My post on Twitterati, where I have managed to offend everyone under the sun, is now live on http://ibnlive.in.com/group-blog/the-india-blog/3353/how-to-be-successful-on-twitter/64535.html
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If you love brandishing your opinions, think you are always right, consider the world too foolish to comprehend your intellect and have ample time to waste, Twitter is the ideal platform for you to script your success story. If you are a bored professional, struggling blogger, wannabe Chetan Bhagat, you get yet another excuse to get distracted and blame it all on Twitter.
All you have to do is compress your anger, poor-me stories, this-country-sucks and my-ex-is-a-bitch histrionics into 140 characters and have complete strangers express their opinion about your non-happening life. That’s what social media sites are all about – ignoring your friends and family for adulation from McSteamy, HotDawg and NautankiSali!
Success comes only to the desperate and passionate and who knows it better than me?
To get more gyan that I have freely dispensed, click on this link
http://ibnlive.in.com/group-blog/the-india-blog/3353/how-to-be-successful-on-twitter/64535.html
I have a habit that loves embarrassing me from time to time. Actually, I had no idea how terrible it was till I started going out on my own. Many moons back, when I was still in school, a friend invited me over for lunch at her place. As soon as her Mom placed the piping hot delicacies in front of me, I jumped on it like an impoverished kid from Somalia. A few gulps later when I raised my head to breathe, I noticed everyone staring at me silently, their expression a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
In my family, when food is placed before us, we jump on it like a pack of hungry wolves, without wasting time in social niceties like waiting for others to start. It is our way of showing that we love Mom’s cooking, even if it is tinda that we’ve been having three days in a row.
So, when thrown in an unfamiliar territory, I did what I did best. I pounced on what was served like my Mom hadn’t fed me for weeks, without bothering to wait for others to start.
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Old habits are like cockroaches and don’t die easily. Mine decided to haunt me for the rest of my life.
I got married to a man who is my polar opposite. A gentleman who has his hors d’oeuvres with fork and knife, while I prefer a hands down approach….Looks at me with horror when I try to lick the sauce off the knife and gives a pained smile when I drop chopsticks noisily on the floor. He also patiently waits for everyone at the dining table to start before he puts the first morsel in his mouth. The civilized world calls them table manners.
The first time my parents invited their brand new son-in-law, Maa cooked a feast that was enough to feed three ravenous generations. She had immense faith in my cooking abilities and wanted to make sure he didn’t complain of hunger for at least a month. Now before I proceed further with the story, I must acquaint you all with my Ma’s penchant for cardio during mealtimes. In her quest for hot and fresh, she keeps shuffling the dishes and asks anxiously if we have finished dish number 6, so that she can get dish numbers 7 to 10.
Grammar is knowing the difference between your shit and you're shit and who knows it better than Trisha's tortured soul ? To empathize with her anguish, you are requested to leave grammatically challenged comments.
Let the fun begin!
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Do you remember the day you lost your first pet? When the project you worked so hard for fell into a puddle? Think of any time when the world seemed to be less wonderful, when the Gods themselves seemingly turned against you. Put yourself back in that moment. How did you feel? Crushed, morose, disappointed or even suicidal? Well now you feel a quarter, nay a tenth, of the pain any language purist feels. Welcome to our world, initiate.
Our days may seem to start like the rest of humanity’s, but underneath the coffee haze and bleary eyes, we are steeling ourselves. We look into the mirror, tell our reflection that all is not lost; that out ‘there’ people are not ruthlessly abusing and butchering our one true love; that things have gotten to the point where they cannot get worse. Yes, we say, we WILL have a positive outlook today!
