Cuz you are a whale, you stupid bat.

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. ;)

Abe, normal

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.

'I'm ready to blow'

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

Why I want to be a pussy

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.

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?!

'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.

Things Mom did NOT tell me...

... 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) ;)

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."

Up yours, sister.

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

Thank-you, you're ugly.

Don't you just hate it when people meet you after ages and say, "Oh, nice, you have put on weight." WTF?!

Next time I shall say, "Thank-you, wow, your nostrils look smaller today."
Or, "Gee, did you get your stomach stapled? It almost looks flat."
Or, "Do share your secrets in bed, if your husband is screwing you despite your face, I wanna know what you do!"

Grr.

PS: Uni today; am off.

Doctor Who?

The closer I get to 30, the more dire are the diagnosis from Google.

At 25, the warnings were about laugh lines and crows feet. Now every bloody website is warning that all my hormones will start disco dancing with disastrous results.

Poor Partner. While he has been seriously considering buying this new device that will help him track my PMS dates -- he has new-found appreciation for 'mood swings' -- he is close to losing all hope. It's funny how "getting hormonal" means totally different things as you age.

Two years back, in my angsty-aunty avatar, had written how much I hate reading medical websites. I still hate them and I still read them. Since I have been gaining weight, losing hair and have a constant neck-shoulder-wrist pain; I have been trawling some more med websites. According to the symptoms listed -- and observed in self -- my thyroid is acting up (or down), my Vitamin E intake is dismal and I might be developing carpal tunnel syndrome.

After much moaning at home, Partner insisted -- it was a threat -- that I visit a doctor. It's been an hour since I've come back and other than giving 35 ml of my blood in three separate test tubes, I am very disappointed.

"Your name is Bose? I've never heard it before" says little Japanese doctor, Dr Low.
"Er, yes. Bose, like the speakers..."
"But you are not a speaker," he responds along with a, ha-ha.
I smile. The speaker-association usually works with people who cannot pronounce a simple four-letter word. The other do-you-understand-ny-name trick being, 'JB, like JB-Hi-Fi'. I don't know why, but every single Australian has laughed really loudly at that. The joke's on them.

The doctor though, is a different (nut) case.
"You are not German either," he continues his observation.
"Correct, I am Indian."
"You are very far from home no?" he says and I bite my tongue not to point out that so is he. And in enemy nation, going by the Aussie-Japanese history.
"So Indian girl with funny name, what is wrong with you?" he asks, looking at me as if I am a newly discovered species or something. I am glad for the change of topic since I've paid him $ 45 consultation fees and not to discuss how 'funny' my name is. As I've written earlier; I've got that my entire f*****g life.

So I tell him I suffered from hyperthyroidism a year and a half back.
"Oh you did? You look nice and fatty now?" he asks/says, grinning.
I ignore the grin (and the 'fatty') and enumerate how I suspect thyroid mischief because I am losing hair. He gets up and starts poking the top of my head, fiddling with my hair. I wait for a diagnosis.
"You have a lot of hair," he announces, still fiddling.
"I would like to keep it doctor..."
"It's nice soft hair too. Strawberry shampoo?" he asks. I am baffled.
"Is the strawberry shampoo causing hair loss doctor?" It better not, bloody expensive shampoo.
"Naw, my wife will like my hair to smell of strawberry I am thinking," he responds.

I quickly enumerate my other problems -- wrist-shoulder-neck pain -- and he quickly starts poking my shoulder and neck, but refuses to touch my wrist.
"Very skinny shoulders for nice, fatty Indian girl," he says, "Any repeat activity you do with hands?" Many in fact, however I choose the most innocuous...
"I am a writer, use the computer a lot."
"Ah the Internet gives me many patients," he announces gleefully.
"Do you think I might have carpal tunnel syndrome?"
"Hrmph. The Internet also makes my patient think they are doctors. Google is evil," he frowns now. I am pleased, enough of 'fatty' and 'ha ha' from him.

"Any family history of diseases?"
I list several life threatening ones -- all true -- and he looks very amused.
"Then you need blood test; for diabetes, cholesterol and thyroid," looking even more pleased now. He approaches with a syringe and three test tubes, plunges the syringe into my right forearm and says, "Red, red blood, let's see how fatty your blood is."

The 'fatty' is really getting to me now. The test tubes filled, he tells me that there is nothing that he can see wrong with me.
"Oh. Are you sure the hair loss is not serious?"
"I don't know," he says and looks at me blankly. It worries me. Since he is not saying anything else and is now simply smiling, I get up, thank him and start walking towards the door. When I am almost out of the door he calls out,
"Little Bose..." I turn around, door open, one foot out.
"You have big, fatty breasts. Check them regularly. Good for breast cancer." I leave.
And I thought medical websites were bad?! WTF.

How to make your man behave

Lesson 1. Do something unpredictable. Especially if he thinks you won't can't do it.

As I shared earlier, we were down in Australia's surf capital, Torquay this weekend. As we strolled down to find a good spot on the beach, Partner suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and exclaimed, "That chick is topless!"

His observation was correct and right where I would have liked to lay down our beach towels, there was this chick lying topless. Needless to say, I was not too happy about it. Equally needless -- but I'm saying it nonetheless -- I glared at Partner.

He quickly tried to recover his composure -- and failed -- and we walked a safe distance away. However, there is nothing called a safe distance away when there is a topless chick around. Especially if said chick suddenly decides she needs to sit up and start lathering sunscreen all over her body.

