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e-Relationships

"I sent an email to your boyfriend the other day regarding his job search", I told her.

She nodded and said, "He has replied to you, I checked his email early today and checked the reply to you in his ‘Sent’ folder."

EGAD! Couples checking each others email id!! Eeeeow Gross! I admit that, in a strange mushy level, it can be considered cute even to the best of us. The best of us who have large portions of our brains missing. Everyone needs a life, an independent one to some degree.

Now, every time I send out mails to my girl friends or guy friends, I need to make a mental note on how this language would be taken by their spouse. Will I be called a bitch at the dinner table because I asked my friend if his paranoid wife has decided to stop bugging him about that bartender girl who called him ‘love’? She was cute, wasn’t she?

I can’t tell my girlfriend about this new sanitary napkin without having to face her hubby and knowing he knows my menstrual preferences.

Build trust with friend's other half and as time progresses, treat them as one entity. Very tough. Unlike my normal self, I have to pour inane niceties while gagging on the key board. ‘I hope you and your lovely, sexy, wife are having a blast. I want to learn knitting from your talented, gorgeous wife someday. I forgot all the good times we had together in college. It has been replaced by the yummy biryani I had at your place. I hate you. My husband likes you more.’

There are some poor unsuspecting single souls out there who don’t know of this practice (God bless their innocent souls) and sometimes land themselves and their friends in deep trouble.

"Oye oye! Hope sex is better this time, you old married fart!"

The worse part or best part is- this phenomenon is not universal. Thank God for some not-so-much-in-love or as I would say smart couples, there are some who don’t share their work ids. So it leaves me in a more perplexed state. Who are these angels and is work id safe enough for my emails? Who am I to tell people not to share something as pure as emails with their loved ones? Next I might get psycho and go on a tirade about couples sharing blankets. *shudder* You know, I can do without all this stress. I should just stop emailing.

Confession- With head bent and toes curled up making designs on fictitious sand, I’ll concede that I was practicing this religion before I renounced it to save my relationship (with hubby and friends alike). Just in time to avoid marriage counselors and drugs. One weak moment to prove your trust and desperate attempts at bonding can cause new couples to give out passwords as a very first romantic gift. In those days of tender love, this email deal doesn’t even come close to embarrassing me as much as other random things I have done. But then, I shall not digress. My then boyfriend, who became my now hubby used to check his emails after checking mine. He would get some boring-repeat junk mail from his school alumni egroups, whereas I would get juicy-interesting emails from the vast population of male admirers. I didn’t say mine, did I? He was aghast at the way I replied to my buddies (I repeat, my buddies) and he'd let me know of his displeasure and how I ought to write decently. I was aghast at his stupid controlling behavior. I could have-

a) changed boyfriend

b) changed password

c) both

d) none of the above

I did only (b) and made his life even more miserable by not doing (a). He lives in this eternal curiosity as to what kind of emails I get, forever trying to hack in. Tch, tch!

Psst- He will vehemently deny this.

Double psst- I don’t get any more juicy-interesting mails, but I will deny that too.

Triple psst- So guys, what are you waiting for?


Cell Phone Case Files

....continued from previous

As requested by the manager of Chilis, I lodged a police complaint for stolen phone.

Detective Sneeze (or maybe Squeeze- something like that) calls up home.

DS: Miss, you have made Perry Mason proud with your detective work. They caught Rodrigo and got a confession from him.

Me (totally taken by this Perry Mason comparison): I wish Rod boy knew English. I would have figured out this whole thing myself. Met him in an alley and grabbed the cell phone.

DS: Lady, thank your stars or else I would be dealing with a murder case now; your murder. It is a good thing we got involved at the right time. Rodrigo confessed that it was his roommate- Luca's phone. He has no reasons to steal one as he had just got one last week. He saw it lying around when you called and picked it up.

Me (head spinning): So it was Lucas! Lucas was framing poor Rod! Aha! This makes perfect sense.

DS: Now the problem is Lucas says he did not do it and the cell phone is nowhere to be seen. Must be in a dumpster somewhere. He tried to do away with the evidence. So Lucas is your man. What do you want us to do with him?

