If that's all you will be, you'll be a waste of time...

... And so i'm back! With the usual optimism, the usual cheer and the usual gusto for everything that is life. And what better way to make a comeback, than with my '100 things to do before I die' list. Of course, it being December and the resolution-time of the year, makes it all the more apt.

(The list is a little incomplete, so keep 'em suggestions coming!!)

1. Run a marathon
2. Take horseback riding lessons
3. Learn to ski
4. Learn how to ice skate
5. Learn to water ski
6. Learn to sail
7. Become fluent in French
8. Learn conversational Spanish
9. Learn to say "hello" in 50 languages
10. Learn sign language
11. Learn Mandarin / Arabic
12. Learn to play the guitar with some degree of proficiency
13. Enroll in a belly dancing class
14. Compose a song
15. Ride in a hot air balloon
16. Go paragliding
17. Go sky diving
18. Go on a helicopter ride
19. Go scuba diving
20. Ride a mechanical bull
21. Climb Mt. Everest
22. Experience weightlessness
23. Go bungee jumping
24. Go white water rafting
25. Learn to fly a plane
26. Learn to play poker (or bridge)
27. Develop a talent for photography
28. Learn to make pottery
29. Learn to sculpt
30. Do woodworking
31. Learn to brew beer or make wine
32. Take up gourmet cooking
33. Paint - watercolors, oil, acrylics
34. Learn to repair a car
35. Make a difference in at least one person's life
36. Join a Big Brother, Big Sister Program
37. Join the Peace Corps
38. Get my article published in a magazine
39. Write the book I know I have inside me
40. Play a role in a movie or sitcom or a commercial or be an extra
41. Spend a week at a 5-star spa
42. Become a wine Connoisseur
43. Become financially literate and learn how to invest intelligently
44. Create enough passive income so that I don't have to work another day in my life
45. Watch the 100 movies on my "100 movies I want to see list"
46. Get married
47. Buy a home I love and spend time making it into the home I always wanted: with an inviting, joyous, comfortable, loving atmosphere
48. Start my Own Business
49. Adopt a pet from the animal shelter/ Keep a dog
50. Live in New York, atleast for a while
51. Live in a house by the lake or a beach house
52. Have a house with a terrace, a view, a library filled with books and a huge TV room
53. Be a spectator at TED Talks: an annual conference in California which brings together the world's most fascinating thinkers and doers, who are challenged to give the talk of their lives (in 18 minutes)
54. Meet the Dalai Lama
55. Visit Tibet
56. Spend a week at a Silent Retreat
57. Ask for forgiveness from all of the people I've hurt
58. Send my parents on their dream vacation.
59. Trace my ancestry
60. Visit the 100 places on my ‘100 places to visit’ list
61. Read all 100 books on my reading list
62. Learn to fly a plane
63. Have a star named after me
64. Make sure I tell my friends and family how much I love them so that when I DO die... they won't wonder and I'll be at peace
65. Be content with myself
66. Throw a dart onto a map and travel to where it lands
67. Spend six months getting my body into optimum shape
68. Get six-pack-abs
69. Get passionate about a cause and spend time helping it, instead of just thinking about it
70. See a favorite band/artist in concert
71. Drive a convertible with the top down and music blaring
72. Eat everything on BBC's '50 things to eat before you die'
73. Learn to bartend
74. Find a job I love
75. Get a tattoo or a piercing
76. Give up television and the internet for one month
77. Read the major religious texts for various religions
78. Throw a huge party and invite every one of my friends
79. Have my portrait painted
80. Spend a whole day eating junk food without feeling guilty
81. Give my mother a dozen red roses and tell my parents I love them
82. Stay out all night dancing and go to work the next day without having gone home (just once)
83. Shower in a waterfall
84. Teach someone illiterate to read
85. Ask someone I've only just met to go on a date
86. Donate money and put my name on something: a college scholarship, a bench in the park
87. Give a theatre performance publicly
88. Broadcast a show on the Radio
89. Kiss in the rain
90. Make a snow angel
91. Open my own restaurant/café
92. Attend an India-Pakistan cricket matc
93. Spend 3 months travelling around and getting to know India
    

Currently Reading: Bombay Meri jaan- Jerry Pinto, Naresh Fernandes
Currently Listening: Two points for honesty- Guster, Nothing ever hurt like you- James Morrison

Are the details in the fabric?

A depressive state is coming over me. Yes, me of the cheery smiles and the 'life is beautiful' outlook, I am feeling sad. And unsettled. And trapped. And panicky. And a million other things. I don't quite know what I am feeling. I don't think I can give it a name. It's a stranger to me. But a familiar one. It passes me often as I go on my day, my life. Occasionally I look into its eyes and realise truths I would rather not, only to quickly look away. Other times, I feel its presence and pretend to busy myself in mundane inconsequences-that black dress, that movie ticket, that cute guy. Yes I know this stranger. And I know why it lurks, even what it wants to tell me, remind me.

But how do I tell it, that I know! I know everything it wants to remind me. That this life I lead, is not what I signed up for, not what I thought was coming- This life of ducked heads in cubicles, blank stares at bright screens, this life of regimented comings and goings, this life that I still continue to fight for even though it makes me sad and disappointed.

This is the life where I dream of who I might have been, what I might have done and where I might have gone, And then, wake up to get ready for another cubicle day. This is the life where I chase behind things that I am told to care about: the paycheck, the security, the climb up the ladder, while I leave all that I really care about, in a corner neglected, second rated. This is the life where I lose respect for myself with each passing day for not having the courage to stand up to this life, to the world, to parents, to myself and get that life I yearn. This is the life where I don't even know what that ideal life looks life. I just know it's not this.

And knowing all that, this is the life I still continue to live- where I bury a little more of me, where I feel a little more dead with each passing day. I can hear Jason Mraz singing into my ear, telling me to "hold my own, know my name and go on my way". He says 'everything will be fine in no time at all'.

But I don't think so. I really don't.

Currently Listening: Details in the fabric- Jason Mraz, Prettiest friend- Jason Mraz
Currently Reading: Bombay, Meri Jaan- Jerry Pinto, Naresh Fernandes

Where do the children play?

Every thing's as usual. I'm sitting in office freezing and cursing the AC vent, as usual. The Killers are crooning through my headphones as I tap away at my keyboard, very much as usual. When the day is done, I will feel the usual gladness as I shut down my laptop. I will feel my ears popping as I go down 41 floors in the elevator, as usual. I will walk past swanky shoe and dress shops all advertising christmas sales, on my way to the MRT, quite as usual. I will stare blankly at my reflection on the platform doors at the station waiting for the train and then I will fight my way into the train and nod to the music on my headphones as I head on home- All very very usual. My life is going on as usual and nothing seems different. 

Yet something is. Different. I can feel it.

I can feel it every time I call home- In the insecurity in my mom's voice, in everything she tells me and even more in everything that she doesn't. I feel it every time google desktop pops up a news article on Bombay, that it thinks I may be interested in, and it always tells repeatedly of the carnage that happened. I feel it in the way voices become solemn and thoughtful anytime friendly conversation veers towards the B-word. There is something different and in a wrong way. Different about Bombay, different about me.

There is so much I should want to say, so much I should want to shout out, but I can't. Some part of me has stopped feeling, stopped caring. I look at the whole thing with a shrug. I have given up- on Bombay, on India, on any othr part of this world. I am giving up on ever feeling secure anywhere again. I am doing what Bombay-ites have been so praised for doing. I am walking on. And I'm not proud of it.

Super-Quirk Me!

I've always thought myself to be fairly quirk-free. But over a conversation with APSD, I started thinking about quirks and it turns out I have quite a few. For your benefit, here they are-

1) I am a green tea addict. On any typical day I will have atleast 3-4 cups of green tea and on special days (read: freezing in office coz the AC is too effective) the number goes even higher.

2) I am usually excited about everything and will think nothing of breaking into a little dance move to the music only in my head or iPod, in the middle of a crowded MRT. Yes I've gotten some pretty wierd stares.

3) Up till some years back, I used to suck my thumb fairly regulary (read: 3-4 times a week) before going to sleep. Now I do it only when I am sleepy and in need of some comfort (which is rarely). And yet I protest when C-Tan calls me a 'baby'- Go figure!

