Lucy in the sky with diamonds

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I've been listening to this song for the past three days. Every time I listen to it, I can see this brown-haired girl in a white pinafore leaping across the skies in a cycle. And all around her, the diamonds are falling. The sparkles catch her eye and like in a badly shot advertisement, she squeals her excitement when each rock hits her head. I was listening to it at work and reading this really boring manuscript that bossman wanted me to read. I wish people would get over the Ramayana and the Mahabaratha. I like the epics and everything, but I think I'll die if I read one more retelling. I want to read something that doesn't have people saying, "O Respected Jatayu, save me!" I don't want to look at monkey kings with incredibly curvaceous human wives.

I read Zadie Smith's On Beauty finally. I've been wanting to read it for a while now. Quite good.

Yesterday, I went to the beach and read Franny and Zooey for what must be the millionth time. There was an old man experimenting on his camera phone. He asked his son, who appeared to be very keen to sink into the ground, to stand here, there, come forward, go backward etc for an eternity. And he finally took a picture in which the son was hardly there. I was quietly grinning to myself. I don't know why fathers, in general, take pictures so slowly. By the time my dad clicks, my smile is a grimace. My forehead threatens to explode. And invariably, I end up looking like I have ice between my teeth.

For those of you who don't know, the Cozee sardarji died a while ago. I went to this other place nearby and ate naan and chicken tikka masala. A funny waiter kept the plate on the table and said 'plate'. I promptly went into giggles and then tried to make up for it by burying my nose in my Franny and Zooey. I was all by myself and it was nice to look at these hundreds of people walking and walking all over the beach. It's easy to like humanity when you are watching like that. I felt distinctly fond of this bumbling drama-queen species. I went to the terminus and took a 29 C back home. Zen.

Today, I went to Landmark. I'd gone there last week and 5 copies of Aana and Chena were there on the shelf. There was only one today. Hopefully, that means they've at least sold 4 copies. I slyly put the book on top and then pretended to read it with great interest. I was pleased by my own ridiculousness. I bought Sula by Toni Morrison. I loved her The Bluest Eye- one of the scariest and saddest books I've read.

I've got work tomorrow. I'm going to listen to Lucy in the sky with diaaaaamoonnndddsss endlessly. O Respected Lucy, save me!

Lunch Looters

Were you one of those kids whose appalams always got stolen at lunch? Whose chips packet was mercilessly kidnapped and slaughtered without a courtesy ransom note? Did you strategize and plan escape routes extensively in the period just before lunch to avoid dacoits?

One would think that growing old would entitle one to one's appalams. That we can all eat like grown-ups without having to spit into our own food before beginning to prevent the lunch looters from getting into action (it never deterred the hardcore looters anyway). That as adults, we needn't share our lunch at all. Your box, my box. Respect distinctions. Respect borders. Walls. Boundaries.

But NO. The more I think about it, the more I wonder why we become adults at all. At least in school, you could whack someone and get away with it. Can you do that to a colleague? NO, YOU STUPID FREAK OF NATURE, I DON'T WANT TO GIVE YOU MY MUSHROOMS! I LOVE MUSHROOMS! KEEP YOUR FILTHY GREEDY HAND OFF MY LUNCH BOX! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY CHILLI BABY CORN! MY MUM DOES NOT MAKE IT THAT OFTEN AND I WANT EVERY BIT OF IT! DO YOU HEAR ME YOU HOSTEL-ILL-BRED CHUMP? I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL THUMP YOUR WOBBLY HEAD IF YOU RANSACK MY TIFFIN BOX AGAIN!

Professional life sure is stressful.

Every time Cow comes and menjufies my lunch, I feel a volcano erupting in my nerves. She never shares her chips. Or appalams. WHY in god's name should I? But how does one TELL somebody this? Somebody you are working with and all? One option is to hide and eat your lunch, but one can't do that every day. Besides, Cow has an uncanny talent for smelling one out right at the act.

The other day, I'd brought chilli baby corn and I was in no mood to share it. So I ate plain curd rice for lunch (which Cow didn't touch) and ate the chilli baby corn all by myself in my cubicle. I hid deviously behind my computer and rammed it into my mouth. Oh sweet delight!

Today, I have mushroom rice. Cow is a herbivore. I'm going to tell her it's chicken rice.

Podi saridhan!

Little Red Riding Hood had a grandma who lived in the woods. So she skipped along merrily with a picnic basket because that's how a happy child lives. There were flowers in the forest and berries, too. There was a big yellow sun and it hung from the sky like a festoon of gold. There was nothing funny happening, but Little Red Riding Hood smiled anyway. It is important to keep appearances when one is visiting a relative with a spotty liver.

She skipped and sang and met no wolf. Which dashed her expectations to the ground. What is life without romance? Without a teasing claw that slashes secret codes of terror upon the silver bark of ageing trees? How boring peace time is! If there are no soft shadows dogging your feet, what good a sun with so much light?

Grandma was a fussy lady who wore bonnets with lace edges. Full-sleeved gowns. Little Red Riding Hood, so bored by her safety, so struck by her lack of panic, set the picnic basket on the table and gave her grandma a half-smile.

But grandma was a wolf, after all. With fur and fangs. And rancid breath. The yellow teeth gleamed so dully. The tail swung like fate. Before Little Red Riding Hood could be pleased about her tragic end, the wolf was upon her. Her red hood hid the last thought that popped in her burning head, "Grandma!"