We Are Maid For Each Other.

Image Courtesy - www.123rf.com

The last two years have been blissful. Ask me why? It’s my angel in maid’s disguise who is the reason behind my happiness with an expiry date. She’s everything I could have ever dreamt of – punctual, sickeningly sincere, never takes a day off, does all the housework without a murmur of protest. She cooks, she cleans, irons my clothes, shops for groceries. What more could a woman ask for. There are days when I wish it was she who I was married to.

Agreed, when she started, she was a little cranky, complained a bit and her cooking was sometimes “meh”. But not anymore; she cooks better than any cook I have hired, irons better than Ram Prasad and keeps the house so clean that you can literally eat off the floor and not feel diarrheal. These days she’s even threatening to make mithai at home. I’m not complaining! Even the husband is in love with her. He cares for her so much that there are days he offers to do the housework just to make her happy.

Nah! That doesn’t make me jealous at all. After all, love is all about sharing your husband.

A part of me dreads having to let go of her. I know the separation is inevitable once I come back to India but I’d rather not think about it. I have been trying to convince her though, tempting her with peace of mind even if it’s at the cost of a lot of hard-work. I’ve even offered her to buy a dishwasher, a robo-maid as assistants. But New-me is not too sure.

Oh, did I not tell you her name? It’s New-me, my soul-maid for the last two years.

I think I know what’s playing in her mind. New-me is afraid that she’ll turn to Old-me once she gets back to India.

Let me tell you a bit about Old-me before I proceed any further with this story. Old-me was this lady who lived in a tiny castle up in the air with her dear family and many helping hands. Even though the hands were many, she felt stressed all the time. She felt trapped in her castle, forever at the mercy of helping hands and their many moods. She was sick of managing their sicknesses, their children’s and their aunt’s sicknesses and the sick world at large. Every time she heard one of them cough loud, she would have a heart-attack, imagining herself down and dirty on her knees, stewing in sweat as she made stew for her dear hungry family.

My first Kerala Massage

N.Prasad, of Desi Traveler ,one of the most popular travel blogs on blogosphere, was in God's own Country when he decided to take a massage-therapy recommended by God himself. Needless to say he had a heavenly experience and is now dying to share it with the readers of A-Musing. 


I suggest to hold on tightly to your seat as you read this hilarious account....

 

I was traveling in Kerala from villages to cities, crossing mountain and rivers to backwaters and thick jungles to spice plantations we were learning various aspects of Kerala.

Every now and then somebody will talk about the benefits of Kerala massage and how it can rejuvenate everything from the lost luster of your skin, to hair, to lost appetite and a few more things, that are better are unsaid, I was wondering when my chance of experiencing the divine magic of the aromatic oils on my callused skin will come.

Finally we were in Kumarakom where I was informed that our hotel is one of the best places in Kerala to experience the magical Kairali message. I immediately agreed for the same, but was told that before experiencing the message I need to meet a physician and answer a few questions so that he can suggest the appropriate therapy.

Well the physician looked at me from top to bottom just like a butcher looks happily at an overweight “ Bakra” and smiled, which meant only one thing that I was about to be assassinated and I will not even get choice if it will be halal or Jhatka.

Statutory warning: The Vegetarian types can stop reading here

After analyzing my health the physician recommended a rejuvenating message that will open my pores and let my skin breathe. I was not sure what all this breathing business by skin meant, as in my class VI biology, Miss Malhotra has taught us that we breathe from nose. Any ways after giving a pat on my back for remembering not only Miss Malhotra from class VI biology class , but also the lessons in biology besides the chapter that she asked us to read on our own I proceeded towards the therapy room. Remember that “message “looks so cheap, just like our heroines like Katrina and Karishma, never do “ITEM” number, they only do special appearances, in Kerala you don’t get message you undergo Therapy. No wonder more than 90 percent of the guests in the hotel were Americans.

Once I entered the haloed chambers, with a central altar just like the operation tables of 5 star hospitals, I was instructed to remove my clothes, only the guy (YES He was a guy L ) forgot to mention what is his definition of clothes. Hence I removed my clothes except for the last line of defense, trying to be as modest as possible, but the therapist wanted me to remove that also, and I flatly refused.

