Past Imperfect

Mia will be ONE year old next month and frankly it's making me feel quite strange. There's the bit about where-did-the-year go. Then the bit where I go, "Oh my god, my baby is not a baby anymore!" Then I start thinking that it's been three years since I had a proper job, i.e. as a journalist. And I wonder if this is the end of my media career. But then I think I really don't want to put her in childcare unless we really need the money. Amidst all that thinking/wondering, I realise that soon it will be five years that I have been writing this blog. Well, this is more or less the same as Emancipation of Eve; I just gave the old blog a new name.

So much has changed over the last five years. It amazes me at some times and totally scares me at others. There are so many amazing bits. Mia, Partner, living here, a terrific rapport with my parents, a new family I love... In five years I've gone from smoking 10 (and more) joints a day, spitting mad at the world to not having had a cigarette in the last five days. I am wearing nicotine patches, but it's a start. The scary bit is that none of it was planned, everything just happened. So it could also un-happen right? That's what scares me but I'm not going to be chicken shit. Jo hoga dekha jayega. :)

Here's what was happening with me this day, on this blog in the (five) years passed:

Wintersmith

Melbourne is getting colder by the day. The minimum for today is six degrees celcius with a max of 15. Mia is having her morning snooze – should be up any minute – and I am still sitting in my favourite flannel pyjamas and a huge, brown sweater that makes me look like a mini woolly mammoth. But it’s super comfortable. As I type this, I am looking out at the little space we call our backyard: There are browning willow leaves everywhere. The trees are nearly bare-limbed, quickly shedding the remnant of their leaves, preparing to go easy for the winter. If I look out of my kitchen window, it’s the same story. The kitchen window overlooks another neighbour’s backyard with its many fruit trees. There is not a single leaf to be seen on any of the trees and they look very cold.

Hello Beautiful

The stretch marks on my belly are erase-proof, my sagging breasts defy any attempts at upliftment and the daily-emerging wrinkles on my face make me really, really consider botox. I don’t believe I just mentioned “sagging” and “my breasts” in the same sentence. But you see, that’s what has happened. I am mother to an 11-month-old baby girl and since having my daughter, my whole concept of ‘beautiful’ has done a volte-face. It’s not about me anymore, not about what I consider beautiful. What then will I teach her about beauty?

The fire within

1998-1999. I had recently moved to Delhi with my parents. So many things were new. Opinions were new, I discovered I had them, I was allowed to state them and no one said, "You can't say that because I am your father."

The biggest shock though was calling "seniors" by their names... In the army, everyone is aunty or uncle, even those just two years older to you. In the 'outside' world, you were judged by what you did, the stories you cracked, not by who's daughter you were.

The outside world was also not as protective as dad (or the army). I wasn't 'baby' anymore, no one was there to collect me from school. Older men weren't scared of my dad to approach me. Older women weren't maternal figures anymore, they had claws. I developed mine. I learnt to use the public transport system, to haggle with autorickshaw drivers, to not trust older men, be wary of older women. I longed to validate my identity, my existence.

I wanted roots. My roots. Delhi rooted me. Hah, literally. (grin) Jobs, houses, friends, lovers, attitudes formed, morphed, lost...gained. Heartbreaks, promotions, scandals (oh yeah), pets!, vices, gods... Everything was new, everything was different, everything was to be learnt, discovered. Ten years went by.

2008-2009. I have recently moved to Australia. So many things are new. Opinions are new, I have had them, I am changing some of them. I'm learning to respect other opinions as well. Of course, sometimes I forget. It's funny how from discovering you have opinions, we grow so possessive about them to let go...

The biggest shock was calling someone else's parents by their names. Toughest was calling Partner's parents by their names. Strange was when at times Partner would refer to his parents by their name!

The world outside India (and the media) is not the same. I am judged by how I adjust, what I learn and un-learn, by what I bring to the plate... Not by the stories I've done, the bylines I collected or who's girlfriend/wife I am. Both my press card and my Indian driving license mean nothing. My passport and the 'India' on it is my identity; legally and in many other ways. So far that is...

Oh yes, I also eat cow and am not in hell.

After 10 years of working for the best media houses, I've made sandwiches for people and cleaned tables. My resume has so far been worthless; even for getting a job at a bookstore. :) Friends, associates, attitudes, vices, interests are forming, morphing... No promotions or scandals (yet). Lover remains the same. :)

I moved so much in India, then moved out of India and now... I am stepping over boundaries, geographically, mentally, hell even physically. Like piling on kilos (hrmph).

It's like a dream. Things and places I read about in Readers' Digest and National Geographic, saw movies about, read in fiction novels... Those things, places, people are real. Real enough to touch. feel and taste (er, not the people).

I am happy and I am humbled....AND we are flying to three awesome, awesome places on Sunday evening. See if you can guess them?

Happy Birthday, 2009

Right. So this is it. The big 3-0. Would love to write more, but uni. Thankfully, no assignments today. First thing I thought of in the morning? "I don't want to go to school." :)

Where are you?

"Either you are thinking about what happened in the past or worrying about what will happen in the future. You forget to consider the present. That's the only trouble with you."

That's what Partner said to me two days back... Hate it though I may, he is right.

I don't regret my past, but I do think if I could have taken some decisions differently, done things another way. Perhaps the biggest past factor with me is thinking about people. I don't exactly nurse a grudge, but I find it hard to forget. I might think I have forgiven, but then at unexpected moments I realise I don't know how to forgive. It all comes back.

The future thrills me and scares me to death. I fear losing what I have, but even more than that, I fear that I might stop appreciating what I have. I've run from jobs, relationships, people... What if I do it again? Partner calls it my "second guessing streak". He says I think negative thoughts and either worry myself trying to prevent it or worse, get fatalistic and make it happen.

I can perhaps stop thinking about the past. But the future...? It confuses me, when people say "live in the present, don't think about the future". Will not our actions today affect our tomorrow?

Do you live in the past, present or the future? Try this quiz as well.

Pic = ScienceBlogs

Sizzling hot. Oof!

Scorching. Sweltering. Sizzling. Stifling.

That's exactly what the weather report here reads like for this week. Yesterday was my first experience of the heat of the Australian summer. Despite it being only 41 degrees -- I am from India, seen much worse, ahem -- the sun seems to sear through the skin. I could feel my scalp burning and my skin turning from the hue of milk chocolate to dark cooking chocolate in a mere five minutes. In Delhi, the heat radiates off everything... in Melbourne it does not radiate because everything starts melting way before that.

In 2008, I had pretty much managed to skip the Delhi summer. April-May 2008 had seen Partner and me travelling to the beautiful Leh-Ladakh (-->) and then to Kuala Lumpur for Partner's (<--) cousin's a wedding with a short, five-day stint in Melbourne. While KL had been pleasant, Melbourne had its winter then. Subsequently, once we moved here in July 2008, I had altogether managed to skip the Delhi summer. The last year also saw Melbourne having a freak summer where instead of it warming up in December, most of that month and January fluctuated between pleasant and wearing sweaters ('jumpers' here). Now apparently the state of Victoria is suffering a heat wave, the likes of which haven't been since 1908. At least 20 localities lost power supply, newspapers suggested that people without airconditioners move to shopping malls (er, with sleeping bags?!) and people walking on the roads seemed to be steaming, me included.

