Tuesday, September 25, 2012
From deranged to displaced
Humans, we are fickle beings. Living amidst the chaos that was Madras, I often complained about the lack of time, space and privacy. It’s a city that reinforces just how small the world is, where you can’t go anywhere without tripping over someone you know. I despaired over never having time to do anything, to write and have my masterpiece out for the world to see. How it was just too hot to exercise, the auto guys were shameless cheats, that the city sucked.
I actually do still stand by most of that.
Trips abroad were always so bittersweet, the wonder of new lands and promises they held and the forlorn thought that this wouldn’t last and a trip back was in the offing. So I indulged in everything, like a dying man having a last look at the world, no seriously I was that dramatic.
So much retail therapy I could fire my shrink, such amazing amounts of rich food, I had already signed for an extreme cleanse and so much wine and beer and wine that my ulcers had ulcers and I had restocked my meds and it was all totally worth it and I couldn’t wait to get back and do it all over again. Go back I did. Rinse and repeat.
Then this year I moved to Boston, as a supportive to wife to my husband’s sudden educational aspirations. I have been here two weeks so far and I feel like I am part of a social experiment. No television, no car and extreme cold – none of which I am used to. It is like a really bad reality show. Would I die of boredom or of lack of social interaction or of the big bad cold. Tune to find out, if you really must. Because I am not really in Boston, but in a little town called Wellesley. California and New York had spoiled me. There was neither the warmth and familiarity of sunny, laidback California nor the cultural effervescence, crowded streets and more importantly convenient public transport that was the Big Apple.
Oh did I mention Wellesley is a dry town. It means no booze and also everything shuts down by 8. Oh and it’s cold.
I have all the time in the world because I can neither work nor study on my visa and there are hardly any people here. I see a face once every couple of days and we nod sagely.
I am actually quite okay with the lack of human contact. What I miss is being useful or being gainfully employed. Okay not even gainfully.
Now I do have time to write the novel I never had time for before. I have so many empty hours that I can fill in with all forms of exercise. And it’s a beautiful, tree-lined campus, with inspiration around every corner and all I have done in two weeks is watch a lot of Netflix, drink a lot of recently discovered and fast favourite Moscato wine and wander around the house bundled up in a thousand layers of clothes.
Oh and I do the dishes, a lot!!! And sometimes I cook.
But here it is too cold to go out and exercise. I have no one to meet and talk to. I am too bored to write. I have no TV to be connected to the outside world (forget Facebook and email and mobile phones), I have no car or proper public transport to travel into the city and enjoy the sights.
We humans, I tell you, a fickle bunch.
Or maybe it is just me.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Too Close to the Madding Crowd
Rallying the troops and the mismanaged middle class, to be a part of the desired change is a noble, albeit optimistic thought that will most realistically come to naught.
With governments falling apart, political frenemies shifting uncomfortably and money getting tucked everywhere – from Swiss accounts to fat mattresses, the fortress of stoic helplessness has at least been breached, but family politics, state, centre or otherwise continues unabashedly, facing speed bumps heroically and with scripted sound bites, as more money and power exchange hands.
But this is small comfort for those of us who have been hung out to dry so often by incompetent systems and institutions, who are looking at miraculous overnight transformations, hoping political rats would change into respectable, society-serving butlers.
Whimsical much?
The fall-out of a large scale movement that started off nobly and became revolutionary in the wake of similar such political, public demonstrations, might be romantically enriching, but realistically, leaves one to deal with the insect bites.
Incompetency continues, legal dramas unfold, family loyalty is withheld and constitution once again gets hoodwinked under legalese, political clout and a glib-tongued lawyers.
With governments falling apart, political frenemies shifting uncomfortably and money getting tucked everywhere – from Swiss accounts to fat mattresses, the fortress of stoic helplessness has at least been breached, but family politics, state, centre or otherwise continues unabashedly, facing speed bumps heroically and with scripted sound bites, as more money and power exchange hands.
But this is small comfort for those of us who have been hung out to dry so often by incompetent systems and institutions, who are looking at miraculous overnight transformations, hoping political rats would change into respectable, society-serving butlers.
Whimsical much?
The fall-out of a large scale movement that started off nobly and became revolutionary in the wake of similar such political, public demonstrations, might be romantically enriching, but realistically, leaves one to deal with the insect bites.
Incompetency continues, legal dramas unfold, family loyalty is withheld and constitution once again gets hoodwinked under legalese, political clout and a glib-tongued lawyers.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Ramblings of a deranged housewife
My life in a chick-lit novel
*Almost all incidences are true but have been exaggerated and timelines blurred for literary (cough, cough) purposes.
It was an incessant, almost annoying buzzing, which woke me up.
I quickly turned my head to seek the source of noise and immediately wished I hadn’t, as my head went into a tail spin.
*Oh I am never drinking again* thoughts.
I switched off the alarm with a thwack and prayed for the room to stop spinning.
I gingerly crawled out of bed. My mind on nothing but taking care of my parched throat. But I had to brush, gargle, floss, rinse and repeat first.
It was times like these I wished I wasn’t so anal about dental health.
“Water, water, water,” I croaked to my unresponsive fridge. After downing a whole bottle, I felt marginally better. I exaggerate. The water just about made it possible for me to open my bleary eyes, to face sunlight almost directly.
**More of I am never ever drinking ever again.
As I waited for the coffee to percolate, I glanced at myself in the mirror and grimaced and wished I hadn’t, looked at myself in the mirror that is.
My always-unmanageable hair was even worse, and was sticking out at ends. I had raccoon eyes from going to sleep without removing my make-up and my skin was already looking weathered and pimply from lack of sleep and ‘possibly’ too much alcohol.
As I fixed my coffee I heard my phone going off somewhere in the distance. A mad scramble around the house and I found it in the laundry hamper.
I am still too befuddled to try and figure out how it got there.
“Hello,” I croaked grumpily. I think it’s rude to call people when they’re asleep or just waking up. And yes 11.00 is too early in the morning.
Some people were just plain inconsiderate.
“Hey,” my husband answered chirpily.
This day was steadily going downhill, I hate happy people in the morning.
“What?” I growled ungraciously.
Small pause, as if he was choosing his next words carefully, which he probably was.
“Sweetie,” he ventured, “I tried waking you up but you wouldn’t get up and I was getting late for a meeting...” Pregnant pause.
He continued courageously, “I just wanted to remind you that you have a meeting in an hour. You have to interview Mr.X, I think at Taj you had mentioned...” he tapered off lamely waiting for the explosion he knew was coming.