4) I can write with both hands. And sometimes when I know people are watching me write, I will switch hands, just to be able to see the look of amazement on their faces (mixed with the thought- What a freak!). Ambidexterity rocks!

5) The only thing I will wake up to 'smiling' is music. Try an alarm clock on me and I will either not get up at all or I will get up violent (throwing alarm clock, phone, anything else in hand's reach type) and grumpy, in which case all around need to run for cover. But when it's music I am getting up to, chances are I'll be singing along and shaking a leg much before I even open my eyes. Thank god for radio alarm clocks, I say!

6) I still believe as fervently in the One-for-sorrow-two-for-joy birds as I did as a 7 year old. And I love the ones in Singapore, coz somehow they always predict joy for me.

And I thought I wasn't quirky. Yeah right!

Everything is dust in the wind

I am no good with deaths. Never have been. I never know the right thing to say, the right thing to do, even the right thing to feel. Initial feelings of shock, sadness quickly dissolve into a mask of practicality and optimism, leaving me feeling like a faker. You see, I don't feel the grief, the pain, the loss that usually comes with a death. And yet the tears do flow, with every memory that the mind throws up. I respond to the grief, the loss that I just can't feel. So it was then, a year back, so it is now and, I fear, so it will be the next time. Tears and no feelings.

For whom the tears flow and the mind does not feel, this time, is my uncle. My dad's older brother. A guy who refused to live a half-life for the sake of longevity. He was the guy who would always reach out for the sweets, that extra dollop of butter, that 6th serving of a parantha . He was the guy who was always laughing, always up for a silly idea or adventure. The kind of guy who would think nothing of driving out to a place on a whim and staying a few days.

People keep asking me if I was close to him. And I feel like shouting back, that it doesn't matter. I still feel the cold creeping up on me, the tears seeping out of me and the realisation dawning on me that it all ends. Everything. And you never see it coming.

And yet we all live our lives like we know exactly when it will be time to wrap up. We postpone the things that really matter, the wishes that really count. all for that next job, that new car, that new house. What if the curtain drops much earlier? What if you never get to have your finale?

Maybe I should tell you about...

...How I chomped down a plate of fried bamboo worms, strung a garland of marigolds, maneuvered a cycle rickshaw around a track and put together a crazy spicy papaya salad.

Or the 4 hour hike in the wet, slippery, beautiful and extremly wormy jungles of Chiang Mai, where the air got thinner as we went up and the clouds surrounded us completely.

Or even about the food. The delicious and crazy spicy Khao Soy noodles that burnt on the way in, burnt on the way out and probably burnt a hole in my stomach too. And the simple and delicious thai fare that was served up to us daily at the pang soon lodge.

Or about the bugs. The giant earthworms, one of which was mistaken by everyone to be a snake and another of which was split into two by my walking stick as I made my way downhill (Yuck!). And even the leeches, that I was so wary against; how everytime I stepped into the shower after a long time in the wild, I would scan myself with trepidation for the blood suckers and the joy I would feel on not finding any.

Or maybe I should tell you about abseiling down a flowing waterfall. About losing my footing, flipping in the funniest way, getting completely dreched in ice-cold water and still thinking how brilliant it all was.

Or maybe, I shouldn't tell you anything really. For what my Chiang Mai trip was, what the weekend was, I can't describe. Not sufficiently. Only thing I can say is that my weekends now have a new standard to live up to!

Currently Reading: Swahili for the broken-hearted- Peter Moore
Currently Listening: Friday- Goldspot, Your ex-lover is dead- Stars

I hate Leeches!!!

...And this year I get to spend halloween with these real bad guys, all the way at Chiang mai.

Must be my year! Sigh!

PS- For a leech-free return, "mujhe dava ki nahin, dua ki zaroorat hai". So pray for me. Please.

Rastaa chaap!

I (Pause, deep breath) am a sucker for birthdays.

There- I've said it! It's out in the open. It’s finally off my chest. And that, after years of trying to keep it a secret; after years of being successfully two-faced about it; after years of falsely nodding my head in agreement anytime someone would say "This birthday thing is a bitch yaar! It comes every year whether you want it to or not". I am the anomaly who actually wants her birthday to come every year, who loves everything that comes with a birthday. Nothing related to a birthday embarrasses me or makes me cringe. Balloons? I’ll burst ‘em, party hats? I’ll wear ‘em, candles? I’ll blow ‘em, Birthday bumps? Yeah, I’ll volunteer for ‘em. I love the shebang that is a birthday- right from the cake, cards, surprises to the friends and the wishes. And truth be told, I have had my fair share of it all. From birthday parties that were spent in pink lacy frocks with ribbons in my hair to birthday celebrations that weren’t even at the right time of the year, forget being on the right date. I’ve had it all, baby! Or so I thought. Until birthday 2008 came by.

Birthday 2008, I am pretty sure, will go down in ‘birthday history’ as the “Rasta Chaap” birthday. It began on a road, was spent pretty much on several roads and ended on a road. It started standing on the road outside “Jade Cinema” after having watching the really horrid ‘Heroes’ (I will not see patriotic Hindi movies anymore, I will not see patriotic Hindi movies anymore, I will not see patriotic…). Gossipking scooted off feigning a toilet emergency and returned with a cake complete with lit candles and birthday singing. And there, that’s how I brought in my birthday at midnight- On the road, with friends, complete strangers and an SMRT bus passing by. Birthday morning and noon saw me travelling on several roads to make my way to Melaka in Malaysia. Birthday afternoon and evening saw me reaching and roaming the streets there in pursuit of sights, tastes and bargains . And finally as the day passed on and a new one started, I was sitting (u guessed it) at a road side food stall chomping down a plate of Ayam Goreng Pedas while guzzling a glass of Teh Tarik, thinking about my next day’s road journey to Genting.

Besides the rasta factor of the birthday, what made it special was also the number of unexpected people who remembered and called up to wish. So all you people, thanks! Even though I may not say it to your face, all of it meant a lot to me.

All in all, it was a lovely day and a lovlier weekend. And here's to more sadak chaap and kurta-phaad birthdays!

PS- On a side note, following last weekend’s trip to Melaka and Genting highlands, I have changed my mind about Malaysia. Malaysia is, in fact, quite pretty and has much to be seen. Cases in point are the two places I went to. Melaka is a quaint pretty little town with wildly red buildings and the mother-of-all-night-markets. The food scene, which I left partially un-explored, seems to be very eclectic and the town itself has the nicest vibe about it. On the other hand is Genting, the next stop on my trip- an amusement park and casino and hotel complex at the top of a mountain. Gossipking and I went crazy on the rides (doing even the crazy 360 degree roller coaster) and the cold weather was pretty awesome too. But the single thing that made my trip totally worth it was the Cable Way connecting Genting to the valley. The longest one in Asia, it took about 20 mins to get all the way to the top and included some pretty good sights (some of which had everything to do with solid white clouds surrounding the cable car).

Ps2- For the non-Hindi-understanding folk out there, Rasta means Road and Chaap means stamp. So loosely translated, it means, erm… Road stamp? Trust me, it’s meant to sound more derogatory than that. It’s just that the English language fails me right now. Anybody, help?

Happy Birthday to Me...

When I am grown to man's estate, I shall be very proud and great,
And tell the other girls and boys, Not to meddle with my toys.
- R. L. Stevenson

In two days, I turn 23. I guess, it's time to take stock!

The Others

Reading about Raj Thackeray's (& MNS's) issue with north Indians in Bombay, I was saddened and shocked. I was also reminded of a movie I had seen quite some time back called 'The Others'. In the movie, Nicole Kidman, who lives with her two kids, starts to feel the presence of 'others' in her house and gets very irked about it. She frets, she shouts, she expresses her anger, only to realise at the end of the movie that it is she who is the 'other', the spirit that has been living there beyond its time, the spirit that doesn’t have sole right over the house and hence has no right to ask anyone to leave. It’s quite obvious why I was reminded of the story and the parallels I am drawing.

Bombay is a great city. Perhaps even the greatest. And what makes it so, is exactly what makes New York the navel of the world. Bombay is a melting pot, a paradox, a ‘Khichdi’. And it’s always been proud about that.

