Incredible feats of logic

B had a check-up with the GP today, and here is what happened after a while once he got back.

D: Hold off on the samosa order for tomorrow from Swati. We'll get to it when we're there.

B. Oh, are we going back there for lunch?

D: No, not necessarily there, but somewhere in the area. I thought we were heading out to Devon for lunch.

B: Oh..

D: What "Oh"? Where else did you want to go?

B: No, I assumed we were going to Grande Noodles, and that is definitely not in the area.

D: What? Grande? Thai? When did we decide that?

B: I thought I mentioned it this morning in passing and you said yes... Or something like that?

D: No way. YOU'RE the one that mentioned the thali at Mysore today…. What on earth are you talking about? Grande wasn't even a part of the conversation!

B: ………… (brain-wheels creaking on overtime)

D: WHAT?

B: Oh, I get it. When the doctor cleared out my ear wax this morning, you see..

D: What sort of an explanation is that? Are you trying to tell me that information was clogged in your wax, and once removed, it had no chance to filter in and register in your brain?

B: Uh huh. Yep. (delivered in a "obviously, d'uh" intonation)

D: Seriously?!

B: D'uh.

D: Okay, this goes on the blog.

Today, the freak flag flies high

Welcome to Staticity

Fye, here is a small exchange we had this morning via e-mail.

D: ..Anyhow, how is the new moisturizer working for ya?

B: I will know by the end of the day. I actually like the way it smells. How do you like it?

D: Um, fine. At least, I'm not scratching myself like a jute monkey.

B: Lol, did you do that yesterday?

D: No, yesterday I just seethed and boiled on the inside. And then all that rage spilt out like a giant vat of ugly purple-green goop from a witch's rogue cauldron. A witch who failed her Potions lessons, mind you. But then you came along and cleaned it all up by just being sweet and giving me some food. My dear unafraid biohazard janitor.

B: !... What?

D: Welcome to my la-la-land, my friend. Blame it on the white owls on my earlobes if you want.

What got all this going was (no prizes for guessing) static. Yet again. Despite the war that our loyal little humidifier wages all night on our behalf, we're mired in mind games. It is almost like a Mexican stand-off between us and the light switches, car doors, remote controls, etc.. up until the moment we admit defeat and get zapped anyhow. My research (Google; not sitting cross legged on the library floor with giant dusty reference books around me) gave me options which failed miserably - touching warm metal keys, spraying that stinky aerosol, washing hands with warm water, staying moisturized. The last, which in turn, led us to spend a good 15 minutes in the lotion aisle yesterday at the store, trying to find a real good moisturizer that would not make me all dry and scratchy and static-y. And hence the freak exchange.

Zapped

Imagine a chicken with its head cut off. I'm running around much the same way these days with all the stuff going on. Add to it the insulting static. Zapped, every single time I touch anything around me. Thanks Chicago!

Of course, all this gives me one great excuse, every now and then, to ignore everything I have to do, and just plop down on the couch, watch endless TV, eat like a pig, and complain about the static of course.

Soda buddies

I sometimes find it strange that men (macho ones, to boot) notice things that I assume men usually don't. A good friend of mine noticed my new triple-dark purple nails last week. Somebody noticed my new black-and-white checked sneakers. A co-worker noticed my little puffy jacket this morning. A couple of others noticed my soda buddies (*tamil slang for eye-glasses) this morning. Men, all of them. Strange. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm usually SO dowdy and routine that when I try something different, it is about as subtle as a sledgehammer!

Anyhow.. soda buddies, I grant you, MUST be noticed. No point to them otherwise. Especially when they're the thick black frames that used to be considered geeky or nerdy, which are now all the rage. Such a rage, that I have three of them! All accumulated from my two trips to America's Best in the last four years. You'd think that I would have the common sense to get one that was classy enough for formal occasions. No, I had to have one in black, one in purple, and one with black and pink! Oh well.

In high school, I used to think that glasses would make me look very old, and that I wouldn't want to be caught wearing one of them ever. But given the fact that the whole family wears them, I knew it was inevitable. Then came the day in 2005 when I decided that it was not the distance in the amphi-theater style classroom that made the white board seem all fuzzy, it was just my awesome eye-sight. And hence the trip to America's Best. But given the fact that my power is a -0.25 (or is it -0.5?) I didn't need to constantly wear them - only driving at night in the rain or snow; or in classrooms or at presentations. But everything seems so much more clear when I wear these, that I'm slowly getting used to them. Plus, it makes me look cool. And chic, if I pair the right ones with the right dress that is.

Time for a check-up.. maybe next year? Might be time to add to the collection of buddies! A green one perhaps?

Laundry Days

The way we b*tch and moan about laundry day, you might think that we live in a village where we have to walk two kilometers one way just to fetch a kodam of water from the local river, walk back, sit down, and hand wash our clothes with nothing but a small bar of Rin!

What is the big deal about measuring out one cup of detergent, dropping the clothes in, pushing a button and walking away? And to make it worse, we even have 100% dryers here. Which totally eliminates the need for line drying. I remember the times back home, when I had to watch out for imminent rain, so we could rush to the balcony and remove the clothes from the line before they got wet. We would then stretch out some ropes in the guest rooms, and hang them there to dry under the fan. 

Now the clothes just jump out at you from the dryer all warm and soft and fluffy; and when you use the 'Perm Press' option they hardly have any wrinkles. To top it all, the washer and dryer are sitting in a small closet in your own home. I remember when I had to hustle to find the right time to get to the laundry room in the dorm basement so I didn't have to wait in line forever behind ten other students. I remember when the laundry room's card loader wouldn't work, and you'd have to trek to another dorm with your soggy clothes for a dryer cycle. Worse yet, there were the B'port days where my 'cozy' basement apartment didn't have any laundry facilities, and I'd have to drive four blocks to the Laundromat with its suspect machines.

And yet we complain! Every single week. Thankless souls, that’s what we are…

Inked

What is the one true test of a convent educated girl from India? Her handwriting of course! Penmanship is one of those skills they are hell (umm, no other word fit!) bent on imparting.. And I'm a successful by-product of the same. But I must confess, the convent had nothing to do with it, it was my mom. I'm so thankful to her for my great handwriting. I know they taught me to be modest in Moral Science class… but.

Which brings me to why I started this post. The fun thing about school-days was not the new bag every year, the little piece of chalk you'd use to whiten your shoe smudges just before morning assembly, the 'Yes, miss' 'No, miss' chants, or the fact that you couldn't ask for a bathroom break unless you were dying.. No, it was the ink pen. The glorious ink pen - Camlin, Hero or even a Parker if you were lucky - which they would insist you use. No ball point pens since they would screw up your handwriting. You had to learn to use the ink pen right - no blotches on the paper, no stains on your nailbeds.

I loved every minute of it.. so much so, that in a fit of nostalgia, I ended up buying a couple of Hero pens during my India trip last year. And today, I finally bought that bottle of blue-black Parker Ink!! How did I even live without fountain pens, I wonder. The grip, the scratch of pen on paper, the flow of ink, and the change in color as it dries up on the page.. sigh. I wish I could just blog on paper, scan it and make every post an image.. instead of this whole typing thing :)

Miscellaneous

I re-discovered my love for tinkering around with html and the good stuff. And voila, new look for the blog. Of course, I won't be giving up my Minima anytime soon. Nothing beats white space when it comes to giving any page a sophisticated minimalist look!

