Retail therapy

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.

Oook.

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.

AAAAARGH.

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. :(

Ask, you idiot.

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?

Muggle-smuggling confuses jailers?

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?

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.

Dear Mr Rushdie, I love you.

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."

Shantaram?

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.

The Reader

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

A beautiful day

Today's a beautiful Sunday. The sun is bright and warm, there's no crazy wind, the birds are happily twittering in the branches and there's a single, white butterfly fluttering around in my backyard 'garden'.

Partner is out for a round of nine holes. Since we cycled almost 50 km yesterday -- went down to Collingwood Farms and Yarra Bend boat club -- my legs refused anymore exercise today. So while he is out playing golf, I am sitting and transferring my notes to the computer.

While I would have loved to go to the last day of the 2009 Formula 1 Australian Grand Prix; the cheapest tickets are $ 100 AUD. Given that I don't follow F1 and will not be allowed to sit in or even touch the cars -- should be allowed if the tickets are that expensive, no? -- I am going to sit in my backyard and keep my money.

The day ahead includes some much needed body servicing by way of olive oil on the head and body, maybe some face pack and some under-sheet snoozing in the sun. Since Partner has announced 'arranging' lunch, I am not cooking. I would really like a back massage and maybe I can bribe him into giving me one.

That apart, I'm reading Robin Cook's Sphinx; not really into Cook or medical thrillers, but found the book languishing on my book shelf. Since now my bookshelf is our bookshelf; it's a happy discovery when I find something amongst Partner's books that I have not read. That's not to say that I've read everything, but simply that I discover something amongst his book that I want to read.

My books are primarily fiction -- crime, fantasy, science fiction, period romance, Booker winners etc -- while most of Partner's are either military history, 'futures' trading or on grain. Unless a biography or history is written like a story, I really cannot be bothered reading those. As for trading and markets, I've said before that numbers make me dyslexic. Last month, while I ordered the DVDs for British comedy Green Wing from Amazon, Partner ordered Merchants of Grain and Rats in the Grain (rolls eyes). Shrug. Guess opposites attract. However, now I think I need a bigger book shelf in the toilet, because that's where I have made a 'library' for Partner. (wink)

Anyway, I shall get back to typing out the plot etc before the Net hooks me again. I do love a nice, chilled out Sunday. Have a good one y'all.

Addiction

"Solitude could become an addiction; a canker of the soul, ever hungered for as much as it was loathed..."

(Elspeth Gordie, pg 93, in Ashling, Obernewtyn Chronicles, Book 3 by Isobelle Carmody)

PS: "...And, in spite of all the years of longing for friends, now that I had them, part of me yearned to be myself again." (Same as above)

Back to school

So today uni opened for the first semester for this year. Melbourne was quite bleak today...a winter day in the middle of summer. Since this is also enrollment time for the first years, there was a whole bunch of new 'kids' as well. If you can call 33-65 year olds as new kids. Shrug.

Seems like 'Edward Cullen' from the Twilight series is quite the heart-throb; everyone from 25-year-old bouncing young things to young moms gushed about him. Book stores here have everything from Twilight posters, Edward Cullen posters and tee shirts and even key chains with the Cullen family crest. Apparently, a radio show also interviewed a dude who BELIEVES he is a vampire. Given the fact that Meyer justifies the existence of vampires without drinking blood; something tells me this isn't the last we're hearing of 'humans' believing themselves vampires.

As for Edward Cullen, if you overlook the fact that he is a vampire, he is being called the 'perfect man'.

That Stephenie Meyer is a horrid writer was unanimously agreed upon. That every hot-blooded chick digs vampire Cullen was also unanimously agreed upon. However, since Edward did not exist before Meyer created him, is she really such a bad writer? Everyone after all IS gushing about her fictional character. The writing in the book is nothing spectacular, neither is the story-telling. However, she has created a fool-proof character for women/girls. A man who will not look at any other woman no matter how beautiful, who thinks of you ALL the time, who wants to spend every waking/sleeping moment with you, who thinks of you as his best friend, who makes crazy love to you and who's drop dead (pun unintended) good looking is Prince Charming in a new avatar. Of course given that only your blood 'calls' to him, he doesn't need sleep, does not need to work or earn money and does not have any guy friends (or other friends) to demand/share his time with you, doesn;t matter. Those are practical things and perhaps I am a cynic.