By now we were in the ocean and I noticed that Partner was behaving like Noddy. His head kept swivelling towards the beach.

"I can see you, you know," I said.

"No, no, I wasn't looking at her. I was just looking at the beach and she happened to be there. She must have changed her spot," Partner replied hastily.

She of course had not changed her spot at all. So I politely turned my head towards the horizon and informed Partner that if he checked her out again, I would take my bikini top off as well. He didn't believe me. In fact he laughed at me.

About five minutes later, Partner's head again swivelled towards Topless Chick. Please let me point out that Partner is not a perv. However, he is a man and I have now realised that there's something in men's genes that makes their heads turn involuntarily towards naked breasts.

"You are looking again," I said. Partner grinned apologetically. I smiled and took my top off. A 70-year-old man looking at us nearly had a heart attack.

And Partner's face... Oh, his expression was pure gold. Shock, disbelief, exasperation and finally uncontrolled laughter.

He didn't look at that chick again. Happy ending. (smug)

PS: For future reference, have told Partner that next time I shall ensure that there are younger blokes around and not just a heptagenarian. Also, Partner's mom approves. (grin)

Toon courtesy: cartoonstock.com

I see porn. Food porn.

What’s the worst that could happen to someone who loves food and has recently started a food blog? PORN. It distracts from cooking. And eating. How do I know this? Because I see porn. Wherever I go. Especially when there is food involved.

It all started when Partner came back from the buck’s weekend I had written about earlier. So he is back and is showing me pictures of what the blokes got up to. And right there on the laptop screen is a picture of the buck (groom), holding a sausage that is peeking out from under his shorts. I mean a real sausage. As in the sausage- sausage. Despite knowing that sausages are used as a euphemism, the picture of a bloke I know pulling out a sausage… I swore off sausages. ]

A day later, I am walking down the aisle in the supermarket; there are these two girls standing next to the fruit stalls and giggling away. One of them was holding two kiwi fruits in her hand and squeezing them and both were laughing like mad. Kiwi fruits as you’d know, are small, brown and have little hair on them… So I struck kiwis off my list of edible things as well.

Then I am researching recipes by celebrities and I come across Paris Hilton sexually molesting a burger. Thankfully, Hilton is too skank to put me off burgers. Then of course I came upon Nigela Lawson’s website. If cows see what Nigela does with/to cream, it will curdle the milk in their udders (cows’ I mean, not Nigella’s). Yet, I will admit, I am quite jealous of her website, it looks good.

If Nigela weren’t enough, now there’s Italian-American Giada De Laurentiis who squishes tomatoes in a way that even gives me hot flushes. And I am bloody straight. What was/is worrying though is that for a couple of wild minutes, I considered putting up a video of me on ‘So What’s Cooking?’ wearing high heels, a top with a plunging neckline and dipping my hands in creamy, rich mayonnaise… Or caressing a Bratwurst, or beating eggs into stiff peaks. I could not even look at chicken corn soup the same way because of its texture…

I thought sleeping over the issue would settle things. So the next morning I’m ironing clothes and watching The Today Show on Nine Network. And there’s hostess-with-widest-grin-on-earth, Lisa Wilkinson trying to be oh-so-cute and recounting what she did on the weekend. Wilkinson says, “…and I wondered where I could hide my sausage?” I nearly burnt my hand. For those who might not know, “to hide the sausage” means er, to hide the ‘sausage’. (Think sausage else see the first pic again!) And here was a hostess on national TV saying it. I refuse to believe that Wilkinson didn’t know what she was saying. A minute later she adds, “Oh I was so sweaty, so wet.” I quickly turned off the TV.

Two days later – after I have resolutely refused to look at sausages or kiwi fruits in the supermarket – Partner and I are watching some silly TV show that had three beefy blokes talking about women. One of the blokes says, “I like them Sheilas* who have a nice, juicy taco for me.” Partner bursts out laughing at which point I ask him to explain what’s so funny about juicy tacos. Partner gives me a she-is-weird look and says, “Taco baby, means vagina. Y’know pu…?” Till that day, I had thought of tacos as Mexican and something to be eaten. Now well, they are just to be eaten. (Gosh JB!)

(Sheila: Aussie term for girls/women/chicks)

In fact I cannot seem to escape tacos and see them everywhere. I am crossing the street and a tram passes by with an advertisement. Two women holding a, well, taco and saying, “I like her taco” or something. I blushed and walked with my head down. We went for a wedding this weekend. Six of us walk into this café for breakfast and right there on a huge blackboard are the words, “There is nothing as good as free tacos.”

Scowl.

Imagea courtesy: Pic 1, Pic 2, Pic 3, Pic 4

Love and the Holi mess

I really don't understand men. This was supposed to be a nostalgic post on Holi, some cooking, Lucifer the cat and a sort-of-expose on Gaudiya Vaishnavites in Melbourne (if you're going huh, we'll get to that later in the post)... TILL Partner called. Now you get two stories in one post.
(Pic = http://www.zazzle.com/great_perfume_insult_t_shirts-235957917253053515)

Story 1: Men are weird

It could have been a usual checking-on-you call, but what makes this call significant was that Partner did it again. Him doing it again also goes to prove that despite age difference, cultural differences and the bloody Indian Ocean separating Australia and India... ALL men are alike. Partner and my father are so similar in so many ways that if I wasn't losing hair, I'd be pulling my hair out. You'll soon read why...

