Pune and my Phone

We arrived in Pune 5 days ago and since then I've gone on to get mindnumbingly bored and seriously frustrated with the lack of something meaningful and remotely stimulating to do.

Those who know me beyond this blog will know why the fellow and I aren't exploring a new city and new places to eat. Suffice to say, I'm fed up enough to want to even start exercising, just so I have something to do other than sleep, eat and watch tv. And while this supremely decadent life may seem idyllic to some, beware, it has the capacity to eat through your grey cells and leave you with mush for your brain amongst other things.

Adding to the mushy brain are withdrawal symptoms - no broadband internet yet. And while the phone has allowed the Twitter addiction to continue, its just not the same thing.

Thus, this. Blogger app for android. My experiment with blogging from my phone, an attempt to elevate the vegetable like state of my mind to that of at least a fruit.

The Photo

Sipping on her drink, she observed the scene around with interest - especially the mop of hair in the red tee shirt. Even in that crowd, he stood out. Maybe it was the way he sat, feet propped up in the chair in front of him, or maybe it was the fact that he seemed to be the only one not trying hard to impress the girl he was with. Then again, maybe it was his hands, the only bit of him in motion, drumming restlessly on the table in front of him.

And even as she thought it, he leaned forward to pick his phone up. Elbows resting on the table, his hands cradled the phone, surprisingly graceful. And just like that, the restlessness seemed to evaporate. His fingers, as if used to the motion, expressed a purpose, quietly confident. And then he smiled

She quietly reached for her camera. After all, she did have a thing for hands.

Of Being 16

As I checked boxes and bags to see what needed to be packed and what had to be discarded, I came across random stuff I hadn’t seen in years, including my only attempt at keeping a diary – a notebook I’d covered with pink and green ribbon and marked *Private. Do not open*.

Written when I was 16, reading the 50 odd pages that I’d managed to fill was, well, interesting to say the least. And when I say interesting, I mean a combination of embarrassment, oh-yeah-that-happened-moments and a lot of cringing. Ok. It was a little funny also. But mostly because I sounded like people had butterflies for souls and daisies for dreams (and by people I mean the boys I was writing about. What? I was 16).

But life was so simple. Or so it seems now. All I had to worry about was Boy 1 not calling me or Boy 2 sending me an email when least expected. There was also Boy 3, but except for his name that features a couple of times in the diary, I have no memory of who he was. And then there snippets about the first exams I had in college, the disturbed mental condition of the new friend I’d made, the deal my mum was cutting with me (lose 10kgs for ICQ. Yes. ICQ. It was that long ago), school reunions and meeting old friends (and commenting on how much some people had changed, mostly boys and the level of obnoxiousness), cousins getting engaged to the wrong people, and family vacations.

So for a quarter of an hour today morning, I was back to being an innocent teenager, discovering new experiences, people and feelings for the first time. And while I quite enjoyed reliving some of what I’d recorded more than a decade earlier, I’m *so* glad I’m not 16 anymore. Imagine having to lose those 10 kgs all over again!

Confession

It’s been two years and some months since the wedding. And even today, whenever he comes back home after a month, a week or even a day away, I can’t keep the anticipation, expectation and excitement away. For hours before he is to arrive, a grin appears and stays plastered. It gets difficult to focus on any task and I find myself day dreaming in full teenage manner. Then there is the constant clock-watching/peering out of the window that happens (coupled with deep sighs) which just about completes the corny picture I’m painting right?

Well, then I wont talk about all the effort I put into my outfit and hair or you’ll just think I’m pathetic. Oh wait…

One of Those Moments When it’s Just Words. No Sentences.

Marriage.

A new life.

A changed life.

A new family.

A new city.

New people.

Different people.

And somewhere amongst them, friends.

And now, another change.

Another city.

Another set of people, differences.

And maybe, just maybe, friends?

Of Travel Companions

You know how some people look really familiar and you can’t figure out for the life of you why? And then you know how you assume it’s a very common combination of features and go on to plug your headphones in, ignoring that person? Yes?

Turns out, not a very good idea. Why? Because that person seemingly knows your entire family, is somehow related to you, and is (as you has correctly inferred already), a dragon of the kind that shreds reputations to pieces and gossips the ears off a donkey.

And so, after about two and half hours of getting away with pretending to work on your laptop (all the while watching Greys Anatomy S07), you are asked where you live. And little did you know that one small, innocuous detail will result in three of five travel companions naming all of your dad’s family, complete with details that made it to the gossip circuit, and start asking you all kinds of weird questions, including why you have no brothers. And then when you try to hint at ending the conversation (by the simple act of putting the headphones back on), they ignore the subtlety and continue talking.

The next 3 hours then see (mostly) one sided discussions on love marriages (these are spoken about in hushed, dripping with judgement tones), municipal corporations (with reference to how many people they know personally there), daughterinlaws wearing sarees and covering their heads (epic WTFness this), cricket, the Gujarat riots, merits of bhujiya, bread and achaar and of course, whether the train was on time or not.

Yes, a lot of mental barfage happened. And yes, parts of the brain withered up and died. But now you know that the next time someone in a train asks you where you live, pretend to have amnesia.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

I became an aunt on January 14^th 2011. And today, I still can’t give you a name for my month and a few days old niece. And not because her parents can decide upon one name. No siree. It’s because her greatgrandmother, grandparents, grand-aunts and uncles and aunts can’t decide upon one name.

And it’s beginning to get a little much, all this joint family love that is being shown. I mean, its awesome that the little one arrived amidst a wedding and all of the extended family. But taking into consideration every one of those extended opinions has only resulted in the baby remaining unnamed. Even a nickname hasn’t been decided upon. The only thing everyone is in agreement with is that the new greatgrandmother not be allowed to saddle the little girl with names like laddi, bitiya, barfi and other similar concoctions. Her latest offering was Laali or something similar. Yes. I know. She needs help.

But before that, *we* need help. And a name.

Edited: The day after writing this post, the baby finally had a name. Nandini.