Archive | January, 2009

Things I’ve Wanted to Rant About….

29 Jan

…but didn’t know where to start. The WTFness of the world has shot through the roof right about when I don’t have the time or the bandwidth to go on a verbal dharna. Not that my vicious teeth-grinding changes the course of the planets, so it’s just as well that this remains limited to brief bullet points:

  • The Dutts, ‘Mr. and Mrs’. Waste of space, waste of time. I hope Lucknow kicks his criminal ass. We’ll see how long the wife leech hangs around.

  • The Rai-Bachchan. Or Padma Shrimati, as the grown woman giggles. To have a credit card version of a human being (flat and plastic) receive the nation’s premier civilian award with utter disregard to bronze-winning Olympians makes me a very ashamed Indian. And I’m not even going anywhere near the subject of booty-swinging, cleavage-flashing Helen, supposedly deserving of a national honor for the worthwhile legacy she’s left in her bubble-butted wake. Quick, who’s next? Emraan Hashmi? Shakti Kapoor? Aaaooo would be my very appropriate response. I can’t think of better catharsis than baying at the moon.

  • The Mangalore moral police who protected women’s honor by assaulting them and depriving them of the rights a sovereign, socialist, democratic nation assures them of. Who says there’s a Karnataka-Maharashtra feud? They’re swapping furtive cross-border notes on pious guardian-hood, for sure, for sure.

  • The rabble-rousing cowards also known as MNS. After public barbs temporarily silenced them in the aftermath of 26/11, they’re back with a new target and the same hackneyed agenda that is transparent enough to walk through blindfolded. Karachi Sweets now sours their unschooled minds. If only they hadn’t played all that hooky when they had a chance at an education, they’d have known that history can’t be painted over and re-inscribed in Marathi.

  • The Baap of Bullies, the Godfather of Goondagardi, the original Papasan of Parochialism: the Sena. Yes, we know Bombay doesn’t have many open spaces for the youth to get their regular exercise. 5-star hotel lobbies and kitchens however, are not fair game to flex frustrated muscles. (Didn’t their mamma teach them not to play with their food?) A gentle suggestion to our ungentle buffoons: We have a beautiful sea. Feel free to swim. And DROWN.

  • Damien got an early start and the MNVS is taking a chapter out of his book. Not content to wait until full-time rowdyism beckons, this student wing of our stellar MNS has swung into the local front pages for their sound logic, exercised so aptly in the halls of highest learning. “The security staff person was rude to us and so we vandalized the Registrar’s office.” But of course. Who has the time to confront lowly grenade-toting terrorists? We train our sights on antique desks.

  • While we’re condemning the brawn brigade, I don’t mind confessing I’d like to do some swatting of my own. At the top of my everyday list would be parents who send their children to school with viral fever so their 3-year-old doesn’t miss out on a whole 2-hour school day and falls behind on the accelerated learning curve that goes with all the sand play and singing. Never mind that the other children, their teachers and the Vice Principal are infected and hacking half to death.

In case you were wondering, yes, this is what PMS feels like. GRR.

Suicide Note Reason # 23

27 Jan

Because there are only six square inches of safe space left in the world.

And two pieces of chocolate.

Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

23 Jan

Conversations at a family wedding:

With my brother-in-lawyer:

OJ: What happens to the victims who don’t receive compensation or a response?

b-i-l: We’re filing a PIL on their behalf.

OJ: You’re such a blessing in this family of social Rumpelstiltskins!


With my fashionista cousin:

OJ: I got myself a Bottega Veneta tote.

Cousin: *gasp* *scream* OmigodOmigodOmigod!

OJ: You’re such a blessing in this family of style Rumpelstiltskins!


With my theatre actor/director cousin:

OJ: The synopsis of “Aftermath” gave me goosebumps.

Cousin: We’ve been rehearsing intensely, do come see the plays and tell your friends about them.

OJ: You’re such a blessing in this family of literary Rumpelstiltskins!


And then I spent the rest of the evening making sure they didn’t talk to each other.

For Pinks:

21 Jan

Sometimes the toughest battle is the fight to be grateful when one receives less and less from life.


Not the best way to acknowledge post # 100, but when you have 3 years and 550 posts behind you, one tends to grab the moment and spread one’s insides all over it. Like grape jelly on multigrain bread.

Around My World in 55 Words

19 Jan

[Note: Link to actual events here.]


Love made me do it. Love made him do it.

My love for the city. His love for me.

“For you, my love, I walk today,” one sore foot sighed to the other.

And the objects of adoration glowed gently in the January sun.

Another year, another marathon, and love that’s a long walk home.

