The Devil wears Skis

I had never been SO excited about doing anything in my life. Not even sneaking out of Analog Communication class to watch Manmadhan ( I had officially bunked class to watch a lousy Tamil movie ..but oh what the heck)

I was going to to ski...!! Really ski..!! I mean on real snow!

God, this was a tough one to pass. I mean, think about it...could I even think about doing this in Madras? Even in Winter? Please, the place is so hot that ice melts even inside the refrigerator (but I love the place, so beat it!)

So NOW I knew why God wanted me here despite all my squirming. He wanted me to ..ski!

The Gods wanted me..to skiiiii!

Well, the Husband and I had a few concerns on whether we'd be able to do it, ski that is, considering this was our first attempt. So what was the big deal anyways? I mean, we'd have a an instructor who'd brief us on how to NOT break our vital parts, plus we'd be given helmets to protect our heads. Besides, I knew how to ice-skate decently as I'd done a considerable amount of it in 8th grade (courtesy Girl Scouts) so...it was just the Husband who had to balance on ice for the first time, technically.

Man, this was gonna be cool.

So, a couple of friends decide to come along with us on our skiing escapade on this bright Saturday morning. Hema and Vish (names not changed to protect identity 'cos they really don't care) were as excited as were were and what was skiing if you didn't do it with company?

So we reached Hunter Mountain which is in Upstate New York, filled up the forms and rented the skis and helmets. We looked like super Heroes on a roll. Or dorks, depending on who you were looking at.

On our way out to the snow-mountains, we were divided into groups where the Husband was put into the group that headed out first while I was put in another with the rest of our clan. No biggy, just that we started off almost an hour later.

The first group had a Chinese instructor who (later I'm told) apparently 'forgot' to teach his group how to 'stop' their skis from crashing into a wall while rushing down a hill uncontrollably. I thought these lessons were ALL about knowing how to stop the goddamn skis. Bah!

We, however, had problems of our own. An enormously fat lady as our instructor who made it difficult for us to concentrate while we were busy making cartoony pictures with our heads of her rolling off her ski's and into a wall, was a challenge on its own. But we were soon to discover that excepting for us 3 doofuses (thats a word 'cos this is my blog), the rest of the group comprised of skillful 'pros' who were born naturals from the moment they put their skis on. Actually they were all just kids half my age but deep down, I was willing to bet that they had skied to glory in their previous lives as well. It didn't take too long before it was evident that we stood out quite distinctly from the group, for all the wrong reasons.

As our fat lady started to sing instruct, the 3 of us tried to pay very special attention to what was our skiing lesson. I'd however take an extra minute longer in translating the American-accented instructions to the Indian ones in my brain 'cos I'm from the villages and I think white skin is so cool.

From what was being our first instruction that required me to put my skis on, I was the group's clumsy goofball. I'd feel as though I was falling off a hill, all this on a flat surface! As the instructions began to pour in one by one, I'd find myself accelerating uncontrollably down a slope each time I tried to follow the new instruction or a new move. It was crazy I tell you! I mean, all I'd intend to do is ski down a ramp for about 8 feet and then make a slight 'turn' towards the right or the left in order to stop the motion down hill ...but oh no, my skis would be on a jolly trip to the walls some 100 feet away and I'd have no other choice BUT to forcefully 'make' myself fall (if I were that lucky) as that would be the only way to impede a crash into the gated-walls. Charming, I tell you.

An hour later, our Instructor decides to free the class, a good 30 minutes before schedule. Why this early? To quote the fat lady 'This group barring a very few (which meant just me..grr) doesn't need any help..you are all born naturals'. Hema had given-up a good forty-five minutes before, and Vish...well, I don't know what happened to him...I couldn't even find him. So I was out there on my own, trying to have my skis on and not go tumbling down the mountain at the same time. Fun eh?