“Holy mother of **&^%$#. WTF, why didn’t you wake me up? Why aren’t you here? Why the &^%# did you let me drink so much...?”
He waited patiently, as one who has been through this before would, for me to finish.
“OMG I don’t have time, I don’t have clothes, I have to get my hair done. OMG, OMG, OMG.”
“Okay sweetie, talk to you later. Drink plenty of water.”
I stood still for a second, contemplating what the most resourceful and efficient course of action would be.
Cancelling the appointment was my first option.
Against my better judgment I called Mr.X’s PA.
“Well actually it’s too late to cancel now. Mr. X has cleared the morning (the morning my ass, he was giving me half an hour) just for your interview. And there is no way we can reschedule, if you want the interview it has to be done now...”
Snooty bitch I thought.
“Fine,” I simpered, “just wanted to check. I will reschedule my dental surgery. No worries. Thank you. I will be at the Taj at 11.00.”
“Will see you then. Do be on time, Mr. X doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” And with that the snooty bitch cut the call.
I downed the coffee and jumped into the shower. When I say jumped I mean gently stepped in, as quickly as my throbbing head and roiling stomach would permit.
***Oh if I ever see alcohol again it will be too soon.
Shampoo-lather-condition-rinse and repeat.
Yeah okay so I am anal about my hair follicles as well.
I was getting out of the shower, when the bell rang.
“Oh you gotta be friggin’ kidding me,” I mumbled to myself as it continued tolling incessantly. I grabbed the crumpled T-shirt from off the bed, dragged on a pair of boxers and ran to the door, my hair soaking wet.
I was praying it wasn’t one of the neighbours complaining about the excessive noise last night.
Should I deny it or grovel and apologise. My mind was still wrestling with the options when I opened the door to find my house owner waiting, smilingly.
I stood smiling at her, fake and nervous. She looked on expectantly.
Should I just apologise for last night?
“Sorry about...”
She cut me off, “Is the rent cheque ready?”
Oh!
Shit. I remember my husband had given me the cheque two days ago to pass it on her. He had dropped it off last month, so this month it was my turn.
Dammit. Where had I put it?
“Please come in...”
Shit why did I invite her in? There were empty beer bottles piled pyramid-high and cigarette butts on the floor and the smell of stale take-away food hung in the air.
Oooh nausea again, don’t think about it.
“Please have a seat. The cheque is right here...I was meaning to drop it off yesterday, but...”
I stopped myself quickly. Didn’t want her to focus about yesterday and then I noticed a big fat brown stain on the wall.
Double shit. Some drunk friend had spilled rum and coke on the walls. I remember now.
He was doing this dance, hilarious actually, when he had tripped, fallen on this other girl and the contents from his glass had spewed everywhere.
Funny...I thought smiling to myself. I love drunken Fridays.
“Errr, N? The cheque,” she asked looking concerned.
“Oh sorry, I have a tooth ache,” I said feeling rather ingenious, remembering what I had told snooty bitch earlier.
I went to my bag. Dug out my wallet and removed a crumpled cheque from inside. I tried my best to smoothen it out and then handed it to her with an extra sweet smile as if a cheque looking like used tissue was normal.
I was still dripping wet when she left...in a hurry.
A quick blow dry and I slipped into comfortable jeans and a white shirt.
My work clothes are a no brainer-I have to wear my jeans, I live in them-and a white shirt is the only thing that helps maintain a modicum of professionalism.
I now had 15 minutes to be at the Taj and I was online trying to find my subject’s last name.
So I am disorganised. Also I hate my job, so I try and put in as little effort as possible. The only reason I agree to do it, is the money, which is actually pretty good, considering I only have to work for a couple of weeks a month and I get to work from home.
Which basically means I get to spend the whole day sleeping, watching bad TV and catching up with friends and get paid for the last-minute, late night scrambles in front of the computer.
It’s a sweet enough deal, but just not on weekends.
On this fine Saturday, when I should be uncomfortably nursing a bad hangover, I was stuffing my water bottle into my bag, along with a packet of cookies (breakfast on the go), searching the house for a pen that would work.
I finally got Mr.X’s last name, and little bit of his background –oh he plays the guitar-and putting the finishing touches on my face, to make it look a little less...hung over.
I stuffed everything into my already bulging bag, grabbed my phone and made my way to the auto stand, all the while slurping water noisily.
Obviously there were no autos at the auto stand...but of course.
I waited impatiently.
Soon one enterprising auto fellow rode by in his trusty vehicle.
“Taj? Nungambakkam? Rs.150.”
“Whaaaaaaaaaaat. Only Rs.60.”
“What madam? To Gemini itself Rs.100.”
“Po ya,” I replied confidently and walked on.
I had better luck with the next one.
The ol’ chap agreed to take me there for Rs.70.
Sucker
Me, not him.
I had 5 minutes to be there and the ol’ chap was driving so carefully, arthritic old ladies and drunk cyclists were overtaking us.
I sighed resignedly and drank more water.
The jostling was making me queasy. I stuffed a few cookies down my throat.
The rocking motion was also making me sleepy. I had slept for a mere three hours.
****Oh Lord. No more parties, and never in my entire life will I ever drink again.
Let lightning strike me dead otherwise. (I crossed my fingers the last second...just in case).
I reached Taj a good twenty minutes later.
I paid the auto fellow, Murugan, gave him an extra fifty bucks. His wife was in hospital. Seriously.
I was not looking forward to meeting Snooty bitch to explain my tardiness.
I patted my hair down and put on the brightest smile a hangover could muster and walked forward to meet Snooty Bitch. She was impeccably dressed, her hair clipped neatly at the back, no hint of flyways and lips tightly compressed in a state of perpetual annoyance.
Snooty bitch-her parents had named her rather aptly.
At least she wasn’t sunshiny. Angry, frustrated people I can deal with.
After introductions, in which she didn’t even attempt to crack a smile, she made me sit in the waiting area. A cup of coffee and biscuits found its way in front of me, which I overenthusiastically accepted and started working on.
I should ideally be working on my questions, or at least get out my pen and paper and emulate professional behaviour.
But I was too hung-over to care and the biscuits were delicious.
After waiting for forty minutes, there was still no sign of the punctual Mr.X.
After another 15-minute wait I was feeling decidedly sick...too many biscuits, now marinating in alcohol, too little sleep and excessive fluid intake, which was making me rather uncomfortable.