On a side note, I've been battling with a Chris Griffin style zit. Remember the one where the zit on his face mutates into a living being, takes over his life, and starts inciting him into doing unlawful things? Okay, things haven't gone THAT south yet. But, somebody sure has achieved a permanent resident status on the right cheek. Go away you.

I also managed to finish up 'The Palace of Illusions' - a book on Draupadi's version of the Mahabharata. Fascinating, to read a story you already know in a different person's perspective. I'd gladly recommend it to anyone that likes the Mahabharata..

And on grander news, Spicy Karma. Our attempt at a food blog. It will be interesting to see how we keep that up.. what with Mission800 also hovering in the background. However, given the foodies that we are, I'm sure our interest won't wane that quickly.

Mission800

Countdown timers, 2B pencils, scratch pads, sweaty palms, multiple choice questions.. here we go again. Every now and then, all you need is a good kick in the butt to make you start taking things seriously. Case in point - the as-yet-unpaved road to my MBA! After all the drooling dreams I shared with my friend in our PS2 days, about soft leather briefcases, sleek business suits, and folded newspapers in hand.. it is now time for some serious kick-ass GMAT prep. Goodbye procrastination! No more "let me see how well I can prepare before I decide on the date".

Step 1:
Book the date.
xx, February 2010?

Year 10, and counting.

And this marks the 10th year I have celebrated Diwali, and a lot of other festivals and events, away from home. I remember the very first one in 2000 when I was scoffing at the mass exodus of kids returning home for Diwali instead of staying over for Oasis. How could they, I thought. I was one of those rare non-home-sick kids, you see. Little did I realize that ten years down the line, I would be writing this. Had I known then of the trend that was to become this life.. what would I have done? Would I have gone back home just to spend some time with family?

I'm not very sentimental, no sir. But there are some things that tug at your heart strings every now and then. The smell of sulfur in the air, sweets, early morning oil baths, sambrani, poojas, kolams, pictures. They once told us in school of the unspeakable cruelty meted out to the kids in the factories at Sivakasi; the unsafe conditions, the long hours and the unhealthy atmosphere. That was the year we took a vow to not spend so much on fireworks - 1997-ish, I think? We'd stick to lower quantities, but we had fun nonetheless. I was afraid of the actual vedis, but the rest I was all into; especially the snake tablets, gem stones, mathapus and tara chakrams. Of course there were the new pavadais, payasams, bonfires, and all that good stuff. As a kid, that was all I saw in the festival... now I'd trade that just to be home for one week, lounging around with family!

Here I am today, in Cook county, with crazy fireworks laws - they even ban sparklers! One day, I vow to myself, one day I will be back in time for Diwali. Just not today :)

Minus robotic voices

You know those days when you feel you've reached the end of your tether? Today is the day. When did 'Customer Service' become a robotic automated system that would give you no option for a live helper? To add insult to injury, the only other way you can contact customer service is by writing to them. And mailing it! Yea, like as if we all don't know how that one goes down.

Right now, I would like to take that phone sitting on my desk, smash it to the floor, and jump on it until the shards and electronic components sink through this floor and fall into a giant vat of the most horrific concentration of CF3SO3H/FSO3H superacid mixture that magically appears on the lower level. Not that the stupid piece of plastic can feel any pain, but atleast it will melt away in the acid rather than sit there on the desk and mock me with that blinking voicemail light. Screw you voicemail!

I really HATE customer service. With a vehemence that doesn't surprise me. In fact, I wish I were nifty enough to hack into all automated voice systems and erase their programs. No more trying to tell that stupid voice recognition software that I said 'Yes' and not 'No'. No more punching in 1-5 through menu>sub-menu>sub-sub-menu>sub-sub-sub-menu, you get the idea.

Maybe I enlist a Don Cheadle a la Oceans11, who can come up with a bench-top version of the gizmo that powers the city down for 30 seconds. Only mine will be more target specific, and fry the fricking communication lines associated with every single automated service system. In fact, I'd ask him to conduct the work behind the scenes.. all I need is one giant red button that I can push, and laugh my evil-triumph-laugh, as the world wakes up to a day minus the annoying robotic voices at the other end of the line.

The sweet machinations of a hate-filled afternoon never fail to soothe my soul :)

Seeing Red

Excuse me, but would you like me to punch you in the face and break your nose?

Why, you ask?

Do I look like a Target employee to you? Not everyone wearing a red top in Target is a Target employee. So the next time you come up to me asking me where you can find cat litter or shower curtains, make sure your plastic surgeon is on your speed-dial. I've had enough with all of you!

Someone even asked B yesterday how much he gets paid as a Security guard at Target! All because he was wearing a red sweater, and had forgotten to remove his badge from work. Which by no means resembles a Target name tag, if you're wondering.

Seriously people. Are you THAT dumb?

The first 365

I could wax eloquent about the fact that we're reached a significant milestone. I could write poems about undying love and sobfests about soulmates. But that’s not how we roll, is it? If I could reminisce over the first 365 my way, at the risk of being clucked at..

- Ecstatic smileys peppered with exclamation points.
- Grunts and heaves for the total combined hours put into cleaning 1414 per freak standards
- Various exercise equipment tucked into corners and closets in the name of staying fit (!), including a bicycle that rarely meets the road.
- My toss-it-itis that affected B's hulk of a massager, a bag of Dove chocolates, and so on.
- Pretend fests that we're master chefs in the kitchen, sous chef and all.
- Excel sheets generated at the drop of a hat, for all possible reasons
- Furniture, furniture and more furniture. You'd think we've seen furniture before this in our lives!
- The Big Bang of up-to-date-electronics in Dee's life (she's currently quite swank in the department)
- HIMYM, BBT, Heroes, CSI:NY and Numbers
- Momo's, cork collections, aborted art attempts, Tiztal, Andersonville.
- The quest for the quintessential 'perfect' Chinese take-out in our zip code
- Over-eating sneaky birds that can hold their poop only as far as my car, and have to shit right over it.
- The sad farewell to the black Accord that has seen it all.
- Closet doors that never seem to be able to stay put together and one red punk dresser that we just cannot get rid of, no matter what we try.
- Jamaica, NY, NJ, SD, LA
- And so much more!

Now try and shake your head sympathetically at my unromantic tribute.. I dare you!

Fruits, etc.

In a fit of rage about failing miserably at "healthy eating", I piled on the fruits when I went grocery shopping. A few apples, a box of strawberries, a box of blueberries, and a few bananas. I'm going out on a limb here and guessing that this is a 'normal' amount of fruits in everyone's fridge? Whereas in my non-regimented life, this is very.. shady? What makes it even more shady is the fact that I have been stuffing my face full of fruits since 9am this morning, so that I don't let these rot. (Nothing worse than cleaning up rotting bananas on top of the fridge or the gooey strawberry juice that drips down the fridge shelves!)

Right now, it’s an apple. More specifically, the one deformed hunchback-of-fiji-farm apple that I (after much effort) sliced down using the slicer. And I think to myself - why do I even try to do this? It is simply not going to work, is it? All this sweet stuff. If an apple were to taste like tomato chutney, or the blueberry like jalapeno dippers, I'd be game. But no, all fruits MUST be sweet. Or worse yet, tangy. Arrgh. I hate you, you vile acidic little blueberry that creeped in amidst my sweet ones.

But I'm not giving up. Watch me!