Or atleast the Bombay I grew up in.

The Bombay I grew up in was about differences, about having a certain attitude. In that Bombay it did not matter who you were, where you came from or what you did, as long as you had a dream and you could keep with the pace. That Bombay was about accepting; about holding out a hand from an overcrowded train to help a running stranger get in, without asking who he was or where he was from. That Bombay was about adjusting; about squeezing into a train seat to fit 7 where 4 were meant to sit. That Bombay took in everyone who came to its stations and airports from near and far, and became the richer for it.

The Bombay I grew up in was where a kid would attend a college run by a Sindhi Trust, eat Indian Chinese food made by a Raju (who was most probably a migrant from UP or Bihar), rush to classes run by an Aggarwal, ride in a taxi driven by a yadav, Cheer at a cricket match played by Tendulkar or Dravid, lap up movies acted in by a Khan and aspire to work in companies owned by an Ambani. That Bombay was Joshi, Patel, Subramaniam, Shah, Bansal, Aggarwal, Yadav, Fernandes, Singh and many others. It was Straight, Gay, bi-sexual, deviant and devout. It was stinking rich, upstart wealthy, nobly middle-class, and roadside-poor. It was desi, urban, and American-confused. The Bombay I grew up in was the Bombay that had a place for everyone.

And that Bombay belongs to no one. Not to me, not to you, not to the Marathis, not to the Gujaratis and definitely not to hooligan Politicians. It belongs to anyone and everyone who has ever lived in it, dreamed in it and carried a piece of it in their hearts. And we all belong to that Bombay. We all make it what it is. We all love it for what it represents. And we all want to keep it the way it is.

So Mr. Thackeray, like it or not, I am a Bombay-ite. And I don’t need to speak any one language, wear any particular clothing, celebrate any specific festivals or have a specific surname to call myself that. I just need to love the city and uphold everything that is great about it.

Perhaps you should ask yourself, how Bombay-ite are you? You might just find, it’s you who are the ‘other’ that doesn’t understand what Bombay is about; the ‘other’ that should stop creating a nuisance!

Currently Reading: Big book of crafts
Currently Listening: Forever- Papa Roach, Disturbia (Acoustic)- Boyce Avenue

PS- Yes- Bombay, not Mumbai!
PS2- See 'The Others' if you haven't already. though I've probably ruined the movie for you, giving away the twist and all. But still.

There are a few perks to sitting on the 41st floor...

...Like looking out of the window in the middle of work on an ordinary thunderous afternoon, seeing only a hazy whiteness and realising that at this very moment I am inside a passing cloud! *Smile*

PS- Now I feel like skipping my way out of office and into the rain to dance. What makes it painful is that I clearly can't- Not if I want the next paycheck to come. So I slog on...

Currently reading: The Big Book of Crafts
Currently listening: Worry about you- Ivy, Rain- Bishop Allen

'Coz i'm writing to reach u...

Been goading D for a while to write to me- A hand written-letter, an email or even a one-liner. But to no avail.

And then yesterday, I find this in my mailbox. From him.

" Hair. Colour them. Iron them. Broken nails. Meetings. Friends. Periods. Husband. His friends. Sex. Shopping. Those red shoes. That blue bag. Shopping. Another broken nail. New guys. Old jokes. Parlor appointments. Toll tax. Unanswered calls. Longing for a longing. Date him. Dump him. Menopause. Clearance sale. Date someone else. Date him again. Dump them both. PMSing. Girl's night out. Mosquito bites. Waxing. Laser. Grocery.

You're already dealing with a lot, why do you want me to write to you? Go have beer! "

Well D, simply because you write so beautifully, because no one else writes to me like that and because reading your mails won't make me fat as beer would. So, much as you hoped for it- No, the goading doesn't stop. You still have to keep writing! :-)

Currently Reading: Prevention magazine September Edition
Currently Listening: Random stuff on my iPod

PS- For the benefit of D and everyone else reading this, D's mail above is not factually accurate, only fashionably so. I mean, I don't have a husband, I don't pay toll tax (never have), I simply wouldn't spend time obsessing over nails (intact or broken)- You get the idea. But it's still really beautiful. So consider this a disclaimer of sorts. A'ight?

It takes more balls to be a woman...

…because on average, we will spend a total of about 5 years of our lives dealing with PMS, rolling with painful stomach cramps, and walking around with pseudo-diapers between our legs. How’s that for inconvenient!

...because we are subjected to an unreal idea of beauty that makes us willingly let hot wax rip the hair off our skin and criss-crossing threads mow the hair off our faces. Why don’t people get it- Females, like most of the homo sapien species, have body hair! Live with it!

…because no matter how intelligent or interesting or accomplished we are, it is always ultimately about the beauty of our face, the proportions of our body and the color of our skin.

...because women are forever doomed to be uncomfortable if they want to look good- Stupid impractical g-strings, painful and blister causing high heeled shoes, circulation-preventing skinny jeans- the list goes on. So it's either pretty in pain or ugly in comfort. Either way it’s a lose-lose situation.

…because we have to live with being told by absolute morons that the slight bulge on our stomach is ugly and unnatural, while being a bag of bones with pale white skin is beautiful and awe-worthy. Get some spectacles please!

…because no matter what background we come from, we always end up needing to fight for things that seem to come easily to the boys and should also come easily to us.

...because we have to put up with life forms coming out of orifices obviously too small for the job. And apparently THAT is supposed to be the greatest joy of our lives!

...because despite all that, we still get labeled as the weaker and more delicate sex. Bah, Humbug!

Currently Reading: kitchen Confidential- Anthony Bourdain
Currently Listening: Sweet and Low- Augustana, Drive (Bass version)- Incubus, Don't look back in anger- Devendra Banhart

PS- This post is the result of a frustrating weekend spent searching for good looking AND comfortable women's footwear (which I realised doesn't exist), watching a performance of 'The Vagina Monologues' and obsessing about expanding thighs and unwanted body hair.

PS2- I am not joking about the 5 years. Trust me, I did the math!

Paris on my mind...

I remember very little of my first visit to Paris. I was 12. I had gone there with my parents on a short weekend trip from London. We lived in a hotel on a road leading out from the Arc de Triomph and we ate mostly at Indian restaurants all through out the visit. We did the customary ride up the Eiffel tower but I don't remember the view from the top. I don't remember if we went to the Louvre or if we visited the Notre Dame Cathedral. But I do remember getting lost around the Arc de Triomph while trying to get back to our hotel and getting lots of unfriendly "No English!" responses when we asked around for directions. I also remember looking out from our hotel window and seeing a grey disorganised dreary city. Yes, I don't remember much but I do remember not liking Paris.

And THAT is ironic, because I’ve fallen in love with Paris now. It’s hard not to. Paris is the kind of place where life comes vividly to bloom, where you walk out the door and fall in love, where you can't believe the exquisite beauty of the buildings, or the clouds, or the sun that shines after the rain. The city has an unassuming and intrinsic kind of beauty. The kind of beauty that comes from the understated little things- the lovely tree lined symmetrical roads, the cobble-stoned streets with quiet cafés at every corner, the smell of freshly baked croissants in the morning, beautiful French-windowed buildings everywhere. It’s almost as if Paris is saying “I know I’m beautiful, get over it!” while still feeling secretly proud and pleased that she has yet another admirer.

But I can hardly claim to know and understand Paris completely. Not in 10 days, perhaps not even in a lifetime. For Paris has a multiplicity of personalities- spiritual in the gothic serenity of Notre Dame, naughty in Pigalle’s red light bars, sophisticated in the unending galleries of the Louvre, bohemian in the art galleries of Marais, relaxed in the orderly flowers and trees of the Tulleries, business-like in the towering buildings of La Defense . For every chic expensive Gallic restaurant lining the Champs Elysees, there’s an affordable and exotic Asian, African, Middle Eastern or Franco-modern restaurant in Les Halles. And for every Jean Paul Gaultier, there’s a fledgling fashion student opening his first boutique. Paris is a melting pot of contradictions and differences and yet it all blends in beautifully.