As I was just about to beat a hasty retreat, Snooty bitch called me in. Mr.X had arrived after all. Of course.
“Could you just give me a second to freshen up?” I ventured rather boldly.
“I was hoping you would interview him first. I guess I could get the other reporter to go in first...”
“NO,” I shouted. I could not wait around any longer. By bladder would have to. Oh well.
The room was rather plush. Mr.X himself was by the window, talking furtively on the phone, promising to discuss things with his caller in person...in London...next week.
He said all this rather wearily.
(I am extremely jealous/envious/hateful of people who travel the world so much that going to London for a meeting was actually taxing.)
I decided I hated Mr.X.
Then he noticed me. Apologised for his delay. “The charity walk started late...” Was super charming and insisted I have a cup of coffee and asked me about my background.
I hate it when people do that. Not that I don’t like talking about myself, because I do. Because they seem to be judging whether I am worthy of interviewing them.
Could just be my bias.
Rich, travels, does a background check and does charity work...
More hating!
(#@$%)
Was feeling decidedly discomfited.
I stumbled through the interview.
I asked some penetrating questions. “What is your favourite food? Our readers would love to know.”
After more such insightful queries, (which now touched on his favourite songs and most memorable childhood moment) and a number of speed bumps, where I tried to not focus on my now full-blown, throbbing headache, I got through the interview in a about 20 minutes. I usually try and stretch it to about an hour at least although five minutes is usually all I need, but today it was not physically (literally) possible.
As I hurried out, with no gracious platitudes to Snooty Bitch I checked my phone and saw three missed calls from the husband and a text to call him ASAP.
But first things first...ladies room.
When I finally called the husband back he was sounding worried, which he never does, unless it has something to do with his car.
It seems ‘we’ had forgotten about the lunch in a relative’s place.
So he had to either back out of a promised family lunch or coax a sleepy, hung over, cranky me (bad combination) into sitting through a family lunch.
I cursed and then cried...he promised to make it up to me.
I am such a pushover.
I agreed to meet him at said relative’s place in 15 minutes.
It’s not that I didn’t want to have lunch with family, it’s just that I wasn’t sure I could manage to do so. The decibel levels were already quite high when I entered.
I endured various forms of “Any good news” kind of questions. One relative was quick and happy to point out that my biological clock was ticking.
I smiled through it all.
Then the table got filled with tons of food and food smells.
I excused myself, threw up as quietly as possible in the loo and hurried out.
So much better. Ate tons of food. Kept going for a refill.
No one said anything. But between the throwing up incident, which I thought no one was aware of, and the generous portions I was heaping on my plate, everyone looked delighted and knowing at my impending “good news”.
I was too tired to kick up a fuss. They just added my mellow, non-protesting, not- fighting-for-the-principle -of- things self to their slightly slanted perceptions.
If only they knew.
As the lunch wore down, I was looking decidedly sleepy and grumpy, when the suddenly-perceptive husband decided it was time to say goodbye.
I was only looking forward to my bed, nothing more.
But the car stalled half-way, when we stopped to grab a Red-bull for me. I ended up pushing the damn thing...middle of the friggin’ road...feeling headachy and sick. If only instead of hung over I was ‘good newsed’ I wouldn’t be pushing the damn car.
I gave it a kick for good measure, the not-perceptive-anymore husband didn’t notice my token protest at the exploitation.
It was close to 4 when we reached home. I was dreaming of a warm bath, and a long, luxurious, mind blowing nap. My bed, I could see in my mind’s eye, with its cool, crisp sheets and soft mattress, never looked more inviting. I was just a few more steps from heaven.
Then the phone rang. My mother. Wanting to know if I was on the way to pick her up yet. We had to be at my cousin’s birthday in half hour.
I am not embarrassed to say I screamed. We turned the car around, picked up my mother, and went for the birthday party.
More high-decibel squeals.
Lots of people...and kids...
And food and chocolate cake.
“Any good news?” a well-meaning guest asked pointedly.
Here are the options that ran through my still slightly-buzzed mind.
“I am infertile.”
“Because of my excessive drinking doctors have advised me against populating the earth.”
“No.”
“Take me to your leader...”
I smiled and laughed coyly yet dismissively.
Damn convent school manners! Schools should teach us how to flip people effectively in social settings not how to act like Cotillion debutantes.
Bleh!
The earlier regurgitation and the subsequent and consistent intake of food, topped by decadent chocolate cake had completely obliterated all side-effects and presence of alcohol.
My vision was no more blurred, sounds were clearer, colours brighter...the world...well it still sucked, but now I had the stomach to handle it.
Sobriety lent itself to handling sleep deprivation better, when someone innocently suggested a game (charades I think) I did not tear them apart, just gently chewed them out.
Aah my peace and good humour was restored.
When we finally headed out, it was close to midnight.
“Where you going?” I asked chirpily, well okay not chirpily, but without a snarl, which is kinda the same thing.
“Err...home,” he said, with a tinge of query/confusion in his voice, not knowing if it was a trick question.
“It’s a Saturday night,” I pointed out, with a “duh” for effect.
“I thought you were tired.”
“Yeah, I’m tired not a 102.”
Pause.
“Besides it’s a Saturday night.”
“Beer?” he asked sportingly.
Another night, another drink.
Another hangover?
Well tomorrow is another day after all.
(Chapter two will be out [almost] soon.)
*Almost all incidences are true but have been exaggerated and timelines blurred for literary (cough, cough) purposes.
It was an incessant, almost annoying buzzing, which woke me up.
I quickly turned my head to seek the source of noise and immediately wished I hadn’t, as my head went into a tail spin.
*Oh I am never drinking again* thoughts.
I switched off the alarm with a thwack and prayed for the room to stop spinning.
I gingerly crawled out of bed. My mind on nothing but taking care of my parched throat. But I had to brush, gargle, floss, rinse and repeat first.
It was times like these I wished I wasn’t so anal about dental health.
“Water, water, water,” I croaked to my unresponsive fridge. After downing a whole bottle, I felt marginally better. I exaggerate. The water just about made it possible for me to open my bleary eyes, to face sunlight almost directly.
**More of I am never ever drinking ever again.
As I waited for the coffee to percolate, I glanced at myself in the mirror and grimaced and wished I hadn’t, looked at myself in the mirror that is.
My always-unmanageable hair was even worse, and was sticking out at ends. I had raccoon eyes from going to sleep without removing my make-up and my skin was already looking weathered and pimply from lack of sleep and ‘possibly’ too much alcohol.