Partner announced a couple of evenings back that we were to go for dinner at this couple's place. (It's so my dad) Of course it is no big deal -- I could live with being 'informed' instead of being 'asked' -- and I was/am only happy to go out for dinner. Except that I am further informed that the "boys have decided" that the dinner is supposed to be a curry-cook-off between the "girls". As in the other bloke's wife and I are supposed to cook curries. Since I love cooking and all, it was/is still okay. So I called the lady this morning (it's 1.07 pm now) and decide on what I will bring to the table. Please note that other than 'informing' me that I am supposedly cooking a curry, Partner has given no inputs on what, hot curry or not (this is Australia), preference for meat, Indian or other curry etc. I let him know nonetheless about what is being cooked -- I've offered to make dessert as well -- and go off to the supermarket to buy the requisite items and am in the process of tying the apron... When Partner calls.

His opening words, "Do you realise how all you women are weird?" Since I am thinking gosht and not Gucci, I go "huh". Then Partner explains how he had been walking around this huge department store when he happened to pass the perfume department. With absolute incredulity he says, "And there were five women, all strangers to each other, all standing in a line SNIFFING at those silly perfume cards and behaving as if it was a cocaine hit. Women are weird," he says.
(Pic= http://www.liewcf.com/blog/archives/2004/06/perfume/

Point to be noted here is that Partner does not usually walk around department stores. He avoids them like the plague and visibly pales every time I even mention a department store. Even if it were to buy him something. Now Partner was at this department store because he 1) needs to buy a wedding present and 2) needs to buy a suit to wear to the wedding. Before you think I am throwing a fit for no reason, please let me tell you that said wedding is day after tomorrow. After repeated reminders about buying a gift, it is again at the last minute. After repeated suggestions about going to a store and buying a suit -- and him throwing tantrums that he doesn't need one -- it too, is at the last minute. And women sniffing perfume cards are weird?

Once I point out the fallacies in his "women are weird" theory, Partner scoffs and asks me what I am up to. So I tell him I am about to cook at which point he does it again. "Cooking? Oh yes, the dinner. Just cook something okay, you don't have to spend the whole day cooking the best of the best," he says. Right. WHAT THE HELL DOES COOK "SOMETHING" MEAN AND THAT TOO WHEN I DID NOT ASK TO COOK? AND SINCE I AM BLOODY HELL COOKING I COULD DO WITH SOME FRIGGIN' APPRECIATION.

(That felt good) (Hmm) (Do you think I'm being unreasonable here?) (Anyway...)

Story 2: Did Krishna do yoga?

So yesterday (Wednesday) was class and we were all sitting outside the Victoria State Library lawns -- a minute's walk from uni -- bitching about the redundancy of a Masters course when all they do (so far) is make us do silly grade-10-exercies when I hear, "Hare Krishna, Hare Rama, Hare Krishna" accompanied by the sounds of the dholak and manjira. I turn around and see a group of people, a couple of Indians and majority white, dressed in saris and dhotis and dancing away to their chants. For the first time in my life, I was very excited to see the Hare Krishna people. The Hare Krishnas are also called Gaudiya Vaishnavites and are followers of the Hindu god, Krishna. It is known to most (in India at least) that Holi is a major Vaishnavite festival and is celebrated with great aplomb by devotees of Krishna.

For those who don't know, yesterday (Mar 11) was Holi, the Indian festival of colours. Being my first Holi away from India -- and spent studying! -- I was very excited to see the Hare Krishna people and was sure they would either have some colours or would at least wish me a heartfelt Happy Holi. When I saw them, I gave an excited yelp -- to the surprise of my Aussie classmates -- and ran over to the chanting group to wish them Happy Holi. As I ran towards them, one of the Hare Krishnas, this white girl in a green cotton saree with sandalwood smeared on her foreheard came running towards me...

"Happy Holi!" I yelled jubilantly with a big grin on my face... Only to have a business card -- Urban Yoga -- thrust into my hand. I stopped mid-sentence, looked at the card and then looked at the girl who - in a very Aussie accent -- had launched into the efficacies of 'mantra meditation and philosophy from ancient Indian scriptures." I mumbled I was not interested -- by now she was holding my hand -- when she pulled out another business card and handing it to me said, "Every Wednesday night, we have vegetarian dinner for $ 5." I could not think of anything else to say so asked her if they were celebrating Holi...

(Pic = Holi 2008, New Delhi, India)

"Holi? What's that?" she said.
"Holi. HOLI! It's the Indian festival of colours," I replied looking at her and the rest of the dhoti-clad, choti-flaunting, yoga-with-cheap-dinner selling frauds group.
"Oh is it now. Sounds good. You should come for the yoga," she added, pulling out a third business card.
"You DON'T know about Holi?" I asked, refusing to take the third card now being waved in my face.
"Naw, we don't celebrate it," she responded, throwing her arms in the air and adding, "Sing with me Hare Rama, Hare Krishna..."
I just turned and walked away. Vaishnavites who don't know about Holi but know how to sell yoga.

