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.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, July 17, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
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.
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.
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