Funny that power cuts, heat waves, no water and no airconditioner was pretty much the way of life for me for a long while.

In June 2002, after three months of sleeping under the office table at the India Today Group Online office -- didn't have a house and was young and fool-hardy enough to think I could live like a nomad -- I had rented a one room hole in Lajpat Nagar. This hole was bang in the centre of Gupta Market, best known for salwar-kameez materials and mannequins. At night when I'd come back from work, the streets would be deserted. The only inhabitants were stray dogs hiding under cars and behind dustbins and hundreds and hundreds of naked mannequins -- stripped off their glittering finery for the night -- lining up the street that housed my hole. It was one of the most bizarre experiences. I would return from covering a fashion show or some party to be greeted by naked plastic men and women, staring dead ahead, oblivious of me or the dogs.

The hole was on the first floor. To get up to it you had to cross huge mounds of plastic wrapping, discarded cloth strips from the many local tailoring shops, dog poo hidden like land mines amongst the piles and paan (betel leaves) stains on every bit of vacant wall that wasn't already covered with posters of paan-chewing local politicians. Sometimes the paan was spat out on the politicians' faces, it really didn't make a difference though. Their sinister smiles and hollow promises seemed to overpower even the stains...

Adjacent to my hole were seven other holes, three on each side. Each of those holes had families of at least six living inside. All holes were basically one room. I didn't have anything other than a rucksack with my clothes, a Rs 300 moulding mattress and Papa's old Philips tape recorder. At any given time, you could hear at least three different channels from the neighbouring holes. It usually meant listening to a medley of Sa Re Ga Ma ( the antakshari show, Anu Kapoor used to anchor it back then), Hindi news channel with cheap ads Aaj Tak (remember PP Jewellers?) and some obscure soap opera at the same time. The only other sounds were those of husbands shouting for food, babies crying and old people coughing.

And I would lie there in the sweltering heat with only a ceiling fan. Rather a tired ceiling fan that was bored of circulating the stifling, non-existent breeze and refused to move at anything faster than the speed of 1. I earned a mere Rs 8000 then (without taxes) and was paying Rs 3,500 for rent. Before going to bed, I'd pour two mugs of water on me -- a borrowed bucket of water, there was none in the taps, landlord said it wasn't part of the deal -- and then lie under the tired fan. I could only sleep till my sweat-mingled-with-water dried off.

I didn't cook back then... had only saucepan and a plate and no money for anything else. Also the fact that the 'terrace' had bats hanging from the awning and the kitchen was on the terrace wasn't much encouragement. There was a charpai/ charpoy (literally 'four legs', a basic cot with criss-crossing hemp ropes) that I used as a walk-in almirah. Hah, it rested on its sides and my clothes hung on it... I was buying drinking water and the kitchen was full of empty bottles. When Ma came visiting and opened the kitchen door, 250 empty bottles of water had tumbled out. Ma had just sat down and started crying. I had still refused monetary help. The stupid resilience and even stupider pride of being 21-years-old...

Then and now. Friends had laughed at me when I had marvelled at the amazing shower heads in the Kuala Lumpur hotel room. But kya kare, I was amazed. (smiles) Either I am getting soft now or I'm getting old because I have borne much worse, without any or much lesser complaint.

Now I wonder if the basics of life -- considered a right here, how different from Delhi -- available at the push of a button provide enough impetus to start all over again. I have uprooted myself, but will I be able to re-establish myself?

When your mouth smells like cat piss...

... you should try and not breathe into the pillow. The odours off your own mouth can be really noxious.

The previous post was written under the influence of machine-gun-tequila shots. That is the variety when the shot glass is really big and you don't even stop to suck lime in between the shots and have all four one after the other...

The result is that you go from perfectly sober (was about to 'perfectly sane', but it was far from that last night!) to whoa-keyboard-keys-are-jumping-out-at-me in a matter of seven minutes. And in THAT state we went out...

There must have been something about my body language last night because suddenly eyes were noticing me... I was not 'behaving' drunk but I definitely had my I'll-burn-you-baby hat on. The waiters at the Vietnamese joint were smiling more...despite me having taken a couple of bites out of someone else's order. The bouncers at the club while ignoring the other chicks were quite 'flirtily protective' and of course my tattoo has always been used as an opening line by guys. Not just that, when smoking outside the pub, I had random conversations with slightly-better-of-the-lot guys and was dastardly rude to the muppets who were like "So you've been here long?" And I'd said, "No only at special times..this is a special time..." To which he asked, "What time is that?" And I smugly responded, "Time for you to shut up."

It was a very stupid comeback, but it worked. Because while that guy had been snubbed, there were a couple of cute ones on the side who liked it and laughed. Men can be such predators. When they see a lay, they are only too happy to mock one of their own kind. But it's okay. Women can be worse. We are only too happy to grab on and play anyone against anyone as long as our ego is pleased.

Ach. By the end of the night, there was a huge fight. I think I was flirting last night. "It's all in your eyes and shoulders," is what Partner says. Well, what can I say?? Perhaps I did flirt...

Flirting for me has never been a way of getting attention... it's been more of a way of tuning others and watching them perform exactly the way I want them to. I needed that feeling last night. In these six-seven months, I think somewhere has been a burgeoning feeling of losing control. So I ended up... Hmm.

Yes, I am in a relationship...but I think guys and girls both flirt to get some sort of I-still-have-it-in-me validation. So I've been home all this while; cooking, washing, gardening, reading cook books (for fuck's sake) and I was even about to be invited to a Tupperware party (shit). And all the kids at the restaurant I was working at are young -- 19-24 -- and there I was, 30. Thinking babies.

I went out with them one night and there was nothing in common -- They were so, free! -- and I was like a chaperone with them. ME! CHAPERONE! That's when I knew I was losing it.

Oh lord. Bas. Let's just say I really need a coffee right now. Last night was a close shave. Had I been single, I knew I would have had whoever eating out of my hands... or what/wherever else. Partner noticed too. We had a mega fight. :( Thankfully both were drunk enough to pass out after a bit. Now I'm about to eat eggs and am watching 80s videos on TV. We both woke up contemplating the pattern on the ceiling. And with huge headaches.

So that's that. It's a happy ending for the interim. But then he's turning 30 too...

PS: Of the 14 dogs, four were pups. The bungalow we lived in was huge, with big front lawns and back gardens as well. One morning we woke up and found the dogs dead. Some in the front lawn, some near the gate... only the four pups who lived inside the house lived. The robbers thought we had a lot of money and had poisoned all the dogs. Rigor mortis had already set in.

A cupful of orgasms

(check out the pink dumbells!)

My thighs have been deliciously aching for the last two days. A delicious thigh ache is usually caused either by really raunchy sex the previous night or by a new exercise regime. In my case it’s the exercise that’s the culprit; been doing some serious cardio-crunches-and-what-not for the last two days.

From weighing 37kgs in May 2008, I am now a healthy 48kgs. Only that most of the ‘health’ is accumulating around my thighs and belly. Boobs too. I have had enough of not fitting into jeans I bought some months back or my bikini bra strap snapping off because I am too heavy to be, er, ‘encupped‘. Ok, I am lying. I don’t mind the bikini bra not fitting as long as it’s the cups I’ve outgrown and not because my back is too broad for the strap (it isn’t, am still a svelte 24 inches baby!).