That was my reaction yesterday, but I had to find out more. How could they not know? I did some research and found out that the day of Holi is also the birthdate of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, the founder-father of Gaudiya Vaishnavites. He is also seen as a reincarnation of Krishna. Apparently, Holi is a major day with the Vaishnavites. Today, I called the Melbourne Hare Krishna Temple; the phone was answered by a lady with the name of, Sarva-Mangala Devidasi. I asked her if they celebrated Holi, she said they didn't. I asked her if they weren't Vaishnavites. She said they were but that their sampradaya celebrated Holi as 'Gaura Purnima', more as Chaitanya Mahaprabhu's 'appearance day' than as the festival is popularly celebrated. Oh well. So I was wrong and the Gaudiya Vaishnavites don't celebrate Holi as I know it. Duly chastised. However, shouldn't the woman dishing out business cards have explained what they were doing instead of simply selling yoga?

Sigh. My Holi would have been absolutely colourless -- and I was secretly quite despondent -- except for a miracle. It was 7.30 pm, the sun was still up in the sky, there was a light drizzle and I was walking back home from the station. My head was down and my thoughts were in India... on Holi the previous years and imagining how friends back home would be all drunk on bhaang and dirty in all shades of the rainbow. I turned on to our street when I heard a familiar I-know-you mewl. It was Lucifer, the black cat who lives 500 metres from our house and always welcomes me.

So I bent down to pet him and talk to him, when he suddenly looked right into my brown eyes with his green-gold ones and looked up at the sky. I laughed because it looked as if Lucifer was trying to talk to me. I looked up. Right there, on my street, next to two railway lines, above our houses was the brightest, most perfect rainbow I had ever seen. All the colours. It was amazing.

PS: The pictures are small and crap because I forgot to change my phone-camera settings. Sorry, wish I could show you'll, it was really beautiful. My heavenly Holi, up in the skies.

So your boss is a bastard?

The Hindustan Times, published 4 September, 2008

Dislike, that six-lettered word

There are things we all
get peeved about, like
the bad boss and those
'unromantic men'. No
wonder there are
more blogs about them
than on things we like

There are some things in life that cause instant strife between people. Mention god, pornography or George Bush's IQ level at a party and you are guaranteed hours of entertainment. Thankfully though, there also some things that unite human beings.

No matter where you go, some things are common to all people. Like everyone remembers money that is owed to them. Or how anyone, before petting a dog they don't know will ask, "Does it bite?" Or how most people want to stay fit (or lose weight) without exercising. And no matter what the language, there are more blogs on broken relationships than happy ones.

As Paisana writes on Burlap Condoms, "If nothing else, a bad date always equals a great blog post." Paisana is one of the many female bloggers caught in the twilight zone of personal blogging: When singledom made interesting posts and a happy relationship doesn't leave much to blog (or bitch) about. However, she comes up with some gems (and truths) from her former single life. Like her don't-be-too-choosy advice for single women, "the guy you're looking for doesn't read romantic poetry and want to talk about your feelings all the time. I dated that guy. He was gay." Ouch.

After broken relationships, office gossip comes a close second as a common-unifying factor in the blogosphere. Everyone has hated their boss at some in their life and everyone has a funny office story to narrate. If you feel you're the only one working with mad people or not getting paid on time, Overheard in the Office is a good site to check out and feel better.

Some things are the same in offices the world over. Like having trained bullshit artistes for top management. Like this reader contribution about a meeting presided by the company owner trying to allay fears, "We are not a sinking ship! This company is worth $700,000. It's hard to sink a $700,000 ship!" That was before laying off half the company perhaps. Or for that matter the fact that personal assistants are globally stereotyped. If she's old, she has a grumpy husband (or none) and if she's pretty, she's sleeping with the boss.

Then there's Tits (yes, Tits) McGee who publishes Tits List and says she writes lists, cooks and "used to be a slut". She also proves that using 'tits', putting up a picture of breasts and writing f**k in the headline has the same reaction in most people: Curiosity. Amongst other things (read husband and inlaws), Tits gives her take on political news of the day. Oh to have a pair of breasts talking politics.

Blah, blah black sheep...

Top questions on my mind, in no particular order:
1. If I come back my to India, what will I do? Will those I've worked for/with, hire me back? What if there are no vacancies?
2. Will I come back to Delhi, elsewhere... will it mean the same headaches with landlords?
3. Will my friends be happy to see me back... or not care?
4. Do I even want to write a book? And if I do, why should I write fiction first? And why can't the blog be a book if at all it's the blog that is making people say, "You should write a book." Why do we need yet-another author? What's so new that I have to say or that someone else will not say if I banish the book from my Scheme of Things?
5. Will my parents be happy to have me back... or will they think I am a 'problem' never to be resolved? The child who never settles down, who can't get a thing right? They've never called me a 'problem'... so why do I think like that?
6. Will I be able to complete the first assingment and hand it on Wednesday, which is supposed to include at least 15 research books and I haven't even started on one...?! Eeesh.
7. Will gol-gappas sell in Melbourne? How about paapri-chaat? It can be called puffed bread with cumin-flavoured yoghurt (add fat-free!) and salad. Why not?

I hate college. I mean, why can't I be the judge of whether I've learnt anything or not? Why should someone else judge it? Shouldn't they be happy taking the fee and shutting up? I HATE assignments. I hate them more than I hated deadlines.

I HATE being MADE to write things.

I hate reading books that are not fiction and that I cannot throw if I don't like the first few chapters or even paragraphs. I HATE Umberto Eco. All these years I did so well avoiding him completely. Now he has come back. The professors call him a "gap in the literature". Not him, but the fact that I haven't read him. For that matter, no one in class has read him, THAT's how popular he is. And I have a suspicion that if it weren't for research students, no one would read him either. Except for my best friend who was reading him when she was 17.

