Short Cuts

This is attempt number 873 at writing a new post for this space and since i've decided that i'm no longer mentally capable of achieving that task, i'm going to take the easy way out and use the "vishesh tippani" format so loved by Marathi exam paper setters in the Maharashtra state board. *stops for breathe* 

Bal Thackeray died. Bombay froze (literally) of of sheer terror, just like a deer does when facing a predator. It's pure self-preservation. I just wish we had the skills of a skunk and instead of rolling over and playing dead, the city had shot out super stinky stuff at the bad guys. It's been 3 days and the internet  is full of all kinds of analyses and discussions and opinions. I'm not going to add to it. At least not any more.

Pune was also in shut down mode. The only good thing that came of it was that the Fellow got to have a mini adventure when he went shopping for vegetables. Yes he does that. I've trained him well. Anyway.  We had dinner guests and no veggies in the house. So he heads out to the closest market which is literally abandoned. Except for one man who tells the Fellow to follow a kid who will take him to what he wants. Turns out, one guy was selling vegetables. Out of his house. He invited the Fellow in, offered him tea and proceeded to weigh out everything i'd put on the shopping list. And then he told him to take an alternative route out of the place to avoid goons on the lookout for any shady activity. The Fellow came home totally thrilled and with a new story for parties. 

Before the old man died, Diwali came to town. Our first time away from any family which was a bummer. But it forced me to clean up my act and do grown up stuff - like stringing fairy lights all over the house and lighting so many candles the Fellow was sure i was going to burn the place down. In the end, i cooked the food of my childhood Diwali celebrations and to add to the joy, the Fellow enjoyed it. So many days later, and i'm still clearing the house of marigold petals. Fun times. 

A lot of our old friends are going to be in town this December. It's going to be a happy end to an interesting year. With such a nomadic lifestyle, catching up with old friends is a pleasure unmatched. 

Am at the end of my rope when it comes to the Fellow's boss' wife. She's an annoying, loud-mouthed, opinionated, rude woman who thinks she's the boss of all the women she meets. And one of these days i'm going to bitchslap her in full drama mode right in the middle of one of her "i'm so cool" speeches. No really. Just because you drink neat scotch and don't have volume control doesn't mean you're cool.

The Fellow is crazy busy at work. Even as i type this out he's been at work for 12 hours. Which means that i've been alone for those 12 hours with no one to talk to. And for those who know me personally, you know what a huge deal that is. So here i am, super cranky and no one to vent to, knowing very well that if i vent to the Fellow after he comes home following an insane day at home, i'll be the bitch. 

Sigh. 

Random Notes

Too many things (once more) to write about.

Attended 21 yr old cousin's wedding last week. Needless to say it felt like we were getting a child married off. But she wanted to get married. I envy her lack of ambition sometimes. Makes life so simple if all you want from it is a husband, money, new clothes and parties to attend every week. 

Have realised that marwari wedding songs are super fun. There are songs for every part of the wedding festivities, songs for the bride and groom and songs for their relatives. Add to this traditional rajasthani tunes and awesomeness is guaranteed. Even a week later i find myself humming and singing  these songs.  Who knew i'd like something else that was marwari other than the food! 

Caught up with friends in Jodhpur. Yes. I have friends in Jodhpur. Never did i once think, in all my years of visiting the grandparents and extended family there, that i would, one day, have friends to meet. It was such a new feeling, even after having lived there for 2 years, to hang out with friends in a city i primarily associate with vegetating at the grandmom's house and meeting boring relatives every evening. It was worth it, even if i had to listen to the grandmother grumbling about me never being at home.

I'm a besotted aunt. My 13 month old niece has been going *bua bua bua* ever since i got here. Full heart melt happens. Of course, when she refuses to sleep and bawls her head off, i feel like smacking her. I'm fair like that. Adorable is in it's place but needing an army to feed and entertain her is another. Also the dog is feeling totally ignored and left out because the baby gets all the attention. So i've been sneakily feeding her almonds every couple of hours. 