For those of you who may implicate that I didn't 'try' or put any effort to sustain on that battlefield, in my defence let me just say that I must have spent at least 50 minutes trying to master the 'wedge' (Plus I'd given up trying to locate the Husband and clan)

I should have packed my skis while I had the chance, but I'd decide to give another whack at it. And, try I did! The wedge, might I add, is an up-side down 'V' shape you form with your legs in a desperate attempt to stop moving at 500 miles/hr. Its supposed to work like a charm, and stop your skiis instantly however fast you may be skiing down. This trick, however didn't work with me (why aren't we surprised). Infact it would do quite the opposite in effect and I'd end up accelerating my way down a 100 feet slope in some 800 miles/hr on my way to Crashsville. All that snow. Christ, were was the sun when you needed it.

If you're still thinking why I didn't stop and give-up, well sorry to burst your bubble, but I quite did.

At around 4 pm I decided to call it a day and broadcast the fact that I proposed to officially quit my long and successful stint in skiing. The Husband, quite apparently had a jolly good time skiing his butt off and refused to come out till the authorities switched the lights off.

I on the other hand, had a couple of things I could use from this escapade...a ton of loony photos which me look like ludicrous astronaut, a couple of broken bones around my neck (from the thousands of times I came tumbling down, who'd think?), and a twisted tale to inspire fellow ambitious Desis.

Goooooooooooooooooooooooo ski ! :D

The Year of the Firsts or Happy New Year Folks

Every time the new year comes by, I think to myself however stupendously refreshing the following year may be, it can never outdo the previous one... in the good way or the bad way. See, I don't handle change very well so much so that I have this ridiculous inertia to write the year's number correctly for like the first 4 months of the new year!!
So, like every year, I warn myself of change that is inevitable and also assuage myself that it wouldn't be as bad (or as good) as the previous one. So its always best to start off with zilch expectation, you'll see how far that takes you. Having said, one other thing every new year brings me, is its innumerable Firsts, be it nice-firsts or horrible-firsts. Its always worth remembering my Firsts and I'm sure its the case with you too.

'08 gave me my
My first tryst with Snow...
My first 9-gajam saree...
My first online fraternity (whom all I love a tad too much)
My first Hindustani concert in the 8th row of Music Academy..
My first Embedded systems job (that didnt last for more than 4 months)..
My first wedding (and the last one mind you..) ...
My first long stay away from my parents..
My first scooty accident which wasn't my fault..
My first concert...
My first Tam-Bram thaligai..
My first kamalAmba navAvarnam...
My first fight over Gmail..
My first Amma/Appa-I-miss-you mail..
My first sip of Margareta (read sip. And let that be the last one thank you very much)..
My first Album..
My first parasailing..
My first Chinese food (Yuck.Period.)
My first sister-in-law...
My first flu..
My first Elizabeth Arden..
My first Deepavali with a new family..

Try this too, in your head if you want, what your Firsts were. I'm sure you'll have some you could talk about. Its fun and worthwhile.

Wishing you all a fabulous year ahead,
Confounded-Lady :)

The After-math, the Cook-book and Me

Retrospection on a profound level leads me to the conclusion that I was never really a home-girl.
I've always deplored the word house-wife, even the very way the term was coined 'h-o-u-s-e' 'w-i-f-e'. I mean, lets face it...what in heavens name did you wish you convey by the word house-wife? That you were a wife at home? Weren't you his wife outside the house? Eew.

Yeneways, kutti digress there.
As a kid who was perpetually hyper and restless (excepting for the times when I was asleep where I'd look like a mad- driver-woman on Prozac). I always had something to do solely because the very thought of being bored scared me out of my wits as I always associated 'boredom' to 'loneliness'. So, despite being the only kid to my parents which always saddened me..(still does to a certain extent which is why I resolve to get busy in the near future in order to prevent history from repeating itself :D) I made sure that I never banked on my house or my parents for solace...I'd explore the neighbouring streets on my bicycle, go out on walks on my own, make friends with the watchmen and gardeners in our locality.. whatever it took to get me out of the house, even if it meant knocking on random people's doors and asking them, ingratiatingly, if I could play with their kids if they had any.
It was sad you know, that parents sent their 6 year olds to Hindi tuition. I think I learned more Hindi chatting with the watchmen and gardeners.