Me (suspicious about the question and wondering what the right answer should be): er.. Can I get an apology from him?

DS: Apology? You the Pope or what? Chilis will fire him if you consent. Do you want him to get fired or have him walk away with the crime.

Me (feeling like the Pope): Son, what harm has poor Lucas done? He took my cell phone, which I left on the table. To have him lose his career (as a table cleaner) will be a harsh punishment for such a petty crime. Leave him alone. You don't know how many times I have been tempted to steal those lovely overpriced sweaters from the mall.

DS (ignoring my kindly words of wisdom): I would let Chilis fire him as I do not want him to go scott free. I have another interest in this case. I have evidence against Lucas that he has illegal papers and am planning to send him back to Mexico.

Me (shocked): Woah! For using a cell phone, he will be deported! Ok fine, get him fired. (knowing that death treats from Mexico won't be as dangerous as Lucas following me everyday to work with a dagger)

DS: Good, that will teach him a lesson. And regarding your cell phone, you may want to go for the Motorola V 300. The V300 thrills the senses with stunning visuals, amazing sound, and a unique feel, from the soft touch finish to color display. Catch the action with the integrated camera. It's 199.00, with 50 dollar mail-in-rebate, it comes to 159.99 dollars. T-MOBILE is a registered trademark of Deutsche Telekom AG. voicestream, the voicestream wireless logo, whenever minutes and T-MOBILE CONNECTION MANAGER are either registered trademarks or trademarks of VoiceStream Wireless Corporation or T-Mobile USA, Inc. in the U.S. and/or other countries. All other products or services referenced in this site are the trademarks or service marks of their respective owners.

Thinking to mahself while waiting for DS to take a breather: What the heck!?! A cop that moonlights as a sales rep?! Now I have seen it all. *shaking head in disbelief and wondering if a complaint can be lodged against detectives for wasting my time*

I have a newfound respect for cops and detectives in this country now, especially when they take your silly case so seriously. It's almost like they have nothing else to do.

Have you seen Rodrigo?

My cell phone got stolen. Bah! The perils of possessing a real cool device. Ok, fine, I’ll admit…I lost it!. I figured this out after two whole days. Shows how exciting my social life is. I also have a reputation of never picking up calls, just because I never hear the damn thing. I have set it to the lowest volume possible since I don’t want to cause disturbance here at work and never revert back to audible volume afterwards as I forget to do so. I just deal with abuse from friends and family. What the heck, my friends will call and then email me to pick up the phone. It’s been working fine. I maintain that my phone is for emergencies only (one sided emergencies). If you are dying, look for someone else who picks up phones.

Today, I wanted to use the phone, but couldn’t find it. My total lack of responsibility regarding anything I own is baffling, I do not panic. I knew it must be lying on the floor of my car or my office bathroom. Humming a tune, I go my car and look around casually knowing that I’ll find it. Such is my arrogance. When I don’t see it immediately, the humming stops but the arrogance remains. I casually search the bathroom, my cubicle, the carpets, my boss’s pockets... still no phone.

As a last resort, I call my number thinking I would hear a faint ring from somewhere near.

Guy with accent: Hello!

Me (taken aback for the first time since this phone episode started): Excuse me, you have my phone.

Rude Guy: No no no.

Me (rolling eyes and checking number dialed): No? You are holding my phone, Mister. Where are you located? Longitude? Latitude?

Guy: No no no

Me (huge sigh): What do you mean, no?! I lost my phone two days ago and now you have it. You may want to have the charger and headsets too. Let me know where I could drop it off!

Guy (not lured by this proposition): No no no.

Me (thinking he had better vocabulary than my friend’s one year old) : You speak English?

Guy: Spanish. Si si.

Me (phew, that explains! Finally we were making some headway): Espaniol eh? Phone Que pasa? Numero mine. Police cops Gracias!! What is your name?

Guy: Rodhrrrigo. What is your name?

Me (He knows some English. Does he think I am trying to have a friendly conversation here?): I am Nancy Drew, nice to know you. Where do you work? Work?

Guy (finding solace in familiar English words): Chilis. You work in Chilis?