You might scoff at Meyer's writing, yet you're in 'love' with her creation. Funny. Hating or disparaging Stephenie Meyer's writing is perhaps cool, like it's cool to say that people hate Harry Potter. Or love Slumdog Millionaire, or hate it. Ah yes, the Slumdog questionnaire still exists. Now interestingly -- just to prolong the fun -- I also bring in comparisons with Danny Boyle's Trainspotting and City of God. For the sake of debate, how many out there -- who are reading and care to participate/share their point of view -- think there are ANY similarities between Trainspotting and Slumdog?

On a different note though: Is anyone SCARED by what's happening in Pakistan and the repercusions in/for India? First the Mumbai attacks. Then the Taliban takes over Swat and now cricketers are shot at. New Delhi is a two-hour flight or less from Pakistan. What happens if Taliban takes over Pakistan??? What if they bomb Delhi? So perhaps Pakistan -- or its non-fanatical leaders -- might not have nuked India... but is everyone so sure that the Taliban will not think nuclear?

I am very scared. Are you?

The Wait...

It's surprising that Linda Goodman and every other 'astrologer' worth their salt seem to insist that Taurean women have a LOT of patience. I say they are absolutely bloody wrong. According to Goodman and gang, I should be Venus' own child. Venus, by the way, is the ruling planet for Taurus. Again, according to numerology, 6 is supposed to be Venus' favourite number. That should make me doubly influenced by Venus... May 6th being my DOB.

However, patience is singularly lacking if you were to list my characteristics. Apparently, Taurean women are also supposed to have a 'serene' disposition. Snort. Currently the lack of both these laudable traits are NOT helping. I am going to sue Goodman and gang for dissemination of wrong information. I HATE waiting. Yet I have to...

For May 26th, for the release of Infinity Gate (DarkGlass Mountain Book 3) by Sara Douglass.
For July 17th, for the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, movie number six.
For September (or worse, March 2010) for the release of The Sending (The Obernewtyn Chronicles, Book 6) by Isobelle Carmody
For Lord-knows-when for the release of the yet-unnamed book four in The Inheritance series by Christopher Paolini...

And between horcruxes, the Sentinel project, Sapphira the dragon and pyramid-turned-man-
The-One, I am going nuts. Between Crookshanks and Maruman, I REALLY want a cat too.

Ugh. Might start on Bryce Courtenay's Australian trilogy. I have Solomon's Song, need to buy Potato Factory and Tommo&Hawk... Siiiiiigh. At least that story is over. Recently read his Sylvia and completely loved it. Do read it...
Irritated.

"And your mother too"

<--- How to ensure a good weekend when Partner is away... 1. Try new SFF (science-fiction-fantasy) author... However, it's grandly irritating that these days authors don't finish a story in a trilogy. Isobelle Carmody's Obernewtyn series runs into seven bloody books. (And am now starting on those...) 7 X 25.5= do the math.

Given that Sara Douglass' third book in the Darkglass Mountain series -- The Infinity Gate -- is supposed to hit book-shelves on/around May 26th this year; it's a long wait. I cannot even curse Sara to hurry up because the dear storyteller is underoing chemotherapy. I love her writing. If at all I have spent money reading Terry Brooks, Fiona McIntosh, Stefan Brijs, Stephen Donaldson (groan) and Stephenie Meyer (bigger groan), it's because I am waiting for Infinity Gate... Oh Ms. Douglass, do get well soon. Someday perhaps, I shall either interview you or sit and discuss plot-lines. (Weekend also involves day-dreaming)

2. See the movies I've really been meaning to see: That would NOT include full-of-full-frontals French movie Romance or that loser-werewolf crap called Skinwalkers. I mean, what self-respecting werewolf remains wearing jeans and a leather jacket when s/he phases? 'Phasing' is when a human shifts shape into werewolf and back. More insulting, was when three of the bad-werewolves -- those who still kill human beings -- are busy feeding; the female werewolf and leader werewolf are busy screwing. WTF?! Aren't they hungry or what?! If it was that bloody easy to control werewolves, Remus Lupin would never have died. And DON'T ask me WHO Remus Lupin is. Scoff.

