__
This is how I ended up marrying M. It's not the full story, of course. I'm a celebrity and I need my privacy. I wear cooling glass when I go for walks.
The story began, very romantically, on Valentine's Day in the year 2009. That's an explosive statement to make in the State of Maharashtra, but such is my desire to pour forth my emoshuns. February 14th, 2009, fell on a Saturday. Since we'd had a power shutdown in office on a weekday that week, bossman decided we were going to work that Saturday. But shall a mere bossman come in the path of true lurrve? Nevaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.
A and I had decided to meet up for lunch, you see. Since we're both Press people (A used to work for The Hindu and I work for a world-famous bunny), our schedules rarely matched. But I was in a mood to bunk that Saturday and so I did. We met up at Spencer's because that's where the kewl folks spend Valentine's Day, machi. Neither of us was wearing skinny jeans with embroidery, but it was otherwise very romantic. The last time I'd stayed over at A's place, I'd left my kurta there. So A very thoughtfully wrapped it in old newspaper and brought it along with her as a Valentine's Day gift. To emphasize the point, A drew a large red heart on the paper and also scribbled some mighty poetry to go with the mood. It wasn't an Archies' card, but so what ya? Getting back your stinky kurta washed and hand-ironed is a gift you will appreciate when you get married (I'm so glad I get to make worldly-wise Reader's Digest statements now).
So after the lunch, I went back home, unwrapped the kurta, threw the newspaper on the floor (sorry, A, sorry if your heart is breaking into pieces ya. Reader's Digest statement: you will appreciate your mum better when you have to pick up the newspaper later yourself) and was generally tra-la.
A week goes by. My dad comes to me and starts talking about some online law course he's doing. Apparently, there was an error in one of the case studies he read that day. It was a case about Raj giving Rahul a Valentine's Day gift and some dispute ensuing from that. My dad laughed and asked me this brain-numbing question: How can Raj give Rahul a Valentine's Day gift? With the air of an MA Gender Studies who patiently explains to the rest of the world the alphabets, I said, "Duhh. They were gay. Obviously." My dad smiled nervously and then giggled nervously. I said, "Grow up!" and walked away, shaking my head sadly at how juvenile parents are these days.
A week goes by. Suddenly, I am accosted by Worried Mother. Worried Mothers have been the same since black and white, pesum padam cinema. Worried Mother informs me that she might have just guessed why is it that I'm not meeting any of the wonderful PhD, Oosa boys in the matrimony market. I am puzzled. Worried Mother asks me if I'm seeing someone. I say no. Then Worried Mother brings out the ace in the pack: why did A give you a gift for Valentine's Day?
Things fall into place. The jigsaw fits. The world shakes and rearranges itself into continents. A was honored that my parents chose her out of my entire set of friends to be my girlfriend. I was vastly entertained by the fine piece of drama. I never saw this coming and the plot took me so much by surprise that I just had to applaud. But after I finished laughing, I was proud of my folks for having considered the possibility that I was gay and their willingness to talk. TV really does revolutionize the household! After confessing that I was straight, I decided to do the unthinkable. For the sleepless nights they spent since my hotshot date with A, I decided to meet one boy and one boy only to please them.
If I didn't like the boy, I'd be let alone for the next few years. If I did, then...
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Autogiraffe
__
I think the discovery of a grey hair is reason enough to make my personal Autogiraffe phillim. Mummyji, please do not read this and send me karuvepillai ennai by courier. I wore enough of it to school in the good old days when plastic lunch bags were diva material. It has not worked. Sorry to be the pall bearer of such ill news. At first, I thought the hair was shining in the light and was all ready to swish it and swash it and generally be a what-not (in the early days of marriage, it is important to swish and swash freshly washed hair to provide an atmosphere of romance). Just when I was thinking Meera shambu is the greatest, I noticed that only a hair was shining. Heart broke.
Look at me. Working. Married. Grey hair. Going for evening walks. How more auntyji can I become? Tut. This is the moment for nyabagam varudhe nyabagam varudheeeyyy. In the days when I was a youth. The hey-days. The scandals of Bohemia. All gone. Everyone's left to different-different places. N is in Ooty doing photography. A is in France studying.
A haiku:
If I now take the 29 C,
just who will I see?
This isn't a haiku, obviously. It belongs to the TR-couplet genre. But so what.
Life leaps ahead, children. Time and tide doth not waitees. It only seems yesterday that I went to kindergarten and reached the enviable position of Bharat Mata. And already, it's today, when...