As I fixed my coffee I heard my phone going off somewhere in the distance. A mad scramble around the house and I found it in the laundry hamper.
I am still too befuddled to try and figure out how it got there.
“Hello,” I croaked grumpily. I think it’s rude to call people when they’re asleep or just waking up. And yes 11.00 is too early in the morning.
Some people were just plain inconsiderate.
“Hey,” my husband answered chirpily.
This day was steadily going downhill, I hate happy people in the morning.
“What?” I growled ungraciously.
Small pause, as if he was choosing his next words carefully, which he probably was.
“Sweetie,” he ventured, “I tried waking you up but you wouldn’t get up and I was getting late for a meeting...” Pregnant pause.
He continued courageously, “I just wanted to remind you that you have a meeting in an hour. You have to interview Mr.X, I think at Taj you had mentioned...” he tapered off lamely waiting for the explosion he knew was coming.
“Holy mother of **&^%$#. WTF, why didn’t you wake me up? Why aren’t you here? Why the &^%# did you let me drink so much...?”
He waited patiently, as one who has been through this before would, for me to finish.
“OMG I don’t have time, I don’t have clothes, I have to get my hair done. OMG, OMG, OMG.”
“Okay sweetie, talk to you later. Drink plenty of water.”
I stood still for a second, contemplating what the most resourceful and efficient course of action would be.
Cancelling the appointment was my first option.
Against my better judgment I called Mr.X’s PA.
“Well actually it’s too late to cancel now. Mr. X has cleared the morning (the morning my ass, he was giving me half an hour) just for your interview. And there is no way we can reschedule, if you want the interview it has to be done now...”
Snooty bitch I thought.
“Fine,” I simpered, “just wanted to check. I will reschedule my dental surgery. No worries. Thank you. I will be at the Taj at 11.00.”
“Will see you then. Do be on time, Mr. X doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” And with that the snooty bitch cut the call.
I downed the coffee and jumped into the shower. When I say jumped I mean gently stepped in, as quickly as my throbbing head and roiling stomach would permit.
***Oh if I ever see alcohol again it will be too soon.
Shampoo-lather-condition-rinse and repeat.
Yeah okay so I am anal about my hair follicles as well.
I was getting out of the shower, when the bell rang.
“Oh you gotta be friggin’ kidding me,” I mumbled to myself as it continued tolling incessantly. I grabbed the crumpled T-shirt from off the bed, dragged on a pair of boxers and ran to the door, my hair soaking wet.
I was praying it wasn’t one of the neighbours complaining about the excessive noise last night.
Should I deny it or grovel and apologise. My mind was still wrestling with the options when I opened the door to find my house owner waiting, smilingly.
I stood smiling at her, fake and nervous. She looked on expectantly.
Should I just apologise for last night?
“Sorry about...”
She cut me off, “Is the rent cheque ready?”
Oh!
Shit. I remember my husband had given me the cheque two days ago to pass it on her. He had dropped it off last month, so this month it was my turn.
Dammit. Where had I put it?
“Please come in...”
Shit why did I invite her in? There were empty beer bottles piled pyramid-high and cigarette butts on the floor and the smell of stale take-away food hung in the air.
Oooh nausea again, don’t think about it.
“Please have a seat. The cheque is right here...I was meaning to drop it off yesterday, but...”
I stopped myself quickly. Didn’t want her to focus about yesterday and then I noticed a big fat brown stain on the wall.
Double shit. Some drunk friend had spilled rum and coke on the walls. I remember now.
He was doing this dance, hilarious actually, when he had tripped, fallen on this other girl and the contents from his glass had spewed everywhere.
Funny...I thought smiling to myself. I love drunken Fridays.
“Errr, N? The cheque,” she asked looking concerned.
“Oh sorry, I have a tooth ache,” I said feeling rather ingenious, remembering what I had told snooty bitch earlier.
I went to my bag. Dug out my wallet and removed a crumpled cheque from inside. I tried my best to smoothen it out and then handed it to her with an extra sweet smile as if a cheque looking like used tissue was normal.
I was still dripping wet when she left...in a hurry.
A quick blow dry and I slipped into comfortable jeans and a white shirt.
My work clothes are a no brainer-I have to wear my jeans, I live in them-and a white shirt is the only thing that helps maintain a modicum of professionalism.
I now had 15 minutes to be at the Taj and I was online trying to find my subject’s last name.
So I am disorganised. Also I hate my job, so I try and put in as little effort as possible. The only reason I agree to do it, is the money, which is actually pretty good, considering I only have to work for a couple of weeks a month and I get to work from home.
Which basically means I get to spend the whole day sleeping, watching bad TV and catching up with friends and get paid for the last-minute, late night scrambles in front of the computer.
It’s a sweet enough deal, but just not on weekends.
On this fine Saturday, when I should be uncomfortably nursing a bad hangover, I was stuffing my water bottle into my bag, along with a packet of cookies (breakfast on the go), searching the house for a pen that would work.
I finally got Mr.X’s last name, and little bit of his background –oh he plays the guitar-and putting the finishing touches on my face, to make it look a little less...hung over.
I stuffed everything into my already bulging bag, grabbed my phone and made my way to the auto stand, all the while slurping water noisily.
Obviously there were no autos at the auto stand...but of course.
I waited impatiently.
Soon one enterprising auto fellow rode by in his trusty vehicle.
“Taj? Nungambakkam? Rs.150.”
“Whaaaaaaaaaaat. Only Rs.60.”
“What madam? To Gemini itself Rs.100.”
“Po ya,” I replied confidently and walked on.
I had better luck with the next one.
The ol’ chap agreed to take me there for Rs.70.
Sucker
Me, not him.
I had 5 minutes to be there and the ol’ chap was driving so carefully, arthritic old ladies and drunk cyclists were overtaking us.
I sighed resignedly and drank more water.
The jostling was making me queasy. I stuffed a few cookies down my throat.
The rocking motion was also making me sleepy. I had slept for a mere three hours.
****Oh Lord. No more parties, and never in my entire life will I ever drink again.
Let lightning strike me dead otherwise. (I crossed my fingers the last second...just in case).
I reached Taj a good twenty minutes later.
I paid the auto fellow, Murugan, gave him an extra fifty bucks. His wife was in hospital. Seriously.
I was not looking forward to meeting Snooty bitch to explain my tardiness.