Of course I did not know all that, as I settled into a cramped little economy class seat late on a Friday night with only a tiny little bag, a rough guide to Paris, the memory of my previous visit and the willingness to give Paris another chance. I was headed to Paris and it would take me 13 long hours. With the clear knowledge that I would not last the 13-hr flight without any conversation, I turned to the cute-looking south-Asian guy sitting next to me. Surprise, Surprise! Plane-boy turned out to be French (well Cambodian but only by ancestry). I spent the next couple of hours chatting with him, polishing my French (Bonjour, Parle vous Anglais?), asking him all the things guide books don’t really tell u (How do you really pronounce Champs Elysees?), watching some ‘House’ and snoozing in fits and starts. By the time my plane landed, I had swapped addresses with plane-boy and made plans to probably catch up in Paris later. As I made my way to the hotel in a cab, my body completely time confused, I had my first glimpses of Paris- barely just waking up. And I knew I would love it.

My formal introduction to Paris was unconventional. My first day there, I took a cycling tour of Paris. (Very highly recommended! The guy who took us around (Steven?) spoke fluent English, had really interesting and quirky bits of info on all the places and of course for me it was the perfect way to stave off the Jet lag while getting introduced to the city). And that’s when I discovered the first thing I like about Paris. It’s a very cycle-able city. In fact, the perfect way to see Paris, is atop a cycle- Just get a cycle from the ‘Velib’ stand, comfortable foot wear, something to help you brave the wind and you are set. The city is lined with cycle tracks and what’s better is that you find lots of fellow cyclists too.

The other thing I loved about paris is how dog-friendly the city is. Owners take their dogs practically everywhere- Shops, cafes, restaurants, gardens. And the dogs are well-behaved too. For someone who has lived in dog-phobic Singapore for so many years, it was refreshing to see that kind of acceptance for the four-legged friend. It’s what convinced me that Paris has a heart unlike any other city. If I ever end up having a dog someday, I will live in Paris.

But the thing I loved doing the most in Paris was simply walking around till I got lost. Of course having an uncannily good sense of direction ensured that I was never really lost and that I always knew which way was home. But still, I played pretend. I wandered the streets of Paris with no destination in mind, taking turns as I fancied and letting Paris surprise me. And it never failed to. A beautiful square, a grand clock tower, a serene church, a quaint little shop- The streets of Paris always held some promise round the corner.

Of course I did more than just walk when I was there. I climbed to the top of the Notre Dame cathedral (400 steps baby! And what a view it was!), Walked through the halls of the Louvre (till my feet were sore), Met Mona Lisa face to face (and found her totally unimpressive), sipped an over-priced cup of coffee on the Champs Elysees, climbed up to the Sacre Ceour, took in the sights and sounds of kitchsy Montmarte, and of course wined and dined like there was no tomorrow (and at times it almost felt like there wasn’t). This was, of course, apart from the usual Museum and tourist trail.

Paris was a treat to the senses and no words could even begin to describe it (And I just realised the futility of trying to). I've only just scratched the surface. But I will go back there. Perhaps even live there. Someday.

PS- So I did end up meeting plane-boy in Paris. He showed me around the St. Micheal area where he had studied. It was all really sweet and nice. But the thing I found the funniest- I am an Indian living in Singapore, he is a Cambodian who is French by birth, and the thing we connected most on, was American drama series. That’s globalization (or Americanization) for you!

Currently Reading: Kitchen Confidential- Anthony Bourdain
Currently Listening: Man who can’t be moved- The Script

Drugged Out...

I'm back. From Paris. Infact I've been back for a whole week now. And yet I haven't written a single post- Most notably one on Paris. I can't explain why, but I just haven't felt like it.

Maybe it's because Paris was so amazing that I have so much and (at the same time) so little to say. I have no idea where to begin. And I have an unfounded fear that somehow the magic of it all will disappear if I talk about it. Silly, I know.

Or maybe it's just because antibiotics are the scourge of the blogger, the harbinger of the blogger's block and I've been gulping them (and some drowsiness-inducing medicines) like candy. But i'm told they are the necessary evil- The good guys to fight all the bad ones inside of me. Afterall, right now, I am sounding like a frog, coughing like an old lady and walking around like a zombie (when I have fever). Bronchitis- That's the verdict (and all the way from France- how's that for 'couture' illness). And if antibiotics will make it all go away, I shall pop them religiously! But that also means that now I can't think very clearly since I am drowsy most of the time and I can't enjoy any food since everything pretty much tastes of rubber. Sigh!

But the 'Paris post' will happen. Soon.

Me. In Parée. Yipeeeeee!

Tonight I leave.

Camera- Check,
Passport- Check,
laptop-Check,
Money- Check,
Wanderlust- Hell yeah, Check!

PussyCat Dolls, Rajiv Gandhi and good ol' me!

These days, the Pussycat Dolls make a very regular appearance on MTV malaysia, shaking their booties while crooning "When I grow up I wanna be famous I wanna be a star I wanna be in movies..." The song itself is very typically PCD- Bimbotic, stupid and totally catchy. But that's not what this post's about. Hearing the song always gets me thinking about my ambitions as a kid. All the professions I suffixed to the statement “when I grow up, I want to be…” And as expected, none of it was straightforward or even slightly predictable.

In 1st standard, when most of the girls around me wanted to be princesses and the guys wanted to be engine drivers (or something equally childish), I wanted to be the Prime Minister of India. Yes you heard that right! And not in the way that people say ‘someday I want to be a rich man”. I was convinced, that was my calling in life. Of course my conviction was the result of a lot of things. A very charming and dashing Rajiv Gandhi, a whole lot of media swooning about the man, my very impressionable mind and perhaps my first and tiniest ever crush. I remember being very idealistic about it. And then came the bombing. And my political aspirations died with the man. You see I hadn’t realized prime Ministers could die doing their job. I decided it was too dangerous and that I liked living. I liked it much more than I liked the idea of being a PM.

So once the PM idea was shelved, I needed a new ambition. A new answer for when adults asked me “Beta, what do you want to be when you grow up”. And I settled on ‘Scientist’. I did not have any idea what exactly a scientist did or how long it took to become one. I couldn’t be bothered with practicalities like that. All I knew was that it was honorable to be a scientist and that I wouldn’t lose my life being one. Nothing else mattered. Of course soon I started hearing from old aunties and uncles that Scientist’s are mad. And I decided that I had to get a new ambition. I reasoned, what good was ‘honorable’ and ‘alive’ when everyone thought you were loony.

My next ambition was probably indicative of the stage of life I was in. A teenager drawn to prettiness and the pursuit of it, I decided to abandon all notions of honor and give in to my creative and flashy side. I wanted to be a fashion designer. I toyed with the idea for a while. I looked hard for some successful role models to point at and say “I want to be like them”. But I found none. What I found were people who did not treat fashion designing as a serious profession. Whenever I revealed my ambition with pride to anyone, what I heard most often was- “You want to be a tailor?” As you can imagine, that was a dampener.

I flirted with a range of professions after that, but none with enough conviction. I rejected them all for some reason or the other. Business woman- Not honorable and with low success rate (I was only a kid, remember), Hotelier- requires lots of moolah which I didn’t have, Chartered Accountant- appealed to my nerdy side but seemed like a lot of drudgery and hardwork. Amongst a blur of professions, I began to realize that I did not need to categorize my ambition. Or at least not in the typical sense. My ambition did not need to equate to a profession- A doctor or an enginner or an accountant.

And that was when I knew that what I really wanted to be when I grew up, was simply happy! So I gave into life and decided to swim with it.

So now I am all of 23 years and I have a profession. I am a consultant. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to be so much more and so much else. I want to be a chef. I want to be an author. I want to be a traveller. I want to be a restaurateur. I want to be a presenter. I want to be a designer. And now after writing this post, I think I may again want to be the prime minister of India.

Here's to me and my dreams!

PS- So given my rekindled political aspirations, I might just eventually become the prime Minister of India. My acceptance speech would start something like- “First of all I would like to thank the inspiring gyrations and vocal renditions of the Pussy Cat Dolls. I wouldn’t be here without them. *sniff*” That would be some day for India. I would go down as a legend. Even bigger than Laloo. Now how’s that for an ambition!