09/02

Sometimes I like to convince myself that I'm not insane. So I justify my insanity with a series of perfectly delivered arguments. Like today, for instance. I just realized that another year has crept up on me, and that my birthday isn't far away. 3 weeks and 2 days to go. Or 566 hours, 12 minutes and 7 seconds to be more precise. Am I sad that I'm growing older? No, I'm freaking ecstatic that my birthday is coming up! I know I'm going to turn 27, and that I'm supposed to be feeling morbid about inching ever so slightly toward the big 3-0. Bah, humbug. As long as I get to wallow in self absorption one day of every year, I'm happy. (Without feeling guilty about it, that is. Else every other day would count as my birthday!) Who says that once you get old(er) you're not supposed to be jumping around like a twerp feeling happy that your birthday is coming up?!

But, for the record, I hate the day after my birthday. Facing the reality that my birthday is over, and that I have to wait a whole year for it to come again. Sigh.

Right now, however, I'm probably more excited than when I was a kid. No, scratch that off… I'd say that was a tad more exciting, since you got to dress up in school. And distribute those chocolates among classmates, and be wished by all and sundry. Aaah, the good old days. I remember I used to feel sorry for those poor kids whose parents popped them out during the summer break or any of the term breaks of the school calendar year.

Daydream time now. Hmm..

*Drool*

Picture this. I'm in Marshalls (or Burlington, or TJMaxx, or any other store for that matter). I'm making a bee-line to my favorite section of the store. I stand there, transfixed, breathing it all in. I'm sure you think you know what I'm talking about. But no, I'm not talking about clothes, or cosmetics, or handbags. I'm drooling at luggage! You ask why? I don't know! All I know is that I'm very attracted to everything luggage. Those new retro-pod looking ones with the zebra prints. The soft-as-a-bunny and pink-as-its-nose overnighters. The sturdy Samsonite in neon. The sober Docker carry-on in navy. That cute luggage tag with feline whiskers. The impossibly thin and beautiful garment bag.

For some inexplicable reason, I'm drawn to the luggage section anywhere I go. This is a sick obsession since I can't do anything about it! Its not candy that I can buy, eat and digest. It’s a space-occupying monstrosity that I cannot stuff into a closet! And its not even like I travel frequently or anything like it. Plus, even when I do, I don't check my bags in most of the time.. I make do with that sturdy gotta-love-Samsonite carry-on that my folks got me when I first came here for my Masters. All I can do is wistfully glance at the section every time I'm in a store and sigh and walk away :)

Batty

People that leave shredded bits of toilet paper on the floor, Dee hates you. Are you bunnies gnawing on it while you're trying to while away your time in there? Or are you thrashing around in yogic enlightenment that you destroy the paper that's the nearest thing you can get your hands on? Is it really too much to ask that you learn to cut the paper off at that ragged little edge of plastic neatly? Seriously people, grow up.

That Dee is crazy about order and symmetry in her world is known. She gets off on such episodes. When she works herself into such a state over something trivial, you better stay clear of her path and her hormones. Such entertainment.. that someone can get SO worked up about bits of toilet paper on the floor and the likes, but will probably not even bat an eyelash at the big stuff in life. She sure shows promise of turning into the screwed up crazy bat lady in that dark house around the street corner, hehe. Maybe B will save her heroically from the clutches of the underground bat people.

If he is not busy playing a cricket game, that is. That being never!

Blast from the past

Recently, I've started wondering about my parents' and their parents' lives growing up. What must it have been like? What do we not know about them? Maybe they were wild kids growing up. Maybe they had grand dreams and plans for the future that kept changing with time. What did they like, what memories do they hold dear? What random things did they think about? What cause or goal were they passionate about? What events changed their perspectives, and why?

I love it when I read novels where the present generation discovers a diary from their ancestors which gives them a whole new insight into how the course of their current lives was shaped a long time ago. How fascinating it would be to sit down and listen to those stories!

Of course, I could simply ask... Hmm. Maybe I'll come up with a family tree first and go from there. Imagine having a veritable 'History of the Xs' in hand. Of course, X will not be simple since by the South Indian tradition, the first name of the father becomes the last name of the child, and it is a never ending continuum. It would've been simpler had we all gone by the same last names! This will be an exciting project. If I move my lazy ass, that is :)

23 Pri Ave

To me, that was (and still is) THE address to be at. Not Poes Garden or Boat Club, or anyone else that laid claim to being the posh-est locale in Madras. Okay, maybe I'd make a concession for Boat Club road. After all, I've ogled at the houses forever while taking my driving lessons or the occasional walk through. Anyhow, memories of PriAv are pretty central to my childhood. Ah PriAv!

The veranda where I've stood during several showers loving the saaral and summer vacations that would bring out 'the bench'. The same veranda we'd run to when we heard the car's honk as it came through the common path. The common path I walked through to get to the waiting school van (and one I've endlessly driven my cherished bicycle and Nan her roller-skates on, for a while). The same common path that would flood during rains, and a stepping-stone-bridge of sorts would be laid to lead out. The stones on the curving landscape region that we'd re-paint once in a while with the kaavi color. The corners with the manathakali plants, and the various grafts and saplings we'd borrow from friends and family to expand the garden. The little green bugs that would drip down from the neem and asoka trees, hanging there by a thread, only to stick on to unsuspecting passers-by. The same neem tree that must've sprung the leaves that were used to soothe my chicken pox bout. The maravattais that would freak me out every now and then, and pretend to play dead by curling up. Playing random matches of badminton in front of the house. Squeezing into the trunk of the car for beach trips, and getting back home carefully, minus the mud as much as possible.

And the house itself, what a beautiful place! Shiny red oxide floors, countless rooms, curios full of beautiful things including Paati's 'Dressed around the world' collection of handmade dolls, and our medals and shields. Thatha's room with its 'office' desk and that little 'important' cupboard in the wall. Paati's always neat room with the loose pink face powder, multiple sarees, and the writing desk with red, blue and green pens. Mom and Dad upstairs with that picture by the Taj Mahal (or was it Charminar? Shame on me) window print. Nan and me (and Anandhi for a while) rampant upstairs, but unlike usual messy kids. A very young Nan being 'schooled' by Anandhi to pick up movie song lyrics, and calling Athai by her name, much to mom's mock horror.

Playing board games with the family during those days when the cable TV mania was non-existent. Playing endless video games during summer break with the cousins. The night when Dad set up our very first computer. Walking a tread into the floor on those long walking-reading aloud-memorizing-vomiting study sessions. Long and hard dance practice sessions in the room with the divans. The same divans that I would try so hard to stay awake on while I woke up bleary eyed to study in the a.m. (never an early morning person, even then! I wonder how Nan does it) Mom's distinctive anklet sound when she came up the stairs with that steaming cup of the yuckiest Complan Mango. Her weekend aromatic oil concoction with for yenna thechuvidal and the sambrani afterward. Enthu on the mottai-maadi every now and then. Trials on the staircase with jumping the last three (or more, if we were adventurous enough) steps down. Very vague memories of Sundar in a woven chair with an Eclairs for me when I returned from school.

The temporary heartbreak at moving into the ground floor. Getting to choose the wall colors from the swatch cards for our rooms. Cooking Maggi and attempting to plead my case to try my hand at cooking other stuff. The kolla-pakkam with its asbestos sheet that Thatha fell through (in an attempt to reach the nellikai/suppota?) The short lived kitchen garden amidst the vazhai trees that I've never really seen a banana on. Breaking the sweetest walnuts outside, eating delicious sugar canes at Pongal and spitting the fiber out. Trying to look appropriately religious and spiritual during pujas around the thulasi modai. Eagerly awaiting the midnight bonfires to signify the end of Diwali. The creaky well-worn comfortable cane chairs in the veranda downstairs.