Thank-you to all those who recommended City of God. I LOVED the movie, loved it, loved it, loved it. And highly recommend it to the miniscule who haven't seen it yet. Isko kehte hain piktar! And again, Rio and Mumbai...the similarities shook me. But that some other time...

As for Romance, it was scandal for nothing. The scandal was because the movie had real sex scenes; as in the characters actually do it instead of just simulating sex sequences. Apparently the movie was banned in Australia because the film board here could not find the right rating. Seriously, it should be banned, it's SO badly made. As one reviewer on Rotten Tomatoes says, "Porn was never so sleepy." If it was a blog though, it would run away with traffic. One scene stood out -- only one -- when the girl screws this street-bum and as he is finishing he screams, "Whore! Slut! I did you good!" and she starts howling and screams back, "I am not ashamed." That was the whole point of the movie and in my humble opinion, only that scene managed it.

3. Drink lots of wine, coffee and cola. Have donuts and Lindt's Lindor dark chocolate truffles for accompaniment.
4. Sleep.
5. Blog.
6. Clean house.
7. Maybe cook something...
8. Maybe put it up on my food blog.
9. Try not to mope.
10. Count hours till Partner comes back...

PS: Partner has gone for a buck's weekend...that would be a bachelor-party-weekend. There will be nearly-30 men drinking, playing golf, swimming, drinking, cracking dirty farts and dirty jokes, playing some more golf, drinking... you get the picture? Why don't girls do anything like this? The girl's version is called a hens' party. But isn't 'doe' the female to buck?? Why hen?!! And hell...if I ever get married here... who will come for my hens? I have no hens. :(
I miss my friends.

18 again with more wrinkles

2050
nursing home full of senior citizens
with eyebrow piercings
- from 'Moving Melbourne through art', read on the walls of a Connex train.

I ate so much mango last night that my stomach still hurts. These days, I can best be described as well-fed. If I am not eating, I am reading and sometimes, doing them together. In the last four months, I've gone through four authors and 36 books. Primarily science-fiction-fantasy and yet not the books/authors that would put me in the voracious-reader-list. I have been reading, eating, gardening, cooking and housekeeping too much to write.

Happy new year to all. "Another year gone by." That sentence can be both jubilant and weary. The last year was a bizarre trip for me. At times uncomfortable, at others exhilarating. A whole lot of new things, sorely missing some old ones.

Another year gone by. I turn 30 in May. It's like turning 18 all over again, more wrinkles though. I would be of legal age to officially have skin-firming facials. Or to have missed the bus with respect to what-have-you-done-with-your life. It's also when it bothers me to not have a precise answer to the question.

A new year, the same old me. Or is it? There are changes. For the better and for the worse. I wear bright red nailpolish. I don't mind if my thighs jiggle a bit. I sincerely bless the girls who help wit bra-fittings. I am also far more conscious of my belly. I am (getting) addicted to chocolates. I am truly enjoying cuddling and think I am getting better at... (grin) I am gardening earnestly.

In Delhi, it was buying saplings from nurseries and watching them grow. Now I am also growing from seeds. It's extremely satisfying. Most plants are new to me here and some are really pretty. Like this tiny-leafed succulent variety called stonecrop. Yet I was very happy to discover a 'money plant' (pothos, devil's ivy) in a Bunnings garden section.

While the new is exciting, the familiar is missed. After joking about haldi (turmeric) in all Indian food - from pizza to chowmein - now I am missing the lack of it. Like I realised this Christmas that I wish I had done some things differently. This was my first 'family' Christmas. I wish in the last 10 years living alone in Delhi, I had made more of an effort to spend Diwali or Durga pujo with my parents. In my attempts at proving that I was self-sufficient (didn't need anyone?), I simply isolated myself. Hmm. So we shall fix things.

While I am in Melbourne, if I have to recreate the things I took for granted, I shall. While I wait for Holi, I will learn how to make laddoos and find out about rangoli colours. Along with the other books read, I am also getting into cook books. Mallu (fish) curry with appams, Moroccan lamb with chapatis, moussaka with garlic bread and rice vermicelli with crispy-fried pork in sweet and sour curry have been on menu recently. I am loving it!

