Rakhi’s haart goes dhak-dhak

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Mere Pyaare Mohan,

Last night you came in a helicopter in mai dream.  Your kale ghane baal flying in the wind, your patli kamaar playing lukka chhupi with me - by God ki kasam I feel like putting big black tikka on your face. Najjar naa lag jaye mere baanke bihari ko! 

When I see you, my haart went dhuk dhuk loudly like Madhuri Dixit.  I think the loud sound wake up my good for nothing boyfraand.  But not to worry that bloodyphool sleeps like a saandh. Woh to bole jo bullshit walla bull.

Haan... I was saying in my dreams you were looking handsomer than Salman Khan.  Toh aur khyaa – I grabbed you and looked deep into your fadaktee hui eyes.  I could feel your stomach shaking violently like mixie – I ask pet kharaab hai jee?  You move your head violently, blush and say behenjee what to do – it is my habit.  I was so filled with gussa, I had tears in my eyes like Meena Kumari.  Dil ke armaan asoowon mein bah gaye - I sing loudly.  I immediately fall at your feet and scream... Who behenjee?  I am your charan dasi and you are mai swami.

Unraveling ‘Those Almond eyes’

She is an enchantress who weaves magic with her verse. Her words resonate with unsung melodies.  Soft, ethereal, passionate, melancholic - she is the one and only Maitreyee Bhattacharjee,  a writer extraordinaire and the author of Iche holo tai.

She liked weeding the garden, dissecting art and playing music, especially the raag Behag, which floated around her at night along with the waft of jasmine that she had so lovingly nurtured. Perhaps not necessarily in that order, but nothing was orderly about her..And yes somewhere star gazing, talking to oneself also fitted in. She had the most beautiful almond shaped eyes ever..it was not her opinion but that of the many people whom she met..except that He didn’t see it ever..she had a beautiful soul too..which He probably felt but never spoke about..there was nothing to speak..it was there..so He presumed it would be..just be.. much like the old oak box that had been lying in the bed room as a part of a family heirloom that had been passed on, ornate, gleaming from the polish that was applied every other day..It stood proud in its gleam its beauty in its agelessness and yet no one opened it, no one was curious about it.. When children came home they played around it..over it sat on top of it..in spite of knowing it might break but no on tried to open it, seek its soul, or ask it questions of yore..

Let’s strip for a cause

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They call themselves Putin’s Army.  Teenage girls, teetering on high heels, their pink t-shirts emblazoned with the image of their hero – Vladimir Putin.  They are passionately appealing to young, smart and beautiful Russian girls to tear their shirts off to show their support for their beloved leader.  I’ve lost my mind for a person who has changed the life of our country.... I happen to agree with the lost my mind part.  The girl who does the best job of ripping off her top, gets to walk off with a free iPad.  So if not for Putin then there’s always the iPad for sweet consolation!  And if a boy in China can sell off his kidney for an iPad 2, what’s a measly shirt?   

Since there is no shortage of gorgeous women in Russia with most of them blond, another group called “I really like Putin” held a carwash only for Russian made vehicles. Hugh Hefner should take some tips from Russian chicks! 



After reading about the passion with which Russian women are expressing their love for their leader, extolling fellow citizens to support their PM as President, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed of myself.  Even as I write this post my head is hung in shame.  Look at me, constantly taking pot-shots at our great leaders.  Statesmen who toil night and day to make life liveable for us?  They fight corruption, tackle terrorism, tell us when to start drinking, how to dance decently and spout a lot of nonsense thus making us laugh. Our honourable Minister of Health even went to the extent of giving us helpful tips to prevent procreation.  Watch late night TV and say goodbye to babies.  And what do we do – call them buffoons, lame ducks and compose jokes in their honour.  Shame on us!

Buzz off will you....

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If you come to my house, I’ll greet you with a smile and then look sternly at your feet.  No, I am not checking whether your shoes are polished and won’t demand to see your nails either.  I got over that habit long time back.  It’s just that my house is a shoe free zone and I expect you to take them off (just the shoes, if you please).  

