Writer's Bloc

I’ve not written for ages. Eras. Not that anyone cares. But I do. When a writer doesn’t write, then there’s trouble. Again, I’m sure no one cares. But, it’s what I do. I’ve haven’t been doing what I do. So, anyway...I decided to write about how I can’t write anymore. Maybe that’s a start, no?

So, it’s not like I haven’t thought about writing on my blog. I have. I tried thinking a lot about what to write. It’s just that I haven’t a thing to say. No smartass comments. No one has irritated me enough to write about them. No gyaan wyaan. No puns to make. No rhymes. No figures of speech. Nothing at all. Nil. Zilch.

I sat through a presentation at work yesterday. Almost sat through it. And while I was being talked to about company strategy, I thought to myself: “What’s my strategy for getting out of this writing rut?”

Hmmm. That got me thinking...

What destines us to places of dry desperation?

Is there a rescue from recurring routine?

And, when will this demeaning drought decrease?

While it’s easy to expect extraordinary emancipation,

The solution is always in self salvation.

So, while our fickle faith can hope for help from our hells

And while our murmuring minds can cuss our circumstance

The hat must go off to the hopeful hero

Who does something to salvage his sorry situation.

Phew. I’m back. Or am I?

Bringing out the OLD - Part IV

So, I don't remember when I wrote this poem below. But, quite obviously I was very young!

:-|

ONE

Father,

I’m One.

My life has now started, the journey’s begun.

A year has been through and I’m still so undone.

The lullabies, swings and the rattles are fun.

I have no cares, I must thank you a ton.

Father,

I’m One.

I can’t walk by myself, so let alone run;

You must hold my hand and carry me on.

Call me your baby girl, daddy’s little plum.

Teach me to grow, teach me to know,

Coz’ father, I’m just One.

Bringing out the OLD - Part III

Fancy Dress Mayhem

I’ve never been more confused in six years of my life. Our class teacher has announced a fancy dress competition the day after tomorrow and I have no clue what to dress as. Sydelle is going to be a giraffe…suits her…she has such a long neck. Nikola’s going to be a sunflower…I don’t see how but she seems excited. Her mommy has promised to dress her up for the competition.

I wish I could be a flower too or at least a bird… like a parrot or even a sparrow.

But then, who is going to dress me up??? Mamma can’t dress me up…She spends all her time dressing up Sammy who, well, really needs her now.

A week back Sammy burnt his right arm and he’s been admitted in a local children’s hospital. The doctor dresses him up everyday with white bandage and he’s become very cranky. Mamma takes care of Sammy in the hospital and she’s even living with him there. I guess Sammy’s in great pain now because I’ve heard him howl a couple of times when he’s being bandaged. Dad and I visit him once everyday but Dad says they will only be home after two more Sundays….hmmm…….that’s fourteen more days!!!

Anyway, the bigger crisis now is the fancy dress competition. I wonder what Dad will suggest when I ask him what to dress as for the competition. I’m waiting to go home and tell him all about my classmates and what they want to become.

At dinner:

“Daddy, Sydelle is going to be a giraffe for the fancy dress competition….” I tell Dad as we chomp food ordered from a restaurant. I’m struggling with the fact that mamma isn’t here to feed me. I first look at my plate which is an ugly mess with half the food on the floor and then at Dad who is watching a football match with his mouth open. I don’t think he heard what I just told him.

“Daddy, there’s a fancy dress competition in school day after tomorrow,” I try again.

“Ahhhhhh………..GOAL!” Daddy screams in response his eyes still glued to the TV. As I wonder what’s so interesting about a group of people chasing a ball, Dad decreases the TV volume and looks down at me, “A fancy dress competition, eh?” he says with a grin, “you wouldn’t need to dress up. Go stand on the stage and they’ll all see a monkey.” He nudges me with his elbow winks and then looks at my reaction. ‘Nice joke, dad’ I think but give him an I’m-not-in-the-mood-right-now look.

“Let me think now…....hmmmm…..” He adds, rather quickly.

My Dad doesn’t have to think a lot for answers usually. He knows a lot and takes all my questions very gravely. It makes me feel important. He tells me the best he knows of a subject and always makes practical suggestions.

This time he takes longer than usual but finally proposes, “How about asking Mamma tomorrow when we go to visit Sammy. I’m sure you will be someone very different from all the others. So don’t worry, baby! We’ll definitely work something out by tomorrow.”

That’s a satisfying answer. I can wait till tomorrow and I wonder what Mommy will say about the competition. I wonder what Sammy is doing now and how different he must be feeling.

“Come on and get your hands washed” Daddy says, dusting the rice off my dress. I run to the kitchen sink to wash my hands and stand on the stool by the tap. I like this place a lot. I can look at myself in the mirror while I wash my hands here. There’s pickle on my forehead and rice around my mouth. I wash my face and look up again. I can just imagine how stunning I will look in a parrot costume…..this competition is going to be so much fun!!!

Dad is still watching the match. I lie on his lap and talk to him a little. We always discuss highly important matters and I feel very scholarly when I talk to him. I like to listen to him, too.

In school…Mrs. Emily is on the stage and behind her are all my other teachers. I can see Mrs. Thelma, Mrs. Lily and hey, there’s Miss Sandra…she’s my favourite. Sydelle is by me in a giraffe costume and she is looking unusually nice for a ‘giraffe’! Nikola’s sunflower head has lost two petals and her mom is trying to borrow a safety pin from the others to fasten them back together. I can barely recognize all my classmates in their costumes. All I can see are fishes and princesses and animals of all sizes. I’m proud of my parrot costume as no one has such bright colours on them. Miss Sandra told me I look adorable. I know she means every word she tells me.

She slowly makes her way to the stage and announces, “It’s been a tough competition between all of you children and all of you have done your best. But we all know that there can be only winner and that has to beeeeeeee…….Rebecca….the parrot!!!!!!!! Can we all clap for her now?....Rebecca, why don’t you come up here and act like a parrot again? You are a natural!”

I can’t believe this….It can’t possibly be real….all my friends are clapping and some are shouting ‘Popat’, ‘Popat’ (Hindi for ‘Parrot’). It’s an exhilarating feeling. I walk to the stage proudly, take the mike and say my lines just as Dad taught me, with a highly nasal tone, “Polly wants a cracker! Polly wants a cracker! Polly wants a cracker!” It’s a lovely feeling, standing on the stage here with a little gift-wrapped box in my hand. I can see Sydelle from here…and Nikola, too. Nikola has lost another petal by now.

“Come on! Come on!” I can hear dad shouting loudly. “It’s morning already and Sammy and Mamma must be waiting for us.”

I open my eyes and look at him drearily. I realize I was dreaming and want to tell dad about it all right away but he looks like he’s in a hurry to leave.

I manage a quick bath, put on a pink frock with frills and hastily tie up my hair in a crooked pony tail. I am afraid Dad can’t help me with any of this. It’s Mamma’s department. She dresses me up like a princess, with matching ribbons and earrings, two equally defined pony tails and an even coat of talcum powder on my face. She makes me think I’m beautiful. I miss her so much.