I guess I could go on and on about the million things that made PriAv what is was to me. Of course, each experience relied on the people involved! And for that, I'm glad that I lived the charmed life :)

Here's to 23 PriAv of the past, and the 13 PriAv of the future!

All aboard -> All in

A sample from this morning's news feeds:
"Rescuers resume searching collapsed parking deck"
"Yemeni plane crashes in sea off Comoros with153 on board"
"Freight train derails in Italy, kills 12, burns 50"

And this is just today. Every single day more people are dying as a result of man-made contraptions compared to the Flintstones era! (Don't ask me for facts and figures to back that one up) You'd think you're betting more than at a high-stakes poker game whenever you set foot on a plane. Or playing Russian-roulette with your life, for that matter. Or maybe the much awaited doomsday is here, after all.

The long weekend is finally here. And I'm so looking forward to getting on that plane to NJ. Oh. Great. Sod it all, there is nothing you can do about fate :) Might as well enjoy what is left of this life on earth.

Important, or not?

I have some not-quite-Dear-John letters to write.

- One to my lovely city of 'Chicago', which refuses to believe that it is the middle of June and almost summer. Wake up already, I don't want it to be 55F outside right now. I'm not quitting on you yet, but you need to make your mind up about which season you're in, and stick to it.

- One to the ever elusive 'Dreamless Sleep'. Or for that matter, 'Sleep' itself. Do you hate me THAT much? What did I ever do to offend you? Other than the fact that I couldn’t put a juicy book down every now and then to heed your dark call? Do you hold grudges? Grow up, and put me back on your favor list before I.. I don't know what I can write here. Hmm... Anyways, I have had enough of confusing dreams, and the vivid realistic ones where I have become a mutant, an assassin, a student lost in a reconstructed high school horror, and the likes. Thanks, but seriously, no thanks.

- One to the ugly bag of 'Sona Masoori' sitting in my kitchen right now. When will you ever get over? You are the worst tasting bag of rice I have ever had in all my 5 years in the kitchen. You are vile, tasteless, full of dust, and so tiny I can hardly see the individual grains and decide if you are cooked or not. I hate you. Please get over soon, you 50% remnant, so I can go and buy myself another bag. All said and done, I am not heartless enough to discard your sorry ass in the trash.

Oh my God, have I become a Hater? Look at me!

While I sit here blubbering about my existence (does anyone really care about my bag of rice?!)... B is out there, a mile away, reading Oscillograms 'for future testing and knowledge purposes'. That settles it, I am officially back on the discipline wagon. I will not sit here and rot anymore, while people are doing important things with important sounding names.

Check the word out.. Oscillograms.. All the syllables, vowels and consonants. Sheesh, I don't even have a technical term right now from any of my projects that I can bandy about to convince myself, much less others, that I am important. Such are the times. I'm sure even Prancer and Nan have important sounding word associations at their internships, and are smirking as they read this. And so does DrDro who has reached the 12-component programming mark, and is working toward the 35-component run. Or was it 12-variable versus 35-variable? Anyway, both versions sound important enough.

Poor me. There, there.. Eat a pack of the yummy Pringles Baked Stix. Who said self pity is bad?

On a side note, I counted, and found that I have used the word 'important' in this entry about 6 times towards the end. Or 5 times in one, and 1 time over here while I said that I counted the number of 'important's.. Oops, there I go again, another 'important'. Maybe I should just consider it a system that loops, or rather folds into itself.

I will stop being a nuisance right about now.

Mapquest: Discipline

You know this little thing called discipline? Can someone point me in the right direction please? I'm just about willing to scour every store on earth to find it. I'm THAT off the discipline-wagon.

Absolutely swimming in an ocean of uselessness right now. And enjoying it, to boot. Well, when you fill your insides with delicious food, watch SYTYCD on TV and lounge about reading teenage vampire novels while it pitter patters outside.. I think this sloth is evident.

Time to dust off.. ah, maybe I'll lounge around just a teeny-weeny bit more.

Bad soup

I'm sure you've heard of finger foods. Ever come across finger bowl foods? Let me rewind a bit here..

Since B has a 'thing' for Ching's Chinese soup kits at Patel's, we've pretty much tried them all. Except for this one little packet for Lemon Corriander soup that has been languishing at the back of the closet for a while now. I retrieved it this evening when I really wanted to eat something, but didn't want to go through the motions of chopping or frying or anything else that involved me standing in the kitchen for more than 2 minutes.

Soup done. At this point, I must mention that I found the smell a bit fishy. But, in all fairness, I wanted to give this soup a chance.

The minute I brought that first spoon to my mouth though, it hit me. This was nothing other than a bunch of all the finger bowls from all restaurants condensed (dehydrated maybe?), smothered with some preservatives and thrown into a fancy pack. Shiny enough for people like me to pick up off the shelf.

Seriously Ching's, I'd rather drink my own finger bowl leftovers than other peoples'. Give this one a miss.

Fantasy indeed..

B writes, this afternoon:
Whats up?

I reply:
Nothing.

B writes:
Wow da…what a precise/concise answer. I always knew you had the talent to do something on these lines… Ok. I want you to start writing a novel. Completely fiction peeps. Can you do it? We can work on a plot together. Some fantasy novel like Harry potter/Twilight. Obviously it should be something new and original…you could make a lot of money! ;)

I reply:
I think you're delusional.
Looks like I have the writing bug in me after all!

B writes:
Haha… see… such precise writing. Why, if I may ask, am I delusional? I think you have the talent. You just refuse to believe it…

I blog:
Who does not dream of writing their own novel! Especially someone, like me, that reads almost a book a day..

I remember this one summer afternoon when Jan (one of my BFFs from when I was 2) and I, were bored. Both of us, in a flight of fancy, decided to write a novel. We were convinced that we would be the next Enid Blyton. Of course, no school girl stories for us. It had to be a jungle safari. What else! And the novel had to open up with a bang. Gripping the readers and drawing them in right from the first line where.. "She woke up in the middle of the night, startled". Then followed a lot of drama for about two chapters, by which time the computer conked out during one of those frequent power cuts (this was the time before the UPS) and all our stuff was lost. You'd think we'd have enough sense to save it!

And then there was the junior year in high school, when Zee, Bhare and I - the bunch of X-Files and Alien freaks - decided to come up with something sci-fi for a filler skit for some annual school show. And off we went. To this wonderful planet of aliens, with a single suction tipped snout in the middle of their head for a mouth, and some extreme body structure, etc. The comic story was chock-a-block full of weird chemical and mathematical names for aliens and places and events. And we were so thrilled with the outcome that we were expecting Hollywood to come a-knocking. They did knock indeed.. the school principal and the teachers, that is. To bring us back to reality :) Of course, we were their favorite students, and they just let us down gently saying, 'We thought of something else for the filler…'

So you see, I'm not new to these big grand dreams of getting published... Or a screenplay for the next big sarcastic/slap-stick comedy... Or a column a la Dave Barry or Art Buchwald.. Or, of course, the "In" thing these days.. Fantasy.

On a side note, I hit a 100 posts! Oh my.

Red, Amber and Green

I've had my eye on this fallen stop-light for a few days now. Really. I don't know how it got to the pavement on the corner of Peterson and Ridge, but it is there alright. Maybe some oversize truck brought it down, or it just fell off during a patch of bad weather. Like a ripe mango from a tree! All I care is that it has been laying there for the last few days, and my hands are itching to just cart it off. Imagine how cool it would look as an art-form in the apartment. Funky chic anyone? I can see myself lugging this giant stop-light that is about almost shoulder height, plopping it in the backseat and driving off like a petty thief!

