Transitions

I never count the number of years I have been associated with anyone in my life. This is primarily because of the fact that it reminds me of two things, firstly the time spent with the person always seems less and secondly there is a constant urge to spend more time with the person. I was in class 11 when we first met. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to call it a meeting, since I had just written to him. I don't know if  I still have the letter in my mailbox. Back then, he was a journalist owning a his own little space in a weekly news paper. His story about a woman, who coaxed him into buying her a "pair of black trousers" amused me. The presence of a Yahoo ID printed below his story made me curious. We were still in the age of Yahoo Messenger and cell phones were not as prevelant as they are today. Why not add this man, I thought. I didn't have anything to lose. If he reciprocated, it would be a new beginning, otherwise I'd be just one among the many friend requests he would have declined.

iamtoobrainyforu was quite an interesting Yahoo ID, and its quite tough for anyone to deny a friend request from an id that is so presumptuous. The id gave me all the attention that I never got in real life and I did not complain. So the journalist and I got chatting and before I realised, we were talking each night, all night long until dawn. I still question myself as to what conversations can a man who is in his early thirties and a lady who is barely out of her teens can have? On the outset our story would seem like one of those tabloids on a news paper where two strangers met online, became friends and eventually one of them was taken for a ride. But neither of us expected anything from each other right from day one and the same continues till date.

I became friends with the man, before he started his own blog. We were friends before I began writing. One of the best things to happen to me in my life is writing. The man helped me discover that I could write. One afternoon the time when I was confused about which undergraduate course to join, I went to the yellow smiley beside his name and began lamenting to him. I always wonder if anyone else would have had the same amount of patience to deal with a school girl's cribbing. Anyone else would have brushed me off and said it happens everywhere. But the man told me, "Why don't you write it down?". And hence was born "Frustrations Amalgamated and my first news paper story.

When he began his blog, he often asked for my opinion on what ever he wrote. At 17, I viewed sex as a taboo and was very conscious of even uttering the word. I glanced through a few of his posts and at the very look of  the word sex, I felt uncomfortable and told him that his blog was sick. It never occurred to me that those words would be completely shattering for a man who had just set out on a his journey to become a writer. The man still tells me that he can never forget the day I told him those words, the words I wish I had swallowed. It never occurred to me that no one who meets a 17 year old girl online, would take her seriously. If  they did, it would be only for sex. It was later that I realised, the man sought my opinion on what he wrote because he viewed me as equal to him and my age never mattered. If I ever write anything noteworthy of being printed, I would dedicate the first page to the man and no one else.

Days passed by and years flew by. Yahoo changed to Gmail and people began switching from Orkut to Facebook. But over the years we grew with each other, and so did our writing. And as we grew, the Ganga Mail grew with him and my Frustrations grew with me and made me wise. Today the man is an established writer. We don't talk as often as we used to. On those lonely nights, as I stare into a blank blog screen, even without exchanging a single word between our chat windows, the presence of the green dot beside his name on my friends list renders a feeling of security. The feeling that only the both of us feel. And you can feel that only when you have never counted the number of years you have been associated with somebody.

Cheers!

I don't think I've had enough experience when it comes to relationships. Therefore I refrain from passing any sort of judgment, when it comes to men and a women who chose to be with each other. But I do have a considerable amount of experience of dating a considerable amount of inconsiderate men, which entitles me to define my way of how a perfect date should be. If I feel that my date was a complete waste of time, I rename it to a friendly meeting. I've faced at least at least a dozen of friendly meetings that ended with a handshake, some with a just hug, some with a kiss and some with all the three. But not a single one gave me a sense of fulfillment or the feeling of complete indulgence.

The primary reason I decide to date a man, is to know him better. I wouldn't deny the fact that there is a huge element of physical, emotional or mental attraction involved in it. It is the physical or emotional attraction that propels the urge to know a person better and the reason behind every date. But you don't call every friendly meeting a date. A date is when two persons, who are physically and emotionally attracted to one another, decide to meet with the sole purpose of wanting to know each other better. A perfect date is when two persons ( irrespective of gender) decide to meet anywhere without any purpose, but feel the warmth between each other not necessarily by touch, and at the end of it depart with an enriched mind and a fulfilled heart.

Most dates are like the Deepavali sale you come across at big malls. They come with a conditions apply* tag. You go with the intention of gaining something, but in the end you find that you have shelled out more than what you had planned for, and you always wish the conditions, "no exchange or return" could be reversed. If I dated a man only because of physical attraction, I always lost interest in the first half hour and my attention would sway to a couple of other better looking or even stunning ones seated on the other tables all around me. Sometimes in life we make wrong choices. The best thing about a date is that you don't have to put up with the wrong choice you made for too long. And you could always live with the hope, that the next one would fill the void created by the previous one.

What most of us do during a date is, we begin running a compatibility check. We begin to check if we have similar interests, disinterests, and try to further the chances of meeting again if the compatibility meter showed a high. Measuring compatibility after a single meeting is as absurd as consuming alcohol for taste. It takes a couple of encounters with alcohol, before you decide which drink suits your taste. The experience with the first peg is always bitter. It takes a few bold encounters to get accustomed to the bitterness. Once you are accustomed, you know with which drink you are compatible. Compatibility doesn't occur in the first go. I'd be a complete hypocrite if I would say, I never judge the other person who dates me. I don't run the compatibility check, but behaviors and conversations often lead you into the path of judgment.

I try hard to refrain from judgment of a person's appearance or attire. A few months back, I dated a common friend. We knew each other through a school friend of mine. He texted me a couple of times and we decided to meet. He seemed a nice guy and just when I was considering meeting the man again, an awful thing happened. After the wonderful round of drinks and dinner, when the bill arrived the man insisted that he would pay, unlike the Hazar men who never even offered to dutch, and shamelessly made me pay. He took out his card in style from his wallet and handed it to the waiter. The waiter brought the bills which had to be signed. The waiter had not brought a pen with him, and I immediately got a pen from my bag and gave it to him. He signed the bills and we were still talking while waiting for the final bill. As he was using his hands to talk the man used my pen, to clean the knit in his nails. I made no judgment.

There have been many instances when I have been x- rayed throughout by a person’s eyes, and the only thing  the man carried back was contours of my anatomy, while I had to carry back nothing more than mere disgust. When I say that I've never had a perfect date, it means that I never had anything worthwhile to carry back, besides flowers and chocolates. But yesterday I had an encounter with a near perfect date. The venue was one of the best restaurants in the city. The setting and ambience was perfect, not too flamboyant and not too plain. It was a cozy place. We opted to sit on a couch. Couches give you the feeling of sitting at home, and when you are on a couch, you are forgiven for forgetting your table manners.

The man looked handsome, clean shaven, neatly dressed and as he walked, I could smell a whiff of the Hugo Boss cologne he wore. He was calm, he smiled as he spoke and had many interesting things to say. It seemed as though we hadn’t planned this. We discussed about a lot of books, and even had a minor argument on whether Shobha De was a good writer. The man dropped me back home. We hugged tightly and he made sure he walked with me all the way till the door of my apartment which was on the 7th floor. It was a wonderful evening indeed, but the feeling of fulfillment and completeness was still missing. As I lay on my bed, I began recalling every moment of the evening, starting from our warm hand shake to him dropping me home. Just when everything seemed perfect, I found out the missing link that seemed like a black spot on a flawless mirror. The man had forgotten to say ‘cheers’ before the drink. He had forgotten to toast for our health, wealth and well being. Ah how could he?

Yet another friendly encounter..........

How does it even matter?

Whenever I am posed with a question about where I am from, my answers in turn lead to more questions which very often result in questioning about the social class of my ancestors. Thanks to my not so black hair and a mild deficit of melanin, I am often misconstrued to be a descendant of the area above the Tropic of cancer in the Indian sub- continent. I hate being questioned and I hate it more when the questions pertain to my descent.

Most of the time, I try avoiding such questions or choose to remain silent when I am asked these questions. The reason being, the clan to which my ancestors belong is immaterial to me and I think it shouldn't be of any relevance to anybody today either. Today we live in a world where origin and descent, just pertain to the country one belongs to and nothing more. Every time I refuse to answer such questions and I remain silent, my silence is associated with arrogance.

Here's the scene that unfolds every time I meet someone new at my work place.

New Person: Hi, Where are you from.

Me: I am from Adyar.

New Person: I mean, where are you actually from?

Me: I am actually from Indira Nagar in Adyar.

New Person : Which is your native?

Me: Chennai.

New Person: You are basically from here?

Me: DUH!

New Person: You don't look like you are from here. You look like you have descended from the borders beyond the tropic of cancer.

Me: Err!

New Person: What do you speak?

Me: I speak English.

New Person : Whats your mother tongue?

Me: Its Chennai's official language.

New Person: (Shamelessly) Are you higher?

Me: Silence.......... I studied in a higher secondary school.

New Person: (Doesn't realise I am evading his question): No I mean are you higher?

Me: I am no buyer.

I answer irrelevant things until the person forgets what he/she initially asked. I wonder why someone's descent is of any relevance or importance at the work place. Leave alone work place, I wonder what relevance it has anywhere. As we arm ourselves with technology and prepare to become Global citizens of the world, questions of one descent, or origin are irrelevant.

When we know these questions are irrelevant, why ask them at all. The sad thing is, it is against the HR policies of a company to ask one about his/ her salary. It is considered ill mannered to ask someone his/ her age. But we shamelessly prod into questioning one, about his/ her ancestral clan.The sad part being, the person who is questioning never realises that he is asking something that he shouldn't be asking.

Invariably, nine out of ten times it happens that every man I meet, would first question me about my descent, or try to decipher it by decoding my name. I'd prefer the man who's hitting on me to tell me that I look sexy ( trust me it makes my day) rather than ask me if I were higher or lower.  Higher or lower? Does it really matter?