Knowing that I am more of a self-help kind of person - not into joining fitness clubs etc - I have bought myself a DVD and have been sweating it out with the trainers on it. Partner has been killing himself laughing and at his most-irritating, keeps imitating the way the trainers sound on the DVD. But never-you-mind, I will have the last laugh once I am in the shape I want to be in - Partner says he quite likes the way I am, what would he know? His main concern is that I would ‘shrink’ in some strategic areas (you know…). Hrmph.

The exercising apart, the Christmas season-going-into-new-year has been full of heavy socialising. Since I hardly know people here, most socialising involves meeting up with Partner’s school and college (‘uni’ here) friends. All the hello-hello with people has lead to some interesting observations and conversations. A lot of the talking-noting centres around sex -- not just me, others talk of it too, grin -- and how things are different in India and Australia.

While ‘picking up’ -- having sex with people you don’t know before you sleep with them (often not even after that) -- is common in both India and Oz, there are some significant differences. For one, unlike India where even people who have threesomes every night will pretend they don’t do it; folks are more open about things here. They don’t get into ethical and moral dilemmas about random-sex-with-strangers (or about sex for that matter, an Indian speciality I say).

Having said that please don’t assume that Australians are cool about random sex. Just like India, majority of the population here is conservative and looks down upon pre-marital sex. Virginity is considered a virtue too; though increasingly difficult to come by!

Another significant difference vis-à-vis sex is the complete ignoring of condoms or condom ads.

Going by the ads on the tele, ‘shock therapy’ seems to be the most-preferred advertising tool. From drink-driving to road safety to health issues and workplace safety, advertisements use shock to relay their message. If it can be said with a smashed head, they’d do it.

The society is also health obsessed… from ‘green TV’ ads (stupid, stupid ad by ABC with TV sets sitting on a jungle floor…what was the point?) to numerous ads on the latest tablet in the market. Yet, there is not a single ad that I have seen that promotes condoms. Given the openness about sex, given that the drinking age is 18 and is celebrated, given that the youth is allowed far more licentiousness than in India -- the in-your-face-variety, not the we-do-but-don’t-accept thing -- one would expect condoms and SAFE SEX to be a priority. Going by the ads, it’s not.

I asked the people I have been meeting about this complete lack of condom ads. The response -- by this doctor chick -- was that since the percentage of AIDS/HIV has gone down, condoms are not a priority. Yet the doctor also mentioned that STIs and STDs -- especially gonorrhoea -- are on the rise. Another girl mentioned, hesitantly, that it perhaps has to do with Catholic beliefs. The “children are god’s gift” kind of beliefs.

While I respect religious beliefs that promote having children… what religion promotes STIs? Or children who will be left to fend for themselves because the father doesn’t want them? Or maybe because the mother wasn’t ready? I don’t understand… isn’t safe, responsible sex supposed to be one of the stipulations of a developed nation/society?

One big commonality between Australians and Indians is the way both people get tight-lipped and judgemental about… Pornography. The research subject for my first term paper was user-generated pornography. The kind that has ‘regular’ people -- as against porn stars -- shooting videos of themselves and putting it up on the Internet for free. I remember it was my friend Pirate who had gleefully shared that link with me…

From snide comments to sniggers and oh-she-talks-porn looks from certain high-and-mighty classmates; I was amused by the reaction that my choice of subject elicited. But chalo, the silver lining is that developed country or a developing one, some things bother all of us. Yet… erotic magazines are displayed alongside The Age on news stands, Channel 9 advertises sex phone lines, primetime television shows have ample tits to save spending on lad-mags (read porn) and adult centres and strip bars are on the same street as the biggest shopping mall… Confused or couldn’t-care-less?

My research on user-generated pornography ‘taught’ me quite a few things… Like busting the self-created myth that I cannot be shocked. DUDE! Some of the things had my eyeballs jump out of my sockets and roll about on my keyboard. Other things though were quite, er, illuminating.

Like adding new words to my vocabulary… ‘hebephilic’ and ‘teleiophilic’; they don’t refer to archaeology. Or that there are machines for sex. No, it doesn't mean a man who goes on, and on and on. Neither does it mean vibrators. More like, er, ‘sexborgs‘! Or (still) disbelieving that women can rape men. And realising that the female orgasm is NOT a myth. There are cupfuls to prove it’s true. Or how menopause and old age does not prevent raunchy sex. Really, it doesn’t… but you don’t want to check it out! Or really understanding what exactly a she-male means (and looks like!) and er, the operational aspects.

Or realising that I will never use the phrase, "I am strapping it on" or for that matter never be able to eat 'cream pie' with a straight face. Or more educational observations like the fact that India might consume a lot of porn, but it is waaaaay behind in production qualities. Or that there is a brand of feminism called "raunch feminism". And how the most hard-core stuff does not use condoms. Real life imitating fantasy? What do you think?

Did you know? 89 % of world pornography is produced by the US.

On that note...watch this, my favourite condom ad:

18 again with more wrinkles

2050
nursing home full of senior citizens
with eyebrow piercings
- from 'Moving Melbourne through art', read on the walls of a Connex train.

I ate so much mango last night that my stomach still hurts. These days, I can best be described as well-fed. If I am not eating, I am reading and sometimes, doing them together. In the last four months, I've gone through four authors and 36 books. Primarily science-fiction-fantasy and yet not the books/authors that would put me in the voracious-reader-list. I have been reading, eating, gardening, cooking and housekeeping too much to write.

Happy new year to all. "Another year gone by." That sentence can be both jubilant and weary. The last year was a bizarre trip for me. At times uncomfortable, at others exhilarating. A whole lot of new things, sorely missing some old ones.

Another year gone by. I turn 30 in May. It's like turning 18 all over again, more wrinkles though. I would be of legal age to officially have skin-firming facials. Or to have missed the bus with respect to what-have-you-done-with-your life. It's also when it bothers me to not have a precise answer to the question.

A new year, the same old me. Or is it? There are changes. For the better and for the worse. I wear bright red nailpolish. I don't mind if my thighs jiggle a bit. I sincerely bless the girls who help wit bra-fittings. I am also far more conscious of my belly. I am (getting) addicted to chocolates. I am truly enjoying cuddling and think I am getting better at... (grin) I am gardening earnestly.

In Delhi, it was buying saplings from nurseries and watching them grow. Now I am also growing from seeds. It's extremely satisfying. Most plants are new to me here and some are really pretty. Like this tiny-leafed succulent variety called stonecrop. Yet I was very happy to discover a 'money plant' (pothos, devil's ivy) in a Bunnings garden section.

While the new is exciting, the familiar is missed. After joking about haldi (turmeric) in all Indian food - from pizza to chowmein - now I am missing the lack of it. Like I realised this Christmas that I wish I had done some things differently. This was my first 'family' Christmas. I wish in the last 10 years living alone in Delhi, I had made more of an effort to spend Diwali or Durga pujo with my parents. In my attempts at proving that I was self-sufficient (didn't need anyone?), I simply isolated myself. Hmm. So we shall fix things.