Dad and I walk to the hospital and into the burns ward where Sammy is admitted. He seems to have just got up from his sleep and looks drowsy. Mom looks tired and she tells dad that she hasn’t slept much at night because of Sammy. “He was crying a lot last night and was restless,” she tells daddy.

“He was crying a lot last night and was restless”…..hmm…..and I had a great dream last night……our lives are so different…’ I think quietly as Dad seats himself near Mamma. He misses her a lot too. It doesn’t take any intellect to recognize that.

Sammy looks at me and seems disinterested and distant. I want to tell him about the fancy dress and the dream I had last night, but I don’t think this is a good time. His big, round eyes look frightened for some reason.

Dad and mom are whispering and they talk as if they meet after a month or so. I am supposed to keep Sammy entertained while they talk. They didn’t tell me that. I just know.

After what seems to me like half an hour, mom offers me an apple that was bought for Sammy. She then calls me to sit on her lap. We talk about school and homework and I have lots to tell her while she undoes my crooked ponytail and straightens out my knotted hair. Daddy carries Sammy around the ward and shows him other children with worse burns than his. I’m sure he must be telling Sammy to be happy that he isn’t burnt that much.

Mom tells me that she and Dad discussed about my fancy dress competition and that Dad would dress me up to be something very special and different. She says it’s a surprise. I can hardly wait to find out but since the big day is tomorrow I think I can wait.

When it’s finally time to leave, I can know from Sammy’s eyes he misses me a lot. He looks at us and waves out with his left hand till we move out of the ward and vanish out of sight.

On our way back, Dad drops me off at school and kisses me good bye. We don’t talk about my costume but I trust dad and mom to have arranged the best for me.

The rest of my day is filled with a weird sense of suspense and killing curiosity. My mind explores all the possible animals I could be and all the possible lines I could be saying. As time passes and evening turns to night, I feel an anxious inquisitiveness and a desperate excitement within me.

Before I realize it, the big day has arrived. Dad wakes me up and I feel no languor or lethargy whatsoever. I get up at once and run to the bathroom. Dad has already got the hot water ready for my bath and all I have to do is bathe quickly. In the thrill of anticipation, I forget to wash my hair and even lather the soap very carelessly.

I step out wrapped in a pink towel and dad is waiting for me with a big bag in his hand. Seated next to him on the chair is a Maharashtrian neighbour aunty whom I call ‘Aaee’ (Marathi for ‘mother’). I smile at her and look at the bag in Dad’s hand. There it is!!! The bag that holds my prize-winning costume! Slowly, he pulls it out and my eager eyes see the most unexpected sight. He pulls out a length of brown cloth that has black checks on it. Then with it he pulls out a little black blouse. What follows next is an assortment of jewellery and fresh jasmine flowers knitted together to form a little garland.

Dad sees my confused face and says, “Baby, how’s this??? You are going to be a Maharashtrian Koli woman.” He looks at me expectantly for a reaction. Koli? I don’t understand but I don’t ask him what it is either. I know that if ask him what Koli means he will give me a complicated explanation which is bound to make me late for the competition. I smile back at dad and Aaee grabs hold of me and starts wrapping the cloth around me in a very peculiar way. The last turn goes through my feet and up my rear and is tucked away neatly. Hmm…not bad I think. She loosens my hair and ties it in a side bun. She decorates it with flowers and adorns me with the jewellery. She proceeds to dab me with powder and applies lipstick generously on my lips.

I can hear dad say, “Baby, tell me who could have thought of something so unique and special.” I don’t answer and look in the mirror instead. I must admit, I don’t look like a ‘parrot’ or even a ‘monkey’ but I do look pretty. “Will Sydelle or Nikola look so pretty?” he asked me rhetorically. I want to thank him and ask him from where he got the dress but I fear that I may smear my lipstick and so simply signal him that I like it and that it is time to go.

As dad rushes me down the stairs, I can hear the jingle of my anklets. It sends a wave of excitement through me. I would be terribly surprised if anyone other than me won this contest. Dad and I quickly sit in a cab and before I can adjust my self properly, we are on our way to school. I fiddle with my green glass bangles in the cab and hear daddy warn me against breaking them. I find the nose ring on my nose very irritating and I try to tweak it a little too. Dad warns me again, but this time in an I-mean-business tone. I can bear this little pain I finally decide. The joys of the getting the prize will make me forget this slight soreness on my nose.

When we reach the school gate, dad alights first and pays the taxi driver. He then gently carries me out of the cab, careful not to crumple the pleats of my outfit.

I prefer to walk as having dad carry me around will prove damaging to my reputation as Miss Manage-Herself. Mismanage Herself. Dad agrees and understands my feelings on this subject quite well. He places me down and walks ahead of me allowing me to struggle behind him, making little small paced strides. We reach the school building and I see Miss Sandra wave at me from the door with a very surprised look. Dad reaches her before me and I can see him talk to her and laugh. They both look at me and laugh as I struggle to reach the door. I’m sure they’re joking about how I am bound to get the prize. I smile too, carefully though, causing no harm to the lipstick on my lips.

When I go near them, Miss Sandra bends down and says, “Rebecca, how sweet! You look terrific! You would have surely won the fancy dress competition.” Would have? “Now tell me, girl,” she smiles lovingly what were you dreaming of when I announced yesterday in class that the competition is cancelled? Hmm?” Cancelled? The words pass by me like a far off voice. I carefully process her words in my mind and then throw a loud, adult laugh. ‘God, the way grown ups indulge in hoodwinking kids is amazingly stupid’, I think.

I look at daddy and he bends down too. He beams a warm smile and says, “Baby, you must have not paid attention in class yesterday when Miss Sandra announced that the Fancy Dress is cancelled. It’s okay. There’s another programme here today for you and you can enjoy it with me, sitting in the audience. We will have a great time, I’m sure. There’s a Red-Indian dance and I’ll tell you all about the Red-Indians.” He’s holding me close in his arms now but none of his words make any sense. It all sounds like a taped message that I wish I could rewind. My eyes well up and the swelling in my throat is too enormous to hold back. I don’t like to cry in front of Miss Sandra. She thinks I am strong minded. In a fit of hurt and frustration, I run past them both to the school hall where I see a lot of my class mates dressed in little multi-coloured skirts with their faces painted in different colours. Reality hits me harder now than ever and I burst into uncontrollable tears. I sit outside the hall weeping and wondering why all of this happened to me. Why didn’t it happen to Sydelle? Or Nikola?

Dad and Miss Sandra walk towards me and they seem to be discussing something important. Miss Sandra sweeps me up in her arms and tells me very consolingly, “Baby, please don’t cry. It’s alright if you didn’t hear properly yesterday. It happens sometimes. What’s important is that you did your best. I like that in you. Look at it this way,” she continued, pointing towards all my classmates dressed as Red-Indians, “They all look the same, but you are so different. Now stop crying like a good girl and get dressed into this. We have a show to start.” She thrust a blue Red-Indian skirt in my hand and walked away into the hall.

