Archive | August, 2008

Message in a Bottle: Jostling Jealousy & Other Stories

30 Aug

[This one was scribbled for a four-year-old audience. The language has been modified for adult reading. Feedback welcome. And any mommies/daddies reading this, feel free to narrate it to your babies. 🙂 ]

Sascha’s bathroom, like the rest of her home, was spotlessly clean. Her Mommy made sure that it was cleaned every day and always smelled fragrant. You could call it a bit cluttered, I suppose, for Sascha loved her cosmetics just as much as the next tween. And the window ledge was more than a little packed with bottles, tubes and jars of varying dimensions, jostling for a foothold.

They were quite a sorority, those bottles. Every night, after all was calm, they’d huddle together and crib about Hair Oil who lived among them.

“She’s so drippy and icky and green!” gurgled Shampoo in disdain.

“Not to mention smelly,” sniffed Bath Salts.

“She really shouldn’t be here amongst us,” cried Baby Powder, who was particularly vain about her appearance and partial to taking a peek into the mirror every chance she got.

And so they whined and carped and grumbled about their unsavory company, until one day, fed up of their complaining, Soap suggested a plan.

“We’ll wait for Friday night,” he whispered, knowing that was the time Sascha’s hair was oiled. “And, since she’ll be the last one back on the ledge, one of us can nudge her over, and splash, she’ll be in the pot below!” Much excitement and cheering later, it was decided that Condi (short for Conditioner) be the one to Do the Deed. Being the tallest of the lot, he had more leverage, and could move swiftly and effectively to get the job done. Hands shaken and backs slapped, they settled down to await the end of the week.

On Friday night, Nanny grabbed Hair Oil as usual and took her off to the kitchen to be warmed. 20 tense minutes later, she was back, whistling tunelessly at being the flavor of the night and having gladdened the rather traditional Nanny’s old heart. At precisely ten past midnight, at the pre-determined signal, Condi swung into action. A quick bump of his plastic bum later, Hair Oil was floating dismally in the (thankfully) clean water of the dazzling white pot, gazing up ruefully at the sniggers above her. Shutting her eyes, she prayed fervently that no drowsy family member would use the toilet at night. That, in her book, would be the ultimate ignominy.

The night passed peacefully. Or as peaceful as it can possibly be with a dark drain mere millimeters away. With the morning sun came Bai, Harpic in one hand and brush in another, ready to do battle with germs, stains and sundry offenders. Hair Oil cringed, waiting to be doused in blue soapy liquid, but none descended. Instead, after what appeared to be the longest time, she heard a cluck of annoyance and felt a calloused hand gingerly lift her from the cap. The bottles were all agog, hanging about innocently with their eyes peeled to the unfolding scene. And this is what they saw:

Hair Oil was given a thorough rinse in lavender soap by a brisk, mildly annoyed Bai before being swabbed with Dettol and patted dry. Other than a wrinkly wrapper, she looked none the worse for wear and the smirk she wore on her face infuriated them. The last straw was seeing her being whisked off to the bedroom and given pride of place on Sascha’s dressing table, in full view of the exciting programs on television. Only the bottles knew that the slightly puffed look that Hair Oil wore for the rest of the week was not a result of that dunking in the water.

Brutus Don’t Suit Us

28 Aug

Your Virgo-ness wounds me!

~ OJ to her BFF, defending accusations of being a drama queen.

Of Voices & Violins: More Godawful Poetry

28 Aug

It ain’t over until it’s over, dahlings. Until then, suck it up and deal with the rotten verse.  Orange Sadistic Jammies is on a rrrrrrrrroll!  :mrgreen:


Vivaldi is straining

To tell us there are four seasons

Above the thunder of the Indian third,

And the boom of drums

And tramping feet

And idol-cart squeaky wheels;

A minority Italian

In a roaring Indian nation

Drowned out,


Amid decibel peaks,

While a clay elephant head

Smirks at his isolation

And trumpets noiselessly

To crown the din.


Excerpt From An Email

26 Aug

Lately, I’ve been overcome by the feeling that I’m standing tiptoed on a precipice, with the End calling out to me and Life beckoning on the safer side. I know I won’t slip. Not because I’m sure-footed, but because any falling on my part will be entirely intentional, a willful plunge of finality. So here I am, standing on my rapidly tiring toes, taking in the view, wondering which decision will be borne to fruition first. They shouldn’t accord such power to us mortals, really.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight: August 19 to 31

24 Aug

My dream come true over at Zigzackly’s page. A fortnight of write-all-you-want, bad, bad poetry. Jump in and get churning!

Now the Boy can’t turn to me and say (all perplexed and lines furrowing his brow), “But you’re such a positive person! How come your writing is so morbid?”

So bye-bye morbid & hello downright groanworthy! :mrgreen:


She picked at her scabs, all pickety pickety,

Started on the boogers next,

Do you really want to know what went lickety lickety

In this huge honking grossfest?

Splashing into snot, all splashity splashity,

Soaking up yellow-green scum,

There’s more fun around the corner, quite sickety sickety

Coming out of a baby’s bum.