While I am in Melbourne, if I have to recreate the things I took for granted, I shall. While I wait for Holi, I will learn how to make laddoos and find out about rangoli colours. Along with the other books read, I am also getting into cook books. Mallu (fish) curry with appams, Moroccan lamb with chapatis, moussaka with garlic bread and rice vermicelli with crispy-fried pork in sweet and sour curry have been on menu recently. I am loving it!

Books I have read in the last 60 days:

Sara Douglass (12 books including the Axis and Wayfarer Redemption trilogies, Troy Game four-book series and two of Darkglass Mountain);
Stephen Donaldson (7, Thomas Covenant Ist Trilogy, Thomas Covenant IInd Trilogy and Runes of Time);
Terry Brooks (16, Sword Of Shannara trilogy, Heritage of Shannara four-book series, Word and the Void trilogy, High Druid of Shanna and Genesis of Shanna trilogies) and A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.

Looking forward to a year of regular posts!
PS: All pics are from my home, quality sucks a bit, it's from the phone.

Love, Sex and Lies: Surviving, Marriage

Today my parents completed 30 years of being together (32 if you count the two years of courtship) and to be very honest, it completely astounds me how they have managed to be together. Papa likes watching National Geographic, English movies and calls Hindi soap operas rona-dhona (weepies); Mamma watches soaps and loves Hindi movies. He was the most charming bachelor (think he was a player, never dared to ask so far, will do though!), a very good singer-dancer and an excellent public speaker. She was a beautiful girl, insecure, no talent for singing or dancing and a complete introvert. He had traveled a fair bit, had a sense of style, loved books and his English and had a sense of ‘class’. She had never been anywhere except her maternal home and Jabalpur, adored Rajesh Khanna, read only Denise Robins and Mills & Boon and spoke passable English.


They met at her grandma’s place, where he had come to visit another relative, slipped on a wet floor, she had laughed and he had been smitten. Despite their obvious differences, she refused to let anyone insult him – his family was known for their temper and he was short (5 feet 5”) – and he overruled his mother and refused to take any gifts from anyone. His mom wanted a carpet, a vehicle and what not, he refused to “accept” his bride in anything but “the sari she has on her body.” And that’s how he got her home. She got her Prince Charming but there was no kingdom. There was a baby on their first anniversary and at the meager salary Army officers got back then, they had to sell off whatever little jewellery she had. From having the most exotic and latest collection of colognes, the latest chart busters and a weakness for classic, expensive ties, he went to being happy with his quota of cigarettes, his rum and buying expensive dolls for his three-year-old.


As we grew up, she often complained about him not helping in the house, of being domineering and a tyrant. He in turn blamed her for being a nag, a party-pooper and for speaking “Mrs Pinto’s English.” She still cannot pronounce ‘statistics’ properly. Yet if he bought me my early books and read some of them, it was she who explained the meaning and encouraged me to participate in debates, dance competitions, speech contests… And they both stood proudly when we did well at school. The only times I have seen my parents kissing is when he would be going out-of-station; then too a chaste, gentle kiss on the mouth, with all attempts to NOT do it before the children. Hmm. I’ve never heard them exchange I-love-yous. Yet he completely broke down the one time she fell really ill. (Strangely, Ma’s never fallen ill! Touch wood) I was 14 and Ma was in the hospital and Papa had not shaved – blasphemy when you’re an officer – and had called me and said, “Mamma is ill, you’re the lady of the house, you have to help Papa, you know Papa is not too good with housekeeping.” That after he had refused to let me make tea because, “My daughter will not work in a kitchen,” from a man who needed his meal to be “proper”. After two days of washing dishes, I promptly fell ill (weak shit) and Mamma miraculously recovered. That was the only time I’ve seen her resting.


If I were to apply my Rules of Relationship Maintenance (as Partner calls them), their marriage should not have lasted. It has. Can I do the same, make a relationship last? Can you? Can we?


This is a cover-story I had done for What’s Hot, a Friday-pullout published for The Times of India; used to be their features editor then. Perhaps I'd do the article somewhat differently today... A two-years-old article (first published August 25, 2006), the questions still remain…


Age old marriage, same old questions

Armed truce? Loving someone else? Money? Kids? Jhoomur Bose finds out the little things creating big problems in marriages today

Infidelity is the flavour of the season. If the column space, film reel and talk time given to the phenomenon are anything to go by. Blame it on Shah Rukh Khan and Karan Johar for showing the ‘reel’ face of Indian marriage where couples fall in love with someone else and go looking for happiness outside marriage (Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna). But is that really the case? Are we ready to leave our partners for that elusive soul mate who might be waiting somewhere? Or are we looking for the love we thought we would find in marriage, but didn’t?

What’s Hot conducted a survey and asked 200 married people to find out if they would break their marriages for love—outside marriage. A whopping 73 per cent said they would NOT leave their partners for another. This is where it gets interesting. On the one hand, most say they will not leave their spouses. So if couples today are not leaving each other, does that mean Marriage has survived? Experts tell us that it might just have, but with a new set of problems and a new set of understandings. Marriage today means...

THE SURVEY

Is love with someone else possible when one is already married?

Yes: 73% No: 27%

If love happens outside marriage, should one leave the current

partner? No: 70% Yes: 18% Unsure: 12%

If a married friend leaves his/her spouse, will you be okay with it?

Yes: 72% No: 28%

If your partner falls in love with someone else, how will you react?

Will let them go: 57%, Will hurt, but will stay: 26%, Will have no issues: 10%, No issues if platonic: 7%


TOO MUCH, TOO SOON

“And they lived happily ever after” is one of the most tragic sentences in literature. It’s tragic because it’s a falsehood. It is a myth that has led generations to expect something from marriage that is not possible.” — Joshua Liebman, author

Expectations. The one word that usually sounds the death knell for innumerable marriages. The expectation usually comes with a ‘high’ attached to it and also with varying stages of ‘unpreparedness’ for marriage. Says Sanjeeta, clinical psychologist, St. Stephens Hospital, “Readiness to marry is very important when two people tie the knot. However, that does not happen. People today plunge into marriages with a lot of unreal expectations, when they are not even prepared for marriage and have no clue of what marriage entails. Disillusionment is inevitable.”

Take Ruth and David,* who were college sweethearts. However, once they were married, love flew out of the window as soon as they were confronted with the mundane tasks of life. While Ruth had been the princess of her house and hadn’t ever lifted a finger, David too had been a pampered child and was expecting his wife to look after him like his mother did. Result? Ruth felt inadequate, she couldn’t “live up to his expectations.”

Sanjeeta points out that it’s not the major flare-ups that cause problems in marriages, but the smaller, seemingly trifling issues. “When both parties realise that marriage is not a bed of roses, when reality hits home, the men turn alcoholic, even violent, and the women go into depression.” Tarot reader Poonam Sethi, spiritual guru Yogi Ashwani or Sanjeeta, ask any expert and they tell you of many, many couples who come to them seeking relationship solutions. “Don’t look at marriage as a key to the perfect life you’ve always aspired for,” advises Yogi Ashwani of Dhyan Foundation. Sanjeeta feels the same, “People want their partners to be everything they dreamt of. You have to realise that your husband or your wife cannot give you all the happiness you want, in the sense that they cannot be everything for you.” Have expectations but do keep them real—your partner’s human too.