Daddy kissed me on my cheek and the hair of his moustache poked me. The make-up on my face was smudged because of my tears and Dad’s moustache. But it didn’t matter anymore. “Quickly pose for a picture, baby” Daddy said, pulling the camera out of his pocket. “We must have a picture to show Mamma and Sammy how pretty you are looking today.” He asks me to stand on the bench I am sitting on and I force a fake smile.

I feel angry with him and angry with myself. But none of this is his fault anyways. It’s my mistake. I wonder if Dad is upset with me for making him waste so much time on what ultimately was a trivial affair that really wasn’t meant to be. I wonder if he hates me and doesn’t want me to be his baby again. ‘My God! This is too much trauma for my six year old mind to deal with.’

I watch quietly as dad helps me off the bench and undoes my Koli sari. He helps me wear the blue skirt and is singing all the while. He’s singing a Konkani song. I wonder what makes him so chirpy at all times. Even when he’s got a ‘blunder-queen’ for a daughter.

I quickly run into the hall and a young lady comes to paint my face. She paints it blue and yellow stripes. Miss Sandra hands me a crepe paper crown that matches my skirt. I look at all the other Red-Indians rehearsing their little dance and feel miserable inside. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t even know the dance. But as if reading my mind, Miss Sandra looks at me and says, “Baby, you just move along with everyone and imitate what your friends are doing. It’s okay if you make mistakes because we all do. But don’t quit at any time, okay? You look great and will do great. Daddy’s going to be watching you from the audience, so please wear a smile okay.” I listen to every word she says and admire her in my heart. I want to be like her one day. I would love to take care of little tots who can’t manage themselves and make stupid mistakes, so I can act smarter than them. But Miss Sandra doesn’t act over smart. She seems to be in control of every situation. I smile at her and nod in agreement.

On the stage, I was right at the furthest back and Nikola and Sydelle chose to stand near me. For moral support, I guess. They are really good friends. Sydelle is in a red skirt that is too short for her long, skinny legs and Nikola’s underwear can be seen through the slits in her skirt. The dance seems simple and I catch the steps real quick. It’s just a wave from one side to another and an occasional jump and a turn. Hey, this is really fun. I jump on Nikola’s foot by mistake and Sydelle is laughing aloud now.

I suddenly remember Miss Sandra’s words ‘Daddy’s going to be watching you from the audience, so please wear a smile okay?’ I lean over all my class mates dancing ahead of me and stand on my toes, to get a peek into the audience. At first, I don’t see him…but the second time I try, I see Daddy clearly. He’s in the rear part of the hall and he seems to be standing on his toes too to get a glimpse of the stage. I look at his face and of all the students on the stage, his eyes are fixed on me. He waves frantically when he sees me and I feel very special inside. No one else’s father is waving.

On our way back home, we visit Sammy and Mamma in the hospital. My face is still painted although I’m not wearing the skirt anymore. I had changed into a frock after the programme was over. Sammy seems tickled about my face and so are all the other kids in the ward. Dad and mom talk a little while I relive the day’s happenings to Sammy in detailed actions and simple words that his frail mind can comprehend.

When it’s finally time to leave the hospital, Mamma tells me how daddy told her all about the dance and how she missed being there so much. I tell Sammy to come home soon and bend to kiss him on his cheek. He bobs his head and the kiss lands on his eye instead. He throws me a you-don’t-know-how-to-kiss-look and Mamma laughs with Daddy.

Back at home, Dad tells me who the Red-Indians are and I listen to him in awe of his know-how. He still hasn’t shown any signs of having been angry with me. I wonder what he is thinking about me now. In a desperate attempt to find out I slowly suggest, “Dad, do you think I can be a Red-Indian in the next Fancy Dress competition.” He looks at me and slowly replies, “If you promise to pay more attention in class.” I nod slowly and he tickles me till I can’t laugh anymore and my eyes are moist with tears.

That night:

I stand among the crowd of my class mates, behind the stage in the hall. I wait for Miss Sandra is about to announce the winner of the Fancy Dress contest and Nikola nudges at me suggestively. She is dressed as a bride wearing a flowing white gown with a lovely tiara and a veil. Her lines were very simple. All she did was go on stage and say, “I do.”

My part was more difficult though, requiring more skills than that. I had to sing an African song Dad had taught me and dance a little around the stage. “Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…Catch a running fox and put him in a box and never let him go… Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…”

I also had to throw my cardboard spear as if aiming at an imaginary fox. Many had complimented me on my Red-Indian Dress as well as my performance and I have no qualms about winning this contest.

I stand back stage now with colourful feathers stuck all over my head and a spear in my hand. My skirt seems to have loosened with all the jumping and dancing and I adjust it at the waist by tucking it in my underwear. I look around to make sure nobody saw me do that.

Suddenly, I hear a clear voice announce loudly, “…….and the first place goes to Miss Rebecca………Our little Red-Indian girl……..”

“Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…Catch a running fox and put him in a box and never let him go… Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…”

Bringing out the OLD - Part II

Zoo much

It’s Saturday today. Saturdays are fun because they mean that Daddy takes Sammy and me out to the zoo. The ‘Victoria Garden’ local zoo in our city is quite familiar to me and although I’m only five, I know each and every turn inside that place well. True that the zoo is dingy, the animals aren’t kept well, the grass is overgrown and well, the media can go on and on about the zoo (I overheard Dad say that to an uncle) but this is where I have learnt crucial life lessons (that the media hasn’t been notified of). This is where I have grown to be five and every visit here is an action-packed one for me.

Today, I’m more excited than usual. Mamma told me the story of Daniel in the den of lions yesterday. She carefully explained to my rather ‘naïve’ mind (or so she thinks) how the lions were hungry but they did not eat Daniel because Jesus had sealed their mouths. She reiterated the fact that even the lions listened to Jesus. I think it is because He made them. Mamma told me how God created all animals with great skill and imagination. She said I must thank God when I see them in the zoo. So, that is exactly what I will do today. I will thank God for the animals. It’s my assignment for today’s visit.

We have been waiting for the bus for what seems like an eternity now and Sammy wants Mamma to carry him. Daddy offers to do that but he insists on Mamma holding him. Sammy is just two years old and talks very little. He doesn’t understand much either. I’m older than him and understand much more. Last night, he didn’t understand the story of Daniel. I tried explaining it to him with elaborate actions but he thought it was some kind of a game. I’ve often seen him trying to read books upside down and scribble on the walls. ‘How childish’ I’ve often thought to myself when I see him trotting about aimlessly in the house. It’s good for him he has a responsible and mature sister like me.

“God made Sammy,” is all Mamma said when I asked her where he came from. She was hoping I’d believe God dropped him at the hospital and they picked him up from there. I am smart though and noticed her stomach bulge for almost four months before Sammy came. Although I haven’t discussed this with dad or mom, I am sure God put him in her stomach before he came in her hands. My parents will be amazed at my ability to comprehend when I share this with them but I’d rather not. I will play along as a gullible kid.

