Still Laughing

They started off as the girls next to me on the last bench of our college classroom (choosing to sit right at the back shows common interest and clear priorities don’t you think). We progressed to being lab partners and bonded over chemicals and microscopes, and journals and late submissions.

These were the girls I travelled to and from college with and when you’re a group of 16yr olds in the local train with at least 30 mins at hand, you tend to talk a lot (and very fast), and laugh a lot, and generally get to know weird stuff about each other (like how you run and how you look panting and gasping for breath and how well you balance yourself and whether you can draw a botany diagram in a moving train!).

Over the years we grew from being uncertain and unstable to confident and sure. Some of us had common interests in matters of career, and others had different. It didn’t stop us from being friends. We just sat in the last row of two classrooms instead of one, and we had more people to gossip about at Sunday lunches that went on for hours and hours and hours! J

We helped each other cope with college and the punishing course work. We explained and understood concepts that, frankly, we still don’t know what to do with. We spent hours sprawled in the common room making full use of being seniors. We spent even more hours hanging about the photocopy shop opposite the college building (what would we do without them…every student’s best friend).

We bunked classes to go to Fashion Street and picked up cheap clothes which we were very proud of. We sneaked out of class and went for movies that would allow us to be back for afternoon practicals. We sat on the steps of theatres and laughed till we cried when our 18 yr old friend was not given tickets to an A rated movie. We’ve even gone for a movie in sarees (after travelling in the train in sarees, a movie was cakewalk).

We made travelling to college fun and something to look forward to. From wordlessly making fun of the aunty next to us wearing the most bizarre clothes (our eyes can really got some exercise then) to cracking up recalling some stupid joke that wasn’t really all that funny, to spending lots of time rummaging through gaudy rings and earrings being sold in the train, we giggled and laughed our way every morning and afternoon.

We struggled through textile practicals (it was torturous enough to get special mention here). It used to be difficult not to explode into unladylike laughter watching the painful and agonized looks of my friends at the next table. We sat through 3 hours every week praying the teacher didn’t come to our table and pretended we knew what we were doing and drew a lot of lines and cut a lot of cloth. We looked at each other and the watch a lot (maybe if we’d look at the teacher and our work as much we would have understood more…hmmm….).

From the cooking lab (where we whined and complained about the washing up we had to do and having to eat our own cooking) to the local train (where we actually played dumb charades and enacted ‘Dhoti Lota aur Chowpatty’) there are memories everywhere. From the corner table at McDonalds to the top floor at Khasiyat there is laughter everywhere.

We have seen each other through college, relationships and marriage. We have been there when we were rolling off the couch onto the floor laughing. We’ve held hands when crying. We have pointed out mistakes and errors when there were any.

We have remained friends across continents, across jobs and husbands and new lives.

Even now, I truly laugh without a worry and care when I read mails sent by my friends. They make me feel like a teenager again. I can forget the worries and burdens that I’m carrying for a few minutes everyday when I’m with my friends.

They say change is the only constant. I’m just glad the laughter is still unchanged.

We have been friends for 9 yrs now and are still laughing.

Here’s to all you mad girls. Love you.

Hot Pakodas On A Rainy Day

When it rains, it pours. And when it pours, everyone is thankful for and prays for different things. The farmer prays and hopes for a better crop this year round, the restaurant owner prays and hopes the rains don’t affect his clientele, the student prays it rains hard enough to have an unscheduled holiday, the head of the BMC prays the city doesn’t flood, commuters pray that it stops raining for a few minutes till they get where they have to. The lover hopes that the roads are clear and he can go meet the woman he loves. And me, I pray for a plate of hot, fresh pakodas!

I love rains. From inside my house, standing at the window, with the cool breeze whipping my hair around, I absolutely love the rains. I love them even more when I’m all warm and dry and its pouring cats and dogs outside. But for me, the best way to enjoy rains (and doesn’t matter if you’re wet or dry), is with a plateful of hot pakodas, fresh from the oil. Nothing beats the smell of frying pakodas mingled with the sound of the rain coming down hard. With the first rains, you can find that mouth watering aroma wafting up from every kitchen window in the area and can picture happy families crowding around the yummy treats and fighting for the biggest pakoda in the pile!

My Very Own Peach Tree

Kung-Fu Panda leaves in the audience a renewed love for a certain black and white, bamboo loving endangered species, an increased fascination with a gravity defying, nerve paralysing, quick silver martial art, a craving for Chinese food and a desire to have your very own peach tree – at least figuratively (though a real one wouldbe just so much fun!).