Of Middle Age Masalas

I am a MASALA woman. Now don't assume that I am a self proclaimed part of the SPICE girls and look like Victoria Beckham. MASALA is the Middle Aged Severely Agitated Ladies Anxiety Syndrome. I manage both, menopause on one hand, and a balding husband whose belly seems like he's pregnant with a twin Hippo on the other. I hope now you understand the reason for so much of MASALA in my life.There is a myriad of problems associated with the MASALA syndrome and all of them begin with an 'M'. Starting with Money- you always have to think about saving and not spending, Managers, Maids, Mother- in- law, Mutual Fund Investments that never yeild returns, mugging up the map of India with your 12 year old kid, Multi-tasking,  Microsoft operating systems, Mallika Sherawat - my husband is her fan, Marriage, the Maruti-800 thats on the verge of death, and the list that leads to My MASALA syndrome is endless.

Middle age is usually between your late twenties and early sixties. About 30 years of your life, you live in the middle of nowhere, hoping to get somewhere at the end of it. You battle dark spots, wrinkles, stretch marks, and hairfall only to accept defeat, and when you touch the sixty mark you convince yourself that it is a natural phenomenon.  The only two women who have won this battle with conviction are Shobha de and Hemamalini. I am 40 years old, and I have to fight 20 more years of middle age, before I  am crowned as a senior citizen, and the Indian Railways can bestow me with economical fares.

Being the average Indian Woman who works in a corporate I need to juggle between my identity as a professional, wife, mother and a daughter-in-law. I need to keep up with the ever changing versions of softwares so that I am not termed as obsolete,and can battle out the game called appraisals on an equal platform with men who are half my age, and bear not even half of what responsibilities I carry. I need to update my wall quite often, treat and tweet along with the virtual society so that I can show the world that apart from being a woman with MASALA syndrome, I am pretty cool. I need to remind my husband who is more worried about stocks than our diminishing intimacy, that I might be a MASALA woman but I need love and loads of it to relax. I need to play Mortal Kombat with my kids and watch Animes with them, otherwise I get branded as a boring mom. I need to watch soap operas and visit temples along with my mother-in-law once in a while, so that I don't get branded as the outrageous, ill- mannered Bahu. My identity is caught between a smart professional, loving wife, interesting mom and obedience. At the peak of outrageous anxiety, the only four letter word I can use is Fool and nothing more. I constantly remind myself that I am a mother now, which means that I need to safeguard my kids from words that they ought not to know at their age.

If I ever refrain from wearing my Mangal Sutra or Bindi, it would be blasphemy. I not only need to carry responsibilities but wear them and showcase to the world that I am a married woman who suffers from the MASALA syndrome. Its been ages since I wore my trousers and shirts to office, while I still appreciate the women who carry off their trousers with a pair of gold bangles, toe rings and a little bit of Kumkum on their foreheads. At the same time, I find women of my age saying the common dialogue "How can I wear this ( what ever it is ) at this age?" Age never as anything to do with wearing things, sharing or for even pairing.  Middle age is the only age where you are forgiven for a bulging tummy and out of shape body. Everyday, I need to swtich between gym clothes, office wear which is usually a Salwar Kameez and if its a friday, a saree and some appealing apparel for parties that my husband never cares to notice. Phew, I adorn a new attire for every avatar that I transform into as each day unfolds. 

The only time I get for myself, is during my time at the parlour. I go to the parlour usually on Saturdays, to spruce up a little and feel good about myself. A facial would at least cover up my dark circles and never ending wrinkles. I don't even remember the last time I bought Pond's age miracle. It has been in my bag ever since and I keep reminding myself to get into a routine of applying it each night, but routines never change. Just as I get my strawberry pedicure done, my black berry would ring. My kids would ask me when I would be back home and demand for a Kinder Joy. Damn these advertisements. They know the perfect ways of getting kids to torment their parents. The other phone call would be from my maid, who'd invariably call to let me know that she wouldn't be coming the next day. I have instilled the corporate culture of calling up when you are taking leave in her. 

Thanks to MASALA, my mother gave up singing when she was 26, after she became pregnant with me. She would often tell me that she gave up on her dreams so that I could achieve mine. I would often retort back saying stop cribbing and lamenting. I would quote " If there is a will there is a way".  I dread the day when my daughter grows up and says the same thing to me. Until I got married, until I reached middle age and until I became a MASALA woman I never realised what Amma had gone through. Middle age makes you weigh your dreams against reality, and passion against practicality. 

What makes Maska Chaska ( 50-50 ) biscuits taste better than Marie biscuits is the Masala. It is the MASALA that adds spice not only to our food but also to our lives. It makes our food eatable and life livable. 

I wish I Were a Pig

If you remove the first letter from the word Fairy and replace F with an H, you get the name that I adorned once upon a time. I even hate to mention the word 'Hairy'. It was in class 11 that I first started becoming conscious about having facial hair. I remember the first day of school after the board examinations, there were many new students who had joined and one girl named ‘Waxed Skeleton (WS)’ came up and sat next to me. She scanned me from head to toe, as if she was preparing for my postmortem. She stared into my unshaped eye brows, my un-waxed hands and made me realize the presence of a mush I never had.

Miss Waxed Skeleton soon changed her place and sat next to the girls who had uprooted what they thought was unwanted off their skin, and made sure it shone like the glaze of morning sunlight on water. WS was one woman who always preferred wearing miniskirts and short sleeves. Her eyebrows were perfectly shaped, her eye lashes were of the perfect length and her hair was coloured with copper streaks. She was one woman who never had a bad hair day and her hair do was always perfect. She came to school in a chauffeur driven Ambassador car and tip toed her way through the corridors so carefully, making sure she never hit against anything or anyone. It wasn't long before everyone started raving about her looks and she was the new sensation.

WS proved to give a huge complex to girls like me, who did not drive to school but instead rode to school, wearing a single plait and pinned our Dupattas to either ends of our shoulders. In life sometimes we hate people without a reason. We hate some stars although we have nothing against them. There are people whom we hate with a strong conviction. For me, WS was on that list. I hated her for multiple reasons. She dated the second biggest crush of my life, and she called me badly groomed and hairy. It was she who gave me the name that gave me the biggest inferiority complex of my life. I wasn't hairy by choice. It was nature that conspired against me and sowed too many seeds of Keratin under my skin, that sprouted out as dead black long cells to make me look badly groomed and wo'manly'. In class 11, grooming to me meant nothing more than wearing starched white ironed uniforms, polished shoes, having clean nails and neatly combed hair.

Grooming to us humans is about what we shouldn't be doing rather than what we should be. Our definitions change as the perceptions of the common majority change. Today, our definition of Grooming would not match that of Adam and Eve's, and their definitions would not agree to that possessed by Ramapithecus. To suit a hypothetical proposition of grooming proposed by a hair- free majority, to get oneself a good groom and later to appeal to him, every woman goes through a painful ritual. The worst part is that we have to pay for the pain.

With utmost courage in my heart, I went to get myself groomed and more importantly rid of not just hair on my skin, but also the name that I disliked the most. I went to ' New Star Shiny' beauty parlour. The board outside had a photo of the Bollywood actress Kajol and a note saying 'Only for ladies and kids'. As I entered, a woman escorted me to a separate room and there I was paying for pain, pouring a hot liquid over my skin and uprooting a layer of it. Every time she poured the hot liquid over my skin, I clenched my teeth and tears rolled out of eyes. As I came out after the ordeal, looking like a victim of the Bhopal gas tragedy, only one thought ran over my head.

I WISH I WERE A PIG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bathroom Chronicles

When Shahrukh Khan spent about Rs 15 crores in building his bathroom, which has a splendid library inside, the world viewed the man as an arrogant celebrity. He was accused of spending too much on self indulgence, and the media drew nasty comparisons of him with other celebrities, who spent their money in adopting kids from various countries and contributed to charity in a large way. The world could not decipher the hidden message behind his action of building a bathroom whose money could have been used to feed a lakh of children three times a day 365 days a year instead. Showing people a way that can transform their lives is equivalent to charity if not better. Shahrukh Khan has done that.

The bathroom is the only place where you are blessed with complete solitude. You have the luxury to admire things about yourself that no one ever knew. It is the only place in the world where you can be who you are, without having the fear of being judged or laughed at. In a country like ours, where space is a huge constraint not only in queues or parking lots, not all of us have the luxury of a separate room and spend what is known as 'Alone Time'. Schools in Europe and America give their kids what is known as Alone Time, whenever a child does something wrong. The children are asked to to stay alone and ponder over their actions. Not only children but even adults require some 'Alone Time'. In a normal household if anyone is found quietly sitting and thinking about something, he or she is prodded and asked a zillion questions. If you tell someone ' Please leave me alone' you are often tagged as acting pricey or moody. The only place where you can have 'Alone Time' without being prodded or nagged is the bathroom. The best thing about being in the bathroom is that, inside the bathroom, you are your own friend and you are your own enemy.

When you are irritated or angry, it is the bathroom that listens to you patiently without giving you unwanted advice. When depressed, it is the bathroom that takes your tears and welcomes you each time with an open door. You can sing, shout, scream, and cry at the same time when you are in there and no one would ever question you. The walls of the bathroom are always audience to every kind of music and any kind of singer.

A good bath gives one a good heart. The days I wake up late, the process of my daily ablutions is nothing more than brushing my teeth while I simultaneously wash my face and pour two mugs of water over myself. These are the days I come groggy to work with an incomplete feeling. These are the days where I have to coax your mind into work. An incomplete bath gives you an incomplete feeling. Your mind is cross with you that you didn't give it enough time to snap out of the previous night's dreamy fantasy, while the pores of your skin are unhappy that they didn't get scrubbed well. Your mind and you body fight against you at the same time.

Science says that a good bath improves blood circulation in the body and improved blood circulation means you brain becomes more alert. When depressed, there is nothing better than a Jacuzzi or a spa that can make you feel nice. It gets you high while you are grounded. If you can't afford a Jacuzzi a good bath can give you just the same feeling. Lifeboy has been advertising this message for 115 years now.While you visit history, it is said that King Louis XIV (1638-1715), King of France, the Sun King, had a bath only thrice in his entire life. No wonder his life was quite depressing and all he could think of was war and no peace. Had the king known the importance of bathrooms he wouldn't have built the palace of Versailles without a single bathroom.

