Tuesday, 18 May 2010

Can a heavy lunch during work hours damage your brain?

We were sitting at this nearby restaurant, waiting for our food. The conversation was centered around the arbitrary use of English language in India and whether the average Indian really benefits from learning English in the Indian education syllabus -


AMg - Dude, I don't understand why Indian writers use such big words that no-one can understand. Do you think its because they want to sound intelligent? I bet they use a dictionary. Have any of you read Arundathi Roy? I think all these people keep a fucking dictionary open in front of them.

JMc (sounding really flustered) - Please, Indian writers are alright. Why the hell do we have to study Yeats and Byron in Middle school? Have you read 'The Solitary Reaper?' I don't see what the hell he wrote that poem for. I mean, who the hell reads stuff like that?

AMg- (very seriously) - Ya, that's true, but see, that's because in those days these poets were really intense and thought alot and shit like that. So they wrote stuff they felt deeply about.

JMc - (Delirious tone) - Like we cared what they thought about... I mean if they wanted us to understand what they felt and shit, they should've written it in simple English.

AMg - (Very very seriously) - Arre, that's what I'm saying dude. No-one should have Yeats and Byron in Middle School. That's deep intense shit, its something you'll connect with when you're stoned out of your mind. Trust me.


The waiter brings us dessert, and all of us take a moment trying to figure out what the hell we've been served.

Me - Ok, so what the hell is this shit?

AMg - Tuti Fruity.

Me - What the hell is that?

AMg - A bastardized version of fruit salad with ice cream.

Thursday, 13 May 2010

When in doubt -

Me - How was I to know honey is actually Bee vomit?


Chris - Yum!

Me - Wait till a bottle of my puke hits the shelves.

Chris - #&*@!

Saturday, 8 May 2010

The this, that and those days

I love Sunday mornings. I love waking up early, and curling up on the couch waiting for the sunshine to fall on my face. I love making coffee for my dad and pointlessly arguing about something we've seen on the news. I love annoying my sisters who love sleeping late on weekends. I feed my cats extra. I tidy extra. I go through my memory trunk and sit for hours in the spare room looking at photographs. I catch up with my girlfriends and we speak for hours.


I think everything I love about my life happen on arbitrary Sundays, a Sunday like today. Especially since every Sunday begins or ends a phone call with Revathi, the only kind of best friend a girl can ever wish for.

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

You know those days when you wake up and feel like Dita Von Teese?

Sunday was like that.


I woke up and realized that I had enough of it all - quasi-flirting, quasi-relationships, emotional insanity, betrayal, and 3 am phone calls. I was tired of being the person I had become, I looked into the mirror and didn't know the person I was staring at. Over the week, I'd had the worst spats and cut ties with a few of my closest friends. I didn't know what the heck I was doing to myself and the people around me.

But then Sunday happened.

It was the hottest afternoon in Chennai, and the temperature was soaring. People stood under any shade they could get. And I walked out completely dissed, hair uncombed, smudgy kajal, a ridiculous top and flip flops. Then I met him. And we spoke about nothing exceptional - the weather, the traffic and our so-called-lives. We sipped on lemonade in a room of apple flavoured smoke. And we did nothing all evening but walk around the block before it was time to leave. We did nothing but talk. We did nothing at all.

It was a just another Sunday.

But when we went back home, my head was singing. For the first time in long, I laughed at something funny on television. I picked up a book I'd saved for reading. I could think of nothing but chocolate cake. I reread NK's message and deleted it. I called my best friend and we spoke about random stuff. I felt weird. I felt uncluttered and free. My head felt woozy and my heart felt light.

The truth was that it was the hottest Sunday in April, and I was wearing this ridiculous top, flip flops and was perspiring. It was easily the worst day in the lives of many.

But who cared?

It was Sunday and I felt like Dita Von Teese.





Marriage in India is like some weird ass mating ritual.

It really is.


If there is one goddamn good reason that every Indian girl with half a brain would want to leave the country, its because we want to save our lives before being put up for auction on some matrimonial site. Not that marriage is a bad thing, you know, but the idea of marriage in India - the whole idea of picking-off-grooms-by-looking-at-photographs and checking off a mental list of his body stats - hairy, tall, bald, fat, thin, nose, penis of working condition, etc. and financial stats - does he earn enough to get me enough shopping allowance? Is he linked with enough powerful people? - this whole idea is twisted and beyond me.

An aunt I haven't heard from in a hundred years calls me this morning and this is how the conversation went -

Aunt - 'Meera, How are you. Heard you are in Bangalore? when are you planning to get married?

Me - 'I'm fine. Yes, I'm in Bangalore. Not anytime now'.

Aunt - 'When we were 18, all of us got married and look where we are, none of you children these days listen. You should get married.'

Me - 'Sure. Alright, I'll speak with you later.'

What I really wanted to tell my aunt was that it isn't 1960 anymore, and that women have ambition, and I can see where she is now and that's definitely not where I want to be so long as I'm alive.

I mean, this is marriage right? not fresh meat I'm shopping for lunch?

Where is the love?

Mum says that love doesn't matter. And that it will come. I wonder if she meant those new shoes I was planning to buy or some guy with a puffy moustache.