I patted my hair down and put on the brightest smile a hangover could muster and walked forward to meet Snooty Bitch. She was impeccably dressed, her hair clipped neatly at the back, no hint of flyways and lips tightly compressed in a state of perpetual annoyance.
Snooty bitch-her parents had named her rather aptly.
At least she wasn’t sunshiny. Angry, frustrated people I can deal with.
After introductions, in which she didn’t even attempt to crack a smile, she made me sit in the waiting area. A cup of coffee and biscuits found its way in front of me, which I overenthusiastically accepted and started working on.
I should ideally be working on my questions, or at least get out my pen and paper and emulate professional behaviour.
But I was too hung-over to care and the biscuits were delicious.
After waiting for forty minutes, there was still no sign of the punctual Mr.X.
After another 15-minute wait I was feeling decidedly sick...too many biscuits, now marinating in alcohol, too little sleep and excessive fluid intake, which was making me rather uncomfortable.
As I was just about to beat a hasty retreat, Snooty bitch called me in. Mr.X had arrived after all. Of course.
“Could you just give me a second to freshen up?” I ventured rather boldly.
“I was hoping you would interview him first. I guess I could get the other reporter to go in first...”
“NO,” I shouted. I could not wait around any longer. By bladder would have to. Oh well.
The room was rather plush. Mr.X himself was by the window, talking furtively on the phone, promising to discuss things with his caller in person...in London...next week.
He said all this rather wearily.
(I am extremely jealous/envious/hateful of people who travel the world so much that going to London for a meeting was actually taxing.)
I decided I hated Mr.X.
Then he noticed me. Apologised for his delay. “The charity walk started late...” Was super charming and insisted I have a cup of coffee and asked me about my background.
I hate it when people do that. Not that I don’t like talking about myself, because I do. Because they seem to be judging whether I am worthy of interviewing them.
Could just be my bias.
Rich, travels, does a background check and does charity work...
More hating!
(#@$%)
Was feeling decidedly discomfited.
I stumbled through the interview.
I asked some penetrating questions. “What is your favourite food? Our readers would love to know.”
After more such insightful queries, (which now touched on his favourite songs and most memorable childhood moment) and a number of speed bumps, where I tried to not focus on my now full-blown, throbbing headache, I got through the interview in a about 20 minutes. I usually try and stretch it to about an hour at least although five minutes is usually all I need, but today it was not physically (literally) possible.
As I hurried out, with no gracious platitudes to Snooty Bitch I checked my phone and saw three missed calls from the husband and a text to call him ASAP.
But first things first...ladies room.
When I finally called the husband back he was sounding worried, which he never does, unless it has something to do with his car.
It seems ‘we’ had forgotten about the lunch in a relative’s place.
So he had to either back out of a promised family lunch or coax a sleepy, hung over, cranky me (bad combination) into sitting through a family lunch.
I cursed and then cried...he promised to make it up to me.
I am such a pushover.
I agreed to meet him at said relative’s place in 15 minutes.
It’s not that I didn’t want to have lunch with family, it’s just that I wasn’t sure I could manage to do so. The decibel levels were already quite high when I entered.
I endured various forms of “Any good news” kind of questions. One relative was quick and happy to point out that my biological clock was ticking.
I smiled through it all.
Then the table got filled with tons of food and food smells.
I excused myself, threw up as quietly as possible in the loo and hurried out.
So much better. Ate tons of food. Kept going for a refill.
No one said anything. But between the throwing up incident, which I thought no one was aware of, and the generous portions I was heaping on my plate, everyone looked delighted and knowing at my impending “good news”.
I was too tired to kick up a fuss. They just added my mellow, non-protesting, not- fighting-for-the-principle -of- things self to their slightly slanted perceptions.
If only they knew.
As the lunch wore down, I was looking decidedly sleepy and grumpy, when the suddenly-perceptive husband decided it was time to say goodbye.
I was only looking forward to my bed, nothing more.
But the car stalled half-way, when we stopped to grab a Red-bull for me. I ended up pushing the damn thing...middle of the friggin’ road...feeling headachy and sick. If only instead of hung over I was ‘good newsed’ I wouldn’t be pushing the damn car.
I gave it a kick for good measure, the not-perceptive-anymore husband didn’t notice my token protest at the exploitation.
It was close to 4 when we reached home. I was dreaming of a warm bath, and a long, luxurious, mind blowing nap. My bed, I could see in my mind’s eye, with its cool, crisp sheets and soft mattress, never looked more inviting. I was just a few more steps from heaven.
Then the phone rang. My mother. Wanting to know if I was on the way to pick her up yet. We had to be at my cousin’s birthday in half hour.
I am not embarrassed to say I screamed. We turned the car around, picked up my mother, and went for the birthday party.
More high-decibel squeals.
Lots of people...and kids...
And food and chocolate cake.
“Any good news?” a well-meaning guest asked pointedly.
Here are the options that ran through my still slightly-buzzed mind.
“I am infertile.”
“Because of my excessive drinking doctors have advised me against populating the earth.”
“No.”
“Take me to your leader...”
I smiled and laughed coyly yet dismissively.
Damn convent school manners! Schools should teach us how to flip people effectively in social settings not how to act like Cotillion debutantes.
Bleh!
The earlier regurgitation and the subsequent and consistent intake of food, topped by decadent chocolate cake had completely obliterated all side-effects and presence of alcohol.
My vision was no more blurred, sounds were clearer, colours brighter...the world...well it still sucked, but now I had the stomach to handle it.
Sobriety lent itself to handling sleep deprivation better, when someone innocently suggested a game (charades I think) I did not tear them apart, just gently chewed them out.
Aah my peace and good humour was restored.
When we finally headed out, it was close to midnight.
“Where you going?” I asked chirpily, well okay not chirpily, but without a snarl, which is kinda the same thing.
“Err...home,” he said, with a tinge of query/confusion in his voice, not knowing if it was a trick question.
“It’s a Saturday night,” I pointed out, with a “duh” for effect.
“I thought you were tired.”
“Yeah, I’m tired not a 102.”
Pause.
“Besides it’s a Saturday night.”
“Beer?” he asked sportingly.
Another night, another drink.
Another hangover?
Well tomorrow is another day after all.
(Chapter two will be out [almost] soon.)