Me: No I don’t, Mr.Burrito, but I very soon will be in disguise working for Chilis to get that phone from you.

Guy: No no no.

That does it! I hung up on him and went scouting for a Spanish translator at work for me. John agreed to help out with his rusty Spanish.

‘John, we went dining at Chilis on Tuesday night and I feel I might have left phone there. Mr.Rodrigo has been using it to call a lot of people. He spoke to a girl in California for an hour!!! With my phone!! I found that from my phone company’s website. So please tell him that I will drop by tonight and pick up that phone. I can’t have him calling anymore people, I am running low on minutes. Tell him to use it only on weekends.’

We tried calling and it went straight to the answering machine. Either my cell phone ran out of charge or Rods got smart suddenly. I called my phone company, put the phone on hold so that it is not misused anymore. I also called Chilis and asked them investigate on their employees, a Mr. Rodrigo in particular. Yes, he gave me the name, I told them. They sounded very helpful (in English) and said they would get back to me later today.

Till then, don’t even bother calling. If you do see Rodrigo, teach him some English, will you?


Thus the Tinda was born

This happened a year ago when blogging and bloggers intrigued me no end. We didn’t have the modern day ‘Blog-meets’ and hence couldn’t happily land into a yahoo site with pictures attached to names. When bloggers blogged anonymously, they felt the dire need to remain so. And I remained eternally curious.

Sometimes, by extraordinary luck and great penance, I would get to know the real name of a blogger and the first thing I would do is Google them. I have an inconceivable faith in the powers of google . Hopefully I can dig up some dirt on the victim and most of the times I am rewarded. A hazy link that takes you to a support group website where our protagonist has asked some techie question is enough to make my day. So you can imagine my shock on searching for our very own Patrix (real name withheld to protect the identity of Pratik) on Google and actually coming up with links filled with explicit information. Wonder of wonders, there was a not-so-flattering photo too!!!

So he went to IIT Bombay, eh? That explains his posts which resemble the Baron’s guide. Reading more about Pratik had my jaws drop to the floor and my eyeballs pop to the screen (yeah, like Tom in Tom and Jerry). This is NOT what I had imagined! Jeez! Holy Guacamole! Wowiee Powiee! I immediately called Starfest, my partner in crime, to discuss this in an excited frenzy, totally flabbergasted at the find.

Tinda? Bhai? Laundiyabaaji and bakarchodi?? Shocking indeed! Here, apna hallowed Patrix was trying to portray a pristine image and just look at him!! In real life, he is such an ..er.. interesting guy! Man! ‘There is only so much you can lie about yourself. People are bound to find out’, we sympathized with Patrix, patting our backs in glee.

In his college dairy, Mr. Paramveer Singh obligingly points out – ‘M**** in nothing else but a towel, with original intentions of going to the toilet, now running down the corridor.
reason:
shivalites with burning mashaals yelling like african natives chasing him down the myriad dark corridors.’

Another source, Mr. Vipul Kansal, says,’ jab mumbai ka king kong pratik m**** daaru peeta hai tab woh saari junta ke manoranjan ke liye nude belly dance karta hai.’

Now that’s an image that will not leave my mind that easily. Though it was all scandalous and eye opening, we found it highly amusing. I would trip on carpets and choke on food controlling my laughter. Star and I promptly started using references to the site, trying to taunt Patrix out of his wits. Calling him Gattu, Tinda, Laughing Buddha etc in comment boxes, hoping that he would get embarrassed and fall at our feet in agony, promising us riches if we stopped harassing him! Imagine our further confusion and rage when he hardly responded to these gestures and when he did, he appeared clueless . We regretfully concluded that he either was too ashamed to admit this or he had a bad bout of amnesia. We sent the link to all the people we knew and did some image damage, ‘Go and get the real scoop about Patrix, the wannabe nerd!!!’ *evil maniacal laff* Folks who didn't even know the story started alluding to the Tinda. It became an out-of-control fashion statement and was being used totally out of context. *sigh*

Then one unsuspecting day, it came as a shock really. It occurred to me that Patrix never even saw the insides of an IIT, bah (courtesy: one of his posts). He went to some obscure Architecture college in Bombay. He was really clueless about THE Tinda. This was in fact a different Pratik with the same freakin last name!  How many of those do we come across living in Atlanta, I say?! Google, how could you do this to me? Er..now what!? The damage was done… Tinda became a household name and poor Patrix had nothing to do with it!