The special thing about a bathroom is that it treats you the way you treat it. If you keep it clean and neat it gives you a nice feeling. Messy bathrooms with dirty creatures crawling can render you sleepless for nights together. In our country most of us seek solace in temples and snow filled mountains. We believe that meditation can help cleanse our mind. If only everyone of us treated the bathroom like a temple, there could be no better place to cleanse one's mind, body and soul. To me, the first step to living a luxurious life lies in a clean bathroom. I wouldn't mind spending all my life's earnings in building a dream bathroom. To me, it is my self discovered path to knowing myself. All of us cannot afford a bathroom worth fifteen crores. What all of us can afford is at least a clean bathroom.

Never disregard the bathroom for it was the place where Archimedes had his eureka moment. Spend time and have a good bath, for it could lead you into the right path.

Needy Friends

It was 12-30 A.M. Just the day before Deepavali. I was working on an important presentation that I had to deliver at 9 A.M. While I was clicking through it, slide after slide, the phone just rang. It was Piglet. Piglet was my friend since college. We had known each other for 12 years now. Our lives had changed, our destinies had changed, but we remained good friends. We hadn't spoken to each other for a long time and since he was calling at an odd hour, I knew there was something terribly wrong.

I picked up the phone and piglet broke down instantaneously. He had lost his job. I simply didn’t know how to react. I was patiently listening to his story while scanning through the slides on the other hand. Dealing with two important tasks at the same time is like dealing with twins. You need to give both of them the same amount of attention, so that neither feels deprived and you feel satisfied. Six years into investment banking had taught me how to juggle two things at the same time. And then out of the blue, I told him not to worry and assured him of a job in my firm just to make him feel better. As I finished speaking a few soothing words, I got a call from my girl friend. Since I was speaking with Piglet, her call was waiting.

She had been away for a while since her father was ill. We hadn't spoken in weeks. Her father had been diagnosed with leukaemia 3 months back and has been battling for life ever since. I told my friend I'd get back to him and picked up her call instantaneously. She broke down very badly. Her father was no more. When someone so close faces a huge loss it is best to let them pour out their emotions first. Never try knocking sense into an emotional person's head. Sense and emotion never go hand in hand. This was another lesson that I had learnt from the six years as an investment banker. I listened patiently and told her she needed rest and asked her to take care of her mother. Just as I finished telling her this, my phone ran out of charge.

I had spoken for three and a half hours continuously. The battery was bound to croak it. I quickly rummaged through my room looking out for the mobile charger. It was nowhere to be found. I then recalled that I had left it in my bay. I had no option but to get back to both of them in the morning. I had left my phone on charge during the presentation. After I returned from the presentation I switched on my mobile to see twenty five unread messages. Fifteen were from my girl and the rest were from Piglet. Half the messages read 'U there?' One of the messages was “ A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

I called them up and had to spend an hour convincing them about my situation the previous night. I was accused of never being there when needed. My girl friend accused me of giving more importance to my friend while Piglet accused me of giving undue importance to my girl friend, and that I had forgotten what friendship meant.

While driving back home, I recalled an incident that happened 28 years back. It was the third day at school. I had made friends with two boys. I preferred boys over girls, because they played with cars and not Barbie dolls. One of them was named Swaminathan and the other boy was Toni. I declared that Toni would be my best friend because he was generous enough to give me 3 Parle poppins on the very second day of school. Swaminathan, Toni and I would always be seen together.

One day after school, while we were eagerly waiting with water bottles hanging around our necks and handkerchiefs pinned to our pockets, for our rickshaws and vans to drop us back home, Swaminathan's mother came to pick him up. She saw the three of us standing together and asked Swaminathan "who is your best friend?" Swaminathan pointed to me and said,"He is my best friend and Toni is his best friend". His mother smiled and enquired “So who is Toni's best friend?" Swaminathan said "He is our best friend."

We were best friends. We never knew what friendship meant.

An Earnest Plea

This is an earnest plea,
from a useful resource in a company.
My state of apathy needs some sympathy,
I want to live a life of dignity.

You use me up the entire day,
I always take it.
You spit on my face,
I always take it.

You make it so hard for me to breathe,
You clog up my life,
And fill my life with filth up to the brim,
So that filthy creatures can happily swim.

You can use me to wash your face,
Kindly take your Tiffin box to a different place,
You don’t like curry leaves and chillies sticking up your nose,
But you nastily push them on to me with all force.

Thank god no one gave you Sabeena or Vim,
For then I'd be perennially
filled with filth up to the brim,
Living a life which is dull and dim.

I'm no racist, but I don't like to be coloured,
It wasn't me who said give me red,
Don't spit PAAN and make me insane,
And finally tell,its me whose stained.


You get me overloaded and it hurts,
When my cleaner pokes me with sticks,
I cry loudly and my tears come in spurts,
Coz I'm called stinky and I'm cursed.

Without qualms, you use me,
Untiringly, be it night or day,
You clog me up and have the audacity to say,
I'm a basin who is 'blocked'.


-Courtsey (Union of Corporate Wash Basins)

What an Idea Sirji

Dev and Beera were best friends at school friend. Life moved on, and they parted ways like every other pair of friends in Bollywood just to meet again at the same place and same time and the same smoking zone of the same corporate.

Dev: Machan! How are you da? You studied textile engineering and you are in IT? How come you are here da? When did you join machan? Why you standing alone da? Is everything ok?

Beera: Machan I’m good Machi. I joined here six months back da. Life is very boring da machan.

Dev: Why machan? What happened da?

Beera: So boring Machan. No onsite opportunities. Same old work station, same old bike I come to office in, same old cafeteria. I want some change da.

Dev: On site opportunities? It’s just been six months since you joined da. Anyways life is like that, learn to accept it as it is.

Beera: Same old dress also I am wearing da. We wear same formal wear man. Girls are so lucky machan. They can wear so many different clothes. Salwar, Saree, trousers and what not. And now days all these girls are wearing what used to be called gym wear once upon time. And they call those leggings formal wear also. Everyone thinks they are Nadia Comăneci da.

Dev: Who’s Nadia Comăneci da? Your On-Site coordinator ah?

Beera: No machan. She was a famous gymnast da. How do they expect us to wear formal wear all five days? Its so hot here and in addition to that we need to stay in that for nine hours a day. It doesn’t suit our body. We should wear dhotis and promote Indian wear da. Dhotis and Kurtas are accepted as formals in the parliament also. I am going to write to the HR about this da.

A year later Dev and Beera meet again. This time at an air-conditioned bar in the maxim city- Mumbai.

Beera: Machan! How are you da? You got married and you are in a Bar? How come you are here da? Why you sitting alone da? Is everything ok?

Dev: Life is horrible da. No onsite opportunities. Same old work station, same old bike I go to office in, same old cafeteria, everything is same. I want some change da. Okay, you tell me machan, how are you machan? Long time no see. Where and how have you been?

Beera: I am good da. I told you last time that I was upset about the dress code policy followed in corporates, right? I did a detailed analysis and presented a case to the HR about why Dhotis should be made a part of the formal dress code. See in India our climate is humid and most of us are like bears da. The food we eat is wet and our restrooms are also wet. Dhotis are best suited for these conditions machan. Moreover they provide a free air conditioning effect throughout the day. I did a study and learnt that it prevents UTI infections also da. The HR folks were impressed and asked me to pioneer the attire change movement in corporates. Now I am the global head of the ‘Attire Alteration Management Committee’.

Dev: Wow machan. So you went onsite and all eh?

Beera: Yea machan. I just had a meeting with Ban Ki moon last week. I returned from New York yesterday machan.

Dev: Ban Ki moon is your onsite manager ah?

Beera: No da. He is the secretary general of the United Nations. We were having a discussion on understanding attire worldwide to suit the global climatic changes.

An Idea can change your life.

Skewed Queues

Whenever I look at a white collared professional, I always wonder if education could have changed my life. I started to work at an age when I should have ideally been carrying a school bag instead of the cement bag and bricks. I started with an income of Rs.10 per month. For the first few years of my professional life, I carried cement and other amenities at the construction site. Then I learnt to mix the cement and sand in the right proportions. Soon I learnt how to lay the bricks and patch up the walls too. Today, I am sixty years old, an age when the government wants you to retire. It is only after so many years, that I can decipher the layout plan of a building whose bricks were laid by me.

The man who instructed us and got all the work done was a white collared professional. He visited the site once in two weeks and used to make some drawings which I never understood. All that I knew was that he was an educated man, and education had power. The power that distinguished the white collared people from blue collared people like me. The power to change the unchanged, the power to create and the power to destroy. I was determined to bestow the best education to my children, so that they could take on the world and accomplish the things I had never been able to. I wanted to give them all that was denied to me. I worked untiringly and sometimes, I worked for two shifts just to make ends meet. Supporting both a sick wife on one hand and a school going child on the other was no easy task. I have no regrets for the sacrifices I've made over the years, for today, my son is a white collared professional. He works in a fully air conditioned building. He wears ironed clothes to office and even his feet don't touch the sand.

Last week, my son had forgotten his Tiffin box at home. My wife was feeling terrible about it. So I decided to make her happy and I went to deliver it to him at his office. His office is located at the outskirts of the city and has not one, but 5 high raised buildings inside o
ne place. I wondered inside which building my son was working. Travel to his office is quite complicated. I had to travel by a van till the gate. While I was waiting for a van, I saw many other white collared professionals like my son who were waiting for the van. The moment the van arrived, all of them huddled at the entrance of the van and pushed their way inside. I found it a bit hard to make my way into the van. I was the last man to get in and I wasn't surprised about not finding myself a place to sit. I stood at the rear end of the van because I was afraid of standing near the door. The moment the van reached the destination, it was the same scene that was at the entrance. Everyone huddled and was racing to get out. I wonder how a fifty second delay in getting out of the van would affect them.

