Ranting about the obnoxious heat. and yes I couldn’t come up with a catchier title. kill me now.

THE HEAT IS A RAT BASTARD.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT I AM WRITING. IT DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE. I AM DYING. THIS RAT BASTARD OF A HEAT HAS FRIED WHAT I LIKE TO CALL MY ‘BRAINS’. IF YOU KEEP ME IN A FRIDGE I WILL TURN INTO ICEMAN’S DIRTY SMELLY COUSIN WHO REEKS OF SWEAT. (YES THIS IS WHAT THE HEAT HAS DONE TO ANY MEASURABLE SENSE OF HUMOR THAT I HAD)

ALSO IT’S 32 FUCKING DEGREES OUTSIDE AND PEOPLE’S IDEA OF A BRILLIANT JOKE IS TO INVITE US TO WEDDINGS AND WHATNOTS WHERE WE ARE EXPECTED TO GO ALL DECKED UP.  SKIPPING IT IS NOT AN OPTION AND I CANNOT TURN UP IN PAJAMAS BECAUSE I’D BE BRANDED A SOCIAL OUTCAST.  I AM NOT COMPLAINING BUT MY GRANDMOTHER IS. VERY LOUDLY.  I KNOW BLOWING UP HER HEAD WITH MY MIND WOULD BE DEEMED AS LITTLE BIT OF AN OVERREACTION BUT I AM RUNNING OUT OF OPTIONS HERE. 

ALSO MUMBAI IS BLOODY BOILING. AND I HAVE TO BE THERE AT THE END OF THIS MONTH. THIS FUCKING MONTH. AND LIVE THERE. FUCKING LIVE THERE.

OKAY NOW BLOWING UP PEOPLE’S HEADS WITH MY MINDS DOESN’T SEEM LIKE AN OVERREACTION ANYMORE.


Artwork on a loola evening

There's a fly on his head. I didn't draw it. It was there when I took the picture. Also I really like to draw people's attention to unimportant details.

Say hello to Theodore. 🙂


“….I’m just lookin’ for a dear, dear friend of mine…”

In my dream family, Russell Hammond will be the prodigal son (of my parents that is) who nobody talks about in the house and who I am forbidden to meet. He’d be the brother I’d have dim recollections of because he ran away when I was six. I’d meet him again many many years later at a cheap Irish pub. He’d smile a crooked smile I’d fall in love with and his eyes would lit up maniacally when we talk about music or doing something new, something no one has tried before, going someplace no one has gone before and just laugh and be blissfully clueless and beautifully random.

He’d be exactly the sort of person in my life my parents would strongly disapprove of and we will make it a point to hang out more often than they’d like just to piss them off and get a good kick out of it. He’d be the person who will not question why I did what I did but will laugh and play good music that will make me smile.

P.S: He’d also be the brother I’d die fighting incestuous feelings for but let’s pass on that.


I think

Ewan McGregor has beautiful beautiful eyes.

And am I the only woman in this world (amongst women who have considered the possibility of George Clooney being hot) who thinks George Clonney is not hot?


I *clearly* screwed up my karma, didn’t I?

Okay so a new name gets added to the surprisingly short list of people who will eventually/are trying to get me killed/do it themselves. It is my yoga instructor who will henceforth be referred to as SD and only SD in this blog (and that’s because past week’s experiences have kind of convinced me that taking/writing her name is a bad omen. This blog might just turn into the online version of Tom Riddle’s diary and suck me in to do unspeakably horrible things to me. Or worse, it might just add 10 extra pounds to my body, fail the entire exercise of making daily trips to the yoga classes, enduring the aforementioned yoga instructor and whatever it is that she does to people to no end. You get the drift right, what it might do? The name-taking, not the blog that is.)

For starters I think she is just one lab accident away from being a supervillain. No I don’t think so. I know for sure. She wears a purple yoga instructor’s uniform (whatever that is, don’t fact-check please) and if you haven’t been living under a rock for the past 10 years , then the very pointed reference to the color of her robe will clear all your doubts about what I meant when I said ‘supervillain’. She has long nails, long unsexy nails making her vise-like grip bring tears to your eyes (as it is you are two minutes away from openly weeping because your legs hurt as if they have been run over repeatedly by a bulldozer driven by a meth-addict driver). And to make things worse, she is blissfully oblivious to the fact the nails are hurting me. She grips my hands and goes “easy, easy, there it is, you’re doing great, now easy, easy, get this inside your head that it is not difficult, it is very easy…” while the only sentence with the word ‘easy’ in my head is ‘ how to find an easy way to kill this woman and make it look like an accident?’.