Why doesn't Ma ask me more than "how are you, do you need anything, is everything ok?" Why does she always add, "Don't spoil this, keep him happy." What if I can't? What if I don't want to? What if I want to fight? Why do I have to keep him happy and how/why is she sure that it will be ME who will spoil "it"? I wonder if she understands (? empathises? comprehends?) what motivates me. Or if I understand what motivates her...

I think there was a time when the 'welfare of the kids' motivated her. Now, I am not too sure... and guilty. If that was her motivation, now it's not there and neither is the assurance that this 'kid' is well-fared. I don't know my mother anymore... and perhaps it's the same for her. Isn't growing up supposed to bring one closer to parents? Mother-daughter? Or is it because of me...? Has it happened with any of you? Or is it JUST me? Disfunctional? Black sheep? (brown?)

When in Delhi, Dad used to send me cuttings of interesting newspaper and magazine articles. He highly recommended Bismillah from Nayee Duniyan. Please read him, in Hindi, but brilliant humour. I don't think he can send my writing to anyone. Ma dutifully (lovingly?) maintains the cuttings of my HT columns and says, "I keep them beta, I don't understand them. I never understand anything that you write."

What's the fucking point of writing then?


PS: I want mangsho-bhaat with aloo in it. Or I want shorsher-maach with nebu and begun bhaaja. I don't want to cook it. I want mutton -- GOAT mutton -- lamb is a fraud. (black sheep?) Stupid, fluffy things. I was delighted to find Maggi in the stores and then despondent to realise there's no Masala Maggi. :(
Did I mention I HATE sandwiches?
Can't upload a pic, the Explorer is PMS-ing.

Happiness is a state of breast

Or who’s afraid of gravity?
Pre-Script: I will come back to the abortion ‘topic’ another day. For now I know that Life is the tenure we complete on this planet. Things often happen in a way, which force you to make choices -- if forced, can it still be called choice? -- that you had never considered in your This Will Be My Life plan. So letting sleeping dogs lie (or dead babies, dead?) we shall speak of...Boobs! (click on the pic on left and read the article on pin-up girls.)

If a woman talks about penises and men, it’s called penis envy; what when she talks – like I do – of breasts, incessantly? Boobonic plague?

The under-wired bra is the single, most evil invention meant to constantly denigrate the female body. It is a constant reminder of that which you don’t have, those that were once pert and those which look better on other women. Whether it was God or chemical reactions that lead to the evolution of the human body, Breasts were supposed to hang. Think about it. If breasts were meant to stand on their own or face a different direction (than down south), breasts would come with a set of bones in them. There are 24 ribs to hold the lungs in place (the rib cage); there could easily have been 16 more to mold the breasts and keep them on constant perkiness.

Now women are made to wear their insecurities on their chest. Irrespective of your cup size, you’re always doing something wrong and the bra-tzkreig will get you.

No cleavage? Try the bra with a ‘wow’ effect. HUGE boobs? Try the minimising bra. Saggy boobs? Try the push-up bra. Perfectly normal boobs? Try getting a “fitting” done to make them look even better because Pamela Anderson’s are the most admired boobs, Eva Longoria was the flavour of the season and Lara Croft can tomb raid without jiggling hers. OR, try a lace bra that ‘showcases’ them. Do it for yourself gurl!

Even though I have been generally happy with my breasts I realised that no matter what your boob size, there is always scope for improvement.

Realisation came as I modelled a backless outfit before Partner. Now Partner is usually considerate and particularly smart when it comes to ‘things you say/don’t to a woman’. Perhaps the slip-of-tongue was because he was fiddling with the remote... As I shimmied before him and demanded to know what he thought of the dress – which is usually a cue for any/every man to say he likes the dress – Partner took one look and said, “The dress is nice but if you had smaller boobs, you could have pulled off the bra-less look.”
:(

And THAT pretty much is the truth. Happiness is not a state of mind, it’s a state of breast.
PS: I started thinking boobs (again) after reading ‘Go Fug Yourself’. Reasons hereunder.

The Hindustan Times, published, august 7, 2008

Fab, fad or fugly?
Jhoomur Bose
There are some things in life that are great equalisers and show how despite colour, caste and creed, human beings are pretty much the same the world over. Having a television camera shoved in your face is one such equaliser. It makes people say stupid things.

Like the Los Angeles police commissioner who was on a roll – happens when you put both your feet in your mouth – when speaking to KNBC-TV recently. When asked if the paparazzi was a problem in LA, police chief William Bratton helpfully added, "...since Britney started wearing clothes and behaving; Paris is out of town not bothering anybody anymore, thank God, and evidently, Lindsay Lohan has gone gay, we don't seem to have much of an issue." Er, right, except that Miss Lohan has an issue with the police making comments on people's personal lives and all that.

Unfortunately for Miss Lohan and Like (read, celebrities and celeb wannabes), life only gets more complicated. If the press, paparazzi and Mr Blackwell (of People magazine's Worst Dressed list fame) were not enough, the blogosphere has now unleashed the glamournazi on them. The bloggers who follow celebrity fashion and are adept at deconstructing celeb attires – even those who write on them – thread by thread.