Monday, January 31, 2011
29 things to do this year
1. Not bunk a single yoga class
2. Make the California trip
3. Birthday in Paris
4. Sleep at a reasonable hour or sleep at a reasonable hour at least couple of times a week or sleep
5. Write everyday
6. Finish at least five books on the must read list
7. Buy the iPad
8. Get better at staying in touch with people
9. Get reacquainted with Shakespeare
10. Something about music-download, listen, sing...whatever...more often
11. Get good gifts for people
12. Get a grip on the whole retail therapy thing
13. Go to the movies as often as possible
14. No crazy diets
15. Get rid of all the junk...clean, minimise, de-clutter
16. Pursue something actively
17. Get the second tattoo already
18. Finish the novel
19. Contribute to charity...in any small way, as often as possible
20. More books, less TV
21. Say YES (within limits)
22. Travel, travel, travel
23. Cook, bake, or throw something together at least a few times a year
24. Save
25. Learn something new everyday
26. Be committed to deadlines and goals
27. Meet up with friends as often as possible
28. Avoid people who talk too much or complain too much
29. Quit complaining too much
2. Make the California trip
3. Birthday in Paris
4. Sleep at a reasonable hour or sleep at a reasonable hour at least couple of times a week or sleep
5. Write everyday
6. Finish at least five books on the must read list
7. Buy the iPad
8. Get better at staying in touch with people
9. Get reacquainted with Shakespeare
10. Something about music-download, listen, sing...whatever...more often
11. Get good gifts for people
12. Get a grip on the whole retail therapy thing
13. Go to the movies as often as possible
14. No crazy diets
15. Get rid of all the junk...clean, minimise, de-clutter
16. Pursue something actively
17. Get the second tattoo already
18. Finish the novel
19. Contribute to charity...in any small way, as often as possible
20. More books, less TV
21. Say YES (within limits)
22. Travel, travel, travel
23. Cook, bake, or throw something together at least a few times a year
24. Save
25. Learn something new everyday
26. Be committed to deadlines and goals
27. Meet up with friends as often as possible
28. Avoid people who talk too much or complain too much
29. Quit complaining too much
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Let’s be French
A friend recently pointed out, only half jestingly, that I was opinionated and judgmental.
Another one said I was not social and friendly and my ‘well-meaning’ sister is always quick to add that I am moody and sulky. My husband, I notice, while he never adds to the long list of my apparent unfriendliness, nods rather vigorously.
So I only recently realised that I don’t come across as the sunshiny, warm, genial person I see myself as in my head.
This is why I think I should move to France and hang out with French people. Their decided unfriendliness, their obvious (apparently) disregard for going out of their way to be pleasant or even cordial.
And that was always the plan- to move to France and marry Pierre.
It would be a marvellous dinner party.
Finest silver, champagne and canapés.
Air kisses.
Jazz will play in the background.
As the saxophonist takes his spot for his solo performance, the cork will pop, I will laugh delicately, wave a garcon down and the watery afternoon sun would catch my Chopard ring and throw myriad broken sparkles across the ceiling.
Aah my champagne flute runneth over!
This would be my engagement party.
My betrothal to Pierre.
My future husband.
The French one.
I often tell/warn my husband, my current, Indian husband that is, that I will leave him when I find my French dreamboat. He smiles indulgently.
And besides being a one-way ticket to Paris, it would mean a cultural awakening (it’s a great reason to get married); romance, fashion, French croissant, and me and P walking hand-in-hand along the Champs Elysee, dancing under the fashionable French skies, sipping cafe at the local bistro.
Le sigh!
I am of course little wary of the French people, since stereotype has it that they're quite snooty.
But if you’ve met me, you’ll know that I am not the most social person.
I don’t chat up random people I meet.
I don’t share confidences in the vegetable aisle at the local Pazhamudir Cholai, with the nosy Mylapore maami.
I won’t attempt to break the awkward silence if we’re the only two people locked in a room for two years.
I will not even offer a comment to the old man who is talking to me about the weather as we work out on neighbouring treadmills.
If I am feeling friendly, I might acknowledge with a sage nod.
Sometimes I even introduce myself as Priyanka, in case telling you my real name, gives you a false sense of familiarity.
So don’t expect me to welcome you into my world with open arms just because you helped carry my groceries, baked me a cake, saved my life.
Because my philosophy is ‘I have enough people in my life, I don’t need more’.
But other than that I am quite friendly.
Which is why I think I will get along rather well with P and his peers.
Because there would be no awkward silences.
We will get through a two-hour lunch with just the harmony of the silverware and the graceful shuffling of our maids, housekeepers and attendants (are they still employed?).
Our conversation would go as such (pardon my French...literally):
Ami 1: Ma cherie, la blah, le bleh?
Moi: Oui
Ami 2: Bordeaux.Chanel.
Moi: Le lovely
Ami 3: Un, deux, trois.
Moi: Voila
See how well that went?
So if your French husband ever throws you a dinner party and you have to make polite conversation, and the only way you can be social is after a couple of Dom Perignons, don’t worry, here are a few handy tips.
Now don’t worry if your French is not as good as mine, just talk in English, throw in a few les and las, elongate the i and the e, and if you really want to be emphatic, the enthusiastic Indian gesticulating never fails.
Safe zones:
1. The weather- very safe conversation, no chances of you offending the hosts there with your broken French.
2. Food- compliment the choice of food, because the French die for the approval of foreigners, especially where gourmet cuisine is concerned.
3. Wine – let loose your inner-sommelier, even if you have no expertise with fine wines, just draw on all the experiences with Kalyani beer, Golconda wine and No.1 McDowells. But this is holy ground, so tread carefully, we don’t want an international incident.
4. Politics- so you know nothing about French politics? No problem. Just drop a few names of your local thug...err...politician.
Let’s give it a shot shall we?
French person: Le how are you? (All this is spoken in French, translated for your benefit)
You: La weather...tres bien. Le Madras, only le summer.
French person 2: I love la Indian cinema. Are you le actress?
You: Le escargot eeees magnifique...
French person 3: You are tres beautiful.
You: I love le arrack.
French person 4: Are you enjoying le France?
You: Carla Bruni. Le Mayawathi.
This is a mere tip of le proverbial iceberg. I will start classes soon.
Another one said I was not social and friendly and my ‘well-meaning’ sister is always quick to add that I am moody and sulky. My husband, I notice, while he never adds to the long list of my apparent unfriendliness, nods rather vigorously.
So I only recently realised that I don’t come across as the sunshiny, warm, genial person I see myself as in my head.
This is why I think I should move to France and hang out with French people. Their decided unfriendliness, their obvious (apparently) disregard for going out of their way to be pleasant or even cordial.