Currently Reading: Lonely Planet Paris
Currently Listening: If it makes you happy- Sheryl Crow, Rescue me- Aretha Franklin, Ni Nachley- Imran feat. lucky

I am an Indian

Where are you from? I get asked this question a lot, mostly by taxi drivers. And usually I never reply straight away. I play this game where I turn the question on them. Where do you think I am from? I've gotten the most intriguing answers. Mostly it's Malaysian or Indonesian (Has everything to do with me being in Singapore and having chinki-ish eyes). Occasionally, I get called Thai or Nepali. One taxi driver was convinced I was European if not eastern European. I'd like to smoke whatever he was on.

But I digress. So as I was saying, in this funny little game I play, I rarely get called Indian. Most get very surprised when I reveal my nationality (Some in a Russell Peter's type 'Noooo' and other in demented Singlish- Cannot be lah!) And somehow that always gets me thinking about my indian-ness. Not questioning it, just thinking about it.

Growing up in Urban India, I was never confronted with questions about Indian-ness, mine or anyone else's. Everyone around was Indian. It was nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. Differences emerged in other ways. The mallu who has relatives in 'Gelf' v/s the Gujjubhai who wants Dhokla for 'Snakes' , The Subramaniam who eats curd rice with his hands (and sometime the forearm too) v/s the Khanna who swears by his chole puri. What makes anyone different is the language they speak, the way they eat, what they eat, which state they come from and sometimes (sadly so) even where they pray. And as Indians, we usually revel in our differences, we very often poke fun at them, we sometimes fight over them, but we never let go of them.

And that is why, in India you can never be just an Indian. It is never enough. What use is that? It can't help anyone label you. You have to be a Gujarati or a Punjabi or a South-Indian (yeah that category gets lumped together) or a delhite or some equal denomination. You just have to be from somewhere. Somewhere Different.

But where does that leave me? I am a product of north and south-east indian intimacy. A Mumbaite in attitude and a Delhi-ite at heart. A lover of mooli parathas, paani puri and all things rassam. I speak comfortably in 3 different Indian languages besides Hindi but I think mostly in English. I appreciate the colors and beauty of a Hindu Temple as willingly as I take in the serenity of a church. I am equally likely to be found slurping curd rice from my hand as I am to be found enjoying spoonfuls of Rajma-Chawal. And now, add to all that- eating with chopsticks and speaking in Singlish. So what does that make me?

I say, it makes me an Indian. 100%. Nothing more, nothing less.

Currently Reading- Shalimar the Clown- Salman Rushdie
Currently Listening- Tum Pukar lo- Khamoshi, Little Boxes- Devendra Banhart, Karma Police- Radiohead

Pssst....

I think I have special powers. I can think multiple (and I mean like 100s and 1000s) thoughts all at the same time, in parallel. Yeah I know that's nothing fancy, nothing world-changing, nowhere in the league of the typical-colored-capes-underwear-over-tights-fighting-for-good-type people who have special powers. Infact its usually debilitating and distracting. Imagine my brain as divided into mutiple parts, each with a brain of its own, each thinking a number of thoughts of its own. Mostly it's a cacophony of thoughts. A fish market. Very distracting.

So what do you do when you are blessed/cursed with something like this? You say 'Thank God' for blogging and bulletpoints and take a mental dump. So here it comes. Brace yourself.

******

About a month back, on a bored tired evening on our way back from office, ML and I decided to go get our hair cut. Now that wouldn't have been anything to talk about except that we were in Bangkok, we did not know Thai, and we did not have any recommended place to go to. So strolling around in Central, we got into the first saloon we came across. A nice swanky, very chic looking plac where we first had our Hair washed and bundled up nicely in a towel. It was only when the hair dresser approached me did I miss having a English-to-thai dictionary. Still, ever the optimist, I placed my faith firmly in the power of sign language and gestured to her slowly - "Long hair good, short hair no good". I got a big smile and a nod in return and I sat back, happy that I had managed to get through to her.

So now my hair looks like Joe Dirt, only curlier. Am I traumatised? Hell yeah! Do I need therapy? Most certainly. Will I ever get a haircut again in a foreign land where I don't speak the language? *Grin* Probably. (I don't learn a lesson easily you see. I was never good at that.)

PS1: As for ML's haircut, she has had peculiar reactions. Everytime a camera is around she covers up her face. She says its because she wants absolutely no reminder whatsover of this cut hence no photos. I think it's much deeper than that.)

******

I had a Eureka moment a few weeks back. I figured out why india, the land of plenty and variety, has little to speak of when it comes to oil reserves. Its quite logical, really. Where does oil come from? Well million and millions of years ago organic lifeforms died and got buried in the layers of earth and decomposed. Through some mumbo-jumbo (involving pressure, time and the sediment around) this somehow resulted in the formation of pockets of oil and gas. We've all heard the Blah (8th grade? Science class?) But, (here's the clincher) Indians cremate their dead. They always have. Countries like Saudi Arabia on the other hand, have always buried their dead. And check out how much oil they have. Simple. Brilliant. Why hasnt anyone ever figured this out before?

PS2: I just realised, in cremating all that population, we not only missed out on all that oil, we also possibly have a big hand to play in the whole global warming thing. Shite!

PS3: Yes, I am usually more brilliant than this. Yes, I know this line of reasoning has huge gaping holes. No, I dont want to know about them.

******

Shoes. New Shoes. New heeled shoes. New heeled shoes that go clackity clack. They are quite addictive really. And they are having some positive psychological effects too. I almost feel like a power-woman when I am wearing them. My walk is springier, my day is brighter, my attitude is more up beat and the net result is that I get more work done, faster and better.

Hmmm. I suddenly feel like the baby who got to wear new squeak-squeak shoes only to end up doing more of what he didn't want to do in the first place (i.e.walk).

******

These days, I spend my days in the Petronas Towers in Kl (Doing things that are completely useless in the larger scheme of life, but that's another story). Now, they have a PA (Public announcement) system that they use every 3-4 days. Mostly they just test the system. So everytime the PA system comes alive, the lady always begins with 'Tuan Tuan dan Puan Puan' (I'd like to hear ur interpretations on that) and then goes on for 10 mins with equally gibberish words (malay apparantly). All this, while I am looking around feeling stupid and wondering if I should bolt to save my life or keep sitting on my chair staring dumbly at my screen. I sit on the 44th floor and in case I have to try and get all the way down, I sure would appreciate a head-start. I mean I have nothing against malayu or nationalistic sentiments but the last thing I want is to reach heaven thinking "If only I had understood malay..." People, English, pls!

******

So I have a 'hypothesis' on blogging. The more frequently a person blogs, the more detailed their posts are, that is not to say all the detail is useful, or interesting or consequential (Case in example: This post). Refer to graph below-

Yes. I am a nerd. And I revel in it. Usually.

******

So there, you've been dumped (on). How does it feel?

Currently Reading: Lonely Planet France
Currently Listening: Sick cycle carousel- Lifehouse, Ahista Ahista- Bachna Ae Haseeno

Woman like a man...

So blog crawling over at Indiacut today, I came across this nifty widget that assess whether you are male or female- All based on your browsing history. My score?

Likelihood of you being FEMALE is 53%
Likelihood of you being MALE is 47%

So as if everything-else-fucking-up wasn't enough, I now have a random program telling me that I am gender confused too? Damn right, I am!

Currently Reading: Boring Reports and powerpoints at work
Currently Listening: Infinity 2008- Guru Josh Project, Mai Talli Ho Gayi- Hard kaur, In my time of need- Ryan Adams

*Blank*

It's not often that I find myself mellow and sad. It's not often that I feel a certain kind of moistness on the edge of my eyelids. Today doesn't come very often. And for good reason too. I don't want it. I don't like it. I'm searching for my smile, my ability to laugh everything off, my stupid stupid optimism.

And I can't find it.

All I can find is disappointment, sadness, the feeling that I've been let down. And the realisation that what she means to me is perhaps not what I mean to her. That's the only way I can explain it all. She tells me otherwise. I want to believe. But the nagging voice in my head goes on. Someone make it stop. Make it shut up.

There's a song playing in the background. I stop to listen to it. "...Open up my eager eyes...‘Cause I’m Mr Brightside..." Very apt.