It was time to find a nice hiding spot.


Christmas time is here again... Bringing lots of Cheer again!

Time for lights that bring with them- some really disgusting holiday décor. There should be a law against mutilating a perfectly lovely house with strings of lights thrown in all directions. Puffed up plastic Santas and fake snowmen should be illegal. While driving back home from work, I come across rows of lit houses, each outdoing the other with their gaudiness. Flashing lights, blinding lights, lights in the shape of unknown organisms. What significance do amoebae have in the Christmas story? I do agree that lights bring out the spirit of the holidays and sometimes if skillfully placed, can even be breathtaking. My peeve is only when Christmas decoration tends to look like an extended Halloween embellishment. Phew! With that out of my head, I can rub my sore eyes and breathe lightly till I have to drive home again tonight.

My dread for holiday season doesn’t end there. There is the ‘Christmas party’ or the politically correct, ‘Holiday party‘. The other day I had to attend one- Pi’s office party. Selecting a perfect dress is always a tiring/time-consuming job for me. I will wear almost everything in my closet till I fall down with fatigue and finally end up with what I had worn right in the beginning. This time, I made a smart choice of wearing the dress I had worn for my office party the year before. Finally I got an opportunity to wear it again and get some paisa vasool. It was a knee length sleeveless dress with a slightly plunging neck line. Put on some make-up and wore high heels. Donned a fancy jacket that didn’t protect my bare legs. Endured the cold, shivering from the parking lot to the restaurant. Was to meet Pi here, who would come directly from work.

Left the coat at the front and stylishly (as much as I could manage) tic-tocked to the table. One look at his colleagues, I wanted to turn around and dash out in the cold again. Every single person was in jeans, sweater and sneakers. The most formal person was in khaki pants. I stamped Pi on his foot and grinned sheepishly at everyone. "I just got here from the Grammys."

Note to self: Next time, wear only burka- a denim one.

Was seated right across his boss’s wife. She kept staring at my cleavage that I wanted to tuck my napkin in there. I shifted nervously in the chair. Boss lady asked me, ’Aren’t you feeling cold?’ What concern, I thought. ‘Seeing you all in sweaters, I feel rather warm, thank you!’ I proceeded to tell her the Birbal story.

Note to self: Americans are a conservative lot. Wear such clothes when hanging out with desis.

Introductions start much to Pi’s embarrassment. Now he has to introduce me as his over enthusiastic wife who apparently didn’t get the memo. ‘This is Pat. Pat, my wife, Alpha.’

‘So you are new guy they hired. Heard a lot about you’, I said taking a wild shot as I hadn’t seen him earlier. He was here with his girlfriend, I observed cleverly.

I could see Pi frothing at the corners of his mouth like a cobra had bit him.

‘Alpha, Pat is a woman’.

I’ll be damned!!!! With barely there hair, crisp shirt and pants, Pat looked like a guy out of high school. It so happens that my second guess was at least right. That was her girlfriend!! Thank Goodness!

Note to self: Lesbians can look like boys. Ambiguity in conversation works with strangers.

I decided to keep shut based on Pi’s expressive suggestion. Conversations went from teenage children to grandchildren. Cruises and PTA meetings. Clam chowder and crème brule. Baby sitters and Christmas presents. Very invigorating, I scratched my head and rolled my sleepy eyes. To include me, one of them asked, ‘What do you do?’

‘Apart from making a fool of myself full time, I am Transportation Engineer.’

‘Ohhh wow’ they cooed. This has always been a factor of surprise and a good conversation piece, Pi being a Transportation Engineer too.

"Yes! Isn’t that freaky…blah blah" I blurted out my well rehearsed lines complete with expressions.

Pi heaved a sigh knowing that I couldn’t mess things up now. But he still had an hovering ear perked up, just in case.

