The Return

My husband had called my ex-lover for dinner. Yes, I couldn’t believe the turn of events, but that was that. Karun looked at me and said in a cherry voice, “Arrey, you knew him long time back. It’s not as if you still love him. Anyway, he works with me now, and is a part of the office gang. I had to call him. And I trust you yaar,” he grinned mischievously, “Juts don’t run away with him.” But Karun didn’t realize the position he had put me in. This was the one I classified as “the one who got away” and also the “one who fucked me over” and also the “one who excited me the most.” No, this couldn’t be possibly true, that I would have to play the role of the ex-lover who just didn’t care. Well, there was no way out. As I sat in front of the mirror in the evening, I tried to remember how I used to look when Sameer used to know me. I looked like a kid, and behaved liked a kid, maybe that’s why I had fallen in love with him. And what a deadly, life-altering love that was. It made me into this person I knew I wasn’t at all, now. So maybe, there was nothing to fear. I was a new person, and Sameer would know that we were strangers now. And the love we shared would remain buried

But as I opened the door to see his ruggedly handsome face, I almost fainted. “Rupa, what’s wrong,” he put his arm under my back and pulled me up. “You okay?” “Oh, you have shocked her!” guffawed Karun from the kitchen, “I know you know her as well as I do, but don’t give her a heart attack. She’s all I have.” I wished Karun would shut up. He was getting on my nerves. “So, how are you,” asked Sameer, “You look the same.” “I may look the same, but I am not the same,” I found myself saying. I could sense Sameer was smirking now, and I wondered, was I making him believe I still cared by acting like a moron. But I couldn’t be nice to him and act as if he didn’t matter anymore and that I was okay with this situation. But then part of that was true. He really didn’t matter anymore. But I did hate this situation. I had a good mind to teach Karun a lesson and give Sameer a major smooch. Then he would realize why calling an ex lover to a dinner was completely unacceptable.

Sameer was acting totally weird though. He kept following me around – “so who all are you in touch with from college” “Do you remember Ankita? I am dating her now” “ How is your mum keeping?” I wanted to scream, because every time he stood behind me asking me these inane questions, I felt turned on – it was a strange phenomenon. Was it because it was Sameer’s breath on my neck, or was it because here was a man who was not my husband? I wanted to turn around and slap him, or just lick his nose. God, I was totally going crazy.

Karun had been away from my piercing stare all evening. He mingled and stayed far away from me – he knew I was fuming. But as the night dwindled, and sameer and I stood on the balcony talking, I noticed Karun watching us from the other end of the room. I was past caring now. You called him, so now I was going to catch up. I laughed loudly, and even patted Sameer’s cheek. Karun was fidgeting now and in his stare I could feel anger. It’s all your doing, I thought. Sameer was now whispering in my ear, “Why don’t you meet me again. Next time, come to my house. You know there are many things to be said and done.”

Karun was standing behind us now and I wondered if he had heard what Sameer had said.  I hoped he had. He should know that I was still desirable to other people. He should know that if he couldn’t take me on a romantic holiday across Europe, some else will. I saw his eyes tremble with tears of anger, and I watched in slow motion as he turned Sameer around and hugged him. “So you having fun!” “Yes your wife is great company.”

“I know. I know,” Karun was nodding now. Sameer still looked terribly cocky, and I somehow saw him looming large over the small figure of my husband. “Next time, I am taking her out alone” he grinned and I saw Karun’s face resister a change. “Why not, as long as I get to take your girlfriend out!”

That night both of us couldn’t sleep. After the office gang left, Karun sulked and lay in bed pretending to be asleep. I wandered around cleaning the mess and then sat at the balcony and watched the sun rise. It was 7 am and was I turned around t head to the kitchen to make tea, Karun thrust a cup in front of me. “A little tea to clear your head – make your decision.”

“What decision,” I asked though I knew what he was talking about.

“Are you going to go to his home, or not, to talk about all the things left unsaid and do all the things left undone.”

“What do you think I will do?”

“I don’t know anymore, but I do know that I want you to get everything out of your system – everything about him. But I don’t know if I would want you back after that.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t want to be with you after that?” I was getting angry now.

“Well, the decision is yours.”

“But what is your decision, Karun?”

He looked at me and gave me a sad smile, “Keep in touch. Add me on Facebook”

Amar the "sexual"

Amar hated the word metrosexual. Or ubersexual. He just preferred to be known as “sexual”. He found it amusing how men had agreed to be referred to with these terms. Did they know that Wikipedia described the metrosexual as the “man (especially one living in a post-industrial, capitalist culture) who displays attributes stereotypically associated with homosexual men?” Nothing sexual about that, was there? Men who wanted to look like preppy girls who cut their hair too short had to have some issues with themselves. Maybe their parents always wanted a girl and raised them as one, maybe their wives bullied them, maybe they just needed a good whipping – he knew he was being politically incorrect, but damn, it was all in his head right? In fact, he didn’t want to be metrosexual exactly for the reason Wikipedia had underlined. He was afraid of the homosexual man. There, he had said it, not aloud but in his head, he had acknowledged the truth. He didn’t want o ever wear skinny denims or drink a coloured cocktail, because he didn’t want to be mistaken for a homosexual. He didn’t want to speak to one, he didn’t want to shake one’s hand, didn’t even want to stand next to one on the train to work. But how was he going to avoid it? It seemed as if everywhere he looked, these men were seeping out of the woodwork. And if one dared say a word against them, the whole world turned around and called you cruel and insensitive. If they wanted him to believe that they all felt love for the homosexual, they had to know that he wasn’t that stupid.

It was Diwali, and hence, dress ethnic to work day. He was wearing a dark blue kurta with his faded jeans and kohlapuris, and was looking quite natty. Maybe like Richard Gere would if he dressed Indian, he gave himself a compliment. As he dressed, he noticed a purple blotch on his body, right next to his pelvic bone. The doctor yesterday at the annual office check-up had thought it was a bruise. It may have been. He had been quite wild in bed recently, he thought cockily. The new boss would be in today and Amar wanted to make a great impression. He had even bought an expensive yet classy box of Belgian chocolates and as he took the lift upto to his 15^th floor office, he knew it was going to be great day at work. He should drop by some chocolates to the cute intern on the 14^th floor as well. Maybe today would be the day she let him kiss her in the closet. He smiled. This was what it felt like to be a man – not a metrosexual.

He headed right for the boss’s office and as he peered in through the glass window he could see his arch enemy, Animesh, sitting laughing. Animesh, the rat, the metrosexual who was as sexual as the doorknob he was going to turn now. Animesh, who had often made suggestions of going out with Amar for a post-office drink. Animesh, who had once caressed Amar’s hair and asked him what brand of conditioned did he use. Animesh, who Amar felt watched him all the time. Animesh, who hadn’t yet come out of the closet, but would soon, and that day Amar would laugh and say, “I told you so.” But what was he doing in there?

As he walked in, the new boss looked at him quizzically, his eyebrows arching. “Sir, I am Amar, the senior copywriter.”

“Oh Amar, Animesh was just telling me all about you. And it seems as if you are the dandy he described you as,” grinned the new boss and Amar felt as if the earth would swallow him. Mr Gupta, the new boss, wore a yellow silk kurta that matched perfectly with his gold churidar and gold juttis. His hair was coiffed perfectly and he could still see the gel glistening on them. On his left ear, he wore a small stud, and on his right hand, a flamboyant Rolex ticked calmly. Amar could feel animesh watching him and he knew that the latter sensed his discomfort. After all, he had almost always screamed every time Animesh touched him. He had to control his feelings. And there was nothing to say that Mr Gupta was like Animesh. He would ignore the metrosexual exterior and try and look at the manly interior. He knew he wasn’t even making sense to himself now. Animesh and he walked out of the office shoulder to shoulder. He tried to make friendly conversation. He couldn’t let the new boss think he wasn’t gay friendly, even though he knew Animesh knew it was all a farce.

The office nurse was walking towards him with a file. He didn’t want to stop and talk as he had had a fling with her few years back and avoided like her the plague ever since. He hardly looked at her, but was surprised when as she gave him the file, she smiled a sly, mean smile, “You are HIV positive,” she said loudly enough for passersby to stop and stare. Amar felt as if he was fainting, which he was. As he fell on the floor, with a dead silence around him, he could only hear Animesh’s voice, “Hold on Amar, I am with you. I am with you.” He held Animesh’s hand tightly and as he blacked out, all he could see was Animesh’s pink shirt. It was such a pretty colour.

On the Fat Train

Siya was looking at herself in the mirror, sucking in her stomach, trying to stand tall. She turned around, to get a better look at her butt, but instead her eyes fell on her computer screen. She knew she would be termed psychotic if people found out she was looking for “fat quotes” in Google. But she needed an inspiring “lose weight now” quote. Instead all she had come up with was a quote that scared her shitless. It was by the hot, or now old-and-not-so-hot Elizabeth Hurley. Ok, she knew there was no reason to be so bitchy, but this quote just screamed for a bitchy slap-her-and then-kick –her-then-burn-her comment. Anyway, according to Google, Elizabeth Hurley once famously said, “I'd kill myself if I was as fat as Marilyn Monroe.” Marliyn Monroe was fat? Siya found herself entering Marilyn Monroe’s name in Google and hitting images. There she appeared. Her full bosom, her tiny waist and an arse that wouldn’t give up went perfectly well with those scarlet lips and blonde hair. She was fat? Damn you Liz Hurley. If Marilyn was fat, what was Siya? She knew she shouldn’t pay attention, get too hyper, as she often did. But in the world that she lived, fat and thin were as vital as being rich or poor, pro BJP or pro congress, nice or nasty, employed or unemployed. It was bloody important, and Siya knew she was losing the battle.