Look at my hair,
it has become fair.
As an aged person, writing bad poetry is my privilege. I will spend my pension money and have them printed and who are you to ask.
I can't believe I finished school, college, university (that too in faaren), office (ok, not finished yet, but I feel quite finished) and got married also :O My life seems like a 10 second ad for long-lasting paint. Cha.
Soon, it will be time for hair-dye. All the jokes I cracked at you, dear parents, will turn to me and show their leery teeth.
Oh the days of yore,
now it is so bore.
Okay. I now have to make tea and eat butterscotch cookies and watch TV. Too much stress.
I think the discovery of a grey hair is reason enough to make my personal Autogiraffe phillim. Mummyji, please do not read this and send me karuvepillai ennai by courier. I wore enough of it to school in the good old days when plastic lunch bags were diva material. It has not worked. Sorry to be the pall bearer of such ill news. At first, I thought the hair was shining in the light and was all ready to swish it and swash it and generally be a what-not (in the early days of marriage, it is important to swish and swash freshly washed hair to provide an atmosphere of romance). Just when I was thinking Meera shambu is the greatest, I noticed that only a hair was shining. Heart broke.
Look at me. Working. Married. Grey hair. Going for evening walks. How more auntyji can I become? Tut. This is the moment for nyabagam varudhe nyabagam varudheeeyyy. In the days when I was a youth. The hey-days. The scandals of Bohemia. All gone. Everyone's left to different-different places. N is in Ooty doing photography. A is in France studying.
A haiku:
If I now take the 29 C,
just who will I see?
This isn't a haiku, obviously. It belongs to the TR-couplet genre. But so what.
Life leaps ahead, children. Time and tide doth not waitees. It only seems yesterday that I went to kindergarten and reached the enviable position of Bharat Mata. And already, it's today, when...
Look at my hair,
it has become fair.
As an aged person, writing bad poetry is my privilege. I will spend my pension money and have them printed and who are you to ask.
I can't believe I finished school, college, university (that too in faaren), office (ok, not finished yet, but I feel quite finished) and got married also :O My life seems like a 10 second ad for long-lasting paint. Cha.
Soon, it will be time for hair-dye. All the jokes I cracked at you, dear parents, will turn to me and show their leery teeth.
Oh the days of yore,
now it is so bore.
Okay. I now have to make tea and eat butterscotch cookies and watch TV. Too much stress.
Monday, February 15, 2010
A Saturday
__
This Saturday was no-cooking day. So, M and I drove to Pune University canteen for idli-vada-sambhar and over-sweet tea. After that, we thought we should come back home and sleep some more. Eating can be exhausting sometimes, especially when you eat too much. It's a pity nobody counts that as exercise. But when we got on the road again, M felt like going on a long drive. To the other end of the city. There were some nice places there, places I hadn't been to. Like German Bakery.
We drove to German Bakery but couldn't find parking space, so we drove on and went to ABC Farms...this place that makes fresh cheese. On our way back, we stopped near Osho Ashram and went to German Bakery from there. It reminded me so much of Leopold's. The atmosphere. The patchwork of skin shades. The smell of fresh food. The relaxed smiles on the faces of people. It was the sort of place where you could plonk yourself next to strangers if there was no free table and nobody would mind. The guy at the cash counter readily gave us change for a 1000 rupee note. I sipped my watermelon juice in a pythonic state of contentment. Life was good. M drank his cold coffee and we went back to order lunch.
There were so many delightful things to eat that M and I could hardly make up our minds on what we wanted. The pumpkin-banana cake? Tiramisu? Strawberry cream cake? Cheesecake? We asked, changed our minds, apologised, named something else...and all the while, the boy behind the counter did not frown a bit. It seemed pretty common for people to indulge in a moment of confusion here. He waited patiently and efficiently while we decided. And then, we wrapped it all up and went home for a lazy lunch before the TV.
That evening, we had plans with friends. To drive outside city to a club. On the way, we spotted cops with worried faces. It was the eve of Valentine's Day in Maharashtra. Obviously, they were worried, we concluded. They let us pass and I wondered for a moment if we didn't look kewl enough to be celebrating Valentine's Day. It was quite reassuring.
The evening had just begin to roll out when the calls began. People wanting to know if we were okay. I couldn't believe it when I heard that German Bakery had been bombed. I thought M was kidding when he told me. I had already decided inside my head that German Bakery would be on my list of Places-to-See when friends came visiting. I liked the noise of the place. The green roof (just like the Green Hut in Stella), the way the light slanted into the eatery, warming its people, the low seats, the ad hoardings on the walls, the friendly faces, the maroon Osho tunics, the college chit-chat...and just like that, it was over.