To which the therapist said ok, if you want I can give you our special therapy clothes.

I was a bit relieved on the offer, though my relief lasted only for a few seconds, as the therapy cloth was a piece of langot (loin cloth) that must have been designed by the same designer who designs clothes for Poonam Pandey G. 

Searching, item not found - A Guest Post for Dagny Sol

When Dagny Sol, she who soothes and inspires with her immense wisdom asks you to do a guest for Serenely Rapt, you try your best not to let her down. Then you read her glowing introduction and you faint with delight.

Here's a sample of what to expect.

What do you do when you lose something? You start looking for it, right? Searching for things I’ve misplaced is my favourite cardio. I jump high, I stoop low, I move up and down the length of our apartment at frenetic pace, not once but many times, hoping that the offending object that had the temerity to get lost will finally show its face. I then add some strength training to my search routine – lifting mattresses, sofa cushions, moving dressers until rivulets of sweat start trickling down my back. I behave like a woman possessed till I find the ‘missing credit card’ nestling peacefully in the deep cavernous folds of my skirt’s pocket. 

God forbid if I can’t find the misplaced article! Being a great believer in equality, the size or the value of the ‘missing one’ is immaterial to the intensity of my grief. 

Click here to read more......

Chaddi: A Case Study

Sakshi Nanda of  Between Write and Wrong needs no introduction. Barely a year old in the world of blogging, she has already won many accolades and awards for her impressive body of work. But that's not why I love reading her so much. It's her raw honesty and chutzpah that's most endearing. When you read her work, you just cannot sit back passively. Her passion is infectious. Plus, no one writes reviews like she does.

If you are that rare species that's a stranger to her blog, I suggest you read this http://www.sakshinanda.com/2014/01/laurie-i-share-your-short-cut-and-your.html , http://www.sakshinanda.com/2014/04/the-salon.html and this http://www.sakshinanda.com/2014/04/the-oranges.html

In this 'colourful' post Sakshi dares to go where no woman has gone before.....

I just remembered the ‘kaanta laga, haai laga’ girl, but I did not sing ‘aaja aaja’ after it. You see, when she pumped up many years back (c.f. Google for a screensaver), I found those eyes too grey for my liking and the blue tie slightly misplaced over the black shimmery top half-heartedly keeping her in. The other teeny blue piece of clothing around the waist I did not mind seeing though, my favourite thing in that whole video, with the pug-mark tattoo coming in a close second. Today, while I sat on a swing in the children’s park philosophizing about this and that, I saw a woman’s chaddi see-sawing gleefully. Female. Pastel pink with maroon band. Tiny flowers, I’m guessing all over but then my gaze was limited in scope. A little bow, but the beads seemed to have fallen. And so I remembered the ‘kaanta girl’ and thus this hosiery of thoughts…

Good or bad is for Ram Sene to decide, but a trend began with the price-tag-sized blue peeping in that peppy song. And it has spread just like fire in the mouth does after mixing coke with mirchi up there, a pleasant tingly fire. Chaddi showing is no longer just a conscious fashion decision but one which has come to occupy Freudian proportions of the subconscious. (Something like, biting nails when Sidhu used to come to bat. Or Kumble. Automatic!). If you don’t believe me, next time you step out and away from your own house and clothes-line, notice, no matter how sexy the sight or how silly. And even if you have to turn your head to see it, a whole 360 degrees!

On the road …

In case you, like me, drive a car which became extinct with the dinosaurs, you will most coincidentally find yourself trailing a slow-moving couple-y motorcycle, out on a ride enjoying the scorching heat on the flyover at 25 km/hour. No hurries. While the faces will be helmeted and covered like a daku in dupatta, what you will notice is a chaddi staring at you, as the pillion rider bends forward for signs and science of streamline motion. The chaddi will be waving ‘OK TATA Bye Bye’ to your modest 30 meters long salwar driving the car, reminding you of yours within which are not worth that much airing, not even on the clothes-line and certainly not by chance. Now, these chaddis may be showing accidentally but they are accident hazards too. As if by design (I saw one made of fishing net), they distract you out of your comfort zone, like the apple did Eve, and by God that nada around your belly will feel tighter you will feel ancient you will forget your gear or that the brake is the middle one and ... Swear!