She returned her gaze to her butt. It was wobbly and patchy. And what she knew was cellulite, she disregarded as an illusion of the eye caused by the lack of sunlight. Even she had to laugh at that. At least it still looked passable when covered up. No, who was she kidding? From the front, she looked like a giant pear walking down the street. From the side, it didn’t have the tautness of Beyonce’s rear, and from the back, it just looked plain full of lard. It was her worst feature. But then as she turned around, she caught a sight of her side profile. Oh, why was she doing this to herself?

She sat down and the chair creaked. Her face contorted and she wondered since when had she started spending all her time in front of the mirror. She had always been a self assured girl, and then woman. Men had come easy and so had compliments. Even women seemed to like her, most of the times anyway. Then why was her fat behind bothering her so much now. Had her body become more important than herself?

She found herself remembering a scene out of the movie Social network, when Mark Zuckerberg set up a site where students of Harvard got a chance to vote who is hotter. Being fat was like not being the girl who got chosen. She remembered another movie, The Bride Wars, where Kate Hudson’s character has a Vera Wang wedding gown, and when she gains a few pounds before the big day, she screams, “Vera doesn’t fit you, You change to fit in Vera.” The magazines she read were all about that celebrity who got their pre-baby shape back or calorie-negative disgusting-tasting food we should be eating. Even people she met just either said, “if it hasn’t gone till now, it won’t go ever” or “why did you just bite into that burger?”. It seemed as if the whole universe was ganging up to tell her that she was fat.

There was some support out there, she grinned. Once in a while, a study done by a bunch of geeky scientists proclaimed that curvy women were more likely to live longer than their slimmer opposites. And historically, she knew, that most societies associated fatness in women with desirable social status as it is an overt sign of wealth where food is not abundant. Yes, she laughed aloud sarcastically. Being fat in India was so a sign of wealth (or a weakness for the McDonalds outside Andheri station). She caressed her belly as she recalled one beautiful story about an African king who used to fatten up his wives before he married them to the extent that they couldn't walk. They were so fat that they had to sit still, and that was regarded as a sign of beauty. Now the laughs were unstoppable, and she found herself rolling on the floor, in her underwear -- If only Kate Moss and Twiggy had never been born.

Then she sat up and realized there were tears on her cheeks, her kajal ran down her face and she almost looked like a painting for the 16^th century. She remembered what had brought upon this fat mania. Her boyfriend, Akash, had asked for a picture of hers last week, preferably one where her assets weren’t covered. It was normal right? They had been dating for a year now, and she really loved him. So to give him a picture wasn’t such a big deal. But she regretted it. The picture was an unflattering one. Her bum cheeks peeked out and her belly just seemed huge as it lay exposed in an itsy bitsy, polka dotted bikini. Oh what a pity, he was going to break up with her now. She knew she had to meet him soon. So, she threw on her jeans and walked the 2 km distance to his house. I need to work out, she thought as she charged ahead. His roommate, Purab, opened the door and gave her a cocky smile. Oh no, she thought, had akash already told him he was going to break up with me. “I ordering a pizza, you want some?” he asked her.

“No, no. No pizza for me,” she noticed her voice was trembling.

Purab was standing next to her now. “He deleted all his porn yesterday you know.  He said he had a picture of you that was enough. He’s been in there with it for a while now,” he pointed to the loo, and a leery and yet strangely jealous smile spread over his face.

She knew she should have been offended. But instead, she gave Purab a flattering smile and took the phone from his hand, “Let’s order that Pizza. What toppings do you want??”

The fairy lights

Gunjan knew she wasn’t the same woman she used to be – her ambition, her freedom, even her way of thinking had been altered right to its very DNA. And though it had happened slowly and steadily, it seemed as if had all changed overnight. And it was Manav who was responsible.  The day she met him had been an ordinary one – there was a crowd of people around them, and there had been no love at first sight. In fact, they were to different to even think about a life together – let alone live it. But yes, there had been plenty of conversation, plenty of laughter, and plenty of shared silences as they stared at the twinkling fairy lights that stretched across the length of his windows after sharing a joint. Life had seemed perfect that night, and it was an inevitable path that nature took when Manav leaned over and kissed her. She hadn’t questioned it, because things were sublimely perfect – everyone was nice, everything was beautiful. They went for long drives, and marveled at many sunsets at secluded beaches. They climbed mountains and sipped tea watching the clouds floating with them. Every day was a party, a celebration of life as it should be – light and airy, with no worries and no cares. It was just twinkling fairy lights all the way.

Until the other day. Gunjan sat in the waiting room of the gynecologist and was struck by the fact that she had never done much of this in her 30 years. She had only been to the doctor twice I her life, and both those times, he father had held her hand. Once when her leg had got tangled in a cycle’s tire, and another time when she poured a cup of hot tea all over herself. She was just 8 years old, and she had burnt a map of India on her chest. She missed her father. She missed her mother as well. But thinking of her mother scared her. She had always thought the next time she came to the hospital would be because of her mother. Her mother, who had lost the will to live, and was slowly disintegrating into a mass of bones. She grimaced, and felt tears, but was interrupted by the merry voice of the doctor. “Gunjan, come in, I have some great news.”

The news was great, but for whom? A child was expected, said the doctor. Really, but wasn’t she herself a child, thought Gunjan. Could she really have a child at this point in her life? But what point was she at? She didn’t have a job, and she didn’t have any worries – except this one. So maybe she was ready. As she sat in the taxi, her face getting burnt under the hot Mumbai sun, her sheer cotton kurta sticking to her back, she pulled out a joint she had made in the morning for such moments, and put it to her lips. And as she lit up, she realized why she already hated this child – she threw away the joint.

At home, Manav was sprawled across the floor, thinking of things that inspired him – a well shot movie, a violent moment, a beggar, a fat lady – they were all fodder for his fertile and perverse imagination. He puffed at his rolled cigarette and felt ideas form in front of his eyes, he felt them flowing through his veins, actually he could see the writing appear under the skin of his forearms. He suddenly remembered the first time he had seen Gunjan high. She has sworn to him, she could see ideas flowing out of her fingers, flying in the air. She had talked about unmentionable thing, unimaginable things. It had been love he had felt for her then, just the way he felt for her now. He heard the keys jingle in the front door and he smiled – for a change, there was no one else at home. Maybe they would make love right there in the middle of the drawing room. He smiled as she came in and she frowned. “Once again he was sprawled out as if he had nothing else to do. When was he going to get a move on? The house was so dirty, maybe he could have cleaned.” Her mind was also running some parallel thoughts. “She had never ever thought like this before. What was wrong with her? Who cared about cleaning the house? These were worries of less interesting, less creative people. Why was she behaving like this?”

“I am pregnant,” she said

“Oh,” he managed to get out. Damn, he had to work on his reflexes, “really, that’s lovely”

“And I have to stop smoking. And so do you.”

He couldn’t get what she was saying. Something about them stop smoking. Could she be serious? Why did they have to? What was the connection between a baby and smoking, for god’s sake? He stood up and faced her, “what?”

“We have to stop smoking—smoking cigarettes, smoking joints – we just have to stop smoking.”

“Well, we can do that. Didn’t we always say, it’s us who are the masters of the joint, not vice versa. But why do I have to?”

“Because we have to do it together. How can you even ask me this question? What’s wrong with you? Did you think I would be dying here carrying your baby and you would continue on with your life?”

Manav could feel his high coming down. And suddenly a great fear descended over him. This is how it was going to be. They had never fought ever before, never raised their voices. She was going to be a typical wife now, and he, a typical husband. It was finally going to be all too real.

“What are you thinking about?”
“Do we have to have this baby? I don’t want things to change.”

Gunjan felt a wave of relief wash over her. She was glad he had suggested it. If this baby went away, they could go on with their perfect lives, and it was all okay. They needed only each other to survive. Why did they need a baby to make them feel complete? It was the 20^th century, for god’s sake.  It was a good idea, letting this baby go. And anyways, he wouldn’t know what he missed. He was hardly even a lump right now. It didn’t matter and it was no crime.

“Babies change everything. We don’t need that now. Aren’t I enough to make you feel like a woman?”

She smiled and reached for her phone, “doctor, I need to come in for an abortion.”

The abortion took only an hour, and she felt fine afterwards. The hospital room was sunny and she could see the brilliant blue sky outside. She was itching for a smoke, she needed to get out of here. Manav was on his way to pick her up. She had told him to roll a joint for her, so she wouldn’t waste any time. The doctor had looked at her strangely when she had told her reason for the abortion -- A look that said, I know why you really doing it. Gujan smiled a nasty smirk, and wondered what would have happened if she had told the doctor her real reason – that she didn’t want to give up all that she loved, and become a dried, old, boring creature they called the Bhartiya Nari, like the doctor herself. She was Manav’s muse and he was hers, and that’s how they would live, forever. The doctor entered and she looked at her and smiled. Thank God she was going home.

