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!"


PS: Uni today; am off.


If you saw me lying naked…

… on top of a bed, what would you do?

No one asked me that question, but it’s one of the gazillion quizzes doing the rounds on Facebook.

I can understand why someone would answer an IQ quiz or a personality quiz. You might want to test your IQ. I can see why friends would do the ‘Pet Peeves’ quiz. You want to see if you share peeves in common. If I stretch my imagination, I can also understand why someone would answer the ‘What Disney character are you?” quiz. You love Disney characters and would like to be a mermaid.

However, I simply do not understand some quizzes. Like “What is your Japanese name?” I really did not know that all of us had a secret Japanese name fantasy. Or ‘If you were an animal, what would you be?’ And what’s one supposed to feel if the quiz says you would be a red-bummed baboon?

I definitely don’t understand “If you saw me lying naked on top of a bed, what would you do?” Scream and run out because you are so ugly? Take a picture/video and put it up on YouTube? Hump you? Tell your mother?

Seriously, for those of you on Facebook and answering a-quiz-per-hour, please tell me why.

Now answer this quiz. You answer quizzes on Facebook because:
1. It’s there.
2. My internet is free.
3. Economic meltdown and I lost my job.
4. I’m gunning for the most-quizzes-answered record.
5. I didn’t know things about myself and quizzes shed new light.

All answers will be used for a social networking research. I swear.

Related posts:
Mystique is mystified by quizzes
Silvara does a personality test

Picture: Courtesy artarchives.com. It's a painting by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and is called, La Grand Odalisque. Oil on canvas, painted in 1814, it graces the Louvre in Paris. She's beautiful, isn't she? Quite a nice bum.


Get sexy

Wow, Naomi Campbell can still look soft and feminine.

Naomi recently wore a sari when she walked the ramp for Mumbai's blast victims (26 Nov 2008) for Mai Mumbai (I am Mumbai), a fashion-for-relief show at the 2009 Lakme Fashion Week in Mumbai. The fund raiser was organised by hotelier Vikram Chatwal with the proceeds going to improving Mumbai's medical facilities.

This was Naomi's first stint on the Indian catwalk. Despite having seen her in umpteen Victoria's Secret ads and brochures, I think she's looked one of her sexiest best in a sari.

The next time I go for any mega-event -- wedding, anniversary, launch party etc -- I am wearing a sari. Yes, I am aware I don't have legs as long as Naomi's, but I do have a midrif. And love handles! Forget the decolletage and forget leggy legs, nothing beats a bit of midrif peeking through chiffons or georgettes.

Growing up in India - and in an army background - I've seen many 'regular' women turn into uber sexy beings when they've walked into a party sheathed in nine metres of figure-hugging saris. I've seen my mom transform from just-mom to this you-can-look-you-cannot-touch lady. My mom's always been shy; but when she dressed up in a sari, she looked like a queen. So beautiful, so untouchable; but mostly, so confident.

In grade 6, all students - girls and boys - would stop in their tracks when Mrs Mamta Sharma walked through the school corridors. She was 27, slim, tall, had beautiful long hair she tied in a plait and wore nearly-backless blouses. We would all stand and stare in awe as she would glide towards us... She had the smoothest arms, the most curvaceous waist I've seen and a back that enticed you to run your hand over it.

Then there my friend's mom, Veena aunty. I remember her wearing these gorgeous cotton saris. High neck, Chinese-collared blouses with sleeves that reached the elbows, a chignon and the gentlest of smiles. She did not show an inch of skin and yet when she walked she was so graceful, you wanted to fall on your knees and kiss her hand.

I also remember a former boyfriend discussing his first crush. "She was 26 and we were 14. She used to wear bright saris and when she wrote on the blackboard...we always waited to get a peek of her blouse from under her arm," he had said blissfully. I understood what he meant. The sari does not throw the cleavage in your face; it gracefully sheaths it and sinfully sculpts the breasts. Not in a way that says women are ashamed of their breasts, but in a way that promises wonders when revealed... However, the way he had said it was quite creepy and I'd (thankfully) subsequently dumped him.

Dimple Kapadia gave a new meaning to "rolling in the sand" when she gave Rishi Kapoor a red face in her red sari in Sagar. Sridevi's bust-thrusts and orgasmic moans are well-documented as she wreathed in the rain in an electric blue sari in Mr India. My favourite Smita Patil completely defined "wet scenes" when she danced in the rain with Amitabh Bachchan, clad in a slinky white sari in Namakhalal. Karisma Kapoor -- I don't really like her though -- reinvented her career wearing chiffons in Raja Hindustaani (sic movie though). Sridevi had also done in her shimmering chiffons in Chandni. Urmila Matondkar also went back to the sari to get a reboot in Judaayi.