But we do have that figurative tree to go to. I go there to be with the million and twenty five thoughts in my head. I go there to think; sometimes to stop thinking (it can be such a trial!), I go there to cry (a good bawl is just so helpful sometimes); to talk to myself (no one needs one more reason to call me cuckoo). I go there to breathe. I go there when I want to concentrate; when I need a break. I go there when I'm happy (to jump around in peace); when I'm restless. I go there when I just want to be!

My peach tree: one corner of my building terrace that looks onto empty grounds and lovely Gulmohar trees (yes I live in Bombay and trees do exist as do empty spaces); sometimes it is that tiny space between my bed and study table where I can scrunch up and sit. When I was in college, it used to be my window where I would sit with my feet resting on the box-grill for hours on end (or at least till my posterior got numb). Many times my tree is my shower. And I know that for a lot of people the peach tree is their porcelain throne. Well, each to his own I say.

So in a way, everyone has their own peach tree. It may not be as pretty looking as Oogway's tree, nor would it be laden with succulent fruit, or blooming with flowers that shed their petals at opportune moments. In fact, barring those who have access to lone trees in the middle of nowhere (like those in Forrest Gump ) none of us really even have trees. But we do have our windows, and showers and terraces that we can stake claim to as our very own......

Political Tamasha

BJP MPs allege SP bribed them, show money in LS

Just when you thought politics couldn't get any dirtier or embarassing (or even entertaining for that matter), the people's representatives reach new lows.

A political circus that had its grand finale today has been up-staged by a well strategised stunt that has shaken everyone. The media vultures, political pundits and local populace are all rushing to give their opinion about a definite first in India's colourful political history.

From throwing chairs, benches, microphones, tables and footwear, to hurling abuses and choice names in the Lok Sabha, we thought we'd seen everything that was to be seen in the midst of a gathering of our country's policy and law makers. We even found excuses for their uncouth and boorish behaviour!

But when they start waving bundles of money amounting to an alleged 1 crore, one has to stop and wonder - wonder at how much more they actually have, wonder at where they got the money from, wonder at how brilliantly the politicians of our country are utilising technology and nationwide live converage to their benefit.

This is here only because i need to occupy myelf with something to do since i'm now officially freaking out, which, by virtue of being a woman, is not the easiest and most comfortable state to be in. Can't we for once freak out without imagining the end of the world and life as we know it?!

I am alternating between feelings of wanting to throw up my dinner (which owing to increased brain activity and consequently reduced blood flow to the stomach i know wasnt digested and is sitting there waiting for a signal) and wanting to throw something that will make a loud shattering noise on hitting the floor.

Aaaaaaaaaggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is exactly what is happening inside my head right now.

Preoperational Stage

With all the bumper stickers and tee-shirts proclaiming that everyone is unique and different and special (and not in the special needs sense of the word), it is so easy to imagine (bordering on delusions maybe) that the universe revolves around me and my emotions and life crap.

But the thing about imagination is that unless you're delusional you're probably aware that it isn't real. Bummer. It's kind of disheartening to realise that while I try and shed through my eyes, all the water content in my body, elsewhere, someone is trying to decide everyday mundane things like what to cook for dinner. How can one think of what to cook and what to wear and what to tell the padosi's kaamwali to lure her away when my life is going beserk?!

I know it's very Piaget's preoperational stage to think that i'm the center of the big bad universe. But im guessing the reduced water content in my body leads to unreasonable and egocentric thoughts in my cerebral cortex owing to shrinkage of some grey cells.

Oh well, at 25 i know enough (hopefuly) and have heard enough times (more than enough actually) to end this with the cliche that when you laugh the world laughs with you (thankfully not at you) and when you cry you cry alone. Sniff.

Pappu naach nahin sakta....magar film bana sakta hai!

My last attempt at watching a hindi movie in the theatre was Jodhaa Akbar. Needless to say I came out traumatised and with all faith lost in movie makers today and the future of this art in the country (ok, so maybe I look for opportunities to exaggerate a tad wee bit, but the movie was a pain in more ways than one and I couldn’t believe I paid actual money to see it!).

Since then I haven’t really had the courage to pay exorbitant amounts of money (seriously what is with the pricing of tickets these days?) to go see movies on the off-chance that I might not want to shriek with disbelief ten minutes into it. Until 4 days back.