Her bedroom smelt of the roses Manav had bought. They stood in a broken glass he had swiped from the kitchen. She lay down, she felt sleepy. “Thank you for doing this. Our life is back to normal and it will be perfect.” He shut the door softly and he was gone. She smiled and opened her purse, and took out the white sheet the doctor had handed over before she left. There was a lot of medical jargon on it but all the words, except one, were blurry. All she could see was that one word – Cancer. She tore the paper into small bits and watched them fly out of the window. Cancer had turned into confetti – she laughed at her own joke.  She lit up the joint and turned on the fairy lights. They were twinkling.

Three is a crowd

It was complicated,

And I was happy.

It was messy,

And I was happy.

It was absurd,

And I was happy...

It was wrong... but...didn‚t I say it before?

I was happy.

I DON’T really know where to start. Is it appropriate to start with the disasters or the miracles? Is it safe to let people know exactly who you are? Or do you just omit the bad stuff and let the good stuff be. It was the year that India was blessed with its billionth baby, Aastha. We had been ushered into a new century. And here I was, wishing I would be blessed with my own little miracle.

I had lost a leg. But I couldn't have been happier. He sat next to me and held my hand, "Don’t you worry, I am here now and this time I won‚t leave. Ever." He wouldn’t leave me, I smiled and then we both laughed, threw our heads back and laughed, the lilting sounds made my tears flow. There I was, crying and laughing at the same time. He was finally there.

And then I woke up.

My leg was there, where it was supposed to be. And all I wanted for was to cut it. Do something, lose a leg, an eye... die. Anything, I just wanted to be hurt so badly, that he would come back to me. But that was not to be. So that was that. It was hot and I was wet in places that only existed in that perverse mind of mine -- a mind that thought of nothing but him since he went away. There was nothing else that I wanted more. I was ready to die at his feet. I got up and headed for the bathroom. As the water slid over me, I thought of that feeling we called love. I could swear it existed, but like God, it only appeared in front of those who truly deserved to see its glory. Like a teacher picks her favourite student, love picked those choicest few who deserved happiness. I watched the shopkeeper outside my house kiss his fat wife in a wheelchair and the smile that she smiled, was similar to the smile I used to smile when I had seen my parents hug the last time they did.

I saw it creep in,

it woke me up.

it took away my breath

and then it made me smile

it held me tight

and shook me up

kissed my lips

and whispered sweet nothings

oh why didn’t I lock the doors

fasten the window

seal the entrances

because I can’t find it anymore

have looked everywhere

have u seen it?

it goes by the name of love

Make it happen, we have to make things happen. If we work hard enough, things would happen. Good will triumph over evil. Good would always win. But then again, was I good? Was I really, madly, truly deeply good? Now let’s not talk nonsense and let’s not beat around the bush. Was I a good person? Did people see me as a good person? All that was coming out of this argument was that I was self-obsessed. Conceited too. I was in a room and there was a figure sleeping on the bed. The fan made too much noise. I kissed him hard, and slowly put my hand under his shirt. He was awake now, and he looked at me with half-closed eyes. As I kissed his neck, I could see him squirming under me. I kissed him harder and slowly made my way down his lean form. I could see him shutting his eyes and when a moan escaped those lips, I knew what to do. It was an epiphany; I knew what to do to make this one happy. At least, maybe then, it would delay his departure.

The sun shone brightly outside and I squinted and opened my umbrella. I walked into the cafe at the corner, ordered tea and sat down to brood. I took in the couple on this corner... another on the other corner. Somehow when one was alone, the world seemed like a bundle of lovers. I tried to focus on the book in my hand, but the words were blurry. I looked outside the window and saw people waiting for the bus. Mothers with children, people getting back from work, college-goers and then, I saw him. He walked past the window in a flash and the next moment, I saw him paying for a cappuccino on the counter. As he sat on the next table, I couldn’t get myself to look away. He was around 40, tall, lean, with kind eyes. His shirt was a pale blue and his eyes as black as the night. Look away, look away. My hand ached to reach out and touch him. But I tucked my hands tightly below me. I saw his face tilt and I knew he was looking at me. I stared hard at the book in my hand... then slowly looked at him... He wasn’t there.

What was that? Why had I felt as if someone reached inside me and grabbed my heart tight? Why had my mouth gone dry and why had my breath almost stopped. I was dizzy with... I did not know what to call this. I gathered my things and rushed to the room with the noisy fan. He lay on the bed where I had left him, spent and drenched in sweat. I put on the fan and touched his hair. He pulled me towards him and I found myself thinking of blue shirts and black eyes.

What is love at first sight? Does it exist? Was what I felt, love? How could  I, I didn’t even  know him. I saw just a glimpse. And he hadn’t even noticed me. Was love that blind? My feet ached and my head throbbed. The bed creaked below me and I tasted my salty tears on my tongue. Why was I crying? Sheryl Crow hummed in my head “If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad if it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad.”

I got dressed, put on some lipstick and was out of the door. As I walked the street, I noticed people look at me and I smiled. Being looked at always made me happy. For the lack of a better word, I could say I was an exhibitionist. Ouch, that hurt. Was I actually calling myself that. I walked and I walked and I walked. I didn’t have a place to go to... so I walked a little more. The water lapped over my toes and I remembered days gone by. Sweet kisses, harsh words, missed moments, regrets and promises and love... yes, days of love. Days spent with that special someone I used to know. Why do people leave? And once they leave, why do things change? Does love live within a specific boundary? Does love confine you or let you spread your wings? Where does love go when you need it the most? And then I saw Him. Today the shirt was a dark blue, though the eyes were still black. He looked at me and half smiled. I looked away and then cursed. He was smiling at me, look back and smile. I looked back and glory to God, he was still there.

The next few days were a blur, as most things in my life. I divided my time between the room with the fan, the memories in my head and Him. He was unlike anyone I had met before. And I was finally where I wanted to be. His room was unlike one I had seen before. I entered and was faced with the thousands reasons, why I had longed to be there. He slowly shut the door behind me, and I took a deep breath. So I was here, what was I going to do. Nothing, we were just going to talk. We  would find things that were common between us. We would talk about everything and anything... and then I would feel that this was not wrong. He sprawled across the bed and I felt a slight twinge in my heart. My hand ached to reach out and touch him. But I tucked my hands tightly below me and tried to change the subject. A row of books adorned his bedside and I busied myself. He told me funny anecdotes about each book, what he liked, what I would like, who gave him what... his eyes growing wide, his voice animated. I told myself not to notice, I had to be strong, I wasn‚t going to give in. I was going to be strong. I sat on the edge of the bed and he lay right behind me. Those fingers circled the skin next to my ears, my neck all the while oblivious to the effect that had on me. This did not mean anything, I told myself. His fingers then entwined with mine and I felt  myself starting to give in. No, I had to do something, stop it, stop it... but it just kept happening. He made small circles on my back and I jumped. He then firmly placed his hand on mine, kissed me and said, "You are beautiful", and I was floored. When we finally came up for air, he started laughing, "Don’t you feel like a teenager making out." And I did, I felt like a little girl... with a man who would take care of me. I think I should leave, I gathered up the courage to say. After one last long lingering kiss, he let me go.

He knelt down before me and made me wear my shoes... tying each shoelace carefully. "I am sorry, I hope you are OK?" Ya, I was OK. As I walked out of the room, I noticed a kajal pencil lying next to a woman’s watch on the side table. WHAT? What could this mean? Did this mean he already had someone? Did it mean he already had someone he slept with, brushed sides with while they both got ready in the mornings, spent evenings reading to? And then, I grimaced.

What was I cribbing about? He was exactly like me.

The reunion

His profile picture on Facebook showed him holding hands with his wife on a Goa beach. She was almost a foot shorter, but as love would have it, she fit right into the nook of his shoulder. They were both smiling – his was the familiar impish one, while she wore a grin that made me want to like her. They looked so “supposed to be together”. Not that I was jealous, because I could afford to not be. My own albums would show me standing with my more than perfect husband – most often laughing, he was great at making me laugh. We were happy. And that was what was strange. I was happy, so then why was I looking at my first boyfriend’s pictures and being an obsessive witch. Could I even call him a boyfriend I wondered? We never went on a date, never held hands, never even had a decent conversation about our lives. We had just behaved like teenagers did – grinned, blushed and were too embarrassed to reveal our true feelings. We always hid our feelings – at least the good ones. The bad ones were aired out at more than one occasion. And then later, once things got messy – he liked me, I didn’t; I liked him, he was dating a much prettier girl; I still liked him but he went on dating another – we were never the same again. John Mayer surely knew what he was singing about when he crooned “Friends, lovers or nothing”. We were never lovers because fate had intervened; we weren’t friends anymore because when one erred, the other chose to not forgive. So we had ended up being the last option – nothing. It seemed now that all epitaphs about first loves were false. We knew each other from the time the opposite sexes started knowing each other; he stood outside the medical room as I got a pad for my first period; he held my hair back as I vomited my first drink; he had hugged me tight the day every time I felt low – in many ways, he was my first friend. But today, we were nothing. I didn’t know if he still liked Nirvana, or if he thought Megan Fox was the hottest. I didn’t know how he knew his wife was the one and I couldn’t tell him that I thought he think my husband was a great guy. I didn’t know if he ever thought of me like I thought of him, ever so often. The memories which were laced with love were tainted with anger of him behaving the way he did with me – cutting me off so brutally from his life. Though strangely, it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. After all, as I said before, first love wasn’t all that it was cracked to be. But I did allow myself a peek at his life once in a while, just to see if he looked the same, smiled the same. Maybe I wanted to see a smile that made me feel he would have forgiven me – after all, water under the bridge and all that. Maybe he had forgiven me for being not being able to shut my mouth when I needed to, for being selfish, for being insensitive, for being one not to be trusted with a secret and feelings. And though I resented the fact that he never looked at the good things I did – I knew all he wanted was a break from all my drama. Even his wife must have heard about me – the loud mouth witch from her husband’s otherwise pristine past. I was the black blob and so I was removed. Even another good friend had commented,” I must be a rare one who doesn’t hate you”. Did everyone hate me? Oh god, I had to stop being selfish.