Sammy is fairer than me and I heard one aunty say he looks like Mamma. I also heard someone in church say that I look like Daddy. I think that’s because both daddy and I are dark. Sammy has got big and expressive eyes. His eyes are too big for his face, I think. But my hair is too thick for my head too. So it’s alright if we’re not all the same, I guess.

I like the bus that takes us to the zoo. It’s a double-decker bus. Dad always takes us on the top and I usually get to sit right up front. Today, however, the bus looks crowded. Dad makes sure we all get in when the bus comes and he gets in after us all. Mamma sits down on one seat and Sammy gets to sit on her lap. Dad and I are standing.

“How come Sammy gets to sit on Mamma’s lap and I don’t Daddy?” I ask, rather unhappy about the fact that he got to stick his head out the window. Daddy looks around to see if there is another vacant seat and then looks back at me. “When you were his age you got to sit on Mamma’s lap too. Now you’re older and you can manage yourself in a crowd. You’re growing up to be a smart, understanding little girl,” he pauses and looks at Sammy and then at me again. “Sammy is still a baby. He can’t manage standing all by himself, that’s why he needs Mamma.”

I stare intently at Sammy. His eyes are big and round and wide open now. His long lashes seem to be curved straight up in the air as his eyeballs catch every movement outside the bus. I wonder what he’s thinking now. Can he even think? He can’t manage standing all by himself, that’s why he needs Mamma.

The bus stops all of a sudden and Dad carries Sammy immediately from mamma’s hand. “It’s time to get off, Chinku,” he tells me.

He’s always called me Chinku and so has Mamma. It’s my pet name, they say. “Why don’t you all call me Rebecca like my teacher in school does?” I had once asked Mamma. She then explained how when I was born I had really petite eyes and so my granny started calling me ‘Chinky’ (which is Tamil for ‘Chinese’). She said they eventually started calling me Chinku, which was a metamorphosized version of ‘Chinky’.

Daddy asks us to wait near the ticket counter while he stands in the line to buy the tickets. Mummy sits herself on a wooden bench by the ticket area. Sammy is trying to show her that he can run all by himself.

I like playing with Sammy. His credulous mind believes anything I tell him. This being his first visit to the zoo, I hope to educate him a bit on the things that go on around here.

Dad is the seventh person in a long line of uncles and aunties who are buying tickets for their families. Next to the ticket counter is a metal railing that’s taller than me. Hmm…interesting…here’s a good chance for me to give Sammy his first zoo lesson. I drag him to the railing and try to reach my hands up to it. At times like this, I wish I were eight or ten years old. It is the perfect age to hang from a railing that high.

Sammy looks at me with his eyes wide open. “See this is how the monkeys in the zoo hang in their cages,” I say, matter-of-factly, jumping up to get hold of the railing and trying to hang on to it. My first try is a failure and Sammy is giggling. Determined to share my expert knowledge with him, I try again, this time holding firmly to the railing. Sammy is clearly impressed by now and he’s clapping his hands enthusiastically. He moves up behind me and starts shouting fervently, “Monkey! Monkey!....... Mamma, Chinku…....Monkey!”

I desperately long to see the look on his face. I bend my head over to get a glimpse of him and I see a delightful sight. Upside-down trees, upside-down people, upside-down walls…and hey, upside-down Sammy, clapping his hands!!!

What happened next was not a part of the lesson. Within a split second my hands slip off the railing and the sky seems to rotate and slam!!! I fall ‘upside-down’ on the ground below. I feel something cut through my head like a sharp knife and I can feel the blood trickle down my scalp. My screams get dad and mom’s attention and they run to me by reflex. Sammy is clapping more vigorously, thinking I’m still entertaining him. I suddenly feel like crying so badly and hey, before I know it I’m howling out loud.

Dad quickly carries me and examines the spot where I hurt myself on my head. There’s a nasty bump there and it aches in an excruciating way every time he tries to wipe the blood off the wounded spot. My head hurts in a splitting way and I can barely hear Mamma praying in my ears. I think Mamma is trying to simultaneously pacify Sammy who is also crying loudly by now. ‘Why does he have to scream when I am hurt?’ I think amidst the pain and tears. It makes no sense now. Nothing makes sense now.

Still carrying me, Dad rushes us all out to the gate. He sends mamma and Sammy home in a cab. Before leaving Mamma asks me not to cry so much and that she would have prepared ‘rasna’ for me by the time I reach home from the doctor’s.

Dad rushes me over to the doctor’s. We wait in a room and in no time I find myself on the doctor’s examining table. He carefully scrutinizes my wound and gives the nurse some instructions in ‘hospital language’. The nurse first gives me a little orange lollipop and then asks me to bend my head down. I’ve stopped crying by now because I’m glad that the lollipop is a part of the treatment. She does something with my head for the next few minutes and then sits me back on Daddy’s lap. “I told you this wouldn’t hurt a bit,” he said, smiling at me broadly. I feel better now and ask Dad if I can take a look in the mirror. He says ‘ok’ quite reluctantly.

I wasn’t prepared to see what I see now. In the mirror, at the doctor’s clinic, I see a different ‘me’, a sight that is quite a shock for my five-year-old mind. Where there once stood a smart palm tree shaped ponytail, now stands a flat white tape with some cotton underneath it. The area around the white tape has been shaved and my scalp is exposed quite a bit. The rest of my hair remains intact, but nothing can replace the loss of my ponytail. The lollipop in my hand is drying by now, as I haven’t sucked on it for long. All of a sudden, I feel like throwing it away.

I walk back and Dad identifies my unhappiness. He pays the doctor and helps me wear my slippers. He offers to carry me but I decline and prefer to walk on my own. When will he realize I am too old to be carried? I am five now. Five minus a ponytail.

“Come on, baby, cheer up,” Daddy says, but I can barely hear him. My mind is elsewhere. My mind is with my beautiful little colourful hair bands and hair clips that have suddenly been orphaned with the disappearance of my ponytail. When, O, when can I wear them again? “You are looking so cute, like a little doll,” Daddy adds. He then goes on to sing, “My daughter, my daughter, my life-giving water.” It sounds like a rhyme and he sounds happy.

I’m not glad at all. He can sing all he wants and he may know everything but does he know what it feels like to lose a ponytail? Does he know how it feels to have a white bandage on your head without any hair around it? Like a lonely island in the middle of the sea?

We reach the bus stop and Daddy is still humming some song. He seems distant and numb to my feelings and fears. He can’t possibly be happy when I’m going through such a crisis, can he? Can’t he also see how my social life is going to be influenced? How am I to go to Sunday school anymore? And what about my classmates? How do I explain to them that this is just what normally happens when you are educating your younger brother on matters important?