I smile ruefully to myself. Cause, you see, I'm Mr. Brightside.

Currently Reading: Nothing really.
Currently Listening: Mr Brightside- The Killers, Have you ever seen the rain- CCR

Vaat is Mobaile Numbarr?

Two weeks back, I went and bought myself a new handphone. Now anyone who knows me even remotely, has heard of my history with handphones. I've been through 8 phones in the last 5 years, and not because I was upgrading to new models. I lost 3, spoilt 3, and simply moved on from the rest 2. I've been through 5 different brands of phones and there was a point of time I had chargers for all 5 brands but only one phone.

The analogy I usually like to draw is that for me phones have been like boyfriends. I adored the first one I had. (The Phone, not boyfriend, silly!) It was a Nokia. A big bulky thing but with very nifty features. Top of the line then and it could possibly even compete with some of the models in the market today. I carried it around faithfully for a whole 1.5 yrs before I left it carelessly in the back of a taxi. I remember the feeling then. I missed my phone but did not mind moving onto a new one. You see, I had not had any experience with other phones, I thought I could get a better one, I had not been sure of what features I had wanted and 1.5 years is a long time.

Eager to move on and explore what was out there, I switched brands and bought a Slim Samsung fliptop phone. It was nothing like my previous phone. Big Mistake. All show, no substance, the phone was difficult to use, too retarded and did not have so many of the features I had gotten used to with my big-bulky-and-dependable-Nokia. (Notice the pattern) But given that I already had sunk costs, I stuck on with it. Until one day, 10 months later, I got onto a bus with a laptop in one hand, bus pass in the other and the phone to my ear. A minute into the ride the bus driver braked and I faced the dilemma of saving myself or saving my Samsung. I chose me (obviously) and eventually got off the bus with a broken Samsung phone. I had no regrets. Good riddance to bad rubbish I said. The only thing I thought about wistfully was all the money I had spent on the Samsung and all the money I would have to spend on the next one.

I don't quite remember how and why I picked my next phone. A Sony Erricson. What I do remember was falling in love with it within a day. It was everything my dear Nokia had been and not been. Features were awesome, easy to handle, sleek and it looked good enough too. Most of all, my closest friends approved of the choice. I paraded it around proudly for a whole month before tragedy stuck again. Someone stole my phone. I tried very hard to get it back. Filed a police report, fought with security guards, looked at surveillance cameras. Nothing helped. I was left broken-hearted. It had been only a month, not even enough time to get even slightly bored. For a whole 2 weeks I refused to get another phone and I gave the dirtiest looks to anyone who suggested I do. I had decided I did not need any more phones in my life, since eventually I ended up losing all of them. Of course, eventually I came back to my senses and bought a phone for the sake of practicality.

My next phone was the rebound phone. I bought the simplest and cheapest Nokia phone available at the Starhub outlet.(I pretty much told that to the guy at the counter in those many words). It was nothing spectacular. It served the purpose. It was practical. You see, I did not care about phones anymore. So after a year of step-motherly treatment, I uncaringly passed it on to a friend (who eventually left it in a taxi) when the time came to renew my contract (coz you get a new phone with a renewed contract).

I bought a slightly more fancy phone this time. Only slightly. I guess I was starting to recover. A Siemens phone that could play MP3s. I don't have much memories of that phone, fond or otherwise. The only reason I remember it was because of the way it was stolen- As part of a full on burglary in which my laptop was also stolen. I did not feel much grief at losing the siemens simply because I was too busy grieving for the lost laptop.

Around that time my dad (who was visiting Singapore) generously offered to buy me a replacement. I decided to go back in time and buy the same Sony erricson phone I had lost. I was overjoyed initially- Now that I had my Sony erricson phone, I could go back to thinking the stolen-phone episode was all a bad nightmare.It would be like old times. But it wasn't to be. Somehow it just felt different. The excitement was tired, the joy short lived. Something was different and it was different with me, in me. I felt disappointed. I guess the phone (in its infinte virtual wisdom) also guessed it. In 6 months, one by one functions of the phone started failing. First some buttons stopped responding, then the screen lost it's light. 'Liquid Damage' the service center said. I did not spare even a moment before moving onto the next phone. I guess I was beyond the point of grief and emotional attachment. 2 other phones followed after that- A motorola and a really snazzy Nokia. One still used as a spare phone, the other sort of spoiled. Both hand-me-downs. And both not cared for as much.

So why do I compare phones to boyfriends? (if you haven't already figured it) Simply because you could replace 'phone' with 'boyfriend', 'money' with 'time-and-effort' in this post and it would make as much sense (or nonsense). I started with liking this vague idea of having a phone (any phone really) and moved onto knowing exactly what I wanted from a phone and why I wanted it. Quite like the idea of Boyfriends...innit?

So, now I am onto my latest one. It's a Nokia. And I have a feeling it might be the one (Finally!). Red Snazzy panels, awesome speakers and an amazing capacity for mp3s. Everything I want in a phone. I think.

Oh, I can feel the butterflies in my stomach waking up and starting to feebly flutter...it's been a long sleep!

Currently Reading: Traveller Tales- India
Currently Listening: Life is beautiful- SixxA.M., Dance with me- Nouvelle Vague, I remember- Damien Rice

PS- So the new phone has a new Dhinchak ringtone too as of today. And I keep waiting for people to call so I can hear it ring. (There is some wierd uncanny pleasure in hearing 'Mein Talli...' as a ringtone that I don't get while just playing it as a song. Something about the unexpectedness of it.) But no one has called yet and I'm still waiting....

I love Calvin!

I feel like this. Too often ...And a drink of water and few deep breaths never help.

Romantic Movie + Rainy Afternoon = Bad Idea!

I am a complete mushpot right now and filled with whimsical thoughts and 'awwww' moments. I guess that's what comes out of watching 'My Best friend's wedding' on a perfectly breezy and rainy afternoon.

I remember first watching this movie (in the afternoon also) over at Nitya's place in 7th grade while her mom was out shopping for some vegetables or something equally mundane. We were probably too young to understand the movie the way it was meant to be. Or to be able to draw any parallels within our lives. I mean, complex three way relationships and gay best friends are as far as it gets from school exams and sanskrit textbooks. But even then, we couldn't help being infected by the 'awww' feel of the movie, though it was only probably the pretty dresses and the mushy kisses (giggle, giggle).

Over the years since then I re-saw the movie in bits and parts, while browsing channels on bored evenings or visting friends (who were seeing the movie themselves at their place). I went through the phase when it became fashionable to scringe my nose at any movie that had anything mushy, cute, pink or awww about it. And that list included 'My Best Friend's Wedding'. I grew out of that phase (Thank God), and came to admit that while I do prefer comedies or action movies, the occasional chic-flick ain't so bad either. Oh but I digress.

So come this afternoon, I saw 'My Best Friend's wedding' from start to finish all in one sitting, for only the second time. And this time I got the movie the way it was intended to be gotten. I understood what Julianne was doing and the reason behind it. I drew parallels with my own life and mulled over what it would be, to be in a situation like that. I sighed everytime Rupert Everett came on the screen and wondered why I did not have a friend like that (and where could I get a friend like that). I envied Julia Roberts for making a profession out of something I love to do (I mean, food critic, how cool is that?). I got all dreamy eyed when Dermot Mulroney and Julianne were sharing screen space. I sang out aloud 'Forever, forever, you'll stay in my heart and I will love you' with the movie. And most of all I wished I had a long-time friend who wud make a 'get-married-to-each-other-at-28-if-we-haven't-found-anyone-else-yet' pact with me. (it's so avant garde!)

But now the movie is done and the ads are playing, I realise that it has actually left me feeling crappy about my life. And without good reason too. I have a perfectly nice life, lovely friends, people I love and who love me back, a nice enough job. I mean it's not picture perfect and I would tweak parts of it if I could, but its still a nice life. Right?

OK so now i'll just go tell myself that. "My life is fun! My life is great! I love my life!"

(Hmm. It's not working. Shit.)

Currently Reading: King of Ayodhya (Ramayana Series)- Ashok Banker
Currently Listening: Hum bekhudi- Mukesh, Don't look back in anger- Oasis

Leaving on a Jetplane? Yeah more like the jetplane leaving without me!

