Soul mate...

You are a name wound within my fist
I carry your destiny, your very soul
A prism of glass, where colors twist
And quiver, evolve to transparent gold

You're a force I reckon with, as I must
To hold your storm, and steer your flight
So your path is strewn with pretty stardust
So your hands will cup their full delight

You are a sliver of underwater, new
I lay down pebbles, and watch your swifts
You wash the wind, drink of grass's dew
I swallow the rain, the earth, I shift

You are a mountain goat that wants to play
I teach you to yearn after faraway moors
The sky is a knife, its blade of grey
I turn it to red, of evening lure

You are my wind-chased daffodil
I hasten to lift your sun-smile brow
I weep when you cradle my heart, until
We bury each other in the valley below

A Children's Day Lesson

I spent the whole of yesterday in the company of little people who somehow managed to make me feel small.

Being Children's day, I was invited to be a guest at a grand competition for kids from all across India and the neighboring countries. Contrary to my usual practice of turning such things down, I agreed, and I'm glad I did.

Are kids just getting smarter with each passing decade? How can that be? The world is getting to be a worse place to live in, what with the global warming, and the holes in the sky, and excessive pollution, and the harmful pesticides in crops and blah blah blah...well, that should result in dumb, lethargic children who are doomed to fail or die early.

But happily, that is as far from the truth as is possible. Those kids were 'out there' to say the least. I remember myself at the age of 15- bashful, an introvert, terribly lacking in confidence despite the fact that I had some accomplishments in music and I was a very good student. Still, I could never bring myself to announce those facts to an audience of strangers. But oh, those kids seemed to have no such qualms.

'They are very confident, aren't they? Some of them, too confident even!' Thus spoke the judge on my left. I had to nod my head in agreement. Thankfully, there were a couple of bashful kids as well, who turned out to be extremely talented and smart, and that provided some comfort to my 15 yr old self's bruised ego.

Talent aside, what made some of them really special was their level of awareness and empathy. The work that some of them had done was truly amazing- raising funds for cancer, working with HIV+ children, sponsoring the education of Dalit girls in a remote Nepali tribe... The passion, the drive, the belief that they could, in their own way, change the world, all that seemed remotely familiar to me. And then I realized, with a pang of guilt, that all my awareness and empathy had dissipated with age.

Why is it that most of us morph into such self-obsessed adults? Why does the need to do something entirely unselfish for someone else gradually diminish as we grow older? Is it because we 'grow up' and realize that the world would only exploit such kindness? Or is it because we have failed to 'grow up' at all?

As I watched those kids strut their stuff, I suddenly grew anxious. I wanted to tell them, don't let the world get to you! It's a cold, hard, cynical place, but don't let that change you! People you love will hurt you, friends you trust will desert you, money will evade you when you most need it, courage will be inaccessible when you most require it... but don't let that kill your beautiful spirit!

Then I remembered, that kind of thing happened to me all the time. And I used to be so scornful of those preachy adults, who tried to teach me about the world. Because in my mind, I could do no wrong, the world was mine for the taking. I had everything on my side- youth, ambition, dreams, talent. How could I possibly fail at anything that I set my mind on doing?

I hadn't counted on the fact that maybe those adults weren't just preaching after all. I hadn't counted on the fact that being good at what you do and having a good heart, is nowhere near good enough. I hadn't counted on the fact that the world doesn't give a damn about good intentions. And I hadn't counted on the fact that the world really doesn't give a damn about anyone, including me.

But how can you say all that to a child, bright-eyed and glowing with success after having won the competition?

The rain that falls...

The world has been scrubbed clean today. Everything green stands out in defiance to the blanket of gray-dominated sky.

There is still the after-math to deal with - over-flowing potholes, flooded lanes, rain-sodden clothes that couldn't be saved in time, the occasional accidental electrocution, tell-tale mud splatters, spells of darkness, televisions blanking out, roofs that cave in, doors that can't keep the water out, mosquito colonies reinstating their supreme power, spineless umbrellas, truant school-kids sailing their ill-fated paper boats while determinedly dodging their over-worked mothers' repeated calls to come in...

It's poignant somehow, this ritual of rain. The way it falls, regardless of who or what it might be drenching, as oblivious to the spurts of joie de vivre as to the desecration of things, places, people...

It makes us fall in love, it makes us long for comfort in cocoa, it turns us into children again, it erodes our sense of permanence...

And it always, always makes me yearn... for what, I don't yet know.

When Time stands still

It's amazing how heavy one feels when one has a lot of time on one's hands. As if Time itself were a physical burden to bear, like a large, uncomfortable stack of iron rods, poking and protruding and generally causing one a great state of distress.

Alright. I'll quit being deliberately obtuse about it and grudgingly admit that the 'one' in question is none other than yours truly.

I hate it. I absolutely hate it. Either I've suddenly been possessed by an alien form of maniac energy, or I simply have too many hours to do too little. And if that weren't bad enough, I'm also turning into a borderline insomniac.

If anyone out there is taking the effort to be concerned, don't be. It's just one of my many phases, like the waxing and waning of the moon. I must be 'this' in order to also be 'that' at some later point in time.

So then, if I know all of this already, why am I so perturbed? Because it's typical of me. Any other saner person would find pleasurable activities to occupy themselves with. But no, I couldn't possibly do that. It's probably a remnant of some homework-related guilt-complex I've been harboring since my childhood.

Sigh...And I'm supposed to be having the time of my life, since I'm an unattached twenty-something and what not. Whatever.

Moral of the story- when Time stands still, don't try to keep up with it.

In search of quiet

Last evening, I made the effort of trudging up the stairs to my terrace, with Cuddles and Pooch hot on my heels in pursuit. I wandered around aimlessly, while they lounged in contentment, sniffing occasionally at whichever scents the night breeze carried in its wake.

The world was lit up in a haze of neon signs, humble tube lights and the glow of a half-moon. Alas, there was no silence. The hum of distant traffic made it clear that however hard I tried to escape the reality of my city-bred life, it was, in effect, impossible.

We stayed there a while, the three of us, each contemplative, lost in thought, they, with their tongues moist and lolling, I, with my heart hanging out.

It was nice while it lasted.

Man from Galilee

Wisdom is its own enemy
Courage has much to fear
And I, helpless stranger
Grope along my way

A pose of self-righteousness
Never did become me
I watch the buds of my flaws
Flourish in their flower-bed

There is much to be ashamed of
So little time to repent
I wish I had a melting heart
To carry me away

There are aliens in silence
Whispers in mist and dew
And yet, so very few
That know my name

Call to me now, I beg you
Shroud my face, and how
Will you count the silver
When I’m gone?

There is strength in weakness
And so I fall, again
If only to show you
I’m human too.

A Tale of two Doggies

The past week has been a bit of a scare. Pooch and cuddles, the most adorable members of our admittedly dysfunctional nuclear family took ill all of a sudden and spent the better half of Tuesday night throwing up.

Wednesday morning saw us glancing anxiously at the clock in the hall, waiting for it to announce the arrival of 10 a.m. the magical hour when our family vet opened her doors to the canine world. A half hour later, our driver returned with dogs in tow. They had been diagnosed with a fever, and a part of the blame was laid on the pest-control guy who'd turned up the previous day and exorcised our house. Unfortunately, the exorcism seemed to have greatly affected the canine spirits happily in residence, despite the fact that they were stowed away safely.

Pooch spent the day in misery, whimpering and restless, while Cuddles watched on, her tail thumping haplessly every now and then. I played nurse and hand-fed them a few marie biscuits mashed up in cold water which they dutifully licked off my fingers and duly brought up ten minutes later.

When evening came, I was sure that another visit to the vet was in order. The dogs were packed into an auto(our only car having gone to the service station), accompanied by the driver and myself. We patiently waited our turn, while Cuddles and Pooch, sickness or no sickness, felt the need to bark at dogs triple their size. The owners of the dogs whiled away the waiting period by discussing various dietary habits and ailments. A large labrador retriever was at the vet on account of him having eaten a large portion of biriyani. The owner of a sad-looking german shepherd tut-tutted away at this admission, and chided the owner. Biriyani, he said, should only be given in minute quantities, just for the 'smell'. I thought it best to refrain from participating too deeply in the conversation, and luckily, our turn came up next.

Cuddles, little manipulator that she is, managed to wriggle out of her collar nad leash and waddled off in the opposite direction. She has a phobia of needles, and is generally a very nervous little darling. Visits to the vet are second on her list of things to be terrified of, topped only by diwali crackers.

We managed to grab, collar and leash her, this time, a bit more tightly. She walked to the door with an air of resignation akin to the sentiments of those walking to the gallows. Pooch seemed glad to see the vet. She, at least, understood his pain. I stood around, and at an opportune moment, pointed out to her that he kept crying and licking his uh, organ of manhood. I suggested that his pain might not be entirely due to the fever and the pest-control man.

The vet, a woman(thankfully), sighed, and called me around to show me poor Pooch's obviously sore organ. It looked as though he had tried to mate with a bramble bush. She then rubbed him down with an ointment, administered an injection for pain relief, and all too soon, it was Cuddles' turn.

Cuddles made one last halfhearted attempt to escape the clutches of the vet, but she was no match for the 3 of us. In one swift movement, she was on the table, and the vet was marveling yet again that a nervous dog such as she could have given birth to, and nursed not 2 or 3, but 9 pups, and manage to survive the ordeal. I had to agree with her, while I patted my poor darling's spotted ears, and tried to distract her as the vet sneaked an injection in.

It was with much relief that the dogs and I departed. We decided to walk back home. Cuddles was trotting along so fast, poor Pooch could hardly keep up with her. Thankfully, they spent the night in recovery, and I'm happy to say they were a pair of healthy and voraciously hungry dogs the next morning.

This morning though, Pooch was missing at breakfast. Like every member of the male species, he has failed to learn his lesson, and has gone back to his philandering ways, sore organ notwithstanding. I shudder to think of what might be in store next.