At this point, I am starting to sound pretty strange to myself. And, needless to say, B continues to find me 'amusing'. Every time he thinks he knows me, I come up with something like this. Endearing, he says. Who am I to complain ;)

I am, however, not one of those pack-rats. I don't horde things that I don't need, or cling to petals, leaves, tattered paper, bottle caps, coins and the likes. I just cannot help that I have an artistic view of things, and can see the most mundane or weird things fit into an art-scheme. Like the little glass vase I have at home filled, 'packed' rather, with wine bottle corks from my friends. Of all shapes and sizes. That is the kind of junkie I am. After all, I'm the proud winner of a number of 'Junk-Art' competitions in my school days. Ah, such good times - trying to come up with something to depict very high-school-y themes like 'Unity in Diversity', 'India at 50', 'Modern Day Marvels' and the like.. with a shredded reams of paper, fruit peels, leaves, mud, bottle caps, straws, bits of glass, bangles.. you get the picture, yes?

For now, all I can do is reminisce about those days and dream on about the stop-light-that-could've-been-my-decor. I can hear it whispering.. 'I know you want me'!

Of strategies, scraped knees and air refills.

Dee is a walking-talking-rep for the 'Ooh, Aah, Ouch' ad. Iodex, remember? In case you're wondering - I'm writing in the third person, given my aversion to reading too many first-person narratives in several books recently.

Ok, she was on the track team at school. She has great stamina to last 2-3 hours solo on stage. And she is a trooper on all these nature trails and hikes.. minus the camping. But, if you know her REAL well, you should've noticed that she cannot catch anything for nuts. She is one of those people with the built in reflex to dodge things naturally. Makes for a hilarious team-mate at volleyball and the likes. But makes her ideal to last through elimination rounds at paintball.

So Dee is in total war spirit mode, gathers some troops, and is the leader of one of the teams. And of course, B is on the other team. Talk about Mr&Mrs Smith! Anyhow, her team won only one out of 7 games. Why, you ask? Because she kept getting shot at. BY TRAITORS. But the adrenaline kept her going all day. However, the minute she got home after the one hour drive, she started groaning.

Now B, as you know, finds this amusing. Apparently, she AMUSES him. While he was all set to see her weasel out after one round or two.. while he was waiting for her to throw in the towel and start complaining.. there she was, out on that rustic field - strategizing the bejesus out of the opponents. A few classy moves and she ALMOST won. Dee was pretty sneaky, and pulled out her complete arsenal of moves in the trenches to stay alive. But, of course, B finds that 'cute', and she continues to 'amuse' him.

In that one last game, Dee was almost the last man standing.. almost. Until her stupid gun ran out of air. And she happened to be the only one that did not refill her air cartridge thinking that it would last her one more game. Just great.

All said and done, it was a good day. And B is still grovelling about the quarter-sized bruise/lump on Dee's knee where he shot her.. at close range.. with 10 seconds to go for her to win.. Happy Mother's Day!

H1N1 anyone?

Oh my God, the swine flu is here! And my mind is working overtime with all the conspiracy theories I've read in my lifetime. That some ambitious drug company released the strain so they could make millions off the sales of the anti-virals that they have been manufacturing in secret for the last few years. That this is bio-terrorism by some vague group of individuals with access to a lot of money and power. That this is indeed the 'end-of-the-world' scenario predicted for 2012! Ooh, ooh, add the mandatory alien stuff to the list too.

For me, Reality and Fiction collide at times like these :) What if Confucius was indeed the Robin Cook or Stephen King of his time, and by suggestive conditioning/reasoning we have come to believe that he has predicted everything under the sun? What if all he was spinning was a fabulous yarn? I will always wonder if reality spawned fiction or if it was the other way around..

Well, all I can do right now is stay off the swimming lessons at the public pool. There goes my swimming career :) Goodbye Dheelps. (Deepika/Phelps, get it?.. *blink*! .. Here is where I should shoot myself for such bad jokes)

On a side note, Indro thinks I should blog about the fabulous BITSian life. Sounds like a monumental task. Maybe I will.. Soon.

On another note, I HAVE 2 FOLLOWERS! Ok, B doesn't really count. I slid bamboo skewers under his nails until he agreed to become my follower. But Nims, I'm honored :)

Ya Mon! Irie.

What better time to blog about a wonderful Jamaica trip than two months later on a damp, windy day in Chicago?! I wish I had gotten around to the Jamaica log a little earlier, since I'm sure I could've scrounged up some sarcasm then.. You see, I'm so obsessed with the sarcasm these days, I simply have to try and squeeze in a bit of it in everything I do. Wish it were as easy for me as it is for B!

I must start out by saying that I've always wanted to take a tropical island vacation. So when we got sick of the REALLY bad weather in Chi, we got so enamoured by the very idea of escaping reality that 'Swoosh' went the credit card in a couple of days. And we were booked on an all-inclusive vaca at Negril. No Beaches or Sandals resorts for us though - we wanted the real deal. But not so real that we would spend the entire vaca in a daze of pot smoke! So we picked RIU Negril.

Things I remember right now:

• The flights were easy (whats 4 hrs for someone who does 24 hrs every other year!), and the minute we stepped off the flight, I was in heaven. Imagine an airport with huge glass windows all around, a beautiful view, great stores, extremely friendly people, and yellow and lime green walls! The whole trip was an experience in saturation. The yellow/green/red/black Jamaican colors on clothes and turbans, our orange room, the different-every-day-blue of the ocean, and the pinks and purples of the sunsets. Color EVERYWHERE.
• Then there were the bus journeys to/from the resort on different ocasions. For anyone that has done the Delhi-Pilani bus route, or a taxi ride in Bombay, you've pretty much seen it all. But remember, we were the ONLY Indians the whole time. Imagine this scenario: A narrow single lane on each side, and the usual buses and vans on the road trying to make good time for whatever. And in between all this, a stopped car. So what does the bus do? Swerves while at the same time there is no sign that the van on the opposite side is going to let you pass. Hair's breadth. Normal, right? Apparently not to all the 'others'. I've encountered less screams and adrenalin on roller coasters. You'd think these people have never been in uncivilized traffic. Oh, wait..
• And then there was the curious case of the two Indians drinking from a real coconut. Behind whom a dozen white folk gathered asking what it was, and where they could score themselves a couple of those. The Jamaicans working the resort took us under their wing and decided to serve us true cold nariyal pani straight from the source. So, once we explained the stuff to them, they lined up, and got their coconuts. But what did they do? Made a bee-line to the nearest bar and added a splash of rum and pineapple in there. Some things never change :)
• Oh, and the its-like-we're-in-a-music-video day. We jumped on a party boat (yes, the ones chock-full of Canadian teenagers in bikinis, and some I-wish-I-didn't-really-have-to-see-that oldies in the same garb) one evening. It took us all the way out to Rick's Cafe, docked, let people do the famous dives and jumps, and we got back after the sunset. Bob Marley in the background, choppy yet strangely soothing deep blue waters, good pizza, free flowing Red Stripe all around, a lovely breeze. What more can a girl ask for?! Other than the fact that she wished she knew how to swim!! Add that to the list :)
• A Valentine's Day special for all the couples on the resort. Cheesy pictures behind a white-and-red lace-heart prop. Red and white balloons a.k.a DTPH's Chand ne Kuch Kaha. Game shows made to make the strongest of hearts blush. Late night discotheques playing a mix of Reggae, Dancehall and R&B. Beach parties with barbeques, live music and dancing, fire shows, contests, and what not.