Every time I invite someone new to my place, it is always accompanied with a statutory warning.  I am at my frothiest best or so I think and make sure each word is echoing with joy.  I wouldn’t want to scare you off, would I?  And I am a gracious hostess; I have chappals in all sizes & colours to suit your mood and taste.

But I’m not sure whether the gas delivery chap or the plumber shares the same sentiment.  Ask them and with terror filled eyes they will recount the crazy bong lady.  The madam jee who screams joote utaaro like an army general every time she opens the door.  It is a perilous situation for me as well.  Most of these gents have stinky feet – one whiff and you are ready to drop dead. 

Lately I have started treating this species, especially their feet, with awe.  Before you start making hasty assumptions about my sanity or rather the lack of it – let me clarify.   Researchers in Tanzania have made a startling breakthrough.  They have discovered that the stinky odour of human feet has a major fan following among the mosquito population.  And now the smell of old socks is being effectively used to fight Malaria.  All one has to do is set up a trap outdoors “scented” with the odour of human feet and voila the mosquitoes come swarming in.  Once trapped, they are then poisoned en masse.  Talk about fatal attraction! 

Itching To Bitch.....

My name is Phulo

A certain veteran actor has been insisting of late that it’s my Dad who’s old and not him.  To further prove his point he has taken to sporting colours so vivid that it will put even a rainbow to shame.  I strongly suspect that they are hand me downs that his baby wore in a movie where he was pretending to be gay.  The father-son duo with their floral collection can easily be mistaken for the valley of flowers.  Is senility making Big B revisit his childhood, but this time as a flower child? 

Since I do not know the gent personally I can only speculate.  But one thing I know for sure is that his cup brimmeth over.  His superstarni Bahu, who is so plastic that she is considered an environment hazard, has managed a medical feat.  I mean it is a miracle that despite being wedded to a procession of trees and cows, she has managed to conceive the inconceivable.

Strangely the grand daddy seems to be sporting a baby bump too.  Wondering if the two are exchanging notes on morning sickness....

Anatomy of Grief

What was your first reaction when you heard about the Mumbai terror attacks?  Let me answer that for you – you texted your near and dear ones in Mumbai to find if they were ok.  With a sense of relief you continued surfing through news channels for updates.  Of course there were none, instead your senses were assaulted by morbid images of death and despair.  You flinched at the sight of the young boy’s face contorted with grief, bodies strewn around in a mangled heap.  You shuddered at thought that just 10 minutes back these bodies were someone’s father, brother or son.  The cacophony of the shrieking voice of the anchor and the angry eye witness accounts only added to your bewilderment.   You were seized with helpless rage. 

Fact is we are never prepared for violence, hatred and death.  It always takes us unawares.  That Wednesday was no different.   Serial bomb blasts left behind a pile of bodies.  The response was delayed and chaotic.   Tears and blood melted into chaos and mayhem.  It took an hour for the police to put up barricades. Forensic teams arrived in droves only to contaminate the scene of crime, the ambulances were nowhere in sight.  It was the residents who had to take up the task of rushing the injured and the dying to the hospitals in tempos, taxis and even handcarts.  Teeming crowds... TV channels swooping in like hungry vultures in their bid for glory...the clueless police doing nothing to assuage the panic...  the elected expressing their well rehearsed lines of condolences and the sickening finger pointing at ‘others’ to explain administrative failures...

And we were left wondering weren’t things supposed to change for the better post 26/11?  What about the lofty promises made for implementing pre-emptive measures and managing consequences better should such incidents occur?  Just empty words to placate an angry nation?

Not tonight Darling...

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She was stooped over the newspaper sipping her morning tea, when she let a loud whoop of delight.  The about to poop pigeon look startled and made a crashing exit from the balcony, leaving behind a dozen feathers as keepsake. The floating feathers found their way to Suvo’s tea.   Oops you got free garnishing and gave him her toothiest smile.  Riya had read somewhere that a smile is a curve that sets everything straight.  It didn’t work this time. 

As she walked around the house, Riya had to make sure her feet were touching the ground.  She felt as if she was levitating.  How could she not, the usually depressing papers had finally managed to publish something that had uncomplicated her life.  Her heart was singing so loud that she had to put it on mute.  Goodbye Saridon, goodbye yawns....