Mrs Tom Cruise, aka actress Katie Holmes – lovingly referred to as 'Tommy Girl' – and fashion columnist/presenter Steve 'Cojo' Cojoruco (E! Entertainment) are the leading slam-icons with Dark Knight actress Maggie Gyllenhaal, making a close second. Pop Hangover declare themselves to be 'pop culture satire with a vengeance' and often list things and people in their 'Suck Files'. Despite questionable satire and too-evident vengeance, at least Pop Hangover is honest: "...the straw man in the Wizard of Oz had nicer hair than Cojo." Truth hurts.

Despite the subtlety-overkill, the glamournazi have a knack for coining new terms. Like D Listed that labels the Angelina Jolie-Brad-Pitt twin-hype as 'Brangeloonism'. The site garners its hit-counts from stating the obvious: "They look like babies. Seriously, just babies. I ran home from the bar for this?" But then, if People (allegedly) paid $ 15 million for the twin-shots, why blame the bloggers?

The cake for mastering anonymous bitchiness though goes to the writer(s) at Go Fug Yourself , who are found on the blogrolls (list of blogs you read) of many a reader and have declared ' fugly is the new pretty'. Fugly by the way, means very ugly.

Take them as authorities on what celebs should be wearing or see them as jealous, disgruntled writers, the glamournazi are sure 'gruntling' many even as they point to the efficacy of underwired bras to Gyllenhaal, "Fear gravity girl, for it does not fear you."

Say my f*****g name.

A rose is a rose by any name, but what if you are not a fucking rose? It’s taken me 20-fucking-9 years to realize that I am fucked; ALL thanks to my name. :( Much as I love my parents, I might just sue them for it.

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different, you know your name is safe in their mouth,” is what Sam deBrito writes in one of his posts and goes on to say that’s one of the best definitions of love he has come across. Very sincerely, if THAT really is the definition of love, I am TRULY fucked.

My name is by far the most phonetically challenging names even I have EVER heard in my life. Given the mail that comes to office and is addressed to ‘MR Jhoomur’, I was shocked to realize that perhaps to some my name sounds masculine… Or married since the other envelopes are all addressed as “Mrs”. And to think that I used to be upset about the fact that people usually laughed when they first heard my name. Like in school…

In each and every of the 12 schools I studied in, each new-student-introduction got more or less the same reaction… ‘More or less the same’ as the reactions changed in degrees of cruelty with each class. In the junior classes it was “Goodmorning my name is Jhoomur Bose,” followed by “BWAHAHAHAHA” from other three-feet tall kids. With the growing years, the kids would not hesitate in asking, “WHAT the hell is THAT name?” Even in schools where people had distinctly different names – like the Sikkim school where kids had names like ‘Tsering’ and ‘Dolma’ but no one found those funny – it was my name that was laughed at.

At the age where friends start calling each other by cool names, my name was severely deficient in the ‘cool quotient’. Y’know how Deepti becomes ‘Dee’, Rupali becomes ‘Pali’ and Jhoomur becomes… ‘Jhoo’? Jhoom? ‘Ur’? And if you call it ‘Joo’, that means lice in Hindi. You can well imagine the common joke when I was 12… Sigh. Worse still was the adolescent “falling in love”. You know how young girls would add their name and take on the second name of their object of affection? Well my name sure as hell did not gel with ANY of the surnames, even the ones I ‘tried on’ just to see if there was anything other than ‘Bose’ that it would rhyme with. :(

Then there were the regional distortions of my name. In the Hindi speaking belts it was always ‘JhoomER’ and the Punjabis, Sikhs and Delhiites would especially find it difficult to get that my name ended with a soft, sweet emphasis on the ‘u’ and not like someone was trying to say something more after they’d said my name. “Have you met Jhoom-er…Er, what? No, no, Jhoom-er” And then everyone would want to know the meaning of my name and no matter what I said, since ‘jhoomar’ in Hindi means a chandelier, people would wonder why my parents had called me a chandelier.

In fact my name has conjured many weird images in peoples’ heads. I remember going to interview this stick-thin model – who has subsequently moved to Mumbai after dumping her restaurant-owner boyfriend in Delhi – and as I walked in, she says, “Oh you are so small. On hearing your name I was expecting some huge, bindi wearing Bengali woman.” Given that I WAS fat those days, that didn’t go down well. I really wanted to tell her that since I was still young and quite naïve, her accent had suggested I was going to meet someone more sophisticated and since she was a “model” and all, how come she was dating the ugliest man I had seen on earth? Anyway, I didn’t say all that since my journalistic ethics were strong. Bitch.

Then there were the Anglo-Indians who pronounced the name in such a long, drawn out way that it ended up sounding like some long lost ape species, “The jhooomooor that is found in the jungles of…” In parts of Punjab, they could not pronounce the ‘jh’ and with their love for adding a double-emphasis (Hunny, Happy, Luckky, Tinna) and inability to say the double OO, my name became, “Chummer”. Yea…THAT. Now with me going global and meeting people from different parts of the world, it’s just getting better… French call me “Zoomurrr”, the Britons think the ‘r’ at the end is silent (it’s not), most people stare weirdly at my mouth when am saying my name to see how it’s said (and still get it wrong), some Australians call me “Jhoo” (cringes) and yet others will not call me anything but ‘JB’. :(

I am emotionally distressed, ok? Like when people name their babies and use a bit of both parents names… I can’t use either part of my name so naming my kids after me is out of the question. Even if I were to try, the kids would probably end up sounding like a brand of jam or something. And then if all this wasn’t enough, I realized that my name is the least romantic (read, sex-friendly) name. You really cannot say it during sex you know. “Oh baby, Jhoomur, oh” and that’s it. Orgasm delayed by the next 20 minutes.

