Emancipation of Eve

Read my new blog?

2010-12-01T10:26:00.000+05:30

Oh yes, that's where I'm gonna be. For those who don't know, the cool dudette in the picture is my almost-five-months old daughter, Mia. She is supercool and often tells me she will be better than me at most things. :/

All the writing-fighting-shiting is happening at the new blog, Twist in the Tail. It has old posts from this blog and the older food blog as well (yay to Blogger's new import tool).

Catch you at the new place.

Moved on love.

2010-11-24T22:56:00.004+05:30

That basically means I won't be writing here anymore. The blog will remain -- too much pain importing everything elsewhere -- but fresh posts etc will be put up on the other blog.

It's called The Twist in the Tail. Yes, tail. Like doggie's tail, or the Hindi version, kutte ki dum, which I hope you remember, kabhi seedhi nahi hoti. For the non-Hindi speaking, it translates to 'a dog's tail is never straight'. Or a dog has a curly tail. We will not talk about tail-less dogs here, that saying came about when humans weren't stuffing around with dog breeding. Personally I feel the saying would be better if it said 'a pig's tail is never straight' -- pigs have cute tails I think -- but nevermind.

What it means though is that old habits cannot be changed. So why new blog? Because I needed a change somewhere. While now with a baby I'm a mommy and that's a huge change, as a writer and a creative person, I feel s.t.u.c.k. And extremely undisciplined. I need to get my mojo going and get into shape. Physically and mentally.

Thank-you for sticking around despite the silence(s). Hope to see you reading the new blog as well. Catch ya.

PS: It's 4.45 am, Mia woke up at 3am. I could sleep again but I will go do some writing now. I got a deadline and I'm feeling determined. I am feeling good. Here's to mojo finding.

Divinely orange

2010-10-18T13:30:00.004+05:30

Spring in Melbourne means many things: the green and gold lushness of wattle, the breath-taking beauty of blossom trees, the cheery daisies and daffodils and the sight of many a gardener mowing, sowing and weeding away on sunny afternoons.

Unless of course it is grey and drizzly. Or so windy it could blow the hair off your scalp. Or it might hail. That too is part 'n' parcel of Melbourne spring.

This time of the year is also when families and friends are seen across the city's parks and gardens, having barbeques, playing with their dogs and kids and sometimes just snoozing. It's also time for fresh, seasonal fruits and veggies and what you can cook with them.

Since coming to Melbourne, I've had a new appreciation for cooking (baking rather) with seasonal fruits and veggies. Perhaps it has to do with the many cooking shows or perhaps because now I am cooking full-time instead of just as a hobby. It also makes me appreciate anew my mother's cooking. I never really noticed how she cooked with seasonal vegetables when I was living in India. So many learning opportunities lost...

The first time I had an orange cake was last year. My in-laws were down for Diwali and Mum (Ma would be my mother) had baked this beautiful orange cake. It had finely grated orange zest (the peel) cooked in an absolutely divine orange syrup on it. The cake was soft, moist and so flavorsome, I had a hard time stopping at three slices. Stupid me though, I was so busy eating the cake and then finishing my Diwali-dinner preps -- kebab, Mughlai biryani, gulab jamun -- that I completely forgot asking her for the recipe.

I'd been searching for a good orange cake recipe since. Early this year I tried an orange cake recipe -- Whole Orange Syrup Cake - -from Tamarra Milstein's 'Bake Your Cake and Eat It Too'. The cake calls for both flour and almond-meal, a bit of a pain if you ask me and used buttermilk and marmalade, both of which I don't usually have in my pantry. The result was tasty but nowhere close to satisfying the craving I had for Mum's orange cake. Till about a month ago.

A dear friend and (then) almost full-term pregnant friend of mine came over to see Mia, my then-two-month-old daughter. As she walked in, I noticed she was carrying this delicate-looking, drippy cake... I nearly cried out when I bit into the cake. It was EXACTLY what I wanted. Moist, rich and absolutely singing with orangy flavours. She told me it was her mother-in-law's recipe, very easy to make and used only almond meal and no flour.

I've baked the cake twice now. Once for my mothers' group and once for myself (grin). It's a hit and I love it. Without making this story any longer, here's the recipe.

Went where that month?

2010-08-24T07:13:00.006+05:30

So Mia is already a month old. In fact, she is already two weeks short of being two months old. And not kidding folks, I don't know who, what, when, how it all happened. From one poo to another, time's just gone by.

Given I had several other women popping out kids here, I had been wondering about some of the new-mom cliches. (That's before I joined that particular club) Y'know like, I-am-sleep-deprived. Or, I-don't-have-time-for-a-shower. Or, I-sometimes-forget-to-eat.

Now that I am one-month-been-there-etc, is all that true? Yes and no. Mia's been a "good" baby so far. That's to say she lets me have at least 4-5 hours sleep on most nights and does not drive me up the wall with (much) crying. Since I had already been surviving on 4 hours sleep while I was pregnant, this does not feel much different.

Most days I manage a shower as well. Only, she seems to wake up just when I'm about to do the whole moisturize-my-body routine. She also does not like it when I watch TV and somehow has perfect timing. Just when the case is about to be solved or the most interesting part of a documentary is about to start, she decides she wants mum. But she shuts up when cuddled.

Oh yes, other than the feed-me cry, Mia has figured out a new cry. I call it the testing-mum cry. So she will be lying perfectly happily in her pram or cot when she decides she is bored and needs entertainment --> mum. So despite no reason to cry -- there's a baby checklist of fed, cleaned, burped therefore no reason to cry -- she does this sort of WANH. Just one loud WANH and then she waits to see if I turn up.

I've stood just beyond her line of sight to see what she does and the little minx does the WANH just to get a response from me. Of course, if there is no response or no mum forthcoming in 10 minutes, the WANH then rises to WAAAAAAAAAAAANHA-AAHH. So she makes it kinda clear: Either respond when I'm just kidding or deal with the real thing.

That apart, we all have been doing pretty well (er, just heard a WANH). She's managed to projectile spew into her dad's left eye and has even managed to shit all over him. It's amazing that despite me spending more time with her, I have been pretty incident-free. Men, shrug. (Feels superior, goes before bub loses it).

PS: The pic is of Mia, four days old, in the car capsule, on her way home. The red jumper is hand knit and obviously too big for her.

Cuz you are a whale, you stupid bat.

2010-08-02T07:34:00.007+05:30

Right. I’ve had it with women, especially other mothers. Particularly absolute strangers who take one look at Mia and instantly go (on and on), “Ah, but she is very small, isn’t she?”

I don’t hold anything against moms who forget that their babies were equally small at birth. I DO understand that compared to their babies – who could now be two or ten months old – Mia does look small. Comments from them are all right because I know there is no stupid comparison-shit happening there.

It is comments from the I-feel-superior mothers – “Yes, she is rather small. My baby was such-and-such size at birth. She is very small, really” – that really piss me off. And yes Mia is small because she’s two-bloody-weeks-old. Given that I birthed a human baby and not a troll, she’s supposed to be small. Like every other two week old baby.

I also understand that Mia was not the standard 4 kgs-plus-size baby. She was 3 kgs at birth, which by the way is 50 percentile of most babies born. According to my doctor, Mia’s a great size given that her mother’s size is “only 10 percentile of average women”. A 3 kg-48.5 cm-baby from a mother who is petite and 5 feet tall is not “oh so small”. It’s bloody brilliant. Mia also has a beautifully shaped, small head. A mercy if you ask me. I delivered her naturally with a natural tear that needed two stitches instead of a perineum-to-bloody-belly button tear.

What irritates me (to put it politely) is how some women feel superior because their babies were huge at birth.

If I may point out here, unless a mother was malnourished or was cranked up on heroine or steroids, most mothers do not consciously contribute towards their babies sizes. You eat and rest well and try do everything right and hope the baby is a good size. All babies develop differently – and independently – inside the uterus. You, dear mother, have had nothing to do with your baby being big or small.

Some mothers have big babies because they had gestational diabetes. And that’s not a good thing. Again though, it’s not as if as the mother wanted to have diabetes. Similarly, no mother wants a premature baby or a small-at-birth baby. It happens. You deal with it and you (and I) love your baby irrespective of size.

Size is also not any guarantee that your baby will be/is healthy. A big baby could have a plethora of problems while a small baby could be fit as a fiddle or vice versa. As I said, you hope for the best for your baby. Mia, like all my friends who’ve had big babies and the friend who had twins, is a healthy baby and doing well (god bless).

Unlike a lot of babies who were born along with her, she does not cry a lot. She is a happy, content baby and cute as a button (I’m prejudiced, shrug). I don’t feel superior about her calm nature because (a) I have nothing to do with her not crying and (b) She could turn into a screamer, who knows?

So I’ve decided that I’ve had enough with mothers trying to make me feel bad – so they can feel better about themselves – about Mia’s size. Next time a mother comments on her oh-so-smallness I shall have a ready response*. *(Anyone having to deal with similar comments, feel free to use any of the below or if you come up with something better, share here.)

“Ah your baby is too small isn’t she? My baby was such-and-such size at birth.”

Possible responses:

“Oh really. Must be because I am petite and you are SO huge.” (Look her up and down disbelievingly) OR

“It takes a GINORMOUS waist to birth something THAT big.” (Spread your arms real wide; however, do follow it up with a, “But isn’t s/he cute?”) OR

“Your vagina must be a gaping hole you poor thing!” (Look horrified) AND

“And er, what’s that on your skin? Not doing too well after the birth, are you?” (Even women with flawless skin will spend at least two days fretting)

(Scowl) If any of the above is mean and nasty, so be it. It’s not f*cking nice to go commenting on other peoples’ kids. If you don’t have anything nice to say – and you don’t need to – just f*cking shut up. Stupid cows.

PS: The picture is a hippo and not a whale, in case some of you wondered. ;)

Bizarreness of babies...

2010-07-30T11:32:00.003+05:30

Despite reading some of the best books on bringing up babies, you (read me) just cannot be prepared for some things.

1. Babies fart louder than adults. Mia beats Partner in the sound and smell department. Baap par gayi hai (scowl). The first time I was soooo shocked; t'was bloody hard correlating the angelic face with THAT sound and the stench.

2. Babies have perfect timing when it comes to spoiling a photograph. One moment perfect photo pose and the next the weirdest expression possible.

3. Babies love contemplating with a tit in their mouth. Mia can do it for 10 minutes at a stretch. Usually at 2 am.

4. Babies are the only creatures who can have someone fiddling with their bums while they stare happily at the ceiling making gurgling noises.

5. Against all medical/scientific evidence, (I insist) babies know exactly what they are doing. They can open their mouths REALLY wide for a boob but would pretend they can't (or won't) when you want them to.

6. Babies have very stinky poos when all they eat/drink is milk. Tis a mystery. (Mia's Nanna calls it "sweet smelling poo". Not!)

7. Babies are devious. They know exactly when Mum is in the bordering-on-deep-sleep zone and therefore decide to make fake choking sounds.

8. Babies have amazing capacity for splatter-shitting...all in, around and out of their nappies, over their bums and then even manage to rub their heels in it. (scowl)

9. Babies have perfect aim. The other night Mia perfectly spewed straight into Partner's left eye. He was shocked, I clapped.

10. Babies are manipulators. Just when you think you might have a teensy breakdown -- after all you're doing so much for a creature that prefers looking at everything else but you -- they start practicing mysterious smiles in their sleep... With the promise you might just get a special one. Some day, soon...

Mamma's Mia...

2010-07-22T02:21:00.004+05:30

...is finally here. Born two weeks early according to the calendar but not a day earlier if you ask me. All that begging to my belly and imploring to meet her seems to have worked. And no, despite it looking staged, the pose was her own doing.

I don't have words to describe what I am feeling. Fatigued to the bone could be apt but somehow that's not it. It's almost 7am here, I've been up since 5am, fed her, cleaned second round of yellow potty (I now know five different shades) in the night, put her back to bed and then couldn't sleep.

Despite all advice that says "sleep when the baby sleeps", it ain't that easy. For one, when everyone else is sleeping -- Mia included -- is about the only time I get to cuddle-cuddle her, as against cuddle-to-calm or cuddle-to-feed. Everyone else seems to get heaps of time just doing nothing with her. On the other hand, I seem to only feed, clean, repeat the same and then put her to bed because "You NEED to sleep JB". I even get scolded for not sleeping enough.

But what to do? It's just SO much fun just watching her, even when she' doing nothing but sleeping. The result being I look like something that should hide under a rock, I am even hairy to fit the part. My eyes look like an Amazonian toad's and I haven't really looked at the rest of me. Thankfully babies neither see very clearly at this age -- 5 days old as I type -- nor remember what they see (hopefully). Because if they do then I am afraid that every time Mia sees someone with a moustache, she's going to think it's her mom. Hrmph.

Her birth was (almost) by the book, much to my surprise. I had been nervous that I wouldn't be up to the job and had been mentally prepared for a caesarian. In fact ever since reaching week 36, I'd been trying to coax my doctor (absolutely love her and very grateful as well) to discuss the merits of elective caesarian. Of course, my doctor heard me out patiently, pretended to agree and then came up with devious ways to keep me going week after week. Thankfully though, Mia decided she wanted to come out early.

I was sitting at the computer having put up a FB message bemoaning the baby not coming and now (ie then) playing Mushroom Farm Revolution on addictinggames.com when I realised I had pee-d in my pants without meaning to pee in my pants. As in, I didn't want to go, but was going.

Now I was confused because a week earlier I had actually pee-d in bed. Well not intentionally but it's kinda hard to get out of bed easily when you're hugely pregnant and I think I was dreaming about going to the loo and then woke up cold to realise I had wet my bed. I was horrified. I had called the hospital thinking I'd broken my bag of waters only to be told that it was just incontinence and as a 31-year-old I'd just done soo-soo in bed. I was sooooo upset.

So then when the not-going-but-going happened, I called the hospital, confused and horrified that now I was pant-wetting when awake! This time though the midwife said, "Sounds like your waters breaking. You need to come to the hospital, is your partner around?" Partner was at an official function. My first reaction was, "Baap re, it's happening." As I called him, there was this HUGE gush and the first thing I said as Partner answered the phone was, "Oh my god I am leaking. Come home!"

Despite having packed my hospital suitcase two days earlier -- just-in-case planning -- I'd proceeded to then wear things out of it so in the end, leaking all the while, I just stood there not knowing what to do and without a clue about where things were. My uterus was leaking while my brain was frozen. Partner arrived, we threw stuff into the case and dashed off. That night I was kept under observation.

Next day at 11am the doctor confirmed that almost all of the amniotic fluid was gone and that she was going to hormonally induce me. Twelve hours, four hours of active pain, much moaning, some crying and one epidural later, I felt the urge to have the biggest shit in my life. Except I was informed that it was the baby coming.

I had had visions of me giving birth rather dignified. You know, lying on a bed wearing a white gown or something, hair neatly combed, gentle beads of sweat on my forehead, feet apart, holding on to the railing or to Partner's hand, cursing some... And then a baby is born and I cry etc etc. In the end, my dress was up my boobs, my legs were up in the air, held by the midwife and Partner on either side, my hair was all over, I was grunting and while I obeyed commands to "Take a deep breath, hold it, pull legs closer to chest and now PUSHHHHH"... All I could think of was "I REALLY want to poo" and "I don't want to poo in the doctor's hands."

It was surreal, having three people looking up your (my) fanny. One in concentration ("There's a bulge, no head yet), another in expectation ("Yes, the cervix is fully dilated") and the third in awe ("I do see her head, push baby, push!"). Eventually much to the surprise of the midwife -- "Most women do it here you know" -- I did not shit on the birthing table. Instead Mia was mostly-pushed and partly-sucked out. She was placed on my chest, all wet and mucusy and I had my arm around her and I didn't cry but Partner did and I was thinking, "She has elf-ears" followed by a loud "Can I go and poo now? I really need to*."

Whatever it was that I had thought giving birth would be like, I was proven wrong on most counts. And I am SO bloody happy about it. I can't write about what (or how) I am feeling about Mia because frankly, I am speechless/wordless. She just makes me feel too many things all at the same time and the only feeling that I can describe is that when I hold her close to my chest, her head under my chin, arms spread out, her eyes closed and me smelling her... it makes breathing easy for me and clears my head of every other thought.

*PS: It never happened.

Anti-nesting feelings

2010-06-23T12:08:00.002+05:30

There's state of mind and then there's a state your mind's in. Or moments when I am so cranky it irritates me. Or I am so irritated I really want to cry.

My belly is HUGE. Correction: The thing under my boobs with red streaks and spider veins running all over -- that can sometimes change shape on its own -- is HUGE. I also projectile puked yesterday because the body felt like it.

I am terrified of the night. It usually means I will have tremendous tummy ache after dinner and will not feel good till I puke. Then I will feel worse for making myself puke. I am terrified of going to bed because I know I won't get any sleep. And because I will be hungry all night because I puked out my dinner. Then next morning it will be a repeat of the cranky-weepy-weepy-therefore-cranky phase. *whimper*

I seem to feel either perpetually terrified, tired, cranky or cantankerous. I am hating it because it's not me. I don't even remember who me is or was. Who me? I want to fight with Partner for doing *this* to me. Then realise I had always been the one going, "I soooo want a baby." (snort) Then I get mad at my body for feeling like this. Followed by bouts of extreme guilt and verbal apologies to my tummy saying, "I am so sorry, it's not your fault and Mamma didn't think those thoughts. Mamma is just tired, hungry and absolutely at her wits end." *waaaanh*

I REALLY want to fight with my doctor, who is so, so nice. Because I want her to say things like, "I think we need to get the baby out of you early." Even though the pregnancy is progressing perfectly (touch wood). Because I have HAD it with being pregnant. Really. And there are STILL four weeks to go. 4x7 = 28 days. If Bub is on time. I don't even want to think of what I'll do if Bub's late.

I want to be able to sleep ON MY BACK with my legs wide apart. Without cramping or my pubic bone hurting. I didn't even know I had a pubic bone (cartilage to be right), or definitely didn't think of it every waking, walking moment. I don't want to get up at night to pee. And pee. And pee. And then take at least 8 minutes to get on bed, keep legs together, swing legs up, hold belly while turning on right side, balance on one arm while gently lowering myself...and then get breathless with the effort.

:( I feel so guilty for writing all that. And more for feeling it. Bub is definitely not getting to see my blog for a long, long, long time. I REALLY want my baby. Now. It's got a lot to do with body going bonkers and also because three of my friends here have had their babies. Their ages (bubs) are 11 months, almost-three months and barely-over-a month (the twins).

I know that other than the belly-discomfort, I definitely won't get any sleep after the baby. But I've just had it and now want to get on with it. Ok, tata bye. Mope for the day over. Now I will go and look at the house and things that need to be done. Then make a list, stick it on the fridge and do nothing about it. At all. F**k nesting. It's just another way of making you clean up.
Don't want to.

Retail therapy

2010-06-18T07:21:00.021+05:30

It’s become such a problem, writing anything at all. In desperate need to get my writing juices flowing – all other juices freely flowing, thank you – I shall try the simple mantra of ‘Even if the shit you write kills you, (try and) write every day’. So be warned, everyone. Due to my complete apathy towards writing anything that could change lives (rolls eyes), I shall take a leaf out of Mad Momma’s blog and write about some of my recent purchases (!).

While browsing through MM’s post, I realised I’m really not into buying jewellery, or for that matter wearing much of it. I love wearing toe rings and my favourite anklets. I can also comfortably wear ear rings but beyond that, I find it very hard to deck up. I don’t wear bracelets and even if I try a necklace, I end up taking it off before stepping out. I wear two very simple, silver rings but cannot get myself to wear the nice-looking, big, fancy ones that are so in vogue today. I do love looking at them though.

It’s also been ages since I’ve bought any clothes. While the last seven months or so have been about restricted clothing choice due to the growing belly; I also don’t like much that I see in the stores here. Couple that with the fact that finding stuff in my size is really tough – Aussie girls are bigger, Asian girls are skinnier, I’m stuck in between – and ‘retail therapy’ is more like a torture session for me. Most times I’ve gone shopping for clothes, I’ve come back depressed.

All my recent shopping, especially since I’ve been living in Melbourne has either been plants, things to prettify the house, books (of course) and shoes. I love shopping for the house! I love shoes! I lurve books! I am the happiest when left in a nursery or a home-ware store. Like some women get off on clothes and jewellery, I get off on whisks, cake tins, pretty plates and bake-ware. And pots and planters or quirky artifacts. And I DO love a good bargain.

Here are some of the home stuff I’ve been buying: Let me know what you think and let’s compare where you’ve been spending your money.

<--- Box from K-Mart: I use this for storing buttons, ribbons and other sewing paraphernalia. I love the trunk-like look and it's the right size for my stuff.

Planter from Complete Garden Store --->Supposed to be for putting pots in or if you are more adventurous, lining with moss and planting herbs/flowers. Currently though I'm using it for all my art-craft stuff, crayons, brushes etc. Plans are to paint it soon, line it with plastic and hay and plant petunias or freesias.

<--- Jug from 'antique' store, can't remember: I love the colours! It alternates as a water jug and as seen here, as a flower vase.

Candle stand Yarraville bric-a-brac store---> Partner absolutely hates the colour, the reason I bought it in the first place! It's a bright orange, somewhat bordering on fluoro. Since I've been wearing a lot of black and grey lately, I compensate for colours elsewhere. Looks really pretty with a lit up candle inside.

<--- Big wooden candle holder on sale, Dusk: I have a weakness for wooden things, especially if they look non-modern. While I appreciate the sleek, 'minimalistic' or whatever-it's-called look often pictured in home decor magazines -- all chrome, steel and whites etc -- I find it quite sterile, somehow lacks feeling. (The candle is from Le Desire, Moonee Ponds, Egyptian musk scented, mmm). PS: For those in Melbourne, the Dusk store at Melbourne Central is shutting down; store closing sale on currently.

