Just like my Mom

 

Courtesy -iStockphoto

When I was your age, phones were clunky, televisions bulky and computers hulky. Yet they occupied very little space in our heads. Our house was cluttered with knick-knacks and memories. Appliances were uncomplicated, so were our lives. Sleep was not a challenge but something we enjoyed. Happiness was free and did not come with “terms-and-conditions apply”.

News was in no hurry to break and would patiently wait until next morning. Tele soaps were meant to be watched by the entire family. When we talked, we looked into each other’s eyes rather than look up occasionally from our mobiles. Words had yet to shed their vowels and their warmth. Sentences were not hurried missives. We talked because we needed to and not because we wanted another toy.

Time was elastic not brittle. Despite entertainment that was clumsy and prehistoric, I-am-so-bored had yet to make an appearance in our lexicon. Relatives had yet to be anointed with the annoying tag, family weddings were not meant to be endured but enjoyed. Private space was not guarded like a bastion and certainly not shared with online strangers.

Gay meant happy. Hit and run was still a game we played and enjoyed. We imbued our idols with a halo and did not put them under a microscope to analyse and jeer at their flaws. Scepticism was a prerogative of the old and the wrinkled. Youth had ideals. Lampooning our leaders was the sole preserve of the likes of RK Laxman, rather than a national sport. We used to race against the wind not time. We felt free not constricted and were content with our routine-ridden existence.

We couldn’t wait to grow up and become our Mom and Dad. We were impatient to take charge of our lives.

We did. Or so we thought.

For Blogger or For Worse

She is BlogwatiG. When we met last year on Blogosphere, we had a Jab We Met moment and decided we have a sizzling chemistry. It's been over one and a half years and we haven't changed our minds or our husbands. A tigress who prowls the big bad jungles confidently and roars her disapproval every time she encounters injustice, she is never afraid to fight her own and her friends battles. A blogger of repute and founder of the immensely popular forum IndiBlogeshwaris, she is my Kohinoor.

Of course, she never tires of pulling my leg and does exactly that in this guest post......


“It’s been over a year. I think the time has come to take this relationship to the next level. You know you mean the world to me. And I would never do anything to hurt you. I’d rather hurt myself…….”

Her eyes, limpid pools gently strumming the ripples of love and admiration, bore testimony to what she’d just heard. Deep in her heart, she knew, this was meant to be. Her heart ached for she knew every word that was bespoken was true. This treasure was hers to keep.

“And hence, this is what I have for both of us. Good times or bad, this will sail us through”
Dear Lord, could this be what she thought it was? Nothing quite prepared her for what followed next. She opened the sealed envelope with trembling fingers.

“This is what I’d like to call B-NUP, a Blogger Nuptial.”
She was speechless.

“Well considering that you have been blogging for years before me, this seemed like a step in the right direction.”

She stared in disbelief at the contract that read thus.

To whomsoever it may concern. 

1. It is agreed that the bloggers in question will visit each other’s blog and lavish praise even if they have been having a hard day. This particularly stands true when the maid has not come in to work, phir bhi Bajate raho! 
2. It is agreed that no blogger will be allowed to be more famous than the other at any given juncture as it amounts to unpleasantness. In the event that one blogger has more fan following than the other, the lesser known blogger to be compensated with a share in the famous blogger’s social net-worth. We believe this would be Zindagi ke saath bhi, zindagi ke baad bhi.
3. It is agreed that all comments will have to be followed with tiny hearts and 'awwwwws' to enforce the love and affection the bloggers feel (or not). PDA is encouraged and every ‘love you’ will be taken as the ultimate example of dedication, Kyunki yeh bujhaye sirf pyaas, baki sab bakwas.

Prince William Chhe

 

Juo ae Rajkumar William chhe!