The FB notification was talking about a school reunion. Did I really want to go and be probed by a bunch of people who hated me? But I wanted to see my ex best friend and his better half, even if I was going to be ignored. So I was going to do it – suck up and be a star. Or at least, pretend I was. If they didn’t like me, so be it. At least everyone will pretend to be cordial, some laughs, some taunts, and some massive drinks later, the evening will be finished. That didn’t seem so bad. But yes, I was going to look good – at least that was something I was good at – despite the love handles. Maybe I could slip on some spanx, tuck in that tummy. Be fatter than the bitchy ladies? No way. I know it sounded so petty, but this was the real world, and in the real world, it mattered if I looked good enough or thin enough. It did, it was a world where the real me had no takers.  So I stuffed myself in a new blue cocktail dress that hid those flaws that were only for me to see and entered the room with a tentative glance. My husband seemed to notice my apprehension because he held my hand, and suddenly I felt the knot in my stomach melt. But it was back again as soon as the bunch of vultures descended. “Hi, it’s you. Have you lost weight,” asked Purva, the gossip of the school, who had once told me that everyone thought I was easy, when it was actually her spreading the rumour. “Saw your byline the other day, good going!” said Akash, the ex crush with whom I had made out on the bar of a once popular haunt. I had not remembered even a single detail the next day, but my school had. “Oh my god, it’s you. Guys be careful with what you say in front of this one. She and her mouth are two different identities,” said Manu, who deep down knew where it hit me the most. But through it all, I could see him -- getting a drink as he guffawed at something, his throaty laugh floating over.

He saw me and I thought I saw many feelings flash on that good looking face. I almost imagined him winking at me – the way he used to every time we had a secret back when we were in 8^th grade. But he was not winking. His face was contorting, as if it was making up his mind on what expression to take on. But he was suddenly not even looking at me anymore. The girl from the Facebook picture was next to him, and he looked away with relief, even moving out of my line of vision. The vultures were back again, and I downed a martini to become indifferent. This wasn’t going to be easy. This was the only way I could get closure, and I didn’t want to let it go. My friends often asked me why I needed closure. Why couldn’t I just let the man be – he had a wife, I had a husband. Why was I still fixating on the man who obviously had made his decision of throwing me out of his life? Didn’t I have any dignity? Wasn’t my husband enough for me? And that’s where I pitied them. We were two people who had started our adult lives together. Didn’t we have a right to end it on a note that didn’t make us cringe? But I knew I was asking that question only for my sake – what could he want?

He didn’t want me in his life, that was for sure. He had empathically asked me to keep away, because I was just too much of a bitch. And somewhere, I wasn’t even sure why, and when did he decide that. I was condemned without a trial and that’s what was so infuriating. I wanted to say my two-bit and then let him take a decision – even if he decide he still didn’t want me in his life, at least I would have said my bit. I know it all seemed like it was just about me. But then, how could I know what he wanted, if he wouldn’t even talk to me about it.

Namrata, my mature and so sorted friend gave me a sad smile, “why don’t you let it go. Why do you need to dig it all up? Don’t you have better things to do.” Of course I had better things to do, but this was a personal journey I had to undertake for the well being of my ego. “So it’s your ego you are concerned about?” she looked at me hard. “What would you have done?” I spat back. “It would never have been me,” she smiled and looked away. My husband had been watching all this while and I knew he noticed things more minutely than anyone I ever knew. He saw my anxious eyes search for Ankit. He saw me gulp down one too many drinks, and I knew he saw my brain working overtime going over the pros and cons. Was I hurting him? I knew I was, but I also knew that I needed to do this.

So, I held his hand and walked over to where Ankit and his wife stood. I could feel the conversation slowing down and everyone watched me cover that last mile. I felt as if I was in a war movie – walking the distance over to the land mine. It was quiet, and we were face to face. And for a minute everyone disappeared. I opened my mouth, but nothing seemed to emerge. Then, I suddenly felt a hand on my arm. Ankit was saying something about how good it was too see me, his wife was smiling that smile at me. And I was saying something similar back to them. But it seemed surreal. I felt as if I watching myself from up above. Maybe now, I could talk to him about what went wrong. I would go up to him again before the evening ended and sort things out. I knew that people was still watching us. We passed each other with easy nonchalance and as he walked away with his wife to another group of friends, I felt a load going off my shoulders. And then I heard his voice – the clear tone that was so him – “I can’t even remember being friends with her. Thank God for that, right?” As people laughed in hushed giggles, I smiled in relief. Ankit had finally given me the reason I needed to erase the past. It was not surreal anymore, it was real, and finally, it was all good. And that, what you call, closure. Thank You Rachel Green!

The Cheap Boyfriend

He was cheap, and not in the way you would think. He didn’t grope me in the middle of the road, or crack explicit jokes at my expense. Instead he just took my money. And though we had bigger issues at hand – for example,  was I actually wasting my time with a man who thought he was doing me a favour by being my invisible, lets-not-tell-anyone-about-us boyfriend. Right now, I was more concerned about the fact that he was pocketing the change brought to me by the pizza guy for the pizza I ordered. What did that say about him? That was my Rs 100, you moocher, I thought in my head as he casually grinned as he neatly filed the note in his wallet and gave me a look that said, “you think I am adorable, right?” I almost barfed my pizza on his face but I had to admit I used to think that once, long time ago, when I first met him. I was in love like fools usually were – I did all the work and got nothing in return. Not a thank you, not an I love you, not even I am glad to see you. It was always about how lucky I was to even meet him. And I bought that theory – maybe because I needed this man to make me believe I was exactly like my portrait in my head -- I, the princess of darkness, the queen of sunshine, the biggest bitch that ever lived, and the gem of this earth. Me, who was every woman a man wanted and every woman aspired to be. I was myself. Hence, I needed a man to make me feel worth all my delusions. But this man was robbing me blind. And I had to get rid of him before I was standing on the street as a bag lady – maybe a Fendi bag lady, but a bag lady nevertheless. I had to kill him. I wanted to see my fingers lined with little red pieces of his flesh. I wanted to see him writhe in front of me. I just wanted to see him suffer the way I was suffering.

Did I deserve what he was giving me? Surely not. But then, I didn't pay attention to that crippled beggar who wanted nothing but a mere rupee. And I had screamed at my mother who woke me up so lovingly in the morning. Me, who lied, and then swore by my father to defend that lie. May be this was all part of some joke played on me by the only woman above me, Mother Nature. Or was suffering from a mid-life crisis at the tender age of 25 and was blaming him for it. I had seen dead rats in better shape than me. I was scared now. I had to work my way through this. Isn't that what life was all about? Just getting by. You spend your childhood trying to bag the snazziest plaything. You spend your adolescence trying to be popular. You work you twenties trying to find someone to love and who loves you back and the rest of your life trying to hang on to them. For a woman, it’s tougher to find someone who would be addicted to her. Men suffer from commitment phobia, along with admitting he loves you phobia, and then letting you go if he doesn't phobia. Women suffer from a different kind of phobia, letting themselves be treated well phobia. Anyway, I had to think of a master plan to get out of this rut. I had to start afresh.

I had to plan it well then. But I was a good planner, I had often been told. In fact, one employer had actually told me I could be a great secretary, when all I wanted to be was a writer. But anyways, I never did take hints well. I would plan it to perfection and use some form of murder that would be classified as suicide, or maybe I would just murder him in cold blood and then turn myself in. Wouldn’t I be a celebrity then? And then I would pen my bestseller in the prison and it would sell millions, maybe even win a Pulitzer. I had to stop dreaming.