Votive candle holders made from recycled glass, Dusk ---> Again because I loved the red and it was on sale. There was another candelabra that was really, really pretty but I really could not justify buying it. More because it wouldn't fit into my house than any other reason.

Woven basket from Chinese gift store: I adore baskets of any sort and will usually find a reason and a need even if neither exist. This one isn't wood, some synthetic material that looks woodsy. It's very light, cleans easily and looks nice. I've been hunting for a big, round basket with a lid to store all my wool in, no luck so far. Perhaps I'll find it in one of those stores with old stuff -- Melbourne has many of them -- but for some bizarre reason Partner refuses to drive me to one. :)

Shoe ashtray from some nursery I can’t remember ---> I love nurseries and not just for the awesome greenery and plants. Nurseries here have some unique ideas and often have pottery or other art-work by independent artists. I don't think this shoe-ashtray is very unique, but I found it very realistic...and I do like that sand brown. Since we have two smokers (one on a break) at home and some friends smoke as well, having an outdoor ashtray is a must. It's highly unpleasant chasing after sucked up butts (please note sad attempt at butt joke).

<--- Herb pots from Costco: Originally these were meant to be potted with herbs and kept inside the kitchen. However given my ability to manage to crowd bench space -- and we have a lot of it in the new house -- I decided to keep them outside. Currently each has one hyacinth bulb in it (just look at the baby shoots). I shall take this moment to gloat: I'm good with foliage but not very good with growing flowers. The hyacinths, bought last winter, were my first attempt at bulbs and they revived this year! One of them has even given off two mini bulbs so now I have five! I am delighted.

Lastly the recent book purchases: Rana Dasgupta's Solo was Partner's purchase and he totally loved the book. I'm still to read it. The book was a revelation to me because Partner strictly reads books on history, war and about historical people who waged wars. Solo was fiction and it was one of the fastest reads I've seen Partner go through. It was also one of the first books -- some chapters at least -- that he read out loud to me in bed. I love it when Partner reads books, he is a complete natural. Given his talent and Dasgupta's brilliance at creating scenes from words, I'm looking forward to either reading it or having Partner complete reading it to me.
Sara Douglass's Infinity Gate was the last in the Darkglass Mountain trilogy that I'd written about in earlier. Given that Ms Douglass is dealing with chemotherapy and has written about how she's over writing SFF, let's see if she writes any other books.
Despite the price tag that I mentioned when the book came out, could not resist buying Pratchett's Unseen Academicals and thoroughly enjoyed reading it. I can't wait for Bub to grow up (can't wait for s/he to be born!) so that I can read Harry Potter and the Discworld series to him/her.
Larsson's The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo was bought yesterday and haven't started reading it yet. Let's see what all the hype's about, eh?
Charlaine Harris's Dead in the Family is book 10 in the Sookie Stackhouse series. The inspiration behind HBO's True Blood teleserial -- that's currently started season three and has dominated TRP ratings in the past -- the book was fun, but not as much when I started reading the series. Somewhere I get the feeling Harris is selling out. But then, who wouldn't if there's money to be made?
The Cookery Encyclopedia and delicious sweets were both bargain buys, after reading and gardening, cooking is my preferred activity.

Naming-shaming

2010-05-28T18:33:00.004+05:30

Spent some really good hours with a friend and her 9 month old son today. The boy is absolutely adorable -- will be really handsome -- and it was so, so nice to see mother and son doing their thing. I loved the way he would just throw himself at her, completely trusting that she wouldn't let him fall. Of how she lifted him over her head and he simply stretched his arms out and shrieked with delight. Or how each time she left the room, he would crane his neck to see her or to hear her footsteps. Mostly I really cherished watching the exchange of touches between them.

When I was little -- as in not five feet 'little' but a kid! -- and I'd hurt myself or fall down or bump into things (which was usual and has not changed), Papa would rub wherever it was that I'd hurt myself and say, "There, it would now be all right." It didn't 'do' anything to the injury as such, but I would feel much better instantly. Or how when my period cramps would get really bad, Ma would fuss around me, stroke my hair and get me a hot water bottle. The bottle helped heaps, but it was the gentle touching that helped much more.

I clearly remember when I was 13 and Thamma (paternal grandma) was staying with us... I had developed these black corn-like things on my ankles from wearing tight shoes. Now my (late) Thamma was obese and didn't move around much. However, every nigh, unfailingly, she would painstakingly rub cream on my ankles and massage it in. "Snow cream will soften the skin and make the marks disappear," she would say. The marks did go away. She was so, so good at providing physical comfort to other people. Pressing your forehead if you had a headache, pinching the eyebrows (er, can't explain it in English but it's the most divine thing EVER!) if fatigued, gently massaging cream to relax the skin, the most bloody awesome head oil massages... It's amazing the things I have picked up from Thamma. Things I hadn't realised I had learned.

Like 'dotting' my face with cream before rubbing it in because "it spreads better and you don't miss out any area." Or knowing that when another is tired, nothing works a miracle quicker than running your fingers through their hair. So far I have not known anyone who does not like it. She 'finger combed' my hair every night when she stayed with us.

I am really fatigued today. I was fine in the morning but once my friend left, I have progressively become more and more tired. Now I feel it's in my bones and I miss Thamma so much. I miss my Ma a lot too. I had always assumed that I would have my mother around whenever it was that I had my first child. Now I don't know when I'll see her; though it's definitely sometime Bub's born.

I wonder how it would have been had either Ma or Thamma been around. I know it's normal to not be able to sleep in the third trimester but perhaps Thamma would have gently patted my back or stroked my hair each night I lay awake. And perhaps every time I would have said my back hurts, Ma would have rushed to get me a hot water bottle. Then arranged cushions around me, pulled a stool or something for me to rest my feet on, offer a back rub, touch my cheek and say, "Aaram kore di?" Papa on the other hand would have gone and brought some tandoori chicken, knowing it's comfort food for me.

Home-cooked Indian food, made by someone else -- that's what I have missed most during my pregnancy. I can make most dishes myself -- and I have -- but I have sorely missed the sense of being pampered with food. Restaurant food is just not the same. I have had -- and have -- many, many cuddles and hugs (Partner is really good with those), but I think I have really missed my Ma's concern. And I cannot tell her how much I want her near or how sorely I miss her because then she would really miss me and get upset.

Now as the date draws nearer (still couple of months though), I am getting sort-of edgy. Wondering about what's to come and wondering what I've missed out on because I am so far away. If I was in India, would I have had a naming ceremony for my child? And a traditional Indian baby shower? With bangles and henna? Would my baby have had many pishis and kakus and maamas? And many uncles and aunties instead of now calling everyone by their first names? On names: I know Bengali nicknames are joked about and well, I have at least seven that I can recall instantly... but would my child have had as many names...instead of Mum struggling with getting any names on the shortlist?

Indian or Australian? Complicated Indian? But how the hell will the Aussies pronounce it when even 'Jhoomur' has become "Zhumoore"? (Though to be honest even most Indians have had trouble pronouncing my name, rolls eyes) Simple Indian name? But then would Ratan become Rat and Pooja turn to Poo?! Based on grandparents? But Partner didn't know mine and vice-versa and 'Abha' would become Ava... it's not the same. A name that has a meaning? But desi or Aussie meaning!?

Abe, normal

2010-05-17T07:48:00.006+05:30

Still don't have the internet home, which is probably a good thing in hindsight. If I had had (easy) access to wikipedia last week, I probably would have gone into pre-term labour due to mouse-induced stress. So I went for my routine 28-week checkup, it coincided with my birthday (May 6). Along with all the great news the doc gave me -- vitamin and iron levels sweeping bottom etc -- she also told me she was sending me to a cancer specialist for another colposcopy.

I had my PAP smear (abnormal) followed by the first colposcopy (abnormal) in Jan/Feb 2010. Back then the doc told me that some cells in my cervix looked suspicious but that she would wait a couple of months before further action. Those couple of months passed pretty quickly and now she was sending me to a C-specialist. The appointment was in four days in which I was convinced I had only two more years to live (full blown cervical cancer) and that my doc was not telling me everything. Very routine check up that and a great 31st birthday. I refused to do anything and spent the evening wondering if my baby would be motherless and if eventually s/he would have a white or a dark-skinned step mom. Partner was very loving, which made it even worse.

Silver lining in the situation? No internet access to confirm my suspicions and confirmation that despite my MIL's very helpful "You have not grown much since I last saw you" statement (I immediately began thinking premature, underweight baby), my doctor told me the baby's size is/was slightly above average for 28 weeks. By the end of the week thought things were back bright and beautiful (except for the bit about an unsigned contract, looming deadline and absolute inability to write anything, even shopping lists).

The visit to the C-specialist was bad. Instead of focussing on what she said about the suspicious cells now being possible early cancer, I was more pissed off about her attitude and comments about me, ie about exercise and smoking.
"Do you do any exercise?"
"No."
Disapproving frown. "Do you at least walk?"
"Yes. I walk to the supermarket. ?"
Humour not appreciated, frown deepens. "So basically you don't do any form of structured exercise are a smoker."
"I haven't since I've been pregnant."
Not impressed, rolls eyes and says in very authoritarian, disapproval-laden, you-are-a-moron tone, "What are we going to DO about you?"
I smile to avoid telling her exactly what was on my mind. Despite usually harping about my lack of exercise, Partner wisely did not join teams with the C-specialist.

Towards the end of the session that included questions about vegetarianism and the efficacy of yoga, C-specialist performs a biopsy. It alarmed me somewhat because so far according to what I had read (er,) biopsies are not performed in pregnancies. At least that's also what my doc had told me after the first colposcopy. After the C-specialist pokes around in me and tells me not to worry about the biopsy ("But doctor..." was ignored), she announces that depending on the test results we could be looking at a possible operation at 34 weeks. And that "usually" that would mean the baby would be born as well.

"Can it harm the baby?"
"Not really, unless you bleed too much."
"But then it would be a pre-term baby...?" I sound somewhat harsh because I didn't want to sound hysterical.
"Yes, but the baby has good chances of survival?" she says.

WTF does "good" chances of survival mean? I've had morning sickness, severe tummy and abdominal aches (I thought my pancreatic fluid or something was leaking), horrendous constipation (enough to make me fantasize about having good poos), inconvenient kicks in the gut, less than desirable physical manifestation of mental horniness (decipher that!) and many unwanted horror baby-birth stories... in short, I've been through some things and I'm WAITING for my baby. I want to say "My waters have broken" or "Honey, we need to go to the hospital NOW" or "The baby's on its way" or "Where's my Prodigy CD?" or whatever else... I want to feel the pain, have someone tell me to push, crush Partner's fingers and after it all, HOLD my baby.

And now this bloody, possibly vegetarian, definitely yoga-loving, disapproving, insensitive-to-pregnant-mother C-specialist tells me my baby has "good chances of survival"? It was not enough and I was shit scared. Of everything. Both Partner and I were shaken up. That was on Monday (May 10). Thankfully by Friday evening, my doc had called and informed me that I did not have gestational diabetes and that my biopsy showed that it was only CIN , ie not cancer and only on the surface. She still has to tell me about operation dates. Let's see.

The C-scare apart, I've been exercising like a maniac, in a manner of speaking. We moved house recently and it's a two level place, so I've been doing tonnes of cleaning up, setting up and general stuff that has me moving a lot. Even going up and down stairs, which anyone will tell you is legitimate exercise. The fact that I just cannot sleep -- baby obediently and religiously kicks at 12 am, 2 am and 4 am -- also helps in clocking extra hours for exercise.

I am also expanding exponentially. And helpful statements from well-meaning friends/people like, "You haven't put on much weight, you're all baby" are not helping at all. Since I've recently rearranged my clothes, I know just HOW big I am. All my jeans are getting stuck at the knees, I've discovered underwear that can now only fit my ears and bras that... Well, Partner pointed out that my breast(s) are bigger than my head. Get the picture?

I am also changing fundamentally and I can't seem to control, shape or prevent it -- and it's the lack of control that's bothering me the most. Like retail therapy now means shopping for various types of cleaning products and optimum space management solutions. While the criteria for personal clothing is still the same -- feels good against my skin and comes off easily -- the intent and purpose are dramatically different. Earlier it was seduction, now its turning into sedation. AND I have 10 more weeks to go of waiting. Sigh.

Quick update

2010-05-13T09:58:00.002+05:30

Don't have access to the internet yet, shifted home four days back. Sorry about not putting up the Mother's Day post, should be up once I am connected.

Had routine prenatal check recently, baby doing fine, touch wood. Other than that... kind of zapped. Low on Vit D, iron levels dismal. Maybe gestational diabetes. And, cervical cancer scare. Pre-cancerous cells, awaiting results and operation dates. Shocked. Still.

It's not cancer yet. But somehow, just the word is very scary. More details later.

India shining?

2010-04-22T04:45:00.004+05:30

Top 5 stories on ibnlive.com are about the IPL.
BCCI-Modi 'divorce' is top story on timesofindia.com, with other stories including Gilchrist's drive, something about Payal Rohatgi and Priyanka Chopra.
More cricket, one item on the PM's stand on naxals and er, Beckham learning rapping from Snoop Dog on hindustantimes.com.
Absolute IPL overkill on ndtv.com as well.

And all this while a disabled Dalit girl and her father were burnt alive in Haryana. The police sketch of the prime suspect in the Bangalore blast is hidden somewhere inside.

When I log in from Australia to read about what's happening back home, nothing and no news website gives me ANY idea. Is this news?

Impatience

2010-03-22T10:03:00.001+05:30

I yearn for you and in yearning realise
I have never felt anything like this before.
The fear, the love, the passion,
The overwhelming sense I have been waiting for this.

For so long.

I am dying to touch you, to hold you, to smell you, to cuddle you.
Even to have you puke and dribble on me.
I won’t say I am overjoyed at the thought of,
Ballistic baby potty…

But if it means you have good bowel movement,
I will be enthralled at the efficiency of your li’l bowels.
And your little hands, little toes, round little bottom
And the eyes that I so imagine now.

Eyes like mine, eyes like his.

The eyes that I will look into
And behold the wonder at what you see.
To wonder at what you think
And what or who you will grow up to be.

I cannot wait to have our first argument,
When I will know that you are expressing your will
And despite wanting it my way, an old habit
I will revel in the fact that you have your own opinions.

And moan at how stubborn you can be. (I know it)

I am terrified sometimes that you might not be
But then I banish those thoughts as easily as they come
For you have my will and your father’s strength of being
And I believe you shall be and be all that you can be.

You are the epitome of my hopes, my dreams, all the love I can possibly have.

I know there will be times when you will think I am silly
When perhaps I will not be as cool, calm or smart as other moms
But I hope you will see that I am trying for you
And that at times I will seek your help in being all I can be.

For I do believe there will be things you will know better than me.

I am dying to dress you up, to marvel at the beauty I know you are.
To relive everything I could not be, am not.
I know that soon you will not want to wear what I decide
And I hope that perhaps then you will pick out what I should wear instead

And think that I am the prettiest mom you have ever laid eyes on.

I love you. Already. Totally. Irrevocably.
And I desperately hope you will love me.
It’s not fair, I know, to want so much from you.
But I am weak and I have my faults

And I hope that just like your father, you will love me despite my faults…

I hope you will enjoy head massages and give them to me as well
I want to see you swim even if you laugh at how scared I can be in water
I want to see you dive and hold my hand and teach me how.
I want to see you play and teach me new tricks…

And new words, even though I fear they might be slangs.

I am dying to touch you, to hold you, to smell you, to cuddle you.
To have you and be blessed that you are mine.
Ours. To love.

Stranger, danger?

2010-03-19T05:45:00.006+05:30

One of my earliest random memories is from when I was 9-years-old. I had just won a prize for a dance performance (on Jahan chaar yaar mil jaaye from Sharaabi!) at an army function and was being pretty much adored by everyone around. ‘Everyone’ then included lots of army ‘uncles’ and ‘aunties’ and particulary a large number of ‘young’ uncles. Young uncles in the army are unmarried lieutenants and captains who are (or were back then at least) usually treated as the kids at a cantonment.

What I clearly remember is not the dancing or the prize but of some young uncle picking me up in his arms and throwing me in the air while the others cheered and applauded my (excellent) dance moves… and later, of Papa growling at Ma for ‘letting’ that officer pick me up, Ma whining her helplessness and Papa finishing off with, “You don’t let any bastard touch my daughter”. I remember feeling bad for Ma and being confused at Papa’s reaction (didn’t he like my dance?) and yet understanding then (and for the rest of my life) that Papa did not want me picked up or cuddled – even as a 9 year old – by other men, even nice young uncles.

If my vocabulary had included ‘over-reacting’ then, I probably would have used it. (I did use it often for Papa in my teen years). I understood the why of Papa’s fury much later; and now that I am expecting my first child, suddenly, mysteriously and guiltily, ‘over-reacting’ seems such a useless, over-used word. How can you overreact in protecting your child…or can you?

One of the things Partner really had to train me for (or against) when we first came to Melbourne was to NOT go “how c.u.t.e.” over strangers’ babies. I’ve always liked babies and have (or had) not thought twice about walking up to parents with an adorable tot and striking a conversation that usually started with, “Your baby is so cute etc.” Or if at times a child was found wandering by himself/herself – somehow toddlers seem to manage it extremely well despite vigilant parents – holding its hand and asking where its mother was and simply waiting for the parents to turn up.

In Melbourne, it’s not as easy. First couple of months here a similar lonely-child incident had happened. I had promptly walked up to the child and was asking it about its parents when they had come running...The mother was relieved and said thanks but the father – He looked like my father as he stared at me suspiciously. I was so hurt, Partner was understanding but upset (with me). “Baby, you cannot just talk to kids here, you could be arrested.”

I’ve received varied reactions from parents when I’ve smiled at a cute tot or made faces at babies (it’s awesome when they react and smile or laugh). Some parents have smiled back and others have glared at me, with mistrust, some with fear. I don’t think it had anything to do with me being Indian etc. These were protective parents. It hurt me initially and I wailed at Partner, “But I was just being friendly!” “You know I am not a ‘kiddie fiddler’!” And Partner had again patiently explained and I had understood but lamented how innocent people were being viewed through the same lens as the paedophiles.

And yet, can we – can I? – ever know who is innocent and who can harm my child?

It’s considered good mothering here if you let your baby be cuddled by others. ‘Others’ does not mean strangers but say family, friends etc. It is said that it helps children socialise better and lets them get used to other people more. If a mother smothers her child in her bosom (not literally but is over-protective), the child is thought to grow up as an introvert or someone who is not as socially adept. It’s here that I get confused. What if I trust the wrong person?

Papa’s (over) protectiveness did not end with strangers; it extended to everyone, regardless of friend or family status. He did not trust anyone. It protected but it also choked. I had no night outs at friends’ homes because they had older brothers and fathers; didn’t go for school trips or picnics because I’d be alone with boys, didn’t learn swimming because there were too many men in the swimming pool (and I had developed breasts at 10, bloody things), was not allowed to compete in the doubles badminton tournament (after winning three prizes) because that would have meant partnering with an unmarried officer (I was 14)…the list goes on.

But did it eventually protect? Or did it exclude me from people? Is that the reason that I can be ‘popular’ with people but don’t have many friends…and don’t know how to ‘make’ friends? Was it his protectiveness that harnessed extreme reckless, rebelliousness in me and made me seek out things and experiences that were the antithesis of whatever he believed in? Or was it my destiny to learn things the hard way (f**k destiny really)?

And most importantly, how am I going to be with my child? Am I content to teach it ‘stranger danger’? How do I explain the difference between good and bad strangers? Yes I know about the good touch and bad touch…but how do I explain how to see/fathom malicious intent before the touch? How do I prevent the touch? Will I be a good judge to know who’s good/bad for my child? Can I trust anyone… or have I become like my father?

How do you – those with children – know what to do? Are you not scared?

Read this on similar thoughts, from a mother of three

Some scary facts:
USA: Most sexual abuse offenders are acquainted with their victims; approximately 30% are relatives of the child, most often brothers, fathers, uncles or cousins; around 60% are other acquaintances such as friends of the family, babysitters, or neighbors; strangers are the offenders in approximately 10% of child sexual abuse cases.
[Julia Whealin, Ph.D. (2007-05-22). "Child Sexual Abuse". National Center for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, US Department of Veterans Affairs.]

India: 53.22% of children in India reported having faced sexual abuse. Among them 52.94% were boys and 47.06% girls (sample of 12,447 children, 2,324 young adults and 2,449 stakeholders across 13 states). The study looked at different forms of child abuse: Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse and Emotional Abuse and Girl Child Neglect in five evidence groups, namely, children in a family environment, children in school, children at work, children on the street and children in institutions.
["Study on Child Abuse: India 2007" (PDF). Published by the Government of India, (Ministry of Women and Child Development).]

Kaise ho?

2010-03-16T06:37:00.003+05:30

There's really no point in me apologising for vanishing acts since I know I could (and would) be doing it again. Lots has been happening.

For one, Bub is kicking around, not very hard and you still cannot feel it from the top (as in if you place your hand on tummy etc) but I sure can feel the flutters. Doesn't seem to like spicy food since it kicks more after curries. Hrmph. I am determined that Bub shall like curries -- and all Indian food -- as much as its mum does; though I shall compromise and feed it vegemite as well. Personally I can't stand the damn thing.

Two, we've got to move from this house in May -- right when I will be mega-huge -- and so house-hunting as well. And surfing the internet for homes is about as much of the 'nesting instinct' I am indulging in. The moment I walk into baby stores the sheer sight of the things on display and for sale scares (the shit out of) me. What not to buy?!

Three, trying very hard not to say f**k and failing brilliantly. Very worried -- since now Bub is at the stage it can apparently hear me -- that the first word it will say will be either idiot, dingbat or f**k. 'Dingbat' is a new and recently coined term (by me), and I don't know why I came up with it but it's a good substitute for asshole (and other similar insults).