It was when the Buckingham Palace-is-the-world’s-most-expensive-old-age-home joke was cracked for 568544th time that Prince William could no longer hold his post Chicken Tikka Masala bile-and-spit in the jewel encrusted spittoon (a once-upon-a-time gift from the Maharajah of Golconda). Trust one of the minions to confuse the king-in-waiting’s aikthoo as the family’s jewels and rush it to Sotheby’s for a grand auction. Since Sotheby’s, the most expensive kabaadi house in the world, refuses to take anything by face value, they sent it to the labs for testing.

When the lab reports arrived, Chief Curator Archibald Hairsome collapsed on the carpet and almost sent the million pound vase from Ming Dynasty crashing. Thankfully it landed on his head. He is now recuperating in the same hospital where the Royal Baby is expected to make an appearance.

Since the matter was of utmost secrecy, a messenger boy was sent through one of secret tunnels to convey the shocking discovery – The Duke of Cambridge, William and scoundrel Harry have Indian ancestry.

Britain’s second longest reigning monarch, world’s most cruel Mom, Ekta Kapoor’s inspiration, will be giving up her dear throne to a half-blood prince!!! Great Britain will finally have a monarch with ancestral links to a country they colonized and exploited for over 300 years.

An irony so ironical that you could wipe the rust off it…

When Soilitude was an Alien Concept

In India, solitude is an alien concept. A subcontinent bursting at its seams with over 1 billion lives, it is tough to escape the busy chattering, impatient honking, loud celebrations and fumes of sweaty bodies. Our cities are constantly expanding and mutating to accommodate the influx of eager souls with dreams to make it big. It’s common to see families huddled under flyovers, silently watching revelry of the young and the impetuous, drunk on life. Enterprise flourishes in all shapes and forms, in every nook and corner – from children peddling magazines to the memsahib in her chauffeured car, to the hawker stands that feed the hungry and the tired, to the glitzy shopping malls where the trendy head for a good time.

Even if you are living alone, with your family pining for you in a far off city, your newspaper-wala, milkman, home delivery guy, cleaning lady will make sure your bell is always ringing, their smiles, and inane talks filling the silence of your one bedroom apartment in a high rise.

In India, the concept of loving and caring is sharing your moments of sadness and elation with your hundred odd relatives and friends. A wedding ceremony is less about the couple about to begin a new life and more about guests who are out to have a good time. A battalion of Tais, Buas and chachera bhais, who appear in droves only during celebrations and mourning…

You can be lonely but never alone. 

Romancing the Mountains

He is Snow Leopard to the blogging world. Prateek to his family and friends, and will always be cub to me. As an intern with a non-profit Organization in  Satoli(Uttarakhand),when he is not discovering the wonders of apricots,plums and peaches, he's busy taking in the majestic beauty of the Himalayas and the simplicity of a village life.

In this post he pours his heart out to the mystic one (which I suspect is the spider on his wall).

P.S He's still looking for a spoon and fork to have his daa-chawal with and has sent an SOS to Oprah

Dear Mystic Vixen,

I pen down this letter as I watch the sun go down behind the snow clad peaks of Trimurti. What wonders I have seen and experienced in this region, you would scarcely believe. The beauty of the mountains is hard to describe forsooth; but I shall try nonetheless. White mountains rising in the horizon bearing stark resemblance to Angelina Jolie before mastectomy. The Panchachuli near Munsiyari are five snow top peaks standing in unison. The symmetry is such that I am pretty sure God drew the landscape during crayon drawing lessons in Kindergarten. The barren slopes marked by landslides, the dry pine needles daring smokers to throw a lit butt, the roads or rather lack of it, the bus drivers and the sheer drop on one side of the road - all bearing testimony to Darwin’s theory of natural selection.

The mountains ruin you, dear Mystic. One begins to wake up at 5 in the morning and sleep at 10 at night. All the years of conditioning the body and mind to be awake till 6 AM and to sleep with eyes open during classes are rendered useless. But still the mountains seem to have a hypnotic hold on most populace. I have noticed an influx of tourists in the last one week. Come summers and especially the summer vacations and everyone heads north, like a migratory bird; paying heed to some ancient gene from the time when our ancestors were still swinging from branches and throwing poop at each other.