Last monday I missed a flight for the first time ever. (When I told this to friends, most just ignored the first part and jumped to the second. "Really? For the first time ever? YOU haven't managed to miss a flight before? YOU got through 22 years of flying without ever missing a flight?" Yes, thank you for the show of confidence!)

Anyways, missing a flight was a very confusing experience. Yes, confusing. Because I can't recall feeling consistently the same way throughout the whole thing. Feelings came in waves and phases, and oh, all so different and conflicting. For the benfit of anyone interested, I will chronicle this event in detail. (Warning: The following text may be disturbing to some and may cause a change in your opinion of me. Reader discretion is advised.)

Some background: My flight was at 7:40am on Monday. The previous night I had gone to sleep at 1 am in the night. I also have a new phone on which I set my morning alarm, on the fateful Sunday night.

Monday, 6:35 am: I woke up with a start and lazily reached out for my phone to check the time. I was pretty sure the alarm hadn't rung and hence the 'lazy' stretching. Upon seeing the actual time on the phone, I first went into denial. ("Ah this is bangkok time, so in singapore it's still actually 5:35am. Plenty of time. Oh wait, din I change my phone to Singapore time yesterday? Shit Shit Shit") In a record time of 5 mins, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, wore my clothes, called a cab, grabbed my bags and left home.
Primary Feelings- Disbelief, Tinge of panic

Monday, 6:45 am: I started pacing frantically near the bus stop below my home, dishevelled, sleepy and frantic, waiting for the cab to arrive. I get a call on my phone. It's the cab driver. "Where u ah? I wait long time for you here". When I informed him of my location, he dove into a tirade of complaints and whining. " U know, u give me wrong location ah. I oredi at Bus stop, u not here. Cannot this way lah!" Much against the fact that I had actually given the right location and that he was infact standing in the wrong location (well its my post, so I get to tell the story my way), I apologised and simply begged him to get to me quickly
Primary feelings- Frustration, Desperation

Monday, 7:05am-After 2 more equally-retarded phone conversations with the Taxi driver, (TD: I reach dead end, how to get to your block from here ah? Me: Huh?), checking my watch a million times, and swearing at everything repeatedly (stupid taxi driver, stupid phone, stupid flight times, stupid travelling, stupid me!), the taxi driver finally arrived. But before I could send a silent prayer to god and set off speeding towards the airport, the taxi driver launched into a tirade of complaints in a way that only singaporean taxi drivers can manage- (and I quote the conversation verbatim only coz it is so hilarious)

TD: U tell me wrong place. I got wait for you and you stand here. not right u know. Must tell right place lah!
Me: It's ok. Just take me to the airport
TD: No is not ok. Cannot do this way u know. Ur mistake!
Me: Ok fine, its my mistake, sorry. Can we now please just go to the airport really quick. I am really late for my flight!
TD: PIE very crowded you know. cannot quick. Right now when I come, was jammed. Ur flight, what time ah?
Me: 7:40
TD: U know must reach airport 1 hour before flight. Cannot do like this ah! flight close oredi mah!
Me (in my head) : Oh really? A whole one hour? I did not know that!!!

So yeah, tolerating 1st rate complaining and 3rd rate driving, I made my way to airport, thinking to myself- Shit, I'm not going to make it!
Primary feelings: Irritation, Anger, Impatience

Monday, 7:30 am- I reached the airport finally and walked upto the check-in counter, still hopeful that I could get onto the flight (how retarded can my optimism get). Of course, I ended up checking into the next available flight which was only at 12:20, a whole 4 hours away.
Primary feelings: (Blank)

Monday, 7:45am- The first thing I realised once I was no longer trying to catch a flight, was that my stomach was grumbling. So I sat at a cafe, drank orange juice and sorted the contents of my hand bag (simply coz I was bored and my hand bag was really heavy. It seemed logical at the time). And what a wide array of pointless things. 4 pens- all in working order, 3 pairs of earrings- all too big for me to wear to work, 2 samsonite keys- to god knows which lock, 1 measuring inch tape- Don't ask. What was more glaring were the things I was missing- No iPod, no passport photo, no return itinerary (last two for visa on arrival at bangkok). Anyways, over the next four hours I caught up on personal emails and calls that I had been putting off, I sorted out my personal post that I had been carrying around in a bundle (and most of it was junk), and actually got some productive work done. So by the time I made my way to the boarding gate, I was actually feeling pretty good about myself.
Primary feelings- relief, unexplicable laughter, satisfaction

PS- I realise this post seems a little incomplete. That is only coz recounting the events of monday has gotten me as tired as the events themselves did. And I think I prefer to go sleep or do something equally unproductive. Cherio!

Currently Reading: Sawasdee- Thai Airways inflight magazine
Currently Listening: Hold you in my arms- Ray lamontagne, Volcano- Damien Rice, kabhi kabhi aditi zindagi- Jaane tu ya jaane na

Of writer's block, biting dogs and dying genes...

I have been staring at this screen for the last one hour and using the delete button more than I ever have. It's simply never happened before. Words never fail me. I usually have a million things to say and the words always flow through.

Not today.

I have a million things swimming in my head right now but the words just refuse to form. Maybe it's because I dont have one or two things to say. As I said, I have a million things. I am rambling now. Another first.

So well, This post won't be the most brilliant thing ever. It's ok. I'll live. I'll settle for mediocrity, just this once.

The last few months have been quite something. If 2007 deserved a eulogy, the last 3 months deserve hymns and epics written about them. I quit my job (finally!), took a month and a half long break before joining a job that pays more than just my rent (well it still doesnt pay for a Gucci or a Louis Vuitton bag. But I never really wanted one of those, now did I?). During that one-month-and-a-half break, I went back to Mumbai (to meet mommy and daddy dearest), managed a trip to Goa (albeit with my family, yet again), flew down to Newcastle and galavanted the british lands before finally coming back to the roost. And what a return it was. 1 week into the new job and I was travelling fulltime. First to KL (I stayed in the Ritz-initialized-pillows-royal-bathrooms-amazing-beds-carlton) and then to Bangkok. Infact as I write this, I am sitting by a wondow in a hotel room, looking out at the night lights of Bangkok. Yup, I'm living a consultants life baby!

But it wasn't all as rosy as I make it sound (coloring things pink has always been my knack). My first day in Mumbai, I got attacked by a dog (No, I did not provoke him. I prefer the version that the dog was simply retarded). Obviously that meant I had to get injections (4 of them, yes sire!). The very next day, I jammed my pinkie in a cupboard door followed by slipping in a mucky muddy mumbai-sabzi-mandi the day after. And then somehow I managed to get Sun-burnt in Mumbai. Yes, you heard that right. Me, of the indian skin and stubborn resistance to the sun, got sunburnt. And that too in Mumbai. Oh but it doesn't stop there (I wish it did). Nursing a sunburn, I made my way to Goa, laughing it all off as a freaky co-incidence. So much for optimism. In goa, as I was clicking away to glory, some crazy random lady bumped into me and knocked my camera out of my hand. The result was a broken camera. (repairing it dented my pocket by a whole 200 dollars). I returned to Mumbai with a broken camera and a broken heart (my beloved camera!) and the very night developed a severe allergic cold, to the point that I was rendered unable to speak. (Don't ask me the mechanics of that). I guess after all of that, I don't find 'Just my Luck' (yes I did see that movie) so far-fetched now.

But the more worrisome thing was what happened afterwards. The moment I left India and reached Dubai and then eventually Newcastle, I was fine. No biting dogs, No disabling allergies, No random mishaps, Nothing. And that worries me. Coz the inevitable may finally be happening. My india-compatibility gene is dying from under-use. And that, is a scary thought! Coz it also means bye-bye roadside pani puri and chaat, bye-bye sweat tempered pav bhaji, bye-bye dust seasoned bombay sandwiches. In short, bye-bye India living.

Ok, Now I am panicking! Come back gene, I miss u, I need u!