So that's it. Instead of worrying about what-to-wear at any event now; I am going to pull out one of my sexy chiffons, wear one of my halters, strap on a pair of high heels, tightly drape the sari around and let my midrif rule the day.

PS: Might have to insist on Partner driving or hiring a taxi; still cannot walk properly in a sari. Pic courtesy: ibnlive.com

LIVE update: So inspired by Naomi, I decided to wear a sari at home today. It was a bit of a disaster since initially I looked like a tent. However, after putting up pics of the experiment on Facebook -- and much needed ego-pampering-from-girlfriends later -- now I feel much better. Here's to the sari. :D
However, Partner came back home, took one look at me and LAUGHED. Thankfully, his mom was on the phone while he was laughing at me. She gave him a piece of her mind. Haha. That's called having the last laugh. I did say I love his mom, right?


A beautiful day

Today's a beautiful Sunday. The sun is bright and warm, there's no crazy wind, the birds are happily twittering in the branches and there's a single, white butterfly fluttering around in my backyard 'garden'.

Partner is out for a round of nine holes. Since we cycled almost 50 km yesterday -- went down to Collingwood Farms and Yarra Bend boat club -- my legs refused anymore exercise today. So while he is out playing golf, I am sitting and transferring my notes to the computer.

While I would have loved to go to the last day of the 2009 Formula 1 Australian Grand Prix; the cheapest tickets are $ 100 AUD. Given that I don't follow F1 and will not be allowed to sit in or even touch the cars -- should be allowed if the tickets are that expensive, no? -- I am going to sit in my backyard and keep my money.

The day ahead includes some much needed body servicing by way of olive oil on the head and body, maybe some face pack and some under-sheet snoozing in the sun. Since Partner has announced 'arranging' lunch, I am not cooking. I would really like a back massage and maybe I can bribe him into giving me one.

That apart, I'm reading Robin Cook's Sphinx; not really into Cook or medical thrillers, but found the book languishing on my book shelf. Since now my bookshelf is our bookshelf; it's a happy discovery when I find something amongst Partner's books that I have not read. That's not to say that I've read everything, but simply that I discover something amongst his book that I want to read.

My books are primarily fiction -- crime, fantasy, science fiction, period romance, Booker winners etc -- while most of Partner's are either military history, 'futures' trading or on grain. Unless a biography or history is written like a story, I really cannot be bothered reading those. As for trading and markets, I've said before that numbers make me dyslexic. Last month, while I ordered the DVDs for British comedy Green Wing from Amazon, Partner ordered Merchants of Grain and Rats in the Grain (rolls eyes). Shrug. Guess opposites attract. However, now I think I need a bigger book shelf in the toilet, because that's where I have made a 'library' for Partner. (wink)

Anyway, I shall get back to typing out the plot etc before the Net hooks me again. I do love a nice, chilled out Sunday. Have a good one y'all.


I love watching movies at the theatre. The screen, the whole dimming of lights, people laughing together... Mostly, I just love the whole popcorn-cola thing. :)

Except, that after the movie, I have a tummy ache and er, gas.

Like right now. Both Partner and me... And the house smells like nothing you want to smell.

PS: We saw Best In Show at home with microwaved popcorn. It hurts and stinks.


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.


Dirty Chinese...

“Chinese food in Beijing is quite different from what we get in Delhi,” was the recent, rather insightful comment made by a journalist friend living in Beijing. Unfortunately, friend was discovering what many already know. The fact that for most Indians, Chinese food usually means ‘Indian Chinese food’.

While now there are many really good, authentic Chinese restaurants in most cities – including award-winning, specialty restaurants in five stars – most Indian-Chinese experience involves eating ‘chicken chow mein’ from Chinese food vans. Quite literally, these are ‘vans’ that have been converted to have a mini kitchen and modified windows that serve as table tops.

Gmail hoax: Beware

I got this email today -- and others over time -- and am sure many of you will already know it is a hoax. For those who don't, please do not respond to ANY email that asks for your log in details. This is the email that I've received and am instantly deleting it.