I'd say this was one beautiful trip. Yes, B's back was killing him from the sprain the day before we left. But he was a trooper! So we got back on that plane to Chicago sad to leave, but still happy to get back home (which would imply we stayed for just the right amount of time, I guess)

Souvenirs:

2 Jamaica T-shirts in a green so bright, a couple of fridge-magnets, some Bob Marley wrist-bands to feel the 'One Love', a memory card with a couple hundred breath-taking pictures, some 'Ya-Mon' and 'Irie' picked up for vocab usage, a stamp on the passport, and a memory of a wonderful much-delayed-honeymoon :)

Langoustine

Langoustine? Eeeeew.

A random re-run of Iron Chef, and there they were. The secret ingredient. The beady-eyed critters. Sitting there on the table and staring at you - only to be split open to reveal a slimy inside, and some stupid symbiotic foamy creature attached to the mouthparts? OMG. Disgusting! And all those tiny little legs? The crunch when they were cutting them open? Eeeeew again.

For the record, I never get put off by the sight of meat. No matter what it is. Clean it, de-bone it, do whatever to it and I don't flinch. But this stupid ye-big sucker got me wanting to puke. The grossest ever. Period.

Here is why I can never go to a culinary school around here, over abundance of weird meats.

Hello table.

Ouch. Im losing it. My mind-body coordination, that is. This is the n-th time I've banged myself against a wall or a table while turning a corner recently. And it is almost always the same wall at home or the same table at work. HellloooOOO.. Talk about freaky!

Dear Mind,
Please make note of the fact that there are objects around you. I would be more grateful if I didn't have to endure a sharp stab of pain every now and then. Its not as if I don't process whatever it is you are relaying to me. So quit being a moron and stay alert!
Disgruntled,
Body.

Addition (Toni Jordan)

This is one of the books I picked up just for the heck of it from the 'Recent Arrivals' at the local library. Anyways, who would not want to read a book titled 'Addition'? Do people really hate math that much?!

Addition is all about a feisty out-of-work 30-something primary school teacher - Grace Vandenburg. What is different about her that would make me read the entire story? Why, she has OCD! Oh yea, and not the garden variety. She doesn't have to wash her hands every minute, nor does she have to line up her pens and pencils just so. She is addicted to numbers. They are her friends.

Traumatized by an accident when she was 8; everything she does, she counts. The number of steps to the store (the same one every time), the number of bites to finish her carrot cake (number of bites equals number of poppy seeds the chef randomly sprinkles in top!), etc. And she does have to do certain things by specific numbers. Multiples of 5. Why would anyone like the number 3, she wonders, so difficult to do the math in everyday life! So whether she is getting up in the middle of the night to measure her walls from end to end, or wasting the whole day counting the number of bristles on her toothbrush, she is ALWAYS counting. Else, her world goes out of order and she cannot breathe! You get the picture by now, I guess.

While it may seem like the book is set up to be boring, it is not. The back-story to her OCD roots, the way she gets petrified when her world goes out of order just because all tables at her restaurant are full, her stealing a banana at the checkout counter from the guy behind her (she HAS to have 10 in her basket!) that leads to so much more in her life - are all interestingly written. And the author manages to include some fun numbers trivia here and there. Mostly though there is a side story where she compares herself to Nikola Tesla for some fanciful reason. And those were the parts that just didn't grab me. I did understand her attachment to him just because he counted numbers and he would 'get her', but apart from that, I felt overwhelmed by the Nikola info at times.

Slowly, events happen in her life which make her check into therapy, and what happens from there is what should be left for the reader to find out without me blabbing about it here. But from that point on, I'd say the story is entirely believable and the ending is refreshing.

3 stars/5

P.S. What ARE these Cuisinaire Rods they keep talking about anyhow?

Xen Diary 1

Here I am, toiling away at my Xen event. Gee, what a joyride! Sarcasm, if I may.

Come to think of it, I'm usually an enthusiastic participant in all CI initiatives. But, you hit a tipping point - the one where 'Xen Fatigue' hits you. And I'm certainly not immune. The XF hit me on Monday, and has been coloring my judgement ever since. I'm quiet at the meetings. But more importantly, I'm not jumping around trying to lift things more than twice my size like I usually do! Oh yea, let the others take care of that stuff this time. I'm going to be the dainty girl one might assume me to be at first glance. Just crunch numbers, come up with checklists, do all the pretty stuff.

Better make sure you give me my lunch. Else B can attest for the extreme-opposite-of-sugar-and-spice I can turn out to be.

She did what?

Dee has become a new person. She has reverted to her old self, a la 2000-2005. She is less on the edge (not less edgy though, I'm still edgy!).. less high strung, rather. Its like someone slapped her on the head and said 'You're not you anymore!'. And just like that, the heavens parted.

So much so, that over Desi-Pasta and GeorgianXYZ yesterday, she generously offered to let B share her closet. Yes, THAT Dee.

Share a closet? Seriously?

Yes. Dee will no longer be bothered by such trivial stuff. Of course, she can whoop B's ass and make sure the closet fits her NQ(OC)-BA standards. What is that, you ask? "Not Quite Obesessive Compulsive-But Almost". Still wanna share with? Yes, B says. Plod on.

R.I.P. Saffron

This morning, I was all geek-happy about square root day (today is 03.03.09!) and then things just kept going south. To start off with, people had problems with other people, and said people were arguing for a major part of the morning. Then I was 5S-ing the lab all afternoon. Sore muscles and all, I made a sudden pit-stop at DD on the way back for a Boston Kreme (my first EVER donut craving!). And my pick-me-up, once I got home, was to cook something new and elaborate. Hyderabadi Biryani. Authentic. Cue: Cut to black.

I mourn the loss of my treasured saffron box. Yes, I lost my saffron!!! Unbelievable that I even blog about such a thing, but essentially true. I'd love to take the soap opera tack and blame the maid. But alas, said entity does not exist in this situation.. :)

That little rectangular box, with those precious few strands of saffron that I borrowed from my mom a year ago. Saffron of the highest quality, brought all the way from their days in Saudi. I would often look at it lovingly, as it sat in that little chiller box inside my fridge. Cozily wrapped in a little snack-size Ziploc bag. But I always waited for a big-recipe day to use it. Preferably mom's style Rava Kesari oozing with ghee.

Only, I reached the stage in my cooking where I went to bring the saffron out to soak it in a cup of warm milk, and it was gone. Just like that. No trace. And all the enthusiasm went out of me. Right now, I don't care two hoots about the biryani. Let it burn in the oven. Sigh.

A Good Indian Wife (Anne Cherian)

Another book with the Indian angle that I've been reading recently. I came across a brief review of this one in Yahoo! sometime last year, added it to my list, and got a copy of it from the library last week.

The story revolves around Neel (Suneel, that is), a 34? year old doctor in California who, by the devious machinations of his mom, aunt and taatapa back in India, gets trapped in an unwanted marriage. That being said, one might assume that you would empathise with the guy. On the contrary, I was just sitting there fuming at him as I turned the pages initially. The spineless guy does not extricate himself from the mess, but decides to just bury his head in the sand like an ostrich and hope it all goes away! When I finished the book, however, I thought to myself: how many times have 20-30-something Indians fought against parents and 'well-meaning' relatives only to find their so-called 'independent' spirit sag at the whole emotional blackmail saga? Understandable, his predicament. Neel has a white-girlfriend back home, and simply does not know what to do with his new wife. Add to that his 'good luck'. No visa issues to dump the wife back home, no spineless wife who would slink away at a challenge, no language issues since she is a Lit professor at a girls' college.