BAGGAGE: WOULDN’T WORK

“If I did not succeed in marriage, how will my daughter succeed?” — Filmmaker Mahesh Bhatt on his then-unmarried daughter Pooja Thankfully though, neither her father’s failed marriages nor his optimism about her failure in the marital arena daunted Pooja when she married Manish Makhija. However, neural wave therapist and counsellor Ranjeev Malhotra will tell you that it’s not as easy to get away from the influence of parents. “People are insecure, even afraid of marriage. From what we see of our parents and things that happen with other couples, people come with preconceived notions about marriage. When we see a marriage or relationship failing before us, a context is created. Later when something similar happens in our marriage, we see things in the context of the past and not in the context of current events. People don’t do a reality check and believe that marriages are like this—that they’re meant to be broken.”

Dr Samir Parikh, clinical psychologist, Max Medicare, calls it the “desensitisation and disinhibition” of people. “Earlier there were certain social deterrents when it came to maintaining a marriage. However, with divorces rising, infidelity increasing and because of things you hear and see around you, those very deterrents are being pushed back. People end up thinking, ‘When everyone else is doing it, let me do it too.’” And he’s right. Payal, 34 and mother of two, justifies her affair with a younger colleague. “Look around and show me one happy marriage. It’s been happening for a while. So what if couples are breaking apart or sleeping around to remain married? Everyone is doing it—and as long as my marriage is intact, who really cares?”

Maintaining conjugal bliss is all about giving each other a break and not getting hassled about what’s happening with other marriages. As Ranjeev says, “Our upbringing, the relationship our parents shared, the marriages of our friends—all factors affect our view of marriage.” However, just because your friend’s marriage ended doesn’t mean yours will too. As Poonam says, “The smart ones stick on. The emotional fools wreck their marriages.”

(*Some names changed on request)

BASTARD MEN, CLINGY WOMEN

“The conventional Indian man is taking his shower when the conventional Indian woman —his wife—is having her orgasm.” —Dr Jitendra Nagpal, on how sexual incompatibility creates problems If parents and society leave a mark on the way we perceive marriage, preconceived notions about men, women, relationships also play roles. Ranjeev adds, “Most men and women carry certain tainted opinions about the other sex and most of the time we are busy trying to prove how the marriage will not work out. If the women think all men are bastards, the men think all women are clingy. What happens next is that the man thinks his wife is trying to ‘cage’ him and
starts staying late at work, staying away from home and suddenly develops a need for more friends to avoid her. Understandably, the woman feels ignored, rejected, taken for granted and thinks all men are bastards. She starts being too clingy, too questioning and tries to hold on to the man even tighter thus proving his point that women are clingy. It’s a vicious cycle.” For Sanjeeta, it all boils down to space and mutual respect. “It is always a good idea to keep some amount of formality in a marriage. The moment you stop respecting the other’s personal boundaries, your marriage begins going downhill.”

CASH: YOURS, MINE OR OURS?
Earlier, things were simple in a marriage: hubby went out to earn, wife stayed home. This cozy scene was spoilt once women started earning. Jitendra Nagpal, marriage counsellor and consultant psychiatrist at VIMHANS, explains, “The male has always been head of the family in the patriarchal set-up. Trouble starts when, even with changing equations and women working, we are hypocritical and would like to believe that the man is STILL the only head of the family.” Dr Vasantha R Patri says that the problem arises because a large number of married women do not have control over their own money as it’s still the husband who decides how the money is spent.

LET’S GO FISHING

“Couples are placing less premium on commitment and are constantly confused.” — Dr Sanjeeta Prasad “When you get into a marriage, you need to give your 100 per cent to it. However, given the socio-cultural changes we are undergoing today, an increasing number of young couples feel there are ‘more fish in the ocean’. Where if one partner does not work out, we move on to another, and another... But are these couples sure where their search for Mr/Ms Right will end? The whole attitude of ‘hua to hua, nahi to nahi’ won’t get us anywhere,” says Sanjeeta. Vasantha feels today women are fishing too. “Looking for love, sex and companionship outside marriage is nothing new to us. Look at the zamindars and maharajas. Today it’s different because the women want it too. Earlier they kept quiet, today women will have their fun too and will stay in a marriage for other benefits, not just the husband’s love or loyalty.”


WHOSE WORK IS IT ANYWAY?

“In the last 25 years, with access to higher education and more such opportunities, women have moved on to a more liberated attitude. However, most men are still frozen in time, 30 years ago. Among working couples, while both bring in a good pay packet, it is still the woman who has to do the housework,” says Vasantha. Ranjeev feels the man-woman relationship, particularly marriage, has also changed into a companionable human relationship of two individuals who share equal power. “It’s companionship that women are asking for, which the male is slowly adjusting to. Women want a partner, not a husband,” he adds. But do the men understand this?

For Jitendra, ‘division of labour’ has yet another connotation in the modern marriage. “The onus of understanding this social change has come to lie only on the woman. The responsibility of sustaining the new dynamics in a relationship is also on her, which adds to her pressures.” He adds, “When a couple comes for counselling, it’s funny to see them. Both parties would wait for the other to start speaking first, or one would ask the other to put his/her grievance first, or one would like to talk separately and not in front of the spouse. As a professional, there are many times when I can see that the couples themselves are confused and wondering—Where did we go wrong?”

Changing equations, both working to make the relationship work, understanding undercurrents or letting each other be—what do we do to rejuvenate our marriages into really fulfilling relationships? Jitendra’s take is that it will happen only when the men catch up with the women, who’ve zoomed far ahead. “All that the women need to do is be patient, particularly when it comes to men. As the Irish song goes, it is good to remember your husband at the end of the day is “just a man’.”

Right. But what about “just a woman”? Isn’t this placing the onus back on women?

Pain in the butt, literally

The most sickening scene I have ever seen in a movie -- Saw 2 and Hostel included -- was the scene in Ram Teri Ganga Maili Ho Gayi, Mandakini is breast-feeding her baby and Raza Murad is staring at her breasts. It makes me sick. Sort of that one scene made the entire man-breast-staring equation sickeningly clear. I got thinking about that scene when I was doing some much needed blog-maintenance today, both here and on the import-version on Wordpress. And god, it takes time.

The most irritating thing was to realise that the categories I was deleting on Wordpress kept reappearing and that I really had no sense of HOW to categorise. There was a category that read "First". Like first what, you idiot. However, all wasn't lost as I discovered (figured after everyone else already had that is) some cool tricks on Wordpress. Have you realised that it's REALLY thrilling when you suddenly discover new tricks/ utilities on a device/ tool you have been using for a while? You feel like wow-I-must-be-so-cool, five minutes before realising that everyone but you knew how to do that?

'Realisations' was another category and going through tags and categories I realised some of the things that are foremost on my mind... Parents, family, anger, love, relationships and, er, breasts were my frequent tags. I have written many posts about breasts. Mine and those that belong to others. Man-breasts too. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I wasn't breast fed? (Ma had caesarian and was too much in pain)

By the way, have been thinking a bit and a daily update on the Mishra's might get a little tough and somewhat boring, both for you and me. So perhaps will be putting out their stories once/twice a week. Daily episodes will also require me to spy/ walk-in/show-too-much-interest and knowing Mishraji, I don't think I want to irritate him too much.