My immune system is shot. A fortnight back i woke up with a sexy cold voice and a stuffed nose. For 2 days i walked around with a box of tissue papers and ended up with one less layer of skin on my nose. Thankfully my Rudolph impersonation ended before the wedding. Imagine the photos! Unfortunately, a cold wave hit Jaipur and the sexy cold voice was back. But you know how sexiness fades right? Yeah. Now i sound like Lurch from the Adam's family. Not sexy. Also i seem to be setting a record for most snot produced in 3 days. Yes, i said snot. Oh, and every time i blow my nose, the niece giggles. 

All of last week has been about everyone around me asking, no, telling me to have a baby. It's mildly gross and extremely annoying. Gross because your grandmother is telling you to go do it and annoying because it's none of anybody's business really. But all sorts of motivation is being provided. From cute custom baby furniture and clothes/accessories to expensive gifts. I personally believe that since there are to be no more weddings in the family for at least 3 years now, people just need another reason to party. 

Oh, and i think i have a crush on Ram Kapoor. What? 

The Anatomy of Pants

The biggest trial in my life is shopping for pants. I avoid it like the plague and i dread having to go buy jeans, linen pants or even formal trousers. Why? Because they don't make them for normal women anymore. And while people may have doubts about the normalcy of my mental state, i'd like to believe that physically, i could be categorized as normal. Whatever normal is. 

So i'm neither thin nor obese. I'm what they call *khaate peete ghar ki* or *healthy* (in the most euphemistic way). That, coupled with the curse of the Indian body type (which was designed, i think, only for sarees), makes it nigh impossible to find that perfect pair of pants. Why?

Because pants have a mind of their own. Which is as messed up as the people designing them.

Pants today look good only on the mannequins wearing them. Which means, that for those same pants to look good on a human, she needs to have proportions like that - extra long legs, almost no ass, a tiny waist. And what do I have? Neither of the above. Suffice to say, it's sheer torture inside the dressing room.

With formal trousers i never know what i'm supposed to look like. Maybe because i still haven't managed to find a good pair in all these years. There seems to be nothing out there that doesnt make me look like a short dumpling with a giant bottom. And if my derriere does look good in a pair, the thunder thighs grab your attention. No, don't visualise it. I can't afford your therapy. 

And don't even get me started on jeans. The problem starts much before the trial rooms. For some reason that i seem to have too much sense to understand, people manufacturing jeans have all decided that wanting a pair of jeans that actually reaches the waist is like asking for the moon and a couple of stars. No really. Try looking for  a pair of jeans that is mid-waist. The sales people will look at you with pity. Almost everything out there (at least in the women's section) is low waist. Straight leg, slim leg, boot cut, all in low waist. And pardon me if i'm being difficult, but i really have no interest in joining the group of women who make you cringe every time they sit, bend or do anything but stand ramrod straight. You know *exactly* what i'm talking about don't you? Yes. That.

So yeah, i hate shopping for pants. They just don't respect fat. Or being healthy as i'd like to call it. And if you're a skinny female reading this, please to not try and disagree with me. I might decide to sit on you and you know you will break. 

Goosebumps and Shivers

Yes yes. I'm back to complaining about the cold. What else can i do while in Shimla you tell me? Ok, so i might be able to talk about the gorgeous sunsets and hot momos on Mall road, but where's the fun in that huh?

So, since the last time i wrote about the cold, it's gotten colder. Even the locals agree. Of course, they might not bundle up as i do. Or complain. But they all agree that the cold has arrived.Never has the sun felt as good as it does these days. While in the sun, a feeling of well being and contentment envelopes you, dousing you in it's warmth. Step out of it into the shade, and the goosebumps come forth. For me, i could be in 4 layers of clothes, including a sweater and a fleece jacket, and the goosebumpiness still remains. Evil i say. 

Such is the power of the cold that even a non-tea drinker like me looks forward to tea time - just so that i can grip that piping hot mug of chai with both my freezing hands like it was a lifesaving device. And even then the warmth refuses to remain. It's fleeting. Lasts as long as tea does.

