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!