It has been a long time (or at least as much as my tired little memory can recall) since a movie has been applauded by critics across the board (leaving no suspicion of under the table mithai boxes). I waited to read reviews from all possible sources and talk to those friends of mine who take pleasure in the whole first day first show concept. Based on popular verdict I ventured into a multiplex after ages.

3 hours, lots of popcorn, atleast a litre of pepsi and lots of laughter later, I came out smiling and feeling nice (as opposed to the usual what was I thinking when I came for this movie). Finally a movie that is believable – from the age of the actors playing the characters to the way they speak to each other to the way they dance. The latter was enjoyed by all those who have often wondered how every main character in every movie seems to have a black belt in fancy dancing. Here the characters danced the way I remember dancing at that age with my college friends (mainly jumping around and uncoordinated), they spoke the way I recall doing – a liberal mix of English and bambaiya (and if my parents are not reading this, several choice words that could make your ears burn!)

The realness (is this a real word?) of the characters makes you smile all through the 3 hours. They don’t seem contrived or made up. There are small things that make the whole group endearing – from the standard tubelight in the group who takes 2 seconds more that everyone to get a joke, to the whiner, to the gujju with his delightfully mimic worthy accent (and in college, my group had all the above three in one person!! :D) The parents seem normal, wearing normal clothes instead of full wedding apparel all the time, they seem to be doing regulare everyday stuff instead of plotting and conniving against everyone they know, and talking like parents do instead of long drawn speeches from mughal-e-azam!

And finally, validation for the movie being a success and connecting with the audience is the simple fact that everyone in the packed theatre, while exiting, was humming/singing/mouthing “Pappu can’t dance sala…” with a silly happy grin on their faces and a bounce in their feet! :)

Bhaago......

Since writing the post below, i have had a sighting of the main perpetuator of all the sins and crimes and bahus and saases (is that correct usage?) and glycerine consumption that can be see on TV.

Actually if i could be bothered to step out of the house anytime between 2pm and 6pm on any day, i could see her jogging (trudging) away resolutely on the barely there road, amidst rubble and dirt and mud and cars and people and everything else in Juhu Scheme.

Oh and she never does it alone. Alongside her run her bodygaurd and her manservant. One with a gun, the other with her phones. In fact there are two manservants. One on either end of the stretch she covers. They take turns you see, although the pained expressions on their faces are pretty identical - maybe owing to the fact that they run in safari suits and bata shoes.

All i can say is that the reigning queen of sob is now a daily feature and almost a tourist attraction in juhu with people flocking the illegal jhunka bhakar stands and the roadside chaiwala dukaan to watch her waddle to and fro. So anybody looking for a quick way of ending the K-saga you know where and when to find her.

Aaaaagggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If all that was written about a certain Ms. K and her status as Queen of telly-land and the work she sent out into the universe was collected in one place, it would definitely fill up several high ceilinged rooms in havelis belonging to the age of huge houses and big courtyards with cows in one corner.

But I can’t resist. She makes it impossible to do so. Several minutes watching one of her concoctions is enough to make you barf, look speechlessly at anyone watching the show voluntarily, and hurry to the keyboard to clatter out the several hundreds of thoughts zooming past in your head.

Why was I watching even a few minutes of her shows? Sheer laziness – I didn’t want to get up and move from the comfortable position I was in on the couch, and my maids didn’t think that my presence should deprive them of their daily afternoon quota of glycerine induced tears, evil giant bindi and scary sari wearing vamps, simpering new bahus, manipulative husbands, grandmothers who have drunk from the fountain of eternal youth (or mortality), memory loss, divorce, and doddering old pandits predicting the meeting of rahu and ketu.

It is this last element that gets me huffing and puffing to my computer today.
In the 3 minutes that I paid attention to the simpering falsettos and highly rude language on the screen, I heard a dhoti-clad pandit warning a wife about the eminent danger her husband was in that night and that he would be betrayed by people he trusted and that her presence was the only factor that would protect him and she shouldn’t let him out of her sight. So now our annoying voiced wife decides to pace the palatial house thinking of ways of tying her husband to her pallu. In this she is aided by a woman, who till 2 months back on the show, was in love with the aforementioned husband. Keeping up so far? It gets better. The husband is manipulated by a man he trusts (pandit is proven right!) into leaving his wife’s side. She hears about his going away and goes in “nahiiiiiiin” mode.

At this point, thankfully, Reliance energy came to the rescue with a power cut, and here I am typing this out at full speed with the last few minutes of my battery life in my laptop.

Are You For Real?