An insight into the artistic temperament

I have just been re-reading Vikram Seth's 'An Equal Music' for the third or fourth, or possibly even fifth time. I haven't attempted to read any of his other works, but this novel of his, I truly love. It was a gift from a dear friend of mine, probably chosen because I am a musician and hence less likely to skim over the descriptive passages as people so often do.

I am all for re-reading books. The very first time I take up a book, I'm too greedy to savor it. I just want to gobble up passages whole, devour the chapters that hold me back from getting to the all important closure. I cannot, for the life of me, read simply to relax. My moods are always determined by the novel or novels I'm reading at the time. Woe is suggestible me!

But then again, isn't a work of creation supposed to 'affect' one? Are we not allowed to stop and think and question? To me at least, any work of art that doesn't somehow 'affect', is a failure, because it has failed to move, to elicit an emotional response.

This novel, in particular, might be titled 'An Equal music', but truly, it revolves around an unequal love. One must be an artist to fully appreciate the sentiments involved, because it's true, artists fall in love differently from the rest of the world. I'm not talking about 'entertainers' like Madonna, or the film stars of our generation. I mean, quite specifically, serious musicians, creators of art, people who are immensely moved by beauty.

When I was a moody teenager, I'd been forced to accompany my mother to some store, and I was looking around aimlessly(something I still do), when an elderly gentlemen came up to me and inquired as to whether I was an artist of some sort. Startled, I didn't know what to say to him, because at the tender age of 13, I still hadn't figured out that the arts were in fact my true calling. My mother, as always, butted in to the rescue. She gushed on about how I played the piano and was a very talented singer who did a lot of stage shows and sang with a few choirs, while I stood by, too embarrassed to even look the gentleman in the eye. When I finally worked up the courage to face him, he was smiling, a very knowing smile, and said he thought as much, because I had an artistic temperament.

The rest of the day passed in a sort of glorious haze. I felt so privileged to have been singled out as one who possessed an 'artistic temperament'. I wasn't exactly sure what it meant, but oh, it sounded so exotic! The next day at school, I caught up with my English teacher (I was always a favorite of my English teachers, so I got away with such things) and told her the story of the gentleman who had decreed that I had an artistic temperament. I then asked her to elaborate, fully prepared for a truckload of wonderful adjectives. Instead she smiled at me, the same knowing smile, and explained an artistic temperament as being prone to bouts of moodiness, periods of brooding and depression, in short, just being a temperamental and volatile person.

To say that I was disappointed would be putting it too mildly, and like any other thirteen year old, I brooded over the judgement passed until time took its course, as with all else.

Many years have passed since then, and I can now smile at how stupid and gullible I was at the time. But that old gentleman was amazingly accurate in his prediction. Whether I like it or not, I have been bestowed with an artistic temperament. Yes, it makes life terribly difficult for me and the people I love. But it's also what brings out the sensitivity in a person, the quality most essential to any artist, and it is that quality that aids one in creation.

Anyone who wants to know what goes on in the minds of artists should read 'An Equal Music'. Like any memorable love story, the romance is twisted and contorted and of course, unrequited. But the fact that this love story is set against the rich tapestry of classical music is where its allure lies, at least for me.

I've probably waxed far too eloquent already. No, I don't get a commission for every copy that gets sold. Its just a very fine example of Indian English writing, and I love it and so I'm telling the whole world about it.

End of story.

Of kollu and kids that refuse to grow up

The past week has been one of 'kollus' and not much else. Not that I'm complaining. I, like the rest of the population, enjoy an evening of dressing up, cooing at doll displays and partaking of some yum traditional food.

In fact, it's so much fun, I wonder that we don't do it more often. As little girls, we hosted tea parties, clinking our empty, down-sized cups and saucers, and toasting to the long lives of our lifeless playmates and imaginary friends. And then of course, adulthood comes and bites us in the ass and life just stops being as enjoyable.

I read somewhere that adults should learn to curtail the 'child' within, or the world would be over-populated with obstinate, tantrum-throwing individuals, all wanting their own way, and not being able to hide behind the excuse of being an adorable little thing. And I thought to myself, this article has come a bit late. Most of the 'privileged' adults already behave in exactly that fashion. They have it all- looks, money, and the gift of being able to charm the whole world. It's almost as if they're mocking all the people who try to live good and honest and never seem to reap the benefits of either.

As for me, I don't know if it's possible to strike a balance between being as innocent as a child while having the good judgement and maturity of an adult. I've never come across anyone who's managed to pull it off. And let's face it, more often than not, we think typical adults are BORING. We'd rather hang out with impetuous, impulsive people who're wrong about things more often than they're right.

Looking back, I see that I've made a rather grand deviation from kollu. But it's a sunday morning, and I demand to be excused for any deviations or allegations I may have made in the course of this blog post. Besides, my concentration has all but evaporated and all I can think about is the delectable dosa I had last night at the kollu...ummm, 4 dosas actually. Blame it on the appetite of the child within!

I look for God in quiet places

I spent the weekend with God.

Alright, I suppose that's a bit presumptuous of me. God is everywhere, right? And then again, what kind of proof do I have that GOD chose to spend the weekend with ME?

The simple fact is that my family decided it was time to go on a little pilgrimage, and I happened to trudge along. Though, to be fair, it was I who planted the idea in their minds. But that's just what I do- throw a wild card in their muddled midst, and then stand back and observe from a safe distance, as if I were watching tear gas envelope a mob.

The church of Velankanni, near Nagapattinam, is considered to be among the holiest shrines of Mary, Mother of God, well, actually, Mother of Jesus. So that's where we went. Velankanni constitutes a huge chunk of my childhood memories and associations, because that trip was the closest thing to a family vacation we had all those years, and even now. I remember every single thing- the beach, the walk to Our Lady's tank, the many colored rosaries I used to fall in love with and beg my mother to buy, the shops selling candles, garlands, little kids not much older than me at the time selling stickers of the divine Lady, and of course, the church.

I have to admit, that church is something special. Entirely white, it rises out of the otherwise drab and dreary landscape, spiraling toward heaven. It demands that anyone in the vicinity must stop and gaze, at least in awe, if not in devotion. I loved to gaze upon it at the unearthly hour that I used to be woken up in order to be in time for the first mass at 5 30 a.m. With eyes full of sleep, I'd walk alongside my father, a leftover chill hanging about the air, and always, my first glimpse of the church against a patch of open sky was the thing that shook me completely out of slumber.

But that was as a child. I grew up, and turned into someone who didn't feel particularly spiritual in the presence of hordes of people, praying rather fanatically. I hate to say it, but the truth was, for a lot of people around me, religion was more of a social obligation than an actual connection with God. And I couldn't do that. So I looked for God elsewhere. I looked for God in quiet places.

Still, I took the plunge this year, because I desperately wanted to feel something, any kind of connection with God at all. The crowds suffocated me, still, I bore it. I watched as my parents knelt down and prayed. It was the most sincere I've ever seen them. I watched my grandmother with tears in her eyes, and I had to look away, to wonder at my own inability to feel.

And just when I began to wonder if this was a wasted effort, it was 5 30 a.m. all over again. And as always, I had to stop and stare. Of course, there were loud speakers blaring prayers and all around me, people were getting off overnight buses, drinking scalding hot cups of coffee on the roadside and hurrying toward the church, the sea sand managed to wriggle its way into the insides of my toes, I had to keep my kurta from flapping around and pulling a Monroe on me.

But just for a moment, all those distractions ceased to exist. The sky, still dark everywhere else, was magically open just above the church spire. There were no bells clanging yet, so they hung still in the distance. And the church itself, the focal point of the masses milling around, its huge compound gates thrown wide open to anyone who cared to enter. Anyone at all, who wanted to say to God, 'hear me out please'.

And so I entered those gates. In that moment of quiet, I decided to go looking for God.

YOU

This is what I think of when I miss you
Marbles, with specks of gold, and always
A white flower just off the middle
Milk too sweet, but hot enough
That I have to slurp it up
A place I've never been to
A song I've never heard
But they tug at my heart anyway

This could get sentimental
And you do hate a show
I'm afraid I might not make it
To the next verse, when tricks
And old bones make a garland
Of my memories, mostly of you
And the garden hose comes flying out
On a whim, just to drench me

This is what I'm afraid of when you're invisible
Blankets, and white shirts, too starched
Phoney ghosts and starless nights
The tip of the threshold I trip over
Shapes that you used to be, dancing over me
Water, gurgling, and the hum of refrigerators
Everything still, and everything alive
Wispy curtains and whiter clouds

And the smell of darkness

Ode to pilgrim

The floor is crawling with my demons
And the shadows are like chalk-print
On the doors

I know my feet make no sound
Yet I gasp and stumble
At the threshold of fear

There ought to be lamps, lit
And quivering,
With their shaky promise of deliverance

I sleep with a dream-catcher
Over my head, Maman
But it is not you


The air is aching with tenderness, soured
It seems such a waste
To grieve

But who are we then?
Who shrink from ghosts
And people, alike

We do not know the beginning
Of our own names
And it is not fair

To place the burden of blame
On the quiet one who hates
To cry in the dark

One flu over this nest as well

I've had a traumatic week of sniffles and non-stop coughathons. It wasn't a pretty sight, good god no.

Of course, I had to explain to all and sundry that it was just the flu and not THE flu. After a point, it got to be quite exasperating. I mean, they should've figured it out themselves- no one, absolutely no one, is going to be taking phone calls while simultaneously entertaining a near-death situation.

But that's just how we are, aren't we? We love to get into a tizzy about some new fiasco or threat of impending doom, while the real demons work their doomsday voodoo on us every single day, and we're either too stupid or slovenly to wake up and smell the goddamn coffee.