When Suvo came out of the shower, she looked deep into his eyes and cooed I know what you have been missing, baby and gave him a tight hug.  Don’t worry Mr Cuddlemore, you will never feel sad again!  Suvo looked puzzled but decided to keep his mouth shut.  It must be one of those days he thought.

Lest I Forget....

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It’s been nearly 1 ½ years of writing my blog.  After all these months of countless views exchanged, arguments, criticism and praise, you my readers, almost feel like a family.  And since family members are bonafide sounding boards for endless litanies, it’s time I started airing skeletons from my closet.  

So let me start with a confession.  It’s about my hidden talent - a faculty so special that I take pains to hide it.  

I have trouble remembering things - thanks to my random, temperamental memory that loves taking long vacations.  And poor me is left all alone to grapple with the trickiest of situations.  

If you see me at a gathering, you will observe that I smile a lot of.  So much that you can shake hands with my molars, incisors, canines.  But what you don’t know, at that very moment my head is busy struggling with a thousand question marks and not a single answer – who is he... why is he smiling at me, do I know him... OMG he even knows my name....do I have a stalker?  Till it turns out that he is the chap I tried to kill with a pencil in school.  I was all of six dammit! How am I expected to remember all the random kids I tried to annihilate? But I bare my teeth for his sake ...Of course you are Amit, man look at you! 

I smile to hide the pain of a chasm wider than the Grand Canyon residing inside my head.  I smile to make others happy.   

Imagine you are surfing channels on television. You finally come across a movie that looks promising.  You sigh in relief and sink back on the cushions, till the actress with a long nose and red hair appears on the screen.  Of course you have watched her movies, so many of them.  What was her name again? When you knock upstairs for an answer, you discover that your damn memory has taken a break.  You feel distressed, your eyebrows are knit in concentration – don’t disturb me, I am thinking for Chrissake!  You call up your family, friends and foes but to no avail.  You can’t take it anymore.   You reach out for your mobile and google the movie – ahhh relief.   Thank god, someone still has the answers.

I have often thought of writing a mushy love letter to Google - What am I without you?... Just an incomplete sentence…you are my full-stop…you are my chicken fry...my fish fry...Damn I am getting emotional. 

I am convinced, when God was programming me, he was not paying enough attention.  Why else would he burden me with recollections of events that happened over three decades back and make me forget stuff that I really need to remember?  For some insane reason, I can still recollect what I ate for my 3^rd birthday but can’t remember where I kept those keys, my mobile or the wallet!  I keep scurrying around the house like a demented mouse till I finally mange to locate the damn thing.  Sometimes it takes days, sometimes months. There are times I never find it but I never give up hope.  You can call me muddle-head, fuddy-duddy but you can never call me hopeless.

Actually my faulty brain has this strange capability of storing only those recollections which evoke emotions - so I rarely forget the hurt, the pain, the fear or the ecstatic moments of my life.  But I can’t, for the life in me, remember dates, phone numbers, statistics and names of things animate and inanimate.

A gym mate was sweet enough to call me up on my birthday to wish me...Hey Purba, this is Neelam...Complete silence on the other end, followed by a nervous laugh...Purba this Neelam from the gym!  Do you realize how embarrassing it is for me!  She was miffed with me for weeks.  I now store names with a suffix – Arvind-magazine...Swati-dance....Ruchira-mother...Ok now I am exaggerating.

This one stinks

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Revolutions with fancy names and noble intent are sweeping through the word.  Jasmine revolution forced out Presidency in Tunisia and set the impetus for Arab spring - a bloody struggle to overthrow autocratic regimes.  The world as we see, it is poised for a change regardless of unwilling dictators.

India too has been seized with a revolutionary fervour.  Just when we were thinking that fasting is the prerogative of Bollywood starlets and anorexic models, an old man came and shook our age old perceptions.  He also managed to shake the government and had them scurrying like startled rats.

In this battle between David and Goliath we all overlooked a subtle change steadily creeping into our society.  Is it really a revolution or just a passing phase – only time will tell.  But this outpouring of a different kind is raising quite a stink.   For the time being let’s call it the Yellow Revolution. 