And so, the heaters emerge. Those wonderful contraptions that make the cold bearable and the shivers go away. Even now, as i type this, i have this lovely heat being radiated at me, allowing the blood to flow through my extremities once more. Yes, it makes me the sissy daughterinlaw and no, i don't care. 

All i know is that when i get up from my place next to the heater, there will be an electric blanket waiting, all warm and welcoming, in bed for me.   

Of Soot and Awesomeness

So, there was a little accident in the house when the Fellow and I were both away. Our two and a half year old LG refrigerator decided it had had enough of life and spontaneously (or so I imagine) combusted. The result? A charred and bombed out fridge, curtains that cannot be used ever again except perhaps as rags, a kitchen that looked like it had been in Pompei, wardrobes that need dry cleaning, and wall resembling something out of a horror story, complete with blackened spider webs hanging off the ceilings.

I won’t bore you with the details (and there are a *lot*), but let’s just say that it took the Fellow and me nearly 10 days to move all our belongings to a new house and get about 90% soot free (10% being the clothes that were awaiting their turn at the dry cleaners). Of course, even before we were 5% soot free, the broadband internet connection was in place and the DTH service on track. We were home so to say (C’mon, you know home is where the broadband is). And just as soon as something of a routine was in place, however dysfunctional it might be (I mean, no pillows, or pillow covers, no functional kitchen, no fridge, no broom even, and just 4 curtains), I left to attend a friend’s wedding in Bombay and finish some incomplete work. And just in time. The next day we were allotted a bigger house, meaning that the just moved into house would have to be moved out of and into a new house again, making it our 4^th move in as many months. Yes, that is the screaming inside my head that you can hear.

But before you start feeling bad for me, remember the Fellow and how awesome he can be at times like these. Yes. I do have nice things to say about the Fellow you know. Anyhoo, he insists I stay in Bombay, finish my work and not stress about moving house. He would do it all. And being the good Indian wife that I am, how can I not listen to my husband right?

PS: The next post shall be a visual one. Then you may feel bad for me and my soot-filled soul.

PS2: If you follow me on Twitter, maybe the next post will help you forgive me for bombing your timelines with self obsessed talk about soot and my traumatised life.

Grandmother and her TV

I’ve been home in Bombay less than 24 hours. Of these, I was sleeping for 8 and out of the house for 6. And in the remaining time that I have been in the house, I’ve managed to get majorly cheesed off at the grandmother and her TV. The woman (no disrespect to her and all that) watches all the crap there is on TV. She starts as soon as dad leaves for work (which is around 9am) and stops only for an afternoon siesta which lasts about an hour – and this nap is perfectly timed so that she wakes up for round two of bad TV shows. And you know what is worse than her watching her saas-bahu shows all day? She watches the same episode every time it airs. Which means, at least 3 times. Is it any wonder that she is always watching TV?

And for someone who hates physical activity of any sort, her fingers move rather quickly when she is changing channels, jumping from one to the other, avoiding commercial breaks and keeping track of some 5 story lines at the same time. It’s amazing how she manages it. Of course, to give her credit, she doesn’t discriminate. So she watches comedy shows as happily as she watches the sob stories, and does so across all the various hindi language channels, not seeming to favour any one. And if we (her grandchildren or her son) do manage to bully her into giving up the remote control to us, she doesn’t grumble or complain or sulk. She stopped doing that several years back when she realised we weren’t going to give in to her pretend sniffs. Now all she does is struggle to her feet and go into the bedroom to continue watching her soaps. Making sure she locks the door behind her.

That Elusive Ice-Cream

I talk. A lot. And this is an understatement really. If you know me beyond this blog you will have no problem believing me. And if you don't, well, believe it. Talking was something i've done well all my life. As a 4 yr old, i was introduced to my best friend's extended family as the girl who taught her how to talk. Go figure. And when the family went on a road trip (which, for an 8 yr old me was the hour long drive from the suburbs to *town*), i had a captive audience in the parents and sister.

