, so just tried to sleep anyway, grudging the fact that my folks didn't bother to give it to me, despite their faculties of divine telepathy. In the morning, i was too tired and dead and sweaty when my father woke me up by switching on the light and shoved under my nose, a newspaper clipping carrying 'Message' by Sharad Pawar and a computer print out of the overview of goals of ICAR, to be incorporated in his next 'Message', to be drafted by me in a matter of five minutes as my father looks on expectantly. I calmly told him 'I can't do it right now', to which he bellowed a tormented 'Kyuuuuuuun?', which was when I completely blew my lid and bellowed back, 'Coz I'm ill! I have fever! Can't you see! Idiot!' which I regretted all day, especially when Pa, in very uncharacteristic manner, called me at 2 pm to check on how I'm feeling. So, after the bellowing incident, I flopped down on the bed again, exhausted by the effort, and woke up to see my mum dressed very nicely for her retirement party at office. She was a little worried about me, but in the hurried rush of getting to a meeting at 10.30 (extremely early by her standards), she couldn't properly fret over my condition, which left me feeling very angry and martyr-like (also dirty, unbathed and ill-dressed in tattered home clothes). Funny thing is, Eeshwari really took it upon herself to be my mammy while folks were to go, and insisted on enquiring if I was okay with more dal than chawal in my khichadi, if I would want to eat some phulka, brought me water for my bedside, boiled saline water for my gargles, and made adrak-shahad for the bad throat. And strangely, this unbecoming behaviour was totally putting me off (especially because she insisted on asking me hajjar questions when I could barely swallow without feeling fresh stabs of throat pain, and the gargle water was too hot and not at all saline, which is when I realised that getting pissed over this means I'm a confirmed control freak - or a controlled freak - whatever).
So anyways, cutting long story short: Will forget all about the gruel served twice a day and be nice to Eeshwari; will be less of a pain for both parents who are too old for this shit; will stick to cribbing in blogosphere coz reading this shit is optional for you, a fact I will acknowledge on blogspace, but never in my head.

punky dares some muzik muzings

Disclaimer: I'm not a music-y person :P
I do this thing quite often; maybe it's to do with the whole Letting Go thing: When I'm driving and there's an mp3 full of songs dowloaded by other people and hence, full of some songs that I like, some I don't, some I just luuurve during a particular mood/ certain phase/ on a certain day etc, I deliberately don't press the next/previous buttons. Usually, what happens with mp3s is that is that I end up memorising numbers for the songs I love the most, and keep forwarding and/or repeating them, till I reach that saturation point where I've stopped lingering on my favourite lyrics, or longing to hear them again as soon as they've been sung (sometimes can't even wait till the song ends and I can repeat it!). Now I just pretend that I don't have an option. So I have to let all the songs play, listen to them coz I just have to submit to the lack of freewill. This way I find new favourites, and even get to start liking some songs I never liked in the first place or never noticed earlier because they weren't so apt in that phase of my life.

Warning: Digression. Skip if want to stick to music musings.
I've always been the idiotic types when it comes to these things. I find something I love, and then just go into overdrive! Like, I re-issued Roald Dahls and Blyton's Faraway Tree for years in junior and middle school library (must've been a record of sorts), which is why I never got down to reading anything of the Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Agatha Christie, hell even Mills and Boons kind (also because my whole class was converging on the shelves with these books, and in the spirit of oh-me-not-herd-mentality I thought my selection of BFG and Faraway Tree were so classic and just so erudite). In fact, my first Famous Five was read two months ago, for a book review in Parenting, and had me quite appalled at what ALL I missed! And all this while I'd been proud of how at such a tender age I just gauged that crucial moment - when it'd be my turn in the library queue to hand back that awesome book that made me so happy - and pipe up, 'Re-issue please' and take the book home again (sometimes only to read select pages once in a while, or just keep it in my bag as a sort of comfort thing!). Confession time: I am absolutely weird.