And that was always the plan- to move to France and marry Pierre.
It would be a marvellous dinner party.
Finest silver, champagne and canapés.
Air kisses.
Jazz will play in the background.
As the saxophonist takes his spot for his solo performance, the cork will pop, I will laugh delicately, wave a garcon down and the watery afternoon sun would catch my Chopard ring and throw myriad broken sparkles across the ceiling.
Aah my champagne flute runneth over!
This would be my engagement party.
My betrothal to Pierre.
My future husband.
The French one.
I often tell/warn my husband, my current, Indian husband that is, that I will leave him when I find my French dreamboat. He smiles indulgently.
And besides being a one-way ticket to Paris, it would mean a cultural awakening (it’s a great reason to get married); romance, fashion, French croissant, and me and P walking hand-in-hand along the Champs Elysee, dancing under the fashionable French skies, sipping cafe at the local bistro.
Le sigh!
I am of course little wary of the French people, since stereotype has it that they're quite snooty.
But if you’ve met me, you’ll know that I am not the most social person.
I don’t chat up random people I meet.
I don’t share confidences in the vegetable aisle at the local Pazhamudir Cholai, with the nosy Mylapore maami.
I won’t attempt to break the awkward silence if we’re the only two people locked in a room for two years.
I will not even offer a comment to the old man who is talking to me about the weather as we work out on neighbouring treadmills.
If I am feeling friendly, I might acknowledge with a sage nod.
Sometimes I even introduce myself as Priyanka, in case telling you my real name, gives you a false sense of familiarity.
So don’t expect me to welcome you into my world with open arms just because you helped carry my groceries, baked me a cake, saved my life.
Because my philosophy is ‘I have enough people in my life, I don’t need more’.
But other than that I am quite friendly.
Which is why I think I will get along rather well with P and his peers.
Because there would be no awkward silences.
We will get through a two-hour lunch with just the harmony of the silverware and the graceful shuffling of our maids, housekeepers and attendants (are they still employed?).
Our conversation would go as such (pardon my French...literally):
Ami 1: Ma cherie, la blah, le bleh?
Moi: Oui
Ami 2: Bordeaux.Chanel.
Moi: Le lovely
Ami 3: Un, deux, trois.
Moi: Voila
See how well that went?
So if your French husband ever throws you a dinner party and you have to make polite conversation, and the only way you can be social is after a couple of Dom Perignons, don’t worry, here are a few handy tips.
Now don’t worry if your French is not as good as mine, just talk in English, throw in a few les and las, elongate the i and the e, and if you really want to be emphatic, the enthusiastic Indian gesticulating never fails.
Safe zones:
1. The weather- very safe conversation, no chances of you offending the hosts there with your broken French.
2. Food- compliment the choice of food, because the French die for the approval of foreigners, especially where gourmet cuisine is concerned.
3. Wine – let loose your inner-sommelier, even if you have no expertise with fine wines, just draw on all the experiences with Kalyani beer, Golconda wine and No.1 McDowells. But this is holy ground, so tread carefully, we don’t want an international incident.
4. Politics- so you know nothing about French politics? No problem. Just drop a few names of your local thug...err...politician.
Let’s give it a shot shall we?
French person: Le how are you? (All this is spoken in French, translated for your benefit)
You: La weather...tres bien. Le Madras, only le summer.
French person 2: I love la Indian cinema. Are you le actress?
You: Le escargot eeees magnifique...
French person 3: You are tres beautiful.
You: I love le arrack.
French person 4: Are you enjoying le France?
You: Carla Bruni. Le Mayawathi.
This is a mere tip of le proverbial iceberg. I will start classes soon.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Of fair maidens and youthful fountains
I had a near-death experience recently.
It made me question my life, my achievements (or lack thereof) and the moments preceding the said experience...
...when I found my first grey/white strand of hair amidst an otherwise young, carefree and multi-coloured bunch.
Life as I know it is over.
This was not supposed to happen yet (ever). I am twenty-something.
There is so much for me to do still, experience, mull over, stress about; come on- I still have bills to worry about, body issues, the future, and being an angst-ridden writer is one thing, but looking like one doesn’t get your picture on the jacket cover. And when I was just about beginning to love my hair for what it really was, for this to happen, is nothing short of a tragedy.
Was this follicle-karma for the follies of my youth, for all the straightening, and colourings and smoothenings and ironings? Isn’t karma supposed to bite me in the ass in my next birth?
My first thought was to yank it out. Nobody was around; no one would know...it would be the perfect crime.
But I couldn’t do it. In those terribly traumatic seconds, post-discovery, I had grown fond of Simone (I had to give her a name) and not just because white strands had demon parentage, the 'one give rise to two' theory, but because some cosmic force stayed my murdering hand, pushing it away from fair Simone.
A great calm washed over me, the world appeared clearer, my destiny awaited. Is this what wisdom feels like? With grey strand comes great wisdom?
Or is it just my old companion talking, comforting me in my hour of need? The fortifying brew, my fountain of happiness.
Ah Simone. I am a changed woman already.
She will be the testament to my struggle against...higher powers, the establishment, bureaucracy, government, the shackles that bind me, society, sobriety.
She and I will stand alone (please let it be only the two of us, more than one strand of wisdom will result in genocide) as we face life head on with courage and honesty and integrity.
But not yet.
Fair Simone, you that shine so brightly (tauntingly so, you *#@%!), you came too soon, much ahead of your time. It’s been pre-ordained that you will succumb, you will not survive the fight against Burgundy-Black, 32 Dark Mahogany-Brown and Red 6. The Gods of L’Oreal are too powerful for you, this time.
Return in another lifetime, 20 years perhaps. You can then be queen (maybe).
Go now, in peace, let me play in the fountain of youth, once more.
What now? That was just a stray blonde strand?
My eyes are failing me (I am too young for Glaucoma). I see only wrinkles and grey.
Has old age come knocking again? She has addled my young, vain mind.
Oh Simone what have I done?
PS: Beautiful lager, you remain my one true friend.
It made me question my life, my achievements (or lack thereof) and the moments preceding the said experience...
...when I found my first grey/white strand of hair amidst an otherwise young, carefree and multi-coloured bunch.
Life as I know it is over.
This was not supposed to happen yet (ever). I am twenty-something.
There is so much for me to do still, experience, mull over, stress about; come on- I still have bills to worry about, body issues, the future, and being an angst-ridden writer is one thing, but looking like one doesn’t get your picture on the jacket cover. And when I was just about beginning to love my hair for what it really was, for this to happen, is nothing short of a tragedy.