Of course, dad would decide to use the opportunity to help me build some character, and of course, learn to hold my tongue for at least a few minutes (if not for the entire drive). What would he do? What any parent with a modicum of common sense would. Bribe me. And so dad would promise to get me ice-cream if i could stay quiet for 5 minutes. Not difficult you say? It's just 5 minutes after all right? Yeah well. Let's just say, 5 minutes is quite a lot of time, and back then, it felt like *ages*.

And now. Almost like the universe is making up for all those 5 minutes i never managed to keep quiet, i find myself forced to keep quiet as prescribed by the doctor. Ok so the entire left side of my face is killing me and not talking is making it better. But still. No one who knows me can imagine a quiet me. Even people who've met me once for a couple of hours are finding it difficult to believe. And my dad is just tickled at the idea and takes immense pleasure in going sshhh if i open my mouth to say anything.

It's been 3 days of no talking (10 minutes in 72 hours doesnt count) and i think i'm ready for that ice-cream now. With interest.

The Way The Universe Works

For months now i've been complaining about how i need to get off my ass and work some weight off. And i was all set to start next week. Really. I was out of excuses and the will to procrastinate and postpone was fading quick. But then the universe decided to run out of patience and take things into it's own, mostly bitchy hands.

It messed my jaw up. Ok, so it might have nudged an already dormant condition to the surface, but the result is pretty much the same - i have to keep my trap shut. And you know what this means right? Yes. Look shocked. Even i dont think i can do it. But i sure am going to try. Maybe i will be successful in resting my jaw and wont see the need to talk for the whole week that it is likely to take for the swelling in my temporomandibular joint to subside. Oh stop laughing. I've gone through almost one whole day of talking no more than 3 minutes. I might just be able to manage 6 more days (at least).

In the mean time, not only do i have to go without talking (which anyone would think was punishment enough), i have to give up food also. At least food that has any taste (read: unhealthy food). Instead, i have to make do with liquid/semi-liquid foods. And you all know what that lists reads like. No? Khichdi, porridge, juice, soups, and maybe milkshakes.

Well, as the sister said, at least i'll lose some weight at the end of these 7 days.

You see how the universe is working here?

Of Anticipation

The Fellow has been away for three weeks now. Originally I was to join him a couple of days later and spend most of the 3 weeks seeing a new place and meeting some old acquaintances. But as such things go, a lack of acceptable accommodation led to a cancellation (twice) and I had to resign myself to the fact that I was stuck at home alone.

Which was not such a bad thing except that I don’t think I’ve eaten a full (or remotely healthy) meal here (and have had to attend some tea parties). The only time I got fed properly in all this time was when I crashed at my aunt’s house for a couple of days. And even then I missed my broadband connection and television too much to continue there despite the lure of the food!

And so I waited. For the Fellow to return and for me to have some semblance of a routine once again (a pleasant prospect even with cooking I would have to do). He was to come back home yesterday morning – an arrival much planned for and definitely looked forward to. The wives of the other chaps who had also been away decided we should go armed with a cake to the workplace and welcome the husbands back with pomp. I decided (at a personal level) to get the house cleaned and the refrigerator stocked once again. There were several other plans made, including some movies, drives and weekend getaways.

Unfortunately, the universe has a way of sensing anticipation. And it sneaks in with a sharp, near invisible needle to burst the happy, shining balloon. At first it had been not enough rooms to accommodate everyone. Yesterday morning the needle was in the form of a thunderstorm that lasted several hours and felled at least a hundred trees. And so the Fellow couldn’t come back.

Today, I’m still waiting. But not an ounce of anticipation. Not this time.

Someone Get Me the Mad Hatter

I’m in my own personal hell. The Fellow has been away for nearly three weeks, the maid was first on holiday and then promptly contracted conjunctivitis a day after she came back (late mind you), the car seems to be missing the Fellow even more than me and so has decided to trouble me (the power locking stopped working, and now the driver’s door wont unlock with the key even). And to top it all, the other wives here (instead of spending quality time with their children and homes) insist on subjecting me to the biggest waste of time ever devised in the modern world – tea parties.