With such a manipulated state of mind that made me believe that one had a life only if it were outside the house, I grew up sympathizing all women who were house-wives, including my very dear granny and Mom. I'd ask my Mom time and again in the kitchen how they did it... How could one not go out, know places, meet people, get paid, get bankrupt, get into fights, get out of fights (the last two clauses were offered in copious amounts in our house..living with me is no joke mind you) how could you just be busy at home?'
I mean...with with due respect to what all the woman folk go through to keep a family running hale and healthy, how could you work, at home?? Wouldn't these 4 walls drive you plain mad?'

My Mom would just smile and ask me to switch on the exhaust fan on my way out.

A home-maker's job is no joke, I'm told, although I never try to understand the gravity of that statement more so because I know that the home-maker is never really..'me'.
I cant disagree with the fact that all of us are here, healthy and successful (to a certain extent at least) only because some woman/women in the house chose to care and see if we had food on the table and in our boxes everyday.

So as I pack my suitcases to a whole new world at the other side of the globe with a chunk of my stuff comprising of shiny non-stick vessels and brand new cook-books (the cook-book saga..ah! This surely deserves a post dedicated to itself), I still wonder to myself if I can map a vessel to its utility or turn the pages of Tarla Dalal's Continental Food Book without falling asleep looking at the picture on the front cover itself.

My colleagues from work will surely have fun reading this. They know.

Two weeks notice

I've never actually been 2 weeks away from my wedding because...well, I've never really been married before. No one always gets to be 2 weeks away from one's wedding until he's actually... two weeks away from his wedding, so it isnt a very common feeling, this two weeks notice thing.
Cha, this isnt exactly the dream start for this post, but just to show you how I blog when I'm not very high on editing. I promise I'm going somewhere with this one though.*

The amount of activity that takes place during the last 2 weeks before a wedding makes me wonder if there WERE any weeks before the 2 weeks before the wedding. You know in an Indian Wedding its like, the whole world earnestly works towards making the wedding a grand success like they were producing a movie, but its just during these last 2 weeks that all of the action takes place.
I have a feeling I havent made an iota of sense till now but hear me out when I say that I am simply amazed at the speed at which things unravel during this period...its like all the work that had to be done gradually before a wedding, suddenly gets done in such an unimaginable pace during this period.

Picture this.
All my saree-blouses suddenly get stitched and come back home from the tailors who had them for like...forever, just because I say there are only 'two weeks left'.
My house maid has been working like an ox (I dont know if that simile conveyed what it had to...I never trust my self-made similies) cos its apparently crucial time now. Heck, she's started coming regularly...thats a miracle by itself.
Our Iyengar samayakaar-maami (cook) feeds me like a baby with all the possible greens, yellows, oranges, pinks (didnt think I'd list colours without a pink did you?) in the world 'cos I'll be leaving home soon.
My neighbors *actually* smile at me when they spot me in the elevator. (Wow)
Appa is extra jovial. (Now that I'm not particularly comfortable with. The folks are already relieved I'm leaving.. And I havent even left yet. hmph!_max)
Everyone on the never-ending list's finally been invited and I'm mentally tired of revising the list to make sure I haven't left anyone out. I sent out the last batch of invitations today. Amen to that. And I thought this day would never come.
The most common words uttered by every random woman who enters my house is 'Rendu vaaram thaan iriku baaki la? :O ' (For the uninitiated in Tamil, "Just two weeks left no 'Colon-wo'?" )

I'm very evidently getting psyched now. You can tell from the sense I've made so far (or the lack of it). Actually, I dont think you'd know the difference if you know me by now.

But do you blame me?
I'm getting married....in two weeks!
:O

*Or then again maybe not.