As much fun as it's bound to be, making up this 'FOR REAL- DEMONS AT LARGE' list, I shall pass, mostly because I've still got the flu hangover and incessant bouts of coughing and blowing my nose in order to regain my fundamental right to breathe has put me in a rather foul mood.

But oh well, I'm not one to start something and get no where with it. Lets take, for example, the issue of drainage. Unlike the charming ditty in 'My fair Lady', the rain over here falls mainly in the drain. Every year, we pray for the rains to come, and when they do, we pray even harder for them to stop. That's got to be confusing for you-know-who up there. And yet, precious little is done about it. Every year, at least one little boy loses his life to an open man-hole, and countless others get electrocuted while walking to work, or school or just to the grocery store around the corner to pick up whatever water-logged vegetables are available for the evening meal. But hey, as long as it's not contagious, right?

Of course, my sympathies go out to all those who succumbed to the fatal flu. They probably didn't even know they had it until it was too late. And the rest of us can breathe a sigh of relief, at least until the next monster rears its ugly head.

As for me, sometime in the vicinity of 3 a.m. I shall be forced to grope in the dark for my trusty old friend Vicks Vaporub, and upon finding it, I shall sniff and snort its oh-so-heavenly-goodness like a coke addict until the waves of menthol carry me over safely to the dawn.

The Magic Recipe

If anyone were to ever ask me for a sure-fire cure to anything, I'd say 'WORK'!!

I kid you not, ever since I've gone back to work, life just seems like an endless day-dream... Every morning, while on my way, I cannot thank God enough for my oh-so-beautiful life. Of course, once at work, I'm dealt the usual dose of stress, performance-anxiety, dead-lines, fumbling with lines, untimely hunger pangs, post-lunch snooze cravings and so on. But oh, the sweet surrender of a hard day's night !

I suppose the age-old adage does hold sway- an idle mind is a devil's workshop. I wonder why no one from our generation comes up with little pearls of wisdom? Maybe it's because everything that needs to be thought through, analyzed and philosophized has already been through the grind, with the possible exception of euthanasia and the origins of homosexuality.

As a child, I wanted to do everything and be everyone, all at once. It could possibly be interpreted as an identity complex, but I'd like to dismiss it as a severe case of misplaced enthusiasm. That was of course before I came across another old gem- jack of trades and king of none. I'd be damned if I wasn't going to be the king/queen of something!

Still, I do sometimes wish life was narrowed down to just a few good choices, instead of our minds being constantly infiltrated by seemingly endless choices- a few good, some questionable, and a whole lot of unnecessary ones. Apparently, it's been proven that people make wiser and needless to say, quicker choices when faced with a limited number of them. And if we, as adults are facing a dilemma in this respect, I wonder what the average kid out there must feel like.

Although, what really intrigues me, is what a kid with the picture-perfect life must feel like. Take for example, someone who's been in the news lately- the adorable off-spring of the best looking couple in the world, Shiloh. I really do wonder what it must feel like to wake up to beautiful mom Jolie and big strong dad Pitt every single day and to be shielded from all that is ugly in this world. And as she grows up, will she become obsessed with the mirror on the wall, or will she blossom into one of those few blessed individuals who are so beautiful, it goes deeper than their level of awareness, while the rest of the world gapes on?

Does Shiloh ever feel like the world is a mean, unfair place? Does she ever wish she was someone else? Does she wish her hair wasn't so perfectly blonde? Has she ever needed to throw a tantrum to get what she wants? Will she ever need to worry about being judged by her peers?

Of course, I have the answers to none of the above questions. As for the rest of the not-so-obviously-lucky kids out there, I hope and pray that life doesn't turn out half bad. But really, it depends on just two things, whether or not you want to make a difference, and whether or not you want to do it right.

Ironic isn't it, that the intricacies of life can be boiled and simmered down to just that?

Lonely Cloud

Lonely cloud
Drifting in and out of blue sky
Say hello to me
I'm just as lonely as you
Drifting in and out
Of the hours

What's the secret
Of your complacence
No anxiety in your glide
Wish I could slide
To the same song you're singing
But it's so soft
I can hardly hear it

Lonely cloud
Playing hide-and-seek with night sky
I just saw you tumble over the moon
If I were granted a boon
I would ask
For just one moment
To feel as beautiful
As you.

Back in the Race!

O la !

This morning, I worked up the courage to re-join the gym for the nth time. I stayed on the treadmill through two power-cuts, each of which caused me to experience a sensation akin to those experienced during minor earthquakes. Still, I stayed, I fought it out when my tummy cramped, and only left when I noticed the streams of sweat oozing out of the man on my left. It just became too icky after that.

I'd originally planned to re-join the gym last morning. But the day went by in a daze of indecision- which gym to join? Should I just do yoga? Do I need a personal trainer? Maybe I should go jogging on the beach instead... Tumultuous thoughts that lead to nowhere. Finally, when evening came, I felt particularly disgusted with my state of lethargy, which was only aggravated by my consumption of 3 mouth-watering and also fat-provoking Indian sweets. So I picked up my bag with my chequebook stowed away in it, and stepped out the door. When I informed my driver of the destination, he looked at me incredulously and asked why I would join the gym when I never ever go. This thoughtless (but true) remark of his broke my spirit and I trudged back upstairs, mumbling something about the traffic and half-heartedly promising myself that I'd accomplish what I'd set out to do on the morrow.

And voila! I actually did, despite the sniggers from my driver, and the long-standing joke of my mother's that I love donating money to gyms across the city. I returned home from my 45 minute expedition to the sweat factory feeling exhilarated with the endorphin rush. The rush lasted precisly 10 minutes, after which my limbs gave way, and rendered me handicapped.

I know I'm going to feel impossibly hungry owing to my mini-workout. I know my thighs are going to feel like God carved them out of lead. I know that no amount of stretching is going to soothe the ache in parts of my body that I tend to forget even exist when I'm not exercising. I know I'll chide myself for not switching to yoga and staying in shape the painless way. I know I'll curse my gene pool, my metabolism, my sweet tooth, my super-not-model body type, in short everything about me that's not perfect.

Someone recently told me that I don't know what I want, I only know what I don't want. It made me think that maybe I get around to doing things the roundabout way, but who cares, as long as things get done eventually.

But for now, I'm pretty sure of what I don't want- I don't want to be the one left behind while the rest of the world moves on to a better place. So I'm warming up and getting back in the race. I'm going to run my extra mile, even if it's only on a treadmill.

Swooper Trooper

I spent sunday evening with one of my oldest friends, slurping juice and laughing over nothing particularly funny. It felt so familiar and so damn good to not have to think before speaking, to not have to be afraid of being judged by what one says or does.

I came across this quote of Elizabeth Taylor's recently, in an old issue of the Reader's Digest, and her words rang so true to my ears - you know who your friends are when you're involved in a scandal.

Now a lot of people might never have the opportunity to star in a scandal. And perhaps, they lose out on the true test of friendship, but what the hell, nothing is worth being involved in a scandal. And then some people might say that money is the true test of friendship. But I beg to differ on that, because I know a lot of people who don't mind having friends who are poorer. And I know some people who thrive on being around friends who aren't as 'loaded' as they are, maybe because it boosts their own sense of self-worth. And of course, when a friend is in the doldrums financially, it must make a person feel so good to be able to swoop in with a cheque to the rescue.

But how or what does one do to help someone who is knee-deep in scandal? How does one support a friend when the whole of society, or the city, or the nation, or even the whole world is damning the person in question?

There is a beautiful story narrated in the bible, where Jesus addresses an angry mob thus- let he who has committed no sin cast the first stone. That line speaks for itself, really, no explanation required. Of course, Jesus was one hell of a public speaker.

I've noticed that a lot of people don't like to get their hands dirty, unless it's mud-slinging someone else. Which is fair enough. But that only applies to the REST of the world, not to YOUR OWN world a.k.a immediate family and friends.

In a perfect world, family and friends would swoop in like eagles, their well-tended feathers shielding your defenseless, weather-beaten self, until the rest of the big bad ugly world found something else to distract itself with. And then of course, that warm cozy circle could take the liberty of tearing you to shreds with their opinions, and shake you silly till you wake up and smell the coffee. But that's okay, because you'll need to hear it from someone anyway.

But those 'friends' who stay on the other side of the cliff, who refuse to swoop in and prefer instead to watch from a safe distance while you struggle to overcome the demons at your door-step, well, you're better off without them.

And to think I had this bolt of enlightenment while chatting with my friend over a tall glass of pomegranate juice sans sucre, well, I guess it says a lot about which side of the cliff he's perched on.

He qualifies as a Grade A Swooper in my book.

Playing Truant from Life

Someone I know has run away, disappeared off the face of the earth.

Well, if that strikes you as funny or tragic, so be it. But me, I'm just plain livid.

I mean, come on, we're all grown ups here, or at least we do our best to adhere to the accepted adult standards of behavior. So what then does one do when a fully grown male decides to up and out?

I for one, took the only logical course of action possible. I carried on with life as always. Why should I worry about someone who wants me to worry about them? That would be giving in, caving, and I refuse to cave. No way. So I had myself a merry little weekend, did all the usual things, paid extra attention to my dogs who have been exceptionally adorable over the past few days. My mom made chocolate fudge and I helped her clear the vessel, which is to say, I pretty much licked it clean. I re-read some old books, having run out of fresh reading material. I pondered the mysteries of life, specifically MY life, which is not really a weekend deal, since I do it on an everyday basis.

As bedtime approached, I took out my blanket and pillow and laid my weary self down. And thats when it happened, all the suppressed panic and worry just surged up into my mouth and I couldn't breathe. It only lasted a couple of minutes. But it was enough.

I know that this day will pass as just another manic monday, with all its trademark twists and turns and nasty surprises that jump at me from every which corner. And I shall handle it all with my trademark cynicism and smoldering sarcasm and occasional bouts of panic. And soon enough, the sun will set on my frown.

I only dread what comes later.