Seriously. Tea parties belong to the 19^th century when there was no internet or television or anything remotely more interesting than hooped skirts and needlepoint to keep the female population occupied. I definitely don’t need them here right now. I mean, the two odd hours I spend making forced small talk and smiling like I care could be spent so much more productively in front of my computer or even catching up on sleep.

Instead, I have to sit listening to the same bunch of women discussing the same things they discuss at every party, reacting the same way they do about the things they discuss (fake laughter, smile not reaching eyes, self-satisfied smug looks etc) and annoying me in pretty much the exact same way. Oh and the lack of intelligent conversation is beyond unbelievable, making me shudder non-stop in an ice-cube dropped down my shirt kind of way.

And instead of getting up and giving my emotions a very vocal expression, all I can do is imagine a rabbit hole appearing next to my chair. At least the tea parties there will be more fun right?

Valenteen's Eve Party

No, it’s not a typo. Valenteen is what I typed.

But let me start whining right from the beginning – when I got that dreaded phone call, asking all the ladies (of the squadron) to assemble in the evening at X place. This meant only one thing – the women were going to plan something and/or spend at least one hour discussing random nonsense. And right I was. It was all nonsense.

Apparently, this over-enthusiastic-not-happy-with-two-parties-a-week group of women decided to have a Valentine’s day eve party. Now, the very idea is revolting at several different levels, beginning with how, one of the ladies kept calling it Valenteen’s day – something that made me want to giggle out loud (and I never giggle out loud) and then tell her she was getting it wrong so she would stop making a fool of herself (in a horribly self-satisfied sort of manner too). But I like to stay away from politics and the evilness some women thrive in, and so continued sitting quietly in my corner coming up with this blog post

Now this party, it was decided, would be a pot luck party. As far as I understand, it’s called pot luck because everyone brings a pot of something and you hope to get lucky and get some good food. But that’s not how we do it here. Luck is an alien concept. And so a detailed menu was planned (mainly involving super-boring food that you see at every party here) and before they (the annoying aunties of the group) could hand me a task way beyond my skill and/or motivation levels, I volunteered to do the salad. For a moment they were confused. Then I threw in words like macaroni and mayo and all was good. After all this meant I was making ‘English food’. Yes. I know. When I heard the phrase for the first time, I had the same reaction and confused look on my face. But I’ve come to terms with it. You will too.

The rest of the meeting post my salad moment is pretty much a haze. I remember tea being served with something hot and spicy to eat (who forgets food huh?). I also remember someone mentioning games and paper dance in the same sentence. There was also something about singing romantic songs at the party, at which time I barfed in my head and imagined the Fellow’s face when I told him about it. Oh, and red balloons – the heart shaped ones, candles and roses were definitely talked about. I know this, because the laughter inside my head got so loud it broke through the haze of disinterest and boredom.

So now, I have to attend a Valenteen’s day eve party on Saturday, have to wear red and black (yes that was discussed too), hide the rose I’m supposed to give the Fellow, forget about a gift I’m also supposed to get for him, may/may not have to play some ridiculous couple-y games (depending on how good I am at timing my bathroom break), eat terribly boring, run of the mill food (except for my English food of course) and then come back and write a long blog post about it!

Damn commercialisation of love and stupid over-excited women.

Of Tea Parties

I’m back to my whiny, complaining self. And this time round, its tea parties. Yes. You heard me right. Tea parties. In this age of television, computers, broadband internet, Facebook, Twitter and the blogosphere, I’m being made to attend tea parties. And not the cool, Mad Hatter as company kind either. No siree. I have to attend boring, annoying-women-sitting-by-me-and-talking-rubbish kind of tea parties. And I have to pretend I’m having the time of my life while I listen to why Mrs. Y fired her maid and why Mrs. X buys all her clothes only in Delhi. Oh, and there is also Mrs. Z trying to bond with me over something and all I’m thinking is “she’s touching me. Why is she touching me? Get your hand off my shoulder lady or I’m going to smack you”.