...Oh, here comes another one (with that Rachel Green accent)

Wolfkid and Preets had tagged me like a gazillion years ago.
I think I slept through all that time..and its just dawned on me that these tag posts seem to be so so 'in' these days...and that I'd better be 'it' before I'm 'out'.
You didnt get 'that' did you?
No probs, neither did I.

I am now konjum romba senti today as I've been listening to Pibarae rAma rasam in rAg Ahir Bhairavi the whole day. This song has it in it to make you all silent, reminiscent, mushy..and perhaps bit more 'blue' if you miss someone you really..well, miss.
Its really a must listen.
If you're (still) interested in listening to this song after the 'yellow' description I've given you, don't hesitate to dial toll free: I-WANT-TO-BE-BLUE(er)-AND-MISS-MY-GIRLFRIEND
Kidding, mail me..I'll send it to you with pleasure. (This should be interesting)

OK- you might want to give it a try even though you pretend you don't miss xg.

Enough awready. Tag. Yes.


1. Last movie you saw in a theater?
...Laga Chunari Mein Daag.
And I liked it. hmph.

2. What book are you reading?
The Mahabharatha by Rajaji. Started it at least 5 times within these 3 years.
I'm finishing it else I'm...well, I'm finishing it.

3. Favorite board game?
Scrabble. I used to make words up and try and win when I was a kid. No its not cheating *straight face*
'Zittle' was the adjective used for small/baby animals according to Yours Pretentiously when she was 7 years old :P

4. Favorite magazine?
India Today.

5. Favorite smells?
SambarANi on washed hair :)

6. Favorite sounds?
My mom yelling my name :D

7. Worst feeling in the world?
Regret having said something..or even worse, having not said something to someone.

8. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?
Christ..have I overslept.

9. Favorite fast food place?
TCS Chaat counter, Velacheri Madras. But not without the gang. *sigh!*

10. Future child’s name?
I am so not telling you. Don't want anyone to steal my lil Emma :D

11. Finish this statement. “If I had lot of money I’d….?"
I'd spend it all on charity and World Peace.
Crown please?

12. Do you drive fast?
Depends on what fast is for you. No, really.

13. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
Nope. Simple.

14. Storms - cool or scary?
Sexy

15. What was your first car?
Car a? Naana? Yeah right.

16. Favorite drink?
Orange Juice

17. Finish this statement, “If I had the time I would….”?
..become a doctor.
Confounded, yeah yeah,

18. Do you eat the stems on broccoli?
I don't eat broccoli.

19. If you could dye your hair any color, what would be your choice?
I'm fine with the way it is thank you very much.

20. Name all the different cities/towns you’ve lived in?
Madras and Bahrain.

21. Favorite sports to watch?
I cannot watch cricket even if it were the last thing to be screened before the end of the world. I'm fine with anything else.

22. One nice thing about the person who sent this to you?
Preets-I've known her ever since I was old enough to say Peepee and Dolly. She's family. I love family.
Wolfkid- Hey, thambee. You're okay kid :)

23. What’s under your bed?
A lot of ..space..? :-/

24. Would you like to be born as yourself again?
Tosh! I'm not being born again in this pot-hole....I'm getting moksha. Oh yeah!

25. Morning person, or night owl?
Depends :D

26. Over easy, or sunny side up?
What was that again please...?

27. Favorite place to relax?
Home and 'Home' :D

28. Favorite pie?
Apple from McDonalds.

29. Favorite ice cream flavor?
Pista.

30. Of all the people you tagged this to, who’s most likely to respond:
I think I'm the last one to do this tag in my circuit. That should answer your koshchin.

I dedicate the space occupied by this post along with all the mirth I was most likely to have experienced doing this, to the taggers. BEE happy, always.
And the rest of you non-taggers....well, you BEE happy too, with a lot of yellow and orange (and a bit of black too) in your lives.