Also wanted to ask you something, particularly if you've stuck around for long: Do you think this blog is all about sex? Relationships, yes, but only sex?? Please do write in, feedback on this is important.

That apart, the last two days have been more of tying loose ends, on and off the blog. For personal reasons, have quit my job and currently looking at freelance work that I can start in a month's time. So some discussions on that front... Will definitely keep you guys posted; if all goes well, hopefully, will still continue writing for ibnlive.com. I'll miss that place, a very cool boss and some crazy, creative, hard-working people.

Funny, this month I completed 9 years in the media; was going through some of the old pieces/articles I've written for the print media -- newspaper and magazine cuttings -- and it felt so strange. It's like just yesterday I was standing in the centre of this bustling market at Mukherjee Nagar for a story on student accommodation. I was three months old in Delhi and lord, how I fucked up that story. Sigh. Or my first "crime" story or the first dead body I saw (militant shot down outside Nizamuddin Dargah) or waking up under my office table because I had no home (hmm, stories there, but some other time)

I went to the dentist yesterday and after he was done scaling my teeth I have even greater, new found love for Partner. How he kissed me all this while... Did you know we can produce cement in our mouth?! My bum is hurting. My tail bone sticks out and when I don't watch my posture and sit on my arse, it hurts. Also means I have been sitting on my arse all day. And all this aching-creaking means am getting old. At 29.

But I STILL enjoy watching kiddie flicks. Two days back I saw 'Herbie: Fully Loaded' on HBO and enjoyed it way more than Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, which we saw this evening. Seriously, George Lucas and Steven Speilberg need to be hit on their heads for trying to insert aliens into everything. And what a waste of someone as talented as Cate Blanchett, was watching her last evening in Elizabeth: The Golden Years, and the lady is a chameleon. Class apart, love her. Ugh, also saw Die Hard 4 and I have new-found respect for Arnold Shwarzenegger; he's not the only one who does do-you-think-the-audience-is-stupid stunts with jet airplaces (remember True Lies, anyone?) Sheesh. Wouldn't have gone for Indiana had the power not gone off.

Have you realised that there is NOTHING to do during power cuts? What did people do when there was no electricity? Have you also noticed that whenever there is a power cut, mysteriously your cellphone will be on the last legs of its battery-power and will die out? And your other phone will have outgoing barred? And you will get calls from numbers you don't have stored and don't recognise and of course you cannot call back? (And by the way, Vodafone should be SUED. You get 15 phone calls from their customer care executive for bill payment but when you try to call the idiots, that IRRITATING voice will take you through all digits on your keypad but NOTHING will get you to an executive. AND they take your number, assure you they'll call back and never do. So what if they got the pug back on their ads, their service still sucks big time. Am soon going to swear off that brand for ever.)

Anyway... a proper post tomorrow, it's 2.20 am and I better hit bed.

Condom conundrum

I had always thought it was Papa's 'over-protectiveness' that made him dislike the idea of me talking or befriending any boy. I say 'boy' because the first memories of Papa reacting adversely to any male company around me goes back 20 years... I was 9-years-old and the said boy was 12. 
We were stationed at Jabalpur (Madhya Pradesh). This boy was a visiting relative of one of our neighbours. He was about two inches taller than me, had nearly blonde hair (called it 'English' hair back then) and very, very red lips. So he would play with us and we became playground friends. Till the day he pecked me on the cheek for some reason and there was "scandal" amongst the kids. I promptly reported the transgression to the Aunty whose house he was staying in; who in turn 'apologised' to my mother. That should have been that, only that Papa decided to have a mini-talk with me (over the years the length of those chats grew, much to my alarm).

The only thing Papa said was, "You stay away from that boy, he is not a good boy. All these Punjabi boys." After that I stayed away from 'Punjabi' boys for a long time. Till Papa found that one of my closest friends was a Tamil boy. Then he said, "All these Tamil boys..." and then it was "All these Jat boys..." and 'Nepalis', 'Sardars' and 'Christians' and so on and so forth. Towards the fag end of adolescence I realised that Papa perhaps just did not like boys. Or boys who were my friends. It was confirmed when I heard him telling Ma, "Ei je mein, ekta jhola-pora Marxist dhore aan be... nahole tattoo-kora Panjabi ke" (This girl will either get us a jhola-clad Marxist or a tattooed Punjabi boy) When I was getting close-to-marriageable, Ma said, very concerned, "Whatever you do, don't bring us a Christian, Muslim or Sikh." I pointed out that given Papa's restrictions and now hers added to it, there wouldn't be any/ many men left to marry. I had suggested a Nigerian and a horrified mother had said, "Bachcha gulo koto kaalo hobe". (The kids will be so dark). Funny because I am bloody dark-skinned too. Back then, it was a joke.

Mishraji's Musings, Chapter 3
Have you enjoyed sex yet?
My father also had a gun (two actually, licensed) and would often say that if I got him a "bugger" he didn't like, he would use it freely. Papa never used that gun (or perhaps I was smarter). Now Mishraji does not have a gun and uses rolled newspapers for causing physical harm. However, going by the expression he has been wearing lately - it's called murderous - one has no doubts about the senior gentleman's intentions.

Pinkiji's boundaries seem to have been relaxed since the last time one wrote (for reasons why, read 'But I love Sam, Papaji!). She is now allowed to come out onto the verandah. However one suspects Pinkiji has been asked to stay away from yours truly. Each time one ventures out and if Pinkiji is there as well, Mrs Mishraji can be heard yelling, "Pinkeee, andar aao." (come inside)
Despite feeling bad that the poor girl can't even get some sun in peace, one is mighty relieved that Pinkiji has given up blasting love songs on her tape recorder. Pinkiji's musical rebellion stopped when Mishraji killed the recorder, brandishing another rolled newspaper declaring, "Why fear when your love's here, eh? Let that "love" surface anywhere near my house and I will break his legs... like this," and with that the recorder had come flying out of the window. Since then Pinkiji has found a new form of protest, albeit a silent one.

Each the time girl is out, one has seen her wearing the same nightie and going by how her hair looks progressively more disheveled, one suspects Pinkiji has decided not to bathe. One was wondering how long the girl would keep up with her dirty-till-death attack when...
"PINKI! P.I.N.K.I. COME HERE!" It was Mishraji and to say he was bellowing would be putting it mildly. One happened to be hanging out clothes for drying and couldn't help but notice that a shaking-with-anger Mishraji was holding what looked like a neatly folded note in his hand. A cowering Pinkiji came outside. Yours truly shivered too, anything to do with writing and Mishraji usually assumes it's one's doing.