Books I have read in the last 60 days:

Sara Douglass (12 books including the Axis and Wayfarer Redemption trilogies, Troy Game four-book series and two of Darkglass Mountain);
Stephen Donaldson (7, Thomas Covenant Ist Trilogy, Thomas Covenant IInd Trilogy and Runes of Time);
Terry Brooks (16, Sword Of Shannara trilogy, Heritage of Shannara four-book series, Word and the Void trilogy, High Druid of Shanna and Genesis of Shanna trilogies) and A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.

Looking forward to a year of regular posts!
PS: All pics are from my home, quality sucks a bit, it's from the phone.

Is sex against the Indian culture?

“There are no coincidences in life, everything is planned,” wrote James Redfield in The Celestine Prophecy. There has much debate about that logic what with Christian theologists claiming that God has indeed planned everything and even though we might think an event/occurrence is a coincidence, it was supposed to happen. Hinduism too believes in Destiny being preordained and while we might make our choices, our path in life has already been decided. As far as I am concerned, both decided Destiny and coincidence could well be true.

Like going underground (hiding on the fourth floor that is) for three months and the night I decide to go out, I crash a guy’s party with common friends – without any intention of meeting any prospective love interest – and the host turns out to be by Partner now. And two years after I wrote it, he is word for word the man I had wished for in a post called, Here’s my Soulmate.

Like from going on a decided path to becoming a doctor, my father gets posted to Delhi, we have a neighbour who’s daughter was studying journalism and lo! I enroll into a journalism course. Or as I wrote earlier, on our first class assignment, a professor declaring “You are the next Shobhaa De” (we will never ask my Dad for his opinions on that, ok?) and then being a panelist with her on a TV show nine years later… What was destiny and what is coincidence?

Like is it coincidence that the next chapter on Mishraji’s Musings was written right after I participated in ‘We the People’ in January 2008… and now that I am going to republish it, last night NDTV re-ran the programme? Destiny, coincidence, convenience?

If you have had experiences that seemed like coincidence and turned out to be of major importance, write in and share… let’s get spooked!

Mishraji’s Musings Chapter 6
Sex is against the Indian culture

It was a perfect January morning till the madly chiming doorbell woke one up. After no interaction with one's elderly neighbour Mishraji for a fair bit, there he was, standing at my door, in his pyjama-kurta and looking very angry. One opened the door and waited.

For a minute Mishraji just stood glaring, then pointing a finger at one's nose said, "You lied. You are NOT a journalist, I know WHAT you are." Having just woken up - that too rudely - one mumbled something about showing him the appointment letter and immediately wished one had kept shut.

"I don't care what your appointment letter says madam. How is that you work for a TV company and I have never seen you on TV?" Mishraji demanded. One pointed out that one worked for the Internet company owned by the TV channel and not...

"STOP lying madam!" Mishraji growled, clearly in no mood for even logical interruptions. "I know exactly WHAT you write on the Internet." That statement removed all vestiges of sleep and one was wide-awake. All the previous posts about the Mishra family flashed before one's eyes. One knew that Mishraji did not read blogs, but it was apparent that someone had told him. Even as one thought of a suitable response to explain why one had been writing about the Mishra Family Drama, Mishraji spoke.

"You cannot masquerade as a journalist anymore madam. YOU are a... are a... SEX writer!" One was stunned. Mishraji continued, "You cannot deny it. Someone I know saw you on that TV show with Barkha Dutt." And then it hit home: Mishraji had found out about an episode of a talk-show where yours truly was one of the eight panelists on a discussion on blogging. One had not realized that some Mishra family acquaintaince could also be watching the show. They had and one wanted to kick one's own backside for not thinking about the ramifications of participating on the show earlier.

One tried to explain that one wrote on women's issues, child sexual abuse, relationships and... Mishraji would have none of it. "This is a respectable colony in respectable India, madam. We don't talk about such things here. I have grown up kids and they will get wrong ideas when they read you. My very dutiful wife will get new ideas when she reads you. Sex is against the Indian culture," he declared. One wondered aloud on how new ideas were against Indian culture... Mishraji exploded.

"I always knew you were the danger-to-society type. Living alone with two dogs, too outspoken, wearing only jeans, no shame... You are the type of scarlet woman who misleads the youth of this country. You are a shame on India, on this colony..." Mishraji nearly frothed at the mouth.

At that precise moment - even as one reeled under the attack - Pinkiji (Mishraji's 19-year-old daughter for those who don't know) came running out of the house. She was wearing her pink nightie, had morning hair and her face was chalk-white.