Note to self: Feign headache and completely avoid Christmas party next time.


Take your kids to Florida!

Floridaaaaaaaaaaaaah! My first tryst with the United States when I landed here 5 years ago to look for guys apart from pursuing a masters degree. Just remind me why I left the Godly state of shorts-in-winter to a place where outdoor swimming pools are seen only in movies. Just freakin remind me someone!!!! *ominous glare at Pi*

Anyway folks, that’s where we were last weekend soaking in the sun, splashing in the tepid waters of the Gulf of Mexico, jet sking…. in DECEMBER, mind you. I had forgotten how blissful it is not to bundle up every time you walk into the balcony to look at the stars or throw trash.

The main highlight of this vacation, apart from the weather, the relaxation, Mickey Mouse, the greenery, meeting good friends and all the blah that would put us to sleep, is the fact that I finally walked into a strip club.

Tampa being the Mecca of sexy nude lithe bodies dancing on laps of fat lusty men (you could reword that to suit yourselves), all my girlfriends jumped at the idea. A chance to see all this live! Our respective hubbies were shell shocked, especially Pi. ‘No way! I’m not going in with my wife. Sorry!’

‘Arey! What’s with you? Here’s a wife allowing you to feast your eyes and you are such a chicken…tch tch! Now all my friends will be convinced that you are scared of me. You better come.*snarl*”

‘I know I won’t get any action with you around. What’s the bluddy point?’ he asked concerned.

Oh well, I didn’t really buy that. If you know Pi, you would be convinced that it was for moral reasons and not for the cool front he was desperately trying to portray. What if his mom came to know? What if the stripper reminded him of poor Pooja Bhatt from Sadak?

Totally ignoring Pi’s point of view, all of us headed inside… after paying the entry and getting weird looks from the hefty bouncer. Aptly named, I thought… seeing how they were stripping us out of our money.  Just to let you know, this was an impromptu plan and we were all headed back to our resort from the beach. So we were in shorts, wet hair, sandy undies and salty red eyes. It came as a surprise that they even let us into the world's second best Strip Club (so they claim).

We entered. A dingy place with dim lights, mostly blue. L-shaped stage with three poles reaching all the way from the mirrored floors to the mirrored ceiling, slightly different from Disney. A flat chested, big bottomed, slightly paunched woman, completely devoid of any clothing except transparent heels, was dancing around the poles moving from one pole to another without any emotion. There were chairs placed around the central performing area where distinguished people (drooling men/lesbians), who wanted to get up close to the strippers were seated. Every now and then, the stripper made way to one of these gentlemen, did a split and grabbed her tips with her non existent boobs.

We girls were totally entertained while our guys had their eyes riveted to the football game playing on the big screen television. Another girl with a better body and better moves started her act. Some of us got daring and pulled out some dollar bills and sat on the coveted seats upfront. She came closer, smiled and thrust her boobs on my face! I would have preferred giving it to her in her hands. ‘First time? Don’t be scared. Are they your husbands?’ she asked us laughing at our finesse in placing money at inappropriate places and our husbands’ constipated grins. I turned to look at Pi. Pi got out some more change and handed it to me like my mom would do in Tirupathi to place in the arthi plate.

A few more strippers later, we were done with this place. We had a fill of boobs and butts to last us a lifetime now.

Maybe I should have tried saving one of these unfortunate women from this brutal profession. The pretty one that kissed me.


I was almost there

My project submittal went out of the door yesterday and since then, I have been dreaming about this day. A day all by myself with no plans. Bliss! No needy hubby, no harried boss, no cranky clients, no bothering colleagues. Last night I slept with eager anticipation, beads of excited sweat peeking from my forehead. Can't wait.

  

I wake up at 6 am (of course, it was a little late considering my agenda) and jump into my gym clothes. Spend some time running, till I get tired. Then I walk at 8% incline for some time. Even that gets me warmed up quickly; so I start ambling in the treadmill at 4 mph and at 2% incline. Perfect. Look at the time lapsed. Only 4 minutes?? Bah! I guess 5 minutes should do for today. I will spend extra time with the weights and crunches. …34, oof 35..oof 36..pant puff 37…collapse! I will not die staring at a ceiling. Very unglamorous. So I collect myself, go to vending machine, get myself some Gatorade (smart choice) and a Snickers bar (not such a good choice, but after all it’s a dying wish. So justified.)