Beauty Queen, Dancing Queen

Two things happened to me recently- I was asked to be a judge at a local beauty pageant, and I tried to sit through a local stage version of 'Mamma Mia'.

It wasn't all bad. But it wasn't all good either.

Alright then. Lets start with the good stuff. Being a judge entitled me to a free trip(if only for a day) to the city of Colombo. I'm always up for visiting places I've never been. And Colombo was a pleasant surprise. I half-expected to have a rifle up my nose on arrival, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, I was greeted by row after row of duty-free all kinda liquors.

Now the contest was another thing altogether. I am not big on beauty pageants, never have been. But this one happened to be in honor of renewing ties between India and her tear-drop neighbor, and I am definitely big on causes. It makes me feel useful in these difficult times.

Unfortunately, the 'cause' did nothing to alleviate the 'effect' the beauty queens had on me. I was bored, and apparently, it showed. A photographer came up to me afterward and told me in the nicest way possible how much he enjoyed taking pictures of my many bored expressions. Still, I did the best I could, and awarded brownie points to the only girl onstage who had a brain, and thankfully she happened to win. That made me feel pretty pleased, though not half as pleased as when I found the complimentary marzipan in my hotel room.

And then of course, the other thing. The thing I brought upon myself- voluntarily appearing at a performance of 'Mamma Mia'.

Truth be told, I'm no Abba fan. I used to listen to some of their songs as a child, but the only song I ever liked was 'Dancing Queen', maybe because it's tinged with the slightest hint of bittersweet, teenage melancholia. And I could most certainly connect to that. Mamma Mia the musical, on the other hand, was not something I could connect with, try as I did. It had nothing to do with the singing or the dancing and I wasn't even put off by the not-so-great acting.

Nope, the whole damn thing was just too happy.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I've gotten so cynical that I can't sit back and pretend to know the words to all the Abba songs, while successfully ignoring the wishy-washy everything else. Whatever it was, I just couldn't do it, and had to leave half-way. I was left with no choice, it was like a jar of happy squash had exploded in the theatre and the smell was getting too sickeningly sweet.

Now you might think I'm trying to establish a connection between the beauty queens and the dancing queens, but I'm not. They are two different kinds of queens, and should never be compared, much less discussed in the same breath. The only common factor is me and the fact that I happened to have an over-dose of both in the span of one week.

Luckily, I survived with all my cynicism intact. As for the jar of happy, and the local belles, well, the city of Chennai is big enough for us all to co-exist.

Sex and the (domesti)city

The other day, yet another college-mate of mine called me out of the blue. After exchanging pleasantries, she told me, quite happily that she'd quit her job. I of course, took the lead, jumped the gun and blurted out the first thing that came to my mind...

Are you pregnant?

Turns out, she was, and I wasn't jumping the gun after all. So I congratulated her, and paid her a visit armed with a jar of home-made jam(concocted by the mother of course). She seemed quite at peace in her nightie, staying over at her parents' place, her husband dutifully dropping by after work. And I thought to myself, am I missing something here?

Once I got home, I decided I wasn't missing anything at all in the way of a husband or an incoming baby. I knew plenty of people my age and older, and much older who were yet to be married or even engaged.

Then another classmate had to send me a text message out of the blue- guess what... I'm pregnant :) again :)

Oh wow. That's exactly what I thought. OH WOW.

Of course I had to go through the whole 'am i missing something' routine all over again. I mean, just about a month ago, on one of her sojourns into the city, when my friend had managed to get permission from her hubs to meet her single friends, we were ranting on about the pitfalls of marriage and the number of unwanted pregnancies among married women. And now, a month later, she was pregnant? Again???

So I decided to drown my sorrows in marathon sessions of Sex and the city, coupled with maggi noodles and caramel toffee.

It helped for three days exactly. And then I got just a wee bit tired of women who are obviously having a lot of sex with a lot of people and yet whining about their dysfunctional lives and the dysfunctional men that were in and out of them (you heard me, pun fully well intended). Not being much of a fashionista myself, the fabulous clothes and delectable shoes weren't really enough to make me fall in love with the series.

In fact, Sex and the City has done pretty much nothing for me except help me pass the time. Which is what television is supposed to do anyway. One is not supposed to learn life lessons from tele series. One is supposed to laugh and eat unhealthy snacks, cuddled in bed, wearing one's oldest and most comfy pjs.

I guess there is no specific point to this seemingly meaningless discussion. Except that, as my friends get more domesticated, I remain blissfully single and liberated and free of marital responsibility and child care and nappy-changing anecdotes.

In a way, I did learn something from my friends, and from Carrie and co, simply this- that women are trained to think that it is their destiny to be married someday. But the specifics of that are variable from person to person. And for some women, that rule just doesn't apply at all. One woman's cake is another woman's calorific nightmare.

And so be it. For ever and ever. Amen.

Remembering MJ for the right reasons

It was the night of Michael Jackson's memorial service. An event of epic proportions, no doubt, but I still had my own issues to deal with before I settled down in front of the television.

Mother had beaten me to it. She sat on the recliner in the hall, upright and alert. I'd made the mistake of pointing out to her that she and MJ shared the same initials as well as the same birth date, though she was a few years older. Still, that was enough of a bond to make his memorial service matter to her. So there she was on the recliner, refusing to budge for the love of anything.

Granny occupied her usual place of the sofa. She had a question every couple of minutes- Who was that? What did that man say? Where are his parents? Is that his brother? This last question was asked of Usher, a brother in a Afro-American sort of way, but not really family, so I decided on 'no' as my answer. Mother though, answered the other questions with uncharacteristic impatience. She really didn't want to miss a single thing going on.

Which is why I found myself walking to the juice shop down the road at 10 30 in the night, cautious of cars and wary of whistlers, all because she had turned me down, my own mother. I walked pretty fast, goaded on by my unrelenting thirst and anger. I was really quite livid that mother had refused to take me to the juice shop. All I'd asked for was a simple glass of juice! I wasn't asking for the moon, was I? The flesh of her flesh, fruit of her womb, denied in favor of the King of Pop. It felt horribly unfair, and qualified as a definite non-maternal act on her part.

I'd almost made it to the shop when she scared me witless by appearing out of the blue on her scooter. Get on the bike, she hissed at me. I continued to walk, refusing to give in so easy. Left with no choice, she rode slowly, keeping astride with me. I continued to ignore her, though secretly pleased that she'd come out to get me after all. Once at the shop, I stomped inside, gave my order, collected it in a take-away cup, and when I stepped out, there she was, determined that I wouldn't walk back. It seemed easier to give in at this point, rather than face her wrath, so give in I did, for the most part, gracefully, with only the slightest tinge of a grudge.

And we would have been on our way, except her scooter refused to start. We were quite a sight, my middle-aged mother kicking furiously at the start pedal since the battery had conked, and me yelling at her for not bringing the new scooter that I'd bought for her just a month ago. We continued in this manner, she trying to perform a minor miracle while I stood by, helpless and thirsty.

The heavens did choose to smile down upon us eventually, the bike sputtered and stuttered and started, albeit unwillingly, and we got home in a grand total of one and a half minutes.

Back home, granny informed us that the service hadn't started as yet, which made me gloat even more, as the daughter wronged. Mother ignored me with flair and hurried over to reclaim her recliner. I managed to sulkily sip on my juice while finding a vantage position in front of the television. And then magically, as if waiting for us all along, the service began.

To be honest, I was only watching it for the promised performances. Of course I love MJ's music, but then, who doesn't? Still, the whole service gave me the feeling that America was apologizing for not loving him more while he was still around. They seemed mortified that he was gone before they had a chance to tell him they were sorry they'd treated him like a sorry piece of shit as if he were a petty criminal and not the musical genius that he truly was. Smoky Robinson set the record straight, with his whole speech of wanting to let someone know you loved them after you'd lost them. That has got to be the most awful feeling in the world.

And to me, the highlight of the show wasn't any of the performers. No, it was 10 year old MJ himself, preforming 'who'll be lovin' you' in the clipping of the Sullivan show. I almost wished I'd been born in the 70's so I could've better appreciated the musical revolution that was MJ.

The service made me cry, and I'm sure that was the effect they'd been hoping for. But I wish the performers had celebrated MJ's music more, instead of singing the saddest songs they could possibly think of. I'm tired of memorial services that are contrived tear-jerkers. There are happier ways to remember people. MJ's single most definitive quality was his untiring energy and zest for life, and of course, his unquestionable passion for his art. He was undoubtedly the greatest entertainer of our times and it made me sad to think his memorial service was held along the lines of a state funeral for some old fogy of a politician.

I do hope this will teach the media a lesson, to respect an artist's privacy and sensitivity, and more importantly, to give them their due while still alive. In so many ways, this memorial service was akin to what happened when Princess Diana was killed, the only difference being that she was adored worshipped even while still alive.

I wish the world would understand just how much it takes out of a person to create something, and how much it's got to hurt when the world chooses to ignore your efforts in favor of hyping the one wrong thing that you may or may not have done. Having a adrenalin-pumping speech by a congresswoman in an effort to clear MJ's name after he's gone doesn't really make up for it. After all, isn't that the greatest joy, to know that one has not lived in vain?

Anyway, who am I to decide these things? Those organisers knew the best way to go about it, I'm sure. And of course, the free passes were a nice touch. What's a few thousand free passes when they probably sold the television rights for hundreds of millions of dollars. Who am I to question anything? I am but one of the billion plus fans, not obsessive enough to invest in a shiny white glove, but loving MJ's music and missing him all the same.

The Art of Leisure

What is this life, if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?

Thus wrote W.H.Davies, a poet I studied while at school. To his credit, I still remember most of the lines, which proves how wonderfully memorable the poem must have been.

I regret to say though, that I'm not much good when it comes to implementation,the follow-through, so to speak. In my defense, I have no stream to navigate myself through, and there are no woods in the vicinity, as for squirrels, I really do wonder if they even manage to lay their furry little paws on any nuts these days, what with the recession and all.