And if we’re quite done, all pukity pukity,

We’ll traipse off to use some soap,

Are we any cleaner on this blogity blogity,

The answer is a resounding nope!


Ahhh. Such a post-crap feeling, this. :mrgreen:

I’ll be back, goopsters! You can’t keep a bad poet down for long.

You Tuber

24 Aug

The Boy: Would you believe, they’ve labeled 2008 the Year of the Potato.

OJ (smugly): Ha! They’re naming a year after me now?

My Oh My…

22 Aug

…so young and yet so famous!

I’m not talking about myself, sillies. ‘Tis the blog.

Piper from over at Sunshine deems it worthy of an award, based on my supposed poetic brilliance. 😳

You’ve made it your life’s mission to embarrass me, haven’t you, girl? 😛

Err, actually, I just learned that the real purpose of the Award is this:

The Brilliant Weblog award is a prize given to sites and blogs that are smart and brilliant both in their content and their design. The purpose of the prize is to promote as many blogs as possible in the blogosphere.

So this is what I get for the meagre 15 posts I’ve scribbled, but hey, do I sound like I’m complaining? :mrgreen:

Much as I’d like to mulishly cling to it like I do my tiramisu, I am honor-bound to give it away, because The Rules of the Award say:

  • When you receive the prize you must write a post showing it, together with the name of who has given it to you, and link them back.
  • Choose a minimum of 7 blogs (or even more) that you find brilliant in their content or design.
  • Show their names and links and leave them a comment informing they were prized with the Brilliant Weblog Award.
  • Show a picture of those who awarded you and those you give the prize (optional).
  • And then we pass it on!

After much thought and throat-clearing, I’ve decided to tout my blogroll a bit, so here goes:

  1. Grimescene: As honest and entertaining as the man himself, this one was also recently recognized by WordPress as one of the growing blogs of the day. We have something of a mutual admiration society going, him and I.
  2. Anindita Sengupta: The original high priestess of poetry, she won the Toto Funds the Arts Award for Creative Writing in 2008. She is also my editor at UV so I have to say nice things about her. 😉
  3. Calcutta Chromosome: A weblog badge isn’t enough for this man. Somebody institute a Filmfare Encyclopedia Award, please. I am not easily amazed, but his page does it every time.
  4. Blogical Conclusion: I’m not an avid movie-goer. I think you guys know that. Also know that if I do make it to a cinema hall, it is chiefly due to Brangan. Okay, now I’ll run and hide before The Boy finds me.
  5. Ink & Olives: She could be me. Only, she’s not. She scripts my thoughts and ribbon-wraps them with a flourish that makes me applaud. (And imagine how an octopus would salsa.)
  6. Twisted DNA: TD is my perfect man in numerous ways. Geeky, irreverent and politically outrageous. Only, he’s hooked, booked and cooked and I don’t have a thing for green eyes.
  7. Sharanya Manivannan: Rocking the Chennai literary scene, the Venus Flytrap girl makes me occasionally want her life. Until I remember that I live in South Bombay and get hugged at work everyday. I’m applauding, though. Hear me?
  8. Chidiya Udd: Flotsam & Weeds’ art gives me a happy this-is-what-vodka-must-feel-like high. For what my humble opinion is worth, I think she’s immensely talented. And, in another life, or when I have more money (whichever comes first), I’ll be buying it off her.

And that’s that. I’m off to shine my badge. Toodles.

Edited to add: The delightfully insightful Thinking Cramps has chosen to bestow this honor on me again. Thanks, girl. I assure you it’s always the words that have their way with me, not the other way around. 😉


20 Aug

Credits: The Boy’s Olympus E-520 DSLR. (And, ahem, my hands.)

The Beauty of the Beast

19 Aug

The City, she’s a mean beast.

Breathing prickly, sweaty beads down the commuter’s neck,

nudging him off trains and cackling when he flounders,

one foot on, the other in mid-air,

dancing in limbo

between metal and eternity.

The City, she’s a mean beast.

To the old man walking into the traffic’s roar,

she swerves around him, honking, screeching,

glaring her bloodshot sleeplessness

into his moist, ancient eyes

dreaming of calmer days

when wheels and horns meant the annual dussehra fair.

The City, she’s a mean beast.

Eating up spaces alive,

devouring, gorging, sucking playgrounds and the sea

wings, leaves and humanity

into her bottomless pit,

her mouth ever-widening, her tongue anticipating,

her rumbles deafening the uneasy calm.

The City, she’s a mean beast.

Distorting definitions of home,

of space, time and relationships,

and dimensions unknown,

knowing we will come to her,

knowing we shall obey,

chortling in unmasked delight

at our masochistic, self-flagellating,

tear-stained, emotion-choked,

submissive, obsequious,




On The Landscape of Pain

12 Aug

She lay on the bed, her face turned away, unaware that he had entered the room.

Turning her head, she saw his silhouette framed against the door and that was enough to make the pain leap into her eyes with the ease of an athlete, rabidly scrape their damp, crumbling walls, scatter agony-shavings and exult in its revival.

Pain, old friend, lifetime companion, gap-toothed, twinkle-toed and all-pervasive, was back on centre-stage, winning accolades again.