Daddy looks down at me, quite unexpectedly, and says, “Chinku, are you sad about your new hairstyle?” He pauses and then continues, “Remember baby, what people tell you doesn’t matter. It will never change who you are. When you go to school now, your friends may call you ‘takli’ (‘bald’ in Hindi), but you must realize that this is only temporary and that your hair will grow again. What the world says of you doesn’t matter at all. You get that right?” I look at him wondering how he knew just what I was thinking. “What Daddy, Mamma and Sammy think of you really matters. And I think you are beautiful, Mamma and Sammy will agree.” He tickles me and adds, “And think of it, how many people get to have a family like ours. Mamma has something great cooking at home for us and Sammy is surely waiting to play with you. We’ll have a great time once we’re home.”

I haven’t realized it but I’m giggling by now. I’m thinking of how Mamma often pours out the ‘rasna’ into the ice-cube tray and makes us different flavoured ice cubes. I can’t wait to go home and check if there are any left in the freezer. And Sammy has still to know so much about the zoo. After all, ‘a smart, understanding little girl’ was what Dad described me as.

Hmm…I feel the burden of Sammy’s zoo education lies on me. I just made up my mind, after today’s episode, not to go with the practical lessons first. He must learn the theory first…so that’s it… tonight’s lesson will be mimicking animal sounds.

For starters, I think he should just learn the meow, the bow-wow and the moo.

Bringing out the OLD - Part I

Wow! I haven't written on this blog for like ages. I've got nothing. Zero. Zilch. I tried sitting in front of the computer for a while but I still have nothing. It's like my writing skills are on holiday. Or worse...have been abducted for ransom. Either way, there's nothing!

So, just to keep the blog alive (although I'm sure the number of readers is like minus something), I dug out some stories I wrote years back! Like really years ago. It's not the best stuff. But will do. For now. Till I'm back in form I guess.

Here goes nothing...

BALLOON BABY

Balloons. They’ve mesmerized me since I first saw them. They always make me wonder how it would feel to waft about in the air. They amaze me at their very sight.

Today, the man selling balloons on the beach doesn’t seem to be amazed by them a wee bit. He looks old and gaunt. His skeletal frame seems to be strutting across the sand like a lone stranger with no place to go. His haggard looks don’t match the fine-looking bunch of balloons he’s carrying. He’s just holding them loosely, like he doesn’t even know how precious they are, how magical they are or even how they are speaking to me. How boorish of him. Such impeccable ignorance.

‘What a wasted man’, my five year old mind thinks. I wonder what it must be like to be ‘him’. To have all those beautiful colours in my hand. I wouldn’t have sold them if I were him. I wouldn’t have held them as loosely as that vagabond does. He’s a bad man, I think. Bad men don’t love Jesus and do things that He doesn’t like. That’s what Mamma says. I wonder if he doesn’t love Jesus. I wonder if Jesus likes him selling those gorgeous balloons like that. I must ask Mamma when I go home. Mamma knows everything about Jesus.

“Do you want to eat something, baby?” asks Daddy, breaking my meticulous chain of thoughts. I don’t answer. The balloons are still on my mind. “You can get yourself a camel ride or even a horse ride if you want to”, he says again. A camel ride? Sounds interesting, but, “Daddy, could you buy me a balloon?” is all I say. My Dad nods his head in a way that means ‘NO’. He then sits me down on the sand and gives me an it’s-time-for-a-vital-life-lesson look. He explains very plainly, “Baby, a balloon is a waste of money. It’s just a useless piece of rubber with air inside. Air is all around us and it’s free of cost. But that man is making money by selling to people what God has given us freely. Ask me anything else and I’ll give it you.” He further suggests that I take a ride on the merry-go-round. But it doesn’t even make a difference. I’m fighting tears. I don’t even want to answer him or he may find out that there’s a big apple-sized lump in my throat. I could burst into tears any moment now and he doesn’t have a lightest clue of how deeply his words have cut me.

‘What does Daddy know about balloons?’ I wonder. I suddenly feel like going home and crying to Mamma. I feel like hiding my face in her lap. I feel like running away but I can see Daddy leading me to the merry-go-round. He seems okay with all that he just told me.

Each seat on the ride is shaped differently. There’s one like an airplane. Another like a shark. Then there’s still another like a motorbike and one like an elephant. The red one is a dragon, I think. Very ugly. Many little kids are around the ride and I wonder why there isn’t a seat shaped like a balloon. Anyways, I choose to sit on the airplane because it can also be in the sky like a balloon. Infant logic. Dad helps me get onto it and asks me to hold the rod tight. There’s another girl sitting on the red dragon opposite me holding a monkey-shaped balloon in her hand. Interesting. Interesting how a useless piece of rubber can take that shape. Her father is by her too. He laughs loudly and looks a lot like someone I know. I just can’t figure out whom.

The ride starts slowly and I think about why Mamma hasn’t come today. She’s usually always there with us on our outings. Daddy is waving out to me excitedly every time I pass him. I’m starting to like this ride. It makes me feel light inside. Like I’m flying. Hey! Maybe this is how a balloon feels. Dad is calling out my name loudly, ‘Rebecca, Rebecca’. Why isn’t he calling me ‘baby’ like he always does? I must ask him when I get off. I think he wants others around to know my name.

The girl on the red dragon is giggling a lot. She shouldn’t have sat on the ride with her balloon. It’s going to fly away. Sure enough, it does. It floats away from her hand. And when it does, she stops giggling and bursts into tears. I can hear her dad scream out, “Sodun dey.... naveen aanuya.” (“Leave it...We’ll buy a new one”) I look at his face and then up at the balloon. It’s quite high up in the sky now. It’s fascinating to see a monkey shaped balloon up there.

As the merry-go-round slows a weird feeling of sadness creeps in. I know that soon it will be time to go home. Dad will take me home by bus. I like a bus ride. It’s pretty interesting too, if I get a window seat. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could ride home on a merry-go-round? But then, Dad wouldn’t fit on it, would he?

He’s holding my hand now and we’re walking to the bus stop. Dad has to hold my hand or else I can get lost is what he told me. I am waiting to go home. I have lots to tell Mamma and ask her. I wonder if she has ever sat on a merry-go-round. I must ask her about the balloons, too. I can’t stop thinking about them for now. I wonder where the monkey shaped balloon is now. I wonder if it’s still in sky. Or will it go beyond that to heaven? Mamma told me once that God lives in heaven beyond the sky. And from there He watches over all of us. Will He like it if the balloon goes to His house? I need to discuss important issues with Mamma.

I can hear Daddy sing a song now. He’s always singing. I like that a lot. I think he’s knows all the songs on this earth. But does he know any songs about balloons? I want to ask him but I’m scared. He had told me they are a ‘useless piece of rubber with air inside’. What if I were a balloon would he say the same thing? I don’t think so. He loves me. He sings for me and tells me a lot of things I don’t know. I think he knows everything.

I suddenly feel pleasant—as if I’m new. I feel a cold shiver go do my spine and it excites me. So what if he didn’t buy me the balloon like the red-dragon-girl’s dad? Maybe her dad doesn’t know that balloons are a ‘useless piece of rubber with air inside’. Maybe he doesn’t know everything like ‘my’ dad does. May be he can’t sing like ‘my’ dad either.