Four, very worried about swearing during labour. And worried about birth plan and all that since the only thing I have decided so far -- and which has met with either laughter (friends) or horror (Partner) -- is that I definitely want to play Smack My Bitch Up (Prodigy) during labour. That song really gets me going. :D Don't know if the hospital will allow it though.

Five, knitting these days. Tried it couple of months back and ended up buying a whole lot of wool and all possible needle sizes and then knitting the arm holes near the hem line instead of next to the shoulders. Now at it again but this time determinedly focussed on Bub-clothes. BUT if things go wrong will e-bay the wool and buy the damn things (always have exit options ready).

That's all from me. I am 57.30 kgs and think there's a bit of fat on my nose as well, though most of it is primarily distributed between the boobs (now udders), waist and upper thighs. Apparently the boobs are going to get EVEN bigger and I am considering buying crutches to support them. If I find any, shall report. ;)

Honesty-shonesty

2010-02-08T02:35:00.007+05:30

Oh well. I had some stuff I wanted to write about but then this turned out to be a much quicker post. Thanks to Chandni for giving me this award. Big truth: I am very self-conscious about accepting blog awards, especially tags. First self-conscious bit is the award and second would be the answering the tag thing that makes me either avoid acceptance or procrastinate the writing!

I think I'm honest most of the times, and more than honest at most other times. *evil grin* So according to "rules", here are 10 more honest things...though how relevant to anyone/anything, I take no responsibility for!!

1. I cannot understand when people (on Facebook) tag me on notes when they haven't said hello for ages. I always remove the tag.

2. Sometimes I think I'm too low maintenance. :/ Like my comfort food is khichuri (for crying out loud) and most animation movies make me really happy.

3. I am never happy with the bras I buy. Never. And now that I officially have udders, it's getting even tougher.

4. Though I have a baby bump, I have to confess that my doctor said, ''A lot of your bump is in fact belly,'' which kind of had me a bit glum. :/ But then rather a doc who's easy to talk to then overly bloody maternal.

5. I am scared of driving cars and can't believe I am being forced to er, learn. However, before you laugh, I have no fears about hopping on a motorcycle and riding around. Parents and Partner have forbidden it.
(And I thought I'd get to make my own decisions once I was 30)

6. I secretly (well not anymore) fear that someday I will stop being attractive for Partner. (However if any woman EVER thinks of using my sometimes low self-confidence as a weakness and tries any moves-shoves on my territory, oh boy, she better be bloody prepared for my real nastiness. Evil laugh)

7. Yet I find it very tough to use the above as enough motivation to really exercise. I mean what's the point if affection is only physical eh? Bring on the chocolates.

8. I am always a bit apprehensive discussing what's bothering me with people -- even really close ones -- because I can't stand the expectation that I am expected to follow their advice!
(I mean it's fair though, I make them listen for hours and then get pissed off when they give me all-knowing advice.)

9. I am very jealous of women who can sing (they always behave like divas) and women who say they "play a lot of sport". I can do neither...though I am darned good at some video games. I demand video games be declared sport.
(Er, if you sing or play sport, it totally does not mean you, thik-hai?)

10. I SUCK at shooting games/war games, especially on the Xbox. I always get my head blown up in 2 seconds (usually Partner) and completely hate it. I am VERY competitive in video games... I also insist that all double/multiplayer video games should ALWAYS have a default female character. WHY should I play Modern Warcraft 2 when I always have to be a man?

I pass this on to:
Silvara (who is very honest about (failure) with weight loss attempts)
Goofy Mumma (who writes so sweetly about shifting to a new country)
Pirate of the Arabian (who writes one bloody post a year, should bloody well be writing more)
DewDropDream (who I have not seen in aaaaaages)
Sree (who is so honest...it hurts. And I wish it would stop hurting)

Paranoia

2010-01-29T13:24:00.002+05:30

I didn't know her in college. But I saw a picture where she had the kind of waist-line I could kill for. And had I known her then, perhaps would have hated her for it.

I got to know her -- not really -- through her blog. Even went to her house for dinner once with Partner. And I remember her Brat. He had that smile that makes you want to smile. No matter how pissed off you are.

Sometimes her posts piss me off. I will not go into reasons now. Sometimes they echo what I think. Sometimes they make me wonder about the starkness with which she writes.

I don't think she is perfect, but if there's someone flawed doing a damn good job of things -- fumbling, learning, screaming, loving -- perhaps it's her. Especially since we are the same age and she has two children.

My biggest problem as a blogger is that I am not reciprocal. In other words I really don't keep up with reading others. I do it sporadically. Read 20 blogs in one day and then not do it for months.

I loved this post. Not because of the happy ending but because it scared me to bits.

I am nearly 15 weeks pregnant. I was smoking till the day before I discovered I was pregnant. Smoking meant 20 cigarettes. I had drags the other day (judge me at your own peril, absolutely not up for moral declarations of any f*cking sort).

And I get scared. Will my placenta tear off? What if I have a spontaneous abortion before 20 weeks? What if the baby is still born? What if it has webbed hands and feet? What if he has ADD? Or is hyper-active?

Most of my doubts are related to smoking. I research everyday, incessantly on the effects of smoking on unborn babies. And everyday I find something new. What if, what if, what if... What is most scary is that every bloody research is inconclusive.

And then her this post. What if everything is right and then something goes wrong with my child? Four years, 10 years later...? HOW will I cope? What will I do? And most selfishly of all... will it be my fault? Will I be blamed?

"... it takes more than half a teaspoon of sperm to make a father." --- The Mad Momma

It's not me, it's the baby

2010-01-28T06:56:00.009+05:30

IF I see one more Bollywood movie with divinely pregnant women practicing lullabies the moment their bloody ovum is fertilised...
Or any more filmi sequences where hero-heroine burst into "the moon of our eye and the apple of your womb" type romantic number when they discover they/she are/is pregnant.
Or any references to how life is going to change (completely, drastically, horrendously) because tum maa banne waali ho*. (All Hindi translations given at the end of this post, and if some are missing, I can't be f*cked.)
I swear I WILL kill.

I mean yes, it's great that I am preggers. Yes, it was quite shocking to discover something barely 6 cms long kicking around that energetically INSIDE me. And once I got over the first shock, it was quite... shocking, again, but this time more like, ''It is alive AND kicking.'' (Also finally understood the meaning of that phrase, thank-you very much) Then only to be scared persistently, horrendously for the next four weeks wondering, ''Is it still kicking?'' "Oh shit I was lying on my tummy...is it squished?'' ''If I sneeze or cough or laugh too hard...does it get dizzy?'' ''If I get horny, does it know?!" (Freaked me out completely that one)

What I am trying to say is that I am feeling... That yes I am willing to do all that's necessary....or simply that I know I am having a baby. Yes thank-you I am excited. But no thank-you I cannot pretend that everything is peaches and apples and other rosy things. I cannot be all angelic.
I am having a bloody nicotine withdrawal all right?! And my boobs feel like, like extra appendages from Total Recall that have a mind of their own. They certainly have a centre of gravity of their own given the directions they go off to when I lie down. (Like how would you feel if you had to tuck your boob from UNDER your arm pit and...nevermind.)

And my back hurts. And people tell me it's only the beginning. Ooh, ha, ha, very funny. And there are these twingy feelings at the side of my, well, uterus. (How many times have you spoken about your uterus in a normal conversation eh?) Though from where the uterus originally was now it has apparently risen. And I thought it was just man-balls (as against woman-balls?!) that did the rising-descending thing. And the time I told Partner, "I think I am hurting because my uterus is rising," he stopped, mid-step, one foot in the air, almost jerk-braked and whilst staring somewhere in the region of my belly said horrified, "What?! Like rising right now?"

I know gazillions of women have done it before me -- infact our friend group has a new mom and two others who'd be popping out their bubs before me -- and have all gone bravely etc, etc. But if I am a bit chicken, can I please not be laughed at? Can I please get some bloody sympathy?

And not have anyone (like Partner, though I know he is trying to be understanding etc) patting me on the arm and saying, "Ah, you'll be fine." Really and he's scared of tweezers.

And someone wished me a baby with a big head. :( Like severe constipation, multiplied by 20 times and the wrong orifice. I am petrified.
(*Translation: You are going to be a mother, usually said with nudge, nudge, wink, wink)
PS: Despite one father and one mother possibly reading this blog, I shall blog about Things That Piss Me Off About Being Pregnant, all filed under the category: "up the duff". For what that means and the origin of the phrase, go here.
Pic courtesy: Steve Harpster of Studio Harpster

A little, big thing

2010-01-20T12:43:00.004+05:30

Why am I writing this, writing here? That’s the question I’ve asked the umpteen times I’ve tried blogging and haven’t. Each time I haven’t been certain of the answer and so haven’t bothered to write. I’ve sat and played game after game of online monopoly (pogo.com), tried the same campaign on Age of Empires at various difficulty levels, surfed through various websites…Done everything but blog.

Either I’ve not known why I want to write – not what, never what – or someone else has said it better than I would, could. There’s no dearth of opinions, I’ve always had them by the truckloads, there’s just a sense of… Can’t-be-bothered.

There’s so much that’s happened. It made the last year go by so fast, it seems I went straight from 2008 to 2010. Perhaps my not wanting to write was a way of dealing with so many new things, adjustments, changes. Perhaps.

So many remember-it-lifelong events, moments. So many that at times you (and I) forgot them in an instant unless it had a Facebook album dedicated to it.

The desperation of unemployment. While living an all-paid-for life. The consequent, complete loss of identity, or feeling thereof. It’s not money if it’s not my money, joint account be damned.

The jealousy (and anger) I felt…towards my own Partner because he was doing so well while I languished in self pity. You are someone and I am that someone’s girlfriend. The intense guilt because some times I really wished it was the other way round. And because I was never denied anything.

The acute realisation that I have different coloured skin. And that it’s supposed to be inferior. Not because anyone has been racist towards me. But because the media said they could be. Or that I am supposed to have a “new found sense of superiority”. A polite way of saying “Indians are getting cocky”. Apparently I belong to the “rising Indian middle class” with more “spending power”. I swear I didn’t notice.

A year – well couple of months at least – of travelling, where “travelling” did not mean an 18-hour train journey to see the parents or a road trip to Manali. International travel dudes, spending power and all that. (But it’s not your money said that thought at the back of my head, sometimes at the front of my head too).

The realisation people more qualified than me are walking around jobless. Like the Masters in Accounts waitress at the local restaurant… and feeling guilty that I got a job at one of the community newspapers. It’s a casual position – I have a job if someone resigns or goes on leave – it could go any day. Community reporting, it’s something I did when I started out as a journalist. BUT, it beats making sandwiches and cleaning tables any day. So I lied when she recently asked if I had a job.

It was a year of scoring really well in my Masters final semester. Being “awarded” (it was a book) by this high flying, resident-author-at-uni…and wondering if I deserved it or if it was international student appeasement. Of getting really good feedback from two well-respected industry sources on my novel draft… and wondering if it was because I was selling a West-accepted image of India.

Umm, what is the India-accepted image of India?

Then of course was the grand finale: Finding out that I am pregnant. And realising that I really didn’t ¬– and don’t – have an answer to, “Are you ready for it?” I don’t know, but I know I am having a baby. I know am excited. I know I am bloody petrified.

And I know that no matter how much I am paid, I don't think I can pose nude when pregnant. Nope.

PS: Will this blog now become a "mommy" blog. I don't know. Is it allowed?

Sometimes, stuff hides

2010-01-18T11:22:00.001+05:30

(Republished without permission, please go here for more such)

Tears and stuff

Things got a bit intense last evening.

I walked in on my daughter watching a re-run of Jungle Book 2 on television. You know it. Mowgli rediscovers his old friends in the jungle, after discovering hormones in the man-village. My daughter was crying because Mowgli knew he had to return to mankind, and Baloo the bear was giving him a hug to make it easier.

‘Why aren’t you crying?’ My daughter asked me. She was pouring tears. ‘It’s so sad and happy at the same time.’

So I cried a little. I was surprised at how easily the tears came.

We sat there, sniffling, pre-teen daughter and middle-aged father, as the credits rolled up. It felt good to know that in her eyes I wasn’t a wimp.

She went off to bed, as I channel-surfed: a four year-old girl raped in Delhi; real estate dealers in cahoots with politicians brokering a regime-shift in Goa; George W saying something silly; the mess in Andhra Pradesh after police killed protesters demanding government land for the landless; Aussies shipping back Doctor Haneef the terror un-suspect to India. The usual.

Then I chanced on the finals between Iraq and Saudi Arabia at Asia Cup soccer being played in Jakarta. As I watched disbelieving, the Iraqi team—a happy, committed collection of Shias, Sunnis and Kurds leaving angst and vendetta behind—went one goal up. And then won the match.

The entire Iraqi team was crying with joy. They were probably crying in Baghdad and Basra and Kirkuk and up and down the Tigris and Euphrates. I cried, too. If I had a Kalashnikov, I would probably have shot some brass into the air—to hell with my neighbours.

The last time I felt this way over a sporting event was in 1996 when Sri Lanka won the Cricket World Cup. For a brief spell, it brought that torn nation together. Tamil Tigers had declared a ceasefire of sorts for the duration. The government responded. And there was magic. Blood and gore and desperation were kept away for some weeks by the power of emotion woven by eleven people on a green playing field in a foreign land.

Some of that came back, watching the Iraqis win. Maybe they cried because they were happy. Maybe they cried for their nation—they finally could, in public, on live TV as the world watched, and nobody would call them wimps.

(Maybe it’s time someone takes Osama and Dubya, put them in the same cell at Guantanamo, and throws away the keys. That would surely lead to grand celebration in the East and West. I’d cry again, no problem.)

Bushtailed!

2010-01-07T03:59:00.004+05:30

A good idea needs few words.

Really like the work done by these guys, a new advertising firm called Bushtail.

I quite enjoyed their website too, give it a go, something quite hatke. And yes, if you know people looking for advertisers, pass the link on.

Quote

2010-01-06T06:14:00.007+05:30

"The human race would have died out if it was left to men to have babies."
--- Colleague at work when discussing a picture of a woman in labour that appeared in the Sunday Age newspaper. She believes, and we all agreed, that men cannot tolerate pain as well as women do. They (men) just don't have any pain threshold level.
Pic courtesy: theage.com

Aao, khao!

2010-01-05T09:30:00.007+05:30

What better way to start 2010 than by completely feeding my face? In the year and half of my being in Melbourne, I've made no pretenses about missing Indian food. Especially when it comes down to chaat and sweets and the other goodies we take for granted back home.

It was a random chat with one of the dude's at the Indian store at Moonee Ponds that lead to my best discovery in Melbourne yet. Ironic though that it should be Partner asking about "Where to get authentic gulab jamuns?" instead of me. Perhaps because Partner has been quite sick of the disintegrating gulab jamuns I've tried making. They taste almost the same except they are not round or any other shape.

So we end up at this store that's hidden away behind a bigger store. And inside was the most amazing sight ever. Motichoor laddoos, gulab jamun in paper cups and syrup, rosogolla (spelled as such too), ras malai, kaju barfi, barfi, jalebi and to my utter, utter delight dhokla...with the steamed green chillies! In Melbourne!

The owner and his wife were very polite and extremely helpful in pointing out what I might like to eat! ;) Given that I was/am a greedy pig, I really appreciated their help.

Partner watched with honest amazement as I went through each item with absolute relish. I had doubts if the taste would be "authentic", I need not have worried. God they were SO tasty. Though I think I miscalculated my love for samosas and should have ordered more. I wonder if they do gol gappas, shall call and ask.

This evening after work I'm eating the ras malai -- both of them -- since Partner got to eat more of the gulab jamuns. I am so happy. I love food. I love sweets even more. I love Indian sweets the most.

Happy new year, may you all eat well.

This is the store:

Sweet India, Factory 9, 1-3 Kilmur Rd, Hoppers Crossing, Vic 3029.

Ph/Fax: 9369 6694

Same story,...

2009-12-16T07:58:00.004+05:30

The rape of a woman who walks with strangers should be treated differently.

Moral of the story: If you were stupid enough to trust, you were asking to be raped.

The rape of girls who wear short skirts should be seen differently.

Moral: If you were wearing a skirt, showing your skin, enticing men, you were asking to be raped.

In the case of 15-year-old Scarlett Keeling, fingers are alternately pointed at the mother who left her daughter alone and the Indian state (Goa, Delhi, which do you want it to be?) where security is failing. Politicians of course are only too happy to point out that the late Ms Keeling was a drug addict, sexually active, etc etc.

Recently a 25-year-old Russian woman has been raped. And this moron, who is a Member of Parliament (Indian) is also saying the same thing.

That's not to say that it's just "foreign" girls and that Indian girls/women are not raped. Oh they are. Daily, every minute. Going by Indian (double) standards, Indian girls should not be vicitms of rape. They don't wear mini skirts, don't walk around with strangers, don't drink or do any of the things deemed "deserving of rape"...WHY are they raped?

Doesn't it make you sick?

Oh God.

2009-12-15T05:11:00.004+05:30

Just wondering. Do you pray because you believe or do you pray because you're scared that if you don't, something/someone will punish you (sort of just to prove a point)?

Something like, God: "Haha, so you don't believe I exist? How about this and this and this..."

(Like those movies/books where he-who-didn't-believe finally had god proven to him in really nasty ways? Like being struck by lightening on a bright summer day?)

'I'm ready to blow'

2009-12-14T12:35:00.002+05:30

This particular ad is causing quite a stir... do you think it's sexist and degrading?

Why I want to be a pussy

2009-10-30T04:50:00.005+05:30

1. ... because I get to stay here in a suite where people are paid to cuddle me. ---->

2. I have no curfew hours and can go out whenever and wherever I want to.

3. Someone else prepares/bothers about my food.

4. Someone else also cleans my poo.

5. The fatter I get, the cuter I look.

6. I have no morals when destroying fresh garden beds or digging up newly planted saplings.

7. I can crawl on to strangers crotches and sleep there (umm).

8. I always choose good-looking strangers with (good-looking) crotches.

9. I will have videos on youtube dedicated to me. Like this one. Badly made, but it's not my fault, is it now? I'm a bloody pussy cat.

Oook.

2009-10-22T08:13:00.005+05:30

Groan. Moan. Gah.

I have had two job rejections in the last two days. One from a bookstore saying they don't have any vacancies and if I'd like to be in their looking-for-opening list for the next 3 months. I am back on the list. Again.

The second was from a media house saying they couldn't hire me because I need to be a permanent resident. Sigh.

If that wasn't bad enough, the latest -- book 37 -- in Terry Pratchett's Discworld series is out. And it's bloody AUD 49.50!!!! :(

And I've just spent AUD 400 -- again -- on bras and such. I need a job. I can cook. I need that book. Please.

Is this news?!

2009-10-07T13:58:00.003+05:30

'Beheaded cop's son vows revenge on Maoists', screams this headline. The said boy is a mere 7-years-old. There is a link to the video where the boy is crying on camera.

What did the reporter(s) think when the boy said those words? Did they feel they had to protect the child because he has lost his father? Or did they think it was a brilliant sound byte? Given it's making headlines and should possibly garner hit counts... I don't think there was any thought for the child involved.

The brilliant reporter is further heard prompting the child, "Papa ka naam bolo." (Say your father's name) Was there any thought before airing that video? WAS IT NECESSARY?

And I wonder how the reporter got that byte. Did she perhaps ask, "Aap ko kaisa lag raha hai?" (How are you feeling?)

Disgusted.

Got Art?

2009-10-06T02:10:00.011+05:30

THREE DAYS LEFT TO GO!

For a radical exhibition. You send in 1-2 of your nicer works. These guys curate it, print it, publicize it and show it at the only venue of its kind in New Delhi

Pop-Up-Art-House is a realtime, curated global art exhibit completed in 5 days, and showcased at the Arthouse Gallery in New Delhi, India for 2 weeks from Oct 9 2009. For more details download the PDF file.

What you need to do:

1. Tweet it/Digg it/Share it: Share the link for www.popuparthouse.com on your social networks
2. The medium of work can be any visual material, including moving image
3 The showing is NOT COMMERCIAL, so artists need not worry about sales. They will be credited with their artworks and bios etc. All info available here.
4. Share this mail / attachment with your artist friends, creative/professional networks. We are definitely looking at getting in good work and not just random stuff from all over. Anyone whose work you like personally is awesome for us.
5. A personal email /phone call to your selected artist will help a lot!
6. Remember we have only 2-3 days to get everything and then its about curating all that and figuring out the exhibit itself..so HURRY! :-)

Who's organising it?

Quicksand | CoDESIGN | BlindBoys | BLOT

I was there!

2009-10-05T03:21:00.009+05:30

I did make it to the Durga pujo finale yesterday, held in Oakleigh. While I understand that comparisons to Delhi's Chit Park are stupid and there weren't as many people here, it was quite awesome to see so many Bengalis in Melbourne. :)

It was a perfect Sunday, the sun was out, the wind under control (can get quite mad here) and families milling about with kids, parents, pets and everyone wanting a bit of the sunshine. So there on Drummond street you had Melburnians wearing their typical uniform -- assorted clothing in greys and blacks -- and jogging or walking or doing their thing. And then a couple of cars stop outside the Oakleigh (Mechanical) Hall and out step women wearing bright saris (one was bright-bordering-on-fluoro orange with silver sequins all over), HUGE bindis, lovely gold bangles, shanka-pola and kids wearing the tiniest of dhuti-panjabis.

I was expecting cars to screech to a halt and everyone to stare: Here were Indians being 'flashy', speaking in their native tongue and clearly not integrating. Since Oakleigh is a Greek-majority area and the pujo venue was right next to an Egyptian church, I was pleasantly surprised when Drummond street happily carried on with its business and no Indian was beaten. :) So much for Australia being a racist country... I wish the media would look at the positives as well when it goes on harping about the nasty things.