"What is THIS? Was that loafer here? Has he been passing letters to you under my very nose?" Mishraji was holding out the still-folded note. Pinkiji looked instantly hopeful then quailed under her father's withering look.
"No Papaji, it's not mine... may I have a look?" Pinkiji muttered and one marveled at her courage. Her father was not impressed.
"Don't get cheeky with me. I will read this aloud and if it is THAT loafer..." with that Mishraji opened the note. Everyone waited.
"Dear Jaanu," read Mishraji, nearly choking at the 'Jaanu' (my love), "Why are you avoiding I for three days?" he read, "Me have waited. Me love you soooo much and only you. Please cum soon. Did you get earlier notes? Same place. Your rosebud, Salma." Everyone was silent.
Mishraji looked ready to explode. "Salma? Rosebud? Is that a code word?"
"No, no Papaji, this is not mine... must be bhaiyya's," blurted Pinkiji and then immediately slapped her hand to her mouth. Mishraji's eyes narrowed. (bhaiyya = older brother)

"Your older brother's? Wah. I have sired a bunch of lovers... and SALMA? Both my younger children are doing it to me together. One likes a Christian, the other a Muslim. I will not..."
At that precise moment, junior Mishraji -- 22-years-old Tinku -- strolled in wearing Calvin Klain boxers, his usually spiked hair lying flat, milk packets in hand.
"Yo, 'sup? Wus dis all about?" he asked, doing a cross between Akon and 50 Cent (rappers for those who might not know) and stopped his hand-gestures midway, his eyes going from his father's face, to his sister's hand-shutting-mouth and finally to the note in his father's hand.
"Show me your wallet," Mishraji did not waste time, "Where there is one, there will be more notes. Who is Salma?" he demanded of his son, crumpling the note in his hand.
"Salma who?" retorted Tinkuji.
"Rosebud Salma," replied Mishraji through grit teeth.
"Ah. Salma Hayek..." replied Tinkuji, suspiciously eyeing the note in Mishraji's hand.

"Salma Hayek? Is she from this colony?" demanded Mishraji.
"She is from Hollywood..." said Tinkuji, trying to be brave, "Arre Daddyji, it's a..."
"Shutup. Show me your wallet. I want to see who else is hiding in there. First Sam, now Salma," declared his father. Tinkuji made no moves to give his wallet.
"Daddyji, my wallet is my personal property and..."
"SHUTUP! As long as you stay in this house, your personal property is my personal property since I paid for it. GIVE IT TO ME." Mishraji was in no mood for repartees. Tinkuji's quota of spunk had also run out and he meekly handed his wallet over.

Mishraji shook the wallet hard and things fell out. A calendar with Ganesha's picture, a half-eaten pan masala packet, a parking ticket, some coins and... a single, condom wrapper.
Everyone looked at the fallen objects and then everyone looked at Mishraji.
He was still staring at the ground, at the condom. With excruciating slowness, Mishraji bent and picked up the condom and held it up gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. Mishraji looked as if someone had punched him in the gut.
"What is...? Where did...? You...? Since when...?" The patriarch could not get himself to say whatever he was trying to say.
"Daddyji... I can explain... it was part of class project..." stuttered Tinkuji, taking a step back from his father.
Mishraji let his arms fall by his side, his head hung, "Bas, rehne do. I trusted you," was all he said. Mrs Mishraji stepped in and gently touched her husband's elbow, her voice though was steel.
"Tinku. Answer your father: Have you enjoyed sex yet?"
Mishraji did not wait for the answer and walked back inside.
(to be continued)

Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?

I have been to London to look at the f*cking Queen. And why the f*ck do you care anyway? Rude act for the day over, did you know that the Pussycat nursery rhyme has dirty connotations? Well, now you know and before you object/ support objections to sex education in schools, stop and think because EVERYONE has taught dirty things to their kids. (Neither did Jack and Jill go up the hill to just fetch water, ok?)

“I have traveled to a whole lot of places you know, but I’ve never felt the kind of pull I felt for this country… I have fallen in love,” said my friend as he grappled with a gruff Labrador with swollen testicles. There was a Lhasa Apso lying on the second table, wearing a depressed doggy-look that only dogs can have and with both its ears bandaged to its skull (friend’s not a perv, he’s a vet). Friend was speaking about Melbourne (Australia) and I don’t jest when I tell you his eyes misted over. I had felt something similar for Goa (south beaches, Palolem particularly) in November 2007 and would have chucked job and city to consider a little JB-shack-on-the-beach had I not been put off by syringes sticking out of the sands in the northern beaches. Some dudes also called me nangi-pangi – impolite Hindi word for nude, which I wasn’t – and that I greatly objected to. Not an ideal backyard and not the best of neighbours either.

On our weekend drive-down trip to Jaipur in early April this year, each time we passed a highway ‘resort’ – one of those fancy looking buildings with fancy names that stand in the middle of nowhere – Partner had regular fits at the idea of people spending money to get out of Delhi and then stay in bang-on-the-road resorts. “But WHY would anyone want to stay here? What kind of a holiday is that?” was his oft repeated, head-shaking refrain. Partner prefers gun-toting Pashtoons and eating rat-meat in Myanmar. For some, a holiday means a new visa stamp on their passports. For others it means documenting different landscapes, ethnic clothes and different cuisine on their cameras (and putting up on Facebook). For a majority it means going to your grandparents’ for summer or winter break (was so for a large part of my childhood).

Perhaps some prefer roadside resorts because not everyone can afford Rambargh Palace or a Neemrana or because some think a holiday is any place that isn’t home, even the neighbour’s house. Or when someone else serves you bed tea (meaning your wife gets to have her tea in bed too and not just bring you yours, ha-ha). For my mother a holiday meant when she didn’t have to wonder about daily menus. “It’s a holiday each time I don’t have to cook,” is what she said then. Now with kids and husband living away from her, she tries to usurp the kitchen wherever she goes, “But I miss feeding you all!” being her latest war cry. Mothers, I tell you and of course you can’t argue with them because all debates start and end with, “You will understand once you become a mother.” Whether it’s my mother, blogging-mother-of-two Mad Momma or society-mom-to-six, Shobhaa De; ALL mothers use that argument irrespective of the newness/oldness of their motherhood or their generation. I digress; we are talking travel today.

Travel for me has increasingly become an escape from ennui, from meeting the same people everyday (and on social networking sites), of doing the same things day in and day out (unless there’s a power failure when you don’t know what to do with your time) and a way to escape my regular self and make startling discoveries. And not all those will be nice ones…

Like I had not realized that I could look good smiling in pictures till I went to Goa and couldn’t stop grinning. Or that I could be a major whiner as I nearly killed our Jaipur trip by whining about everything from dog hair – Golu Dawg was with us and shedding kilos of hair – to no air-conditioner in the car. Or that I could relinquish control and NOT feel jealous when someone else did things better than me, Partner is a kickass photographer (and anyone else would have had me competing as well). Or that even when being an adventuress, I was bothered about how my hair looks (was in Leh in second week April and the wind there is SO dry, there is constant static in your hair, it fucking stands at ends at all times!).

Travel has constantly challenged and changed my perspective on a whole lot of things, inside and outside. Dad was in the Army and every two/ three years we changed cities. From the heart of India in Jabalpur (Madhya Pradesh, also my home town), to Agra the city of the Taj, to then-Calcutta now-Kolkata, Amritsar the abode of the Golden Temple and the beautiful state of camellias and gompas, Sikkim (rather Kalimpong, which is technically West Bengal); I don't think I’ve considered what it would mean to NOT travel, not change houses or not meet new people and new ways of life. Once settled in Delhi for education and subsequently profession – it’ll be a decade in June 2008 – I subconsciously replicated the house changing by moving homes within the city (16 homes in 10 years). Traveling and changing houses also taught me that it’s fucking hard surviving people and labels.