PS: And THEN Barkha Datt asks me, “Why didn’t you put your real name on the blog?”

Man-boobs and what to do with them!

From official story on ibnlive.com = Of moisturisers and men with breasts

"Baggy eyelids, receding hairlines, wrinkles, frown lines and sagging necks… these are just a few areas that people want fixed," says Dr Anup Dhir, senior consultant, cosmetic surgery, Indraprastha Apollo hospital. When Dr Dhir says "people" though, he means Men. Welcome to the 21st century world of the Moisturiser Man: The man who takes "personal care" beyond the usual of shaving his daily facial fuzz. This new age man is as comfortable dealing with the crazy stock market swings as he is getting a pedicure, shaving his underarm hair, slapping on moisturizer or even trimming the curls down under.

In a world where first impressions are fast becoming lasting impressions, men in (face) masks is going to become more of a common sight. With competition growing and more young people getting into the work field, standing apart from the crowd is not just about talent anymore. You need to talk smart, you need to look smart and a starched shirt can only make that much of a difference. Looking young and projecting a youthful, energetic image can give a man the cutting edge he needs to stand above the clutter. It's happening the world over and it's happening in India as well. If statistics show that men in the US are spending more than $ 4 billion a year on grooming products – hair colour, facial scrubs etc – the scene is warming up on the home front too. According to industry estimates, the male grooming market is Rs 750 crores (approximate) and growing.

What's good for the girls, is not good enough for the guys
For long men have used beauty products that have been 'found' at home. Many an Indian family has had boys pinching Fair and Lovely tubes off their sister's dressing tables, going in for that occasional hot oil champi at the local barber or getting their mothers to trim extra long nose hair. Today, a man will walk into a pharmacist and ask for a face scrub with as much comfort as he would ask for new razor blades. While there are still men out there who'd use a detergent soap for bathing when nothing else is to be found, the number of men picking up man-specific toiletries is increasing. Age-old brands known to cater predominantly to women's products are quickly catching up and introducing products specifically targeted at men.

Out goes women's fairness creams and in comes the Rs 320 crore beauty giant Emami's Fair and Handsome. If it was 'love or Dove' for women, it was "toughness and tenderness" for the design concept of Shiseido Men's products. Even Nivea, one of the most popular global women's skin care brands has a separate range for its male customers. With male grooming products being one of the fastest growing segment of the personal grooming category, almost every major cosmetics company has jumped on to the bandwagon. While Clarins, Lancome, Biotherm, Shiseido are some of the international players, back home we have Emami, Amway (India) and even Dabur looking at tapping into the segment.

"Male grooming is an exciting market and Dabur India plans to tap this segment soon with a range of products," says Vikas Mittal, Vice President-Marketing (Personal Care), Dabur India Ltd. "The demand for male grooming products is definitely on the rise, which is reflected in the growing number of products available in the market today. According to industry estimates, spending on men's grooming products is expected to rise 24 per cent to Rs 1450 crore over the next five years," he adds. And it doesn't stop just there…

Mark of a man, nip, tuck?
While regular shaving products and hair dyes account for a bulk of sales in the male grooming market, toiletries – i.e. grooming products other than shaving aids – has now emerged as the fastest growing segment in the male personal care market. Hair styling creams and gels and fairness creams and moisturizers are expected to be the fast-movers. But why this sudden desire to spiffy-up from the men?

Perhaps it's the advent of the metrosexual mania, first seen in 2000, the many David Beckham-type men who were the picture of macho but did not mind changing their hairstyles frequently or lathering on lotions to look good. Or perhaps it was the rise of the 'fun, fearless female' clan: The women who demand that if they can suffer a Brazilian to look good for men, the men better shape up and spruce up too. Beauty consciousness has grown amongst the men thanks to the media – from Will Smith advocating looking good to get a date in Hitch to all male characters in F.R.I.E.N.D.S. being soft on overt machoness – and other reasons. Changing lifestyles, demographics, changing work scenarios – especially in the IT, BPO, hospitality and other service sectors – deeper consumer pockets, greater product choice and wider availability along with retailing and economic developments have all contributed to the rising demand for these offerings.

And it's not just in the realm of what-comes-in-a-tube or bottle. More men – young and old – are looking towards cosmetic surgery to fix their looks as well. "Hair transplants top the list of the most common procedures, followed by liposuction, nose surgery, eyelid surgery, collagen injections, microdermabrasion and chemical peels and breast reduction. Male breast reduction is also a commonly requested procedure in India," adds Dr Dhir. While many slave in gyms to get a sculpted Hritik Roshan-like body, others go in for chest implants and calf implants to have a more manly anatomy. Men increasingly want to change the things they don't like about themselves in the mirror and statistics available from the American Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery (ASAPS) show that surgery is becoming increasingly popular with men as a way to deal with image maintenance and change.