The first question I was asked? "Tumi Kolkatar mei?" (Are you a Kolkata girl?) My response was of course that I'm not and I'm a probasi* Bangali, to which I was instantly introduced to a couple of other girls who were probasis. Now probasi means expatriat and I found it quite amusing that even though we were all sitting in Melbourne, there was the usual
Kolkata-or-probasi introductions.

My internet search had led to two pujo links: one by the Bengali Association of Victoria (BAV) and another by the Bengali Puja and Cultural Society of Victoria (BPCSV); I ended up going to the second one. The ladies I met there were very curious and very friendly and despite not knowing me at all, were quite ready to 'refer' me to their association. They were also very sweet to Partner, who was the only white person in the pujo hall. And no, he wasn't stared at either. Who says all Indians stare? ;)

And after five years, I finally participated in the pushpanjali ceremony. Strange that it should happen so far away from home... All in all, a very happy event and a rather long, eventful day after that. Satisfied.

Go Saints!

2009-09-26T07:10:00.005+05:30

I'm off to a friend's house for an all-girl's Saturday. Nibbles, wine, cute apartment, warm hostess and watching my second Footy Grand Final this year. Last year's finalist, Geelong Cats are up for the cup this year too. Standing against them are the St Kilda Angels.

I barrack for the Essendon Bombers, however, given that they aren't in the finals -- we'll be there soon -- I'm hoping the Saints take the cup home. I do enjoy footy. A lot. Have a fun weekend y'all.
PS: Did I ever mention that initially -- and sometimes even now -- I find footy similar to Quidditch?! Partner thinks it's a blasphemy and I'm nuts. Shrug.

Dead children? Ha, ha.

2009-09-25T08:06:00.010+05:30

I really don't understand 'political correctness'. An immediate example is the whole Shashi Tharoor and the cattle-class non-issue. Now apparently the minister has apologised (for being witty?). Since much has already been said -- both the politically correct and incorrect -- I'll desist from adding more. However, I want to know: Who decides the correctness of things?

Who decided that 'slumdog' is appropriate description/definition of the slum dwellers in India? If there is a logic to that nomenclature, can we refer to the moneyed, jet-set as Billionaire Bitches?
Perhaps Mr Boyle's 'slumdog' reference was merely for the protagonist of his film and was not a description of the 61.8 million (2001 census figures) Indians who live in slums.

However, for all purposes, 'slumdogs' is now being used to describe all slum dwellers. Television Channel 7, for instance has been advertising this episode of it's series, The World's Strictest Parents with the words, "...when they see how the slumdogs live..." When did Channel 7 decide that people who live in slums are slumdogs? Are they being politically correct? Chic even?

One of my father's favourite Dad-always-says-this lines comes up whenever we are watching Sholay. It's the scene where dacoit Gabbar Singh kills the Thakur's family. If you see the movie (or remember it), while the directors show Gabbar killing all adults, he does not show the child being shot. The camera gives us a close-up of the gun, the boy's perplexed face and moves away. Each time that scene comes up, my Dad says, "See, that's sensitive. You NEVER show a child dying, it's in bad taste." At least my Dad seems to have his ideas clear, not so with everyone.

Recently a popular Aussie TV series, ABC's satirical programme, The Chasers War on Everything got into trouble for making jokes about terminally-ill children. In an episode that's a spoof on the Make-A-Wish-Foundation, one of the Chasers host visits a childrens' cancer ward and concludes the episode with, "Why go to any trouble, when they're only gonna die anyway".

I realise that Chasers is satirical, much like South Park is deliberately blasphemous about everything. But do we draw the line somewhere? As I wrote earlier, who decides what's politically (in)correct?

Often when discussing this issue, people roll their eyes and say, "Oh we get sensitive about everything. It's a joke, we should stop taking ourselves so seriously." To be honest, I do agree with them that at times we get unnecessarily sensitive about stupid things. Like Tharoor and the cattle class. (While slumdogs goes unchallenged) At other times though, I have serious doubts and do think that this particular sense of humour -- more thoughtless than insensitive -- is rather overrated.

Like last evening, when watching an episode of animated series American Dad -- described as "...satirical, usually directed at the United States Government, the media or current affairs" -- the alien character Roger says, "...we will make your Dad cry like an African woman who cries when all are her children are blown up with a scatter/cluster bomb." (not exact quote)

Was that funny or did I miss the point? And if it's funny, can someone please explain the joke and let me know who's it aimed at?

Photo credits: Stanford uni (Tharoor), Sydney Morning Herald (Chasers) & TV Shows on DVD (American Dad)

Happy Pujo!!!

2009-09-24T04:06:00.004+05:30

And on this Durga pujo I realise that Mohammad was always meant to go to the mountain. Always, even if it meant on youtube.com. Almost three years after an emotionally distraught denouncement of Durga, this Mohammad came crawling back... or trawling back. It was a friend's status update on Facebook, "That time of the year, waiting for the sound of the dhak," that got me by the gut and twisted so hard, I had to hear the dhak for myself.

I've never had the padha (colony/street) experience when growing up. Never been part of a 'cultural committee' that puts together the Durga pujo, of kids who participate in the evenings' entertainment, of young girls who help their mothers prepare stuff. I've always been the 'only visiting' variety. I've pandal-hopped with my parents, bowed and prayed before various idols and gone home. I've also never been in Calcutta/Kolkata for a pujo.

The most spectacular pujo and Ma-er mukh* I remember is from a pandal in west Delhi's Nivedita Colony. I was perhaps 12 years old and she was beautiful. We also had the most amazing kosha mangsho. What had captivated me though was the dhunuchi dancers and the trance inducing beats of the dhak they danced to. The girls were older, perhaps 18, amazingly graceful in their wide-padh sarees and they danced with so much rhythm, so much beauty... I wanted to join them. We didn't watch to see the whole thing because... for various reasons.

Ever since -- at different ages -- I've had a favourite dream sequence of doing a kickass dhunuchi dance, in a lost temple by myself with the most-beautiful Durga idol, huge torches on the walls and the biggest, loudest dhaks ever. I am in a white-sari-with-lal-border, a huge bindi, lots of kajal, hair open, sheathed in perspiration and I don't have a care in the world or awareness of anyone or anything else. And no one can stop me, laugh at me, ask me to go back home and I have no inhibitions about how I look or how my body moves. I'm aware only of the dhak that leads me. And I dance and jump and twirl and leap and collapse in a heap. I'm forgiven. Very filmi but I am very filmi and I love it and I love the dream and each time I hear the dhak, I know I'm going to dream again. (grin)

(Click for details about pujo in Melbourne --->)
The Nivedita Colony pujo is the last 'proper' pujo I remember. The next was in Kalimpong, me 14 in 'love' with a Bengali boy of the same age. And we all met at the pandal, he met my parents too and I hoped in my heart that he would be the man I marry. Ha ha, so silly, so innocent. Of course soon after I found out he was chasing a girl two years older, very beautiful, very fair etc. I don't recollect being heartbroken, I was definitely furious.

The subsequent Durga pujos are fuzzy, the ones in Amritsar involved going to the Army-arranged pujo, nothing spectacular, but the bhog as usual was delicious. Then I was in Delhi, the first year without my parents, in 'love' again, 21-years-old, standing before Ma's idol in Chittaranjan Park with much-older boyfriend, me a two-year-old journalist, dreaming of making a difference and happy I had a man and a career. The boyfriend had his wallet pickpocketed. And of course the relationship ended with much learning and serious heartbreak.

Repeat that story -- without the pickpocketing -- over five more years till 2006. The earth moved, I had many experiences I'd never intended having and my personal resume read of things that had earlier been on the list of bad things that could happen to me. Strangely -- and almost scripted -- the culmination was around Pujo time. So I told myself (and Durga), I wouldn't see her face again. Ever. I didn't go for pushpanjali. Didn't return phonecalls or 'happy pujo' wishes and avoided Durga. I tried sneaking a peek at her in newspapers yet eerily enough and despite the usual coverage in the media, I couldn't see her face that year. Not even a picture.

2007, due to stranger circumstances I was back at the Chit Park pandal. And I ran away. And life changed drastically and put me in Melbourne before the next year's pujo. I cried a lot last year. Didn't do anything on pujo, sat at home, blogged (of course) and cursed my stupidity at various levels. It was same with every other Indian festival in 2008. But I did promise not to repeat it in 2009. I might have left India but I don't want to leave India behind me.

I am not ashamed of my country. I am not confused about who I am and I know what I want. If those experiences will not just 'happen' to me, I shall seek them out. So this year, I should be at Oakleigh Street on October 4th. And maybe, I'll have a little dance with the dhak.

Happy Pujo all of you, particularly the ones outside India. Warm hugs and good wishes. And see this video, it is so, so beautiful. Many thanks to the creators.
*Ma-er mukh: Mother's face, reference to the face of Durga
PS: For the over-enlightened, non-Indians who'd wonder why Indians pray to gods with many arms, it's the same reason why say, Catholics pray to someone who turned water into wine.

An Indian in Melbourne

2009-09-23T12:25:00.008+05:30

They all sit and discuss what they're working on.

The big man with his big voice and bigger smile was right there outside Melbourne Central, selling The Big Issue. He is standing before a poster of a model in a pair of slimming jeans. The model looks expectant, hoping someone would rip the jeans off. "Too skinny, not that pretty and has no tits," agreed two boys with so many pimples you couldn't make out the rest of their face.

The young couple passes them. The Japanese girl huddled into herself, shielding her chest from the biting wind. Her super legs erupted into pointed goose-bumps as her tiny denim shorts rode up her butt curve. She led her cute boyfriend who couldn't see clearly. His super-shiny, super-straight hair in that shaggy cut kept getting into his eyes. They run and cross the road, laughing, oblivious to the tram driver who looks furious. Love gives a fuck.

The Chinese woman nearly knocked over the magazine stand. It's a slope there and her little trolley was so heavy. Full of groceries for her daughter-in-law who allows her to live with them. She has the garage and she loves it. It's much better than the old age home.

The Indian girl walks by, sashaying in her dark green knee-high boots. She takes the perfect steps, toe before the heel and her butt moves seductively. There's so much make-up, it's almost like camouflage. Some Indian boys distributing pamphlets stop her, extending their hands to hand her one. She refuses and the vigorous shake of her head spoils her choreography. Her heel gets stuck in a pavement crack, she stumbles. "I am from Maldives, not interested," she says as they ask her if she needs help.

The Pakistani girl, all beautiful skin and lovely eyes and lovelier hair rages about the inequity of the legal system. Of how she needs to go back. On how she needs to change things. Her partner, chain smoking the fifth cigarette, advises her not to get killed. She declares she is not stupid.

The other Indian girl watches, realising that if she breathes she won't be able to pull her tummy in. Cursing that the wind will make her hair look all dry. Wondering if any story, particularly her story, matters to anyone. Then she spots a sign that smiles, "Hot hash browns", it says. She thanks god that food loves her and tries a chocolate she's never eaten before.

They all sit and discuss what they're working on. She says she wants to write about women's issues and equality. Another rolls her eyes and says, "We have voting rights and can wear what we want to. Feminism is so boring."

Roti and Roast- Update

2009-09-21T07:32:00.002+05:30

Today's recipe if the very healthy and very tasty palak paneer, cottage cheese (can use ricotta or tofu as well) in a wholesome spinach gravy. The recipe uses only 1 TBS oil, no cream and with some garlic thrown in, it's good for just about anyone. Even if you hate spinach... Read story or Try the recipe

"Things I have to do"

2009-09-17T03:33:00.010+05:30

Recently we saw Pixar's latest animated feature, Up. It was the second time I was watching a movie in 3D, the first being Spy Kids-Game Over. As a 3D and movie-watching experience, Up beat Game Over hands down.

Better effects, much better storyline, absolutely adorable characters and complete involvement for me as the audience. I really loved Up. It's a bit strange since when I had first seen the trailer -- before the screening of Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds -- my reaction had been "Duh, who wants to see a movie about a 70-year-old widower?" I am really glad that I was proven absolutely wrong.

I've always had a soft-spot for animated movies and those that are dubbed kiddie-flicks. What I enjoy about these movies is the lack of pretense. They all want to entertain you... Yes, there are messages in the movie, but I appreciate it that the messages are woven into the stories much better than those in 'adult' movies. Up is a total entertainer, whether you watch it alone, with your partner or with the entire family. It had me bawling -- but I bawl easily in movies -- in the first 10 minutes and then completely took me along for a laugh ride soon after. Even Partner, who is not always up for 'kiddie' movies (he refused go for Coraline), was smiling through Up and came out of the theatre happy as well. Other than the antics of the characters, the sheer brilliance of the 3D effects and the all the action in the movie, I related to some bits of Up in a really, personal way.

A week or so back I wrote a post on how I'm feeling that there's something big about to happen but I have no idea what... I've been stewing over it for a fair while now. When I stew, I get grumpy with people, feel unmotivated and I'm generally unpleasant. In other words, I'm not the best of company. Browsing through websites yesterday, I came across Up again. The message hit home.

Up talks about having a big adventure in life. Rather how we all wait for that something big to strike, to exhilirate and thrill us and to change our lives. I know I'm waiting. Waiting for a number of things to happen before I can say, "Yes, I'm happy now." And while I wait... I stew and I ignore all the little things around me.

Will I be truly happy only if I get a book published? I think I do a good job of keeping my house beautiful, I'm good with plants, getting better with cooking... But I often forget to be happy about those things because I am waiting for THE break. Will I be truly happy if I get married? And yet, I often forget to appreciate that I have a truly loving relationship, in fact, almost what I'd visusalised a "happy" relationship to be.

Will I be truly happy if I get a job? Of course that would mean earning money of my own... but to do what? Rather, what is it that I can't do now? A job would perhaps mean a sense of personal ratification, of putting a 'value' to my self worth in dollars. But am I not worth anything if I don't have a job or can't get one? Hmm. Ok, honestly, before making a big statement on that one, perhaps I need to sort out issues of self-worth within my head. :)

The point being -- and the message in Up -- is that we get so caught up in defining the big things that define happiness that we completely overlook the smaller things. We don't even notice them. I don't want to do that. I want to be constantly happy. Whether it means a sense of satisfaction when I sow the seeds and the first portulaca saplings burst out of my pots. Or swimming in the heavenly aroma of baked muffins that have turned out well. Or basking in the peace that spreads on Partner's face when he comes back to a comfortable, clean home. Or even enjoying the few, but treasured comments/conversation that I have on this blog.

I don't want to die regretting the things that I didn't do or didn't happen. I want to remember and cherish and enjoy the things -- however small -- that I have.

There are days I will forget and bemoan the lack of the big stuff, there are days I'm sure you will too. But here's hoping we both remember. That while we wait for the big stuff, we remember to look at the small ones and be happy about them. It will be emancipation in a way...

PS: Please do watch Up. You will not be disappointed.

Cancer

2009-09-16T03:34:00.005+05:30

So Patrick Swayze passes away, aged 57, after two years of combating pancreatic cancer.

One of the Aussie TV channels here showed a clip from his last interview (by Barbara Walters, ABC) where the interviewer asks his wife Lisa, "Have you thought of life without him?" Lisa tried to answer but choked up.

That question disturbed me a little. Scared me. Has any of us thought of life without the ones we love? There are those who lose people to sudden death. Then there are those like Lisa, who know someone they love is dying. Is it easier when you know?

Australia is big on talking about cancer. I never heard the word as often in India as I hear it here. It gives the feeling cancer is all around. It's scary. But I'm not sure of what scares me more: Being diagnosed with the disease or being the one who has to think of a life after someone I love is gone...

Till I came to Melbourne, I hadn't known anyone who had cancer, ie. not known them personally. Now I know at least one person who has survived testicular cancer.

How many of you know a cancer patient or a survivor?

PS: For all who cook, please check out LiveSTRONG With A Taste Of Yellow and contribute your recipe. It's a cancer survivor's way of spreading awareness... For those who don't cook, pass on the link to someone who does and spread the word.

2009-09-14T09:19:00.001+05:30

This might not be that big, but it feels good nonetheless. Emancipation of Eve finds a teensy mention -- along with a host of other blogs -- on the Melbourne Writers Festival blog. :) Check it out and check out the other blogs/bloggers as well here.

Thanks to the organisers for giving us a mention.

I'm feeling it

2009-09-09T14:10:00.005+05:30

Ever get the feeling something BIG is about to happen...but you have no bloody idea what?

That sense of suspense is running so thick through my blood, it's coagulating now. What? When? Good, bad or brilliant? Bad but manageable? Argh.

Good things that could happen:
1. Land a job in my line of work
2. Land a book deal, with heaps of advance, maybe two because they love me so much
3. Get sponsorship to open a cafe/restaurant/take-away
4. Get a baby... like without doing anything, like gift wrapped (er)
5. Get a puppy as a gift...and someone to walk it
6. Wake up tomorrow and suddenly know how to drive
7. Look 10 years younger, like that, without makeup
8. Get hired by Lonely Planet...along with advance and book deal, it will be called 'If Julia can, Jhoomur Bloody Well Can'
9. Partner proposes, while we are toasting the great new job and the advance on the book deal and we are standing before the Pyramids...tomorrow! And there's a dog at the foot of the Pyramid...with a gift wrapped baby on its back! With proper adoption papers! And the deal with adopting the baby involves having to run this restaurant. !!
10. All of the above

Bad thing that can happen:
None of the above. Sigh.
Pic = scrapetv

Killer sardar and Delhi roundup

2009-09-08T02:00:00.000+05:30

First up, there's an excellent photo exhibition starting in Delhi. The exhibition is titled 'Juvinilia Juxtaposed' and features some really good photographers like Udit Kulshrestha, Sephi Bergerson and Bandeep Singh. For details about the exhibition, mail galleryragini@gmail.com or for those in Delhi, call 011-29522077.

For all those who have not heard of the revolution... here goes to this song and to mera Bharat mahaan. Pass on to all those who would appreciate it.

Opium in your food?

2009-09-07T04:50:00.003+05:30

The first time I made this dish in Australia, many wondered if, "Poppy seeds! Oh my god, opium...does this make you high?" The answer...? There have been news reports on people getting addicted to poppy seed tea.... Read story Try recipe

Gift-shift

2009-09-03T03:44:00.005+05:30

As far as I can remember, Amul chocolates were perhaps the first ones to cash in on the whole "gift for someone you love" idea in India, much before Archies and Hallmark came about and created a thousand reasons to buy cards, pendants, cassettes and a whole plethora of gift items.

I was considered one of the uncool ones in school, I didn't believe in Valentine's Day. According to the Valentine's Day myth, if you 'proposed' someone, they had to say yes. The idea had terrified me, more so because a) I didn't have that many suitors and b) I was rather shy then (!). After much resistance I decided it was worth the effort of making a Valentine's Day card... Only to learn I was still uncool because who wanted a hand-made card? Archies had much better options. So I scraped money to buy one only to be told there was a Rose Day and a Chocolate Day card -- and a rose and chocolate respectively -- to be bought as well...

Then suddenly there was Friendship Day, quickly followed by Teachers Day (strangely, Independence Day cards never really sold...) I didn't get a whole lot of pocket money and therefore the most prudent thing to do was not participate in any of it. It didn't do much to my popularity and till date, the record stands that I've never received a Valentine's Day card. In fact, for some unusual reason -- there's a research on that somewhere -- come 14 Feb, I've usually ended relationships/associations.

Somewhere in my late teen years, there started the whole thing about Mother's Day, quickly followed by Father's Day and Save the Dolphin Day or the belated versions of all these cards and days or a Sorry card to well, say sorry if you missed any of the days...

The cards I've treasured and went to some lengths to make were the birthday and anniversary cards, mostly hand-made. I was one of those kids who are very good at copying stuff. I was a pro at 'making' Garfield, Donald Duck and other cartoon figures and had quite a flair with water colours... For at least 8-10 years, my parents have received various versions of cartoon couples for their anniversary, which changed to various water colour flowers as I grew up.

My family knew I liked funny cards and those were the ones I got for my birthday. The most treasured cards though -- I still have them -- were the ones made by my little brother (who's now a foot taller than me and in his first job! Yay!) Like this particular one that said 'The World's Greatest Sister' -- made from an A4 'register' sheet, folded into a card, a mug cut out from one side of the sheet, coloured with crayons and stuck on the other side with a cotton ball under it. The card was magical, the spellings were perfect (heh, he was 6/7 years old) and it had a 3D effect... Now I don't make cards, neither does my brother and in fact after many years we managed to be together for his birthday this year when I was visiting India.

In Australia, it's a big thing to celebrate the 18th, followed by the 21st, then 25th and then 30th and so on... Maybe because we shifted cities so much, or because our father was strict or whatever, we never really had any memorable teenage birthdays. Rather they involved only the four of us. This year, in June, we went out, Partner, Brother, me, Dee and another Aussie-friend-in-India... and had a blast. Later in the hotel room, my now-grown-up brother said, "Dibhai, this was my best birthday ever." He turned 25, oh I love him. I am also digressing...

Increasingly today I find that wedding couples, engagement couples, expectant mothers, birthday candidates... Everyone prefers cash instead of a gift. Those who have to give gifts are relieved they don't have to think much, those receiving are relieved because at least they can use the cash instead of getting something they don't want or already have.

In fact in Australia, there is a list of gift items to select from at weddings. So as an invited guest, you see the list and pick what you want to 'gift'. Some weddings even tell you the store the couple would like the gift from. I find it quite amusing and somewhat depressing. Aren't gifts supposed to be thought out? Something that shows you know the person you're giving it to and have put some effort thinking about it? Is it still a 'gift' if you're asking for it? If there is a demand list? Or is all just a scam?

Now there are advertisements everywhere for what to buy your Mom or Dad for Mothers and Fathers day respectively. It's all the same stuff. While I've never had trouble buying mom something, buying gifts for Dad was always a challenge. It seems it's the same thing the world over...I wonder if they too would prefer cash.