I just read that President Patil recently made a statement about how education is the most important tool for empowering people and how the youth should ensure a future that is ‘enlightened’ and “create a society free from social evils”.

Is she for real? What society is she living in? The rest of her speech also involved archaic and standard politician material of asking the youth to be "good citizens of the country, conscious of their rights, civic duties and responsibilities". I’m sure I read this in school in my History and Civics textbook more than 10 yrs back.

Oh and there was also the getting rid of evils like child marriage, dowry and female foeticide along with creating awareness about harmful effects of alcolhol, smoking and other intoxicating material.

I’m still trying to close my jaw from the sheer stupidity of this statement. I mean, yes all the above are issues that need to be dealt with. But they have been for the last any number of years. I’m sure the office of the President can come up with something that belongs to today and that doesn’t sound like it has been in circulation since Nehru started talking politics.

And what is with this whole youth thing? Why the pressure? Are the youth expected to dismantle what passes of as advanced human civilization replete with everything we seem to have inherited and increased ten-fold with every passing year and recreate a “society which is free from social evils”? And about ensuring an enlightened future, I can safely say that with an increasing number of students looking beyond boundaries of countries to study and work, the youth are way ahead of you Mrs. Patil.

So as much as one appreciates the attempt, I think someone needs to tell the President (or better yet, her speech writers) that they need to get their heads out of the textbooks belonging to their school days and get real. It’s high time someone did.

That Question From Hell

Everybody is interested in what everybody else is doing. This is an established fact of the human race from time immemorial. But just because Adam and Eve did it does not make it endearing or even tolerable.

Over the last month, I have had to exercise such control that it’s gotten me to breaking point. In fact I’d really like to break the next person who asks me (with that annoyingly smug and polite look plastered on) what I’m doing now. These days when I get that query I try and get away with a polite he he he and a quick change of topic. And yet after half an hour of inane and convoluted discussions about the weather, politics, movies and food, I’m back to struggling with “so aaj kal kya kar rahi ho?”

At this point it should be mentioned that I’m doing nothing. I’m in a voluntary unemployed state of existence owing to certain life situations. Of course, living at home with a TV in my room, wi-fi, and regular availability of food does help me with choosing not to be an active part of the Indian economy (of course the pay I get/got/will get is ridiculous enough not be of any help to the economy…it barely helps/helped/will help me).

This, now, will help you understand better my obvious and slightly maniacal reaction to a supposedly innocent question. Of course, that it is not innocent is understood. Having grown up in a Marwari home, one knows very well what morning/afternoon and evening chat fests between aunties comprises of – complaining about respective kaamwalis, the annoying sister-in-law, the ever present guests, the dinner menu, and a detailed discussion about everybody they know…and their children.

My up in arms response to the what are you doing now query is an attempt not to provide content for excited discussions: “haan, woh avantika hai na, haan, aaj kal kuch nahi kar rahi hai. Haan ghar par hi rehti hai pure din. Pata nahi kyun. Itni padhai ka kya fyada hua ….”
Uff. Kashtam.

But where there is a will there is a way. Having realised that there is no way out, and that Marwari aunties are as determined and resolute as Rakhi Sawant, I figured out a way to get around the infernal question. Choose your pick if you may:
a) Freelancing
b) Between things right now
c) Just got back from vacation
d) Jetlagged

Inside of a Washing Machine

There are some smells that are so peculiar and particular that one can literally see them. Like that of the inside of a washing machine. Dank, musty, grey, cold, and if not opened in time after the clothes are done, add the smell of soap and wet clothes to the above mix.

Now one can wonder (and I hope you are, otherwise I’m just talking to myself again) why of all the things that can be smelled visually (you know, sugar and spice and all that’s nice…) why the inside of a washing machine?

Probably because I feel like I am living inside a giant washing machine and someone has forgotten to take the laundry out! Come rains, and everything refuses to dry –clothes, shoes, hair, bags and even umbrellas sometimes!

The house smells distinctly of clothes forgotten in the washing machine. In fact most of the house looks like a washing machine threw up. There are clothes hanging in every conceivable place where they are likely to dry. Anywhere there is a respectable amount of space empty, an aluminium clothes stand of can be found (every house in any city where the rain gods are meherban will have a clothes stand to aid in the difficult task of drying clothes).

Wearing clothes becomes a task of gargantuan proportions. One has to analyse and weigh the pros and cons of the colour, material and length before venturing out in the mud splattered, rain swamped roads. And then one has to think about putting clothes in for the wash. Will it dry? How many days will it take? Do I need to wear this in the next two weeks? And heaven help the person who put in 3 pairs of jeans to wash in one load! The clothes stand will have company for at least a week to come!