So, burned a new mp3 that I'd arranged alphabetically. Whatta stupid idea, coz I've got 8 DMB songs back-to-back and am sniffin' up my old addiction again. With the added advantage of not having to move even a finger to press the rewind/forward button! But, it's kinda funny too, coz u know how listening to same songs in your room and your car can be like listening to two different songs? This mp3 plays in office all the time. But in that closed space of the car, windows rolled up, alone, with no comp screen to focus on - yes, the road, but I try not to focus too much on that, else I fuck up. I'm a natural; it spoils my rhythm, ya see :) - songs sound so different, so zoomed in, like the guy's sidled up to you and is singing right into your ear drums or something. Creepy, at times. So since Dave has been crooning in my ears for a bit now, I'm beginning to wonder why I like his songs so much. He doesn't have a great great voice like all smooth and strong and beautiful, like say, a Chris Isaak. Like if these songs were a fictional character's monologues, I'd imagine him as an older guy, like late 30's (sorry, I'm still little enuf to call that old), not attractive, but pretty much knows what he's about. Laidback, like, so drunk and post coital. That, I like. Saying all the right words, with all the right accents and pauses and lingering on the irony bits (which are just too many) for just the right duration, all the right profundities being evoked - all so sexy and beautiful - but what I love the most is that this guy (not Dave, I mean, the character of the guy who's singing the songs) is that he's just so wasted (ya, substance abuse and otherwise). A guy who is all those things women long for - he feels everything so deeply, so feelingly, so intensely and yet in such a lay-back-let's-go-with-the-flow way, gets all those complexities and then renders them so well - and he knows it. But just the sheer burden of all this 'being' leaves him totally wasted. He knows he's good, and so he gets the chicks and never needs to look at whatta jerk the rest of him can be. And he's a little vain - like he's so impressed with his own ability to be all that feelingly stuff that he's just abandoned the rest of himself to it. Like he'll just spend hours sitting there in a corner, strumming and singing not because he wants to sing to someone, but just because he's totally in love with the way he does it. He's just so head over heels in love with himself and all his tormenting inner conflicts (I find sometimes its easy to be myself/Sometimes I find better to be somebody else) that he doesn't need to love a woman at all. Like he'll croon Save me, save me/ Stranger, if you please/ Or am I too far gone/ To get back home, but he really doesn't want you to. But then, everybody gets sick of wanking away, so sex he must. But first, he'll mindfuck. Like in Crash what he's really longing for is just some raunchy SnM, but he'll do this whole older-man-wanting-to-live-out-his-teenage-fantasy-wet-dream thing, so the girl would just have to oblige coz this must be the first time she's the bloody subject of the dreams a guy's had before he met her. Everybody wants to be a subject of someone's wet dream, but to be one of a wet dream of a wet dream is quite something. And this way, Dave also gets away with extremely corny lines (Hike up your skirt a little more/And show the world to me) coz hey, that's what a fifteen-year-old would write, right? But I'd say Say Goodbye is just classic. I mean, whatta fantastic idea; the guy's a charming asshole (Run away here with me/On an evening oh just wait and see/But tomorrow go back to your man/I'm back to my world/And we're back to being friends) coz he's got the chick to believe that while her inner jerk-radar tells her she's been told these words by other male assholes, when he says it, it just goes so much deeper. Good for Dave (the character, pliz, no defamation suits), coz she can't turn around tomorrow and say 'I want to be lovers today too', coz he told her today that they'll be friends tomorrow coz he's gotta be another chick's lover tomorrow so he can be her friend day after tomorrow. And so on.

Not to say I hate DMB now! Of course, I find myself in the stupid girl's shoes all the time (and I would've done the lovers tonight and crash things with or without the above-mentioned perspective if I ever found myself face to face with this character). I enjoy the music a lot more now. It's just a lot more fun to listen to songs with all these stories cooking up in your head alongside, no? Or am I just going to be forever cursed for ruining your DMB experience? It's called intahprahtation, and it's been a while since I did some in Eng Lit class. If you don't like it, go do your own thing on your own blog. Okay? Okay.

Come to think of it, he sounds a little like Byron, doesn't he? Except he's even smarter. He's singing his poetry out. Doubles the effect on chicks :) Or maybe this just has to do with my current phase in life. Like all music does :)

Sunday is fun day

So this is what I learnt yesterday:

And this. Well, not so sassy at it (and ahem, both my legs were in the air), but hell, you get the piktchaahh.