What's the best gift you've received or gave that the other side really liked?
Pic courtesy: edupics

Really good for chucking

2009-08-31T08:59:00.007+05:30

Once upon a time in 2006, I needed the money -- and friends said they loved the food -- so I decided to cater for friends' parties. Except the first party I catered to, I ended up throwing this egg-sausage dish on the host's face....
Read the story / Try the easy recipe

I don't love you anymore.

2009-08-30T14:07:00.003+05:30

It's a regular day. You two have been together for years, have built a house, a future, dreams together. You have your arguments and times you get irritated with each other, but overall, you'd say you are happy.

And then one fine day your partner -- husband, fiance, long-time girlfriend -- turns around says, "I don't love you anymore."
What will you do?
Pic = zazzy.com

UPDATE on 31/8/2009

Of the 10 early responses on this post, the common reactions to the questions above are:

1. Shock
2. Refusal to beg or self-pity
3. Hurt
4. Alimony, court, divorce
5. Be brave, move on

One response takes it as a sense of freedom; another is very cynical of the whole mushy-mushy thing says the declaration should not come as a shock. Waiting for more responses.

Of (book)slut and searching rape

2009-08-29T10:13:00.006+05:30

Other than the date mix-up where I missed the Fables and Fantasy reading, I've attended two sessions at the Melbourne Writers Festival. One was a sham-of-a-discussion about marketing in the digital age and another was a really good workshop about independent publishers (small press publishing), Amazon's arm-wrestling tactics and integrating online-offline ventures.

The digital marketing talk/discussion was too short and involved the rep from publishing giant RandomHouse shamelessly selling his products/projects and blog-to-website case study, Jessa Crispin of Bookslut being so irritatingly laconic, it was a joke she was there at all. The only person who added some sort of value was Adam Noonan from Lonely Planet. Details about both events in another post.

One of the topics that came up in the digital marketing talk was Search Engine Optimisation (SEO); it got me looking into the statistics for this blog... Where are people coming from, what are they reading, how much are they reading etc. And the results worry me.

Yesterday, I put up that silly 'sex post'. It had nothing in it. The headline was "hot sex positions". The blog got 234 total readers and 437 page loads. Sex sells (shrug). Even on days this blog is not updated -- or the months it isn't! -- or has posts on books or other non-sex-things, there are still about 100-150 readers who come in.... It should make me happy. It does not.

According to my blog's stats, the three most popular posts -- that people search for and come here -- involve child abuse, rape and women's undergarments. And none of those people were/are looking to read a lecture.

1. Rape post: Rape and how to get away with it in India (click to read)
Written in Feb 2008 as a reaction to the increasing number of rape cases being reported in the media and the increasing number of rapes in New Delhi. However, my question is: Are those searching for "rape" or clicking on the Digg.com link to that post (thankyou whoever) coming in to read about why NOT to rape a woman or for some other reason?

2. Child abuse: I am busty teen writing about my first time
This was one of the earlier posts on the blog, written in 2006 after a particularly harrowing conversation with someone close, someone who had been abused. She still remains confused about it, was she abused? Or did she invite it?

What disturbs me now is that people/men/women come in to read that article expecting something salacious about teenage girls. Usual searches that point to that piece include keywords "busty", "15 year old busty teen" or "teen girl naked".

3. Morality and double standards: Bra, brazen and bolti bandh
Written in June 2008 in response to certain Indian right-wing political parties declaring that Indian women wearing jeans was "anti-Indian". The post questioned the Indian moral police and was one of the episodes in the Mishraji stories. However, people click on that link because it has "bra" in it; and some are searching for naked pictures of the actress Rambha.

I am not complaining about search engines pointing to my blog, some people perhaps stay on, read, perhaps come back. What scares me is that people are searching for rape and abuse. That.

Hot sex positions!

2009-08-28T06:43:00.005+05:30

Sex. sex. SEX. sex. Sex. sex. SEX. sex.

Haan. That should do it. Ok, comments please.
Pic: Stefan.blog; xkcd

To f**k or not to...

2009-08-27T04:14:00.005+05:30

"Everything sounds funnier with the word F**K in it."

That's the little badge my classmate gifted me a couple of days ago. Do you:

1. Agree, f**k yeah.
2. Disagree, what is happening to the purity of language.
3. WTF?!

Now some facts -- powered by Wikipedia of course:

1. F**k can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun, or interjection and can logically be used as virtually any word in a sentence.
2. Study of the attitudes of the British public found that f**k was considered the third most severe profanity and its derivative motherf**ker second. C**nt was considered the most severe.
3. Some have argued that the prolific usage of the word f**k has de-vulgarized it.
4. F**k... may be common in informal and domestic situations. (!)
5. The Canadian Press now considers f**k to be commonplace and has added usage advice to the Canadian Press Caps and Spelling guide.

And you can get more such nuggets here.
Pic courtesy: WebHamster, Wikimedia

Who wants to kiss the frog?

2009-08-26T03:39:00.014+05:30

The following picture might not be suitable for everyone; viewer discretion is advised. Since you've been warned, heart attacks and spewing cannot be blamed on this website.

Also, copyrights exist. If this photograph is found on your website -- without a link to my website -- you're gonna be in trouble. :)

Will you eat that? That's just one of the things I tried and nearly tried on our trip to Laos- Vietnam-Cambodia. Click on album link to see more.

For the record, those frogs ie. once alive frogs, were headless and skinless but were STILL JUMPING in the bowl. They were alive... Does it enhance their taste?

Also if any of you -- especially the meat-eaters -- go "Oh how cruel" when you see/saw the frog picture, please remember that goat, sheep, fish, cows, pigs etc ALL must feel the pain.

For those who eat lamb/goat/beef but frown at others who eat dogs, cats and horses, I have a question: Do you think it's hypocritical that we choose to pet some animals while we eat the others? Or look down upon those who might eat everything?

Stuffing my face from Laos-Vietnam-Cambodia

Not quite...

2009-08-24T12:58:00.004+05:30

I am constantly aware I am in a different land. It's not fair to either 'home', to compare it to the other.

Delhi doesn't look half as beautiful as Melbourne does at sunset.

And Melbourne does not smell as delicious as Delhi when it rains.

Like today. But shouldn't the earth smell the same?

I miss that earthiness. Sometimes.
Pic: Lemon drop, flickr

AAAAARGH.

2009-08-22T07:33:00.009+05:30

This is turning out to be an idiot week for me. I am SO furious and I'm more furious because there's no one else to be furious at but me. I am... gaaaaaaaaaaah.

So I have this stupid white board on which I supposedly write down important dates, things to do and such like. And so I marked, in bold, with a circle around it, 22nd August, ie, today to go to the Australian Centre for Moving Images (ACMI). The Melbourne Writers Festival kicked off yesterday and I was booked in for three events. Two are next week and this one I paid for and really wanted to attend.

Pics (l-r): Authors Tom Cho, Antoni Jach and Cyril Wong (Courtesy MWF)

It was called 'Fable, Fantasy and the New Short Story' with authors Tom Cho and Cyril Wong, and chaired by author Antoni Jach. So I rush to ACMI today, reach on time am very excited. Only for the guard to look at the ticket and tell me it was yesterday. He was right. I was stumped.

I am SO stupid. For the last two days I have been discussing and reading up on author Alice Pung -- for other reasons and who's event was today -- and while thinking of Pung and wanting to for Fantasy managed to write the wrong f*****g date on the white board.

I am SO upset. :(

Day 6: Gay bar, still in Luang Prabang drunk.

2009-08-21T09:26:00.001+05:30

Found this post hiding in the written-but-not-published section. Brought back (weird) memories so publishing it now... Written on 22nd May, 2009, Luang Prabang, Laos. Also, I'm not editing it to retain the flavour. ;)

Hello hello
the one thing i love about this blog is that i can be myself. phhhhrst to those who think that blogs are self-indulgent. Even if they are, so bloody what?

Today can be labelled as Rip Off Day...went to Tadse waterfall which had no water and no fall and we payed USD $ 3 for it. Yes, its meagre but someone is earning it and being ripped off is not a good feeling.

Back from a foot-leg and head-shoulder massage. OOOOOH they are bloody good. PArtner makes faces that i have never seen before. Bought a Terry Pratchet book. Itbasu should like it, though i wouldna said so if i weren't drunk. As i have mentioned before, it takes very little to get me drunk. Today --- after massage -- it was but one Long Island Ice tea. bloody good drink i say. its my first in 3 days. The Laos beer is called 'Beerlao' and i cannot have it because i just dont like beer. Pardon typos and weird English because right now i am thinking in English, Hindi and a smattering of Laos...

So bloody waterfall was dry and got bitten by 14 mosquitoes...i know because I counted. Then we slept off because I awoke at 5 am to shoot monks. Shoot as in camera. :D The monks are given little handfuls of sticky rice. Most menus here write it as "Stricky rice", much like Indian menus that have "stop parantha", which means stuffed paranthas. Phonetics is a funny business.

So i shot monks and spoke to a 1-year-old Canadian journalist. As in she's been a reporter for a year. She's taking a break from her work and her boyfriend. They've broken off for the period she's travelling. I felt jaded. She called me jaded. Whatever.

BY the way, the massage girls said Indian girls are beautiful, while asking me if I wanted a pedicure. So i don't think it was for me. It was for the dollars. Blah, whatever, I am 52 kgs. :( I just shouted because a huge ugly moth went down my cleavage. Everyone else gave me a look. To check out Partner, we are in a gay bar. It's the only one that's open. And it's right on the street so. Thankgod Partner is a boobs-man and not a butts' man...

Ask, you idiot.

2009-08-19T10:42:00.009+05:30

Oh well. So much for being smart and all that, some days just aren't meant for you.

(Phone ringing waiting for Partner to pick up)

Hello. (Partner sounding busy)

Hi, you've got a minute? Can I talk to you?

Yeah sure... (Partner's voice changing now, expecting Something Serious)

No, no, nothing serious. Just wanted to tell you to mark 12th September on your calendar. It's a Saturday and X friend's birthday. He's invited us...

Yeah sure. Where is it? (Partner sounding relieved and back to sounding busy now)

Oh it's some place called TBA. Y'know like Q'Bar? Do you know where it is?

(Partner v.e.r.y. silent)

Hello? You there? No worries if you don't know, I can always ask him later...

(Partner choking)

Hello? Are you all right? Are you choking? You don't have to worry about TBA right away you...

HA. HA. HA.HA.

(Me, shocked) (Partner still laughing)

Baby... TBA is not a place. It's To Be Announced.

OH. (Scowl)

HA. HA. HA.
(Me, hang up the phone)

So that's the story and no matter how many of you would have known instantly what TBA was, I declare a war on abbreviations. I've had it with them. If RSVP wasn't enough -- and I still can't remember the damn thing -- now we've got a whole plethora of them.

There are the email ones, from cc, bcc, fyi, tc etc. To food-related, BYO, F&B etc. To the various gradings in movies, PG, UG, M, R... To the various emoticons. :P And of course, the one that I really cannot stand but am being forced to use... "xx" at the end of letters/mails/sms-es. It's not even an abbreviation, it's an alphabeticon (sic). Initially, and I dare you to laugh, I thought it meant 'over-and-out'... Till I received an email with 'xxxxx' and there was a sudden ping! in my brain and I realised an 'x' meant a kiss. (So 'xxxxx' means the other is slobbering over you?)

Sigh. I've learned HTML to a degree, can understand CSS and even RSS (not Rashtriya Seva Sangh)... but I really cannot keep up with all this anymore. I can't. I am 30. Please no. :(

PS: While looking for an appropriate picture to depict 'idiot' (should've used my own), came across Fyodor Doestoevsky's The Idiot and this quote from the book,

"...nothing offends a man of our day and our race more than to tell him he is not original, that he is weak-willed, has no particular talents and is an ordinary person." (Part One, Chapter Ten)

And to think that was first published in 1868. It holds true today as well, or so I think. No?

Useless Khan-troversy!

2009-08-18T04:37:00.009+05:30

So 'superstar' Shah Rukh Khan is allegedly detained for two hours at the Newark airport. Allegedly because US customs officials say the delay/checks were only "a little more than hour" and the rest of the delay was because SRK's luggage was lost. The Indian media -- not surprisingly at all -- raised a furore about it. The Times of India cried that SRK had been detained for being a Khan. IBNLive.com quotes Indian Home Minister P Chidambaram saying, "US overdid it with SRK". (Et tu Chidu?)

Quick flashback here: On 21st April 2009, former Indian president APJ Kalam was frisked at the Indira Gandhi International airport prior to boarding a Continental Airlines flight. The airlines was subsequently pulled up and made to apologise. Interestingly though, the frisking happened despite the Indian government having a list of VIPs who do not require security checks. This list was ignored by the US Transportation Security Administration (TSA), the US governing body responsible for security of US transportation systems.

Given that certain Indian VIPs have some dubious -- if yet unproven -- distinctions on their resumes, why should there be a list at all? Some examples: Narenda Modi was allegedly involved in the Godhra burnings (cleared of charges in 2008). Former home minister LK Advani was the alleged mastermind of the Babri mosque demolition. and Bollywood filmstar Sanjay Dutt was allegedly involved in the 1993 Mumbai blasts (since cleared of terrorism charges but to serve six years in prison for possession of illegal arms, ie, an AK-47 gun). Stepping outside Indian borders, US President Richard Nixon was involved in the Watergate scandal and Bill Clinton was impeached (and acquitted a year later). WHY should VIPs -- anywhere in the world -- be exempt from any rules and regulations?

If former president APJ Abdul Kalam was frisked at New Delhi airport, why not Khan in the US? As for SRK's detention, it's apparently because 'Khan' is a most-common name in the US names database. Why should that shock anyone? For instance, according to Wikipedia, if you check in the United Kingdom, Khan is the surname of "over 80,000 Britons and is of only a handful of non-British or Irish originating surnames to be in the 100 most common surnames list.^"(Full list here)

So the US is stopping and questioning all Khans. Racism? Minority profiling? Preventing another terrorist attack? Maybe all, maybe not. What I'd like to know is whether we are crying out because a Muslim was detained for too long or because it is a Bollywood star who was stopped?

I have a feeling it's the latter. Midday quotes actors Irrfan Khan and Zayed Khan as being "humiliated" because they were detained for questioning. Were they abused? Were they called names? If regular, non-VIP people are being stopped and need to follow procedures, why should there be a furore when filmstars are involved?!

If a Rashid Khan or Bashir Khan or some other Khan is stopped, it is okay because they could be terrorists? Actor Irrfan Khan -- who I interviewed in 2000 and seemed quite intelligent back then at least -- has been quoted saying, "...Surely they can tell the difference between a terrorist and an innocent traveler." Arre miyan, terrorism is not coded in the DNA you know.

To cut a long story short, why are we getting our underwear in knots over SRK's detention? If it is human rights violation, sure take it up but NOT because it's some VIP-rights violation. If we find the US security checks too stringent, perhaps we should stop whining and do something with our security issues as well. Lest we forget that in the recent Mumbai attacks of 2008, Kasab and others simply got off a bloody boat...

PS: As for SRK insisting the US needs to offer warmth, please shutup.
Pic courtesy: Beyondasiaphilia

"Unacceptable Size 6..."

2009-08-17T11:31:00.004+05:30

According to Devil Wears Prada, size 6 is the new size 8. But I don't care.

While shopping for a new pair of jeans -- to go with the new pair of boots -- I fit into a size 6 jeans! And that when size 8 has been getting tighter! And my bum bigger, or I think it looks it! But I fit into a size 6 jeans. Yippee yea! I will always buy Country Road.

And the joys of discovering you fit into a size 6 jeans?
A can of Coca Cola
A packet of extra fried, extra salty potato chips... with gravy
Chocolate icecream
2 Oreole cookies...and a whole lot of guilt-free staring at Timtams and Snickers bars.

PS... and ignoring the muffin top.
Pic courtesy: G Images

Things Mom did NOT tell me...

2009-08-10T10:48:00.007+05:30

... on how to make a relationship work. Over the years, Ma has told me a number of things on how to have a lasting, successful and happy relationship - in that order - with special emphasis on the 'lasting'. Most of those things have involved me -- always -- doing those things. However, and I say this with a heavy heart, an aching back and at the absolute end of my short-lived, rarely seen patience... I think Ma either missed out a whole lot of stuff or intentionally didn't tell me.

Like having to watch sport all the time. Like ALL the time. I could perhaps understand footy (Australian League Football), I can even understand tennis. If it's the Ashes, I can even understand cricket. What I DON'T understand is sudden interest in rugby, followed by golf (so s-l-o-w), the Tour de France because there's-nothing-else-on-TV and worse, "watching" stupid blokes in weird clothes playing poker. Poker!?

Or that a lasting relationship means having to put the lid back on everything. Like EVERYTHING. Bathroom, toothpaste lid is missing. Breakfast table, from the milk, jam, butter, vegemite; nothing has the lid back on. Re-warmed something, the microwave door is wide open. Cutlery drawer, of course it's too much to push it back. I've heard women have to pick up strewn clothes... but shutting doors and putting the lids back on everything?!

Or wet towels off the floor. It's been used, it will need to be used again and it is not pleasant using it when it's wet. So why not put it out? Nope, doesn't work that way. And strangely, it is always followed by a surprised, "How come there are no towels in the bathroom?" Because maybe they are all on the bed?

Or man sickness. LORD how I can't understand man sickness. I used to think it was only my Dad who was, well, weird. Whenever Dad was ill -- includes cough and cold -- he had/has this habit of groaning loudly. Like lying in bed, sniffling and groaning. Not because it was hurting him but because Dad truly believed -- even argued about it -- that groaning loudly made him feel better.

So period pain is something that can be fixed with a tablet and comes with a "But you should be used to it, it's monthly, right?" But common cold, muscle ache due to sudden over-zealous exercise, cough, post-all-night-drinking-headache. are all matters of urgency. They need to be dealt with chicken soup, constant fussing, a massage in appropriate places, favourite food being cooked and of course, total control of the TV remote control.

And of course, total control of the TV remote control. What's so wrong with watching a soap opera or some reality TV show? One is make-believe and the other is watching other people make an ass of themselves. At least unlike poker, it does not involve some loser competing with other losers on who loses the most money. I don't understand "watching" poker at all.

Ma did mention compromise though. And honestly, it's never been a favourite word. Hrmph. Gotta go, there's a wet towel to be picked up.

PS: All hints, tips and arguments are welcome.
Pic courtesy: 4tnz

PS: Wearing the shoe on the other foot, the Partner's list would perhaps read something like:
1. Constant praising of everything cooked; re-warmed dishes previously praised included.
2. Too much money spent on buying plants; I've heard of women buying clothes and jewellery but $ 200 on saplings?
3. A sudden interest in sickening soap operas just because there's a very important poker tournament on.
4. Absolutely imperative things to discuss just when the third English wicket has fallen...
5. Constant debates on anything remotely related to India, women, liberation, porn...
6. Intense discussions on Harry Potter... everytime she re-watches the movies 1-5...
7. (I'm sure there are more) ;)

Now and then....

2009-08-08T18:13:00.008+05:30

Found this picture -- a forward -- lurking in the archives of my inbox.

Did they know their lives would change so drastically?

Richard Bach writes in Illusions, "Don't turn away from possible futures before you're certain you don't have anything to learn from them. You're always free to change your mind and choose a different future, or a different past."

Really? Can we choose a different past?

PS: That's the former Prime Minister of India, the late Rajiv Gandhi (assassinated) and wife Sonia Gandhi, who's now the president of theNational Congress Party in India. She is also the chairperson of the currently ruling coalition government. A pretty girl, a pretty dress, a still-clean city. Today, the most powerful woman in India. Can she change her past...or her future?

Happy Rakhi.

2009-08-05T05:02:00.010+05:30

So well, Rakhi is happy. And happy Rakhi as well everyone. It's been ages since I've been with my brother on the festival. Most times I've forgotten to send him a rakhi, most times he has been upset; and yet this year, I miss him the most.

Over the years, the ethos of rakhsha bandhan (literally, the tie that protects) has been changing. And that Rakhi's not the only one. From a festival that celebrates the brother-sister relationship, it's morphed into something bizarre.

Rakhi is celebrated by a sister tying a holy thread around her brother's(s) wrist and the latter vowing to 'protect' her. If the sister is older, it is she who 'protects' the brother. Personally, I think it's one of the few Indian festivals that actually treats women as empowered beings. In what other festival/celebration/ritual in India do you have the man looking for protection from the woman? (For the origins of the festival, click here)

When we were children, the festival meant a really gaudy, the biggest possible, the most showy rakhi -- I don't mean Sawant -- for him and my favourite cassette for me. To avoid any fights on who got the better gift, Ma would buy us both a Cadbury Dairy Milk; it was a great equaliser. As I grew older -- I'm five years older to him -- I wanted cash instead of the 'gifts'. Ma wouldn't have any of it since that would have meant giving my bro cash as well, he was too young for it.

In school -- around 11-12 years-old-- boys used to dread this festival. No one wanted his crush to tie a rakhi on his wrist and over a single woven thread, change his status from possible suitor to adopted brother. While I've witnessed boys running away when a rather pretty girl approached them with a rakhi; I unfortunately, seemed to be everyone's favourite choice for an adopted 'sister'. Perhaps it was because I was good at academics, perhaps the wanting-to-be-adopted brothers thought I'd do their homework. Hah.

Yet, I didn't have as many 'rakhi brothers' in school as the other girls did. The reason was my dad. Pa firmly believed and firmly forbade me from adopting any new brothers because, "I know how these boys think; they try to get closer by 'becoming' brothers. You don't need anymore brothers." As I grew older I realised Pa was bloody right.

Rakhi became a convenient way of getting closer to the girl you liked. So boys and the object(s) of their desire would 'become' brother-sister, tied by a flimsy thread; she would expect a 'gift' from him and he would have wet dreams at night. Despite Pa's dire warnings, nothing much changed for me though. Boys still wanted to be my 'brother' -- now at 17 -- though this time it wasn't for academics alone. My chest size had changed.