In short, I'm a failure at the art of leisure.

My mind refuses to let me be. I'm so bad that, even at a yoga class, I have to be convinced to lie down for the shavasana. Being on the move all the time is the only way to be in my book. Of course, that's a horribly wrong way to live, because when life does decide to pull the brakes on you, you feel like someone has sucked all the oxygen out of the atmosphere.

That's precisely what happened to me. I managed to land up in a profession where one has two choices- be ultra-busy and non-selective about what one does, or be ultra-choosy and sitting at home a lot.

Three guesses for which choice I'm currently living with the consequences thereof.

To make matters worse, I'm not in the least domestically inclined, and before you label me as a feminist, let me also state that I'm rendered thoroughly helpless without my driver. He is, quite literally, the only way out for me. Oh, and also, I cannot bear to go into restaurants and movie theatres alone.

Permit me to feel a tinge of self-pity at this juncture.

Of course, there are tons of things that one can do to keep oneself occupied. I've started on some Hindustani lessons, as well as some Hindi lessons, because really, the two are mutually-dependent on each other. I spend a lot of quality time with my dog Cuddles, and blatantly ignore my other dog Pooch, who doesn't seem to mind anyway. I play the piano when I'm in a good mood, and hammer at the keys in an anti-tuneful fashion when the good mood is on sick leave. I manage to remember to change the varnish on my toes every week or ten days, something I've never been capable of until now. I'm still a manicure virgin though. There, I said it.

The only time I'm ever able to relax these days is when the sky turns a promising shade of grey. That's right, the prospect of rain cheers me up immensely. The sound of thunder is music to my ears, the flash of lightning that splits the sky and throws it open is the stuff that my dreams are made of. The glistening green outside my window giving in to the wind without a struggle makes me close my eyes and sigh.

And then, truly, I'm content to just stand and stare.

P.S: The poem's title is Leisure. Go ahead and google it.

HIS Story

I was woken up by a teary phone call early in the a.m.

'Michael Jackson is dead!'

Sleepy as I was, that line jolted me to 100% wakefulness. I ran into the living room and turned on the television. So the teary phone call was not drunken gibberish, it was true. The man really was dead.

And I don't know why, but I felt a stab of loss and sorrow wrench my heart. Quite understandable, I suppose, the man was a legend, a prodigious musical talent. And unlike the other pop monsters, he really lived up to his title, 'King of Pop'.

His music was a huge part of my childhood, without me even knowing it. I've never owned a tape or cd of his, yet I know all his tunes, and the lyrics to some of his songs. And I've always thought him to be the greatest stage performer that ever lived. Madonna, who calls herself the Pop Princess really doesn't even begin to compare. To me, she will always be the Queen of Gimmicks, a true expert on reinventing and selling oneself to the world. But MJ was just pure raw talent all the way.

As a musician, his death is affecting me in ways I never expected it to. And this sort of thing has happened to me once before, when a theatre director whom I'd worked with passed away very suddenly. I didn't cry that much at the funerals of family members. And the truth is, I wasn't mourning the loss of a person, but of their work and the tremendous effect that body of work had on me. Same goes for MJ.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this. When I walked into the kitchen this morning and announced it to my mom, even my maid seemed shocked and saddened by it. Like her, most of the world is going to mourn the loss of his phenomenal musical contribution.

But now, for the ugly part, the child-molestation scandal. How many of you have NOT heard an MJ joke on the matter? Sure, he was acquitted, and the media finally stopped torturing him, but the man never recovered from that episode. Now that he's no more, the same media is praising him, his contribution, mentioning how, even at the trial, he was enough of a performer to get up on a car and dance for his fans. Well well, the winds have certainly changed direction.

I suppose even the common man tends to eulogize when the occasion is death. But why do we feel the need to condemn the living? Take MJ for instance, now I'm not here to judge whether or not he was guilty of the charges made against him. And quite honestly, I don't care. I know a lot of people who've done worse, and have never had to pay the price for it. I've seen the footage of his ranch, 'Neverland', it really reminds me of one of his songs, 'Childhood'. It's the price most child artists pay for their privileged lives. And then, somehow, it makes sense, his whole connection with children.

His life was unconventional to say the least, bizzarre at times, amazing most of the times, and good or bad, we shall all miss him.

May his soul rest in peace. Amen.

Love is a many Squandered Thing

To hell with flowers, poems and chocolate-coated hearts. Let's come to terms with the real deal.

First up, love does not make the world go around. What it does is, it makes you go dizzy trying to figure out it's intricacies and legalities. And while you're spinning like a top on a tight-rope, it makes you lose your sanity and sends you plummeting down, down, down.

Second, love does not come free. I mean, who are we kidding? If you want someone, you've got to woo them big-time. And when you've out-grown them, you've got to pay even more for a good divorce settlement. Falling in love ain't free, and these days, falling out of it ain't cheap either.

Third, love is no longer a many-splendored thing, it's a many-squandered thing. A lot of people have wasted themselves away on some elusive person. And then, there are the gluttons for punishment, like yours truly, who manage to turn self-destructive at every turn in the maze of life. Sigh sigh sigh, heaven help us all, and then some.

I don't know about the rest of the world, but something has gone awfully wrong somewhere. Or maybe our grand-parents and past generations were putting on a grand act of finding happiness and companionship right into their 80's and 90's. Or maybe they had too many children, and that distracted them from issues of marital discord. I mean, feeding half-a-dozen mouths must have posed quite a challenge. Not like today, when one's only child is curled up in front of one of many flat-screens at one's not-so-humble abode(who says money can't buy you love? Ask any kid these days, they'll give you the right answer). It can't be the couple's fault that they don't have enough problems to distract them from the issue of whether or not they are soul-mates and made for each other and what not.

But then again, this is the age of recessions and life-threatening farm flus (swine, bird, cow's left hoof etc). The age of fast-food because it is forbidden to spend too much thought or time on nourishment, of breast implants because we are too scared to eat and develop mammary glands as God intended them to be (does anyone know of a Bengali lass who has needed implants in any part of her body???).

Possibly, we are too busy to allow ourselves the luxury of growing into someone, because the falling bit is easy, it's what comes afterward- getting up, dusting oneself, and walking hand in hand, that's the difficult part.

At this point in time, I must issue a disclaimer- I am probably guilty on all of the above-mentioned accounts, but be kind enough not to hold it against me.

Just now, it occurred to me that growing to love someone is a bit like wearing new shoes. At first, there's the thrill of spotting THE pair in a display window, the unbelievable luck at being able to afford them, the joy of trying them on and knowing, just knowing that they fit just right. Oh, it all adds up to heaven, shoe heaven, but still...

Then, as always, one must descend down to earth. Back home, and in the not-so-flattering white light, the shoes lose a bit of their shine. Still, one loves them. Till the first day one wears them, and curses and clutches one's ankle, wincing in pain, and trying to hobble through the last few steps, the relief at taking them off, the ghastly horror of counting the blisters on one's poor feet.

Still, one has invested money, so one shall put up a brave front, and invest a bit more money in band-aids, but wear the shoes, and slowly, ever so slowly, wear them in.

And then, magically, they become 'the' pair again, the pair that manages to look good with everything, the pair that one doesn't leave town without, the pair that one picks out when in a dilemma, or a hurry, or just in a bad mood. If they're good enough quality, they will last. If a strap decides to disassociate itself from the rest of the sandal, it's still nothing that a visit to the cobbler can't fix.

But these days, people just don't know how to wear shoes in. One blister, and that's it, they're out of the game. Or even worse, they don't mind wearing a pair that's a size too small, as long as it's pretty enough or the socially acceptable designer brand. Achilles' heel seems to be having a revival , and shoes are having to bear the brunt of it.

It does remind me of a certain glass slipper and the enormous trouble a certain prince took to find the dainty foot that fit into it. I'm not even getting into the 'happily ever after' bit. I'm sure there was a disclaimer hidden away somewhere, beautifully concealed by illustrations of soaring castles and happy horses prancing across a page of endless green.

Now I can live with the fact that princes are a dying breed. I can live with the fast food, and not being blessed with Bengali genes. I don't have a flatscreen or the farm flu, and I'm ok with that.

But hey hey hey, don't hold out on my glass slipper.

The Talented Mr.Toohey and friends...

My days are getting longer, endless almost, since I'm currently not employed (hmph!). And so, in a bid to keep my sanity levels in check (quite a task) I have taken to re-reading old favorites, and have just gotten started on The Fountainhead.

I shan't insult your intelligence by attempting to introduce the classic or the woman behind it. Instead, I shall launch into what's been tickling my grey matter, as a consequence of my choosing to read it yet again.

Admission 1- the book scares me, both with it's brilliance and it's timeless prophetic quality. Not prophetic in the sense of '1984' but in the way it reflects a quality about the world that has just refused to change- not then, and certainly not now. It's the very same quality that the character Steve Mallory is so afraid of. And like him, I'm afraid of it as well. I see it everyday, in people I know, or thought I knew at one point of time. I wonder what's changed- I or the people around me. Sadly, I don't have an oracle to consult on this matter (no, there's no oracle in the book, it was just my own wishful thinking).

Admission 2- this book reminds me of the film, The Talented Mr.Ripley. I don't quite know why, maybe it's the persistent quality of pretense, no, misplaced identity, that both Peter Keating and Mr.Ripley possess. Even so, Mr.Ripley is more like a Roark turned psychopath-with-a-traumatic-childhood. The absolute single-mindedness with which he devotes himself to the task at hand is mind-boggling, before it turns obsessive and with fatal consequences. But his virtuosity at the piano, which no one acknowledges, cannot be attacked, or even questioned. Peter Keating, on the other hand, is far more pitiful, and far worse, even though he never kills anyone in his quest for acceptance.