I called up my son to find out where I had to deliver his Tiffin box. He told me to come to a place called the cafeteria. I couldn't even pronounce the word properly. I finally discovered that it was a common gathering where everyone ate. At the construction site, the huge mountains of sand was our cafeteria. The only difference was that, here food was sold and at the construction site we brought our food. I saw a huge line of young men and women standing close together like a chain. They were waiting to get a small chit of paper from a man who was selling it from a computerized machine.

Soon my son arrived.I gave him his lunch, and he asked me to sit with him till he finished. I told him about how people were pushing one another in the van and right in front of our eyes at the cafeteria. He told me "Dad this is not some school or military to stand in attention in straight lines. How would you understand? All your life you were just a blue collared worker."

Yes I was a blue collared worker all my life. I never went to school to learn to stand in a line. I've never attended republic day and Independence Day parades to learn that I must maintain a two feet distance from the person standing in front of me. In the construction site, the only important thing was to follow a line. Hell would break loose if we didn't, and no one pushed or fell over one another. Every evening, we stood one behind another to collect our daily wages. There were women and children in the queue and hence, we maintained the two feet distance between each other. There were women who had to go home and feed hungry kids, fathers who had to go home just to give their family the money so that they could buy their dinner, but no one pushed or huddled or raced to get what was due to them . We knew there was no point in running a race that had no medals.

On my way back home, I struggled my way into the van and got a place to sit. Education sometimes can get your life into the right line. I think it requires more than just education to stand in a straight line.

Musings from 'KADHAL KAVITHAI' and more

Note : Those who don't understand Tamil, I beg your forgiveness.

I work as a receptionist in Hotel Rambha Paradise. Today, I was fired from my job.

The series of events that unfolded:

7-4.5 AM: "It's my life..It's now or never..I ain't gonna live forever..I just wanna live while I'm alive" yes the age old Bon Jovi song blares as my Alarm rings. I have a fad for fancy alarm tones. Shucks I'm late.

7-48 A.M: (In the shower) Do I need to use the Palmolive Aroma therapy shower gel now?

The song "It's my life..It's now or never..I ain't gonna live forever" strikes my head. I take the gel and fill the bathroom with bubbles. I play with a few bubbles for exactly forty five seconds to be precise.

8-15 A.M: 'Beep Beep' mobile reads '2 messages received'. One is from my manager “Where the hell are you?" Second message is from super Manager “Why the hell are you late?"

8-28 A.M: Whoa! I'm finally ready. I broke my earlier record of getting ready in 45 minutes by a huge margin today.

8-30 A.M: I proceed to work on my Orange Scooty. Yes I own an Orange coloured Scooty. My mother thinks the colour black is inauspicious, and brings bad luck. At the same time she thinks red is too outrageous, so we decided on the most auspicious colour orange. (Each time she takes a ride on the scooty my mom would say 'Namba scooty evlo mangalagarama irukku paaru')

8-35 A.M: Stranded in Traffic. My manager calls and I miss the call. Can't call back. No balance. I ride for 15 minutes and finally find a recharge shop.

9-00 A.M: I recharge my mobile for Rs. 50. I call my manager back, ‘Your balance is insufficient to complete the call." Oh God!

Message : Your 'KADHAL KAVITHAI SERVICE HAS BEEN ACTIVATED FOR Rs.50 FOR FIVE DAYS' (KADHAL KAVITHAI in Tamil refers to LOVELY LOVE RHYMES)Arghghhhhhhhhhh no time to call customer service and blast them. No balance to call my boss too. I think 'A stitch in time saves nine'. Yes, finally after 6 minutes and 45 seconds of introspection, I give my super manager a missed call.

Me: Hello! Ah Sir, there is a small problem. Can I explain?

Manager: Where the hell are you? Don't you know that today is the welcoming ceremony of the new dance bar in our hotel and the great dancer, Miss Rocky Rampant is coming for the inauguration. I thought you would bring a big bouquet made of expensive orchids from the USA, to welcome our dancer madam but you were nowhere to be seen.

Me: Yes sir, I will be there in 10 minutes sharp.

9-30: I reach just two minutes before the Miss Rocky Rampant leaves.

Manager: Where is the bouquet of Orchids from the USA.

Me: Sir, I couldn't get orchids from USA, they said Orchids from Srilanka were only available, I bought our Dancer Madame, a wonderful gift instead.

Manager: What gift is it?

Me: A pair of leggings made from snake skin. You know sir, this really tight pant called leggings is the in-thing today. You can easily find at least a hand full of girls wearing these in every corporate these days sir.

Manager: Oh really! Then I'm sure our dancer Madame will be happy. Good job.

Me: Thank you sir.

11:00 A.M: Inauguration Ceremony over.

Manager: Super Manager is calling you.

I think to myself, 'Wow I guess I'm gonna get promoted this week.'

Super Manager: This incorrigible behaviour of yours can no longer be tolerated in this organization.

Me: Organization?

Super Manager: Yes Hotel Rambha Paradise is like every other organization. We are strict about timings and commitment. I don’t see that spark and fire in your eyes. And look at your guts, you give me a missed call. Who do you think I am? I am not your boy friend.

Me: But, Sir Can I explain what actually happened?

Super Manager: I have heard enough from you. Now please go out. You can have your salary settled next week.

Me: But sir please can I justt...

Super Manager: No more explanations. You have taken things for granted for too long. We don't need such irresponsible behaviour in this organization. Coming late is like cancer. It spreads fast and before it can spread I'm removing the root cause of the cancer. You can leave now.

I walk out of the office furious.

Manager: Can you tell me where you bought those snake skin leggings? I want to buy one for my wife.

Me: You should probably ask our super boss. He gave it to me one morning asking me to hide it in my runner.

KADHAL KAVITHAI has cost me my job. I pick up the phone and call the customer care representative (CCR).

CCR: Good Morning! This is Raj, how may I assist you?

Me: Your connection is the world on the face of this planet. It has cost me my job today. I never subscribed to any service but I get charged for it. And worse I don’t get what the service offers too.

Raj: Chill maam. Can you please explain your problem in detail?

Me: My mobile reads a message saying some stupid random service named KADHAL KAVITHAI has been activated and I have been charged Rs 50 for it. I dont want any such service and please de-activate it now. Right now.

Raj : Can I have you mobile number please?

Me: 0919802372-0942-96

Raj : Can I know why you want to deactivate this service?

Me: There is no KADHAL in my life.

Raj: Maam, this service is to help your love life. Can you please state your requirements ?

Me: I had lost my cool. 'What requirements? Okay you want requirements take them down, paal pole 18- il enaku oru Boy friend Venum. Kaalam Theriyamal Kadalai naan poda enakku oru boy friend venm. ( I need a boy friend in his sweet 18) Can you satisfy that? And I have not recieved one KADHAL KAVIDHAI till now. Can you hook me up with Jeyam Ravi?

Raj: Sorry for the inconvenience maam. I can help you with a few KADHAL KAVIDHAI's

"Justice Delayed is Justice Denied,
If you don't accept me love,
I shall consume Cyanide"

Wah Wah Wah

" I don't drink alcohol,
Honey, you give me the same kick,
I don't need a sweater when I'm cold,
Honey, You are a hot Chick."

Wah Wah Wah

Me : I need you to deactivate this right now. Bye.

11:35 P.M: My mobile rings. Unknown number. I pick the call, half asleep.

Me: Hello

Its me Raj, I too lost my job today. I told you wonderful KADHAL KAVITHAI's from my head but I guess, they were against the Cutomer Care rules.

Playing the Doosra

I've always had this weird feeling that I was not an outcome of love, but I was a mere accident. Most second kids in the family tend to get this feeling when the difference between them and their elder sibling is more than about 6 years. When the difference is so vast, and you are the second child, you tend to attribute your existence to just three factors: Firstly you could have been born because your elder sibling was a complete retard and your parents needed something noteworthy to leave behind. The age gap can be attributed to the fact that it takes a long time to see development in slow kids. So you were just an outcome of frustration that was caused by the first child. Secondly in some cases, the second child becomes an entertainment factor for the first one. Yes the existence of some second kids can be attributed to the fact that they were born just get their Bhaiyas or Didis out of boredom. Lastly, your existence could have been a mere accident. This is what they call the unexpected surprise, and when your parents don’t have a choice but to keep you, the reason as to why you were born boils down to nothingness.

There's nothing new to anything second in life. The first crush, the first kiss, first job, first car, and the list of first, is endless. When it comes to the second crush, kiss, or car we don't take the effort to remember it. The reason being the immense excitement, eagerness, anxiety can be attributed only and only to the first things you do. I don’t mean to say that mothers don't want to bear second kids, but the excitement they experience while carrying the first child far surpasses the eagerness for the second. Only when a couple is going to have their first child, they say they are starting a family. Second kids are just an addition to the family. In life, additions make us happy. An additional car, additional home, additional income, and so on, but they aren't the very seeds of our happiness. To every mother, deep rooted inside the dark corners of her heart, there is a separate special space for the first child, which the second child does not have. That's why it hurts more when the elder kids get out of control or disobey parents. The first disappointments hurt a lot more. They quitely live with us, through our memories, and never fade away no matter how hard one tries.

You can call yourself an outcome of an accident if you were born when your father was close to 40 years of age or more. Who plans for a kid at an age when every man is chasing promotions and is trying to earn himself a decent roof with atleast two rooms, or few mutual funds to fall back upon after retirement? You are like free coke that comes with Pizzas. Not completely essential, but we don't mind it, since its free. When it comes to the first kids, parents look into every detail of their upbringing. In many cases the same care and concern is not rendered to the second child, because even before the second kids begin to learn their ABC, parents get caught up with other things and start dreading their middle age and the array of trauma associated with it.