Which brings us to the wife Leila (rebelling against Neel's 'Lee'). Rejected by several suitors, and 30 to boot, she is happy to be getting married finally. She is spunky, for sure; but bows down to the age old story that the daughter's duty is to get married and bring glory to the family name, and more importantly, stop being a burden to her parents. So when Neel comes along, she hopes the suave 'Amrican' doctor will have jumped straight out of a Mills&Boons novel! Slowly she discovers that everything is not as it seems, and figures out that he is cheating on her. Her reactions at every step along the way, her blind acceptance of some facts, her desperation to live the life she dreamed of, are all well written. She gains her independence left to her own devices, finds a friend in Rekha and influences her, all the time refusing to get intimidated by Neel's attitude. The part where she struggles to be 'a good Indian wife' as her mother has ordered her to vs. dumping Neel's cheating ass and running away throws a whole new light on her character.

The ending is pretty predictable. But towards the end of the novel, you empathise with most of the characters, given their back-stories that are revealed in small doses throughout the novel. The believable flaws in the characters are refreshing, and while I wouldn't rave about this book, it is definitely a one-time-read.

A notable thread in the story: Leila's matchmaking sarees, and their cathartic effect towards the end.

3 stars / 5.

The Deep End

Sometimes I forget the very fact that I have a blog. Like the last couple of weeks, for instance. But that is because life has been snooze worthy. Yes, that is the right adjective. Ever since we returned from Jamaica (more on that when I'm more feisty!).

2009, up until this lovely Monday(!) morning, was divided into the anticipation-filled 'Pre-Jamaica' and the blah 'Post-Jamaica'. I decided that I was going to have to try and line up something interesting, so that I have something to look forward to.

And voila. What else but swimming lessons? Yes, look at me like my colleagues do. Like I'm someone who stepped off another planet or something. Like I'm saying that I do not know my name, or that I do not know how to chew my food! Seriously, I don't know how to swim.

Chalk it up to the fact that when I was about 8(?) years old, I had to pick either dance or swimming. Of course, I started off with both, and did a successful summer stint when I was 6, at Park Sheraton. But then, with the Arangetram not too far away, and with a conscious decision to focus on dancing, dance won.

Of course, I still have some niggling doubts about the fact that my grandparents thought that too much of swimming might make me too dark, and I wasn't really one of those porcelain skinned things to start of with in the first place (already in line for a dose of Fair-n-Lovely every now and then!) What a hoot!

And then there was the episode with the SIET swimming pool. Our mom tried to get me and N back into the pool, and we did the whole 'Mom-n-Tots' thingie. Only to find that by then I was terrified of the deep end, and kicked and clawed at my instructor until she just threw me in with all her strength. Ah, the good times :)

I must add that N, to her credit, plodded on a couple of years even after that and now claims (read: claims) that she can swim to save her life. Cheers N!

So, after that swimming was all but forgotten. But here I am, in the land where summers are glorious, and its a shame to not be in a pool every now and then. I did take some initiative and try to get myself enrolled two years ago at NW. All I got to do was eat humble pie. 5 year olds looking at us like we were a different species altogether, and giggling at us floundering adults, as they dived off the deep end and we trashed around in the 4ft end! Needless to say, that was a closed chapter. Plus, the work and the timings were all wrong.

But here I am again. Round 2. This time I had the sense to pick out classes later in the evenings that I could actually go to, and they are so close to home. Maybe I should get a new thread going on 'Deeps At The Deep End'.

To Pink Chaddis.

So, I was on FaceBook and spending quite a while there since I'm new to it. And one of the status feeds from my friends indicated that she had joined a new group: Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women. Grinning to myself, I sent her a message saying that sounded like an interesting group to join. And then I was curious. I went to the homepage of this group, and that effectively wiped that grin off my face.

Here we were again. Yet another incident courtesy the 'Saffron Brigade'. This time, an off-shoot named "Shri Ram Sena". I loathe them. I don't want to come off as one of 'those feminist beyotches'. But, my rant may end up showing me in such a light anyway. Who cares!

The background here, for the uninitiated, is the fact that around Republic Day 09, they had decided that women who were found in pubs and wearing 'western' clothes were of loose morals. And that said women deserved to be taught a lesson. So, they took the law into their own hands, and attacked (read: beat and molested) these poor girls.. who from eyewitness accounts were not even indecently dressed! Their only fault - their presence at the pub that day.

Now let me state for the record that I'm not a "pubber" or a huge fan of the whole drinking every weekend thing. But, I have the occasional cocktail. So what if some women decided they deserved a night out? Who gave them the right to beat these women up? What were they even thinking? Their leader, Pramod Muthalik (who by the way has 53 legal cases pending against him in a number of districts in Karnataka), explains: "... those girls who flouted the traditional Indian norms and levels of decency" deserved it. What!? Are you kidding me? Just because some women dumped their salwar-kameez for a jeans-and-tee, they became 'corrupt'?

And when did it become only the women who were wayward? What about the male population that drinks and smokes, streaks its hair blond, wears low slung jeans, and shirts tighter than the women themselves! Didn't Samaksh, Bharath and Baburam become Sam, Barry and Bob? Going beyond the basic "Americanization" of the names, there is so much that is happening to India as the youth take a step out of the country and experience new things. How else is a culture supposed to evolve? Are they going to clamp down on all people watching anything on TV that is not Indian? Or close the shores up and insulate everyone, and end up a stagnant mess?

But again, why the women? Just where do they get off on their whole macho 'we're here to preserve the sati-savitri-blah-blah' crap? Such a deep-rooted, misguided movement. Heaven help us all until the day they realize that such atrocious deeds are never going to stop a country from changing. For better or for worse!

For an exotic land that spawned the Kama Sutra, we are a bunch of hugely prudish people. Outwardly, of course! They claimed that they were trying to "preserve Indian culture" and refused to apologize. And that the whole 'aping the West' thing was degrading our society. And to top it all he had the nerve to claim, "We will stop at nothing until we return the land to the Hindus". And they've promised to be on the prowl this Valentine's Day to make sure the Hindutva triumphs!

While I love my country, I'm deeply disturbed by the political climate that lets such violent groups go ahead with their propaganda. Unchecked, these uneducated, pan-chewing (and spitting!) goondas could very well lead to the ultimate degradation of our society. While I'm no George Orwell capable of painting a 1984-esque picture, I shudder to think of the possible outcomes of such groups running rampant, and a hapless society forced into apathy. Why, here I am myself, in a country far away just griping about it; but what would I have done had I been there? What if one of those girls was someone I knew?! Scary indeed.

Find me this Valentine's Day at a pub in Jamaica raising a toast. Salud!

Three days to take-off.

Dee is at her desk, working on something. Look at her, sitting there like its just another day! Nitwit. I, on the other hand, am TOTALLY pumped. We have just 2 more days before we leave for Negril. Ah, 'Negril - Jamaica'.. the name rolls off your tongue.. like something exotic. Something that promises to be so much more than what it seems!

Though Dee and I are at odds with each other every now and then, the one thing that we can never disagree on is the thrill of travel. New places, cultures, people, sights and sounds. Bitten by the wanderlust bug. I have plans. Grand ones. They involve doing nothing all day but lie on the beach. Watch as many sunrises and sunsets as possible over the four days we're there. Revel in the glory of having no work to do. No agendas, no worries. No laptops, no cell phones.