Still, the master of pretense is undoubtedly the talented Mr. Toohey. Really, he is far scarier than the great Hannibal Lecter himself. It's one thing to eat a man's brain, it's quite another to eat his soul, and worse, to savor it so immensely. He is, by far, the most vile character I've ever come across in a novel or film. To turn a man's weakness against himself and to do it with flair, that has got to be the most potent form of evil genius ever bottled and sold.

And now for the good stuff...

Admission 3- this book makes me believe again. In what, you ask? In miracles, the kind that come after waiting patiently for many many years, while constantly working hard and holding one's head high and not allowing public opinion to influence one's decisions or patterns of thought, but miracles nevertheless. It makes me want to shrug off my mantle of cynicism, and give the world another chance, and yet another. Or maybe, it's just me giving myself another stab at daring to dream, freely and innocently.

And now for a laugh...

Admission 4- another favorite book of mine is, ahem, Bridget Jones' Diary. I love it, I really do, it is the only book I've ever read that has actually made me laugh out loud. And while I don't wish to identify with Madame Jones, I wonder what kind of classic we'd have on our hands if we plucked her out of her diary and plonked her smack in the middle of the Fountainhead, ranting and raving about fuckwittage and craving chocolate croissants. I mean, I am in awe of Dominique Francon, but Ayn Rand uses the adjective thin far too often for my liking. And that's what I love about Bridget- her clumsy, messy, yet adorable ways. Granted, she is a bit too concerned about her appearance, but we aren't all blessed with killer metabolic rates, and I'm sure Madame Francon put a lot of thought into her seemingly effortless graceful attire (mentioned in great detail throughout the novel), and Ayn Rand just probably forgot to mention it.

And now for the men, mmmm...

Admission 5- if a comparative study were to be made of leading men, it would be a close call between Mark Darcy and Howard Roark, as to MY personal choice of leading man. Everyone else is too goody-goody, or deliciously bad. But deliciously bad, even when it's as delicious as Jude Law( refer the Talented Mr.Ripley), is not for me, I think. Mr. Roark, now that's a real man, he can't quite be classified as good or bad, and he's definitely not ugly. Sadly, in the real world, men who are that individualistic, are just as often the cads, unlike Mr.Roark who manages to stay true to his lady, despite her frequent marriages to other men, her noble intentions notwithstanding. One does wonder if there are other little details that the author forgot to mention-an affair or two that Roark might've had, while waiting for Dominique to return to him. Of course, they would've been meaningless, and even so, I'd forgive him anything.

Mark Darcy is on my list purely on the basis of his geekiness. I love geeks. They are just too good to be true. And if they're even half as yummy as Colin Firth, well, only an idiot would pass that up.

That having been said, I do applaud the many little people who've contributed to the basic fabric of the novel. It couldn't have been easy being Katie, neice to Toohey, jilted by Keating in favor of the leading lady. I can't begin to imagine the trauma of having to deal with both those men on an intimate basis. And one mustn't forget Alvah Scarrat, a man misunderstood and underestimated in the presence of other towering personalities. Gail Wynand, deserves more than special mention, I think. A gentleman's gentleman is what he was, and probably dishy as hell as well. This fleeting mention does no justice to him and his turn-about in the novel whatsoever. I see shades of him reflected in Francesco (from Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged), another one of the author's almost-heroes, whom I happen to adore, and it really gets my goat as to what Madame Francon and Madame Taggart did to deserve such phenomenal men, and to have to pick and choose between them.

In closing, I apologize if I've left anyone out. There's only so much I can write about, and sadly, my attention span comes with an expiry time. And to those of you who haven't read any or all of the above-mentioned books, I do hope to have piqued your curiosity levels enough to run out and get your copy.

Out of sync with the world

I'd like to supplement myself
With something of the world
Gone by- A shadow, splintered
Or pin-prick punctures caused
By shards of shattered glass

I'd like to live to tell the tale
Where so many others failed
To see the epic unravel- And
When ghost ships moored across
Unstable waters, how they sank

Without a trace, without so much
As a sunken treasure- Not so much
To discover, as to teach the truth
To someone who cared to know
Even if, many years later, even if

All that mattered was the shell
The conch call of duty- Labors
Of love, contained within so many
Bosoms, lost at the bottom of
The bottomless ocean of secrets

I'd like to know what's real for once
To see for myself, that all this is not
For nothing- It is part of a greater
Pattern, I cannot claim to understand
I dare not choose to unravel, or

To loose the colored threads weaving
In and out, soliloquies sharing space
On a stage- Despite knowing there is no
Room for all, knowing someone must go
Take the final bow, move toward exit

Hurrah for kitty!!

My mother has just informed me that kitty is no longer an orphan!!! The lady upstairs made a few phone calls and managed to find her a home!

Right now, she's probably snuggled up on a rug, licking her paws contentedly, her belly full of warm milk... At least that's what I'd like to believe..

Anyway, all's well that ends well.

Ode to Kitty

Yesterday, I was on my way home, when at the traffic signal, I caught sight of this tiny little kitten scampering between cars. Finally, it sat itself in the middle of the road just behind my car, mewing piteously. Miraculously, the car behind stopped. I told my driver to get out and fetch little kitty.

He knew better than to argue, I think, and so he got out and brought the little thing to me.

Kits looked around frantically, obviously terrified by the sudden change of scene. She fit quite easily in the palm of my hand, that's how tiny she was. She had the most enormous grey eyes, and her scraggly white fur had turned to grey too, owing to the smoke outside, I suppose. I found her quite fascinating and tried to take a picture on my phone, but she wouldn't sit still long enough for that.

Once home, I felt quite pleased with myself till my mother appeared and gave me a 'what were you thinking' sort of look. I explained that I couldn't just abandon the poor creature. Then she pointed out to me the existence of our two dogs, decidedly anti-feline, who were, at that very moment, showing far too much unhealthy interest in what was crouching on my palm.

I managed to shoo them away long enough to pour little kitty a saucer of milk. I tilted it so she could lap it up without too much effort. Satisfied, she sat back and took stock of her new surroundings. The barking from behind the closed doors made her shiver, so I stroked her behind her ears and tried to calm her down. The lady upstairs is a cat-lover, so I thought she might have some ideas on what was to be done with kits. Post-rescue operation, I'd run out of ideas myself, and mother made it absolutely clear that no kitten was going to survive for long at our house. Her views were greatly reinforced by the incessant barking and sniffing.

It's not very nice going from kitty-saver to kitty-abandoner. But alas, what was I to do? Kits was transferred to apartment no.5, and the dogs finally calmed down.

Now I'm no cat-lover, never have been and never will be. But the mere suggestion of vulnerability in any living thing arouses this life-saver instinct in me, without ever thinking about the consequences. And that's alright when it happens to be a little kitty, or a puppy, or even a baby anaconda. But when it comes to people, I'm not so sure.

I've come across so many people who put their own lives on hold, just to be there for someone else. That's very nice and good when you're part of a charitable organization, or providing emotional support for a friend who's going through a bad break-up. It's perfectly fine when someone takes time off to help someone else cope with the loss of a loved one.

But what happens when someone you love is draining you of energy you can ill-afford to give them? Where does one draw the line really?

I've seen it happen to other people. I never thought it would happen to me. But as the cliche goes, you never know how hard it is till it happens to you.

No, I'm not talking about little kitty anymore. I'm talking about me putting myself on hold to be there for someone else, because I loved them that much. But beware, love can be abused, without either party being aware of it even. You don't turn into an emotional doormat unless you lie yourself down before the other person and say to them-go ahead, wipe the dirt from the big bad world onto me, I can take it.

What I failed to realize was, that dirt doesn't just disappear. It weighs down on you for a long time afterward. It renders you helpless and scarred for a while. It's almost like going into a war-zone and expecting to return unscathed just because you weren't in the direct line of fire. And trying to be there for someone when you've reached that state, well, it's a bit like the blind leading the blind.

Sometimes, it's better to let go, be it a kitty or a person you love. The world is not so sentimental anymore, everybody moves on, and fast.

This morning, I saw kitty with a group of neighborhood cats. The lady upstairs has released her from safe custody. She really doesn't have the space or resources for another cat. But kitty doesn't seem to mind. She knows how to get around. All she needed was a ride out of traffic and a saucer of milk.

RoadShow

Phew.

For the first time since forever, I'm actually a teeny weeny bit glad to be back home. Allow me to elaborate.

It all started last Sunday, when my mother decided to accompany me to Bangalore, a city that's as close to my heart as it is accessible. Mother dearest went one step further and opted to drive down(needless to say, with our man friday, the driver). My financial state of affairs being further down than the doldrums even, I was glad for the all-expense paid trip. And so it was planned, and scheduled, and suitcases were packed accordingly, with extras thrown into paper bags, since we were, after all, traveling in our own car.

All hell broke loose when my grandmother, who was supposed to tag along as well, felt like opting out of the roadtrip, triggering all kinds of reactions from her daughter. A flurry of phone calls later, nothing had been resolved, save for the momentary mutual hatred between mother and daughter, each feeling that the other was being terribly unfair. Of course, I as official grand daughter, added my twopence worth, and did my fair share of ranting and sulking, claiming that I'd much rather have taken the train. Thankfully no one called my bluff.

Eventually, grandmother was coaxed and cajoled by all her sons to make peace with her only daughter and she grudgingly agreed to come along. Mother then decided that she couldn't go empty-handed. So she stayed up until 3 a.m. making some sort of halwa that I wasn't allowed to pinch because it was for the 'hosts'. Of course everyone knows what happens when Mother decides to venture on a midnight foray into the kitchen. The morning smells divine, yes, but mother mopes and moans till noon the next day.