Some people and some places will welcome you. Everyone smiles in Leh-Ladakh when giving you directions and if you catch a stranger’s eye when walking down the road, you’ll be greeted with a hearty, “Juley!” (means Hello in Ladakhi) In the backyards of India, you’ll be met with curious stares. But if you can get over your skepticism and have a minute to talk, you will be offered chhaanch (butter milk) in the villages of Rajasthan. At times you will meet very proud people, some rightly so, some mistakenly so. Some might help push your car when the spark plug packs up while some will watch and jeer. You will also realize that the best food and service is not always at the most expensive place. A small bar on Colva beach (south Goa) will give you the best roasted fish and the most fun time of your life while a ludicrous hotel in ‘down town’ Ludhiana will charge extra for a 10 gram tube of toothpaste.

Some places will have nothing to boast of save friendly people. Others might have a fast paced life but not a single smile to spare. Some will give you two cups of tea free while another will overcharge for a bottle of cold water. Some places will have a unique way of dealing with traffic – people sharing autos – while others will have taxi drivers waiting to skin you. Delhi will always be labeled the aggression capital of India while Mumbai will always be the city of claustrophobic dreams. Or is it the claustrophobic city of dreams? Somehow I cannot shake this image: En-route to lower Parel from Mumbai airport, two towering, under-construction buildings, with two, towering powerful cranes on their under-construction terraces lifting concrete slabs and between the buildings, a double storeyed church with stained glasses and a crumbling crucifix. The church looked scared. The image is affixed in my head and bothers me, but I don’t know why…

City of Dreams, Mumbai like City of Joy, Kolkata? Labels that are smart marketing ploys or labels that are inescapable truths?

Speaking of surviving labels, I started writing this post from Mumbai – rather from our channel office at Lower Parel – I was there to participate in a show as a blogger and someone who "writes on sex". (smiles) (More details on the show once I get official clearance).

Somehow the word "orgasm" overpowers every other word and no matter that you might be writing other words like physical abuse, rape, child sexual abuse and even office politics or boob jobs, a sex writer is what you become. Why did I say yes to the show? Because strangely, after participating in Barkha Dutt's We the People episode on blogging, the nasty comments on this blog slowed down. The hit counts did not really change or not as much in comparison to the hits I get when say Mad Momma links to some posts of mine. But it's getting interesting… The more we talk about sex, the less difference it seems to be making. And yet apparently/ allegedly, I write about sex. Why? Simply put, because I love a good orgasm and because it shocks you.

PS: Check the slide show for some pics from Leh, point on pic with cursor for caption.

Shoot at Sight

How to do it doggy style...

Lesson 1

Doggie Lesson 1: If you want something, say it with your eyes and look sorry ---->

Lesson 2

<-- Doggie Lesson 2: If you have a good posture, everyone will think you are well-bred.



Lesson 3



Doggie Lesson 3: If caught on scene-of-crime, look as if you're
contemplating mysteries of life. ---->



Lesson 4



<-- Doggie Lesson 4: Looking hopeful is half the battle won - Especially when staring at the food others eat. Look optimistic, you never know when some might be thrown your way.



Lesson 5

Doggie Lesson 5: And if you get tired begging, just go to sleep -- NEAR the food -- and look cute. A bloody guilt trip ALWAYS works on the humans. You'll get some when you wake. --->

Lesson 6



Doggie Lesson 6: Waiting in the kitchen is another effective tactic. But since that is TRESPASSING, ensure you're looking all cute and cuddly when caught out.---- -->

<-- Doggie Lesson 7: Sometimes, you just have to BEG for physical affirmations of affections. "Pet me Mom!"

Doggie Lesson 8: Silence and sulking are a good form of protest. Non-violence ki jai! --->

<--- Doggie Lesson 9: Nothing should disturb your sleep, NOTHING.

Doggie Lesson 10: And no matter what you do, Mamma always loves you. Even if you fucking chew her finger, you shite!-->

PS: The big shite's called Golu Dawg (1 year, four months, half german shepherd, half lord-only-knows), the little one's called Princess Loona (8 months, also responds to 'Piglet', eats anything that moves, or for that matter doesn't! Half Beagle, half LOK).

Commonwealth Games 2010: The SCAM

Since some of you are reading here and checking, you SHOULD know: this is what I do officially, some of the time at least. Rest of the times I write features, fiction and farce. PLEASE do read these stories and see the videos. It is VERY important.

And Sheila Dikshit does it again and again and again. By the time the Hon'ble Chief Minister of Delhi goes out of power, she would have raped the city of its water, its trees and every single thing that makes Life. Delhi had always been known for its greenery... But if this lady and her so-called development loving government are not stopped, there won't be much recognisable in the city that was once Indraprastha. For those NOT aware of Sheila's other development plans -- Yarra to Yamuna anyone? -- please follow these links. All for development. At what cost, can someone tell us?
Commonwealth Games 2010: Real-estate scam, environmental disaster
1. Games village: Delhi's death trap
2. Games village: Flouting ALL environmental laws
3. Games village: Sitting duck for disaster
4. Games village: The real estate SCAM
5. INTERVIEW with Sheila Dikshit: 'Delhi should be second to none' (at what cost?)
Death of Delhi's trees

Just two more minutes please...

Mayuri stood there, in an orange printed saree and a green polka dot blouse that was tied between her breasts. Even through the small-white-flower print, the chiffon was transparent. She had worn her saree haphazardly, almost, as if in a hurry. Her face suffused with a strange warmth. She was pleasantly plump. Her hair, down to her waist, was open and she was standing at the window, smiling at someone in the distance. She and Arjun had made love for the first time last night. Arjun was 11 years younger than her. He was blind.


There was a knock on the door and four boys entered the room. “Where is Arjun?” they asked of Mayuri. She turned around sharply and upon seeing them, seemed pleased. “He just left for school…” she replied; and as she did, a very loud crash could be heard.


Everything went dark as screams of “Arjun has been hit!” “The truck ran him over!” “Someone take him to the hospital” “Call an ambulance” were heard. Mayuri just stood there, rooted to the spot. The one man who had loved her for what she was. Who had seen the softness in her despite her hard exterior. The one man who understood…a mere boy. Was dead. On the morning they had almost said they loved each other. And he had asked to stay for just two more minutes… and she had sent him away.


Mayuri stood there, rooted to the spot. Then her lip quivered, her chin, her eyes watered and as the tears rolled down her cheeks there was a wail….Mayuri, the prostitute, crumpled to the floor.

There was about silence for a split second… and then they had clapped. All of them. I was still curled on the floor, crying. The tears wouldn’t stop. But they were clapping. Some were crying. Before that, they had laughed with me as I had joked from the stage. THAT feeling. THAT sound. To have people move with you, believe what you are enacting. Sheer, sheer bliss. That was my debut on stage… September, 2004. The story of a 29-year-old GB road prostitute who falls in love with a 19-year-old, blind college boy. I loved every bit of it. One of my happiest memories.

And funny that she was there too… She who betrayed me and who I will never, ever write for again. OK. This is HAPPY post. Before I spoil it… ta.