Was I being too irrational, thinking about killing a man just because he took some money from me? No. I don’t think so. I had to do it for womankind. He was too dangerous to be left out to graze, because he would then move on to the next gullible victim – squeezing out not only cash, but every shred of self respect in their aching-for-him bodies. So he needed to be got rid of – just to save other women who took his offbeat, aloof charm as a sign he needed to be tamed by them. But he had a way with words. He could say something so horrifying like “you are not pretty” and make it feel like he was doing you a favour – saving you from getting sucked in by the feeling of being vain. He used to make me wait for endless hours, buy him the Nike shoes he couldn’t afford, woo my best friends and rendezvous with them behind my back, kiss my pretty friends in museums while spouting sweet nothings like “you make me feel safe” and even make me believe it was only him who was nice enough to hang with me.

No, this time I had to see things through. I would kill him and make it look like self defense. Maybe I would say he was trying to rape me. But then nobody would believe me. My friends themselves would testify against me with stories of how I had been easy all my life – running after boys in school, stealing boyfriends in college, being the first to get kissed – this girl was capable of anything. It would be better not to take that route. I just had to go and do it, and think of the consequences later. Would I do the deed with a knife or scissors? Maybe I would just shoot him, but I didn’t have a gun. Yes, I would push him off the balcony of his home. It was 15 floors, and I thought it would be enough to finish the mad man’s life. Yes, that was a good plan, or maybe just a possible one.

As I climbed the 15 floors to his apartment – I never took lifts, they strangled me—I imagined his shocked face as I would push him off. He would never imagine I would do something like this – I, who was such a slave to him. It will be fun, and so I was smiling like a fool along with gasping for breath when I knocked on his door. It was open, and I pushed it to find the big bunch of Sunday papers lying inside. As I walked in, I was shocked by how quiet it was. He never liked quiet. He often hummed something under his breath just so he wasn’t surrounded by quiet. Maybe he knew that in the silence, he would hear his inner self telling him what a supreme jerk he was. My smile grew wider. I called his name, and there was no answer. And then there he was -- Lying on the floor, with a sweet smile and a broken beer bottle in his belly. He was dead, and someone had got there before me. She sat just looking at the body, staring at it, and kept playing with the blood on her hands. Her eyes registered my being and then went back to staring at the smiling corpse. And then as calmly as she had been sitting, she got up and walked out of the door.

My smile now became a hysterical laugh. And when I was done, my sides were aching but my heart was healed. He was dead and the women of the world were safe again. Did I want to say goodbye? Hah, even in his death, he looked smug, as if he expected me to beat my chest and bawl my eyes out. Maybe I would cry later, but only tears of joy. I opened the door and saw the newspapers on the mat. I picked them up and tossed it on the dead body. Let him read them. He had always been more interested in the world than me.

a long lost column i wrote for dna once...i happen to like it :)

This column is addressed to all readers who think I am nothing but a frivolous, self-obsessed writer whose only love in the world is clothes. This is about my journey from a newspaper to a fashion glossy back to a newspaper. I think you will see a new side of me now.

It started when I landed a job at a fashion magazine after working for five years on the desk of a national daily. Maybe it was the way I was dressed, or the editor just liked my over-the-top confidence, but here I was, a special correspondent with a magazine. I couldn't have been happier. I was where I had always wanted to be. I was finally realising the importance of the Fendi bag. It was an epiphany. No more Quark, no more boring trend stories… no more newspapers.

But they are right when they say - you can take a person out of a newspaper, but not the newspaper out of the person. Who says that? Well, that's what our story is about. So I attended my first edit meeting with uncontained excitement. I got a celebrity interview and a shoot, and when the results came, they complimented me on my styling. But that was only because I was yet to show my newspaper colours.

At the next edit meet, I suggested a feature on the slum tours of Mumbai and ironically, the Abraham and Thakore-wearing lot applauded. "Yes, yes, you must do it". I was warmed by their concern and set out right away. Accompanied by two Britons who were more interested in figuring out where Shilpa Shetty lived, the Bollywoodish guide, Krishna Pujari, took us on a magical tour of Dharavi. This was the place where the poor carved their living by running one of the world's largest small scale industry hubs. I was touched, I was shaken and I was inspired by their courage and entrepreneurial skills. Yes, I wrote a great article, until the copy editor looked at it. She read the first line in disdain, "From an airplane window, the slums of Mumbai look like miles and miles of grey, filthy landscape".

Filthy, she circled, "Darling, when you call it filthy, it doesn't really make me want to go there." She read the next line. 'Potholes', she circled, "Sweetheart, this is really not inviting. Could you make it more…" she snapped her fingers, "snappy and magazine like…"

I was at a loss, but I reworked, and reworked, and reworked. After I gave in my fifth draft, the copy editor looked at me sweetly and shook her head, "No darling, you are not getting the feel. It has to be…" she snapped her fingers again, "More snappy. More hip."

And then it came. "It's not a newspaper, you know. It's a magazine. Do you get that?" No I didn't. After all, it wasn't a report of Haseena Jethmalani's latest party, nor was it an interview with Kareena Kapoor. It was a tour of Dharavi, and that too a reality tour of Dharavi. "Make me want to visit. Make it exciting. Make it glamorous," she smiled. And I quit.

But I took their advice, and I am back at a newspaper. I found out that Quark or no Quark, at a newspaper, a Fendi bag and reality can exist side by side. If any magazine editors were hurt during the process of writing this article, I apologise. I still owe them the fact that I am a well-dressed albeit a bad newspaper writer. Ciao.

some of my work ...do read if you have time

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main45.asp?filename=hub190610the_sting.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main46.asp?filename=hub140810Bollywood.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main44.asp?filename=hub240410pret_a.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main47.asp?filename=Ne301010The_cub.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main47.asp?filename=hub231010I_head_you.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main44.asp?filename=hub080510the_marriage.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main46.asp?filename=hub240710whywomen.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=hub130210how_to.asp

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main45.asp?filename=hub120610nagpadas_hoop.asp

10 things to do before i turn 30

i will be turning 30 in April 2012, so have another one and a half years to go. and i realised there are a few things i just have to do. don't want to be an old hag without doing a few things :). so here goes.

1. Go on a date with Ranbir Kapoor. Impossible kya? am keeping it local so at least there is a possibility of it coming true. if anyone can make it come true, please help. aapka bhala hoga :)
2. Send out samples of my work to publishers. submit a manuscript. writing is my biggest passion and if i don't do this, will regret it, and i don't like regretting anything.
3. Go on a Euro trip. Had enough of Samantha Brown flaunting her passport to europe. i wanne shop at Shakespeare and co, eat baguettes, go to the moors, and walk a lot. yes, and shop a lot too
4. design a fashion line. i have some ideas and i am going to make it work. it will work. The only thing i can reveal is that it will be inspired by what else but India.
5. Be only 50 kgs. am already on that mission
6. Maybe, just maybe, no, pukka, make a documentary about Haryana. I want to tackle it head on and i think it will be great fun. It needs to be talked about and i don't just mean honour killings.
7. learn how to cook.and i mean how to bake, grill, the works. Indian, chinese and italian for sure. Can't keep longing for good food in Mumbai. have to make it myself.
8. Get over my fear of flying. working on that everyday. Any tips.
9. Save at least 5 lakhs. this should be on top of my list.
10. Do some charity work at the grassroot level. make some loos, teach some kids, will do anything at all. have no apprehensions. (if anyone knows of a great cause, so let me know please)

so that is that. there are many more. Like being a better person :). but will be working on that forever.

project cinch waist with only 20 days left to go

There are only 20 days left
and till now, it's been quite a waste...
if i exercise, i eat too much
if i eat little, i don't exercise.
But since Friday, i have been on the track that i need to
so...will be taking stock this sunday
wish me luck!

Why the ayodhya verdict scares me

As I wait for the Ayodhya verdict to be deferred (I hope) or delivered (I fear), I wonder what would Lord Rama say if he was one of us? As singer Joan Osbourne had asked once “If you were faced with him in all his glory, What would you ask if you had just one question?” Well, my questions would be this. Would he want a temple built in his honour to be erected upon the site on which he was allegedly born? Or would he just be content with the fact that in 2010, almost 3,000 years later, a country ridden with difficulties such as poverty, population, inflation, corruption, and many more better left unlisted, still reveres him enough to fight over his janam bhoomi? Or would he, in his gentle righteous manner give over the land to the Muslim community for them to rebuild their mosque that was once there for everyone to see? Or maybe, just maybe, he and Allah would be sharing a drink of nectar and biting on some grapes, laughing at their favourite reality TV show, much like we laughed at Rakhi Sawant during her Swayamvar? 

I bet my life on the last option. The Maryada-purushottam would laugh, and surely loathe, the way we have turned his existence into an excuse to show off our superiority. He would be watching Advani at Somnath, and chuckling, “You see this as a way of getting the BJP back into the reckoning, right?” He would be watching all of us waxing eloquent about peace and togetherness, when he knows that many of us secretly would take the side of our “community”. As my partner pointed out to highlight the hypocrisy -- “So if a Muslim hacked a pregnant Hindu lady in front of you, would you only blame him, or would you blame Islam as a whole?” I said No, I wouldn’t blame anybody. But I am unsure, and that’s why I don’t want this verdict to be delivered.