I mean, as if we didn’t have enough dinner parties here already, I now have to smile my way through tea too? And I don’t even like tea. But that’s a different story. Personally, I’m sick and tired of meeting the same group of women at least twice a week (and this week it’s going to be 4 times). Einstein’s theory of R never made more sense than at these times believe me. Making it worse is that with the same faces, come the same stories and the same boring conversations, revolving around set topics – their children, their domestic help troubles, cosmetic products and their usage, clothes (what they’re wearing and where they bought it), shoes (yes. They discuss shoes. Shoot me someone.) and of course the next party. Did I mention shoot me someone?

Now since nobody takes my complaints seriously (and shoots me to get me out of this misery), I do what I can. And so I got through the aforementioned party by hanging around the kitchen, helping the host warm the food (and tasting it extensively) and set the table. It made me feel like I was back home, a teenager, helping mum get ready for a party. This way I could dissociate from the bunch of women discussing nappy rashes and Amway products, and pretend I wasn’t married (sorry Fellow) and/or had anything in common with them.

Anyhoo. Tomorrow is a new day. And another party.

I need to find a gun I tell you.

Tomorrow It Ends

Since June I’ve been living out of a suitcase, going from one city to the other all over the country. Tomorrow my nearly 6-month long vacation comes to an end. No more late mornings (ok, maybe those are still possible). But definitely no more tension-free days for me now. Come Monday and I have to begin the whole dealing with the maid (damn, I need to look for a new one!) thing, get the new house all cleaned and set up (at present it’s worse than a dump), try and see if I can make the garden resemble something green and living, get a hundred thousand things in order again, make social calls, smile at stupid people and mentally conjure images of shooting them, so on and so forth. Aaaaggghhh!!!

It’s no wonder I’m panicking (a little). In almost half a year I haven’t had to bother about anything really, except which city I’m going to next. And even before that, it had taken me 6 months to get used to the idea of keeping house and being all responsible and all that. I had just about set some kind of a routine when the Fellow took off for that course of his. Now, when we finally go back home, I’m going to have to relearn everything and get into the practice of doing it all over again. And since it wasn’t too much fun the first time (being grown up sucks you know), I don’t think it gets any better this time round. To top it all, just then when I’m all nicely settled in again, the Fellow is bound to get posted out to another god forsaken place and we’ll be back to square one.

Moving Day

And in other news, the Fellow (and by association I) tried to set a new record of sorts, at least in the circles we move in. We moved house, every last bit we owned, in less than 7 hours. 7 hours of going back and forth between the old and new place, of wondering how the hell we had so much stuff to move, and panicking (that would be me) about how in the world I was going to get all of it set up again. Oh and 7 hours of getting fully exhausted and layered in several inches of dust, grime and a few random spiders.

Of course, when I say that we’ve moved house it’s a slight exaggeration on my tired part. It was actually more like dumping all the stuff in the new space, over every surface available, and then spending the next day going through bags and bundles looking for random stuff (including a tiny bottle of nail polish remover and the bag that has the Fellow’s precious PS2 games). I also spent considerable time standing in the middle of the mess, looking around and sighing loudly. And since that got quite depressing and stressful (obviously), I tried to make myself feel good by imagining everything in its place and deciding where all the photographs and paintings would go. Not a good idea. Got more depressed thinking of all the work I still had to do. Sigh.

And then instead of being responsible and setting house and all that, the Fellow and I take off for another 10 days (enjoying the last of the Fellow’s leave this year), merrily leaving everything behind. I don’t know what we’re thinking. Well, actually the Fellow is thinking he gets to soup up his car some more. And I’m really hoping elves exist to help the desperate outside of fairy tales.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!

Winter is here. And no where is it more obvious than Shimla. Everywhere you go people are bundled up in various layers of clothing (I was in 4 layers today). In fact I haven’t seen as much variety in woollen wear as I have in the last 2 days walking about Mall road. There is everything from monkey caps (mostly Bengali tourists), mufflers and sweaters to cool leather jackets and fancy woollen ponchos.