And then, we woke up on Sunday and went to the market.
We drove to German Bakery but couldn't find parking space, so we drove on and went to ABC Farms...this place that makes fresh cheese. On our way back, we stopped near Osho Ashram and went to German Bakery from there. It reminded me so much of Leopold's. The atmosphere. The patchwork of skin shades. The smell of fresh food. The relaxed smiles on the faces of people. It was the sort of place where you could plonk yourself next to strangers if there was no free table and nobody would mind. The guy at the cash counter readily gave us change for a 1000 rupee note. I sipped my watermelon juice in a pythonic state of contentment. Life was good. M drank his cold coffee and we went back to order lunch.
There were so many delightful things to eat that M and I could hardly make up our minds on what we wanted. The pumpkin-banana cake? Tiramisu? Strawberry cream cake? Cheesecake? We asked, changed our minds, apologised, named something else...and all the while, the boy behind the counter did not frown a bit. It seemed pretty common for people to indulge in a moment of confusion here. He waited patiently and efficiently while we decided. And then, we wrapped it all up and went home for a lazy lunch before the TV.
That evening, we had plans with friends. To drive outside city to a club. On the way, we spotted cops with worried faces. It was the eve of Valentine's Day in Maharashtra. Obviously, they were worried, we concluded. They let us pass and I wondered for a moment if we didn't look kewl enough to be celebrating Valentine's Day. It was quite reassuring.
The evening had just begin to roll out when the calls began. People wanting to know if we were okay. I couldn't believe it when I heard that German Bakery had been bombed. I thought M was kidding when he told me. I had already decided inside my head that German Bakery would be on my list of Places-to-See when friends came visiting. I liked the noise of the place. The green roof (just like the Green Hut in Stella), the way the light slanted into the eatery, warming its people, the low seats, the ad hoardings on the walls, the friendly faces, the maroon Osho tunics, the college chit-chat...and just like that, it was over.
And then, we woke up on Sunday and went to the market.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Maid of Honour
___
So I've finally settled down in life. I know this because I dress well to impress the maid.
Lady Poonjolai is Tamil but has been in Maharashtra for centuries. She does not drive a taxi, so she might be safe for the time being. Every day, after I'm bathed and fresh as a daisy with combed hair and full breakfast inside stomach, I travel to my workplace. A stressful commute of 30 seconds. I travel by rocket, if you must know.
One of the best things about virtual employment is that you could virtually OB-adichufy all day and no-one will ever know. For instance, I watched Karagatakaran yesterday at work. I shed tears of joy at the vaazhapazha joke. I kept my Outlook and my Excel sheets open though. I'm one of those sincere types.
Lady Poonk is, however, not very convinced about my employment. She suspects I'm a dhadhimaadu (if you are Maharashtrian, I will translate- useless cow). In this land of PhDs where it's difficult to walk without tripping over a scientist, a human who sits on a couch all day with a laptop and makes cabbage in between is not very impressive, is she? Lady Poonk certainly does not think so and I'm sure she feels 'thambi' (M) got a very raw deal indeed.
Since thambi used to do self-cooking and all and never make 'bachelor' type noise when he was living alone, Lady Poonk is mega-impressed by thambi and his gentlamans behaviour. A true gentlamans who deserves plenty of dowry and a wife whose office is not the couch. I've failed her standards in jewelery since bangles on my arms are as rare a sighting as the Yeti. She then enquired discreetly if I'd brought any silver. I cheerfully denied the charge. She then asked me how much the new steel almirah costed. I said I had no idea. Lady Poonk narrowed her eyes and sighed, "So that too has been bought by thambi." As the days pass, it becomes clearer and clearer to Lady Poonk that all I've brought is myself. And that isn't much, considering the fact that thambi is as good as Chitale Bandhu aam barfi (what a Pune-ki-guddi I am).