Jhoomur Bose, you are invited to
Wed Mar 25 10:30pm – 11:30pm (Timezone: Accra)

Calendar: Jhoomur Bose
Owner/Creator: 11kcustomerservice@gmail.com

This Email is from Gmail Customer Care and we are sending it to every Gmail Accounts Owners for safety. we are having congestions due to the anonymous registration of Gmail accounts so we are shutting down some Gmail accounts and your account was among those to be deleted.We are sending you this email so that you can verify and let us know if you still want to use this account.
If you are still interested please confirm your account by filling the space below.
Your User name,
date of birth
and your country information
would be needed to verify your account.
Due to the congestion in all Gmail users and removal of all unused Gmail Accounts, Gmail would be shutting down all unused Accounts, You will have to confirm your E-mail by filling out your Logan Information below after clicking the reply button, or your account will be suspended within 24 hours for security reasons.
* User name:

* Password:
* Date of Birth:
* Country Or Territory:
*Specify personal name :

After following the instructions in the sheet, your account will not be interrupted and will continue as normal. Thanks for your attention to this request. We apologize for any inconveniences. Warning!!! Account owner that refuses to update his/her account after two weeks of receiving this warning will lose his or her account permanently
Thank you .
Will you attend?


Men on breasts...

According to a stand-up comedian,

"Men and breasts; it's like Pepsi or Coke. Men have their preferences, but when forced to choose, anything will do!"

Hrmph. I'm typing this from class, on a swanky Mac -- bloody cool it -- and am currently hiding behind the monitor -- as big as me -- and typing.

The professor is about to give out assignments - ARGH - I got to write a fiction short-story on magic realism. I SO wanted fantasy. Tricked.

Ok. Gotta go, professor's coming....

POST-CLASS: 7.36 pm

Sigh. Back from class and somewhat tired. However, good feedback on book plot from class and professor. Hmmm.

A Mail Today -- newspaper brought out by the India Today group for those who don't know -- spoke to some women bloggers (me included) and the story/feature was published today.

I don't have too many comments on the article, but it is kind of pissing off that they should miss out on the bloody blog's name. When they have mentioned every other blog's name.

To Mail Today: I am really not interested in pimping my face in your paper, but I would like my blog mentioned. Not very professional.


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


Bad things happen indoors

Disclaimer: No babies were harmed while writing this post. This blog/blogger does not support cannibalism or hurting (human) babies in any way. Neither is the picture indicative of any type of 'baby food'. Capishce?

My mother’s favourite joke – the rare times she did joke – is that once I finish cooking, the kitchen looks like a bomb blast site. What she does not realise is that her joke is very close to the mark. Each time I cook, rather each moment I am at home, it is like surviving some or the other near-death experience.

Susan Miller on her website, Astrology Zone, does warn that Venus is retrograde till April 16th or something; Venus is the planet ruling relationships and not mortality. Had it been Jupiter or Uranus, I would have been more careful. While I am usually accident-prone – I don’t like the word ‘clumsy’ – it seems that for some time now, my stars are particularly badly aligned.

Like this morning. Back from Torquay – coastal town on the Great Ocean Road – I was doing a quick-clean-up-before-blogging when I banged my head against the cupboard door. One minute I was putting away tee shirts, the other moment I turned my head and rammed into the door. I did not slip, I knew the door was there and yet… Now I have a huge bump. Any harder and my skull would have cracked. (Pic: Of the Great Ocean Road, the view is spectacular)
A little later, I was cleaning the kitchen bench and wiping away breadcrumbs under the toaster when I noticed the toaster was dirty. So I wet the dishcloth and wiped the toaster. I was about to wipe the insides of the toaster with the wet cloth when I noticed the damn thing was on. Instant electrocution narrowly avoided.

So I went to call Partner to get some reassurance that I was still alive when in my distraught state, I misjudged the distance between my arse and the chair and fell on the floor. My back could have broken, y’ know. By now I was in shock and pulling the chair slowly, sat on it carefully and called Partner. His phone was out of reach when I decided to write down my harrowing experiences.

As I typed, I leaned back on the chair – balancing on its hind legs now – when again I misjudged (must be the earlier bump-on-head) and toppled backwards. Nearly broke my neck but for my wrist getting in the way and getting horrendously twisted. Rather the wrist than the neck.

Not to mention the other day when I nearly ironed my hand while trying to iron a shirt and take down a recipe on TV. Or when the potato flew from my hands, knocked off a glass tumbler that crashed to the floor and there were glass shards all around my bare feet… And while rushing to clean up the glass, the knife slipped and fell with the pointy end between my toes.

Or when I was pouring boiling hot water over snow peas – blanching them – and since I had forgotten to cover the kettle, the steam rose straight into my hands, scalding them. Of course I let go of the kettle and had boiling water all over my chest. Now I have burnt freckles on my boobs.

While indoors is where I usually escape death, I am more careful when outdoors. However, now I have suspicions that things are changing there as well….