"Papaji, papaji, please come quick. Tinku bhaiya has... he has..." and Pinkiji burst out crying. Even as an alarmed Mishraji turned towards his house, Mrs Mishraji came running out too.

"Aap gussa mat kariye, please don't get angry, everything will be all right, keep your cool," she said trembling. She held a sheet of paper in her hand. Mishraji stopped dead in his tracks and took the note from her and read it aloud. It was from his 22-year-old son Tinkuji.

"Dear Papaji,
I know you will never forgive me. But I really love her and I don't care about approval, though I would like to have yours and Mummyji's. The new generation does not think like you do. We don't care about religion, at least not when it comes to love. I love her and will marry her. I am leaving house. I am marrying Catrina. Married couples with age difference and religion difference is nothing new. It's happening all over. You can check the Internet."

Tinkuji had run away with Catrina Kohli who was a Sikh and 10 years older to him.

Everyone stood silently; yours truly shivered in the cold January breeze. Mishraji crushed the note into a ball, his shoulders shook, one didn't know with shock or... He turned and as he looked at one, his face was full of hate and his eyes mere pinpoints.

"YOU! It's Internet people like you who are teaching these things to our children, showing them ways different from the way things have been. If my son does not return, YOU will have to answer," and Mishraji threw the balled note on one's face, spat on the ground and stalked off.
To be continued...

How to be a good girl

Did I tell you that I am addicted to The Sopranos? Earlier in the year when Partner returned from his Christmas-trip-back-home, he got Season 6 and recently when we went to KL-Melbourne, we got Seasons 1-5 and boy, do I LOVE that series. More than the gun-toting, boob-bearing, swearing and the pizzazz with which the series proceed, I love the way the story is developing and how the writers get the better of me in most episodes. I wrote sometime back how if I am reading a good book I tend to start competing with the author, trying to outguess him/her and trying to think of how the story would proceed. I guess some of it comes from watching Bollywood movies (by the way, the Hindi film industry is NOT known by that name officially but has unfortunately been called so ever since some movie mags called it that, sad; if at all there is an official name, it’s Mayanagri, the city of dreams) Our movies do have a certain predictability to them – and am being rather polite here – where usually you know what’s going to happen. I can also blame my outguessing-the-author syndrome to the trashy television serials we have, prime examples of how to blow money creating nothing original. We shall do TV bashing another time.


In one Sopranos episode, main protagonist Toni Sorpano’s 19-year-old daughter Meadow has a party at her recently-deceased grandmother’s house. Like MOST teenagers-having-party-without-parental-knowledge sequences, the party gets out of hand with drugs doing the round and people generally spewing and pissing all over the house. The parents want to punish Meadow and a heated argument follows. This is also a time when Mrs Soprano, Carmella and Meadow are going through a very bad phase as mother-daughter don’t see eye-to-eye and argue a lot. Meadow blames her mother for interfering with her life and being over-bearing.

Given the child protection laws in the US – unlike India where parents can freely thwack their kids, you can’t do that in the US – the parents are worried about taking the right disciplinary action against Meadow. If they are too strict the girl could perhaps complain of child abuse and if they are too lenient, the girl gets too cocky knowing that her parents are helpless in punishing her. After finally deciding to cut her pocket money – and disgusted that the girl is not taking responsibility for her actions – Toni Soprano hires a cleaner to tidy-up the mess that his daughter’s party created. Upon reaching the house Toni notices someone inside the house and when he peeps in, he is shocked to find his 19-year-old, rebellious, argumentative, irresponsible daughter, sitting on the floor, scrubbing the vomit and piss. The episode ends with Toni Soprano looking thoroughly confused.


There have been some interesting responses to Mishraji checking his 22-year-old son Tinku’s wallet and subsequently finding a condom in it. Most of you have written that children should be trusted enough to understand the right from the wrong. Perhaps sometimes trust coupled with ‘proper parenting’ is enough to keep children/ adolescents from doing stupid things (like drugs or perhaps random sex, different from responsible sex, but more on that some other time). Perhaps good parenting alone is not enough. At the end of the day, a child or teenager is also a PERSON who thinks and for better or worse, will usually take his/her own decisions. You can give a child as much freedom and s/he might not ‘misuse’ it or it could backfire and s/he might take you for a ride. Conversely, you can perhaps be as strict as you want and yet your child will do exactly as s/he pleases. However, what we do need to remember, understand and hope for is that maybe, just maybe what parents teach a child will be enough to take them through life and show them the right way… NOT the way that is deemed right, but the way the child feels is right for him/her, by him/her.