In most cases, the elder siblings set the benchmark for the second kid in everything, ranging from scoring marks, playing games, being well mannered, hardworking, and a benchmark for immunity is also set by the fist kids. The second kids are expected to at least reach this set bench mark if not surpass it. We've often heard dialogues like “You both stay in the same house, how come your brother/sister can concentrate and study but you can't?" "How come you brother/sister never falls sick as often as you do?" “Learn from you brother/ sister. Learn how to behave." Second kids are tagged to their elder siblings for everything. Many parents fail to recognize them as individuals having a separate abilities and potential.

More often than not the first kids sulk and crib about having to shoulder the responsibility of taking care of their younger siblings. Having to protect them all through their childhood while travelling in the school van, while going for picnics, while playing outdoors. And all the time it is the elder kids who have to include their younger siblings in the games that they played with their friends. They claim to be the guardian angel for their younger siblings. They fail to realise the fact that this does not help the younger kids in any way. The elder kids are lauded by the world for their responsibility which just makes it a herculean task for the younger kids to reach the bench mark set by them. Another sad thing that most second kids have to live with right from the beginning of their lives is old cradles, prams, toys and even old pyjamas. Second kids live with a whole lot of second hand goods.

When it comes to important discussions in the family, the second child has no voice. And no one cares to hear him/her out, even if the poor kid makes a lot of sense. And no responsibility is given to the second kid. Parents don’t bother until the elder kid takes care of everything. Sudden responsibility is thrust on the younger kids when their elder brothers/ sisters get married. Suddenly the second child, who was deliberately not relied upon, is expected to be responsible. Any mistake anywhere and you are branded for life that you can never match up to the benchmark set up by your elder sibling in terms of responsibility.

A friend of mine who is a second child herself, told me that she would have two kids. " I will adopt one and give birth to one. So that each of them is one of a kind." "You don't have to do that", I told her. " Just treat each of them as one of a kind."

To all the parents out there, on behalf of every second child I would like to tell you that "Life is not too easy playing the Doosra, and it is utter foolishness to expect every Doosra to be a great delivery."

600020- Long live my Adyar

600020, the number that has been an integral part of my life for little over two decades now. Every letter, every greeting card, every post card, the ration card, my passport, my license, and even my bank account details bear this number. The pin code has not changed for the past two decades but Adyar has, from being just another locality in the outskirts of Chennai to the most sought after posh residency. Adyar has been my home for over two decades now.

Adyar composed of its various nagar's (Besant Nagar, Kasturibai Nagar, Baktavatsalam Nagar, Indira Nagar, Gandhi Nagar, Shastri Nagar and few others) was the cozy hub that connected you well to the Elliot’s beach on one side, to the shopping hub of T.Nagar in 15 minutes, to central railway station in a decent 25 minutes (provided there is no traffic) and to the airport in a fairly decent amount of time is located on the southern banks of the Adyar River. It is bounded by the Buckingham Canal to the west, Thiruvanmiyur to the south, and the Bay of Bengal to the east. Back in the late 70's and 80's Adyar was the only affordable and developing locality that a middle class could invest in. The coziness of the locality provided by its trees, the beach and theosophical society on one side and the yet to develop Thiruvanmiyur with Kalakshetra on the other was a good bet for many. It was the only place where one could comfortably afford 2-3 grounds of plot and built a decent enough independent house. T. Nagar and Poes Garden were still considered to be the poshest localities in the city owing to the celebrities and rich politicians who stayed there.

As I grew up, Adyar grew with me. I grew up in an Adyar where the only prominent landmarks on Sardar Patel road were Madhya Kailas, the cancer institute, IIT madras, Ambika Appalam Depot, Adyar Bakery and two famous hotels - Hotel Coronet and Hotel Runs. There was no Sangeetha, no Shree Krishna sweets, no Style one, or Odyssey- the book store. I vaguely remember Odyssey coming into existence when I was in class 3 or 4. Adyar was still a calm and cozy locality yet to be invaded by Branded showrooms. I felt it reflected the simple taste and needs of its residents. While I was in class 4 a chocolate doughnut in Adyar bakery cost Rs.4.50. Then the price rose to Rs 7 and today its Rs 12 or 15. It’s the bakery that sells the undoubtedly best doughnuts in entire Chennai. And the right time to eat a doughnut is just after its freshly baked and placed in the stands for sale. The fresh doughnuts are placed on the stands for sale when schools usually close, at about 3-30 or 4. Over the years, Adyar Bakery has changed a lot. There are new shops that sell chat and ice creams inside its premises now. The prices of the doughnuts have changed but the taste still remains the same.

I guess the first fully air conditioned departmental store that came to Adyar was Pushpa Shopee. It was located in the same place where the ICICI Bank (near the Aavin roundtana) today stands. This departmental store was the only luxury shop that Adyar had back then. Since the store attracted a few elite customers from the neighboring areas of Koturpuram and R.A Puram, there were fancy attractions like a homemade chocolates shop, a flower shop and a small outlet of the Hot breads bakery in the space near its entrance. The departmental store didn't do very well and hardly lasted for about 3-4 years. In the mid 90's the concept of shopping in trolleys and in an air conditioned shop still seemed too much of a luxury to the residents of Adyar. They preferred buying the household goods with the reliable shopkeeper at the corner of their street. It is a symbiotic relationship that every resident shares with the shopkeeper at the street corner. He cannot sustain business without them and they cannot do away without him at least during emergencies. And back then, residents were identified by the house names or the colour of their houses and not by names of apartments. That was the Adyar I lived in.

Adyar did not have a vegetable market. There were few small shops not more than about 150 sq in size, that sold only vegetables and the residents got their quota of veggies from these shops or a hawker who sold it to them on a daily basis. The nearest market was the Tani-Torai market in Mylapore. Even today Adyar does not have a separate vegetable market, which is why its been invaded by the Pazhamudhir Cholai's ( A store resembling a departmental store but sells only vegetables and fruits).They claim to sell the vegetables at the market price and pose a stiff competition to the hawkers and the other small timers. Adyar being the gateway to the IT highway has given room for many such shops. The IT professionals, mostly youngsters who are new to the city, living in rented homes or as paying guests, prefer buying their random dose of vegetables in these shops, than haggle with the hawkers or the small timers. They could walk right into the store and pick up what they want without even having to know the name of the vegetables or fruits in the local language. They don't mind paying extra since it saves them a lot of hassle.

Adyar has changed and its quite difficult to keep in pace with it. A new eatery, a new coffee shop, a clothes showroom, a hospital just springs up out of the blue. Every home or apartment has a new landmark each day. Today almost every street in Adyar has a unisex saloon or a spa. You'd go mad with the choices: Naturals, Green Trends, Kaya skin clinic, VLCC, Kanya, Anushka Saloon and the list goes on and on. As a kid, I remember there was a saloon named Topaz near Guhan studios on Sardar Patel road. It was the one and only famous saloon. “Haircut Rs30/- only” the board outside used to read. It was a small 250 sq ft shop with about four or five chairs. Being the only saloon in Adyar, the owner earned a huge fortune every Sunday. In order to keep pace with the spas and the unisex saloons the saloon has spruced up a little. It is now air conditioned and offers massages, facials and even spa treatments. Topaz today, has a faithful following of customers from old Adyar.

Adyar does not have Eros theatre anymore. There is a lancer showroom in its place. Hotel traffic Jam in Gandhi Nagar disappeared a few days back. Gandhi Nagar ladies club, where I learnt my first forehand in tennis ceases to exist. There are no more See- saws or Swings on the Elliot’s beach. The entire place is so congested with eating stalls that there is hardly any place where kids can run and play games like Kho Kho or Lock and Key. Gone are the days, where the only landmark in Besant Nagar was Maharaja Departmental stores and the Velankanni church. Thankfully Besant Nagar still retains its status of being the snug residential area unlike Gandhi Nagar, where half of the independent houses have been butchered into matchbox like apartments. Besant Nagar retains the calmness of interior Crescent Avenue in interior Gandhi Nagar. Crescent Avenue leads you to the banks of the Adyar river and St Patrick’s school. An early morning walk here would make you feel as if you are in Ooty or Kodai. The RBI quarters in Besant Nagar is a city by itself inside. The only place that keeps the colony spirit, which otherwise is alien to most apartments alive. The only places that have not changed in Gandhi Nagar, are famous Grand Sweets and Snacks and 100 year old school St Michaels. Grand Sweets is a shop that every NRI is familiar with. The only shop that sells the best savories and pickles in the whole of Chennai (Don’t convince me on any other shop. This is the best).

Today you don’t have to go to T. Nagar to buy yourself a Pattu Saree. You don’t have to go to Mount road or Richie Street to buy an electronic gadget. Adyar has it all, what you need and what you will need.

I wonder if Adyar would be called Adyar in a few years from now. But something that every name board, every shop and every Adyarite would carry is 600020. Its identity reduced to just a six digit number.

Finding....

Come what may,
One day I will find my way,
This time my mind won’t sway,
Like they say, Life’s not an easy way.

Fear, resentment and frustration are at bay,
Just to tell me that there’s no way.
I don’t care about what others say,
Or about the wicked games that they play,

It could be an endless journey,
And confusing in many ways,
Come what may,
One day I will find my way.

Adventures of Miss AB in Trans-fat land

I am Miss AB, now don't mistake me to be Amitabh, Abhishek or Aishwarya Rai Bachan. AB- Stands for Aloo Bonda. Previously, I used to hate the name, but now I guess I am used to being called that way. I am too depressed these days that I have begun, expanding horizontally, resulting in profound rotundity all through my anatomy.

I find profundity in rotundity. You don't get what I mean right? The best things in this universe are rotund. The sun, the moon, the earth itself, apples, cherries, grapes, Gulab Jamuns, Rasagullas, Pan Cakes, Cookies, Chocolate truffle (I mean the whole cake), Pizzas, Thattai, Murukku, Onion uthappams, Gol gappas,Peanuts, Baskin Robin's ice- cream scoops, Parle Pop-ins, Pure magic biscuits and the list of irresistable round things is endless. The best round object in this world is the potato. And how can I forget, Aloo Bondas and Aloo parathas. If I had to choose between food and sex, I would choose the former, because its easily available at anytime you want, you don't have to depend on someone for it and 'FOOD'gets you out of depression.