Living in Bombay is considered to be tough. People not used to the city cringe at the sight of the people and the traffic and the slums and the noise and the general you will get crushed if you don’t move fast enough feel in the air. I only say to get the real Bombay, try living here in the monsoons with just one pair of jeans.

Yes, Federer Didn't Win

In a match that could have gone either way (at least after the heaven sent rain shower) lady luck decided that it’s time she got out of her extremely comfortable resting abode in Federer’s tennis racquet and swung her alluring self onto Nadal’s side of the court.

To be fair to both players, they didn’t let their fan downs. From the word go, the match was a nail biter, with every point being better than the first. Tennis doesn’t get any better than this.

Now I can’t wait for Wimbledon 2009.

And Then You Wonder...

Every year between the months of March and June board exams are conducted and results are declared. Every year between the months of March and June Mumbai is assailed with a spate of suicides within the age range of 15-17 yrs. Every year between March and June psychologists in Mumbai have a field day spouting their expert opinions on stress, pressure, competition, parenting, and everything under the sun that can get them a couple of inches in Bombay Times or better yet, 5 minutes of fame on the telly.

Every year people wonder why these suicides happen. Teachers in the staffroom talk about how parents pressurise the children to perform beyond their capacities. Parents in the corridors talk about how schools want children to improve their result stats. Everyone talks of the system being faulty. Like that ever helped anyone…least of all the students.

The papers in the last few days have been full of admission woes. A huge chunk of the admission seekers had their total percentages hiked by a full 4 percent (and 4 percent is hu-uge when seats are got based on a couple of decimal points) allegedly in order to keep up with the higher average percentage offered by other examination boards. The move was such a quick execution that one wonders at the speed at which the whole thing was done and if it wasn’t already expected by those who matter in such things.

Then there are top colleges in the city that are offering open admission to students who went to the right school. I don’t think it is a coincidence that both educational institutes are run by the same trust and that one of them is a new body looking to enrol more students.
(The repercussions of this one will directly affect preschool admissions as parents will scramble to get their toddler into the right school and thus the cycle begins as soon as the child is able to tell you that he wants to go potty.)

And then there is the usual advantage gotten of belonging to the right ‘community’ – that which runs its own educational institute, or of knowing the right people, or of having the right parents (with the right bank balance preferably).

The only thing today that is not an advantage is a high score.

When a student with a total percentage of 94% fails to secure a seat in college of his choice it’s only natural that he will question it all – the work he put in over several months, the sacrifices he made, the naïve trust he had in hard work being the key to success. It is only natural that he will question his own confidence, esteem and worth. It isn’t unnatural that he be driven to doing something drastic.

And then you wonder…

It Has To Be Sunday When...

Not being employed currently (a totally voluntary decision btw), I have a lot of time on my hands. To quote a number of fed up family members, “har din Sunday hai iske liye”. But I beg to differ. Even for someone who sometimes loses track of what day of the week it is, there is something in the air when it’s a Sunday.

Waking up in the morning, one knows it’s a Sunday when…

• When there are no annoying school buses on the road at 7 am honking away in front of buildings calling out to children (when they really would rather not).
• When you wake up at 7.30 am and find that everyone else in the house is still asleep (I know, just my luck to be the first up on a Sunday!)
• When the newspaper dropped inside the door is about 3 inches thicker than the usual and has several glossy and shiny sides to it.
• When you see elders in the house lounging around in their pj’s till 9 or 10 in the morning without a care in the world.
• When at 8.30 in the morning there is that very strong very particular smell of tea being brewed (on most other days people are in such a hurry that you really can’t smell the tea before it’s gulped down accompanied by a burning tongue and watering eyes.
• When everyone in the house plants themselves behind a newspaper for at least 15 mins in the morning and all that can be heard is the rustling of paper and the slurping of tea!
• When the phone doesn’t ring at all till much later in the day (and by that I mean at least after 9 am) as opposed to the infernal 7 in the morning.
• When more than a cup of tea can be had within a space of 30 mins and no one minds it (“Sunday hai yaar”).
• When breakfast is a leisurely event (followed by an even more leisurely lunch)!
• When a siesta post lunch is considered normal, expected even.
• When the number of random visitors is the highest in the week.
• When there is either Hum aapke hain kaun or Main pyar kiya or Hum saath saath hain on television (believe me, every Sunday!).
• When there are inane tv show marathons on all channels feeding the appetite of those unfortunate who can’t keep up with bahu no 4 on channel no 5 dealing with husband number 6 during the rest of the week (of course you also have the welcome marathons of prisoners trying to break out of prison and the like!)
• When at least one member of the family has a lunch appointment or a movie date or a meeting for coffee planned for the day.
• When I’m sitting at 9 am in the morning and posting things up on my blog when I should probably have helped with breakfast. Hmm.