Like this weekend in Torquay, when Partner and I decided to go swimming in the ocean. Now let me tell you that my stepping into any body of water – even a bathtub – is fraught with danger since I cannot swim. My swimming is like putting a one-winged, fledgling into water: Much drama, much splashing, hardly any movement. Since I trust Partner to watch out for me – and also because he will have to answer to my Dad if I drown or something – I am more than happy to step into rolling tides and crashing waves with him. (Pic: Not in Torquay, but me at the 12 Apostles, further along the Great Ocean Road, Oct '08)

So there we were, Partner swimming beautifully and me doing my splash-gulp-choke-splutter when Partner’s facial expressions changed and he asked me not to move. Now staying motionless is bloody darned difficult in the ocean. Given that I was standing chin-deep in water and even the gentlest of waves make me bob like a cork, I was not happy to be told to stay still. That’s when I looked down at where Partner was pointing. And died of fright…

There have been a series of shark attacks in Australia since the beginning of 2009. It does not matter that those were on Sydney beaches and we were in Torquay… Sharks can swim can they not? Given that I’ve also seen enough TV programmes that say sharks prefer still waters – and that the ocean was particularly still when we were inside – I was sure there was a great white swimming near me. It had not helped that Partner had helpfully pointed out earlier that sharks prefer darker skin since well, darker skin looks more like a seal.

Duly terrified, I looked down at where Partner was pointing… Thankfully, it was not a shark. It was a stingray. Since the thing swimming right next to my ankle was at least a metre wide, I was somewhat alarmed. However, I was glad to point out to Partner – and relieved! – that a stingray does not have shark-teeth. I was about to show how brave I was and swim splash towards Partner when he shouted out, “A sting ray killed Steve Irwin.” I froze.

Thankfully, the big, grey stingray soon got bored of my ankles and swam away elsewhere. I, however, refused to move an inch and insisted on being carried out. And it was while I was being carried out by Partner – quite a nice feeling I must say – that I had an epiphany…

I am not prone to accidental-suicide… Someone is doing voodoo on me.

PS: If I suddenly stop blogging, know what has happened. I wouldn’t mind a nice tribute, Facebook-page either. And if you have to use a picture to go with my online obituaries, please use the nice Goa-ones on my Facebook page. I am the slimmest in those.

PS2: This advertisement for the Toyota RAV4 is so meant for people like me…

(Pic credits: 1. Baby pic, Twine.com; 2. Great Ocean Road, The Age, Stingray toon)



Am a disgrace. Neither can I drink properly- read, copiously -- nor can I handle the morning after.

What's most insulting though, is that while everyone else the previous night was happily "on the piss"; I didn't even drink that much. And yet...

1. vodka+lime cordial + topped with tonnes of ice
2. 2/3 rd wine glass
3. one Breezer

That's it. I know I was not drunk last night. But WHY do I feel So crap?! Just wanna BITE people.


Sometimes, all a man needs is a good beating


Have you – women reading this – ever beaten a man? Or even hit one?

I wonder how feminists will react to the above headline. Yet, if I were a man and were to write about meting out similar treatment to women, all hell would break loose. No, I am not promoting violence of any sort against any person of any sex. But I AM thinking...

I, for one, have slapped at least 8-10 boys/men in my life. It was never because I wanted to hurt them per se and was always because they did something to incite me to violence. The first time was aged 9 when this stupid boy kissed me. I clearly remember slapping him to save face. I was not embarrassed by the kiss, but was humiliated when the other kids laughed at me. So I hit him.

The next incident was aged 12, when this fat boy grabbed me from behind and tried to forcedly hug me. I placed a cracking one on his cheek. I still remember his shocked face. He put a hand on the cheek I had slapped and simply walked away. Other reactions weren’t that simple…

The autorickshaw driver I slapped in the face – with a hysterical friend screaming beside me – because I was sure he was trying to kidnap us… Aged 27. The man in Newmarket, Calcutta, who – even when I was walking with my mother – came and grabbed my breast and squeezed. I was 14. Another man outside Palika Bazaar, New Delhi, who’d grabbed me too. The man I was dating said nothing and asked me to ignore the incident. I had fumed, followed the offender, turned him around and slapped him, even as a crowd of Delhi men around me whistled and jeered. Not at him, at me… And of course I had dumped the boyfriend. Aged 24.

A research - done jointly by the Universities of Florida and South Carolina -- said that of 2,500 students surveyed,32 per cent women accepted to perpetrating emotional, mental and physical violence on their partnersAnd yet when I read reports about violence, it is always assumed that women are incapable of it. In fact women being violent against men takes on sexual tones. Not surprisingly, a Google search of ‘woman beat man’ primarily yielded results that included a fat man being spanked on a sexy woman’s knees and another that had a black man and a white woman sidling up to each other, her hand in his pants. Other image results were mostly toons.