I’m happy that I am ‘me’ and not the red-dragon-girl. I’m also happy that Daddy is he and not her dad who looks like someone I know. There’s no one who I know that looks like ‘my’ dad. I must thank Jesus now. Mum said that Jesus made us all like this—so different.

I wonder if He made Daddy, then how He Himself must be.

I’ll ask Mamma.

My Jackpot!

The eventful events in the ladies’ first class coach never cease to amaze me!

I hopped on the 6:25 Churchgate Slow at Goregaon. The 6:25 came at 6:36. At around 6:39 at Jogeshwari, a teenage boy got into the ladies compartment and started yelling out in a highly nasal tone: “Steeeekurrrs! Lo steeeekurs!”

He was selling stickers. There were Spiderman stickers. Heart stickers. Barbie doll stickers. And all other sorts. I can imagine him breaking even in a matter of seconds in a kindergarten school but here he was—in the first class ladies’ compartment. Full of middle-aged women going back home to their husbands, families and cooking. And of course, there was me!

I instantly took an interest in his sticker collection. The butterfly stickers looked irresistible and so did the number stickers. 0 to 9 in fancy colours. I selected 4 sticker strips and asked the guy how much the stickers were for. “Pachaas rupaiyya, madam” he said, very matter-of-factly. I was about to open my mouth to bargain with him, when the fat aunty sitting opposite me in a sleeveless salwar kameez retorted, rather loudly: “Pachaas? Kisko uloo banata hai? Pachaas? Tum ko doosra kaam dhandha nahi hai? Bachey log ko aisa loot-tha hai?”

Now, for the benefit of everyone reading, I’m going to, in the next few lines, narrate the conversation between Fat Sleeveless Aunty (FSA) and Young Sticker Guy (YSG). I won’t bother translating anything in English because sometimes that just doesn’t work. And for the record, I am absolutely delighted she thought I was “bachey log”. Woo hoo!

So, here’s how it went:

FSA: “Pachaas? Kisko uloo banata hai? Pachaas? Tum ko doosra kaam dhandha nahi hai? Bachey log ko aisa loot-tha hai?”

YSG: (turns and looks at her…lifts one eyebrow…) Madam, aapko nahi bhej rahey hai na…apna kaam dekho…

FSA: Yehi mera kaam hai! (she stands up and pokes him on the shoulder) Tum bhikari log duplicate maal lekey, 1^st class ladies main chadtha hai, aur tumko ko kya lagta hai – hum pagal hain? Humey sticker ka daam nahi maaloom?

YSG: (looks at me) Madam, mujhe utarna hai, pachaas rupai deydho!

Fat Sleeveless Aunty was obviously having a bad day and decided to poke his shoulder again.

FSA: (pushes him behind, towards the door) Tumko Hindi samaj main nahi aata? Is kachrey ke liye koi bhi pachaas nahi dega. Ek toh…tum 1^st class main chadna hi nahi chaiye! #$^@!!@ (a mouthful of Hindi swearing)…

YSG: (swears back)

In the mean time, the train pulls in at Santacruz station.

FSA: Chal chal Uttar! @#$%^&!

Poor YSG half got down and was half pushed down. Aunty came back in and stared at me. EVERYONE looked at her and I am sure they were all thinking what I was thinking: “None of this was her business. Why did she pick that fight?”

I looked at her and she was still standing and breathing heavily. She asked me: “Pachaas rupai ke liye, kachara khareed rahi thi?” Then she looked at another aunty (thin and posh aunty) and said: “Yeh bachey log ko paisey ka kimath nahi maaloom!”

By now, Bandra had come and Fat Sleeveless Aunty got off in a puff. She was tall and fat and looked majestic as she walked away. Like the Lion King. Like Wonder Woman. She had just voluntarily fought the evil forces of fake high prices in the ladies’ first class and was off on her next mission (cleaning up Hill Road of all over-priced hawkers!)

The instant she got off the train—there was giggling, some hushed conversation and many were looking at me. One girl, in rather tight formal pants, was staring at me. She kept staring at me till Mahim came. She looked like someone who might know English. Because of the formal pants, I think. Stupid stereotype. I looked at her and said: “I wasn’t going to pay Rs.50 anyway.” I had to make that clear to someone. I desperately wanted someone to know that I wasn’t desperate for a bunch of juvenile stickers. I just wasn’t given a chance to bargain. Tight Formal Pants mumbled something back at me that I couldn’t understand. But, I pretended that I did.

Dadar came. I smiled to myself as I got off. I’ve never been so happy in a long time.

I was identified as “bachey log” twice by a strange, unusually angry woman. And of course, I had four strips of number stickers and butterfly stickers in my hand – that I didn’t pay for! Jackpot!

Thank God for small mercies.

Life is good.

So be it.

Watch the Fight!

Today, I read the story of how God delivered Israel from the Egyptians at the Red Sea.

After many confrontations with Pharaoh, some stiff resistance from the Israelites and ten deadly plagues; Moses managed to get the Israelites out of Egypt to sacrifice to God. But Pharaoh instantly regretted his decision to 'let the people go' and decided to pursue them with his army and catch up with them in the wilderness.

The Israelites were in an unimaginably scary predicament with the advancing Egyptian army drawing close to them on one end and the Red Sea on the other. It was a dead end. Literally. No escape. Only two things could happen logically—one, they drown in the sea or two, they face the sword of the enemy. Either way, death seemed certain.

Exodus 14: 11 & 12 records how they complained to Moses, "Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? What have you done to us by bringing us out of Egypt? Didn't we say to you in Egypt, 'Leave us alone; let us serve the Egyptians'? It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the desert!" Their fears were warranted and their concerns were justified.

Here's when I read Moses' most incredible reply to the Israelites. He didn't give them a solution. He didn't give them an exhortation. He didn't arm them for battle. He didn't even prepare them to face death. He simply said: "The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still." (Exodus 14:14)

He asked them to be still. But how??? What an unreasonable thing to ask them to do? If I was one of those Israelites, I would have wanted to push Moses into the Red Sea! The armies are closing in on one side and the tide is rising on the other, and you want me to be still? What I need now is a "how to swim in sea water" lesson. Or a "basics of sword fighting" talk. I need quick rescue, an instant rapture from this moment of certain death. But you are telling me, I "need" to be still and that the Lord will fight for me?

Most of us don't know a thing about being still. It's easy to be still when the sun is out, when everything is good and when people are smiling and saying nice things about us. But what is the reward in that? The Lord wants us to be still when everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, is falling apart. When you can't trust your closest friends anymore. When people are talking behind your back. When you're drowning in debt and are in the middle of a financial crisis. When hopelessness and misery is all you can see around you. When nothing seems to work out in your favour. YOU NEED ONLY TO BE STILL.