I moved out of home at 19 and since then, Bhai and me have been together on rakhi only once or twice. I'm not too sure. While my cousin sister remembered to post him a rakhi, I forgot. Always. I stopped believing in rakhi...along with a lot of things. It all came down to either "It's all mythology" or "Hah, I know what s/he is thinking."

I've just sent a rakhi e-card to Bhai. Perhaps distance makes the heart grow fonder towards 'Indian culture' and ties that bind. It was a shocking experience. While I was expecting rakhi designs... I was definitely not expecting 'smileys' wearing rakhis...and even a chimpanzee on one card. As I said, rakhi has changed. (Please see this picture--->!)

I sent a rakhi to my brother as I wanted him to know I remembered. (Also because he emailed me two days back saying "Mom says rakhi is on 5th, don't forget). More than that, after a huge amount of struggle, my little brother is finally, slowly, on the path to a happier life. I just wanted him to know I love him and miss him; no matter how much the festival itself has been bastardised and commercialised. Or maybe they are both the same thing. Much like Rakhi Sawant's televised 'engagement' and forthcoming marriage.

PS: For the few fortunates who might not know, the chick in the pic (hah!) is a Bollywood dancer called Rakhi Sawant. Some in the media call her a "sex symbol"; they never specify for whom. Rakhi's been on an Indian reality TV show where she "selects" her husband from a number of aspirants. Apparently there was no cash involved and Rakhi was/is the prize. She got "engaged" on the show a couple of days back and apparently will get married on TV. In Australia, you have Farmer Wants A Wife, where 5-6 Aussie farmers are the catch -- and a million-dollar, all-expenses paid wedding -- and girls compete for their attention, and perhaps their hand. Without being judgemental about either Rakhi or the girls on Farmer, I just wonder... Are we all that lonely and desperate that we're willing to go on air with our courtship(s)?

The visa-rd of Oz

2009-07-28T01:00:00.004+05:30

I've had two productive days now. Days where I've maniacally cleaned the house, ticked off stuff from my to-do list and written some. Yesterday was class-day and after some workshopping and one-on-one with the professor, I was at the coffee shop for a much-needed sugar-hit. As I collected my cappuccino, joked about my sugar intake -- two-and-a-half teaspoons -- and extended my arm to pay, a girl barged in.

She was Indian, perhaps 17-18 years old, looking scared and tired. She pushed the others lining up for coffee and demanded in broken English, "Iwanjoeb." The cafe girl couldn't understand her. The Indian girl clutched her bag closer to her chest and repeated, "Iwanjoeb." Her accent was... unintelligible. The others around were staring at her, some confused, some amused, some irritated. I was still holding out the change for my coffee. The cafe girl looked at me.

I asked the Indian girl, "Naukri chahiye?" (You want a job?) She looked at me, scared, nodded. There was a boy standing behind her, barely older than her, looking angry... I took them outside, made them sit. They obeyed... they were so trusting, it was scary and was making me very uncomfortable.

"Do you have a CV?" I asked.
She looked confused.
"Resume?"
She still looked confused.
"Do you have a bio-data?"
Light finally dawned.
"Nahin. No, I don't have," was her response.
"You will need a bio-data to get a job."
"I did not know that... I don't know where to get one," she replied.
"You don't 'get' one, you have to write one."
"What do I have to write in it? I don't know."
I was stunned.
"When did you come here?"
"Three months back."
"From?"
"India... Punjab...(city name)*."
"Student visa?"
"Yes."
"What college?"
"XXXX* university."
"What are you studying there?"
"Multimedia."
"Who told you to come to this cafe and ask for a job?"
She hesitated now, looked at the boy, who so far had not said a word.
"They said I should walk into places and ask..."
"Have you worked before?"
She shook her head. No.

I knew it was a stupid question. She came from a small town in Punjab, right out of school. From what I know about similar backgrounds, she probably ever only stepped out of the house to go to school, perhaps accompanied by her father or brother. I asked her about the "they", she looked uncomfortable and began fidgeting with the strap of her bag. On further questioning she mentioned she had cleared her 10+2 (grade 12) last year with "non-medical" and a 60 per cent. 'Non-medical' for those outside India means she studied physics, chemistry and mathematics. I asked her if she had cleared it under the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE), which is the national education board. She had done her schooling under the Punjab state board. Firstly, she studied under a state board; secondly, with her marks, she would not get into a 'good' college in India. And she is here in Australia, doing a multimedia course...

In my conversation with her, she could barely manage to speak basic English. Even her Hindi was laced with a thick Punjabi accent. The boy didn't speak at all and looked around at everyone suspiciously. I didn't know what to do... I pulled out my resume and showed it to her. She asked if it was okay for her to simply mention her school degree and the college she was studying in... I said yes. We parted ways. She perhaps went away hopeful, I remained shaken up.

I came back home and checked the website for the college the girl mentioned. It provides courses in multimedia, hairdressing and community welfare amongst others. All vocational courses. It has a student services section that apparently provides help on accommodation service, airport pickup and also has a job club. According to the 'job club' website, students are provided help in the form of, "... students are shown how to write their resume in English and are given individual advice on how and where to look for a job during the session... . students assistance with finding a job."

If those are the services provided by the job club, why was that girl walking around without a resume? Without any clue on how to go about things? Did she not approach the job club? Or did she not understand what the job club said? When speaking to her, it was apparent her English was far inferior to the minimum needed to continue any life here.

On checking the college website, the basic requirement of English for a multimedia course is a score of 5.5 on the IELTS course. Now the IELTS exam has four sections, one of them is spoken English. If she couldn't say "I want a job" clearly and could not even string two sentences... How did she clear the IELTS? How did she get a seat in the college?

Every week here, there have been stories in the media about the entire Indian-student-visa-scam. The Australian media is going a darned good job of looking deeper. Quite unlike the Indian media, which created a furore about students being beaten up in Australia, labelled the country 'racist' and has since not bothered to delve into the subject any further. On Monday night, TV channel ABC1's investigative programme, 4 Corners, had a very good investigation on the issue. This episode was called Holy Cash Cows.

Reporter Wendy Carlisle looked at the reasons behind the rise in the number of Indian students in vocational courses over the last five years, the scams operating in Australia and India that allow unqualified students to come into the country -- forging IELTS scores, work qualifications etc -- and further migration scams that provide similar fraudulent documents to enable such students (and others) to apply for permanent residency in Australia.

Who is to blame for this?

Is it the Australian govt that needs to have some sort of checking system in place, but does not seem to be doing it? Is it the education and migration agents who are providing wrong information and fraudulent documents? Is it the private universities here that are taking in students and then turning a blind eye towards helping them? Is it the Indian govt, which is happy blaming the Australian govt but doesn't want to take any responsibility for its citizens?

Or is it the students who are looking for a better life at any cost and by any means? It is implicit there is a section of students who come to Australia to eventually seek permanent residency (PR). However, not all students do so. There are those who merely seek an education and go back. What needs to be understood here is that just BECAUSE a student is applying for an Australian permanent residency does NOT mean the Australian government will grant them one.

Even if a student completes his/her 'points' -- points define eligibility for PR, you get points for the education you've had, work experience, etc -- the prerogative to GRANT a permanent residency lies with the Australian government. You do not automatically get permanent residency. Those Australians whose major problem/fear seems to be that Indians/other immigrants will "come here and not go back" need to understand that no one can forcibly stay in this country. The Australian government can refuse.

According to figures quoted in news reports, there are 90,000 Indian students. All of them are NOT staying on in Australia. In fact it is ridiculous to think so. How many out of those 90,000 students are being given PR? If, according to reports, "so many" Indian and other international students are getting in and staying on... Who is allowing them? Why?

*Names withheld back to avoid identification.
Pic courtesy: AFP

Ever wondered...

2009-07-27T19:52:00.006+05:30

When we have a good day...
is it because we were thinking positively?
Or it because the day was good and therefore made us positive?
Pic courtesy: Flickr

Your press card is invalid.

2009-07-25T09:04:00.003+05:30

I've been bloody irregular. I am sorry. Or perhaps I am not. Why should I be? No one pays me to write. No one gives a damn either. Or maybe they do.

It's not that there aren't things/topics to write on. There are. But does my opinion matter? Do my thoughts count? Who the eff am I anyway? Or who do I think I am?

There was a time I was bloody particular about my name. Now the name -- it's phonetic challenge and 'exotic' value -- have become a bane. 'Jhoomur' once, was known. Now I include 'JB' in my resume as well. Just in case 'they' -- whoever they might be -- cannot pronounce my name... Or throw my resume in the bin because of, "What the eff's a jhoomur?"

There's a phrase here, "She's a goer." It means someone who strives, who doesn't let up, a 'go-getter'. Some smart people have also said that when the going gets tough, the tough get going. It sounds bloody cool. But when the tough get going too hard, they end up with tired feet. A broken spirit. Humiliation and an identity crisis.

I blame it on the media. A press card -- that small rectangle with your name, designation and declaration of affiliation with a media house are big things. They begin defining who you are. They defined me for 10 years. Now it's what the eff's a jhoomur. From being interviewed to not getting interviews and not even being eligible for making sandwiches. And people think immigrants just walk in and take native jobs?! How? Where? Can they teach me?

And to think that I chose to leave it all... Personally, I couldn't be happier. But the moment I begin considering the 'personal' in context of just Me -- removed from other people, love, etc -- it begins to irk. Gnaw. Eviscerate.

Ironically, when I've blazed professionally, my personal life has been in the pits (even deeper under). Yet now that the personal angle is happy, I crave that rectangle that was me. My hard work, what I had nurtured... From being 'someone', to being a mere 'huh'.

Now I am beginning to get scared. The tough get going... But what if I am not tough?
Pic courtesy: Sojones

You hate Australia, do you?

2009-07-19T06:26:00.011+05:30

Hmmm. So in the one year of my moving to Australia, I've put on 13 kgs. And in the one week of my being ill and not being able to eat anything -- was on the drip for a couple of days -- I lost 6 kgs. Now I'm fluctuating between 50-52 kilos. And I need to stabilise at about 47kg.

Weight is one of the things I've been thinking of. Indian students being beaten up in Australia is another. After "What do you think of Slumdog Millionnaire?", the latest too-frequently-asked-question has become, "You must think Australians are really bad. Do you?" It's usually the same, part statement followed by doubtful question.

Some people get squeamish when they talk about it. There are those -- like the boutique owner in Torquay -- who get defensive and angry that they have to get defensive. Then there are those who seem to look for a fight and an argument: If you say Australia is racist, you'll have an argument; if you say all this could be a huge misunderstanding and media overkill, there's still an argument. Then there are those who get overly apologetic and critical about Australians and how they have a "serious issue about racism."

Keeping aside the fact that no one should have to face violence, sometimes it feels that the real issue is getting lost. It's become about Australia-bashing; no one seems to be asking what really is being done FOR the international students. Or for that matter, what the various international communities are doing to adjust to life in Australia. If the Oz government needs to reevaluate its education system, the various international communities ALSO need to look at various things they need to do before sending their kids here. Or for whatever else is needed to help them... If on one hand, international students need to learn to adapt to the ways of another country; on the other, locals also need to be made aware of the nationalities coming into their country. At the end of the day, we are NOT talking illegal immigrants. These students have been invited to study in Australia. At the same time, the students also need to remember they are in another country with its own culture, rules and ways of life.

Personally, no one has beaten me or been racially aggressive towards me. I study at a university with a lot of international students; my class has been majority white. They have laughed at my accent, I've made fun of their English or 'Australian' as they speak it here. I've had professors who have given me the time of their day. It could be because I am paying a hell of a lot for this course. Or because I am working really hard at uni and the profs can see that too. I have been invited to every event/party/function organised by classmates. I've had Australians calling up and enquiring about my health when I've been ill. I've even had bitching sessions with Australian chicks about other people. And there was nothing racist there, we were just being chicks.

The last time I worked in a restaurant, it was the first job I'd applied for. My cv said I was an Indian and that I had no experience in hospitality. I was still called for a trial and got the job -- at the same wage rates as Australian staff -- and my boss was happy with my work. It was a white majority restaurant and we served majority whites. I did not face racism and was as cheeky with 'white' clients as I'd be with Indians. I am naturally cheeky, it has not changed in another country. There was one woman who tried being nasty, but it worked out beautifully. I took the insults for a couple of weeks, then gave it back to her. And my colleagues and boss stood by me. They were all Australian.

Does that mean that there have been no 'funny' incidents? There have, but usually from small-minded, stupid people. And sincerely, small-minded, stupid people are the same ANYWHERE in the world. You ignore them. Likewise, the common sensical rules for staying safe are also the same everywhere in the country. Would Indians be walking with a laptop, late at night in Paharganj? Why would you do it in Footscray then? Anyway.

The third focus for me has been employment or the lack thereof. I want a job. I need a job. I am bored with the idea of sitting at home. And I really want to earn some money. I start on the last semester of my course, which wraps in November. Didn't do too badly in the previous semester...however, I have a strong suspicion that the degree is not really one that gets you jobs. I have to get cracking on the manuscript. But that wouldn't get me a job either. Applied to two restaurants, neither bothered to respond. And no, I don't think my not getting a job has anything to do with racism. It's called economic downturn. Sigh.

Anyway. What's up with y'all?
Pic courtesy: Siasat.com

H1N1.

2009-07-08T14:35:00.001+05:30

Oh well. Have had high fever for the last two days, cough, cold, whole lot of shivering.

First the doctors said it could be malaria. Then they said it could be typhoid. Today finally we found out that I have 'swine flue'.

Might be out of action for a bit. Take care, all.

Back in Melbourne...

2009-07-05T06:25:00.001+05:30

.... and so bloody lazy. Laaaaaaaaaaazeeeeeeeeeeee.

Doklet- Nha Trang, Vietnam

2009-06-20T11:43:00.004+05:30

Just look at the place... need I write more? We stayed at the White Sand Resort, Doklet (pronounced 'jok-let'). And just did not want to leave.
I am grateful that someone invented the camera. Sunrise like this is hard to imagine. Or maybe because my imagination sucks. Is there a name for the colour of the sky?!

That's my thong/slipper. The crab is not a pet, though it was bloody curious.

Waiting: Siem Reap to Bangkok

2009-06-19T07:35:00.002+05:30

1. Waiting at the airport to get to the penultimate leg of our journey. Ideally, we should have been sitting on an island beach. Except that Indian passport cannot get you across road borders from Cambodia into Thailand. So we reached the border and had to come back to the hotel.

2. I think, think because I have not checked my big bag yet...that I might have lost my notebook. That is depressing enough to not want to write anymore. :(

This picture was taken on the first boat trip in Luang Prabang. We had an overnight stopover at a village called Pakh Beng and what a storm it was! Olympus 900 camera, hi shutter speed and 27 shots in one row yielded this. I'm hoping it would clear out more with some photoshop. Whaddyathink?

2. Boat trip: The next day, thanks to the previous night's storm and loads of food and drinking, this is what the people on the boat looked like...

Vignettes

2009-06-12T17:37:00.003+05:30

1. Fisherman on the Mekong: Travelling from Luang Prabang to Muong Ngoy on slow boat.

2. Halong Bay, Vietnam: An overnight stay on the 'Margareutte Junk' in beautiful --- but overcrowded -- Halong Bay.

So far, so good

2009-06-07T13:30:00.003+05:30

Chiang Mai, Thailand

It's almost like being on a food tour. I love the street food and love the way things are cooked here.

Do notice that I wrote 'things' are cooked... Cicadas, frogs, jellyfish, snake to the usual pigs, fish and everything else that moves can be prepared here.

The second picture is of a dish wrapped in vine leaves with interesting stuffing...

Day 12: Hanoi, Vietnam

2009-05-28T19:19:00.003+05:30

So we are here. And it's been like a merry-go-round of emotions, sometimes just go-round and not merry at all. The reason is one word, rather country, Vietnam. It's full of contradictions.

While Laos and particularly Luang Prabang and Muong Ngoy (heaven on earth) had been beautiful, relaxing and very pleasing; from the moment we entered Dien Bien Phu... It was like entering Delhi, with different faces. Touts grabbing at your arm, poking your shoulder for attention and shouting at you (!) if you didn't pay them attention. It got worse when we took the bus from Dien Bien to Son La.

The journey from Dien Bien to Hanoi was either a plane tw0 days later or a 12-hour bus ride. We thought we were being smart when we decided on a break-journey-bus-ride. It included a stop-over in trucker-city, Son La. What a nightmare. The Lonely Planet had warned it's a town full of brothels. We ended up in one, it was near the bus stop. Why did we go there? Oh because we were short on cash by the time we reached Son La, I was getting paranoid and well, I was getting paranoid. Also, the whole shouting-poking-touching was getting to me. In Delhi, I would have solved it by punching them in the face... But you can't do that in another country. And I have never been good with being patient or polite. Especially not when someone is siddling close to me and shouting. Sigh.

But I am learning. Last night at the shady Son La guest house was not pleasant at all. The poster of a girl with one boob bared should have warned us; we were tired though. Two hours later, the sweet-but-tired looking girl sitting at the reception changed into this garish caricature of a woman with loads of makeup and a lost expression. Another women, equally garish appeared to be ordering the other girl around. Second woman was the madam. As we walked up to our room, there was a TV blaring out of another rooml; stupid me happened to look in through the window... there was a guy lying nude with women's clothes strewn on the bed. Another hour later as Partner and I tried to sleep, we heard a woman wailing from another room. It continued for 20 minutes. Then some harsh voices, couple of men, some more crying and scary, scary silence. Two hours later -- 2 am now -- I was woken up by the sound of men laughing and hooting. Partner was awake, with one hand stroking my forehead to calm me down. Thankfully it was nothing sinister, just boys watching soccer.

Anyway. After all and a rather bumpy 6-hour ride on the bus, we arrived at Hanoi. I have been surprised... but I gotta run now. Let's just say that after the initial scare and absolute disaster that could have been Vietnam, I am looking forward to it. More later. :)

Day 10: Dien Bien Phu, Vietnam

2009-05-26T15:39:00.003+05:30

It was a bus that got us from Muong Ngoy (Luang Prabang province, Laos) to Dien Bien Phu (Dien Bien province, Vietnam). Sweaty, tired and looking forward to a feed, it took five-minutes off the bus to realise that Vietnam is very different from Laos in attitude.

Aggression is the game here. That said, nothing or no one can beat the Delhi/Agra guides in aggression though. Tomorrow, we take off -- another bus or a cab perhaps -- to Hanoi. I am really excited about that city. Awesome food, steeped in history and great shopping. :D

Public transport in Vietnam is bloody interesting... unlike Laos and Thailand, which use 'Tuk-tuks' -- their version of the Delhi three-wheeler/autorickshaw -- Vietnam has a culture of bike-hopping. As in the 'taxis' are motorcycles! :)

For some weird reason that I am yet to fathom but will get to the bottom of...the women here are smiling a lot at me. And I mean, a lot. Those who've been reading this blog would know that being an occupational cynic, I respond to random sweet smiles with immediately raised levels of suspicion. So far, suspicions -- and Lonely Planet warnings -- have been for no reason. Seems the women like me. (Hmm) Let's see where it leads though...

I've learnt thankyou, welcome, hello and goodbye in three different languages. I can also count 1-10 in Lao... now I have to start the whole process with Vietnamese. Currently I am sitting at an internet cafe and it's like no other internet cafe I've seen.

There are rows of boys -- in tee shirts or school uniforms -- sitting behind me, on networked computers, playing PC games. Four are playing Age of Empires or some such strategy game against each other while five others are playing soccer. The street we are on has three such internet centres...

The internet places in Laos were expensive compared to Vietnam. In fact many things are different between the two countries. The highway for instance. The Laos highway to the border was all dusty, muddy roads and 50 metres into the Vietnam border, the roads are well made.

I could go on, but I am tired and hungry and I've spotted a massage parlour close to our hotel. So while Partner will go and check out the Dien Bien Phu military museum, I shall hopefully get yet another massage and perhaps a pedicure.

We are trying to squeeze in Cambodia as well and I am very keen on seeing some musuems there as well as in Hanoi. Tonight though, I need body servicing. Catch y'all soon.

Day 5: Off the boat, Luang Prabang

2009-05-21T08:29:00.002+05:30

So we are in Laos now, in the state of Luang Prabang. It's bloody awesome.

Since we left Melbourne, I've had a plane ride, an 8-hour bus ride (free biscuits, Delhi Transport Corp. should take tips) and a two -day boat ride. Read that? BOAT ride. I sat on the doorway with one leg in the Mekong (Mee-Kwang) river, the wind blowing my hair, lush greenery all around. It has been great fun.

I shall continue the Chiang Mai massage story later, dont have enough time to write in detail. Got to call my parents. Dad's email reads, "Intimate location. Call mom." He treats email like a telegram. :D

Also had another round of massage last night. Basically PArtner and I got beaten up. :D You should have seen his face. The girls and me were cracking up. I also LOVE fishermen pants... MANY pictures, but late.r

Hope y'all are well. Gotta run....visiting a French explorer's grave, temples and more massages for today. Trying to get PArtner to hire a motorbike that he will let me ride as well. He agrees to the hiring but not to the riding. Bloody lovable chauvinist.

Haha, most people here look at us speculatively...they think I am a "for hire" chick he's picked up from Thailand or somewhere. Of course I play my part. On the boat, also managed to fool a German into believing I didn't speak English and was deaf and dumb. :D

Ok later.... mwah.

Day 1: Chiang Mai, on your back please

2009-05-18T05:39:00.003+05:30

Nothing like a bit of shaking up the old system when out backpacking.

So we landed at Chiang Mai, Thailand yesterday. The swine flu feeling was even stronger here as all airport officials at immigration and customs wore white masks. I was wearing a short green dress with black tights and a sweater... Melbourne has been cold and inside the plane and airport as well it was quite cool. Stepping outside the airport though was instant toast... with some honey on it perhaps.