I have never heard of any stories where a woman regularly beat up a man. Actually, no. I have heard one story. This friend’s mother used to regularly beat up –yes, literally beat up, she used a rolling pin I’m told – his father. I didn’t have the temerity to ask for reasons and found it quite hard to digest the story. Still do.

The Charlize Theron starrer Monster – on American serial killer Aileen Wuornos’ life – had people shocked. More because the murderer was a woman than because of serial murders being committed. Often I’ve heard friends express shock and surprise if ever there is a story of a woman murderer. A woman is generally considered hurt, angry, bitchy, cranky, bitter, a mother, nurturer, friend, confidant, martyr, etc… but never violent.

In April 2008, there was a huge furore when six girls in Florida ganged up on another girl and beat her up mercilessly. They were all 16. I had seen the video earlier but it has since been taken off YouTube. An Italian research in May 2008 declared that women were indeed becoming more violent. See Jane Hit, was a 2006 book on the same issue. Another research - done jointly by the Universities of Florida and South Carolina -- said that of 2,500 students surveyed, 32 per cent women (against 24 per cent) women accepted to perpetrating emotional, mental and physical violence on their partners...

Somehow it seems that even if a woman was violent, her violence is presumed to be directed more towards herself – self-mutilation etc – than towards other people. And it makes me wonder. Apart from the difference in physical strength – men being stronger than women – why does violence from a woman surprise people? Is it because the worst is expected of men or is it because women are incapable of violence?

Or is that belief really changing?

PS: I am researching on something and thereby thinking woman and violence. I also came upon this interesting story from 2005. She beat her husband into perhaps giving up gambling.
Also read
'Violent Women'?: An explorative study of women's use of violence


Dil for daal?

Update: This dish is an entry for the LiveSTRONG With A Taste of Yellow concept. Started by Barbara Harris as a way of supporting the Lance Armstrong Foundation.
Most people I know have at least two food items they hate with all their heart (or stomachs) and will only eat them intravenously, if they were unconscious. When friends tell me about their hate-foods, it’s usually goes back to their childhood and involves some form of force-feeding story. For some, it’s been a case of having mothers who were really adventurous in the kitchen… with disastrous results.

One friend hates spinach because her boarding school chef made spinach for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Another cannot stand beet root because his grandmother forced him to drink beet root juice – and soup and even eat beet root dessert – each time he visited her (that’s four times a week. Another refuses to eat pumpkin because she finds its Hindi (kaddu) and Bengali (kumdo) names offensive! While I don’t really understand that, I do remember my father scolding us by saying, “You bloody kaddu!”

Partner refuses to eat sultanas/raisins because his mom packed it in his school lunch. “Poor boy hates it because of me,” she now rues. He also cannot stand gherkin
[1] but refuses to tell me why. As for me, I cannot stand any form of small fish; whether as anchovies or fried like they do in Bengal. Firstly, it’s the smell and secondly it’s the taste. I also cannot eat Hilsa (ilish) – and this is Bengali blasphemy, most worship the fish – because I don’t like its skin.

Once upon a time, I also hated daal. It was more to do with having to eat the daal before I could eat the meat – and I love my meat – than hating daal per se. Thankfully, as I have grown up, I have also grown to love my daal.

It was only after I started living alone that I truly realised how much I enjoyed the simple dish. In fact daal was the first dish I ever cooked… I used less water, cooked in an open saucepan and the whole thing was burnt. I used to stay in a working women’s hostel that time (2000) and it was the hostel’s warden who took pity on me and told me the basics.

Over the years, I’ve come up with my own style of cooking daal and now that I am so far away from home, it is my favourite comfort food. Here’s how I do it.

JB special dhaal

Red lentils/ Masoor[2] daal: 1 cup
Green chillies: 2, cut into slivers
Cardamom: 1 big, slightly crushed
Black peppercorns: 3-4
Cloves: 2
Garlic: 1-2 pods, depending on size
Turmeric ground: 1 TSP
Red chilli ground: 1 TSP
Coriander ground: 1 TSP
Salt: to taste
Water: 2 ½ cups

Tadka[3]/ tempering

Ghee[4]/oil/butter: 1 TSP
Cumin whole: 1 TSP
Whole red chilli: 1
Onion: 1 small, finely diced
Tomatoes: 1 medium sized, finely diced
Lemon juice: 1 TSP (optional)
Water: According to desired consistency[5]
Coriander: 1 TBS, finely chopped to garnish