I don’t have the wisdom of Lord Rama to guide my way. I don’t have his courage either. I am scared. There is a mosque under my house and I live in a building owned by Muslims. I walk down every day to see white caps and long beards. And I am scared what might happen to me if things get messy. If I, an educated journalist feels wary, what will stop the majority of the nation from panicking? Why I am scared is also because I know, like the laughing Lord Rama above, that despite reading the Ramayana or the Koran, we haven’t learnt anything about what God really wants from us. He is not materialistic – he doesn’t want a temple, or a mosque. He is not violent -- he doesn’t want to kill and loot to prove that we love him. He is not competitive – he doesn’t want his religion to be the superior one. His whole existence was there as an example. An example to tell us what kind of men and women to be – kind, gentle, peaceful, compassionate, humble and wise. If he had known we would fight over building a temple or mosque to worship him, then knowing him, he would never have been born. If we really know our Gods, we will ask them, what they would have done about Ayodhya? And we all deep inside – where we never want to look – will hear his answer. “Let it go”

it all went downhill...damn you masterchef australia

my husband and i are loonies. We sat down after our healthy meals, and started watching Masterchef Australia, and then boom, we were ordering chinese. Is there something really wrong with us. Once we ate that chinese, our moods changed. From sullen to shining...laughing...all because there was some nice yummy food in our tummy...God!!!!...when will we learn...today is another day. God give me strength

I need to be psycho to lose it all

so i totally am on the wagon now, and i ain't going to step off. ran a lot today, did squats and lunges and have eaten my last meal of the day. There is a little yoghurt waiting for me if i get ravenous by the time i sleep. One of my friends had a status message that said "The problem with the word fat is that everyone has a n opinion on it" that's so true. I don't think i am fat fat. I think i am unhealthy. But some of friends would be like you are so fat. And some would be like, you are totally fine. shut up and eat. And then some would be like "why are you so obsessed with being fat. be happy with who you are". to me being fat or unhealthy as i like to put it is just a deterrent when i try that empire line dress and look pregnant. And as i am growing old, it's also about not being hot anymore more, but getting stuck with the "she's so cute tag". no way. Hot i will be...at the end of the two months...do i sound psycho...i surely hope so...cos if i don't, id on't think i will be able to do it.
here's hoping tomorrow is even better!
like benjamin franklin once said, "“I guess I don't so much mind being old, as I mind being fat and old.”

The project recommences

So i was in delhi for a day or two and the rest of the time in jim corbett, and that's bad news for my the progress of the project. I ate well yes, but didn't over do it, and kept of aerated drinks. So hopefully no damage done. But from today it's a strict regime all over again...will report back in the evening.

Day 2 ends...almost

So it's 7.45 and i have just had two brown bread veg sandwiches
i am not going to have anything else...i promise myself this now!
hopefully will see you tomorrow without having to cheat

Project cinch waist. Day 2 starts

hello
so the day has started well
with a large glass of hot water, tea and poha (which i made and it was surprisingly good)
and today will not give in at night. kishore has vowed to help me.
I have always had a great relationship with food and that i have to mind what i eat is really hard
food is a lot of things to me -- it just is one of the reasons i love life so much
good food, especially like the rajma chawal my mom cooks, is truly like a piece of art, that soothes you, excites you, and fills that blank and vacant feeling in your body...
but it's time to finish the two months and have something to show for it.
also, have decided to not shop for the two months as well. and finish writing three short stories so i can submit them to a publishing house.
lots and lots of goals to pursue

for now, my food diary for yest (So i know what to avoid today)

Breakfast: Tea, toast, 2 boiled eggs without yellow
Mid meal: green tea, nuts
Lunch: Rice, dal, curd
Mid meal: nuts, green tea
7 pm: one idli
8 pm: two fistfulls of noodles
9 pm: one pure magic biscuit

so we all know what to cut out!

End of day 1.

Something went wrong
I had it all under control
but then my husband ordered chinese and i ate two fistfulls of noodles
saving grace: at least it's nothing compared to what i could eat.
so that's where it will stop
day 2: have to work on self control much much more
But at least now me so guilty, all flying food has ceased to fly in front of my face.
see you tom

day 1

Day 1
Mid meal: green tea
Lunch: rice+dal+curd
will start following the Anamika diet now :)

Project Cinch Waist...post 1

I had a small breakfast, which is i guess flouting the first rule..i h\just had two boiled eggs, tea and one toast. this is already ensuring that i am already hungry -- and there is rice and some yummy dal in the fridge. But i will instead sip on some green tea, and do some work till lunch, which will be the rice, dal and dahi -- i have realised that if i try and cut out everything, i won't last. What happens then is that by the end of the day, different kinds of food is flying in front of my face! So i have will have a little rice in moderation and then go to the gym in the afternoon sometime. Next post after dinner. Let's hope i stand strong.

Project Cinch Waist

I love fashion, and i love dressing up and feeling A-okay about myself. But when a comment on our Street Style facebook page said "the outfit is great, but you look fat!", i decided it was time to get cracking. Now many may say, "she's obsessed." "can a stupid comment make you react like this?". Well why I wanne do this is also because i want to go the distance with something, prove to myself that i have the will power to do what I set out to do -- not sweat like a pig in the morning at the gym, and then eat a kilo of rice for dinner. So I have till Oct end to do the possible...lose at least 5 kgs...and i want you to be with me till the end.

September 6

Height: 5 feet one inch
Weight: 60 kgs
Waist: 29 inches

It starts today!

When will i love india

We all love to hate India

And to avoid embarrassment,

Don’t read the papers

The corruption, the babugiri

The potholes, the lecherous pandu

The CWG fiasco, the 26/11s

We cringe and tch tch under our breath

As we watch young Kashmiris cry and lash out

We wax eloquent about the Maoist issue

And cry for every couple hacked by the khaap

We like groups on Facebook that spell “protest”

And tweet about our petty politicians

But India still lets us be

Even when you throw your garbage on the road

When you have four kids to have a boy

When you ram your car into a jhuggi and then pay the cops

When you rather be a Banker than a politician

And when money means more than morals

But Isn’t it time to stop talking, stop screaming

Stop judging, stop pointing

Let the change be you, someone once said

And I will start with me

If a billion of us do the same

What will be left to not love about India?

a rushed ditty for my friends

You know who I am right?

Brash, arrogant and outspoken

My mind’s like a cluttered drawer

My mouth a vending machine

I like you and love you instantly

But you know I love myself too

We fight when that love becomes overpowering

But you know how to put me straight

You know who I am right?

I love my reflection, the way I look

No wonder the gym can’t melt the love handle

I love the way I think people see me

Charming, sweet, a darling

And I can’t hear of any other way

But I know you know who I am, right?

Won’t hurt a fly, won’t turn you away

Won’t be mean or petty or indifferent

Won’t judge you and will never say “I told you so”

Will laugh with you and never at you

So you know me and love me anyway

Even though you are one in a million

As long as you know me

I will be fine…right?

Why jealousy is a dangerous thing

Jealousy is a dangerous emotion. It makes you question yourself even if you know deep down inside that you are good at what you do. If you're not getting paid as much as someone who doesn't match up to your output, it makes you resent the work that you do, even though you can't stop. If someone is prettier, you waste your time bitching about her or him. If somebody just fits in right away, you spread nasty rumours about how she must have slept her way up. Jealousy is a dangerous thing and it makes you a bitter person.

But then, I think we all know that. We know it, but we feel the emotion anyway. Why is that? I have tried to be like a horse - I wear blinkers the way they do - just so I can't see what the rest are doing around me, and hence not feel jealous. But that's easier said than done. More often that not, I might not see it, but I am still thinking about it. I think about it on my trip home and then end up being so frustrated that I fight with my husband the moment I step into the house. And when that happens, I feel jealous of women who are unmarried. As I said, jealousy is a dangerous thing.

I remember an incident from about when I was just 14. My class was conducting a Miss 9th C contest (beauty contests were big back then), and my good friend was talking to all the boys in the class asking them which girl according to them was the most beautiful. Now I know it doesn't sound honest or modest, but most boys voted for me (I think, no, I know that it was because I was the most amiable girl - they didn't have to grovel around me). So when a boy told my good friend that he was voting for me, she asked him why? He said why not? And then she delivered the cincher, "Isn't she too short? And not to mention, that hairy upperlip?"



I was hurt. I was appalled. How could somebody, who I thought was a good friend, do this to me? But now, when I look back, I sort of understand. After all, her points were valid, so it was not as if she was lying. But jealousy made her forget the fact that I was a good friend, who had let her in on many secrets. Jealousy, you know, is a dangerous thing.

I stopped feeling jealous about someone else's pretty face a long time ago. I just realised that if I am not happy about the way I looked, nobody would be. So I dress up my ego in classy couture and always keep a smiling disposition, and I have come to realise that it works. As for the job thing, I have given in to my fate. I guess money will come when it has to. After watching a woman not buying a pav in the morning as it was too expensive, just about a rupee and 50 paise, I have come to know that I am almost a millionaire.

So I am sort of deciding not to feel jealous. What about you? Join me; it's a good place to be at. As I said, and I will repeat, jealousy is a dangerous thing.

Why women should not hold on

FOR KHAN Fahreen Sajid, a resident of the Behram Nagar slum in Mumbai’s Bandra East, the decision of who to marry is going to be the most practical one of her life. All she wants is a toilet — a step up from the slum’s community loo. “I need a house that has an attached bathroom,” she told her father, a zari maker, matter-of-factly.