Since I'm jobless anyway, Lady Poonk thinks I should at least serve some purpose in life by holding conversations with her instead of looking at my laptop. So far, she has informed me about:
a. The Family Line of Lady Poonk
b. Ailments affecting Lady Poonk's feet
c. Ailments affecting Lady Poonk's back
d. Rabid dogs in NCL campus
e. Bathing Habits of Persons in Pune in the cold.
f. Jodi portutham of all newlyweds in NCL
g. Ailments- an Overall Picture
These subjects, while vastly fascinating, are nevertheless difficult to focus on when minor distractions like calls from bossman happen. Lady Poonk cannot fathom (and I do not blame her) how I can choose my imaginary office over her illuminating conversations. I nod politely, I say mmm-mmm, yes yes, oh how sad, periodically, but Lady Poonk believes I ought to take a more active interest. This morning, she came and peered at my screen to find out JUST what in god's name I was doing. Inspiration struck me and I decided that enough was enough. Time to score a point over thambi. So, I got out back issues of the magazines and dazzled Lady Poonk for a bit (you see that story there? Yeah, Lady, I wrote that. You bet I did. Yeah, I'm a genius.) Encouraged by her appreciation, I also showed her all the books I've published. Awe spread over Lady Poonk's face. She declared that I was doing a very difficult job. Almost as difficult as taking cold water bath in Pune when Suffering from Ailments. I've finally convinced her that thambi's wife isn't really just a lump in the landscape.
Lady Poonk is gone for the day, convinced about my hard work. I think I'll watch Baasha now.
So I've finally settled down in life. I know this because I dress well to impress the maid.
Lady Poonjolai is Tamil but has been in Maharashtra for centuries. She does not drive a taxi, so she might be safe for the time being. Every day, after I'm bathed and fresh as a daisy with combed hair and full breakfast inside stomach, I travel to my workplace. A stressful commute of 30 seconds. I travel by rocket, if you must know.
One of the best things about virtual employment is that you could virtually OB-adichufy all day and no-one will ever know. For instance, I watched Karagatakaran yesterday at work. I shed tears of joy at the vaazhapazha joke. I kept my Outlook and my Excel sheets open though. I'm one of those sincere types.
Lady Poonk is, however, not very convinced about my employment. She suspects I'm a dhadhimaadu (if you are Maharashtrian, I will translate- useless cow). In this land of PhDs where it's difficult to walk without tripping over a scientist, a human who sits on a couch all day with a laptop and makes cabbage in between is not very impressive, is she? Lady Poonk certainly does not think so and I'm sure she feels 'thambi' (M) got a very raw deal indeed.
Since thambi used to do self-cooking and all and never make 'bachelor' type noise when he was living alone, Lady Poonk is mega-impressed by thambi and his gentlamans behaviour. A true gentlamans who deserves plenty of dowry and a wife whose office is not the couch. I've failed her standards in jewelery since bangles on my arms are as rare a sighting as the Yeti. She then enquired discreetly if I'd brought any silver. I cheerfully denied the charge. She then asked me how much the new steel almirah costed. I said I had no idea. Lady Poonk narrowed her eyes and sighed, "So that too has been bought by thambi." As the days pass, it becomes clearer and clearer to Lady Poonk that all I've brought is myself. And that isn't much, considering the fact that thambi is as good as Chitale Bandhu aam barfi (what a Pune-ki-guddi I am).
Since I'm jobless anyway, Lady Poonk thinks I should at least serve some purpose in life by holding conversations with her instead of looking at my laptop. So far, she has informed me about:
a. The Family Line of Lady Poonk
b. Ailments affecting Lady Poonk's feet
c. Ailments affecting Lady Poonk's back
d. Rabid dogs in NCL campus
e. Bathing Habits of Persons in Pune in the cold.
f. Jodi portutham of all newlyweds in NCL
g. Ailments- an Overall Picture
These subjects, while vastly fascinating, are nevertheless difficult to focus on when minor distractions like calls from bossman happen. Lady Poonk cannot fathom (and I do not blame her) how I can choose my imaginary office over her illuminating conversations. I nod politely, I say mmm-mmm, yes yes, oh how sad, periodically, but Lady Poonk believes I ought to take a more active interest. This morning, she came and peered at my screen to find out JUST what in god's name I was doing. Inspiration struck me and I decided that enough was enough. Time to score a point over thambi. So, I got out back issues of the magazines and dazzled Lady Poonk for a bit (you see that story there? Yeah, Lady, I wrote that. You bet I did. Yeah, I'm a genius.) Encouraged by her appreciation, I also showed her all the books I've published. Awe spread over Lady Poonk's face. She declared that I was doing a very difficult job. Almost as difficult as taking cold water bath in Pune when Suffering from Ailments. I've finally convinced her that thambi's wife isn't really just a lump in the landscape.
Lady Poonk is gone for the day, convinced about my hard work. I think I'll watch Baasha now.
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