  1. Wash the lentils thoroughly in water and keep aside.
  2. In your pressure cooker/ pan, boil two cups of water (high heat) with all the spices. Once the water boils, add the washed lentils, stir well once and cover the pan/ close cooker lid.
    If in the pressure cooker, wait till two whistles and turn off the gas. If cooking in a pan, you’ll need to cook the lentils till they are soft; take some out on a spoon and press to check. While the lentils are cooking, remember to stir so that the lentils don’t form a lump and don’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Just in case – should not happen but if – you find the water is evaporating from the pan and there’s not enough to cook the lentils, add another half cup water.
  3. Once the daal is cooked, take the pan/cooker off the stove and place another wok on the stove.
  4. If you notice that the daal once cooked is too thick, don’t panic; we shall fix it in the next step.
  1. In a separate wok/pan, heat the ghee/butter/oil on high heat. Once the ghee/butter/oil is really hot, add whole red chilli, cumin seeds, green chilli slivers and chopped onions. Fry the onions for 2-3 minutes till they turn pinkish.
  2. Now add the chopped tomatoes and cook, mixing well, for another 2-3 minutes.
  3. Add the cooked daal – careful, the oil is hot and it will sizzle and splutter – and mix well.
  4. Add water depending on how thick you want your daal to be; more water for thinner daal, less for a thicker one.
  5. Bring it to a boil on high heat then reduce heat to low and simmer for 5 minutes.
Your daal is done! Garnish with fresh, chopped coriander and serve with rice, roti or have it in a bowl. And don't forget to let me know if you like it. 
  1. Making the daal in a pressure cooker is much faster than in a covered pan. If you’re using a pressure cooker, the ratio of lentils to water I use is, 1 cup lentils : 2 ½ cups water. Different lentils cook at different rates; for red lentils, two whistles of your pressure cooker should do it. If you’re cooking the lentils in a pan with lid, use 1 cup lentils : 3 cups water. You’ll need to cook for about 20 minutes, checking and stirring the lentils intermittently so that they don’t form a lump or stick to the bottom of the pan.
  2. While the daal is essentially done even without the tadka; the latter process imparts more flavour. However, feel free to skip the step and have your daal as is.
  3. For a really simple daal, you can skip all spices except for garlic, turmeric and salt and it will still taste good.
  4. For thicker daal, add less water when tempering; for thinner daal, add more.
  5. A Bengali home favourite – one of mine as well – is to have daal sheddo (thick, plain, cooked daal) with rice. Simply cook the daal with water and salt, reduce the water (on low heat) till most of it evaporates and the daal thickens and mix it with rice and eat.
  6. Home remedy 1: In fact if you have an upset stomach, red lentils cooked using only salt and a little turmeric (say ½ tsp or less) is really good.
  7. Home remedy 2: Red lentil soup is also the vegetarian answer to chicken soup! If you have a cold, a sore throat or are simply feeling blue; make the lentils with salt, turmeric and 1 TSP of ground pepper; temper with cumin seeds, add water according to the desired consistency.
  8. Tasty trick: Leftover daal that you don’t want to eat? Cook it in an open wok till all the water evaporates. What’s left tastes really good when mixed with rice and can also be stuffed into paranthas.

[1] Cucumber type vegetable
[2] Indian glossary
[3] Tadka or tempering is a way of releasing essential oils in whole spices
[4] Clarified butter
[5] Degree of viscosity of liquid

Physically tired, mentally fired!

It's been half an hour since I came back from uni and boy! Am I fired up?!

I am also feeling extremely drained -- owing to classes and yesterday's mega cooking session -- however, I love it. No matter how tired, I really enjoy the sense of well-earned fatigued. It's been a while I've felt this envigorated and am thoroughly enjoying the sensation.

A productive day in all. Will write tomorrow as currently I am itching to get back to my little notebook and scribble away in it. Hopefully, someday, we shall discuss what's written in it...

Till then, see y'all and have a bloody good evening.

PS: Also, after a long while -- ever since I have been here -- I have plans of my own. As in, in coming days/weeks, I'll be meeting people who want to meet me because of 'me' and not because I'm someone's girlfriend. Since my career/job had been my identity for so long, it does get difficult sometimes not having a job...Or not knowing what to say when someone asks, "What do you do?" It was also irritating me to say, "I was a journalist". I am finding my way, slowly, but I'll get there. Am feeling positive. Unusual. Ta!


Little fatty...

I am fat. Checked my weight and I'm now 49.3 kgs. In November 2007, was 37 kgs. Not good. Sigh. Problem being the happier I am, the more I eat. I am happy and it's showing. Most of the weight rests between the neck and the belly button. Not bad but cannot afford anymore weight. The pic's from this weekend, we were at a wedding.