Was this follicle-karma for the follies of my youth, for all the straightening, and colourings and smoothenings and ironings? Isn’t karma supposed to bite me in the ass in my next birth?
My first thought was to yank it out. Nobody was around; no one would know...it would be the perfect crime.
But I couldn’t do it. In those terribly traumatic seconds, post-discovery, I had grown fond of Simone (I had to give her a name) and not just because white strands had demon parentage, the 'one give rise to two' theory, but because some cosmic force stayed my murdering hand, pushing it away from fair Simone.
A great calm washed over me, the world appeared clearer, my destiny awaited. Is this what wisdom feels like? With grey strand comes great wisdom?
Or is it just my old companion talking, comforting me in my hour of need? The fortifying brew, my fountain of happiness.
Ah Simone. I am a changed woman already.
She will be the testament to my struggle against...higher powers, the establishment, bureaucracy, government, the shackles that bind me, society, sobriety.
She and I will stand alone (please let it be only the two of us, more than one strand of wisdom will result in genocide) as we face life head on with courage and honesty and integrity.
But not yet.
Fair Simone, you that shine so brightly (tauntingly so, you *#@%!), you came too soon, much ahead of your time. It’s been pre-ordained that you will succumb, you will not survive the fight against Burgundy-Black, 32 Dark Mahogany-Brown and Red 6. The Gods of L’Oreal are too powerful for you, this time.
Return in another lifetime, 20 years perhaps. You can then be queen (maybe).
Go now, in peace, let me play in the fountain of youth, once more.
What now? That was just a stray blonde strand?
My eyes are failing me (I am too young for Glaucoma). I see only wrinkles and grey.
Has old age come knocking again? She has addled my young, vain mind.
Oh Simone what have I done?
PS: Beautiful lager, you remain my one true friend.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Down the rabbit hole
The day grows insidious.
One would believe, that a morning that broke rather gloriously— warm but cloudy, with a hint of rain and the indelicate caw of the friendly crow, would ideally hold promise of a favourable day.
Apparently not.
The bank balance hangs dangerously low, self-esteem is tottering drunkenly on a tight-rope with no safety net of therapy, shopping or liquor.
As Floyd washes over me, I sit pondering the wicked humour of destiny.
What I have borne with fortitude and false bravado is beginning to come undone at the hands of a greater power I refuse to succumb to.
Final vestiges of pride? Perhaps.
The day grows insidious.
My fingers fly randomly over the keyboard, searching fervently for words there, that assembled in the right order would reveal the masterpiece I have so long been seeking.
But not today-apparently.
Fame would just have to wait another day.
The diamonds in my fingers glint, taunting me of worlds I belonged to.
I still dream of the trees outside and dry landscapes and setting suns. To journey across a thousand sights, and a million dashed dreams, just like here, now.
As a phantasmagoria of psychedelic emotions and turbulent thoughts whirl up in a collective frenzy, we seek places, not to hide, but put us in the spotlight.
“Dance monkey, dance,” someone cries.
And with a flourish I-we do.
The day grows insidious.
A little bit of Dutch courage would have helped. I will settle for a strong cup of coffee and the comfort of worn-out bed-springs, and a Hammerstein musical, searching still for the day that was promised.
Whimsical much?
Maybe a quick jump down the rabbit hole.
If someone could just point me, with a gentle hand, in the right direction, to provide respite from a journey that has already proved long and arduous. And maybe even a kind word or helping hand. As I find myself sinking deeper into difficult situations that bear strong resemblances to Dante’s Inferno, I whip around for a good look, not just for friendly faces, but some memento to remember best-forgotten situations by, scars besides.
Transformations- almost Kafkaesque; more mundane, less Spiderman, but without the rapier charm of an arachnid or insect.
Godot be damned, I am waiting for Jeeves and my cup of tea and some sound advice. Till then I will hide in the company of languid wanting.
As Floyd gives way to the dulcet tones of Slim Shady, hope springs eternal, or maybe it just quietly died.
PS: Was having a bad, boring day, with my iPod on shuffle and (hopefully, rather presumptuously) a Wodehousean hangover.
One would believe, that a morning that broke rather gloriously— warm but cloudy, with a hint of rain and the indelicate caw of the friendly crow, would ideally hold promise of a favourable day.
Apparently not.
The bank balance hangs dangerously low, self-esteem is tottering drunkenly on a tight-rope with no safety net of therapy, shopping or liquor.
As Floyd washes over me, I sit pondering the wicked humour of destiny.
What I have borne with fortitude and false bravado is beginning to come undone at the hands of a greater power I refuse to succumb to.
Final vestiges of pride? Perhaps.
The day grows insidious.
My fingers fly randomly over the keyboard, searching fervently for words there, that assembled in the right order would reveal the masterpiece I have so long been seeking.
But not today-apparently.
Fame would just have to wait another day.
The diamonds in my fingers glint, taunting me of worlds I belonged to.
I still dream of the trees outside and dry landscapes and setting suns. To journey across a thousand sights, and a million dashed dreams, just like here, now.
As a phantasmagoria of psychedelic emotions and turbulent thoughts whirl up in a collective frenzy, we seek places, not to hide, but put us in the spotlight.
“Dance monkey, dance,” someone cries.
And with a flourish I-we do.
The day grows insidious.
A little bit of Dutch courage would have helped. I will settle for a strong cup of coffee and the comfort of worn-out bed-springs, and a Hammerstein musical, searching still for the day that was promised.
Whimsical much?
Maybe a quick jump down the rabbit hole.
If someone could just point me, with a gentle hand, in the right direction, to provide respite from a journey that has already proved long and arduous. And maybe even a kind word or helping hand. As I find myself sinking deeper into difficult situations that bear strong resemblances to Dante’s Inferno, I whip around for a good look, not just for friendly faces, but some memento to remember best-forgotten situations by, scars besides.
Transformations- almost Kafkaesque; more mundane, less Spiderman, but without the rapier charm of an arachnid or insect.
Godot be damned, I am waiting for Jeeves and my cup of tea and some sound advice. Till then I will hide in the company of languid wanting.
As Floyd gives way to the dulcet tones of Slim Shady, hope springs eternal, or maybe it just quietly died.
PS: Was having a bad, boring day, with my iPod on shuffle and (hopefully, rather presumptuously) a Wodehousean hangover.
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