Off to a safer locale …

You earn your money hardly and want to dine fine, so what if it is the same dal makhni your cook of 1200bucks/month can make. Shaan toh hai! So you wear your onion pearls coupled with a chiffon sari and tip-top into an unfit-tingly but aptly named Motee Mahal kitty where you will meet your favourite air-kissable cheeks. And, what do you see? Gosh, one husband of one woman has worn his worn out jeans with flip-flops and a Che tee to match his evening gown wife. (Compatibility dies, fashionably!) And if this wasn’t all, this black sheep’s black boxers refuse to rest in peace. Oh how they tempt-attempt to butt into everything. Is his shirt too short or pants too low? Haw, was that a belly button when he hi-fived like a college kid? Such presence the chaddi will have, his toddler will play guitar on the band and the waiter put down an extra plate for the chaddi to eat too. Such presence! And what show-offing. If only ‘Made in Thailand’ Kalvin Clein spelled right, or even Clean, perhaps the site-seeing would inspire you to drop your own onion pearls the next time, undo that sari, unhook the formals and come prepared in the next best thing to naked. Jeans and tee, I mean!

An open letter to screw it.

It's tough not to fall in love with Anshul Thakur's work.  He doesn't write, he paints the most vivid emotions with deft masterstrokes. His work is deeply philosophical, abstract and leaves you with a lingering sweetness.

Click here http://aestheticblasphemy.com/blog/heartbreak-warfare-hindi http://aestheticblasphemy.com/blog/elementless  and here
http://aestheticblasphemy.com/blog/incorrigible-girl-who-loves-sunflowers-and-butterflies    

to get a taste of Aesthetic Blasphemy

It appears my Mills and Boon post did not go well with Anshul and he dons his funny hat to defend his right to keep a moustache.

Says who women don't crave men with bristling upper lip hair?
                               
                                             To whosoever it may concern

Moustaches. Not all women like it. Most internet articles that I read report that they are not ‘turned on’ by it (as if they were some object or some switch), not to mention that majority of those articles are written by women. They give ultimatums to ‘shave or to crave’ and when men are at it, they put nifty codicils of doing the act in an effing running metro, adding to men’s WOES (Women Against Evening Stubble). Though a juxtaposition, women still seem to want macho men, which they often define as broad jawed men who exhibit prominent signs of growing a full and healthy beard but chose not to. But women! The above perception isn’t your fault except for the fault of ignorance that you all are just towing in line with the whims of a powerful dozen minds in the fashion industry. All I do is sigh saying “This too shall pass!”

Having spent the better half of my life’s first quarter in the obscurity of my moustaches and quite diligently so, I’ve earned a nick-name among my male compatriots, ‘Muchhi’, a benign spinoff from the grotesque sounding ‘Mucchad’. What people don’t know is that it was coined by a perceived (and hairless at the time, male) adversary as a tease. Since then, the moustache has kind of ‘grown on me’. So when Madame Purba offered me an opportunity of “defending men's right to keep a moustache”, my moustaches bristled up like a distressed porcupine and nose-picked me until I acquiesced and took up this herculean task of redeeming the staches.

But, if men have to look for reasons to keep a moustache, I’d rather have them shave it off. It doesn’t have to be about any other reason than that you feel good about it. I like my staches right now, so I keep ‘em, unencumbered by what goes on behind my back. Behind my back, because most people usually don’t dare confront the moustache openly, they are aware that usually, men, keep it. From being looked down as a ‘mark of revolutionary or an artist’ to being revered as being the the evolutionary next level to enlightenment (Oscar Wilde, allegedly), they’ve seen everything under the sun. Moustaches stand out as one of the expressions of living the life on own terms, a rebellion against the norms, the stereotype, the ordinary. Still, if you need more reasons for keeping one, I have a few ludicrous ones up my sleeve.