Chiang Mai is hot, humid and SO like my hometown Jabalpur that it knocked my socks off. ALL plants that I saw are the ones we get in Jabalpur. Even madhu-maltis! After water restrictions and drought in Melbourne, it was nice to see so much green around. From the airport we got on to a tuk-tuk -- what we call Phat Phat in Delhi and Vikki in Jabalpur -- and reached our 'hotel'...the Little Home Guest House.

A shower later we stepped on to Chiang Mai's street market. While we are saving the shopping for the later bit of our journey, we both needed some light cottong pants and thongs (chappals aka slippers). That and some street-food eating done, we headed for a massage session. Rather I head for one. Partner was supposed to come with me as well. However, the massage girls got really excited seeing Partner and it was promptly decided that the prettier one was going to 'service' him. However the poor girls were disappointed as Partner developed cold feet and ran off to a bar while I had my body pounded.

While the massage was very good, the masseuse and me got talking.

Oops. We've got to catch a bus and need to leave at 7.30am. It's 7.21 am. Partner just sternly gave me a "get-your-bum" moving... So more later. And it's good. My first day in Thailand and a big shock. No matter how much you know, some things you are just not prepared for...

Day 1: Efficacy of adjacentness!

2009-05-17T06:49:00.003+05:30

Notes from: Kuala Lumpur International Airport, 7.50am

Don't know if I'll get another chance like this, but since the opportunity has presented itself; am using it to the hilt.

First stop, KLIA, in transit. Exactly a year and two days later, we are back in KL, or at least at the airport. This time however, we are flying the cheapest airlines possible. It's showing as Partner and I, both have stiff necks and sore legs. We could have had upset tummies too, only they did not feed us much on the plane. There's only that much you get on economy tickets.

Also, unlike the last time when I saw the swanky side of this airport, this time it's the slightly seedy side. It's still very organised and disciplined -- compared to the experience at Delhi airport when I left India in July 2008 -- however, the jazz is missing. Lsat time we were in Terminal 1, this time it's the for-local-travellers Terminal 2. Much downgraded and everything doesn't sparkle as much. But thik hai, I can post!

Currently, I am sitting outside the smoking room, adjacent to the toilets, which is where Partner is. I saw it is very good placement: Every smoker after a 10-hour flight will want a smoke and a shit. And, when you really wanna go, you really don't want to hunt for a toilet.

Two things are remarkably different from the last time we travelled.
1. Global economic crisis: Therefore, now the Malay government only allows to take 1000 ringitt outside the country. But surely, if there was a crash and people wanted to pull out all their monies, they wouldn't be taking all of it out as cash, no?
2. H1N1 endemic: Medical forms to fill and airport officials wearing face masks.

Two huge, global developments in 365 days...what are we going to encounter next?
The way forward is a flight to Chiang Mai, Thailand. After that road trip. Hopefully, should be able to update..if not..let's see!!!

Off we go...

2009-05-16T17:00:00.003+05:30

1. Passports. check
2. tickets. check
3. undies. check.
4. deo. check.
5. crossword book. check.
6. camera. check.
(7. blog update. check)

So am off. Tomorrow, 7.30am, in Kuala Lumpur. Three hours later, flying to Chang Mai. Excited.

Will hopefully update. As is with a lot of Asian countries, ATMs are hard to find, internet cafes are not. Unlike in Australia, where it's the opposite.

So then...shall update soon enough. :D Stay good and if you decide to stay bad, dont get caught.

WOOOOOOHOOOOOO!!

PS: Billy and plants (they're my babies too) are at the grandparents' (back to the farm). Billy loves it, I hope he remembers me two months later...

2009-05-16T04:25:00.000+05:30

Let’s kill all the women because then there will be none left to birth men.

In Congo, they are and have been doing it for 12 years.

“1 out of 3 women on this planet will be raped or beaten in her lifetime.”

“Those like Dr Mukwege, a Congolese OB/GYN and founder of Panzi hospital who has been sewing up women’s and little girl’s vaginas for 12 years as fast as the militias are ripping them apart.”

"Hundreds and thousands of women and girls raped and tortured. Babies as young as 6 months, women as old as 80, their insides torn asunder. "

I am sorry, I can’t cut-paste anymore. Please read the entire thing here. Eve speaks on rape and violence against women in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Quotes courtesy: V Day, a global movement to end violence against women and girls

Brains vs balls...

2009-05-15T14:00:00.005+05:30

... is a lost battle. Got this is an e-mail:

The first testicular guard was used in cricket in 1874; the first helmet was used in 1974. It took 100 years for men to realize that the brain is also important.

:D What say?

Pic courtesy: Bayou Renaissance Man

The fire within

2009-05-14T07:05:00.011+05:30

1998-1999. I had recently moved to Delhi with my parents. So many things were new. Opinions were new, I discovered I had them, I was allowed to state them and no one said, "You can't say that because I am your father."

The biggest shock though was calling "seniors" by their names... In the army, everyone is aunty or uncle, even those just two years older to you. In the 'outside' world, you were judged by what you did, the stories you cracked, not by who's daughter you were.

The outside world was also not as protective as dad (or the army). I wasn't 'baby' anymore, no one was there to collect me from school. Older men weren't scared of my dad to approach me. Older women weren't maternal figures anymore, they had claws. I developed mine. I learnt to use the public transport system, to haggle with autorickshaw drivers, to not trust older men, be wary of older women. I longed to validate my identity, my existence.

I wanted roots. My roots. Delhi rooted me. Hah, literally. (grin) Jobs, houses, friends, lovers, attitudes formed, morphed, lost...gained. Heartbreaks, promotions, scandals (oh yeah), pets!, vices, gods... Everything was new, everything was different, everything was to be learnt, discovered. Ten years went by.

2008-2009. I have recently moved to Australia. So many things are new. Opinions are new, I have had them, I am changing some of them. I'm learning to respect other opinions as well. Of course, sometimes I forget. It's funny how from discovering you have opinions, we grow so possessive about them to let go...

The biggest shock was calling someone else's parents by their names. Toughest was calling Partner's parents by their names. Strange was when at times Partner would refer to his parents by their name!

The world outside India (and the media) is not the same. I am judged by how I adjust, what I learn and un-learn, by what I bring to the plate... Not by the stories I've done, the bylines I collected or who's girlfriend/wife I am. Both my press card and my Indian driving license mean nothing. My passport and the 'India' on it is my identity; legally and in many other ways. So far that is...

Oh yes, I also eat cow and am not in hell.

After 10 years of working for the best media houses, I've made sandwiches for people and cleaned tables. My resume has so far been worthless; even for getting a job at a bookstore. :) Friends, associates, attitudes, vices, interests are forming, morphing... No promotions or scandals (yet). Lover remains the same. :)

I moved so much in India, then moved out of India and now... I am stepping over boundaries, geographically, mentally, hell even physically. Like piling on kilos (hrmph).

It's like a dream. Things and places I read about in Readers' Digest and National Geographic, saw movies about, read in fiction novels... Those things, places, people are real. Real enough to touch. feel and taste (er, not the people).

I am happy and I am humbled....AND we are flying to three awesome, awesome places on Sunday evening. See if you can guess them?

Muggle-smuggling confuses jailers?

2009-05-12T09:13:00.008+05:30

Did you know that 'muggle' -- before Harry Potter -- was a slang term for marijuana? And 'Twitter' was related to chopping up whales?

I am in shock, more due to the muggle association than with the whaling one. Before the muggle though, here's the bit about the whale...

For those who don't know the Twitter-whale association, here goes the story. Website cnet.com reports, "Whenever Twitter's servers take a tumble ... the microblogging service brings up an image of a whale being lifted out of the water by a flock of birds." This image -- now reaching iconic levels -- is popularly known as the Fail Whale and was created by designer Yiying Lu.

According to cnet.com, which quotes the New Bedford Whaling Museum, 'twitter' once "referred to an obscure piece of sperm whale anatomy that was typically only encountered when whalers were chopping up one of the unfortunate creatures." Ironic that the Fail Whale reaches iconic status after being used on Twitter. Read full story

As for the Muggle bit; all of you should know that in Harry Potter books, 'Muggle' means non-wizard people, ie, you and me (alas). However, a news article on Times magazine's website shows that in 1931, Muggle meant marijuana/ganja/pot. To quote Times.com, "In New Orleans many a schoolchild is said to be an addict; prison authorities find muggle-smuggling a perplexing problem."

Wonder if JK Rowling knew that...
Disclaimer: The image of Harry Potter is from Sidecar Sally; the author of this website did not create the image.

Write India?

2009-05-11T05:18:00.008+05:30

What is it about internationally acclaimed books from India or by Indian authors? Or as more is the case today, books by authors of Indian origin?

For long such books have either been about a post-colonial hangover with the British Raj (rule), or about Non Resident Indian reminiscing about home or (as of recently), the ABCD* Handbook to Criticising India.
(*ABCD = American Born Confused Desi, where 'desi' means native)

The 2008 Booker of Bookers winner Midnight's Children (Salman Rushdie), the 2008 Man Booker winner White Tiger (Aravind Adiga), the 2000 Pulitzer winner Interpreter of Maladies (Jhumpa Lahiri) and even the 1996-Booker shortlisted, A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry) falls into either one of those categories.

All these writers and their books are also clubbed under the category of 'Indian Writing in English'. Whether the 'Indian' refers to writing originating from the country or a native of the country is suspect. 'Indian Writing in English'. Strange, we don't have Spanish/Spaniard Writing in English or Italian Writing in English or French Writing in English. Perhaps because some critics find the language by Indian authors tedious, constructed and flowery'...

Then there are writers like Shobhaa De (Superstar India), Advaita Kala (Almost Single) and blog-to-books recent entry, Meenakshi Madhavan Reddy (You Are Here). 'Irreverent' is the over-used adjective for their writing. While Ms De is a senior when it comes to writing and successfully stirring controversy -- she is also consistent on the best-seller lists -- the other two writers are newbies. By newbie standards, Madhavan has been around and writing -- in the blogosphere at least -- for much longer than Kala. Their writing is also being heralded as the face of "the brave, new world of the young of our times". I have not yet read You Are Here (expectant); but I have read Almost Single (cringe).

Going by what Khushwant Singh and book reviews have to say about Madhavan's book and what I read in Kala's: Is their portrayal the real, new India?

Why does portrayals of India either have to do with slums or sluts? Yes, we do drink, smoke, dance, f**k and start earning much earlier than the older generation(s) used to.... but is that all to us? And if there is more to us, why the hell isn't anyone writing about it and why's no one publishing it?

What, according to you, is the best representation of India in a fiction/non-fiction book? Also, if you read review blogs that focus on Indian books/authors, share the link.

PS: And I strongly disagree to respected Khushwant Singh saying, "...I doubt if I would admit she was related to me" about Madhavan's book.
I am sorry Mr Singh, those are rotten, double standards. Or is it because Madhavan happens to be a free-speaking, feisty young woman? Your books were far raunchier, in bad taste and pretentious. While you are denying any links to the current generation, we are a fruit of your loins. If the fruit isn't sweet, perhaps the older generation needs to think about it.

PS: Some others seem to take this post as a criticism. Is it? It's more an attempt to understand what's happening with Indian writing/writers from India. As a media student, I find in discussions that somehow people seem to presume that Indian authors can only write about a 'certain' India. And no, I am not an author. It is very hard.

I hate injections...

2009-05-08T13:41:00.009+05:30

I am not squeamish. I also like to believe that when faced with life-threatening situations I will be quite brave.

In fact one of my favourite, recurring superhero-type day dreams involves us (random people and me) being hijacked -- as in train/plane/car -- by terrorists*. So I indulge in some hand-to-hand combat and save the day. However, sometimes the dream gets muddled in technical details. Like, how many terrorists can I handle at once? Maybe kick one in the groin, poke another in the eye...what happens if there's a third one and he shoots me in the head? Or if one of them has dynamite or something strapped around him?

In another dream, the pilot faints and I have to fly the plane reading How To Fly A Plane In An Emergency manual. I bet I can do it. It's a plane after all, not Twitter that you cannot figure it out. Like on Twitter, I know RT means re-Tweet, what the heck does "#" mean?! There. I've committed twittricide (twitter+suicide) by announcing I can't figure the "#". Is it "f##k I don't f######g understand it?"

Anywho. The point of all this is:
1. I am procrastinating finishing another assingment. I've done the requisite research but can't be bothered about writing it down. Hopefully the can't-be-bothered mood will pass and I will maintain the deadline.

2. Billy got two shots today. :( One was a little one but the other needle was the size of his paw. Poor thing. I didn't go of course - (assignments) -- Partner took him to the vet. The vet says Billy also has worms and that we are "not nourishing him properly". I am in shock. He eats SO much. (fat cat) We are apparently feeding him the wrong things. Tuna+cod? Chicken+veal? Dude, that's better than what I eat.

Partner says Billy cried really loudly. Apparently the nurses at the vet's found Billy really cute. (Hmph. Have a feeling it might have something to do with Billy's dadda). Ever since he's been back, Billy has been really slow -- as against jumping on everything, running around the house and giving me a new scratch, in a new spot -- and looks all sad.

I know exactly how Billy feels. I hate injections. The sight of them more than the pain of them. Once poked, of course I hate the pain of them too. I hate sad faces on kittens even more.

The vet has also asked us to "look at" Billy's potty for worms. Why? So they don't crawl back?!

PS: *Before anyone says that I am being disrespectful about terrorism or being hijacked. I am not. It's a dream. I cannot control dreams. If I could control dreams, I would be single, Wolverine be real and single. We would meet in a bar and have a one-night stand and forget. Then meet again every night and have one-night stands so neither of us would get bored. And oh, his claws will be detachable.

PS 2: What's the name for checking your pet/child's shit for worms? Peek-a-poo.

Gotta grind

2009-05-07T06:59:00.002+05:30

Thank-you all for the birthday wishes...here as well as those on Facebook. It's bloody awesome.

I'm gonna be somewhat silent for the next week or so. I'll try for some words/lines, though it's going to be tough.

I have 8 assignments lined up for May 13th... Small mercy though that they weren't yesterday.

1. book proposal
2. Seminar on online publishing
3. Seminar on epistolary novels
4. Seminar on subplots and theories
5. First draft on 3000 words of the book
6. Seminar on development of the book
7. fiction story on magic realism (bloody tough)
8. Novel analysis report

And I used to think that writers just sit in the garden, wear dirty clothes and let their imagination do the job. Not. (scowl)

PS: But I totally, completely love it. Very different from the undergrad Bachelor in journalism style of teaching where we 'read' from books and memorised stuff. Am off...so much to do. Need to start planning better. Thankyou, again. :)

Officially, old.

2009-05-06T03:43:00.003+05:30

Right. So this is it. The big 3-0. Would love to write more, but uni. Thankfully, no assignments today. First thing I thought of in the morning? "I don't want to go to school." :)

Dear Mr Rushdie, I love you.

2009-05-04T06:34:00.008+05:30

How bloody convenient for Danny Boyle to completely remove Christianity and insert that Hindu-Muslim rioting in Slumdog Millionaire.

Did you know there is no Mumbai Hindu-Muslim, communal violence sequence in Vikas Swarup's Q and A? That's the book Slumdog is based upon. Instead, what the book has is a scene where the hero of the film is nearly molested by a Christian priest. Why the change I wonder? Meryl Streep can play a priest-questioning nun in Doubt but Danny Boyle cannot show it in his 'Bollywood' movie? The West wouldn't want India questioning the priests perhaps?

Please don't misunderstand; I am no great lover of Hinduism. I don't understand it, like almost every other religion. I get the point of God, I don't get the point of religion. But that's another post, another time. What's got my goat (again) is the sheer idiocy of Slumdog and how the West sees it as India. It's not and it's rot.

I have really tried to think about it in positive terms, I cannot. This is called being vindicated. This is what Salman Rushdie has to say (I forgive his Padma Lakshmi debacle because of this):

Author and critic Salman Rushdie has responded negatively to both the film Slumdog Millionaire and the novel on which it is based, Q & A. In his essay on film adaptations, "A Fine Pickle," Rushdie argues that the plot of Swarup's novel is "a patently ridiculous conceit, the kind of fantasy writing that gives fantasy writing a bad name. It is a plot device faithfully preserved by the film-makers, and lies at the heart of the weirdly renamed Slumdog Millionaire.

As a result the film, too, beggars belief." He made similar statements about Slumdog Millionaire in a talk given at Emory University, arguing that its plot "piles impossibility on impossibility," and in an earlier interview with The New York Times, where he conceded that he found the film "visually brilliant. But I have problems with the story line.... It just couldn’t happen. I’m not adverse to magic realism but there has to be a level of plausibility, and I felt there were three or four moments in the film where the storyline breached that rule."

Rushdie also blasted Boyle's admission that he made the film in part because he was unfamiliar with India, challenging Boyle to imagine "an Indian film director making a movie about New York low-life and saying that he had done so because he knew nothing about New York and had indeed never been there. He would have been torn limb from limb by critical opinion. But for a first world director to say that about the third world is considered praiseworthy, an indication of his artistic daring. The double standards of post-colonial attitudes have not yet wholly faded away."

Up in smoke?

2009-05-03T09:41:00.004+05:30

So today is Day 3 of no cigarettes. I think I am doing really well since I've gone without the nicotine patches as well. You are supposed to wear a fresh patch every 24 hours, but after the first patch on Thursday evening, I haven't worn any.

I will admit to fantasizing about cigarettes now and then, especially after meals. Last night for instance, after a really good meal of pork, baked potatoes, cabbage-with-bacon and baked pumpkin; all with a glass of beautiful red wine, I really wanted a cigarette.

But I didn't have any and started knitting instead. This is my first, proper knitting project. The last and only time I've knit was when I was 14... it was a scarf that was eventually completed by mom. This time it's a jumper for Partner. He has promised that even if it is yucky and cannot be worn out, he will wear it at home. I am happy. I've completed the back and will ~~attack~~ knit the front, arms and the neck.

I have no bloody clue how to knit the neck -- remember my mom using four knitting needles and it looking very technical -- but I'll figure out something. Partner's mom was very amused that I was not using a 'pattern' -- a book to tell me when I have to pick/drop stitches. I was very amused because I was doing it the old-fashioned Indian way: Make Partner stand with arms stretched out and measure it against him. :)

Have a nice Sunday (or whatever day it is, wherever you are)
How nicotine patches help quit smoking: Here

To do do. Tu du du.

2009-05-01T10:03:00.013+05:30

Sorry for the sudden break in writing. It's that time of the year again. The time when uni assignments start piling and up 'to do' lists really don't make sense.

The more I seem to have on my to-do list, the lesser I seem to do anything. Priorities get confusing because something else on the list -- usually the least important task -- suddenly starts looking more appealing.

Pending deadlines are also the reason for some rather bizarre nightmares. Like last night. I kept dreaming of samosas in different situations.

In one where there was a samosa that I just could not bite into. It kept escaping my maw. The more I tried to bite it, the farther it went... Or the other one where each time a raw samosa was dropped in a cauldron of hot oil -- it's deep fried after all -- it would not resurface. I would keep waiting expectantly for a nice, deep fried, samosa-with-crispy-bits to bob up in the oil and it wouldn't. I love crispy bits in a samosa. (drool)

Then there was the dream where I am at a Melbourne book-signing -- not mine, I was the reporter -- and they had samosas for snacks. Only they were the fraud, frozen samosas they are selling these days. Y'know the ones that are all flat, have no taste and look uncooked? I really don't understand samosas that can be made in the microwave. If it ain't deep fried, it ain't no samosa. I refuse to have something so tasty being labelled health food. Anyway.

So in the dream they serve these samosas and I throw a fit and call them frauds... Only that the book signing was organised by a big-time publisher. The publishers, other authors and literary agents get really upset with and I am barred from all literary/book circles and I become a literary (literal?) pariah.

No, I am not pregnant and have no idea why I've had three dreams of samosas on the same night. If you have any clues, please let me know.

PS: Day one-and-a-half of nicotine patch and no cigarettes. Melbourne's getting really cold. But I am not in Melbourne. And I also saw my first, bona fide gold-rush 'town'. Very spooky.

Pic courtesy: Sparklette

Babe, you SWINE.

2009-04-28T05:53:00.011+05:30

They say life imitates art; and lord knows, life and art are both getting spookier, literally.

Two weeks back, an episode of BBC's spy-drama Spooks, had a biological weapon scare. The storyline had a train bombed in Teheran that releases a dangerous virus. The virus creates an international scare as people in Iran and those infected in the UK start dying. The virus is transmitted from person-to-person through coughing, sneezing and merely being in contact with someone infected with the virus.

Sounds familiar?Now we hear about the swine-flu outbreak.

There are 149 dead in Mexico (The Age, Oz), there are 40 confirmed infections in the US; and the infection has spread to the United Kingdom and Spain* (Washington Post, US) as well. According to latest figures, there are 10 suspected cases (ABC News, Oz) in Queensland, Australia. All this has lead to the World Health Organisation considering raising the alert level to a higher digit. Currently, the WHO has declared it a level four flu pandemic (The Guardian, UK).

While the US, UK, Australia and Europe have declared an emergency and are warning citizens and manning airports -- Munich and Frankfurt airports are distributing swine flu informational leaflets -- the Indian government has issued a mild warning.

Before writing this post, I checked these Indian newspapers and news websites: Times of India, Hindustan Times, NDTV and IbnLive.
All four sites are currently reporting wrong figures from Mexico and US. Given that all four sites have staff/editorial on night shifts, it is inexcusable. It is also silly that when there is an outbreak of global proportions, actor Feroze Khan's death has been given more prominence on at least two sites (Ibn and NDTV). The best coverage so far -- though with wrong figures -- is on Times of India, which has at least put the swine flu story on the No. 2 slot on its website.