If you are still wondering what I’m talking about, let me give you a hint – it makes you wish your nose didn’t exist...adolescent boys love cracking jokes about it...Japan is obsessed with it... Yes, it is none other than your very own poop! 

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Travel to Japan and you will undoubtedly run into any of a number of turd shaped products.  From a golden poop cell phone charm to poop stickers to poop children's toys to poop hats to poop candy. Why they even have poop anime – Unko -San!  Poop is cute in Japan.   And as if this wasn’t weird enough, the Japs will soon be coming up with the all new poop burger!  Before you run off to throw up in your Mum’s favourite fruit bowl, let me assure you it is not the real thing.   A Japanese scientist discovered that Tokyo’s sewage is full of protein, thanks to all the bacteria embedded in its sludge.  Apparently, with the addition of a little soy protein, it tastes like real meat, sort of what you get at your local Dhaba!  And it is plausible that despite your aik thooo reaction, you might be compelled to partake this delicacy in a future where population boom will equal food shortage.  

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Growing up in a country that has a special affinity to droppings from bovine behinds, this shouldn’t be too shocking, right?   We in India are used to a lot of bullshit and take pride in displaying it on busy roads for the benefit of wide-eyed tourists.  How often have you come across an active bovine posterior and not feared for your dear life? I am proud to be part of a nation where men, dog, birds, cows and cats can shit without a care in the world.  Didn’t someone wise say.... At the end of the day, all anyone ever really needs is a safe place to poop. 

To Be A Desi Girl

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A desi girl is very unlike Priyanka Chopra in Dostana.  She doesn’t shimmy her tiny waist in a diaphanous sari or wear tiny clothes to work.  If she dares to, she knows she will cause a riot.  Instead you will find her in the Metro, assuring her child she’ll be home soon.... as the hard-as-balls executive that everyone is petrified of.... the pampered girl who dreams of Virat Kohli in her dad’s sedan.... the grim looking woman who cycles to work every morning to support her alcoholic husband.  It’s tough to typify a Desi Girl.   

In case you are wondering whether this is yet another rant about what a bad deal it is to be a woman in India – let me assure you it’s not.  Agreed, it’s not easy being a woman, especially in India.  We have to deal with gender bias, violent attitudes that are becoming evident in appalling statistics of infanticide, rape and diverse forms of discrimination - nourishment to education, health, labour and dignity. We read about her in papers, see her in the neighbourhood.  The husband who doesn’t work yet lords over her, her annual pregnancies for the sake of a son.  We feel incensed at the injustice of it, try to knock some sense into her and try to help her as much as we can. 

To be frank, I’ve had a sheltered upbringing.  My parents didn’t mourn my birth; rather they were overjoyed despite my incessant crying that would keep them awake for nights.  Neither did they take me to a clinic in Indore for a sex change surgery.   But I knew my Maa yearned for a son.  You will get married and start a family of your own.  It is the son who carries the family name.  Six years later when my brother was born she let out a sigh of relief. 

Society sets gender stereotypes that we are expected to conform to.  While I played mostly with dolls, my brother played with toy guns.  Despite having parents with a broad outlook, I grew up with Sit properly, have you been beating your brother again, don’t laugh too loudly, your skirt is too short, you argue too much.   I argued that household chores be divided equally between my brother and me.  I fought when I was told I couldn’t go for a movie with my gang of guy-friends.  I didn’t talk to Maa for days.

Even though we had working parents, it was Mom who took care of the family and the house.  Dad did help her with odd jobs, but the responsibility to feed the brood was hers.  We never found it odd when she took the smallest helping of the ice cream cake.  We blatantly presumed that she took pleasure in it.  But she was no Nirupa Roy. When it came to running the house, it was she who called the shots, the one we approached when we needed anything and petrified of when we didn’t do well in exams.

Years later as I run my own household, her influence still lingers on.  When a friend remarked that she unintentionally imitates her mother when she cooks...  from the way her Mom cut the veggies or fruits, to the flavors she added.  So when a woman of the house has such a subtle and strong influence on each member of the family for a lifetime, who needs women’s lib.... I found myself nodding in agreement.