But the real world is never gentle with my kindred. Forget those who aren’t English speakers (bless them). No, I’m talking about people who have the audacity to ask you to lend them your “stationary”. You thought they were your friends. You shared your deepest fears, your darkest secrets with them. To these...these traitors, I say, “My stationary what?” The day has barely begun for your average Grammar Nazi. When we want to watch a funny video, there are enlightened comments such as, “OMG!.....hez so awsum lol...I laf so hardddd!!!” When we check Facebook, someone posts a touching story along the lines of (bear with me, this is a long one. Oh, and it’s real)-
“bf n gf were siting at a table...dey were haeving a conversatein. da gurl sed 2 da boy “bbz will u luv me 4ever?”
boy said “NO....” girl was sad
she ran away n cryed
she triped over a CHAIR.
she was ded.
boy ran over to pic up her body
he wisperd in her ear “i meant to say...ill love you 5ever.”
dat meen he luv her moar dan 4ever.”
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All you wanted to know about the Bong femme fatale and didn’t know who to ask.
If you are a reasonably attractive Bengali lady, chances are, you’ve had a man or two walk up to you and confess his weakness for the Bengali temptress. Being suspicious by birth, I make it a point to clarify if he actually meant tempest. He proceeds to wax eloquent about her raving beauty and I rudely interrupt to ask if he meant raging.
Similar sounding words that can mean Heaven or Hell – grammar Gods were sure having fun at our expense!
Chances are he will not be a Bengali himself and has dedicated his life to observing this quaint species from a distance. The Bengali bhodrolok community, on the other hand, prefers to live by the old jungle saying and treats his homebred chicken like insipid lentil.
One thing I’ll happily concede is the hotness quotient of the bhodromohila. I have arrived at this conclusion after having spent countless Durga Pujos, observing her sweaty prosperity spilling out of her almost backless, sleeveless blouse that she got especially tailored from Kolkata. You have to be hot to be sweating this much. You have to be insane to be devouring Biryani in the maddening October heat. It’s not a pretty sight, to watch her sweat, especially after she spent almost twenty minutes dusting her ample décolleté with Ponds Dreamflower talc. She looks like a Royal Bengal tigress, with rivulets of sweat criss-crossing messily down her expanse of pristine white.
For her, it’s just another clammy day as she proceeds to fan herself delicately with the end of her beautiful tangail.
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Hymns have been sung in praise of her tresses cascading down her shoulders. Either left loose or tied up in a casual bun, she swears by Keo Karpin hair oil to nourish her mane. I have a theory that this product was originally conceptualized as a mosquito repellent, till the owner’s wife mistakenly applied it on her scalp and sprouted a lush patch on her arid scalp.
For the traditional Bengali woman, it’s a tough choice between Keo Karpin and Jabakusum hair oil. I believe Jabakusum hair-oil is the secret behind her drop-dead beauty. One whiff and you are ready to drop dead. Thick, red and vile smelling, Jabakusum has nurtured Bengali scalps for decades. My Maa swears by it and still has a head full of hair, while I have to resort to hair-fall therapies. But I never fail to remind her, the company is surviving on her sole patronage.
Dear Cheeky ke Mom and Daddy,
Let me start by congratulating you for creating a miracle – your baby. Even though I don’t see your child with the same pair of rose-tinted eyes, I can assure you s/he is almost as adorable as you think. Her smile can turn the articulate to gibberish. Her beautiful eyes can light up even the darkest heart. She is cute as a button, till she opens her mouth to express her displeasure.
She wanted boo boo and you couldn’t get it for her. So, she’s doing what she does best. Scream. And why not - your Princess is not used to being disobeyed!
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Her high pitched scream makes your hear palpitate with terror. You are even willing to swing upside down to stop that horrible noise. So, you do what you do best, fetch boo boo for her to make her shut up.
God forbid, if you are in a mood to be brave and decide to ignore, she will promptly raise her decibel levels and give you a migraine attack. Suddenly you start feeling the heat of at least a dozen pair of eyes boring into your back and accusing you silently for having created this monster.
If looks could kill, you would have died a thousand deaths.
Sorry, it’s all your fault. In your earnestness to be a good parent, you turned yourself into her personal genie. You wanted to be her superhero, moved mountains, jumped ditches and danced like a clown to fulfil her demands. And now she has you wrapped around her little finger. She knows the power she has over you and uses it to her fullest.