The Lord will fight for you. He will heal the disease. He will provide the finance that you so badly need. He will fix your marriage. He will silence the lying tongues. He will bring deliverance. He will FIGHT for you. You don't need to help Him. You need only to be still. That is what He requires of you. And me.

For the Israelites, 'being still' meant waiting by the Red Sea for an entire excruciating night. But as they were still, they witnessed the Lord blow a strong wind on the Red Sea and part the waters for them. They might have expected something else...maybe Pharaoh would change his mind and go back, maybe a desert wind would stop the Egyptian armies, maybe Moses would call on God for an eleventh plague! But God did the unexpected. He parted the waters.

I believe that this word is for me as much as it is for each of you reading this. God will do the "unexpected" for you, if you just be still and wait. We need to shift our focus from the things around us to just waiting on Him. It may be frustrating, painful and stressful to simply be still and do nothing. But, when we least expect it and when we need it the most, His deliverance will come like a wind and make a way where there seems to be absolutely none!

Hey, what is it that you need most today? Is it a job or a raise? Is it marriage? Is it a new house? Is it deliverance from a bad habit? Is it hope for a broken relationship? Whatever our need of the hour is, let's put it aside and focus on what God needs. He needs us to be still. He will fight for us.

All we have to do is watch the fight.

St.Valentine...

St. Valentine,

I know you are dead but I thought it would be fun to write to you.

FYI, you've caused quite the riot on earth since you've been gone. I thought you should know what's been happening....it's utter chaos every February 14th, thanks to you! Here's a list of things I think you should know:

• People aren't telling how much they love each other throughout the year and then using your birthday, or death anniversary or whatever February 14th is, as an excuse to say the three words that would mean so much if said once in a while otherwise also.
• Every year on this day, the planet is infested with red hearts! It's like the 11th plague of Egypt, just that it's all over the world! They're in all forms - greeting cards, pillows, plastic frames, t-shirts.....arghhhh.....what a waste! Human hearts look nothing like that even!
  
• And so many cupids around! OMG....what are cupids anyway? Did you invent them, Valo??? If so, that was a sad and sorry concept. What a wrong and violent image of love to portray to our children....little flying fluffy angels that will hit you with an arrow and you will then fall in love? Ouch! No wonder they say love hurts! Cupids are stupid.
  
• Also, you will be glad to know that the Shiv Sena, this politicial party that believes it's the "moral police" in my city, have made a big deal of the day! They catch romancing couples and give them a tough time! Yeah! Couples in love roam around arm in arm every day of the year but they only see them today! On Feb 14th! How lame, na? Like seriously crippled!
• Then, to top it all, the big brands are making a stack-load of rokda out of the whole affair. They're selling everything they normally sell in pink or red pairs today and foolish couples are buying the maal at ridiculous prices....all in the name of love! If they just wanted to waste money, they could've burnt them in bundles, na?
• And finally, just have to add that there are still some of us left who know that true love doesn't need a particular day to be expressed. We value people around us everyday and tell those whom we care about how much they mean to us more often than once a year!
  

I'm sure this is not what you intended but it's the way it is. I hope you're not rolling in your grave!

After thoughts:
Who uses a heart-shaped pillow, anyway? HOW UNCOMFORTABLE IS THAT? Where am I to place my head? On the left bulge or the right? Or on the pointy end?

I think those pillows are designed to destroy relationships! You're bound to not sleep well and then take the rage out on your partner! No wonder divorces are on the rise! OMG!

No Sleep...No Love! Simple! In the name of love, please let's protest heart-shaped pillows! They're evil! Please join my campaign to ban these evil romance killers forever!

Get a "real" life....

Okay, I've OFFICIALLY had enough! Everytime I visit my Facebook homepage, I want a brown paper bag to barf in because all I can see are random "ZOO WORLD" and "FISHVILLE" updates!

Today was the height! I saw a Zoo World update on my home page that said:
*Sandra* is away and their new baby Brushtail Possum needs food. Oh my!
Sandra's Brushtail Possum was born just 3 hours ago. She is cold, lonely, and will get sick soon without any food. Baby wants to grow up big and strong some day and just needs a little help getting started.

What? A virtual animal was virtually born on a virtual zoo and it is virtually cold and hungry? And I am supposed to know this and do what? Virtually feed it? Virtually pet it? And do all this, not knowing for sure (and caring) what a Brushtail Possum is?

This update made me so sick, I instantly blocked the Zoo World, Cafe World, Fishville applications from EVER showing on my home page again. I also blocked my friend "Sandra" (That's not her real name. I changed it to protect her identity but i'm not sure she has one!)

So, for those of you who plan to continue on sending me any similar virtual world application requests and updates, here's the scoop: I HAVE A LIFE! A life that I love and I would rather pet a dirty parrier on the road than virtually pet a virtual animal on your virtual zoo! Wake up and smell the coffee...you're missing out on some good stuff in life! And if you're okay with that, then be okay with it...but please don't send me any more requests!

Here's a list of things that I'm more interested in than your virtual world application requests:

• Football (I don't care about football at all, so go figure!)
• Any other sport for that matter
• Dark chocolate (I hate it!)
• Ekta Kapoor's sob soaps
• Rakhi Sawant's faff
• Raj Thackeray's political agenda
• What's happening in Herzegovina (I really don't know now...but i'm sure it's more interesting than Zoo World)
• India TV and their "breaking news"
• Rajat Sharma's hairstyle
• Usha Uthup's music
• MTV's rehearsed "reality" shows
• Catching a Virar Fast train at peak time
• Orkut

The above list of things make me want to jump off a plane...but if you ever send me another virtual world request or update, rest assured that I will push you off that plane first! WITHOUT A PARACHUTE! Really I will! Argghhhhhhhh!

Phrase them out!

I've been hearing too many people use clichéd phrases recently...and, quite honestly, it's the reason I've been sick! I thought about seeing a doctor, but I'm certain this kinda sickness has no cure! Anyway, I thought I'd write about it and I'm sure that getting it off my chest will help heal the pain.

1. No big deal

I asked someone today to help me with something at work. They replied, "No big deal." What on earth? What am I to understand by that? They wanted me to know that they would do it but also pointed out that it wasn't a 'big deal' for them. Of course it isn't, you dimwit! That's why I asked YOU to do it! If it was a 'big deal' for you, I wouldn't have asked you in the first place. Arghhhhh! And what's the deal with this phrase, anyway? No big deal? Not a big deal? If it isn't a big deal, then just say 'small deal'! Don't say 'No'! So much negativity, it's driving me crazy! Humph!

2. Not my cup of tea

This phrase is just a lame cover up for laziness and lack of ability. How many people have you asked to do something and they've replied that it's 'not their cup of tea'? What they want to say is 'we don't know how to do it' or rather 'we can't'. But being the cover-ups that they are...they will opt for escape using this phrase. Not my cup of tea.