Many people will say that since the deaths are (currently) restricted to Mexico and reported cases are in the US, UK and Spain, it is perhaps no cause for India/Indians to worry. However, the number of Indians travelling to and back from those countries has been increasing.

According to data published by Euromonitor International, the number of Indians travelling from India is set to rise by 132 % by 2011, with the US being the most preferred destination. Given that soon it will be summer vacation time and families will be planning trips: Should there not be more on the swine flu in the Indian media?

For those readers who live in Canada and the US: PLEASE take care. For those of you planning to travel, if you can change your plans, please defer. First there's AIDS, then Ebola, then the bird flu and now the swine flu. A virus that is still mutating. And we, as humans, the most susceptible targets as our immune system cannot fight the virus on its own.

PS: Just heard from a Mexican pal at uni that Mexico suffered an earthquake this morning. Apparently the joke going around in Mexico is:
What did Mexico city say to the pig flu?
Ooh, I am shaking.

Please be well. For more information, refer to the news reports/links above or check here:
Centres for Disease Control and Prevention
World Health Organization
WHO Swine Influenza FAQs (pdf)
* Sign-in required for Washington Post.

Freida Pinto, one of world's sexiest?

2009-04-26T03:20:00.001+05:30

From being the girl-next-door to the Oscars and now on the walls of many a panting man. Freida Pinto is going places. According to one poll at least, Freida's one of the world's top 10 sexiest women.

For the few who might not know -- because they didn't care or whatever -- Freida (not Farida), is the ~~skinny~~ lissome young lady who has recently starred in Slumdog Millionnaire.

While reports of her conquering the red carpet at the Oscars and bagging other meaty roles abound (there's rumour she's doing a Tarantino film. Why?), here's another feather in Freida's cap.

According to the World's Sexiest Woman survey conducted by lad-mag FHM, Freida has been voted the 10th sexiest woman in the world.

For those who might say, "What's the big deal?" Well, none really but I am quite enjoying the fact that Freida has 'beaten' former favourites like Jennifer Lopez and Angelina Jolie.

I do have a feeling though that la Jolie and Jennifer Lowpants's fall in popularity has more to do with their being mommys rather than due to any fall in their 'sexiness'. After all beauty is skin deep and cosmetic surgery fixes everything.

For now though, desi oopmh is getting international 'recognition'. (If being wank material can be called that) The most Mrs Aishwarya Bachchan came to igniting passions -- I'm ignoring the Miss World title, that was eons ago -- was winning the world's sexiest eyes in 2008. Guess even lad-mag subscribing blokes found her cold.

While both Aishwarya and Freida cannot act -- yes, despite the Tarantino rumour -- at least Freida isn't as frigid as Mrs B Jr.

Do you think Freida is hot?

Hogwash.

2009-04-25T10:51:00.005+05:30

Just one of those days you know. Or one of those two days you know. Brain is telling something, something is telling to brain. Everything is nothing and nothing is not in the sane. Maketh sense?
PS: All errors in this post have no relation to any one living or dead. This post does not like too many relations. Blurgh

Up yours, sister.

2009-04-23T07:43:00.013+05:30

Presumptions are the mother of all cock-ups.

No matter what country you are in, some things really don't change. Complete strangers don't think twice about asking personal questions. Or stupid questions. Most people we meet here know that I have moved to Australia with Partner. If they don't know, they are told so when Partner introduces me to them. This is also a country where living together without getting married is not unusual; people know what it means to "live" with someone. It means you are going to stay together. So I don't understand when people ask, "How long are you going to stay in Australia?" What does that mean?

What answers are people expecting? "As long as Partner keeps me?" "Till I don't find a better looking, richer man?" "As long as Partner does not decide to date a blonde, white girl?" Oh yes, I did try the date-white-girl version and the reply to that was, "Ah don't worry about that. You know (wink) 'Once you date black, you never go back'?" Really. Was that wink supposed to make me ignore that you made an ignorant, underhanded comment? Or ignore your stupidity? Because LOOK again. I am B.R.O.W.N. There is a huge difference; like four shades.

Or strangers you've only just been introduced to think it's their goddamn right to ask, "So when are you getting married?" Why? Are you paying my wedding bills? Are you giving me away? Am I in love with your f-king son? No? So shut up. Till recently, I have smiled at that question and answered with a, "Let's see" and walked away. However, it's getting difficult.

At a recent meeting with people, as is the meet-new-people routine, I am introduced to everyone. I understand that people will be curious. It is a different thing to hear about mixed couples and it is a totally different thing when someone you know starts dating a 100 % Indian girl ( as against born-brought-up-overseas Indian girl). I guess it is even MORE different/bizarre when said boy goes to work in India for two years and comes back with a girlfriend. (I wonder if I should have a "Made in India" tattoo)

Perhaps some people were expecting me to wear a sari, a bindi and break into a Bollywood song-dance routine every two minutes. Or sit cross-legged on the dinner table and eat with my fingers. Well, I DO enjoy sitting cross-legged on chairs -- my size allows me to do so -- but I can use cutlery very well (including chopsticks). Though honestly, I am still partial to eating with my fingers. I can even eat pasta with my fingers (learnt in Sikkim). Anyhoo. What I know is that this curiosity is harmless. I am dead certain that Partner will be even MORE stared at when he finally meets my family back in India. Knowing some of my relatives, I am quite sure some of them will also giggle or point at him and say "White man" and perhaps ask him to do some Shane Warne bowling actions...

ARGH, digressing, getting back to the story... So I am introduced to all new people and amongst them is this offensive woman who took it upon herself to just stare at my face. Not like surreptitious looking but outright staring. There was nothing curious or harmless about the stare. It was a "what-did-he-see-in-her" stare. And no, I was not imagining. I am very good with understanding looks and even better at reading vibes. Having had enough of her silent staring, I said a polite hello and walked off. Only to have to sit next to her again. Two mintues of me sitting next to her, she asks, "So, are you going to marry him (Partner)?" This question was even more bizarre than the when-are-you-marrying one. It irritated me and I said, "No I will not." Unfortunately, I played right into her hands. She responded with, "Ah. You must be one of those people from India who come here and then never go back."

No, I did not slap her. But it's making me angry again. The second incident happened in class yesterday. This chick said something on the lines of, "Marry him then divorce him" etc. I didn't say anything to her either. BUT the next time she does, I will ensure I screw political correctness in the bum. Enough.

PS 1: Before any of you say,"Don't worry about what other people say", "Learn to let things go" or "You have a bigger heart than them, move on" etc. I KNOW all that. While I respect all attempts/suggestions at positive thinking, at this moment, I do not give a bloody damn f-ck.

PS 2: Ranted at Partner. He heard, cocked his head, hugged me BIG, kissed my forehead and said, "It's ok for you to be angry as long as you remember I am not them; I love you." Sigh. He good man.
Toon courtesy: The Back Porch Studio

Where are you?

2009-04-21T06:53:00.006+05:30

"Either you are thinking about what happened in the past or worrying about what will happen in the future. You forget to consider the present. That's the only trouble with you."

That's what Partner said to me two days back... Hate it though I may, he is right.

I don't regret my past, but I do think if I could have taken some decisions differently, done things another way. Perhaps the biggest past factor with me is thinking about people. I don't exactly nurse a grudge, but I find it hard to forget. I might think I have forgiven, but then at unexpected moments I realise I don't know how to forgive. It all comes back.

The future thrills me and scares me to death. I fear losing what I have, but even more than that, I fear that I might stop appreciating what I have. I've run from jobs, relationships, people... What if I do it again? Partner calls it my "second guessing streak". He says I think negative thoughts and either worry myself trying to prevent it or worse, get fatalistic and make it happen.

I can perhaps stop thinking about the past. But the future...? It confuses me, when people say "live in the present, don't think about the future". Will not our actions today affect our tomorrow?

Do you live in the past, present or the future? Try this quiz as well.

Pic = ScienceBlogs

My favourite ball sport

2009-04-20T04:58:00.008+05:30

Dear Gol gappas, You are by far my favourite ball sport. You are my comfort food, my sustenance when broke and the one experience that completes any shopping trip. I love the way the tamarind chutney mixes with the boiled potatoes and chickpeas in you. I love you despite the near-death-experiences of the times I have choked on you. You are the flavour of India to me: sweet, spicy, tangy and yet undefinable. You are also my biggest craving. I miss you.

Love to eat you.

It started with helping out a friend, and now thanks to the good samaritan in me, I am craving. This friend -- the same one who wrote to me from New York saying she loves ghooghni -- is doing a thesis on favourite foods. She has also started a VERY cool website called My Food Valentine. The idea being we all write a love letter to our favourite food.

My love letter was to gol gappas. May I please request you to log in to her site and write a love letter to your favourite food as well?

So now I am seriously craving for gol gappas. Some educated folks have been calling them 'water balls', but that's an insult. A literal translation of gol gappa would mean 'round cheeks' because that's what happens when you eat it. In some parts of India, it is called pani puri and Bengalis call it puchka.

For those who don't know, gol gappas are round, flour pastries, filled with a mixture of boiled potatoes, chickpeas, a sweet 'n' sour tamarind sauce and a very tasty concoction of cumin-fennel-pepper water. It is one of India's most popular street foods. It is meant for the brave. It is also a great equaliser and a test of humility. Why? Because everyone looks ridiculous eating it. There is no gentle, lady-like biting involved, you are supposed to shove the entire ball into your mouth and chomp. I've nearly choked on it and yet, I totally love it.Almost everyone I know has a gol gappa anecdote. It is stuff of legends.

There are love stories that evolved around gol gappas: Guy takes girl out for date and feeds her etc. Most such girls will think they look very cute while eating a gol gappa (while the juice trickles down the sides of their mouths). Almost every neighbourhood aunty will complain at least once that the pani does not taste as good as it used to. Every second person will complain about the rising price of a plate. Every foreigner I have met is scared of eating a gol gappa as they usually think cholera. Contrarily, no Indian has been known to fall ill due to eating one. Most gol gappa loving Indians in fact ask for a plate of pani.

There are also fastest gol gappa eating contests amongst friends. If you ever see how fast some ~~fat~~aunties can gulp them, you will realise it's a sport. Like slurping is a sport in Australia, chomping gol gappas is a sport in India. And no matter how many tandoori chicken and curry joints you have in a foreign country; there are never any gol gappa stands/stalls. Sigh. I miss it.

What is your favourite Indian food/ street food? Please do write a love letter to your favourite food on My Food Valentine.

PS: Since I've not written a word on the novel during the Easter break, am off to the city today. To sit at some cafe, people-watch and finish a chapter.

Pic courtesies: Piyush Hari, Tribune Chandigarh

Shantaram?

2009-04-19T12:31:00.004+05:30

Ok, so I have not read the book yet. However, I am definitely being asked about it a lot. A LOT.

After Slumdog Millionaire, the next FAQ is "Are the things in Shantaram, true?" "Is that really how India is?" "What do you think of the book?"

I had started reading the book, had reached the bit where he meets Karla and just could not read beyond that.

I will try again... What do you guys think about Shantaram?

Good? Bad? Overrated? Give feedback you.

Lazy Saturday

2009-04-18T06:12:00.003+05:30

Nice Saturday in Melbourne, a cloud cover that might not bring rain, but not too cold. Partner is out to get a washer for the BBQ and chlorine for the spa. I will soon be heading out for body servicing at the salon. Here, they don't 'thread' the brows but use wax instead, so I am in for some pain. My face will also look multishaded as there will be three clear strips of red skin amongst all the brown.

View Larger Map
Then we are headed to the Flemington Racecourse, there's some race on and we shall try our luck at winning some. Since my first trip to the races, I've managed to win three trifectas. A trifecta is when you bet on the three horses you think will come in the 1st-3rd positions. Since December 2008 -- my first bet -- my total winnings amount to $ 1910 AUD. Over the Easter weekend, Partner won another trifecta, I didn't go.

Billy is sitting on my lap as I type. He is an intelligent kitty and has realised in two days that the moment Mamma showers and wears shoes that make noise, it means she is about to leave him alone in the house. Billy thinks by sitting on me and not letting me go, he will not be left alone. Cute, devious little kitty.

Last night Billy puked, his light-lactose solution was too heavy. After that he refused to move and looked wilted. I nearly died. I hate it, HATE it, when pets get sick. They just look so helpless. This morning he's been fine though. The evidence was when he jumped on the bed -- yes, he's figured how to -- then got tangled in my hair, which he thinks is his enemy, and bit my ear. Of course it was NOT a nice way to be woken up, but if it means Billy's all right; I shall live with it.

What is it about little animals that hooks us in a mere seven days?

What are you thinking?

2009-04-17T06:20:00.006+05:30

In Mel Gibson's romantic/comedy flick What Women Want, Mel gets an electric shock and as a result he can 'hear' what women are thinking. The disaster leads to some funny situations in the movie and eventually happily ever after for Mel.

However, what if the same happened to you? Er, not the electric shock but being able to 'hear' peoples' thoughts. What if you could read minds? Would you want to? Would you freak out?

What will you do -- or how would you feel -- if you learn/hear that your partner thinks about someone else while having sex with you?

How would you react if you knew your partner fantasises about Salma Hayek/ Hugh Jackman/ or both while having sex with you?

Similarly, how would you react if your partner's fantasies involved someone you/he/she knows? Your best friend?His/her boss?

UPDATE: One person says, "There is a huge difference between fantasizing about Katrina Kaif and fantasizing about the neighbour." Thus, celebrity is ok, real person is not.
Waiting for more answers...

PS: Silly Billy insists on attacking my fingers when I type. Argh. At least pups cannot climb tables. Now he is trying to bite me toe. It is always the right, big toe. I don't understand.
Toon courtesy: Savage Chickens

The Reader

2009-04-16T04:10:00.004+05:30

Currently reading: Sookie Stackhouse's vampire escapades in the small American town of Bon Temps (I'm on book 7). The book has been made into television series TrueBlood and is shown on HBO. I NEED to get that series.
Rating: 4/ 5

Recently read: Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns (3/5) and The Obernewtyn Chronicles (3/5) by Isobelle Carmody.

This is a Facebook note/forward/tag, but I thought it was a good idea to put it up here. I would love to read your lists and am hoping you'd respond in the comments section with those you have read. I am definitely looking forward to BOOK SUGGESTIONS...

BOOKS READ FROM LIST = 39
The BBC believes most people will have only read 6 books from this list. Copy the list in the comments section. Look at the list and put an 'x' after those you have read. Delete 'x' from any you have not read. Post the number you have read in the note title.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen X
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien X
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte X
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling X
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee X
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte X
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens X
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott X
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy X
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of ShakespeareX
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier X
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger X
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell X
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy X
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John SteinbeckX
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll X
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame X
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy X
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens X
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma - Jane Austen X
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen X
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden X
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown X
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez X
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy X
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel X
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen X
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens X
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley X
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas X
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas HardyX
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen FieldingX
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie X
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens X
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker X
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Inferno - Dante
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle X
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton X
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas X
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare X
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

Billy the Cat

2009-04-14T04:07:00.005+05:30

1. Billy Batters, the new addition to the family. Age, 6 weeks, weight, 200 gms. Temperament, will have as much fun as possible. And oh, he is sitting inside the car's dashboard.

Billy is what I have been upto the past three days. People get bunnies for Easter; I got myself an Easter kitty. Rather Partner's mom got me Billy.

Partner's parents live on a farm with 16 wild cats and Billy is from a litter of 3. Other than Billy, the weekend has been fun, food and family. Except for the one time that Scroobie the dog nearly ate Billy; everything has been bonny and fine.

He does not cry, he has used his litter right from Try 1, he is happy with his formula and two teaspoons of mashed fish and he is loads of entertainment when awake. He is also a very good alarm as he woke us up this morning at 7.30 am sharp. He was hungry and he lets you know.

Saw hello people to Billy and a proud and happy Mamma. And oh, it's 'Billy' for the Aussies and 'Billi' for the desis. As I've been explaining here, the pronounciation is 'Bill-Lee' without a pause. The cat's bilingual you see. :)

Potty Survey: Bowelled over

2009-04-09T05:02:00.009+05:30

It is better to have a man who farts and laughs than have a man who farts and blames it on you.

–Kungfucius

Those who have been on this blog for long will remember that in January 2008, we all participated in something called The Potty Survey.

Based on the answers given in the survey and answers received by way of random shit-talking, here are some potty myths and truths.

Everyone has experienced the feeling of really wanting to shit but not finding an appropriate place. Unfortunates have experienced it more than once.
Depending on geographical locations – and cultural sensibilities – everyone has had at least one experience of no toilet paper, or no water or no mug for the water.
Everyone has felt the pressure in impossible-to-leave situations like church weddings, presentation before the CEO or funerals.
Everyone, at some point, has looked at their shit to see if it was "all right".
Most people are really happy talking about shit, literally.
Mostly it is women who go, “Eww, I don’t talk about potty.” Such women are lying because everyone talks shit some of the time.
Any man who goes “eww” about shit is to be completely avoided. Research has proven that it is not a natural man.
Most women have had to go to a men’s toilet at some point in their life.
Most people have realised that it is really not easy shitting under an open sky. How did the ancestors do it?
All men think their poo does not smell. Most women deny it.
A man’s urgency to shit increases with the frequency of morning farts. The louder it is, the prouder they are.
Increasing number of women also think it is cool to fart. It’s part of a new movement called fart feminism.
Most men take 20 minutes or more for their morning shit.
Most women finish the job and are gone in 60 seconds (or 5 minutes).
Most men will go once in the morning and be done with it.
Most women have more than one potty trip. Maybe it has something to do with Point 14.
Women talk about shit as much as men do; only women call it “bowel movements”.
Most people have wondered why a baby’s shit smells as bad as it does...
Constipation causes more trouble than heartbreak.
Most smokers will always save a cigarette for next morning’s poo.
Most smokers have dropped a cigarette/ lighter/ matchbox in a shitpot at least once.
Perfectly working toilet flushes will mysteriously stop working at a party.
Someone will always leave a decorated dump in the above situation.
It is easier solving a murder than finding out above mentioned dumpster.
Majority have had the uncomfortable experience of shitting in their pants; almost everyone thought it was a fart when it was much more sinister…
All parents have at least one embarrassing potty story about you. They always choose the most populated family gatherings to narrate such stories.
Most people who say other people are full of shit are in denial about themselves.

Week 6: Uni

2009-04-08T02:56:00.015+05:30

Nothing, nothing beats the relief you get after a good morning poo.

Have you noticed that you can have a really awful day if you have not had a good shit in the morning?

Feeling light today, will see you after class.

PS: For those who asked, I'm doing a Masters in Creative Media.
Apparently it is one of the best courses of its kind here. Allegedly, it does not get you jobs.

Gotta get ready for uni, later gator! Cartoon = See Mike Draw

How to look like a man

2009-04-07T08:20:00.011+05:30

(click on the above picture to see greater detail. Ahem.)
So much for metrosexuality and shaved chests. It's official now; with the worsening global economic crisis, research says that women prefer the "more muscular, primal, hairy male" to the ones who go about getting their eyebrows tweezed.

I had always known it. My first recollection of having a crush on any man goes back to Amitabh Bachchan riding a motorcycle and singing Rote huye in Muqaddar ka Sikandar. I clearly remember him wearing a white shirt, button undone and looking bloody delicious. <--- This picture is from Deewar, and you can still see some of his fuzz. Now of course grandpa B wears covered tees since I suspect his chest hair must be turning grey.

My second Bollywood crush used to be Salman Khan. Rather the Salman in his Maine Pyaar Kiya days... I was 12/13 and he was the 'boy' who dared to fight for the girl he loved AND had chest hair. My adulation quickly changed as Salman turned into Bollywood's biggest prick who now looks like a sausage walking around in tight jeans. (Hmm, in retrospect, this ---> poster is quite servile, isn't it? But then Rajshri productions has never been known for strong female characters. They always whimper.)

As for Hollywood, my first, fierce crush was Pierce Brosnan as Remington Steele. Oh, how I loved him. I was insanely jealous when I first saw the episode where he kisses Stephanie Zimbalist's character. So heartbrken... Pierce was so handsome AND had a hairy chest.

Since Steele, I have really liked Mel Gibson and George Clooney. Both men have chest hair. Hmm. All my screen men have also had good voices and strong chins. Now of course I am simply crazy about Hugh 'Wolverine' Jackman. If my chances of meeting Jackman -- as Wolverine -- were not nearly-nil, Partner would have great cause to worry.

Boys/men need to understand that not all hair on men is unattractive. For instance, both Anil Kapoor and Akshay Kumar had body hair as well. Just a little too much of it.

The rule for Male Body Hair is simple: If you have a monobrow that hides your eyes, please do get them re-shaped. If your chest hair looks like a carpet, please feel free to shave. If your body hair covers every inch of you -- including your neck and ears -- it is wise to get a wax or something. You don't want your girl reaching for a toothpick each time she kisses you.

Other than that, men who shave/wax their body hair -- unless you are a porn star -- LET IT BE. Some fuzz on a man looks good. For instance, I simply cannot understand how grown women can swoon over the likes of Toby Maguire and Zake Ephron. Despite the ripped bodies and all, both look like they'd cry if slapped.

While Daniel Craig is also being touted as a macho man, I find him quite putting-off. Firstly, it's that pout. It makes him look like he really needs to shit and is holding it back. Secondly, it's his much written about body. To me it looks quite rubbery; like if you ran and hugged him, you'd bounce right back.

The idea being a man does not have to be hairy; but neither does he have to look like the human version of a poodle. If you have some naturally, show it off.

That said, I shall go perv at Jackman some more.

PS: Partner caught me staring at Jackman's pictures. He asked me what I was doing. I solemnly said I was researching how chest hair makes men look hot. For a minute everything was all right. Then Partner looked at me and said, "But I don't have chest hair." (grin) He does and just the right amount. Let's just say I proved it to him that I find him really hot. Sigh. Can't wait for return-from-office-time.