Thank you to all those who’re aware of the earlier parts of the Mishra series, I request a little more of your patience as we are almost to the end of the already-published parts of the story and new ones are ready. This happened during Christmas 2007…


Mishraji’s Musings Chapter 4
Meri Christmas ya teri…

The atmosphere in the Kohli household - Canada-returned and celebrating Christmas - was quite jubilant and spirited. Since Mrs Kohli refused to buy a plastic Christmas tree "to save mother earth", the Kohli's had decorated their rather healthy Money Plant (Devil's ivy, pothos) as a 'Christmas tree'.


On the ground floor, at the Mishra's, things had been very silent since the day the condom had been discovered. Overnight Pinkiji had become a 'good girl'. Though she always wore her tortured-with-love look, she was now very clean and had given up her jeans to wear only Indian outfits. Somehow her father's silence seemed to have affected Pinkiji more strongly than his admonishing.


No such empathy was evident on Tinkuji's part: His wallet had been confiscated and he had taken to singing Michael Jackson's "They don't really care about us" under his breath. Mishraji sulked on his verandah over numerous cups of tea. Mrs Mishraji lovingly provided those cups, stealing worried glances at her husband.


Everything was silent. The silence had reached palpable decibels when shouts of "Merry Christmas!" came from the Kohli household. Mishraji was sitting out on the cold verandah that was unlit except for the twinkling glow from the Kohli's fairy lights. He had his monkey cap on, muffler around his neck, his pyjamas stuffed into his socks and his shawl tightly wrapped around him and was sipping a steaming cup of brandy, one of the rear occasions he picked up alcohol.

Even as holiday cheers echoed around, the Mishra doorbell cried out shrilly. Mishraji was startled and shouted "Who are you?" with such volume that even the Kohli household grew silent to listen-in. Everyone was quiet.

"Who are you?" bellowed Mishraji.
"I am Sam," came the response. Everyone's collective gasp was loud enough to be heard in the next colony.
There was a "Pinki you stay here," in Mrs Mishraji's hushed tones. Mishraji opened the gate. Outlined against the darkness was a slim man in jeans and a white shirt. Each time the twinkling lights danced on his face, one could see he was very handsome.

"Why are you here?" Mishraji asked without preamble.
"To wish you a Merry Christmas and..."
"We don't celebrate Christmas," replied Mishraji.
"...and I come in peace," ended Sam.
"And you will leave in pieces if you don't go immediately," answered Mishraji.


"Your daughter is the most beautiful woman on this planet," declared an undaunted Sam, hand upon his heart, he had come rehearsed.
"No she's not and I have been looking at her since her birth," replied Mishraji, "You are 22, every girl will look beautiful; she is 19, she will believe anyone who finds her beautiful. You don't even have a job," said Mishraji."
I work at a call center," came the prompt response.
"THAT is not a job. What if the call center shuts down tomorrow? How will you support my daughter?" Mishraji's case was final.

"Support your daughter? But why? I love her..." Sam was a bit confused.
"What do you mean "I love her"? You love her to take her to movies and sit behind you on your motorbike? What do you mean WHY support? Support because you will marry her... Will you marry her?" glowered Mishraji.
"Marriage? Now? I love her! But marriage... I came to wish Merry Christmas..." Sam faltered and the hand on his heart shook.


"We don't celebrate Christmas," replied Mishraji with finality. One could sense Mishraji's triumph, feel the boy's confusion (does love have to mean marriage?) and even hear Pinkiji's breaking heart at that admission (if he loves me, why can't he marry me?) when a whiff of something absolutely exotic invaded everyone's nostrils.


It was a bad imitation (bought in Gaffar Market, Karol Bagh) of Chanel No. 5 but was exotic nonetheless and it was coming off the very curvaceous body draped on the Kohli staircase banister. It was not a cat, it was Catrina Kohli: Colonel Kohli's very single I-am-US-citizen, 33-year-old, strange-English speaking sister who wore only salwar-kameez. But she wore such fitted salwar-kameez that it could put a "mini skirt's imagination to shame" according to Mrs Mishraji. Catrina looked like Lara Croft in Indian outfits and currently Lara Croft was holding an A-4 sized sheet in her hand.