I am a diet dropout. The last time I ever ate diet food, was when I ate Marie Biscuits. I tried a diet called the GM diet. This was when I stocked a life time of nutrients and vitamins into my body. The results of the diet seemed outstanding when I went up to measure the merits of my performance on the weighing machine. The pointer showed a four degree shift to left and I was terribly excited. But my joy was short lived, and I happened to meet an old friend who ended up not only destroying my temporary happiness but also got me into deep depression. " Oh my god!! You've put on so much weight. What happened?" she said. I wanted to tell her that I had actually lost weight, but remained silent. That was the last time I had met her. I hate it when relatives and friends remind me of my rotundity in weddings, and other happy gatherings. It makes me awfully depressed that I end up taking two servings of the dessert.

And then dawned hope. I read Kareena Kapoor's success weight loss story. Yes even I could become my dream me. I just had to streamline my depression eating. My deep depression had caused me to blog relentlessly, usually late at nights when my apetite soars high."Its okay if I ate Milk Bikies or Parle- G at night, but I must avoid pampering my taste buds by smearing Jam in between the biscuits", I thought. My oil intake was quite under control. Ever since the microwave was introduced, every south indian house hold used it mainly to make oil free papads and fryums. What actually needed attention was my Bornville, and Bonda intake.

I hate my boy friend for three things. One, for naming me Aloo Bonda, two for gifting me Bornvilles everytime we meet, and the third one for fixing up our meeting point at Bamblimas Bonda stall. Otherwise, he's a nice chap. He accepts my rotundity and does not rub it in. Unlike most men, who find the collar bone jutting out as the most appealing factor, my guy finds profundity in rotundity. I have a gym mate who is just as plump as I am and her boy friend presented her a weighing machine on her birthday. She felt so miserable that she broke down half way on the treadmill one day. If I was her, I would have dumped the third rated bastard. My boy friend is the only soul who tells me that I have lost weight after each session at the gym. I often envy the skinny women who come to gym. I am curious about how they are so skinny despite eating the same amount as I eat. Despite just eating two Chapatis for both lunch and dinner and running six miles for 2 months continuously, the pointer on the weighing machine showed just a two degree shift to the left. I had expected to lose at least 5 kilos. Just as I was about to suffer a slight nervous break down, I saw a really huge woman enter the gym. In my estimate she would easily weigh at least 200 pounds.

She saw me sit in the couch, waiting to get my new diet plan. She asked me if I was waiting for the dietician. " Did the diet help?", she asked. " Not really. I just lost two kilos after two months" I said. " Be happy you at least lost two. I lost none. Be happy girl. Fat people like me find profundity in rotundity. God made most strategic parts of the human body rotund, just to make human beings more appealing. And I have many other parts rotund, and that makes me even more appealing." she said laughingly. "Let me know after you're done with your appointment." she said, and walked towards the juice counter. Just as she turned, I saw what was written on her pink t-shirt. " Your weight is not down your waist, but up your head. All that matters is how you carry it."

Fiction's rendezvous with reality

Accusations. All of us are accused of something or the other everyday. We are accused of being lame, lazy, stupid, slow (in all aspects),for the way we walk, talk, sit, stand, eat, sleep, dress up, for using a deo, for not using a deo, and so on and so forth.

I was accused of being a shame to the entire lineage of Tam Brahms owing to my perenial display of slowness with numbers. I remember before each math exam right from class 6,I would suffer from severe attacks of Arithmophobia. A condition where your mind goes blank when you're asked to add three 4-digits mentally. Yes I was mathematically challenged, but my parents thought I suffered from ADS (Attention deficit Syndrome) and needed several doses of the drug Ritalin. My father's usual remarks after seeing the 61 or 62 or 63 on my paper would be "You don't apply yourself enough."

My mother was too concerend about my mathematical instablity that she got me enrolled for a course to relax my mind and twist my body. They called it the 'Art of Living'. She did have a scientific theory behind it. She said, my brain didn't need Ritalin but just sufficient oxygen. But no amount of oxygen brought life to the dying neurons that stored the multiplication tables. They had lost the hope of living and decided to be comatose forever.

Now coming to the point, most of what I write on this blog is inspired from incidents that happen in real life and if my stories resemble what happens in your life, then I must say its purely coincidental. Many parts of my stories have happened in real life, and the rest I've made it up just to make the story readable. But what if something that is made up becomes reality?

Nikhil Subramanian, was a random name that I gave for the ex-man of my dreams. The other day, while I was whiling away my time on Face Book, I saw friend suggestions "Nikhil Subramanian". We had 21 mutual friends and the guy was absolutely HOTT. Shucks, did destiny play evil tricks? In " Those were the days" I had mentioned that my parents had read my blog on pleasing and were shocked. Actually, they happened to read the post "Those were the days" and here is the conversation that unfolded. Most of the time the conversation was onesided with only my dad speaking and my mind speaking words which he could never hear.

Appa: Now I saw what stupid things you have written on that blog of yours.

Me: What are you talking about?

Appa: How can you write something so stupid and use all unparlimentary language and give a verbal description for it? We have not brought you up this way at all.

Me: (As usual I wanted to excape the situation) I didn't write anything. I was just reading it.

Appa: What do you mean. I know for sure you wrote it. How can you use the forbidden four letter word? How can you? Do you even realise the implications of what you have done? When I saw it I was shocked. I couldn't believe what I was reading. ANd now you are lying to me about it.

Me: (Face looking down at my feet): Silent.
Mind:Ok now what's the big deal. Everyone uses it.

Appa: I wonder what you do on the computer all night. I never did such things when I was your age.

Me: Silence.

Appa: Are you writing some kind of Pornographic Novel?

Me: Shucks no way!! Are you crazy?

Appa: Don't use that word in front of me. You are getting out of your limits I tell you.

Me: I didn't use the f-word I said shucks.

Appa: Don't you dare say that.

Mind: What an accusation. No kid on the face of this planet would have been accused of such a thing ever. Appa Pronography can be either totally disgusting or atleast titilating. My blog is neither disgusting nor titilating. And using the swear word is not a big deal. And by the way you were the first person to implant wild thoughts in my innocent brain, when you took the entire family for the movie TITANIC. I was in class 5 then. You said it was a must watch and dragged the entire family- amma, paati and her bandwagon of sisters. And when they saw Kate Winslet undress you were cool enough to say " Stop complaining and Look at the bigger picture."

Appa: Just because you've been given a lot of freedom don't misuse it.

Me: Silence again.
Mind: Freedom? I must be home before 9 P.M sharp. You eavesdrop on the conversations I have with male colleagues and enquire about their last names just to make sure it ends with 'an'. Chandrashekar'an', Ramakrishn'an', Nataraj'an', Narasimh'an', Jagannath'an',Muralidhar'an'......... and the only exceptions being parthasarathy and a few other surnames. Even the otherday when Jaswinder called me, you were so inquisitive about what I was speaking with her until I told you she was female.

Appa: Read Leo Tolstoy, Read Charles Dickens. Look at the sensitivity with which they write. I spent my time reading such books when I was like you. I wonder what you read and it is reflecting in your writing. This is the last time I wanna discuss this with you. Do you even understand the implications it would have if someone from our family reads it? Delete it right away. I dont want to see you writing such stupid things again.

Me: Silence.
Mind: First go become anonymous on the blog. This is getting tough to handle. And heck no, I am no way deleting my blog. It means so much to me.

I shall write about how much my blog means to me in another post. Just as I remove my name and other details about myself from the blog, I see a comment pop up. I always get excited to see the first comment of every post. The person who commented was Venki and he said brilliant. Venki is my father's nick name. Does he have a deep dark side, I wonder.

I dont get it!!!

Keeeeeeeeeeeeeek Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek,
Ke Ke Ke Ke Ke KEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,
You're an ass.. a complete ass,
Otha, Vadai thaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Kikkiikkkkkkii Kkiiiikkiiiii,


Kooooooooooooooo Koooooooooooo
Ku ku ku ku ku ku ku ku ku,
Omg She looks hot, Wink,
koooooooooooooooo koooooooo,

Drrrrr.. Drrrrrrr .. Drrrr,
Dud dud dud dud dud dud...
keeekk Dud Dud Dud..
Aiye Aiye Aiye,

Kek Kek Kek Kek Kek,
Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,
Krrrrr thu, Krrr thu,
Wow my spit shines on the road,
Ok Let me stop admiring it.

Dud dud dud .. ROARRRR,
Roar Raorrrrrrrrrrrrrr..
Wow my fancy horn sounds like a tiger.
Roar Raaaaaaorrrrrrrr,
(Simba written on the number plate)

You dont get it right? Neither do I get the language of men on the road.

Those were the days

Note: This post is dedicated to all those who were born between 1980's and 1990's.

'Alice, who the fuck is Alice?', she shouted. It was Anu, my 8 year old cousin. ' Priya Akka, isn't fuck a bad word? What does it mean anyway?' I saw my Mama, giving me a cold stare. Embarrassed, I immediately snatched the MP3 player from her hand and said, ' Why do you take these things without asking me?'. I tried hard to shift the focus from the F-word to the kid's behaviour, which I did think required some attention.

But wait, what do I tell the kid? Do I tell her Fuck stands for 'Fornication under the Consent of the King', or tell her to Google the meaning or check out the meaning of it in the oxford English dictionary, just like I did when I was in class 7?

Webster’s didn’t have that word in their dictionary back then. Back in class 7, I remember there was this boy, who had watched too much of wrestling and learnt that the f- word had a very bad meaning and showing the middle finger meant the same. It was in class 7 that I learnt to use the dictionary really very well. We searched page by page of the Oxford English Dictionary, for 'Fuck'. Finally I learnt that it meant 'have sexual intercourse with someone.' or used as an abusive word. But what the hell did sexual intercourse mean? I discovered that only in class 9 biology class.