 

After the gym & shower, it is still 7.30 am (cutting myself some slack for distractions in the swimming pool area). Back home, I pull out my painting supplies and scout around my 1 bed-room apartment trying to find a place to carry out my artistic venture. It takes me precisely ½ hour to conclude that I have a very tiny apartment and I cannot bloom as an artist if I don’t own a house with a studio in the attic with Venetian windows throwing light at the perfect spots where my easel would be placed. I let out huge moans and sighs and settle for the breakfast table after spending another ½ hour shifting the microwave, the mixer, the toaster and the water jug to the floor. I have a vision on how my painting would look like. It will depict the seasonal changes (yeah, I know it has been done million times before- but mine will be abstract) and I will hang it in the study area. People will be wonderstruck and heap praises on the artist and I will smugly say, ‘It’s not a big deal at all. I have done better. The entire collection of good one’s, I burnt.’

 

Yikes, Its 9.30 already! Yes, if you must be wondering- I paint awfully fast. If you see the end product, that’s what you would conclude anyway. With glowing satisfaction that I painted something other than my nails after precisely one year, I am feeling all heady and ready to take over the world.. err.. mall. On the way to the mall, I give my much-neglected car a much-needed wash and shine. Feeling like a good owner, I promise to treat myself to an extra pair of jeans from Express. Aha! I am like a lioness. I pounce on my prey and drag it to the bushes (in this case, changing room). If I like it, I will devour it. I shop till I can take it no more. My hands are aching carrying all the shoes, purse, clothes and cutlery. I can puke at the mention of ‘sale’. But I have one last thing to do here. Buy a little something for Pi, like a cookie. I know this will not pacify him for the damage I have done, but it will make me 2% less guilty.

 

I catch some lunch on the way and head to the library. Do some more research on Financial vehicles that would help me save up my change from this mall expedition. I make a list of potential stocks and mutual fund companies and feel much better about my situation and the fact that I won't go bankrupt in another year. I check out some, ‘How to write Fiction’ books instead. All geared up, I start my best seller, ‘Once upon a time, long long ago…

 

After a satisfactory 30 pages down, I start cooking a meal. I have ambitiously invited 10 of my friends for dinner. Last minute pizza option sounds alluring, but the satisfied look on people’s faces after they’ve lapped up my stuffed brinjal and licked the last of the tropical dessert seems more appealing. I start to cook my 5 course meal, while cleaning up my apartment simultaneously. I have changed the bed sheets, put new rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom, changed into my favorite kurta, set the table when the door bell rings, “Beep beep…beep beep..”

 

Strange doorbell, I think to myself. Hey, we don’t even have a damn doorbell. Thinking hard, I realize I have been thinking and realizing in my sleep.

 

I shut the horrid alarm off! SIX F***ing A.M.???? Is this a time to wake up on a holiday?


Guilty as not charged.

I have been working like a worker bee (for the lack of better example for hard-working beings). I am totally surprised at myself. I didn't realize I could sit in my cubby hole designing roads after the sun set. We have a system where we work an extra hour every day and take alternate Fridays off. At one point I couldn't fathom myself actually working on my Friday off. Forget that, lately I have been even working on weekends. Next thing I know, someone actually called me workaholic. I wouldn't have winced if I were called an alien.

But you see, I am gaining a lot of worthwhile experience and thoroughly enjoying what I am doing working 12-13 hour days. You would think my boss is breathing down my neck at this moment. No, I write this in perfect sobriety and in the tone of an enthusiastic geek. I am not even regretting the fact that I can’t call friends or party or blog or paint or read books or cook or clean bathrooms or do laundry (ermm... this list actually is making me glad about staying this late on a Friday night). Heck… I am not even regretting the fact that I have to wear nerdy glasses now for all that eye damage (Can I ask for worker’s comp?). But what I regret is this phone call-

Nowadays Pi has realized that to get my attention while at work, he has to be really creative. "How is it going?" will be met with a non-enthusiastic-almost-at-the-verge-of-nervous-breakdown "What do you mean- how is it going.. Don’t you know I have work to do…blah blah.. Ok, Gotto go!" *bang*

Back to the fateful phone call,

Hubby (from home, ebbing with enthusiasm): Congrats!