Friends over for dinner tonight. Menu for the evening:
Kebabs (for snacks) might team them with salami and cheese
Garden salad
Beans-carrots-potato subzi
Butter chicken
Chocolate butter cake with icecream for dessert (off the shelves both)

Current status:
1. Cashews made into paste (already ate half of them and did the rest first before I have to make another trip to the supermarket)
2. Will marinate chicken and keep it in the fridge to sit for a while
3. Then will put up mince to steam
4. Along with the daal on another stove.

Might put the recipes up, one at a time. Don't know yet, it's quite bleak and cold today and the light outside is not good. Why does that matter? Because I shoot my pictures in my backyard in natural light. I have no job, I am poor and thereby cannot afford lights.

Very happy cooking, Partner not too happy since he insists that the time I spend cooking should be spent writing. Not blog, but the book. Also got to finish 1200 word uni assignment. Damn. Should not forget that.

Am off; might update later...

PS: Ah, by the way, those in Delhi, Chennai and Hyderabad; there's a Spanish Film Festival on from 16-26th March. Check this out for more details.

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 cafĂ© for breakfast and right there on a huge blackboard are the words, “There is nothing as good as free tacos.”

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


Bangla beer, baby and burp

As I had written in my earlier post – Love and the holi mess – Partner and I went for a dinner to this nice couple’s home last night. Partner had told me that the boys had decided it would be a curry-cook-off between the ladies.

Given that our host’s have a four-month old baby and being Aussies do not usually cook ‘Indian’ food, our hostess had made some really nice butter chicken. They had made some real effort to make the dinner ‘authentic’ and had ordered some naan – which they called ‘naan bread’, very cute – and raita from their local Indian restaurant.

I had made the JB special lamb curry and Arundati’s baked banana ice-cream. While I will be immodest enough to say the lamb curry was bloody good, the ice cream was a different story. And not because there's anything wrong with the recipe! I miscalculated the time needed for the ice cream to set properly and put more cinnamon than I intended to and so we ended up having suspicious banana pudding-with-some-frozen-bits that tasted more cinnamon than banana!

Moral of the story: It is a stupid idea to try a dish for the first time and make unsuspecting guests your guinea pigs. The guests however were gracious enough to finish the confused-pudding-masquerading-as-ice-cream that was served. I was gracious enough (ahem) to serve only two tablespoonfuls.

On our way to their house, Partner wanted to pick up some wine. Now liquor shops in Oz are called ‘bottle shops’ and are more sophisticated than the Indian ‘wine and beer’ shops. For one, you can drive-in and pick your liquor while sitting in your car and no one stares at you (if you’re a woman) when you’re buying booze. However, bottle shops in Australia are like grocery stores in India: You’ll find one at every street corner. And then they complain about rising alcoholism?!

Anyway, Partner walked in and asked for a wine that goes well with Indian food. The result was us discovering the UK-made Bangla beer and the Australian, proud-to-be-Punjabi, ‘Nazaaray’ wine. I don’t drink beer – very un-Aussie I’m told – so cannot give you feedback on the beer and will update on the wine once I have tasted it.

The highlight of the evening though – if you excuse the banana-disaster – was that I got to hold the baby. So tiny, so bloody cute and such a good baby. He did not cry at all and in fact I am quite proud to announce that I was the first 'Indian' the baby laid eyes on. And I daresay he quite liked what he saw. There's another Aussie conquered. Ha, ha.

Here’s the recipe for the lamb curry; it takes patience with this one, but the effort is bloody well worth it.

If you’re curious about Bangla beer and Nazaaray wine, read these two articles:
Indian Express
Sommelier India


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.


The Russians never liked potatoes...

Personally, I find nothing more unrewarding as an unappreciative partner/family.

Sometimes it seems that the more you cook for others, the lesser they seem to recognise your efforts!

It has led to some fights where despite really tasty food being made, Partner will say something like, "But you did not need to spend four hours cooking this!" and me getting very upset and calling him ungrateful. Read full post here

The greater love?

What matters most in life? On one hand you have...

1. ... all your friends, family, a smashing career, you travel a lot and have every other material thing/comfort you could ever want.

On the other hand you...

2. ... don't have any of the above but have/live with the man/woman who you love a lot and who loves you a lot.

Which of the above options would you choose?



"Solitude could become an addiction; a canker of the soul, ever hungered for as much as it was loathed..."

(Elspeth Gordie, pg 93, in Ashling, Obernewtyn Chronicles, Book 3 by Isobelle Carmody)

PS: "...And, in spite of all the years of longing for friends, now that I had them, part of me yearned to be myself again." (Same as above)


Delicious matar-ings...