And then there is me. My city-grown heart (according to the Fellow), doesn’t know that it has to pump blood to my extremities. Thus my hands and feet (and nose) remain close to freezing all the time. This is not only super-uncomfortable for me, but also for the Fellow. After all it’s him I turn to when I need my hands and feet warmed. In fact, people on the Mall often think we’re a honeymooning couple, seeing as we’re always holding hands. Little do they know that there is absolutely no romance involved in the act – only survival (and a lot of begging. The Fellow refuses to hold my freezing hands. Hmph).

Of course, since I’m not all pessimism, I do have a silver lining here. Winter fashions. I finally get to wear gorgeous coats and pullovers and mufflers and even ear muffs (the practical, non-gorgeous kind). After living in Bombay for ever and only ever knowing Monsoon fashions, it’s a delight (and quite exciting) to buy winter clothing and not feel guilty about it. Makes the girly me quite happy I tell you.

Dry Roasted

(Day 109 of 112)

Important lessons learnt today –

1. Never park your car where there is no shade from the sun.
2. Never get into a car that has been standing where there is no shade from the sun.
3. If you do have to get into aforementioned car, try not to get into contact with the leather seats (note: don’t have leather seats).
4. If you do all the above three, be smart – don’t touch the steering wheel, gear stick and/or the handbrake. Just sit there willing the air conditioning to kick in before you reach your destination looking like you’ve just spent an hour in a sauna!
5. And most importantly, and for this I blame the Fellow - never, ever, ever, have a black car if you’re going to be living in camel-land.

Obviously, I’ve been through this for me to be ranting about it here. In fact, I have to emphasise that the actual experience was about a hundred times worse than it seems. Kind of like going to the dentist – the actual experience is so much worse than what you imagine it to be!

The 15 mins that I spent in my car today was as close to hot, burning hell as I’ll ever be, before popping it for good (I really don’t have any delusions about not going to hell. Too many friends will be there!). The very act of sitting in the drivers seat made me shudder and go ‘ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch’ (the word most used in the next few minutes. Well, actually, second most used. The first is too inappropriate for here). And then there was the super-heated steering wheel and gear stick!! I quite literally had to use my fingertips to steer and change gears because the rest of my hand felt like it was blistering!

And don’t even get me started on the airconditioning! It was non-existent. By the time the car cooled down enough for me to stop cursing, I had reached my destination (I miss Bombay at times like these really). And even then, the first thing I did was to mop my face up and get the sweat out of my eyes. The next, to shake my fist at the black car and the universe.

But I’m guessing, that 15 mins in that sauna of a car must have resulted in at least a kilo of weight loss. Bring on the ice cream I say. And a can of white car paint.

This Feeling I Have

(Day 105 of 112)

As the days pass by, and the countdown (or countup) gets closer to the end, there are a multitude of feelings in me, that are making my head a very annoying place to be in right now. I don’t know which way to think and this is leaving me standing all confused and lost in the middle of my own head.

To begin with, there is the excitement. Obviously. I am super-thrilled to finally be with the Fellow again and can barely stop grinning whenever someone mentions the name of the town he is in right now.

Then there is the worry – about all the packing and travelling I have to do. Not that I’m afraid of either. It’s just that I’m a little (and I make an understatement here) fed up of living out of a suitcase and dread the idea of packing. Then there is the travelling. Both trains I have to take are at 6 in the morning and my worry is about waking up in time to catch them. And even if I do wake up, I just hope I’m lucid enough to carry my bags and walk without support! 6am. Godforsaken hour I tell you.

Add to all of this, increasing panic, about all the work I have to finish, before I can go waltzing off to the Fellow and at least a fortnight of no productivity. I complained about this yesterday and nothing has changed today. Except that I’ve slept a little lesser. And I get cranky when I do that – sleep less that is.

This crankiness is made worse with the damn furnace that I’m living in right now. The universe seriously doesn’t like me and global warming has done the rest. And so instead of experiencing a cool pre-winter, it’s back to the summer and seriously torturous temperatures of 45 deg C! How is one to achieve any work in this kind of weather I ask you?