PS: You know something good is on TV when the roads are deserted and even the dogs are looking forlorn in the evenings with no cars to chase. And by good I mean Wimbeldon finals. Go Roger!
PS2: Speaking of Wimbeldon finals, could there ever be a more boring match than that between the William sisters?

Telly Woes

So I’m in front of the television channel surfing looking for something reasonably sensible to watch (I can’t hope for anything intelligent anymore really). I zoom through the hindi channels with my brain faintly registering words such as bahu, saas, mata, beti, sasural…and cringing.

I move onto movie channels. The less said the better. It being the weekend, a happy joint family saga is bound to be on with the regular band of characters: an adopted son, ungrateful children whom the mother wonders why she had, weeping fathers, a 5 star house, the faithful manservant (making eyes at the doodhwali), the family pet who happens to be the most intelligent member of the cast, a bad story and even worse songs.

English movie channels. Oh well, they probably assume that our choice in movies is pretty bad (based on the aforementioned) and so we’re reduced to watching Snakes on a Plane and the like! Why o why?!

The other channels (including news) are all devoted to reality shows. I was so bored that I made a list of everything they have made reality shows on:

Fashion designing
Interior designing
Construction
Car/Bike making
Tattooing
Hair styling
Singing
Dancing
Singing and dancing
Acting
Comedy
Film making
Cooking
Learning to cook
Living together in one house
Modelling
Learning what clothes to wear
Travelling
Surviving the wild (supposedly)
Living somebody else’s life
Etc.

I’m sure anybody reading this can add a few more.

Sigh.

Go Federer

Wimbeldon finals tomorrow.

Federer vs. Nadal

Outcome of previous two meetings on the same court makes me smile and do the happy jig.

Please no one say third time is the charm because i might just kill you and saving the world from bad taste in sportsmen will be my defence in court.

Will put up new post after the match. Will be about a) graceful swiss players who rule the court or b) wild haired spaniards who lucked out!

Clothes Maketh the Size

For the last decade or so, I have been the unwilling target of several subtle (and even more not so subtle) hints and nudges to come down a size or two (or even three). I trained myself to ignore the above and continued existing happily. That is, till I realised that the Indian clothes market was being taken over by the sizes that didn’t allow you the luxury of that extra bulge and that special curve! In sheer desperation I had to drop a few kilos simply to be able to pick up clothes that would fit me (and not make me look like someone I would comment on)!

Then recently I visited the US of A. A place that made me (mostly) feel healthy and normal sized. I will always have special memories of shopping there and having to look for smaller sizes!! The clothes there seemed to understand the need to hide certain unflattering contours and enhance certain lines. They also seemed to get that being big doesn’t make you unworthy of style and shape. And I have to confess, I took a certain gleeful pride in rummaging through the piles of clothes and discarding everything with an L and more (XL, XXL, XXXL etc).

Anywho, my point here was that I can never take such sadistic pride here in India. The clothes available (or unavailable) do not allow me that luxury. And grudgingly I am glad about that because laziness, good food (read: carb loaded, fat soaked, sugar spiked) and availability of clothes matching your ever expanding size are a lethal combination. One of the many reasons I am glad I don’t live in the US. But then again, that is another story.

Neurons On Strike

I find in the present, my mind refusing to cooperate with itself. And by this I mean that apparently the idea generating and the idea expressing sections in my head have had some sort of a falling out, or at least so it seems to my I-am-happy-with-what-i-have-written part of my brain.

With more or less nothing to do with my time my brain keeps generating random topics to write about. It even composes several glowing sentences on each such that I am encouraged to poise myself very professionally at the computer. And then I wait. Apparently the words don’t want to leave my head, or at least not in the same version as I thought them.

Of course, to the sceptics I say that the speed of my thought generation is so fast that my fingers cannot keep up. And yes you may stop laughing now.

I guess till I can figure out why the neurons responsible for correct and satisfactory transmission of my ideas to my fingers are rebelling, I’m going to continue writing and ignore the fact that someone may actually be reading this.