"Ji axecuse me," purred Catrina, her kurta threatening to rip at the seams as she looked at the men. Mishraji nearly dropped his chai-cup and Sam who had been standing open-mouthed, started spluttering. Catrina cooed, "There is a Residents' Welfare Association circular that I forgot to give you Mishra sahab... for the annual colony Xmas party you have been chosen to play Santa Claus... My brother, Colonel Kohli will provide comic relief by playing your long lost twin brother, Banta Claus... After all Mishra sahab, let's spraad the true meaning, there is no meri-Christmas or teri-Christmas..." (meri = mine, teri = yours)


Sam whirled to look at Mishraji and pointing a finger at him said, "If you are going to be Santa Claus, you DO celebrate Christmas, why the bloody hell did you lie to me then?”


At that precise moment, Pinkiji who had been quite irritated with Sam for staring at Catrina walked up to him and slapped him. "How dare you use bad words in front of my father and call him a liar? We don't celebrate Christmas. Xmas party is just minority appeasement," and with that Pinkiji summarily dumped Sam.
(to be continued)

Condom conundrum

I had always thought it was Papa's 'over-protectiveness' that made him dislike the idea of me talking or befriending any boy. I say 'boy' because the first memories of Papa reacting adversely to any male company around me goes back 20 years...

I was 9-years-old and the said boy was 12. We were stationed at Jabalpur (Madhya Pradesh). This boy was a visiting relative of one of our neighbours. He was about two inches taller than me, had nearly blonde hair (called it 'English' hair back then) and very, very red lips. So he would play with us and we became playground friends. Till the day he pecked me on the cheek for some reason and there was "scandal" amongst the kids. I promptly reported the transgression to the Aunty whose house he was staying in; who in turn 'apologised' to my mother. That should have been that, only that Papa decided to have a mini-talk with me (over the years the length of those chats grew, much to my alarm).

The only thing Papa said was, "You stay away from that boy, he is not a good boy. All these Punjabi boys." After that I stayed away from 'Punjabi' boys for a long time. Till Papa found that one of my closest friends was a Tamil boy. Then he said, "All these Tamil boys..." and then it was "All these Jat boys..." and 'Nepalis', 'Sardars' and 'Christians' and so on and so forth. Towards the fag end of adolescence I realised that Papa perhaps just did not like boys. Or boys who were my friends. It was confirmed when I heard him telling Ma, "Ei je mein, ekta jhola-pora Marxist dhore aan be... nahole tattoo-kora Panjabi ke" (This girl will either get us a jhola-clad Marxist or a tattooed Punjabi boy) When I was getting close-to-marriageable, Ma said, very concerned, "Whatever you do, don't bring us a Christian, Muslim or Sikh." I pointed out that given Papa's restrictions and now hers added to it, there wouldn't be any/ many men left to marry. I had suggested a Nigerian and a horrified mother had said, "Bachcha gulo koto kaalo hobe". (The kids will be so dark). Funny because I am bloody dark-skinned too. Back then, it was a joke.

Mishraji's Musings, Chapter 3
Have you enjoyed sex yet?
My father also had a gun (two actually, licensed) and would often say that if I got him a "bugger" he didn't like, he would use it freely. Papa never used that gun (or perhaps I was smarter). Now Mishraji does not have a gun and uses rolled newspapers for causing physical harm. However, going by the expression he has been wearing lately - it's called murderous - one has no doubts about the senior gentleman's intentions.

Pinkiji's boundaries seem to have been relaxed since the last time one wrote (for reasons why, read 'But I love Sam, Papaji!). She is now allowed to come out onto the verandah. However one suspects Pinkiji has been asked to stay away from yours truly. Each time one ventures out and if Pinkiji is there as well, Mrs Mishraji can be heard yelling, "Pinkeee, andar aao." (come inside)
Despite feeling bad that the poor girl can't even get some sun in peace, one is mighty relieved that Pinkiji has given up blasting love songs on her tape recorder. Pinkiji's musical rebellion stopped when Mishraji killed the recorder, brandishing another rolled newspaper declaring, "Why fear when your love's here, eh? Let that "love" surface anywhere near my house and I will break his legs... like this," and with that the recorder had come flying out of the window. Since then Pinkiji has found a new form of protest, albeit a silent one.