So it came to pass that we who were to get a headstart on the sun, well, let's just say that the sun had the last laugh. My other grandmother was invited at the last minute, and full credit must be given to my aunt who had her packed, powdered and ready to go much before all of us. I must add that grandma 2 is adorable in every which way, but of late, has been losing her grip on an erstwhile sharp as a razor memory. At this point, it might be helpful to add that grandma 1 has her memory intact, but not her hips, and needs a walker to ferry herself from place to place. Still, they are both strong, determined women, from the WWII era, and with that diversion sorted out, I'll get on with the story.

The man friday was definitely not smiling when we finally trooped down to the car. He muttered to himself, since ranting was not an option, and we started off. The first hour or so went along rather smoothly, with us feeling super smug about the excellent time we were making with our wonderful car. Then as it always happens with my life, things began to unravel.

Man friday's muttering grew noticeably more audible, always a bad sign, and the air-conditioning seemed to be dying a slow, painful(for us in the backseat) death. After a bit of sputtering and praying(mother and grandmas 1&2 are staunch Catholics), we were duly informed that our wonderful, comfy car would not go any further because its delicate insides were being burned to death on the merciless highway.

We were in shock, and in two minutes flat, I was bathing in my own sweat, that's how ridiculously hot it was out there. When I asked about the radiator, man friday shot me a dirty look, as if to say- hello, im not such an incompetent that I don't check the radiator before taking off, this is what happens when you don't leave early in the morning! I shrank back into my sauna seat, and looked around for some semblance of shade while mother whipped out her phone and proceeded to make a series of SOS calls to everyone on her phone directory.

A minute later, having spotted a lone tree just off the highway, I seated myself on the little wall that ran the length of the road. The breeze was delightful, and frankly, I'd just about had it with the combined nostalgic recollections of 3 post-menopausal women, one of whom took to repeating things every couple of minutes(grandma 2) although I love them dearly and know that someday I shall turn into a frightful combination of all 3, since I am a direct descendant and all that.

At that point, a man in a turban magically appeared. He was a local furtune-teller and made a grab at my hand. I blushed dutifully, and then let the old man do his thing. He took a long look, and said a lot of things which I didn't understand. The essence of his reading was translated by man friday, and it was simply this-that I should've been born a man.

Feeling robbed of my effeminate charms(whatever little I thought I possessed), I turned my attention to the fields below. But the fortune-teller wasn't letting my hand go until I'd contributed a bit to his own fortunes. An argument ensued, with the grandmas, who obviously still calculate WWII style, feeling that 2 rupees would be a good enough fee. Mother was upset at this breach of christian faith and didn't want to give him any money at all. Frustrated, I dug out my wallet and pulled out the first note I saw, which seemed to make the fortune-teller happy, but earned me the scorn of everyone else.

After a couple of hours of sunning ourselves, we had consumed enough liquid for me to start hunting for an appropriate pee-stop for grandma 2. We hobbled along, down the road, to a piece of wall which just sat in the middle of a field, not joining or holding up anything. It had been built just so us city-types could take refuge behind it, I thought gratefully. On the way back up, grandma 2 gleefully picked up bits of sweet tamarind, and we sucked on a piece that hadn't rotted yet.

By this time, mother's SOS calls had paid off and a white ambassador was despatched to rescue us, along with a mechanic to rescue the car. We went our separate ways, leaving car and man friday behind to be towed back home, while our amabssador ambled along to Bangalore.

One thing though, no one had taken into account how slow this car was actually was. My mother, in her desperation, decided that it was a conspiracy to make her pay the driver extra. This despite me pointing out to her that she was paying him per kilometre, not per hour. Still, the amby was air-conditioned, the sky had turned dusky pink, and we were relieved to be on our way again.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, save for the need for speed, and a coffee break at a place called 'Darling Bakery'. How absolutely darling is that? I bought a load of quaint cream cakes which no one, including myself, ate.

I wish I could say that we had a happy ending. But no, like a nursery rhyme, we went round and round in circles on the ring road, my mother and I yelling at each other or to the driver, each grandma bursting into a fit of hysterical laughter at periodic intervals. As a result, I missed the mehndi function I was to attend, my mother and grandmas 1&2 missed the the golden wedding function they were to attend(despite grandma 1's bold decision to change into her fancy clothes while the driver was at the checkpost) and the purpose of our long and arduous journey remained unfulfilled.

Tired, hungry and angry, I made my way to my friends place, and was duly handed a glass of Roohafza with cold milk, to soothe my frazzled nerves. It was delicious, and after I'd calmed down, I called grandma 1 to see how they were doing. I asked her if she was ok after the long trip, and she said she enjoyed the drive immensely, and was only sad that she missed her brother's golden wedding, because fifty years ago, she'd missed his actual wedding as well, and she thought that making it to the golden wedding would make it up somehow.

I don't know why exactly, but that managed to make me feel ashamed of myself and proud of them, those wonderful women who were obviously much better-equipped to handle life's potholes than I could ever hope to be. And what was I, 1/4th their age, with every single bone in good working condition?

I do hope that when I'm 80+, on a roadtrip with my grandkids and the car stalls in the middle of nowhere, I'm half as much of a rockstar as my grandmas were that day.

Still, phew.

Praying for Deliverance

Lately, I've been feeling like there's too much pressure on me, as an Indian.

Allow me to explain. I have not left the city, let alone the country. I merely refer to the happenings on this side of the world.

There can be no 'right' way of categorizing the following in order of importance without offending some or perhaps even everyone, so I'll just rattle them off-the great sweat festival, elections, cricket and then some, refugee boats, and people who dare to get married in the midst of such mayhem.

The sweat fest needs no introduction, and certainly requires no description. I am one of those unfortunate persons that suffers from heat intolerance, yet Fate has damned me to live in Chennai. To make matters worse, I am also intolerant of air-conditioners and have been accused of messing with the a/c vents in friends' cars more often than I care to remember. Be that as it may, I am currently enjoying the cloudy day that the weather Gods seem to have unknowingly bestowed upon us in the middle of May. So what if it isn't scheduled in the calendar? I am watching the sky with a smug smile on my otherwise heat-exhausted face.

Moving on, I am proud to declare that I fulfilled my fundamental duty as an upright citizen of this grand hypocrisy of a democracy and I've got the blackened fingernail to prove it. It was my first time (blush) and I had to change my clothes twice before my mother approved and sent me out the door, with a warning to be careful of the trouble-maker types that tend to hang around polling booths. It was quite uneventful though, save for the fact that I was momentarily baffled by the assortment of symbols. I hadn't expect to see that many. Oh well, variety is the spice of life, and also the cause of indecision in the New World.

As for the IPL, I wish I knew enough to write two lines about it. All I can recall is a rather touching photograph of Preity Zinta feeding one of the boys something, prasadham apparently. It's kind of wholesome really, this marriage of filmdom and cricketdom. Earlier, they used to compete for attention and endorsements, but now, it's like a fairytale ending where everyone splits the big bucks and lives prosperously ever after.

Alas, the LTTE and the refugees are paid scant attention since India's attention is currently elsewhere. I'm sure enough goes on in that island to cause us all to jump out of our skins the way we do when a potential sixer falls like manna from heaven into the outstretched hands of a greedy fielder, but who am I to judge?

And sigh, in the midst of it all, a dear friend of mine has chosen to marry. I am too broke to shop, and too heat-exhausted to plunge into the deep, dark crevices of my wardrobe in the hopes of discovering something suitable. My mother is too hooked on the IPL to deliver a miracle, as all mothers sometimes do. Still, I live in hope, the wedding is not for another week.

Wow. I just heard the news about Prabhakaran and his son. And it did make me jump out of my skin.

Heaven help us all.

Of chips,dips and trips to bankruptcy and back

So the other day, one of my friends was patient enough to take the trouble to explain the concept of investment banking. He used the great American fiasco as an example to run me through the motions. I was flabbergasted to say the least. And at the end of our session, I had but one question.

So investment bankers make money by selling the idea of money?

Apparently, my question was not just a valid one, but also, the answer is a resounding 'yes'. No wonder the economy is in such devastating shape. Most of us honest workers, who actually have a skill or two to sell to the world, and are willing to give discounts and make other such compromises, don't make a hundredth of the killing most investment bankers might refer to as their monthly stipends.

I mean, seriously, I was in shock for the rest of the evening. I just couldn't get over it. My friend, who had gotten pretty excited just by talking about so much money, seized upon my silence as an opportunity to drill some more disillusioning information into my already fried brain. When people sell stocks, he said, they aren't selling the actual value of the company, but instead they sell to the innocent public (such as me) the value they decide to put on themselves.

That really knocked the breath out of me.

Especially since I, with my impeccable sense of timing, had chosen to invest in stocks for the very first time ( I remained a stock virgin as long as I could) just a couple of months before it all came crashing down. I'm still licking my wounds. But the idea that what I'd actually invested in was a lot of hot air, well, that got me pretty upset.

It's a matter of trust, he said, trying to calm me down. The companies sell the worth of their trust, and when they do well, the price on the trust goes up, and so does its stock. Hmph. And I'd spent my life imagining that some agency in the world puts a price on the company, and then, just like breaking up a cookie, they distribute the pieces, the ACTUAL pieces to everyone who wants a share.

And to think, to actually think, that gambling, where you buy a chip with actual money, and the chip is only ever worth that amount for the whole night, and if you choose to come back the next night, will still be worth the same, and if lady luck chose to smile down on you and multiplied that one chip into a prosperous chip nation, sitting in a fat pile on your side of the table, and nobody else decides that any one chip is going anywhere, nobody but you, and you couldn't possibly sell the idea of yet-to-be-born chips to anyone else at the table even if you happened to look like Helen of Troy dressed like Paris of Hilton...to think that gambling is illegal.

P.S: Neither me nor my alter-ego are in favor of gambling, as a sport or alternate profession or otherwise.

The hands on the clock stop

Yesterday, I got a call from someone asking if I'd be interested in doing a voice-over for a documentary film. It turned out that the film was about the Sri Lankan issue, from the civilians' point of view.