Then comes the early morning ritual where she tries to convince me that I am misguided and the leg exercises are important for me while all I do is tell her, not so politely and definitely not subtly that the leg exercises are designed to kill me. If I ever get to be the commander of a concentration camp where I can sit and devise new schemes to torture my least favorite people in the world, I am going to put leg exercises in the top five of the list of tortures. (I do not tell her that. I know better than to push all the buttons of a…well, whatever it is that she is.). But because my parents are paying a lot of money to these classes and their idea of fun is to watch their daughter getting taken apart daily by a pro (and one day I swear I feel it’s going to be literal.), I have to pretend that I am psyched about these exercises and play along. So every morning I have to undergo a period of excruciating pain while the woman keeps on assuring me that these exercises work like magic and very soon I will have be thin and gorgeous. (Yes assuming that I am still alive after the sessions. And she doesn’t really say ‘thin and gorgeous’. These words just don’t come out of her forked tongue fanged mouth. All she says (and it doesn’t help) is ‘healthy and proper’ like my 50-something prissy old aunt. Two of a kind eh? )

Adding to an already difficult situation is the fact is that she is irony impaired. No I mean it. Her sense of humor is so bad that it can be the standard against which all badness is measured. So when I tell her jokingly that these exercises won’t come to any use because I have a feeling that I might not live through them, she purses her lips and tries really hard not to sulk or tell me off. (Also it wasn’t a joke. It was a statement made in such utmost seriousness that I can bet my life on it.) I guess she is a creature of habit- I mean if for twenty years if you have been teaching yoga to old, grumpy women in their mid-fifties with no discernible sense of humor and suddenly a young and fat little jackass trying to be funny but really is in great deal of pain young woman in her twenties starts smiling and joking in class, it does throws you off balance a little bit, doesn’t it?

And in the end she chants some weird words when she puts me to sleep during shabashan (Yes the ashana where you finally get to sprawl down on the mattress spread-eagled and pant like a dog running the marathon and wonder whether your life has finally reached its inevitable end.) her.chant.is.so.CREEPY. She goes like “relax your toes, relax your muscles, relax your shoulders….” And drones on and on while I wonder if she is using some spell on me to just put an end to her daily morning ordeals of dealing with a slightly headstrong, a little spoilt, majorly sleepy and grumpy something I call ‘me’! J

Now, that I have given all of you a sneak peek into my little slice of hell, how about some suggestions as to how to get rid of this woman without the needle of suspicion pointing at me get along with her?  No, getting a new instructor is not an option (she seems to have made quite a name for herself as a yoga instructor and my mother specifically asked for her.) and getting her killed now will do no good to my waistline either. And the next person (after D) who calls me a complaining whiner and asks me to mellow down because I am the one who needs her and not the other way round is going to get dismembered. I need people on my team, not people to judge me and make me feel like a juvenile idiot. (That’s my mother’s job okay?).


Why is it that…

…. men will go to any extent to justify their actions but will hesitate to give/ not give the women a chance to explain themselves?

…..having XY chromosomes render them incapable of being a little less like…say ”men” and a little more, say, considerate?

Why are men so like…”men”?

PS: Also Johnny Castle was impatient, ill-tempered, rude in an unsexy way, a bad teacher who never laughed at his student’s screwups and had a terrible sense of humor. He is so not my idea of The One.  (Though I admit, “”Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” always gives me goosebumps. ). The world is  not meant to ever be inhabited by Richard Castle or Bruce Wayne type men and yet we believe whatever crap the writers, producers and God in general have always been feeding us since time immemorial.  No wonder we are such a screwed up sex.


Life (or the lack thereof) as it is now.

So I clearly have the attention span of a two year old poodle. Because after two hours of psychotic rant from Y about how googling ex-es and old crushes past 12 am is a bad bad idea and nodding my head vigorously and hanging on every word she said like my life depended on it, the first thing that I did when it struck midnight was, well, you know what right?