Each the time girl is out, one has seen her wearing the same nightie and going by how her hair looks progressively more disheveled, one suspects Pinkiji has decided not to bathe. One was wondering how long the girl would keep up with her dirty-till-death attack when...
"PINKI! P.I.N.K.I. COME HERE!" It was Mishraji and to say he was bellowing would be putting it mildly. One happened to be hanging out clothes for drying and couldn't help but notice that a shaking-with-anger Mishraji was holding what looked like a neatly folded note in his hand. A cowering Pinkiji came outside. Yours truly shivered too, anything to do with writing and Mishraji usually assumes it's one's doing.

"What is THIS? Was that loafer here? Has he been passing letters to you under my very nose?" Mishraji was holding out the still-folded note. Pinkiji looked instantly hopeful then quailed under her father's withering look.
"No Papaji, it's not mine... may I have a look?" Pinkiji muttered and one marveled at her courage. Her father was not impressed.
"Don't get cheeky with me. I will read this aloud and if it is THAT loafer..." with that Mishraji opened the note. Everyone waited.
"Dear Jaanu," read Mishraji, nearly choking at the 'Jaanu' (my love), "Why are you avoiding I for three days?" he read, "Me have waited. Me love you soooo much and only you. Please cum soon. Did you get earlier notes? Same place. Your rosebud, Salma." Everyone was silent.
Mishraji looked ready to explode. "Salma? Rosebud? Is that a code word?"
"No, no Papaji, this is not mine... must be bhaiyya's," blurted Pinkiji and then immediately slapped her hand to her mouth. Mishraji's eyes narrowed. (bhaiyya = older brother)

"Your older brother's? Wah. I have sired a bunch of lovers... and SALMA? Both my younger children are doing it to me together. One likes a Christian, the other a Muslim. I will not..."
At that precise moment, junior Mishraji -- 22-years-old Tinku -- strolled in wearing Calvin Klain boxers, his usually spiked hair lying flat, milk packets in hand.
"Yo, 'sup? Wus dis all about?" he asked, doing a cross between Akon and 50 Cent (rappers for those who might not know) and stopped his hand-gestures midway, his eyes going from his father's face, to his sister's hand-shutting-mouth and finally to the note in his father's hand.
"Show me your wallet," Mishraji did not waste time, "Where there is one, there will be more notes. Who is Salma?" he demanded of his son, crumpling the note in his hand.
"Salma who?" retorted Tinkuji.
"Rosebud Salma," replied Mishraji through grit teeth.
"Ah. Salma Hayek..." replied Tinkuji, suspiciously eyeing the note in Mishraji's hand.

"Salma Hayek? Is she from this colony?" demanded Mishraji.
"She is from Hollywood..." said Tinkuji, trying to be brave, "Arre Daddyji, it's a..."
"Shutup. Show me your wallet. I want to see who else is hiding in there. First Sam, now Salma," declared his father. Tinkuji made no moves to give his wallet.
"Daddyji, my wallet is my personal property and..."
"SHUTUP! As long as you stay in this house, your personal property is my personal property since I paid for it. GIVE IT TO ME." Mishraji was in no mood for repartees. Tinkuji's quota of spunk had also run out and he meekly handed his wallet over.

Mishraji shook the wallet hard and things fell out. A calendar with Ganesha's picture, a half-eaten pan masala packet, a parking ticket, some coins and... a single, condom wrapper.
Everyone looked at the fallen objects and then everyone looked at Mishraji.
He was still staring at the ground, at the condom. With excruciating slowness, Mishraji bent and picked up the condom and held it up gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. Mishraji looked as if someone had punched him in the gut.
"What is...? Where did...? You...? Since when...?" The patriarch could not get himself to say whatever he was trying to say.
"Daddyji... I can explain... it was part of class project..." stuttered Tinkuji, taking a step back from his father.
Mishraji let his arms fall by his side, his head hung, "Bas, rehne do. I trusted you," was all he said. Mrs Mishraji stepped in and gently touched her husband's elbow, her voice though was steel.
"Tinku. Answer your father: Have you enjoyed sex yet?"
Mishraji did not wait for the answer and walked back inside.
(to be continued)