I wonder who invented this phrase? Must be a grumpy old English man, who sat in his arm chair one fine day, wondering what his purpose in life was after all...as he slowly sipped a cup of tea. That's when he had an 'Aha' moment and realised his calling was to invent boring phrases that would soon become famous. Everything else wasn't his 'cup of tea'! Turns out this wasn't his cup of tea after all—given how lame the phrase is and how heavily misused it is.

3. Raining cats and dogs

This phrase makes no sense. It's nonsense. Raining cats and dogs is supposed to mean it's raining heavily! But HOW??? I tried thinking of it from every angle but it still makes no sense. Sounds disturbing and worrying. I like cats and dogs and hearing this phrase always makes me think of little puppies and kittens falling from the sky and dying when they hit the ground. Why promote such violent thoughts? Children should be banned from being taught this phrase! It sounds sadistic and brutal. Hello, PETA! Where are you? You have PETA protesting against animal skin being used to make handbags...when people are freely suggesting that it's okay to see animals being thrown to their death from the sky! OMG!

4. You can bring a horse to the water, but you can't make it drink.

Duh! Of course, you can't! I hate phrases and sayings like this that state the obvious. Of course you can't make someone else do something that they don't want to do or something that they can't do! Isn't that common sense, or am I unaware of how uncommon sense is? And why did they choose a horse to be the animal in this phrase? How horsist! Wouldn't the other animals feel bad and left out? Uff! (I would've selected the sloth to be in a phrase like this, not a horse!)

5. Feather in one's cap

If someone suggests to me that something is, or will be, a feather in my cap...I'm going to have to remind them that I'm not Peter Pan. I don't wear caps and even if I did, I sure wouldn't wear feathers in mine! I understand it's a metaphor to suggest 'something that I will be proud of'. But, if you really want to use a metaphor to suggest that what I'm doing will be something I will be proud of, then please make it personal na? Please suggest something that I can identify with. 'This project will be a piercing in your ear!'

'This deal will be a new eyeshadow shade in your make up kit!'

'This piece of writing is a beautiful dress in your wardrobe!'

....you get the point!

I would love to go on but the other phrases that irritate me are not worth writing about.

They're as meaningless as Rahul Mahajan's Swayamvar. They're as unimportant as Ricky Martin's music. And they're sure as pointless as any point made by Rakhi Sawant.

Spam Bam....No thank you, Ma'am...

I just checked my e-mail to see if I got some mail that mattered and this is what I read—a forwarded e-mail titled "The Truth".

I usually give such humbug a pass, but for some weird reason I opened it and now I think I’d rather have gulped an entire bottle of caster oil mixed with raw egg yolk!

This is what the mail said:

THE TRUTH

Find a guy…who calls you beautiful instead of hot...who calls you back when you hang up on him…who will stay awake just to watch you sleep

Wait for the guy who ... kisses your forehead…who wants to show you off to the world when you are in your sweats…who holds your hand in front of his friends…who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares about you and how lucky he is to have you…who turns to his friends and says, “That's her!!”

If you have a lot of love for someone, copy and send this to your whole list. In 5 minutes your true love will call or message you. Tonight at midnight your true love will realize they like you. Something good will happen to you at approx. 1:42pm tomorrow, it could be anywhere.

Send this to 15 people in 15 minutes to carry on the chain...and spare yourself the emotional stress.

OMG!!!! I can't believe that people still forward spam like this. I think the guys at MSN, Yahoo and Google should get together and send out a search party to find such humbug-forwarding loners and confiscate all their computers.

Anyway, the e-mail didn’t bug me as much as what it said did! So, here it is again…my two pence worth coming at 140kmph:

1. Who wants a guy “who calls you back when you hang up on him”! I mean the whole hanging up happened because you didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Imagine being nagged by someone you are mad enough to hang up on! Blah.
2. And a guy who will “say awake just to watch you sleep”? That’s just plain creepy. You wake up at night and two eyes are staring at you in the dark! I’m okay with just the All-seeing Eye looking at me for now. Thank you very much.
3. Whoever wrote this e-mail knows zilch about women. Which woman wants to be “shown off” to the world when in her sweats? That’s as far from romantic as the east is from the west!
4. Then…a guy who “holds your hand in front of his friends”??? How uncomfortable is that? It’s like being on a leash.

“I can take you to meet my friends, honey, but you can’t stray away!”

“Sit!”

“Roll over!”

“Good girl! Here’s a bone!”

5. This next one really kills me! A guy who turns to his friends and says, “That's her!!”??? What? What if you’re a petty thief and his friend happens to be the cop looking for you? He’d just give you away like that? “That’s her! That’s her, officer! She’s the one you’re looking for!” Who wants a give-away like that? Not me!
6. The last bit of this mail amazed me. It’s what I call a prophetic paradox: “Something good will happen to you at approx. 1:42pm tomorrow, it could be anywhere.”

It promises that something good will happen to you, but then it also says that it could be anywhere! What!!!?

Then, it specifies an exact time…1:42pm…but also tells you that it is approximate. An approximate precision! Wah!

After reading this e-mail, I don’t really know what to fear more — that something bad might happen to me given that I didn’t bother forwarding this e-mail or that the kind of guy mentioned in this e-mail might actually exist!

Weight a minute!

I was at Santacruz Station this evening and spotted one of those old-fashioned weighing machines with the flashing lights and the rotating circle in the middle. Since, I was just with my brother and a close friend, I thought it was safe to check how much I weighed.

I stood on the metal platform, waited for the rotating red and white circle to stop rotating, popped in a one rupee coin, and a few seconds later, I had a little brown rectangular card telling me my weight - 58 kgs.

I know I've broken the age old feminine code of not sharing your real weight in public — but, quite honestly, I really don't care. I hope I won't be ostracized for this act, but ladies...it's time we're honest with ourselves and the world!

Anyway, that's not the point of this post. I wanted to note how much the little brown card with my weight on it amused me! It displayed my weight on one side and on the other side, this was written in small black characters: "YOU WILL FIND HAPPINESS IN LOVE MATTER AND MARRIAGE RELATION."

What? The machine was trying to tell me what will happen to me! Weight and "fortune" telling machine. I didn't buy a word of it, but still, it amused me.

Whoever invented that machine thought, "Women are going to be the ones using this the most, and let's face it — they're not going to be happy with their weight — even if it's negligible! So, let's have a random fortune message print out on the other side of this card, so that they don't feel so bad about themselves. A little solace. Some random statement that's a positive assumption to make them believe that good can happen despite how heavy they are!"

Hmmm... They decided to pass on using an editor for their little fortune statements, too! I will find happiness in "love matter" and "marriage relation"??????? OMG! Reading that sentence made me want to put out all those flashing lights one by one with a little rock hammer!

What's the whole point of fortune telling anyway??? Why, why, why??? Not just this machine, every one is trying to tell you what will happen to you...the newspapers have columns for fortune telling money-makers, the TV channels have slots for them...the list is never-ending...why????

Me...I'm just glad knowing that I weigh two kilos lesser than last month and I don't really want to think about tomorrow or next month. God holds my future in His hands...that's all I need to know for now! :)