So I looked up old crush from the first year in college who left in the beginning of the second year and moved right back to his home town leaving a bullet hole in my heart. Okay that is a solid amount of totally pointless exaggeration. But hey! the guy was tall, funny, cute, super intelligent, street smart, with a cute wild mop of hair, a sense of humor to kill for, an enviable stock of jokes that were so spot on that you’d be wondering if you’re a part of a well choreographed play; he played the blues, was and is a wonderful singer, an avid reader, with a mind-boggling fund of superhero and comics trivia, easy-going and not lame. And I was only 19! (at this point while writing, I took a break and smiled like an idiot before the father caught me at it.) 😛

When the guy was around, all I did was take a leaf out of Bridget’s book, or rather, diary and be like the Ice Queen, all aloof and oblivious to his presence, openly gushing about random wannabes and the kind of guys that make me want to run now. (Dear D, if you’re reading this, remember I don’t need you to take pot shots at me by reminding that all kinds make me want to run now.) and well pretending that his presence didn’t make much difference to me. (Go ahead, mock me now.). And because this is real life, reality came to bite me in the rear to remind me that in real life, it’s the gorgeous, rich, tall, waif-thin, supposedly deep and philosophical, obnoxious high school head cheerleader type ‘It girl’ friend who takes the cake; the pathetic, fat, pimply, hopelessly out-of-shape, whiney little pinhead who seriously needs to work on her communications skills, blushes furiously every time she sees him and refuses to have a decent conversation with him because she is horribly nervous and is desperately trying to play it cool doesn’t stand a chance. And she didn’t. I mean I wouldn’t have dated myself if I were someone else. That’s pretty much it. Or I thought so. 😐

So I looked him up and guess what? He is still awesome and funny and has grown cuter and everything. If this were a book, I’d have been thin and gorgeous and had a kickass job. But because it is not and because karma comes to kick your ass while you are picturing yourself meeting old crush and being awesome and letting yourself be wooed by him and rubbing aforementioned It girl’s face in it, you are still fat and dumb and broke and living off your parents and completely inured to the way things are. You are the ‘ugly’ Ugly Betty, for good, with no hope for redemption. Cleaver type men will never pay attention to you. It is only a matter of time now before you shave your head and join a monastery.

In retrospect, life isn’t that bad really. It’s just fun to complain I know. 😛 For instance, I am comfortable with the place where I am in now. In a few months to come, I will be moving out-a change of scene will do me heaps of good. I am single and whine about it but I wouldn’t trade my freedom for even Bruce Wayne at the moment. (I will sneak out at night for a rendezvous, yes. What the heck?! It’s Bruce Wayne!!! 😐 ). I am not getting laid any time soon and people keep on reminding me that everyone, from the biggest slut to the biggest prude around me is doing it and I need to find out where I figure between the two and that the longer you go without sex, the bitchier you get. But that’s okay. (and yes D, I can hear you saying “and you still wonder why people thing you’re a robot?”).

So my point in this extremely random pointless post is that even though I struck out with this guy (now this is technically wrong. I never did ask him out or anything.), does this make me a lost cause? Well, there are several schools of thoughts on that, but I’d go with NO! It doesn’t. I am good. I am awesome. I have my moments of utter confusion which sometimes render me a little low on confidence. But then I am also known to be annoyingly optimistic and get back on track and keep being awesome. My life’s good. Great actually. 🙂 I will stumble back and forth between confusion, abject failure and dejection from time to time but then who doesn’t? Make good use of time allotted to you on this earth, that’s the gyaan I am going to impart to all who have endured this post so far. I mean, there is no such thing called the ‘wrong side’ of any age, right?

Think about it. Even when you hit rock bottom and imagine that you have no prospects and you have already experienced every piece of crap life can possibly throw at you, you need to get on with your life right? There is always a chance to start over (and you can always sit atop a rock and compare your life with that of the most disturbingly deranged damaged person you know and you will always have a whole new outlook on life, a happier and more optimistic one.) I mean, you just need to figure out who you are and what you want from life and how to use your time to, well, make the most of it. And you don’t know what lies in store for you. I mean one day, say some 15 years later, when I finally manage to lose weight and not look like a demon from a cheap B-grade mythological show, I might meet this guy in all my newfound awesome glory and well, you know. (Okay when I say that I know a thing or two about this sort of gyaan,  please note that I am lying.  This is all I got.)

Does this mean I am completely over him and given a chance, wouldn’t do over first year again? ‘No’ to the first question and ‘I don’t know’ to the second. I don’t know if I want to go back to being a silly, juvenile, horribly cheesy, annoyingly geeky and vulnerable 19 year old again just for the sake of experiencing the crush all over again. But I don’t know if I want my present self to get a time machine and make a trip to 2007 and re-live it; I might see the guy in a whole new light and not crush on him at all and that would be really sad. Crushes are inconvenient, time-consuming and pathetic; but they do make you feel younger J.

Root of my insomnia is psychological, yes. I think looking up old crushes past midnight might have something to do with it. Screw you Google.

P.S:  Ice queen. – Aloof. Unavailable? yes. also add ‘recipe for disaster in potential relationships’ to it.