1. Natural Filter: In cities like Delhi where pollution is the rule, the day I trim down my moustaches barely from 4mm to 3, my nose is filled with black mucus by the end of the day. Other days, merely washing my face does the trick.

2. Lip Sweater: In places where I come from and in Delhi in the winters, the day of shave is the day my facial skin shudders out of cold. Other days, I can manage without a muffler.

3. Skin Tone Preserver: Admit it, your face will never be as fair as your scalp. This argument is not commutative. The scalp can be made less fair by exposure to the sun and heat.

4.

Salvador Dali had a book dedicated to his moustaches, what is wrong with posting mustached selfies over flickr, fb and instagram? Moreover, most of the badasses in history, both in the good and the bad way have sported moustaches – Einstein, Hitler, Stalin, Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Robert Downey Jr., Tolstoy, Tagore, Affleck, Hulk Hogan, you name it. Even nerd geniuses like Steve Jobs have had moustaches in their primes.

Please, don’t be nice, be yourself

I feel uncomfortable when someone calls me nice. It’s not as if I have something against being likeable. It’s just that the connotations associated with this tag have altered drastically over the last few years. This sobriquet is mostly reserved for someone who agrees with our perception we have of our own fabulousness. So, someone who rarely disagrees with us and has only good things to say is considered nice.

Truth be told, niceness these days has rarely anything to do with the individual and his/her character or the lack of it. It has more to do with how he/she makes us feel about ourselves.

The same holds true for us. In our desire to be liked, we often refrain from saying what we feel. So, when a friend shares her latest literary masterpiece that reads more like the scribbling of a six year old, or invites us to her brand new home that’s decorated like the house of horrors, we’d rather gush politely than blurt out that we’ve yet to see anything worse. Of course not. That’s harsh and we don’t want to come across as judgmental, do we?

I understand that the idea is to not hurt someone else's feelings even if we didn't agree with them. So we’ll continue praising Sneha Aunt’s snazzy new hairdo even if it makes her look like Paresh Rawal and insist that our tone-deaf cousin sings just like Lata Mangeshkar.

We want to be nice so that others are nice to us in return.

When Dilli met Kejri and Bharat took revenge on her behalf.

Image Courtesy - www.indianrealestateforum.com

It was a Jab We Met, just like the movies. When Dilli, Bharti’s favourite sister, met Kejri. The courtship was long and tumulus. It was fiercely opposed by the elders. The more they tried to defame him, the more she fell in love with him and wanted to take it to the next level.

Dilli had been in an uneasy relationship with a Sarkar that treated its riches like Commonwealth. Her heart was feeling as empty as her bank account. How long could she continue paying Rs 200 for a kilo of peas for her muttar pulao! She was tired of drowning her sorrows in the nearest pothole and wanted a way out.

Kejri’s timing was perfect. What’s more, he promised to sweep away her sorrows with his jhadoo. In his topi and muffler, he was no knight in shining armour. Kejri was dark and not so handsome. But for Dilli it was love at first sight. And when he spoke, Dilli swayed mesmerised.

He looked AAM but made Dilli feel Khaas. She wanted change, he promised her a revolution.

He was what Dilli had waited for all her life. No wonder she fell for him hook line and sinker. But when it was time to say I do, he hmmed and hawed and kept her on tenterhooks.

Oh how she sighed in relief when he walked up to the altar after a referendum.

K was no typical partner. He would be out most nights partying. He was stubborn and said he wanted to change the world with dharnas. When Dilli expressed her doubts over his fidelity - he’d say, whatever I do, it’s for you, meri jaan. He was mercurial, made her feel queasy, uneasy. Sceptics with their I-told-you-so looks, didn’t make it any easy. Dilli prayed, even hung from the ghanti at the nearby mandir and screamed – Why me, Bhagwan!

He walked out. It wasn’t even her fault. Dilli wanted him for herself, he said, my ambitions are many, jaane do na yaar!