And so, this feeling I have, is of extreme conflict. The excitement in me is fighting to stay afloat amidst the worry, panic, crankiness and of course the heat. But I have a sinking feeling that it’s a lost cause. All I can do now, is wait it out and hope that the Fellow can sort it all for me!

No Time To Sulk

(Day 104 of 112)

I believe that birthdays are incomplete without at least half a day of feeling deflated, after all the hoopla and cake is over. It’s just such a reality check na. I mean, for one whole day the phone rings only for you, and everything in the kitchen is made only for you. You are allowed to get away with anything with the use of 4 magic words – It’s my birthday today. And then, it’s all over. Suddenly you’re back to eating karela and baingan and not even allowed to make a fuss about it. And when you answer the phone, you’re asked why you’re playing telephone operator!

Anywhoo, all this is from last year. This time around, I haven’t had the time to wallow in post-birthday blues and I feel so incomplete. It’s like the universe decided to give me work (and the associated panic) as a birthday gift. Till yesterday I was relaxed and had the luxury of spreading my work over several days. Today, I’m rushing against time (and the risk of severe eye strain). And it just keeps increasing – the eye strain that is. Along with the panic bubble inside me. I mean, I didn’t even sulk about all the cake being over!! It doesn’t get busier than that people!

Ok. Procrastination time over. Have to head back. Sigh.

Grandma's Tales

(Day 102 of 112)

Q: If you meet me on the road (or anywhere else for that matter), how will you know I’m married?

A: By the fact that my grandmother will be with me, telling anyone who cares to listen.

Of course, if you stop to listen to her, you will probably end up listening to some serious Avantika-bashing (she seems to be doing a lot of that lately isn’t she?). This time the bone of contention is not my questions, but rather my defiance.

I refuse (vociferously) to walk around like a billboard advertising the fact that I’m a married woman now. I believe that I’m an independent person in my own right, who does not need to define herself in terms of anyone. Just like I don’t see the need to change who I am or how I dress just because I’m married. And luckily for me, the Fellow thinks the same way. And so you won’t find me ‘looking married’ the way that has, unfortunately, been made popular through the media. The Fellow even refused to let me wear those red and white bangles for more than a week after marriage. As soon as I got back into my jeans after several days of sarees and salwar kameezes, the bangles came off too. I mean, seriously, I don’t think there is anything more ridiculous looking than that horrible clash of ‘western’ clothes worn with bangles, bindis and all that paraphernalia. It’s like the person is confused about which way she wants to go, and ends up looking like a..a…monkey in a circus maybe?

And now, here is my grandmother cribbing about the exact same thing. Only she wants me to look married. She would love it if I walked around with bangles and a bindi everyday (the mangalsutra and sindoor would be a bonus she never even dreamed of really). So what if I wear jeans and tee shirts everday? So what if I looked like I’ve grown up in Hicksville, India with a negative fashion sense? And so what if I end up being the kind of person I laugh at and pity?! At least my grandmother would be happy right?

Hell no. It would be salwar kameezes and sarees next. Shudder.

I Don't Believe This!

(Day 102 of 112)

I’m back to making travel plans. I fail to understand how I keep getting caught in the trap that is planning. Of course, since I’m neurotic about such stuff one would imagine it would be a fun activity. But it’s not. It’s driving me crazy (yes, more than usual). Not only do I have to coordinate with everyone (and I mean literally everyone) around me, I also have to listen to the exact same number of personal opinions, and travel gyan, whether I asked for them or not. Then there is the grandmother who randomly keeps mumbling about how I’m shamelessly super-excited about going to the Fellow and I should show some decency and sharam (but I excuse her since she also keeps teasing me about the Fellow which is quite cute really!). And so, I have to take into consideration some half dozen (at least) variations on when to go, how to go, what to take, what to do (and for the grandmother, why to go) etc.

Thankfully the one thing everyone is decided on is where I have to go. Godforsaken place which thankfully has a Dominoes, here i come! :D