Back then, the movies made me think wildly about the way babies were born. I often thought couples prayed to god for a baby and god made the woman pregnant at his own will. Therefore, one had to be careful and pray to god for the right thing at the right time. My Patti told me,'Kunti Devi in the Mahabharata had a child too early because she prayed for the wrong thing at the wrong time'. Watching more movies expanded my thinking and gave me a bit more clarity on the subject. I learnt that some amount of physical contact was required, and if the couple hugged each other too tightly the woman would eventually become pregnant. It was difficult to think beyond this and I didn't care to think beyond this. This thought was ingrained so deeply that even today it makes me feel uncomfortable to publicly display affection towards my friends who are guys.

I'm no more a teenager and looking back at the way I grew up, I feel not just glad but blessed. I say this because of many reasons. One being I belonged to the generation that saw the rise and fall of a new millennium. Back then in the 1990's, in the newly liberalized India, Internet and mobile communication was nothing but a dream, and Wi-Fi a myth. Owning a cordless phone that time, was a huge deal and was equivalent to having an I-pod 4G today.

It was when I was a kid, that the first mobile phones were introduced in the country. They were in the size of a cordless phone and weighed a Ton. Every call cost 18 Rupees a minute initially and even incoming phone calls were being charged. Pager phones were still in use. It was when I was in class 8 that my parents bought their first mobile phones. I didn’t know to use the T9 dictionary until class 11.

National TV and DD-2 were the only channels that were available until I was 6 years old. Then came the invasion of cable television. We didn't have cable TV connection in our house until my brother completed his class 12. My parents often thought of it as a distraction and a unnecessary luxury. Doordarshan or DD didn’t have many programs, but the few that were being telecast were watched by my family regularly. Malgudi days, Ramayana, Mahabharata, Jai Hanuman, the world this week by Pranoy Roy, the only dose of film songs- Chitrahaar, and Surabhi. The only serial that was famous back then was JUNOON. All that I remember was that the serial was based on an affair between a woman named Mini Kaur, who had left her husband and ran after another man named Keshav Kalsi, the role played by Tom Alter. I remember one of my neighbours complaining to my mom that such serials should be banned as it showcased things that were not in Indian Culture and young girls were getting influenced by what they showed.

I was born in times when there were no multiplexes and we often rented a video tape to watch movies. Whenever the video tapes got stuck, I had fun rolling the tapes back into the plastic case. I still have the video and audio tapes. It was only in class 6 that we bought a VCD player and a few CD's. I remember storing the CD's so carefully and cleaning the Kenwood VCD player every time I used it. The Kenwood VCD player cost Rs. 40,000 back then.

E-mail was considered high technology and Mr.Sabeer Bhatia was the most eligible bachelor at that point. My father had created an E-mail ID and said that one had to be very careful with it. He often boasted about how it enhanced communication with his friends in the US and it must have been an IIT guy who must have invented the concept. These IIT grads .. Phew!! And then arrived chatting. Parents were all the time on the guard, and telling us about dangerous Instant messaging chat stories on the internet, by which many young girls had been fooled.

As a Kid, I belonged to a generation which saw the telephone, change to the cordless phone and Video tapes change to DVD's. I belonged to a generation which saw Social networking change from Picnics to Hi-fi, Orkut and now Facebook. I belonged to a generation where kids were familiar only with two brands, Hot Wheels and Barbie. I belonged to a generation where games meant Ice- spice, Lock and key, or Judo and not Mafia Wars or Mortal Combat. I belonged to a generation that watched Tom and Jerry and Captain Planet and not Animax or Pogo.As a kid, I saw Madras change to Chennai, Bombay to Mumbai, Calcutta to Kolkatta and Bangalore to Bengalooru.

Just the other day, I had left my laptop with my blog page open and had gone out. My parents happened to read my blog on pleasing. As I came back home, there was an unusual lull of the graveyard and I knew something was wrong. After about half an hour my father broke the ice.’ Why do you write things like this?' he said. ‘ Write what pa? What are you talking about?’ I asked . He pointed to the laptop on my table. It had the post open. My mother had a look on her face that I had never seen in many years. She had the same look when we saw a couple at Delhi's Lodhi Park,in a promiscuous pose and I asked her whether they were playing.

'Priya this is blasphemy. We never even knew such things when we were your age. What are you trying to prove by writing such scandalous posts? Become the next Shobha de? This is technology is just ruining these people. Please remove that before anyone else from the family can read it and embarrass us. And this is the last time you are writing such stupid things. I feel so ashamed to talk these things.' my mom added.

Arggghhhh!!! Why do such things keep happening to me. I wish I could bury myself underground. I quietly walked down to laptop and began to delete the recently browsed history. I knew there was absolutely no point in trying to convince my parents about how I had learnt to view things in a different manner, which was the basic ingredient to becoming a writer. They would never get the point. My parents were thinking that I was in the process of writing a new Mills and Boon novel. First thing,I need to search for a pen name, I thought. Just then, I got a pop-up saying Anu has updated her status on Facebook. She was in class 4, yes she was on Facebook. The status read 'Hey guyz please make it to my B'day party at Pizza Corner, Nungambakkam.' I scrolled down and clicked show older posts. I couldn't believe what I saw. It said Anu has joined the group Fornication under the consent of the King. 18 people like this.

My mother began cribbing about my generation only when she was 42. I am just 22 and I've already begun my cribbing about the future kids.

Marriage Musings

"Priya can you please get me your birth certificate", she shouted. It was my mom. "Why do you need that now?" I asked. The birth certificate is the one piece of paper I hate the most. It has my name spelt as "Priyavarshini" and this is circled and the correct name is written above it. My name has been a mess ever since I was born. This is one among the million reasons as to why I hate my name. “Bring your birth certificate fast. I need your exact birth details" She said. "You don't remember the time I was born??" Was I adopted by any chance? I always get this strange feeling about myself. I was under the impression that my mother had to succumb a great ordeal during labour just before I was born. Her BP shot up or something like that. I think she got too worked up about the fact that I was born on the same day as the first prime minister of the nation and just 12 days after the birthday of Shahrukh Khan. For the first 37 seconds to be exact I was like that Kid in 3 idiots. I did not scream. Before my mother's BP could rise even further, I screamed to bring the much awaited relief. I was a slow child since birth.

"3:30 PM, Saturday" I told her. “Oh what an afternoon it was. I still can never forget it. Okay Patti and I are going to the Josiyar (astrologer) to get your Jathakam (Horoscope) done. "

" Ammaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!! You have to be kidding." "Priya, I came to this house when I was your age. It’s been 30 years now." Okay I had heard enough of this and couldn't take it anymore. Moms are just unfair when it comes to daughters. When my mom's mom was her age she already had 3 kids and was carrying the fourth one. Her mother had 9 kids in all and my mother had only two. She compares herself with me but I never get to compare her with her mother. Why should I care if she got married when she was my age. Her mother had nine kids. How fair would it be for me to ask for seven more siblings? I was too irritated and depressed at the same time.

I opened the refrigerator and got a can of Kwality Walls' black forest ice cream with raspberry sauce. "I'm gonna empty this." I said to myself. So what if I become fat? It would be an added advantage and they wont get me married until I thin down. I am great at developing strategies. I was in a mood to bitch and immediately called my friend Apoorva. Okay now Apoorva is a girl's name. Her name is neutral gender or whatever. It's just as complicated as mine and that's what I like. But she never cribs about it like me. I told her about how unfair my mother was and told her about the brilliant strategy I had devised to evade my mom's evil plans to pack me off." Are you nuts? What if your mother suddenly begins to think in a fair manner and packs you off to a fat guy? And more over there are some weird men who love fat women. They are the men who prefer women in the likes of Shakeela( I am referring to an Indian expert porn actress), Namita etc. So stop devising such foolish strategies will you?", she said. Apoorva is always one woman with some sense. Her sense builds up as and when you approach her with problems. Otherwise she is pretty much the slow kind of kid that I am.

"Apoorva I am too paranoid de. I don’t think I can ever find a Tambrahm who is like Shahrukh and Shahid fused into one. I am totally smitten by this Project manager of mine. He is Tambrahm too and super smart. But he dates Neha that bitch. I wonder what she has, apart from her fair skin tone that swept him off his feet." I have a prejudice against girls with the name 'Neha'. I simply hate them and 99 percent of them turn out to be bums. Nikhil Subramanian was my longest crush in school since class 2. Neha Koccha joined school in class 11, and she started going out with Nikhil just one month after she joined. I wonder how these girls manage to do what I couldn't do in 10 years in just one month. I hated her so much. I hate her even now. Apparently, Nikhil and Neha are still going out. There was this other Neha at college. She dated four different guys during four years of college, and passed out with 88 percent aggregate and a distinction. How did she manage to do that.

Coming to the point, Apoorva gave me some gyaan about marriages. "Marriages”, she went on. “are not as bad as you imagine them to be. In India it’s not enough if the guy alone likes you. It is important for you to build a rapport with his family too. More importantly his mother. After all, we cannot live without our families."
I was beginning to feel a bit nauseating with all the black forest and raspberry sauce. Apoorva was getting a bit boring with her gyaan.

"You know ...” she went on. “See it’s like this. You often find that adopted kids are more pampered and cared for by their parents. Why is that? It is only because the parents get to choose their kids, and by default women hate to accept the fact that their selection is awful. That's why you never find mothers of adopted kids cribbing about them. But our parents often blame fate to bring slow kids like us to be born for them. They didn’t get to choose us. Similarly if you are the the 'chosen one' of your mother-in-law, there is very less chance that she would crib about you. Women hate to accept that their selection is bad. All that she can possibly do is brand you under the name of ' Modern Bahu' thats it. That is something we all would carry in the due course of time."