Living in the Mountains also makes you realize that you might be asthmatic. A few minute walk uphill sends your heat-beat into overdrive. In an act of uncalled bravado, I entered my name in a half Marathon that was held in Mukteshwar earlier last month. I now have a very good idea how a fish feels out of water. During olden days, people used to come and live here to attain spiritual enlightenment and be closer to God. I think it is true. You suddenly realize your faith in God when you are packed in an SUV with 30 other people, and I am not counting the driver (who is usually high on hash or as they call it “Dum”). The last time I visited Almora, while coming back there were 34 people in and on a Tata Sumo. The Driver himself was sitting on a passenger’s lap and we had 8 on the roof and 2 hanging behind. I must take this moment to tell you that I have a new-found respect for all the hens in India’s poultry farms. As the SUV sped from one deathly turn to another and as I looked at the 100 feet straight drop on the left hand side, I realized I may not be an Atheist after all.

What the fuck!

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In an age where scams occupy the powerful, outrage preoccupies the powerless, rape is fun and games for the frustrated, it has become mandatory to express our frustration with – WHAT THE FUCK!

The F word is undeniably the most explosive bomb that expresses more than any existing word in our lexicon. A knight in shining armour that comes to our rescue when our vocabulary falls short. What a fucking good job it does to give vent to our disgust! What’s more, this pint sized word is more versatile than most of our Bollywood actors with faux accents. Use it liberally to ask that pesky Romeo to fuck off! Tell your boss that you don’t give a fuck about what he thinks of your “non-performance”. Express incredulity with “what the fuck!” when you get your annual bonus, resign with your middle finger pointing northwards and stomp off with a “fuck you”!

Damn, that felt good!

Profanities have existed longer than L K Advani and his ambition to become India’s PM. While swear words like damn you, holy shit, go to hell have lost their sting and evolved as the last resort for the timid. The f word has held its sway and is now part of our everyday vocabulary.

Opposites oppose or do they?

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In school, the shy, tongue tied nerd was invariably attracted to the girl with the deafening laugh. All the good looking girls were in love with the football star with a permanent sweaty patch on his back. I was in love with the dreamy guy who strummed the guitar. And one fine day he opened his mouth and spoiled it all.

They say when God takes time off from playing Kingmaker and pushing us in freezing cold water just as we were getting too warm for comfort; he plays the matchmaker. In fact, Rab loves making our jodis because this is his idea of playing a practical joke on us. The Almighty will make the cricket obsessed, beer guzzling, back-slapping, always joking guy, fall madly in love with the solitude loving, cricket hating and wine sipping girl whose smile is capable of lighting up an entire neighbourhood. His restless soul finds solace in her eyes that speak volumes without speaking a word. He woos her ardently with words he doesn’t have. She finds it endearing. They fall in love and marry.

It’s as if we are destined to follow a pattern. The child who refuses to grow up will always end up with a mother figure. The girl who’s never short of words and opinions will surrender herself to him who always listens with a smile playing on his lips. The dreamy, muddle-head will be drawn towards the woman on wheels, the homebody to the adventurous spirit, the spice girl to the medium rare, the cleanliness freak will fall head over heels with the Lord of mess.….

Do we seek opposites as a challenge? A man so breathtakingly different, that the fair maiden had no option but fall hopelessly for him. It can happen before marriage or after marriage. The love, I mean. When fate arranges your match, you love him before you marry him. When your parents decide your fate, you hope to fall in love after you marry him.

But it’s only after you start living together, you discover how startlingly different you are. I sometimes wonder if we mould ourselves and fine-tune our senses to strike a harmonious note. Is it that the child in him brings out the mother in us? Did the husband become subdued because his talkative wife never gave him the chance to talk? Did he become the backbone because hers was missing! Did she become the mature one because he refused to grow up, all for the sake of love?