Ok, found a more believable picture of what really happened:

And this is what I did after that:

(This is officially, the first photo of my baby thamma. Erm, from the inside.)

Fever: Serendipity ki chachi

Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care
When you put your arms around me, I get a fever that's so hard to bear
You give me fever - when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight
Fever - in the the morning, fever all through the night.

The irony of doing a slow jive to Peggy Lee's Fever and actually getting down with the real thing that night itself!

Sun lights up the daytime, moon lights up the night
I light up when you call my name, and you know I'm gonna treat you right
You give me fever - when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight
Fever - in the the morning, fever all through the night.

When I hear her i think of fat white pearls, maroon velvet and pouty lips. And oh yes, decolletage. I know. Very predictable. I call it old fashioned. Sounds charming that way.

Everybody's got the fever, that is something you all know
Fever isn't such a new thing, fever started long ago.

Yes, except that mine isn't this exciting by a gazillionth. I'm tired, drained, moody and bored out of my wits, Miss Lee (mrs actually, three-times over, Googs tells me).

Romeo loved Juliet, Juliet she felt the same
When he put his arms around her, he said "Julie baby you're my flame"
Thou givest fever, when we kisseth, fever with thy flaming youth
Fever - I'm afire, fever yea I burn forsooth.
Captain Smith and Pocahontas had a very mad affair
When her Daddy tried to kill him, she said "Daddy-O don't you dare"
Give me fever - with his kisses, fever when he holds me tight
Fever - I'm his Missus, Oh daddy won't you treat him right.

Hmmm. I've been googling her and she looks just how I imagined her:







Now you've listened to my story, here's the point I have made:
Chicks were born to give you fever, be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade
They give you fever - when you kiss them, fever if you live and learn
Fever - till you sizzle, what a lovely way to burn.
What a lovely way to burn.
What a lovely way to burn.
So, you. Turn up for the next jive class, ogay? Then maybe, I'll know just what Peggy's talkin' about.

P.S. (Screaming) Did you know that Serendiptiy comes from Serendip, an old name for Sri Lanka, from a story about three princes of Serendip, who made many serendipitous discoveries!! Woah! These angrez chors, saale!

Everything Official About It

Overwhelmingly unbearably frighteningly inspired by my loyal readership, I come back to Posting mode within less than 24 hours of my last post, because I have just had the epiphany (rinse mouth 50 times for having used the-word-that-ought-not-to-be-used) that this is the season for the Official way of things.
1. I am officially four-kg weight lifter today. Hee. Stop phoo-phooing over the petty number, coz you don't know what it feels like to lift less than 3 kg weights for a year before you get here! It happens to me every June, when dance class isn't squeezing the life force out of my system and I have a better gymming schedule. The boys in my gym are officially scared of me now (earlier I was just too sweaty and unisexually unnaturally focussed on workout). Can't stop grinning.
2. Pink is my favourite colour. It's official. Mr Taylor had been screaming it into my ears all these years, but I Just Didn't Get It, did I? Had been in denial all this while, proclaiming with Huh-I-know-what-you're-gonna-say-colour-therapist attitude that it's Red, red , red, with Orange coming a close second. Yesterday, I went to SN and bought 6 tops and when I got home and immediately started trying them on (a post-shopping ritual that's more enjoyable than actually shopping), I realised that 4 out of those were in various shades and prints of pink. Hell, even the two bra straps I bought were shades of pink! And this time I'd decided I won't spoil my shopping experience by thinking, 'Oh, do I have this colour in my wardrobe already?' or 'Will this go with that in my wardrobe' etc. I just Went With The Flow. Bought the first thing that caught my eye and was reasonably skimpy to wear. And look.
3. Tommorrow is Sunday. Officially. Jive class. Heh.
4. There must be more, but I can't remember them right now. So I'll repeat yesterday's official declarations - Pabda's on his way, I'm officially in love with Thamma who has officially received her first official challan.