Currently Reading: Bridge of Rama (Ramayana Series)- Ashok K banker
Currently Listening- Can I stay- Ray Lamontagne, 9 crimes- Damien Rice, This years love- David Grey, Love Hurts- Incubus

2007- A Eulogy

I know it's a little late in the year to write a eulogy about the year that went by. And yet I am here laboring over this entry, only because I believe there is no wrong time for praise. Best if it comes on time, but good nevertheless even if it comes a little delayed. Just as long as it does. So here goes.

2007 was a year of changes and revelations. Quite possibly even life-changing. A lot happened in this year. No strike that. I let a lot happen in this year.

#1

First came my stint in Delhi. 4 months of tolerating heat, sweat, family relations, crazy traffic. Before I left for Delhi, everyone I knew told me I was crazy to leave the 'pampered-aircon-everywhere-buses-and-trains-on-time-Singapore' life to go spend a few months in 'crazy-unsafe-oogling-men-and-flashy-women-filled-unbearably-hot city of the Delhi-belly fame'. I almost listened to them (Shivers!). And I'm so proud I didn't. 4 months later, 3 close friends richer and 2 ks lighter (though it's a mystery how, given the numerous finger licking meals I pigged on there), I unwillingly left Delhi with a newfound understanding of who I am and an absurd reverence for the city (which eventually transformed into an appreciation and love for the mother country herself).


For the first few months after my return, this reverence took on gargantuan propotions, with me pining for the city, the life, the friends and finding Singapore sorely lacking in every comparison. Over time I stopped comparing (knowing the futility of the exercise), decided to sign off Delhi as a torrid summer affair that I had to get over and busied myself with setting a rythm for my life here. But I often look back at my time in Delhi and have realised over time that I am wiser, richer, possibly even more mature for having been there at that time: Wise in experiences, rich in friends and mature in outlook. And that in itself would have been enough to make the year special- a little extraordinary.

#2

2007 was also the year I graduated. In the days following the graduation ceremony, I remember mulling over what exactly it meant to have 'graduated' and wondering how life would change, if at all. In hindsight, change it did, and in ways I never anticipated! (and therefore did not prepare for). Life as a student, even with all its cramming, sleeplessness, kunj-ing (read as being miserly or money-wise depending on how you see it) and worrying, was still a care-free life. I lived life on my terms and had a countable number of cares (rescuing my GPA, disciplining my yo-yo-ing girth, picking a place to eat dinner). And best of all was feeling that at any point I could choose to say 'Fuck it!' to all of it . Come post-graduation life and nothing changed save one thing. The sleeplessness remained, the kunj-ing remained (coz lets face face it, there is nothing like enough money) and the worrying took on enormous proportions. The only thing that changed was the care-freeness; the loss of the ability to say 'fuck it!'. I guess when you have more, you also have more to lose.

Graduating was also sort of a coming-of-age for me. I started looking back at everything I had done and not done (consciously or sub-conciously) and before I knew it my bag of regrets had grown heavier- 'I should have gone for exchange, I should have travelled around the world, I should have learnt to play the guitar, I should have gone wakeboarding'. And with that realisation came this urge to make good on lost time and opportunity. I got back to practicising playing the guitar, I began travelling more, I started living life to the fullest I possibly could. In a way, the rite-of-graduation turned out to be a sort of reality check for me and made me realise that I only have a finite number of days to live and an infinite number of things to see and do. And so I started playing catch-up!

#3

2007 was also the year the travel-bug bit me. Grappling with a longing for the Delhi in my memory and the hard striking quarter-life crisis post-graduation, I made the first of many trips out of Singapore to simply get away (I am still not sure what I was getting away from). A budget-airline ticket in hand and a backpack on my shoulder, I found myself in Bangkok with two other friends. It was love at first sensation-The sights, the sounds, the smells and even the chaos (quite unlike the prim-ness of Singapore) all reminded me so much of India. I stepped out of the airport, a smug smile on my face- I had come to the right place. What ensued was 3 days of seeing wonderous Wats and palaces, eating 'eyes-and-nose-watering-spicy-but-oh-so-lip-smacking food' and strolling through endless by-lanes full of clothes and imitation bags and whatever else you may fancy, all made easy on the body by a regular dose of traditional Thai massages. I returned from the trip with the realisation that while I love Delhi (and I always will) there are other places to see, there are other fish in the sea!

And so, over the next few months before the end of the year, I went fishing! In Ho Chi Minh City I walked through tiny guerrilla tunnels and fired horribly-recoiling-&-brilliantly-loud AK-47s. In Hanoi, I browsed through the nick-knacks in the by-lanes of the old quarters and dined gourmet-style at Bobby Chin's. In Hue, I visited the numerous tombs of ancient vietnamese kings and enjoyed strong vietnamese coffee along the huong river. In Ha Long Bay, I appreciated the beauty of the limestone mountains dotting the sea lying atop a dinghy and celebrated christmas helping a vietnamese waiter practise his halting english. In Bintan, I experienced swimming in the sea for the first time ever (and it was a bit alarming coz my paranoia kept me mistaking rocks and leaves for snakes and jelly fish) and felt revved up racing a quad bike along the stretch of the beach. Finally once again in Bangkok, I appreciated the place that started it all off and enjoyed some more bone stretching and relaxing massages.

Looking back at all the travelling I did, I realise it has changed me as a person. I am more experimental and so much more understanding of things and ways different from my own. I appreciate the world around me for all its beauty and realise that life with all its ups and downs is really quite something!

To end this post (seeing that it is already reaching epic lengths), the Me-of-the-year-gone-by and the me-of-the-year-that-has-come are really two quite different people. And if I might say so, I quite like the latter me. So Kudos 2007!

Currently Reading: Inspite of the gods- Edward Luce
Currently Listening: To be alone with you- Sufijan Stevens, I will be there when you die- My morning Jacket, Baavra man- Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi

My incurable Delhi-hangover...

As I was going about my usual day at work (elaborated as talking endlessly, writing aimlessly and daydreaming shamelessly, all while warming my chair and tapping away at a keyboard), I happened to glance at the date today and the simple thought that went thruough my head was- 'This time last year, I was 1 week into my stay in Delhi'. And that's all it took-Bye bye productive day, hello nostalgia lane!

Its been about 9 months since I got back to Singapore, and not a day has passed when I havent wished myself to be back- to that place, to that time, to those people. It was quite something. Weeks on weeks of time spent with friends, meals after meals of scumptious food, days after days of living in the moment- life felt full of possibilities. Add to that, the magic and romance of delhi itself (I am sure this had something to do with me reading 'City of Djinns' a few weeks into my stay there), and you can understand why I am so completely jaded about my time there.

Admitedly, I am guilty of some degree of idealism. I'm sure in my 4 months in delhi, I must have cribbed about the city (probably while sitting in an auto in the sweltering May heat, trying, but failing miserably, to brave the hot winds with a dupatta wrapped around my face), I must have felt low and lonely (Definitely during my first few weeks there much before I met B, A, U and all of the others), I might have even missed Singapore at times (much as I don't like to admit that, it's a possibility). But all I remember now is how happy I was then. And that is why nothing gets me smiling like the idea of going back to Delhi.

But Delhi to me is more about the people I met there, than the place itself. Rambling conversations with B lying on her terrace, late night drives over the DND flyover with A, the most wonderful and surprising ever not-quite-birthday celebration planned by AM, the ever-so-often-but-oh-so-rewarding food quests with U or P or N in the middle of work. Nothing would have been the same without them all- Delhi, the 4 months or even me!

And that's what scares me about actually going back there (as opposed to just thinking about it). People move on, people change (as some already have) and without the same people, the same feeling, Delhi would somehow become less wonderous, less exciting and less magical.

Well good for me then I guess. As things stand today, its not a fear I need to face. I am here in Singapore, working my days away, wondering what life intends for me (or what I should intend for life) and losing more and more of myself with each passing day (or so I feel). Knowing the happiness I felt in Delhi only makes me acutely (and painfully) aware of the lack of it (happiness that is) in my existence here.

But such is life, I'm told! Without being in the 'down' you can't really recognize the 'up' (even if it does the chicken dance in front of you, apparantly). And who am I to disagreee?

Currently Reading: Cleo march 2008 issue (believe it!)
Currently Listening: Strange condition- Pete Yorn, Alive- Pearl Jam, See you again- Miley Cyrus