In Haryana, this realisation dawned early. In 2005, the government started the initiative ‘No Toilet, No Bride’. Slogans of “If you don’t have a proper lavatory in your house, don’t even think about marrying my daughter” were plastered across villages. About 1.4 million lavatories have been built in the state since 2005 and 798 village panchayats have already received nearly Rs 11.29 crore as reward for having a toilet in each household.

When James Brown said, “It’s a man’s world”, he was probably thinking of the long queue outside a women’s loo. Out of Delhi’s 3,192 public urinals, only 132 were for women, according to a Delhi High Court inspection in 2007 and a Centre for Civil Society paper. In Mumbai, Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation officer on special duty Anand Jagtap told TEHELKA that the government makes an equal number of toilets for men and women, with the aim of providing one toilet seat for every 50 people.

But Jagtap’s arithmetic is misleading. Even when the number of toilets are same, male ones have more units since they’re equipped with additional standing- style urinals. This is doubly debilitating when you consider that men and women use toilets differently, and, according to a 1988 Virginia Tech study, women need to spend twice as long in the loo as men.

The Indian man just zips down, faces the next wall and relieves himself. In doing so, he faces no shame or embarrassment — whereas women feel furtive even about using a public loo. Smrithi Rao, a 24-year-old Bengaluru stylist explains, “We are conditioned by birth to feel shame. And I don’t want men to look at me when I am using a loo.”




Kaveri Nag, a retail manager in Delhi, says, “I’m scared I’m going to catch an infection, because most toilets are dirty.I carry toilet paper and cover the seats with lots of it.” She drives from Delhi to Jaipur every week, and is shocked that there is not even one toilet on the threehour long stretch: “Men can just get off and go. What do we do?”‘I only go to the loo before dark and if my calculations go wrong, I just hold it. We're supposed to be resilient,’ says Anwar Sheikh with a resigned smile




In the Kutch, women are forced to defecate in a hole in their rooms after childbirth as walking to a distant field demarcated for defecation is out of the question, reveals Ila Pathak, a prominent social activist who works for the Ahmedabad Women’s Action Group. Says Pathak, “Most women in rural areas don’t use sanitary napkins, so during the time they are menstruating they stay at home and follow the same routine. Travelling to places almost an hour away demarcated as a women’s loo can also cause unusual problems. If the woman of the house takes a long time coming back from these areas, family members suspect her of having an affair and beat them up!”

And in the Northeast, says Charishma, a PhD student in Shillong: “You can spot men all over the hills and in the main town parking themselves on the side of the roads. But when we go down to the main marketplace every Sunday, we keep in mind that we shouldn’t consume too much liquids, or else we might have to use the dirty loos. We have got used to holding it forever.”

FILMMAKER PAROMITA Vohra’s documentary Q2P asks the all-important question: Who are India’s super cities being built for if there are not even basic facilities for women? Paromita says with a dry smile, “A woman’s body is never seen biologically, only sexually, and so when a woman sees a man watching her as she goes to the loo, she knows he’ll be thinking of her naked body. The fact that women can’t pee where they want and when they want is a proof of their oppression — even in the so-called metros.”

India’s urban women — both rich and poor, by the way — face many problems around their toilet routines, but the dilemma of preserving their dignity is often in the forefront. Take the case of Rukhsana Anwar Sheikh, 35, who lives in a Mumbai slum, and has to cross over to a neighbouring slum every time she needs to visit a decent loo. “I only go to the loo before dark as I don’t want to leave my house after a decent hour. And if my calculations go wrong, I just hold it. Women are supposed to be resilient,” she cracks a weary yet resigned smile.

Some women, though, are ready to challenge society’s farcical attitude. Bharti, Guddi and Sunita — housemaids in Delhi’s Rohini neighbourhood — have decided to shed their inhibitions for the sake of their health. The owners of houses where they work don’t allow them to use the bathrooms, so they hit back by squatting on the main road whenever they feel the need to go, even if they are stared at. “We gave up sharam long time back. If we fall ill, what will happen to our children? It’s not a choice we can afford to make,” says the trio of Rajasthani banjara women.

Dr Anita Patil-Deshmukh, executive director of Pukar India, agrees that there are health risks to holding back. “They suffer from constipation and piles. Women who hold it in for long periods also suffer from recurrent UTI (urinary tract infection) and hence give birth to premature or small babies. It’s one of the silent killers for women all over India.” A study conducted by think tank Observer Research Foundation (ORF) in 2010, on sanitation facilities at Mumbai’s 106 suburban railway stations, revealed that the ratio of women to men getting UTI was 6:1.

Journalist Brinda Majithia, 25, commutes 90 minutes from far-off Mumbai suburb Kandivali to Lower Parel every day and never uses the railway station toilets. “I have gone eight hours at a stretch without using a bathroom. The only way you can think of using a station loo is if you don’t touch anything.” At her office, too, there is water shortage. “Last month, we were actually forced to go to a nearby mall because our office made no provision for water shortage in the city,” she says. “Men didn’t suffer — they were still able to use the office urinals.”

It is well known that the right to education is hampered by lack of loos in schools. Half of India’s government-run schools don’t have separate toilets for males and females, forcing young women to use unisex facilities or nothing at all. Bina Lashkari of the NGO Doorstep Schools, which works with Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation schools all over Mumbai, says, “Most girls give up coming to school once they hit puberty, as they are wary of using the dirty unisex toilet, especially when they are menstruating.” In Bengaluru, in a school which had no loo, girls would go in twos to the corner of the compound. One girl would shelter the girl peeing by standing in front of her with her skirt spread out! No wonder, a Ministry of Health and Family Welfare health survey from 2006 found that 22 percent of girls complete 10 or more years of schooling compared to 35 percent of boys.

British urban design planner Clara Greed once said that you can judge a nation by its toilets and assess the true position of women in society by looking at its toilet queues. In India, all we can do is hope, and wait with our legs crossed as tight as possible.

Giving up - a ditty

I'm giving up

Did I ever begin?

Maybe

But you never did

So I'm giving up

Human aspiration says

Did you try hard enough?