The other day a college mate in New York – we were ‘speaking’ after nearly eight years! – mentioned reading my post on sandwiches in Australia. I had mentioned the ghoogni in passing in that post. “I wanted you to know this,” she said and proceeded to tell me that reading the post reminded her how much she loved ghoogni. Read full post

Back to school

So today uni opened for the first semester for this year. Melbourne was quite bleak today...a winter day in the middle of summer. Since this is also enrollment time for the first years, there was a whole bunch of new 'kids' as well. If you can call 33-65 year olds as new kids. Shrug.

Seems like 'Edward Cullen' from the Twilight series is quite the heart-throb; everyone from 25-year-old bouncing young things to young moms gushed about him. Book stores here have everything from Twilight posters, Edward Cullen posters and tee shirts and even key chains with the Cullen family crest. Apparently, a radio show also interviewed a dude who BELIEVES he is a vampire. Given the fact that Meyer justifies the existence of vampires without drinking blood; something tells me this isn't the last we're hearing of 'humans' believing themselves vampires.

As for Edward Cullen, if you overlook the fact that he is a vampire, he is being called the 'perfect man'.

That Stephenie Meyer is a horrid writer was unanimously agreed upon. That every hot-blooded chick digs vampire Cullen was also unanimously agreed upon. However, since Edward did not exist before Meyer created him, is she really such a bad writer? Everyone after all IS gushing about her fictional character. The writing in the book is nothing spectacular, neither is the story-telling. However, she has created a fool-proof character for women/girls. A man who will not look at any other woman no matter how beautiful, who thinks of you ALL the time, who wants to spend every waking/sleeping moment with you, who thinks of you as his best friend, who makes crazy love to you and who's drop dead (pun unintended) good looking is Prince Charming in a new avatar. Of course given that only your blood 'calls' to him, he doesn't need sleep, does not need to work or earn money and does not have any guy friends (or other friends) to demand/share his time with you, doesn;t matter. Those are practical things and perhaps I am a cynic.

You might scoff at Meyer's writing, yet you're in 'love' with her creation. Funny. Hating or disparaging Stephenie Meyer's writing is perhaps cool, like it's cool to say that people hate Harry Potter. Or love Slumdog Millionaire, or hate it. Ah yes, the Slumdog questionnaire still exists. Now interestingly -- just to prolong the fun -- I also bring in comparisons with Danny Boyle's Trainspotting and City of God. For the sake of debate, how many out there -- who are reading and care to participate/share their point of view -- think there are ANY similarities between Trainspotting and Slumdog?

On a different note though: Is anyone SCARED by what's happening in Pakistan and the repercussions in/for India? First the Mumbai attacks. Then the Taliban takes over Swat and now cricketers are shot at. New Delhi is a two-hour flight or less from Pakistan. What happens if Taliban takes over Pakistan??? What if they bomb Delhi? So perhaps Pakistan -- or its non-fanatical leaders -- might not have nuked India... but is everyone so sure that the Taliban will not think nuclear?

I am very scared. Are you?


The Wait...


It's surprising that Linda Goodman and every other 'astrologer' worth their salt seem to insist that Taurean women have a LOT of patience. I say they are absolutely bloody wrong. According to Goodman and gang, I should be Venus' own child. Venus, by the way, is the ruling planet for Taurus. Again, according to numerology, 6 is supposed to be Venus' favourite number. That should make me doubly influenced by Venus... May 6th being my DOB.

However, patience is singularly lacking if you were to list my characteristics. Apparently, Taurean women are also supposed to have a 'serene' disposition. Snort. Currently the lack of both these laudable traits are NOT helping. I am going to sue Goodman and gang for dissemination of wrong information. I HATE waiting. Yet I have to...

For May 26th, for the release of Infinity Gate (DarkGlass Mountain Book 3) by Sara Douglass.
For July 17th, for the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, movie number six.
For September (or worse, March 2010) for the release of The Sending (The Obernewtyn Chronicles, Book 6) by Isobelle Carmody
For Lord-knows-when for the release of the yet-unnamed book four in The Inheritance series by Christopher Paolini...

And between horcruxes, the Sentinel project, Sapphira the dragon and pyramid-turned-man-
The-One, I am going nuts. Between Crookshanks and Maruman, I REALLY want a cat too.

Ugh. Might start on Bryce Courtenay's Australian trilogy. I have Solomon's Song, need to buy Potato Factory and Tommo&Hawk... Siiiiiigh. At least that story is over. Recently read his Sylvia and completely loved it. Do read it...
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