Things that have happened to me in the past month

1. The Perm. Can't stop smiling. I have expounded on the subject at such terrifying lengths in my head that I have nothing to say to anyone anymore. Now I get this poetic surge of imagery everytime I'm trying to explain (justify) to someone why I got it done. My favourite: Imagine being a lovely stately Ashoka tree all your life. And then suddenly, you're a bougainvillea. Y'knowhaddimeen? You don't? Your name must be Pj too or Proofaholic. I'm just going to be a lovely Zen bougainvillea bush sitting next to you, tap-tap-tapping away at her keyboard. And I don't have to comb my hair for the next six months. How cool is that. Huh.
2. Return of The Lyric Jumble Disorder Attack. I had this when I was a kid, and it's all coming back to me now. Lately, with Paperbag. So there's this lovely bit where she goes, 'I thought he was a man but he was just a little boy' (where I always go nod-nod-nod or Siiiigh-The-Irony), but whenever I'd try to sing along or independently in my head, it comes out as 'I thought he was a boy but he was just a little man', which, erm, doesn't sound right at all (Freud would've kidnapped me for lab rat purposes instantly). Lately, to counter this malady, I've started preparing and rehearsing about five lines before The Line of Malfunction. But the bloody shifty crafty disease attacks a split second before the line, takes hold of my tongue and makes me go 'I thought he was a man but he was just a paperbag'. Aaargggh! Bloody slip-of-tongue. When I was little, there was a Neelam-Govinda song where she'd go something like aaja sanam or something and then, 'Baahon ka haar tere gale mein daaloon'. And I'd always sing it as 'Gale ka haar teri baahon mein daaloon' and immediately shut up, paralyzed by the horror of it all.
3. The jive. I'm only one class old (and have missed another already), but what the hell jingle bell, I'm self-appointed speaker on all things sundry (love that word. it's sounds so...nonchalant), so will talk. You're not interested. Hmm. So there's this guy... but more about that later (Don't skip!). So I chose to not do Salsa, which everyone's nuts over apparently (or so the main instructor told me) coz I thought it was just too intense and majorly chauvinstic. Yes, even a dance! When I did learn salsa for two months last year, I got pretty sick of being led all the time. By idiotic men who don't know what the fuck they're doing (yes yes, Rage Against the Ex-Boyfriend!). And if I did try to do some hint-hint thing by suggesting the next step and almost twirling myself (yes, that's possible), I'd get scolded at by the instructor! Like not even scolded, more like loathed for being such a bloody stuck-up feminist, who can't just stop doing the Independent Woman thing by letting a man (of extremely inferior talent, I scream) lead her to something! So anyway, this time, I chose jive instead, coz salsa is Intense and jive's Fun hence democratic and feminist-friendly. Of course, I was wrong. But so beautifully wrong. Wait! So there's this guy... there were many actually, and total namoonas! There was this sweet boy with very rock-star type hair-do and lingo (like, I'm-trying-to-get-out-of-my-air-guitar-strumming-comfort-zone type expression) who said the darnest things while he did the funniest awkwardest dance with me, but I danced with him most of the time anway. And then there was the Pretty Boy who I couldn't quite pin down (no puns, people) until he started talking - everything about his looks and accent was right out of PJ too's recent Siddharth Dhanavant Shangvi encounter. Like this very Reluctant Metrosexual as I call it. Like, spiky hair teamed up with an oversized loose full sleeve shirt with one sleeve dangling dandy-ly over one hand, there's a belt but his jeans are still falling, reeking of so much cologne that women would be swooning for the wrong reasons - stuff like that. And oh. The accent. So phoney, even he guessed it wasn't sounding right. I found it rather funny, but thought he's just the kind someone like Red Pants will like. She's almost as amused as she is intrigued, and planning to land up at the next class to pick me up (we're so not Sex and the City, we laughed when she suggested)! But the guy who I did not notice (analyse), was apparently watching from the wings and decided that I'm obviously the best in class and that he should just Lead Me into the jive I have not learnt yet. It lasted less than two minutes, there was no intense touching a la salsa, the eye contact was a zit more than you'd have with a doorknob, but I've been reeling from the rush for like, two weeks now I think. As I said to Pink Dino the other day, Fuck Feminism. I love being led. (No I don't know his name, don't remember what he looked like. He was wearing sandals and had long canines is all I remember. Ooh. Vampire magnetism).