The ASAPS figures from 2000 list the top cosmetic procedures for men (surgical) to be liposuction, rhinoplasty (nose reshaping), hair transplantation, blepharoplasty (eyelid surgery) and gynecomastic (breast reduction). In non-surgical procedures, botox injections, laser hair removal, microdermabrasion, chemical peels and collagen injections are most popular. Cosmetic surgery seems to come in handy where gravity and age play truant: Body contouring to lift the buttocks, thigh, arms and abdomen help to reshape the body and remove excess, hanging skin for people who lose weight are the other "in" procedures.

Men, like women, are ready to shell out anything from Rs 6,000 – Rs 25,000 to look good… and this is just the beginning. As Dabur's Mittal puts it, "What's key is that it's an emerging market and the consumer need is sizeable and is expected to grow rapidly." So this year when data on consumer spending comes out and shows rising expenditure in the cosmetics segment, don't think it’s just the women.

PS: What's the world coming to?!

‘Vag Berger’ served here…

And you can see the sign for yourself: At the ‘Nescafe’ stand, the international terminal at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi. Welcome to India.

“You can buying many things in India and you still have many money. You can eat many foods in India – some very much spicy – and you still have many money, all this I learnt when I went here in Delhi two weeks back,” she said to me. The Indian hosts whose party it was and their guests roared with laughter at her description of India. Someone said, “I just LURVE her accent.” She was French. I swear the grammatical mistakes she made – or fucked up English she spoke – was EXACTLY the kind of English many Indians (or most) speak. Yet, no one loves an Indian’s accent. It’s funny but never sexy. And fuck the world, even most Indians get embarrassed when a fellow countryman speaks broken, faulty or bad English. Why? Shrug, I don’t know, it’s just one of those things.

So I was at this party and everyone was smiling and drinking when this tall Indian lady with hair down to her hips walked up to me and slapped by bum. It’s become cool I think, girls slapping each other’s bums to be hip. Even as I tried hard to not rub my posterior (it stings in the cold… and rubbing your bum in public draws attention), the Indian lady chimed with all her lower teeth flashing, “Happy Australia Day!” Of course, it was January 26th. I thanked her and wished her “Happy Republic Day” instead, January 26th being the Indian Republic Day as well. The day this country adopted its Constitution and decided to govern itself and became the world’s largest democracy (some would say we are still trying, I would agree). She was somewhat taken aback, then flashed the rest of her teeth and responded, “Oh yeah, I forgot, I surrendered my Indian citizenship last year and now am an Australian citizen.” She even had a little Australian flag – a washable tattoo – on her neck. Of course in India, it’s better not to have anything to do with the national tricolour and definitely not advisable to have it anywhere on your body. Unless you can walk around with a pole with the flag on it because that seems to be the only place the flag will not be disrespected.

Then I was reading what my blog-friend Plum (a Scotsman) writes about his harrowing trip to India. He says, “You can't do fast in India, it's impossible. I found a taxi driver who took me to Colaba (Mumbai). Unfortunately he charged me 500 rupees when it should only have been 50. Ripped off again. They could see me coming a mile away. I hadn't mastered the art of haggling yet. I was going to have to smarten up very quickly or I'd be skint in the first week. I ended up in a hotel called The Seaview, and I can assure you, there was not a fucking drop of sea to be viewed.” I completely empathise with him… I have lived in Qutub View apartments with no sign of the Qutub Minar, stayed in Park View with a little green lawn being the “park” and am now in Green Glade apartments, and sure enough, there’s hardly any green and definitely no glade around. Shrug. But hey, don’t hate us for trying to earn some money… It’s a nation of a billion plus and survival is tough. Like it is perhaps in other parts of the world.

For instance, on another evening at the Australian embassy, there was friend and me talking to this real-estate agent in Oz. Someone who sells high-rises on the Gold Coast. “But is it not a really shitty area to be selling houses mate?” asked my friend. The broker – oily haired, ugly faced, bulging paunch – replied, “Of course it is, but I sell it to the Indians,” and he winked and drank his champagne. In another evening in this supposedly Irish-pub called Dublin (at ITC Maurya Sheraton), this same fucker ran his hands up and down my arm and tried his oily-best to cozy up to me despite knowing I was dating someone else. An Aussie trait or just that of a cheating, unethical bastard? But of course it’s only the Indians, no? And of course good little Indian girls will like every white guy because “white men are loaded and are your ticket outside.”
And of course the same fucking world – no less thanks to the media, both in India and the UK – make Shilpa Shetty, former item-number, hardcore pin-up girl, the very icon of Indian womanhood, the martyr of modern-day racism. Pray why? Because a dumb actress called her a “dog”. And yet funnily enough, Indians on every other red-light, or when jumping lanes or when denting each other’s cars can be heard calling each other “sale kutte”. Shrug. (bloody dog) So my friend jumps red lights and insists on driving on the left side of every passing car. When I scream that he cannot do that, he responds, "But your Mayawati does it too." Yeah sure. And the US has George Bush as its president and Australia had that Howard "leading" for 12 years. And that means what...?

So while one country is a nation where everyone is trying to cheat you, another rips off people because it’s business. While one country celebrates by drinking and decorating in yellow-and-green, another country belts out the same old Lata Mangeshkar songs at 7 am, in school compounds. And the monkey and the dog become the symbols of racism and intolerance…
It’s fucking confusing. Happy Republic Day. Happy Oz Day. Whatever.

PS: Point of this post being? Coming to terms, or what you will. And yet perhaps, there might be just be some sense... Like the fact that, "It’s fitting that one of the best test series in a long time is being played over the respective national days of the two opponents, India and Australia."