Needless to say, I agreed. So as of wednesday afternoon, I will be reading a piece titled 'My Island is bleeding'. I hope to do a lot more for the refugees than just lend my voice, but I'll save the talking for after I've actually done what I intend to do.

Still, the whole of yesterday had me restless, the way I usually am just before I write something. The thoughts finally came out, in a song/poem. I'm sharing it with anyone who cares to read it.


The hands on the clock stop
And I don't know how to get to you
I'm running to the red rock
It's redness shines like blood on dew

The breeze in the air freeze
The smell of guns, more than the sound
I'm hiding in a hollow tree
And praying you'll be around

The stain of the morning rain
Is too much for me to bear
I'm falling into your pain
You told me once to beware

The land has turned to quicksand
And I'm drowning all alone
If only I could hold your hand
I know you'd take me home

The hands on the clock stop
The hands on the clock stop
The hands on the clock stop


So that's what I wrote. I don't claim to know what the refugees are going through, and until know, I've kept my civilian distance. But we've all experienced loss in some form, and a part of us is always buried with our tragedy.

Where have all the dreamers gone?

As I write this, John Lennon's Imagine plays in the next room. Immediately, I know what I'm going to be writing about.

No, it's nothing to do with world peace. I'll save that for when I'm a Miss.Universe finalist. It's about that wonderful line- they say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one...

Is it really true that each of us has a bit of 'the dreamer' locked up inside? I can vouch for myself, and Sir Lennon obviously thought he had company. But really, where have all the dreamers gone?

Sometimes, I think of myself as some sort of out-dated commodity. I really do feel out of place in the world the way it is. I've had some 'character-building' experiences, but when I look back, all I've built is a layer of cynical defense. A lot of people I've met seem to have turned out the same way.

Question is-why do we let it happen to ourselves? How do we go from young and hopeful, to slightly older but feeling ancient and tired of the world and its wily ways? And why is it so impossible to give the world, or better yet, to give oneself another chance?

The sad thing is, this sort of metamorphosis seems to be an eventuality of life. So much that, the people who manage to hold onto their inner child are the exceptions rather than the rule.

Makes me wonder, I don't want any child of mine to grow up in a world such as this. I'm only 24, and yet to feel the even the hint of a tick on my maternal clock, but still, I do wonder. And I think, if only every single person thought about the world in terms of their children or loved ones, then maybe, just maybe, it would actually be a better place.

I for one, am not so particular about myself. I tend to think I'm a survivor (though i probably won't discover the proof of that till its too late), but I do look out for others, just as others look out for me. I worry about the world. It may not be a good thing, but its what I do.

And while I don't wish the same fate on everyone else, I do wish that everyone would take some time out of their albeit busy lives, to worry about maybe one person other than themselves.

It might make you want to do something nice, for no reason whatsoever. And that's not such a bad feeling, trust me.

And maybe, just maybe, soon enough, you'll rekindle the dreamer in you.

Mr.Everest

About a month ago, I met a mountaineer.

That's right, I did, ironically it was on the scorching desert sands of Rajasthan.

Technically not, actually. But it was Rajasthan, and it was scorching hot, at least in the afternoons.

He and I bonded over bhindi at lunch, and I fell in love with his child-like curiosity and fascination with everything around him. Especially since my own life circumstances and experiences have caused me to cultivate over a period of time, an attitude of amateur cynicism ( I'm not yet a pro-cynic, still manage to feel occasional pangs of hope).

He has managed to visit places twice in this lifetime, that I can only dare to dream about visiting once, place in question being Mt.Everest. He has also been to the roof of the world, posed with a posse of hyenas (I'm sure that's grammatically incorrect but it sounded nice in my head), skiied down a volcanic peak to bring in the new millennium, and has photographic evidence of having 'been there done that' at the North and South poles. Of course, this list doesn't begin to cover the list of peaks he's actually scaled.

But just yesterday, I, inhabitant of the vertically challenged city of Chennai, managed to inspire him to scale yet another peak! Metaphorically speaking, that is, which is the only way it could've possibly been.

You see, it came to pass that he viewed my effort at a blog, and decided that if I could do it, then he most definitely could, and had to, I would add. So this morning, I opened my inbox to find this:

u inspired me to do this

http://satyabratadam.blogspot.com/

For a minute or so, I was over-whelmed with pleasure at the thought of having inspired anyone at all. Then I went ahead and checked his blog... And my first thought was his blog is way better!!!

They say first impressions are the best impressions. And my first impression stays. His blog is wonderful. There are gorgeous pictures far better than those you'd find in any travel brochure, and equally gorgeous descriptions of the places, a first-person account of them even! I can't think of better blog material (except an astronaut blogger maybe).

So this post is a tribute to my dear friend, Mr.Everest. I'm hoping he will return the favor and inspire me to get off my summer-sodden ass and get cracking on scaling a couple of those mountains he likes to call home.

Heart-breaker

I am a heart-breaker.

There, I said it, got it off my chest. Phew!

For the uninitiated, the passives, and those in-between, it's tough being a heart-breaker, not all that pretty. My poor shoulder-blade is chipped from the burden of all those broken hearts, and the shards pierce me with every breath I take, every move I make, to emphasize on the sting of it all. None of those cotton candy pink hearts. I'm talking blood-vessel pumping, capillary-oozing, palpitating, fragile human hearts.

I am a heart-breaker, and I'm not proud of it.

I wasn't always this way. Like every person gone wrong, I started out being right. It takes some kind of perverse effort even to be a heart-breaker. Now I know what you're thinking- some PYT who's gotten a couple of love letters written with quills dripping blood from some poor Romeo's slashed wrists. But really, there is a classification table, and my name doesn't feature under the 'inspiration for suicide' column.

You see, when I was very young, as everyone is at some point of time, my mother, who had fallen in love with the idea of making the world a better place, decided that I, the fruit of her labor so to speak, would have to fulfill this noble dream of hers, she being a mother, obviously had to concentrate her energy on making the home a better place. And so her heart nurtured my own.

But all too soon, my heart grew wings and fluttered away.

Who wants to be a doctor? Not me.

Alright then, a nurse? A lawyer? Human rights, of course. I don't think so.

A teacher? A scientist? A marriage counsellor? No, no and a definite no.

What's that? You want to be a musician?!

And since that fateful moment, her poor heart never was the same. Neither was mine. Except, I was so deliriously happy every time I sang a note and that note managed to make someone smile. But that smile wasn't on prescription, so it didn't really count. And I don't think it's ever going to.

Like any other habit, heart-breaking is addictive. A string of hearts followed suit, and every time my heart sings, the splinters thrust in time with the resounding crescendo, and in the small silence after, there's just the softest sigh of disappointment from some distant chamber in my mansion of memories.

But when one love's one's art...

Night of the Cockroach

I solemnly do declare that the following incident did in fact occur, and is not a product of my hyper-active imagination. Further, reader discretion is advised, in that, Blattodeaphobics ( I did not make that up, it translates into fear of cockroaches) are advised to skip the article. Or maybe, read it as some sort of therapeutic exercise, to overcome their fear vicariously, if such a thing were possible.

Oh well, here goes...

It's 3 a.m. and the world as most of you know it, is asleep. I however, am making my way to an obscure part of the city, my driver still grappling with left-over sleep despite a pre-dawn dose of caffeine. After a series of phone calls and dead ends (quite literally so), I arrive at a decrepit old building, and tentatively knock at the door, which seems to be emitting strange, unearthly sounds.

The door, supposedly sound-proof, opens to a small, dimly-lit room furnished with one dark velvet sofa that could accommodate 3 people comfortably. But that's in an ideal world, and when I walk in, there are 6 rather well-fed people (the age of starving artists has undoubtedly passed) crammed on and around the ill-fated sofa. Still, persevering optimist that I am, I view them as a means of generating more body heat, to combat the freeze-mode that the air-con seems to be on.

After the usual pleasantries, I make my way past the soundboard, to the holy of holies (also, hole in the wall) the recording booth, where the mike awaits.

Once inside, the comfort of extra body heat is sorely missed, and while rubbing my hands together in an effort to keep warm, I make a startling and rather alarming discovery- a large, immobile cockroach that refuses to budge despite my incessant screams. My voice continues to soar, until I hit upon the possibility that the aforementioned bug might in fact be dead. 'Did you know there's a dead cockroach in here?' I yell, flailing my arms about in true blue Olive Oyle straight-out-of-popeye style.

But no one seems to hear me.

After a few painful seconds, there is a scratching sound, as someone finally presses the 'talk' button on the soundboard. The sound engineer's voice floats out to me- 'Is there a problem?' he asks most politely. I'm too ashamed at my little display to even answer, so I shake my head and make a conscious decision to not so much as glance in the cockroach's direction. Though come to think of it, it probably was quite a handsome specimen by dead insect standards.

And so the time passes, dawn comes and goes over a tiny cup of scalding tea (even before the recession). Against my will and better judgement, my attention is once again diverted to the bug lying just about a foot's distance from me. I wonder if anyone other than me has even noticed it, and decide rather nobly to not bring it to the studio's attention just yet. Someone was bound to find it and throw it out later, but for now, I think, let the dead have their moment of dignity.

So I get back to my tra-la-lahs, and the triumphant cry of 'That's a wrap!' coincides with the sunrise. A poignant moment indeed, I think to myself while saying goodbye, which is more appropriate than both good morning and good night, in such circumstances.

Walking to the car, I stumble into the most beautiful morning sky I've ever seen. My driver is grumpy, understandably so, but I'm too distracted to notice and on the bumpy ride home, I contemplate the marvels of the early-morning world. Half-way home, I curl up on the backseat, and yawning contentedly, I fall asleep dreaming that I'd kissed the cockroach and wonder of wonders, it turned into this big-time music producer who asked me to marry him and then of course, we made wonderful music together, forever...

Alright, I made up the dream. So sue me for wanting a fairy-tale ending.