Me (thinking we got someone’s socks in our laundry): Tell tell! (as you can see, I am intrigued easily)

Hubbs: Your credit card bill is at an all time low!!! You haven’t charged anything this month. Great job.

WHAT?!! Now I am highly enraged and guilty! All this overtime money and no time to spend it?! I need to get out more, get a life! Basically, I need to shop.

Pulling out credit card, typing- www.amazon.com.


Hair gone today, back day after tomorrow

One inch, is what I told her. When she spun my chair around to face the mirror, one inch was what was left. I looked like a retard from a recent trip to Thirupathi. Or worse like a cross between a balding German Shepherd and Hilary Clinton. Remember these words of wisdom, my friend - When a short haircut goes haywire, going shorter is not the solution. Grow it out. You will look like a demented wet sheep for a while, but it will eventually pay off. The long lustrous mane will bounce back to original length to make you look slightly more demure than Shahrukh Khan in Ashoka.

Next morning, I saw a banshee and almost got a heart attack. Calmed my agitated self when it was brought to my notice that the mirror reflected the mirror’s observer- me. However much I tried, I couldn’t get the hair to follow Newton’s law of gravity. Gel, oil, mucus… everything was slathered! I stuck a few pins, and wrapped my head with scarves. Much better.

My colleagues are nice people. I will trust them to come up with some compliment for this piece of art on my head. When I had grotesque clothes on, they praised my color sense. When I heated spoilt sambar in the microwave, they went ‘hmmm.. yummy smell’. But no one said a thing about my hair till I couldn’t take the suspense anymore and asked them, ‘What do you think?’

‘I like it.’ She says, almost wishing I wouldn’t give it to her. ‘You look settled,’ says another.

‘Settled? As in a woman? As in married?? As in mom with kids??? YIKES!!!"

So I go and pick another barber to cut it shorter and make me look younger. Younger is what I went for last time around too.

Long story (hair) short, I have finally agreed with myself to be in transition phase. I will just hibernate. I will grow out my hair and definitely not meet anyone till my keratin fibers reach my shoulders. No parties and no video shoots. *popping Vitamin E pills and checking growth with vernier calipers*


Dear Sister,

I used to look up to you as a kid and now things have changed dramatically. I grew taller. I can never thank you enough for being what you are for me- the best big sister.  You made the mistakes, and I learnt from them. You set the standards really low, so everything I did was a big achievement in the family. My first step, my first bicycle ride, even that fact that I managed to barely scrape through high school. I even got things I didn’t ask for. You fought tooth and nail for the BSA SLR, while I was handed the Street Cat without even having to wince. You rallied hard and strong for a study table, and they bought two instead and put one near my bed. (Frankly speaking, I wouldn’t consider that as a perk.)

You wanted to go to an engineering college away from home. They protested, you cried. They finally relented after making you sign a 20 page pact, but they drove me to the same college in a black limousine 3 years hence. You were notorious in college, always getting into trouble. I was the apple of their eye even when I was fined for vandalism in the college premises. You changed your branch from coveted Electronics to lowly Civil Engineering in the middle of a semester giving them a heart-attack. While I was praised to the skies for wanting to make it big in Computer Science. You joined some unheard of Civil Company while I got into Microsoft like many. But back home, I was an instant celebrity.

Thanks my dear sister, for being what you are and what you will be.

You did get married against their wishes. You paved way for me, I thought, much to my delight. But alas, you did not do enough damage as they are angry with me for the first time in their lives. It's too much to deal with and I'm traumatized. O’ Sister, why did you NOT pick a Mallu non-Brahmin for your husband?

Pissed,

Li'l bro Beta

PS- He didn't actually write it, but I stole the words from his mouth.


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