4. Thamma got her first challan. And I'm officially in love with her (Like I have withdrawl pangs when I don't drive on Sundays). So the baby got a ticket for jumping a red light near Sarojini Nagar at 10 am on March 30 (now it reaches me). It's totally baseless, because considering the geographically obscure location of the gaon I live in, I can't possibly be there at 10 am, and even if I were on my way back from dance class, I'd not cross any red lights in that area. But still, Thamma got her first challan. This goes on the first page of her baby scrapbook with a photo of her first dent (It Wasn't Me).
5. Pabda is on his way. The ninth month has begun! Anytime now, Pabda will yawn and decide he wants a nice stretch, unfold his long-long legs, and show his beatific face to me, Auntie! I have given him homework: he must calculate his arrival according to complex mathematical Indian horoscope calculations and be born at a time and date that makes his auspicious name-letter an M so I can name him Milind or Mukund. Yes, like Soman, and yes, like Arjun Mukundan.
6. I survived another yearly out-of-town trip with my parents. So, am back and happy to announce that this time I not only managed to not kill them, I even had fun sometimes! I just get real guilty every time I go for an outstation trip with friends ( always have that horrible homesick feeling in the pit of my stomach just before I step out of the house to catch my train!) that I always do a trip with my parents every year. Just so I can tell myslf (and most importantly, them) the next time I go out of Delhi, that At Least I Did the Family Thing This Year. The thing is, my mother doesn't travel out of Delhi unless the place to be travelled to has two things: 1) Hills and pine trees 2) a famous temple in the vicinity, preferably a shaktipeeth or jyotirling or one of the char dhams. And problem is: I hate mountains. And I don't like holidays that are driven by the Religious Tourism bit. Plus, I have to share a room with them. And when my dad snores, it's like someone's sawing off a huge log of wood with such sadistic slow rhythmic precision that if caught sleepless in the same room with him, you could drive yourself to suicide! And my mother cribs cribs cribs to me about how my father is so soppy, all the time. So, throughout the trip, I'm not only sleep-deprived and uninterested in performing rituals that I'm being driven by the nose towards, I'm also at my wit's end, constantly bickering and snapping at my parents like some cranky 13-year-old! And it's pretty obvious we don't make a convincing Happy Family scene for any onlooker, and that irks me even more! You know that age-old break off line - It's not you, it's me - ? I can use that as excuse for not travellign with my folks.
So anyway, we went to Shirdi despite it not having hills, pine trees, cool breeze etc because mum's never been there and it's the pinnacle of all things Sai Baba, whom she loves. So we did go, and managed to pack in two of the 12 jyotirlings and half-a-zillion other minor temples in the nost-so-near vicinity. And i got to see the Ellora caves that I'd SO wanted to see. They're just
fabulous. There's an amazing chaitya (prayer) hall in the Buddhist part of the caves, and some of the loveliest giant-sized sculptures I've ever seen, in the main Hindu part of the caves. (There's a very sweet 10-feet tall one in which Shiva is doing the tandav, his ten arms flailing out in awe-inspiring, even frightening movement, and with one of the arms, he's patting Parvati on the cheek, telling her not to be too scared by his raudra roop. It's amazing how the sculptor got that lovely tender moment in the midst of all that goose-pimple inducing movement, and that too in that cold hard stone. But I digress.) It was also 5 days of too much road travel, and there's something about being on a highway in an AC car in an unknown landscape that totally sparks off neverending Thinking. So I thought a lot about myself, about things past, and what I think is to come, and ended up with much rumination, wasted time and energy :)
More pics and meaningful chatter about the trip laterz, on my other new blog (I ain't telling ya!)
7. AA is back! And I'm not as excited as I thought I would be.
8. People are reading my blog! Yes, you reader in Jaipur (who spent 5 minutes 14 seconds reading my blog today at 3.38 pm), Ontario (just 2 seconds? Shame on you!), and you sify.net using Asian who entered at the Paperbag page and read for 1 minute 2 seconds before you tried the what kind of panties are you quiz, and oh u evil Vancouver boy who searched for 'spanked stranger' on blogspot and landed here for a second before you realised it ain't no porn site and clicked Next Blog - do the following: Make V sign with fingers. Now, tilt hand horizontally so that you look like you're poking your eyes. Then, point similarly in opposite direction. Know what that means? Huh? Huh? I'm. Watching. You.