maybe not

So I'm giving up

Expecting for walls to talk back

They never will

So I'm giving up

hanging my clothes out in the rain to dry

that's absurd

So I'm giving up

dreaming that dream

coz its just a dream

so the world may say

Carry that torch love

but didn't I just say

I'm giving up 

You and Me - just a ditty

You

I 

Us

Being bitchy

Being jealous

Banging Phones

Banging heads

Being in love 

to being sensible

Lending an ear

to closing down

Being distant, sometimes

Being there, always

Being You

Being me

Being us

Don't know how this story will end

I had never seen her looking so beautiful or so sad ever before. In fact, she wasn’t beautiful, really — cute, yes, but she had told me never to call her that. She said that if I had to call her anything it would have to be beautiful, and since she wasn’t, I never did. I think it hurt her, but I didn’t want to lie to her. How did it matter anyway, when there was something about her that made me leave work early almost every day, take my Maruti (which I cleaned thoroughly everyday because otherwise she wouldn’t sit in it), give her a call to say I was outside her office, waiting with sandwiches and coffee. As she would come out as soon as I called (she never made me wait) she would look at me with a smile that never ceased to make me feel that I should tell I was madly in love with her right away. But I never did that, and that had made me lose her once, but hadn’t made me say it still, so I guessed I didn’t feel it strongly enough. And maybe because I never said it, she went away for a long time, married to a man who loved her more than me, or maybe a man who just said it without being cocky about it. But now she was back, and we had fallen into our old routine right away — lunches at our favourite Idli joint, coffee afterwards, and a game of chess, and then kissing feverishly later. But this time, she was different, and though she kissed me with passion when she did, she often gazed out of the window afterwards, avoiding talk or eye contact. And she never ever asked me to have the “talk”, never asked me where we stood, which was my luck I suppose, but it worried me that she never asked. I guess it had to do with the fact that the man who told her he loved her had died last year. And with him, died her expectations. And so now she was with me, without really being with me. I suppose I was talking like a woman right now, but I wanted her to say something to me, something that would make me feel she was into this.
“I am not going around kissing people and feeling them up in a smelly old car, if that’s what you want me to say. There is no one else I am doing this with,” she told me one day, when I had been all whiney and asked her if she even realized that she was with me. “No, I don’t want you to say that,” I said feebly.
“Then what do you want Gautam? Isn’t this what all men want? I don’t even mind it if you meet other women, just don’t tell me you tell them they are beautiful,” she had smiled, and I had taken her hand in mine and walked with her all over Lodhi Gardens, looking at the ancient structures sometimes, and sometimes at her uncombed hair, already showing traces of white. She didn’t look at anything, she just walked staring right ahead, her lips curled in half a smile, and once in a while she squeezed her hand around mine. We then sat under a tree, watching the love struck couples indulge in carnal sin all around us, behind bushes and on uncomfortable rot-iron benches. But we sat with a foot of space between us, when she suddenly said, ‘Do you love me?’
I must have stared at her a tad too much, because she then said, “why is that such a surprise…If you say yes, I won’t ask you to make an honest woman out of me. I just wanted to know if you capable of loving someone like me?”
Instead of answering her, I asked angrily, “capable of? What do you mean by that?
She started laughing, “you look funny when you angry. All I meant is that you have known me for so long now. You have seen me when I was dressed in a dowdy school skirt, with hair on my upper lip…and you have seen me naked, with my wobbly bits at your fingertips, you have seen me like a girl falling all over a man, and a girl who just doesn’t care anymore. After knowing me so intimately, can you love me?"
I didn’t know what to say. Was this is the time to tell her that somehow inexplicably, she had become the one woman I realized I hadn’t got, and that made her special. I had held her in my arms, yes, but I hadn’t got her. I had let that chance slip away long ago, and she now thought of me as incapable of loving her. I didn’t answer and but couldn’t stop looking at her.
And that’s when I saw her looking really sad, and for the first time, really beautiful. Maybe she needed to be sad to look beautiful. “You look beautiful today,”
“You mean that?”
“Yes, there is a sadness in your eyes that is making you look so incomparable.”
She stopped smiling and said, “Gautam, I think if you keep me unhappy for ever, I might just be as beautiful as Aphrodite herself.”
“But I want you to be happy,” I said lamely.
“Happy or beautiful? You choose.”
As we walked back to the car, our hands still touching, with an unspoken knowing look that said we were going to make love in my apartment later, I knew what I wanted her to be for now — I liked her when she was beautiful.
And beautiful she was, that night as I played with her hair, and she nibbled on my ears. She stood in the kitchen, making cheese omelets the morning after, and singing along with the her favourite, “I feel like a natural woman,” wiggling hips with the beat.
“So what’s the plan today?” I asked with an easy nonchalance, just so she didn’t think that whatever she did, I wanted to be included too. But I did, I wanted to spend another day with her. I wanted to see if I could answer her question, I wanted to test my feelings for her.
“Why do you ask? I checked your phone and saw that an old flame was in town. Aren’t you meeting her today?”
“You checked my phone?"
“Yes, what’s up with that? We are friends right?”
She suddenly looked mean to me, like a green monster covered in goo and with a tongue forking out — a monster who was pretending to be my friend and infringing on my life.
I got up and walked towards my room, “Yes I will be spening the day with the ‘ex flame’, and wewill be coming back here tonight, so be gone by then.” I screamed as I shut the front door.
I was really angry, and I was going too make her pay. I was going to go out, have a great time, and then ….i didn’t know what else, but I was going to make her pay.
The ex flame looked better than ever, but by the time the second beer was dwindling down my throat, she seemed less interesting. She laughed at the right times, cracked a few ood jokes herself, licked her lips seducatively and even offered to pay, but somehow it wasnt clicking. As we made out clumsily in the back of her big car, I found my thoughts going back to the laughing face that had told me that it had snooped through my phone.
One the games were over, I was graciously dropped home and somehow I managed to not invite the lady up, even though I knew my home was empty and the night was just young. The house seemed realy quiet, and I removed my shirt and got into bed without switching on the lights. Under the sheets, there was another body, she was still here.
“You back?”Yes”
“Good, now snuggle up and sleep. I had a long day,” she said as she kissed me lightly
She was here, when I had told her to leave, it was getting out of hand, but for tonight, it was fine.

The next few days were spent in a strange reverie — she was next to me, and I was her man. We shopped for fruits, made salads, laughed at people in the malls, ate greasy Punjabi food every night, and then hugged each other with a fervour that I hadn’t felt with anyone ever before. It almost felt like a relationship. I listened to the Snow Patrols singing a weird version of Beyonce’s Crazy in Love, but it struck a chord, her love was having me look crazy in love, and I couldn’t let it be like that. The balance of power had to be managed. At least for now, it seemed in control. I had a date today with another woman, and she had just nodded when I told her — no tantrums, no sulks — she had even laid out the table and spread new sheets on the bed. She had removed her kajal from my batroom cabinet, and her underwear from the clothing line outside. She did have a home somewhere in delhi, but I had never been there. But she was there tonight, and I strangely felt at ease. IT was my home after so long. I wined and dined my date, and the let her entertain me.

And just as I was falling asleep, my head in her hair, my phone beeped, “I miss you” her message read, don’t you miss me.” I slept without answering.

She came over around noon the next day with a bunch of daisies and dressed in a dress I hadn’t seen before. “I have realized something. I love you,” she said as if it was an epiphany that had just dawned on her. “and I am going to make you love me, I know I can, enough of this sleeping around pretending things are a okay, pretending I am just a friend I Love you and I know you are capable of loving me. Let’s move on, Help me move on Gautam. Only you can,” she was smiling, she looked happy, and hopeful, and it was sad at all, and she wasn’t beautiful at all.
And though all the days I spent with her whizzed past my eyes in that moment, I knew this was te right thing to do, “I am sorry,”I found myself saying. “You are great, you get me, you know what I need, you know I love the middle of the bed— not the right, not the left, but the middle, and whenever I see you squeezing yourself into a ball on one corner, so that I can be comfortable, I know I should love you. You know that I am incapable of sometimes looking for things that are right in front of my eyes, and you make sure you help me see them — be it a gesture, or my pj’s that I can never find. And every night when you hand me my plate full of all that I like seeing for dinner, I know I should love you. And I would have loved you, only that I can’t now, now that you have asked me to. Why did you have to go and spoil it all? Why do you even need to be in a relationship again? Isn’t one dead husband enough? You’re free now. Enjoy it.”
Her face lost the colour, and she was Aphrodite herself — beautiful beyond imagination. She walked upto me, and for a minute, I was sure I was going to get a shiner. But no, trust her to do what I never expect her to. She slowly kissed my nose, and then my lips, and whispered, “remember the feeling, because you will never feel it again.”

Why i want to believe

I, like Fox Moulder in that show we loved so much, X Files, have always wanted to believe. I believe that there is something beyond that helps or or screws us. Even an Octopus Paul makes me believe that things like coincidence exist. Since i got my blackberry, i often google everything and anything, so as i watched Titanic after ages on Sunday, i started reading about it on Wikipedia. What really struck me was that there was a stewardess who survived Titanic, who, hold your breath, had also survived the RMS Olympic sinking and went on to survive the sinking of HMHS Britannic in 1916. And then there was that news report after the plane from Rio To France crashed last year. A couple who had survived as they missed the plane, took the next flight next day, and were taking a car back home, where their car crashed and they both died on the spot. Was it because someone up there realised two people were missing during roll call? I believe in all of it - that Atlantis exists, that aliens abduct people from Bermuda Triangle, that Jesus lived in India, that Jesus's predecessors still live on somewhere, that Krishna may walk amongst us, that an island like the one in Lost could be a reality, that there is a parallel world that can be entered through at Stonehenge. I believe in all of it. Do you?

My love affair with mythology

Till i complete my bisexual research, i thought i would do a small post about my mythology fetish. I loved listening to the stories my parents told me as we went on family road trips when we were younger. Have you heard the one about a place in the Himalayas where Sita still stays with a abunch of fairies? Mountain legend has it that whoever goes there and spots Sita, loses their eyesight or their mind forever. Another story that really got me excited was the one that said Sita actually never went to Lanka. She stayed at this kutia near Pune all the time, and the Sita that went with Ravan was one made of magic. Mythology makes me crave for more and as i have read more and more, i have realised that our texts, especially the Mahabharat and the Ramayana, aim to teach us the real truths of life. My interest peaked after i read Devdutt Pattnaik's Pregnant King, which tells the tale of a childless king, who accidently drinks the potion meant for his queens and hence delivers a baby boy, who grows up to be a great king. Why it fascinated me was that through mythology, the author discussed an important modern theme - of gender differences and how one must treat the "one who lies in between", who is neither a man nor a woman, neither straight, nor gay. When i spoke to the author later for an interview, he said, "We need to srcatch the urface to really understand mythology and learn from it." Another book that really captured me was The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Devakurni, which was the Mahabharat retold through the eyes of Draupadi, who could be credited for changing the course of history. And this is where i discovered the real hero of Mahabharat - Karna. I realised that i respected Karna the most as he lived for others. He supported Duryodhan because he had supported him even when his brothers did not, he was a real man not scared to take a stand. Did you also know that he loved Draupadi? True or not, it's a romantic notion I adore. My tryst with mythology is far from over because i still need to understand how Ram could give up everything for his kingdom, how the dharma follower Yudhuister could lose his wife gambling, and why Duryodhan is a hated man (because i actually see him as the wronged one). Do let me know what you think of mythology. Trust me, it's a conversation worth having.
Cheers
Aastha

Coming up

My first blog post is on an issue i have always been curious about: how does someone tread the fine line between being straight and gay. Is being bisexual a choice or a way of life? let's see what you all think...hasta la vista

Why I need to converse without borders

When you live in a world where people decide what you say, how you say it and where you say it, sometimes it's necessary to have a platform to express your own views without hesitating. This blog will serve as a medium for me to talk about issues that I think matter in today's world. And obviously, what you think matters.  Let's talk to each other about the nation, films, books, sex, education, marriages, relationships, body issues, flings, love, lust, family, dogs, the planet and everything in between. And let there be no hesitation, because in this space, there is no one who is going to say "your opinion does not matter"

cheers

Aastha