Dee blinks. She knows I'm talking about her here, and she lets herself smile slowly. She knows she is looking forward to the trip so much. But, she plays it cool. Nervous about jinxing the trip. A little cautious about being over-enthusiastic about the whole thing.

Ah, forget it. I'm celebrating, and so will she. And when we're back, look out for (drumroll please)...

'Sun, sand and Speedos'!

My most expensive haircut. Ever.

- We've just opened a new branch of our S* Salon. Its over by North Ave. Why don't you stop by sometime, we've got 50% off on all hair services.
- Sounds good S*, thanks!

- B, I need to get a haircut. You know, so I look sexy and all, in the Jamaica pictures.
- Won't it be better if you wait until the week before we leave?
- No, I feel like it today.. hey, why don't I also try to color my hair while we're at it?!
- Sure, whatever makes you happy :)

- I'd like some partial highlights please, with a haircut.

- Oooh, this 'Cinnamon/Burgundy' looks good..
- Nah, not so much. How about this 'Nutmeg'
- Oh yes, that will look good on you.. We'll take it down with a bleach, and then add the toner.

- You know what, I'm doing more than partial highlights so it looks better on you.

- Ah *gulp* (Post-bleach-wash)
- It'll look better with the toner, you just wait.

- Ah *gulp* *gulp* (Post-toner-wash)
- It'll look good with a haircut done.

- Thanks so much, LOVE it. (Out the salon, 80$ and three hours later)

- *Wail*. I hate it. I look like a tramp.
- You're just not used to it, it doesn't look bad
- But it doesn't look good either does it?
- Why are you always so dis-satisfied with such experiments you do? Let me be brutally honest. Its not great, but its not bad either. Lets look at it in the morning and see.
- Serves me right, 50% off, and off I go like an idiot.

- Holy Crap, I HATE it this morning, more than I did yday night.
- Yea, I hate it too. Don't worry, we can set it right.

- In fact, I look lilke Kovai Sarala, remember when she turned her hair an awful color?
- Hmm.. now that you mention it.. Yea!
- *Wail*

- I'm nervous now. I read all these articles online, and they paint the worst possible picture.
- Come on, I read some too, you'll be fine.

- Hi, I have a hair-color-disaster-emergency. DO you guys have an appointment for this evening?
- 6.45pm (Gordon)
- 7.00pm (Michael Anthony)
- 4.00pm (Sine Qua Non)

- 4.00pm sounds lovely.

- Please help me Bridgett.
- Oh, poor you. Its turned all Orange-y. Its easy to fix. We'll get an even black all over for you.

- I've never been happier to see my natural black hair! (Post-wash)

- Ooh, I look sexy! (Post-blowdry)

- Thank You SO much. (Out the salon, 100$ and one hour later)

- You look lovely.
- I've NEVER been happier.
- That turned out to be the single most expensive haircut you've had.
- I was just thinking that. *Sigh*
- Hey, atleast, now you know. Consider it an experiment gone wrong :)
- I could've conceivably fed some orphans instead. Shame.

Born Confused (Tanuja Desai Hidier)

This book had many things going against it when I picked it up.
- Teenage angst
- Desi tableau
- First person narrative

But, it blew me away. Dimple Lala is a shy, confused teenager. Confused about her looks, her parents, her friends, her nationality, and how she fits into the grand scheme of things. And then comes the summer when she turns 17, and its a long process of 'finding herself'.

My favorite characters in the story are her parents. Yes, you heard right. Quintessential depictions of first-generation Indian parents in the US, the on-and-off accents, the traditional clashes, the 'Hai Rabba' phases. For me, they made the story what it is. The situations where their reactions come from 'way out of left field', colorful stories of their heyday from their childhood friend Rhadha's perspective, and their worry about losing Dimple slowly are priceless parts of the storyline.

Dimple, Gwyn and Karsh weave in and out of the story fluidly. Her photography hobby, Karsh's DJ-ing, and Gwyn's 'wannabe-desi'ness allows the author to sneak in several metaphors that don't terribly detract from the storyline. I love how the author ties in Dimple's love for photography with her love for her grandfather.. the way they cannot speak a common language except through photographs.. so much so, that they end up communicating via pictures eventually!The phase where Gwyn and Dimple fall-out and need their own space to grow apart and come together again makes for a believable arc. Karsh, a sweet boy, for the most part is a fixture around whom the events unfold slowly.

There are, of course, some parts where you feel the story drags.. but they're mostly the above-mentioned metaphorical stuff. But, I always read a book and visualize it at the same time, which helped me almost 'watch' it like a beautiful montage in a musical-movie.

After a long time, a girl-meets-boy story (and desi, to boot!) has several layers to it, and makes for an interesting read. No stereotypes, no done-to-death cliches.

Oh, and the type-written letters for the so-called Secret Saturday Outings, simply priceless.

4 stars/5.

Bookworm

I've always loved reading books. So much, that I always end up finishing them at the rate of a-book-a-day. Ask Easwari Lending Library, good summer business they've had from the account E-633 (I think?).

And so, after the reading-lull in my Pilani days, I got back to it once I landed in Chicago. Come on, who can resist such a great public library? And, all for free?! I was over the moon :) And then came the second no-books phase. Finally, I'm back in business, and faster than ever. Even if I hate the book, I end up reading it all the way through, just because.

This past week, I was on an inspired Indian-milieu/author spree. And boy, was I overwhelmed or what! For some reason, I have never really done much of these type of books. I haven't been a fan of most Indian authors because more often than not, to me, it seems like they just try too hard. The vocab, the premise, the cultural exaggerations.. everything. On the one hand, English is, after all, their second language. Some words they end up using thus clash with my usual Archer/Sheldon/Ludlum/Grisham jargon which is much more mainstream. And several authors use broken sentences or use heavy first-person narratives. Like the way I type stuff on this blog at times. In all, its a mix that has always put me off, at the risk of sounding snobbish!

One book took me completely by surprise. The other two, not so much. Maybe I'll pop up a review of sorts sometime soon.

2008/09.

My last post was a month ago?? Really! Time has certainly done a number on me. But here I am, in 2009, finally. Ah, 2009, I have grand plans for you.

2008 was such a mixed bag. I was at all possible mood-points that could be plotted on any kind of graph. That being said, I went around trying to filch a random 'mood graph' from Google Images, and pop it in here (of course, giving due courtesies, as required!). I thought I'd come across something like in those comic strips of the PhDHumor variety. Guess what were the first few links that came up:

www.psychsupport.com.au
www.mentalhealthclinic.org
www.gatewaypsychiatric.com
www.psycheducation.org

Umm, okaaaaaay (scratching my head). Thanks then! I don't want to further classify myself as requiring much help in that respect. I'm going to state unequivocally at this juncture that I, D.R.T, am extremely sane, and of a more-often-than-not-sunny disposition. Now that we have cleared the air on that issue..

New Years eve just came and went. We were so cold and tired that we just ordered in some Pizza and watched old runs of James Bond on cable!

Chi-city has been getting some real bad weather recently. So much so that last Friday was 9 degrees colder than the northernmost tip of Alaska, and just three degrees warmer than the South Pole. Three cheers to that! This drove us insane, and swoosh (creeeaaaakk, rather) went the credit card. Now we're booked on an all-inclusive at Negril, Jamaica for five days mid February. See, 2009 is already looking up!

Now, I'm sitting here, counting down to those 5 days of sun, sand and leisure.. its like I've been transported back in time to my school days, tiny me sitting on my desk, waiting for the bell to go before summer vacation starts! The wait seemed interminable then, and sure seems the same now :)