This did make some sense in a weird sorta way. “I have three options", I told her. "One is that I can go in with the choice of my parents and become the chosen one of the mother-in-law too, or second I could wait and find the man of my dreams. I've always had a fancy to marry an army man. This is another of my brilliant strategies for life. Just imagine, you would hang around with the elite of elite people in the society. And the best part is you are married yet single. You can send each other the cute sms'es like 'I miss you.. Want to kiss you' types and never get bored of it. You can have a perennial honeymoon and intimacy intact. The guy would visit you probably only once in 3-4 months and you get to exchange love letters even after the wedding just like in the movies. The guy would be deprived of the sight of a woman for at least a 100 mile radius and would be dying to see you. And every time he comes down, you could have a wild wild time and never get bored of it. Adding to this, imagine the perks. Free medical checkups, sprawling army quarters to live in, free transportation by trains, and in some cases you get a cook and a driver too,and huge pension ( thanks to the 6th pay comission and salary revising strategies of the Indian Government). Just in case the guy pops off, you get a huge compensation and get hailed as the wife of an honourable man. This is so much fun when compared to the boring corporate guys. I wish I can be a privileged one. My last option is to remain single. But this is a tough task, considering the fact that I have absolutely no control of my hormonal upsurges and if I choose to be single I need to maintain the reputation that Lata Mangeshkar possesses and want to be known for my chastity."

Just as I finished speaking to Apoorva, the door bell rang. My mother and Patti were back. I was curious to see what the horoscope looked like. I went and opened an A4 sheet of paper from my mother's purse. The sheet had my name written on the top left hand corner and my date of birth on the right. There were many squares and it looked like some magic square. In-between those lines somewhere, there was what what destiny had in store for me. Was I to become the ' Chosen one', the ' Privileged one' or the ' Chaste one'?

I wonder why - Sunaina

I am an 18 year old woman. I don't know if should call myself a woman or a girl. Both seem appropriate and yet inappropriate. My name is Sunaina. It means one with beautiful eyes. My grandmother named me Sunaina, since I had large eyes when I was born. They are still large and the most prominent feature on my face. I live in Calicut with my family. My family is a huge one. My father's family, my Patti, and my father's two brothers with their families stay with us. They call it a joint family, but I don’t think we are joint in anyway.

I have a very peculiar problem. I don't know if I must call it a problem or a worry. A problem or a worry means the same thing. The thing is that I don’t want to worry about this problem I have, since I don’t think its a problem at all. The people around me make me realise that I have this problem. I am a woman with a small build. I don’t have huge breasts. I have been ridiculed and made to feel small because of this. My Patti tells me that I can never satisfy a man and I am a shame to the family. She even asked my mother take me to a doctor to solve this problem of mine. The doctor shouted at my mother for putting me in such an embarrassing situation. She told me not to worry about it and said that it was perfectly alright to have small breasts.

Every day I travel by bus to college. The bus often is crowded. The bus is so crowded that people fall on one another. Sometimes the pushing gets very bad. Many a time a few men take advantage of this situation. On the pretext of moving, they rub their genitals on my back in the process. The feeling is miserable. Many a times they have pinched and fondled my breasts. It hurts a lot both physically and mentally. I try resisting but sometimes I cannot prevent myself being touched. I once told my boyfriend about these incidents in the bus and he ridiculed at me by saying “You have such small ones why would anyone do that?" I felt miserable about myself for an entire week after that.

I wonder why these men do this to me. What is their intention? Do they do it because it gives them pleasure, or they think it gives me pleasure? According to my grandmother, I could never satisfy a man. Then why do I get fondled each day?
If a man has small genitals, no one would even know except his wife. He wouldn't suffer a complex about it. When I get touched and fondled, I wish I can pull down the guy’s zippers and do to him the same things that are done to me. I wish I can pass on the misery I face each day. I wish I can comment on the size of his prized masculine possession and other things. But I know I would never be able to do it.

Women's liberation to me is not about banishing female infanticide or the women’s reservation bill. Liberation to me means looking at a woman beyond just her breasts.

Of Mobiles and Automobiles

There are two things that have never fascinated me. One is mobile phones and the other is automobiles. I've never even bothered to find out my own mobile model number and each time I am asked, I take out the back cover of my mobile to read it out. And each time I invariably forget it within the next five minutes of reading it. I have never felt that remembering my mobile model number is mandatory. I've often been ridiculed by shopkeepers, friends and relatives for this. Now days, remembering your mobile model number is as important as remembering your car registration number.

The other day, as I was speaking to someone from the restroom of my office, a friend of mine noticed that the cleaner there had a better and more updated version of Nokia when compared to mine. She found this extremely funny. I still don't understand the joke about the rest room cleaner having a better mobile than mine.
The only feature I need in a mobile phone apart from the basic necessity of making calls is that of sending messages and receiving them. And yes I don’t need a phone that hangs if I pressed the buttons too hard. I find it immaterial to have a phone worth forty thousand rupees, with a 7 pixel camera, hazar other features, and have balance of Rs.0.04. A phone should serve the purpose its meant for. I don’t quite understand the logic behind having a phone worth 40 or 50 grand and not being able to make an emergency call because you have a balance of 0.04 rupees. So technically, during an emergency if I cannot make a call from a phone worth 40 grand it is of zero value.

Another thing that never amuses me is cars. Ever since I was a child, I've never dreamt of owning the best cars. I don’t know the difference between a z-series and x- series Mercedes. My father often told me “It doesn’t matter how you travel from point A to point B, be it by a Porche, a Lamborgini, a Maruthi 800, or the MTC buses. There is no shame in travelling by something that takes you to your destination”. A few days back, when the prime minister visited Chennai for the opening of the secretariat,many roads were blocked and there was terrible traffic jam throughout the city. While numerous 'Honda Cities', quite a few Skoda's were stand still, I walked past them and reached home way ahead of all the cars present there.

As I walked, I wondered of what value was a Rs 25 lakh car, which earned the respect of the onlookers on the road, if it took you to your kid's birthday function four hours late.

Some nasty reminiscences

I always wished life was like a tape recorder. I wish I could just press the pause, rewind and fast forward buttons as and when I liked. I could undo my mistakes, never repent for being unjust, unfair or biased. Then I could live a life without a single regret and sleep peacefully on my grave. When I look back, I regret two things I did in my life.

The first one was when I was in class two. It was on my birthday. There was a get together at home and many close friends, relatives, cousins, and neighbours were invited. I quite don't remember who all were present back then. I was very excited and happy to get all the attention and presents. My mother had ordered a huge cake from Adyar Bakery and had made a variety of snacks. Among the various guests who were present, there was also Ramanujam. Ramanujam was the son of my neighbour's servant. He was a year younger than me. My father had invited him over as there were quite a number of children and he too could play with us. I didn't want Ramanujam to be there. I didn't feel comfortable. Ramanujam was a short, skinny boy who wore half overalls, which was his corporation school uniform. He was wearing that during my birthday party too. He didn't wear shoes and his legs were dusty with sand. Ramanujam often watched my friend Aparna and I play at her house. Aparna's father was a strict man and he never allowed Ramanujam to play with us. He didn't want us to mingle with the servants. As my father called me and asked me to include Ramanujam to the games we were playing, I began to cry. I didn't want to be associated with a servant's son. My father was furious and called me aside and tried to make me understand that my behaviour was unacceptable. I didn't care about what he told me. I didn't want to play with Ramanujam and I didn't want him to be at my birthday party. I told my Father "Appa he is not even my friend." Ramanujam silently watched what happened. He wondered why I was crying. He just stood there in his half overalls and kept staring at my father. He simply stood there, I wished he had some ego and just walked out, but he stood there watching and wondering why I was crying. He knew I cried because of his presence. The emptiness in his eyes and his silence is something that I can never forget to this very day.

My father realised it was futile trying to convince me and told my brother to play with Ramanujam. He played cricket with my brother and kept staring at my tears. While the snacks were being served my mother made sure Ramanujam felt comfortable. I knew he was not one bit comfortable. He sat at one corner of the sofa in the hall and kept eating his food as fast as possible. He didn’t look up even once. May be he didn't want to see me crying. Before he left, Ramanujam extended his hand to shake them with mine and smiled gleefully. He told me "Aaapy birthday Akkaaaa". I didn't want to respond. I didn't bother to shake hands with him. He hadn't even wiped his hands after eating the cake. They were all sticky and his nails were dirty.

Ramanujam's father got a better job and soon his family moved out of the neighborhood . All that I remember of him were those half overalls and the emptiness in his eyes. I had behaved in the worst possible fashion. I was mean, nasty, arrogant and what not. I just wish I could press the rewind button and undo what I did to Ramanujam on 14th of November 1994.

The second incident happened rather recently. In class 11, there were many new students who joined my school. One among them was KP. KP was a short, stout girl who wore specs. Her hair was a distinct feature, since it was light brown, incredibly straight, rough and dry. This called for a lot of ridicule I named her bottle brush. Where ever she went, everyone screamed bottle brush or Scortch Brite. She quite didn’t realise I had given her the name and used to crib to me about her hair. I used to tell her not to worry about external appearances and that her hair was unique. I shamelessly hid behind a veil of guilt and cowardliness. Soon the teasing got overboard and KP couldn't handle it. She left the school forever. My class teacher gave the class a big lecture about treating fellow students and how we must not make fun of one's physical appearances. The guilt inside me was killing. I prayed and hoped she didn’t hurt herself physically. I tried contacting KP after she left school but all in vain. She had changed her contact number and didn't want to get in touch with anyone from my class.

The other day, as I was crossing the road near Alsa Mall, I saw KP. Before I could cross over to the other side she was gone. I tried tracking her down on social networking sites, so that I could get rid of the guilt I was living with. Sadly KP isn't listed on any social networking site.

Sorry would not be the right thing to tell KP or Ramanujam. I just wish I could press the rewind button, then the erase button and fast forward my life to the present.