An OJ Hot and Sweaty

16 Jan

Hah. Knew the title would get the stampeding hordes here. The hit rate on this post went up even before I clicked publish. But now that you’ve made it, stay. And listen to this:

The marathon this Sunday? I’m going to be there. A speck among a million Mumbaikars, resembling the mango that is the color of my tee. Walking for Ummeed and India Helps.  I’m no different in my intentions. I feel the same way as the rest of my team. So I’ll leave clearer voices to speak for me while I limber up and flex my fingers to sign the slew of autographs you’re going to beg of me.

Only on one condition, of course. Read about the two causes close to my heart. One an old faithful bond, the other a deeply cherished newborn association. Come Sunday, the legs will pitch in. And hopefully, bring us helping hands in their wake.

And Bombay, my beloved Bombay, she’ll shine, shine, shine.

More Rich Bitches

14 Jan

So you thought I was done expounding on the issue of resentment toward the privileged?

You’re right. I was.

But some very articulate folks aren’t, the Lord be praised, and here’s what they have to say:

Amrita from Indiquill:

Any and every attack on one’s country and fellow citizens is shocking and upsetting, no matter who the perpetrators or what the cause might be. There is no part of the country that is “okay” to be attacked. And yet the scale of our reaction to these attacks is very different. As a lot of people have pointed out, some of them on this very blog, the Mumbai attacks, while shocking, are not unprecedented in terms of style. They’re been all the rage in Kashmir for quite a while now, for instance.

So why haven’t I ever felt quite as strongly about those attacks? They too were outrages perpetrated against Indian citizens on Indian soil and dealt with by the Indian army.

Short answer? Because I don’t feel about Kashmir the way I do about Mumbai.

If you do, then good for you, but I don’t. I’m very sorry, but there’re certain parts of India of which I’m more fond than others. These tend to be places that I have visited or places that I intend to visit someday. Kashmir, thus far, is not on that list. I feel like a traitor for saying that because it’s Kashmir, you know, and I grew up in an age where you had to be rabidly invested in Kashmir’s status in the Indian union, but that’s precisely why I have such different feelings for Mumbai vs. Kashmir.


Izzy from Audacious:

But last month as I watched the Taj burn on TV, my world fell apart. My blood is intrinsically connected to Colaba. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I get to gawk at a lot of rich people, everybody speaks Hindi with an accent and it’s the only place in the world I get confectionery which I can multiple orgasm over and then dance a Mexican Hat Dance while waving a glass of cold coffee over my head while shouting “I’MMA GONNA MARRY THISA PLACA.” A lot of it has to do with the fact that when my mother was busy treating me like the illegitimate child that my dad went and had on their honeymoon while she had to clean up cat poo for three weeks, Colaba was the fat lady next door who baked me cookies and showed me glittery things and kept me distracted. Colaba was the best friend who stayed up all night to hear me sob, Colaba was the boyfriend who hid me in his room till I could sneak out early in the morning.

Colaba took away my home and with it my three days of a childhood spiralled up like coloured bits of paper in the billowing smoke. I guess we have strange ways of growing up.


Salman Rushdie on Arundhati Roy’s disparaging remarks about the iconic status of the Taj:

I thought that particular remark in her piece was disgusting. The idea that the deaths of the rich don’t matter because they are rich is disgusting. The idea that 12 members of the Taj staff who heroically gave their lives to save many of the guests are to be discounted because they are, presumably, lackeys of the rich—this is nauseating. This is amoral. She should be ashamed of herself.

Okay? Okay. NOW I’m done.

Stuff with Nonsense

11 Jan

A quick scan of the pigeon holes on my side bar indicates what I write about, the most oft-posted categories as of today being this and this.

And the darn thing does tell you the truth about me.

That I’m full of myself.

And, of course, dark chocolate. :mrgreen:

After the Night

9 Jan

sun lamp_cp

Credits: An OJ finger on an Olympus E-520 DSLR clicker.

Things to Pack in a Hospital Bag

7 Jan

Take an extra pair of arms,
to wind ’round yourself,
on warm sea-smell nights
when life chills your bones.

Fortitude is a must.
3 packets, easily accessible,
right next to the cup
you’ll stir faith and cocoa in.

Strength, to haul up the skin and bones,
that carried you through babyhood,
brushed your teeth as you fell asleep
in a time when cavities appeared only in teeth.

Steel to solder the wavering will,
Anger at life’s brittleness,
Cream to soothe anguished spirits,
a broom to scoop up heartbreak,
love to pour into the sad, sore hollows,
and napkins to soak the role reversal in.

Before you run out of space,
you’ll run out of words,
and lurk in your own life