Till then, let the all pervading confoundedness lead your way from darkness to light.
Om Shanthi Shanthi Shanthi:

CL

That post did help a lot.
More than I expected.

Thanks for answering my calls guys.

:D

Talk to me no?

Rite, so whats up?
Nothing??

I'll tell you whats up. Off late, a lot of my friends from the Not-so-Fairer sex (pun intended like never before) have mysteriously disappeared and stopped talking to me. See, this is unfair. I'm just engaged you know. Not like I've been accused of murder or am down with small-pox or something. I can talk. Yes, to you. Very much.
So talk to me no?

Guys suddenly get this thing with committed ladies, I notice. They think they're infringing upon public property if they're still talking to an engaged/married girl. Sad na? Tsk-tsk.
Yes, I know, its every Reggie Mantle 's worst nightmare to get beaten up by Moose when all he's doing is having a friendly banter with Midge.... but seriously, Moose isn't so Moosey you know. So , whats with the disappearing act?
Talk to me no?

My girlfriends. I shouldn't go ahead with this post without their mention.
They have been extra sweet 'n all with me by still generously calling me up time and again to ask me if I'm making the whole thing up just to attract attention. See, that's what best friends are for. What would I do without you gurls? :P
There's another set of girlfriends that's not been talking to me off late as they feel that they'd be 'wasting my time' -as they put it- at this point.
"Huh" you say? Yeah, I say that too.
How would my gurlfriends be wasting my.... (sniff).. Oh crap, You've got me all teary now.
Screw you. I'm going shopping now. :P
But seriously, talk to me no?

See, if you'd just talk to me, I'd talk to you, and I could tell you how boring interesting my life is and you can tell me how interesting yours is. Exciting no? Just imagine all the fun we're depriving ourselves just because you're not talking to me.
Talk to me no?


Listen, I'm not as desperate as I sound.

No, really.

Ok, maybe a bit.

Actually a bit more...

Wait..can you repeat the question ?

Shady, Very Shady

Ok..so how different is my life now anyway?
Not very, really.
Except for the 'Neeya??!!? Kalyanam aa?? Bwahahahahaha ' reaction I seem to be receiving from my friends time and again (@friends :P), everything is peach normal.

Lets see now. Recent excitement contributed by mad mad shop-hopping which has made me all the more gleeful and happy. Nothing like seeing money float in the air (a bit creepy when its your money though). But you know, I never thought that shopping could leave me so pooped at the end of the day that I was too tired to even life my feet off the ground….To lie down of course (what were you thinking?)

A few interesting lessons shopping with family has taught me.


1. Enlightenment #1.
Sarees look gorgeous in shops. Gorgeous with a capital Gee. They're meant to.
But it's a different thing 'looking' gorgeous in them. When you're 153 centimetres short tall, a saree around you sometimes looks like a quilt wrapped around a pencil, or an eraser for that matter. Sad I know. But my family members are always supportive and diplomatic. And I go ahead with buying the most gorgeous ones in the shop anyway without the slightest bit of remorse.


2. Enlightenment #2.
My addiction to pink is a potential embarrassment to family. Being lured towards all the pinks in the saree section, ok understandable. But constantly groping the pink shirts in the men's section??
You think I have a problem??
Yeah, join the club. I need help. And how!
Ideas perhaps, anyone?


3. Enlightenment #3
Must confront conflicting choices regarding breathtaking colours in saree shop.
Not a wise move to ask person-at-saree-section 'Inda saree nannarikuma, ilati iduva?'
(Translate: This one will look nice..or this one?)
He will say, 'Rendumae edthukonga, wonga colour-ku wo-ho-nnum irikum'
(Translate: Take both ma, they both suit your complextion'
Yeah right, like we're gonna fall for that one. Ha! *conceited smirk*
I'm sure we can choose between Jyothika-Pinks and MS (MSubhalakshmi)- Blues on our own thank you very much.

Right, so where does all this leave me now?
Well, I'm still tired. And hungry. And yes, a bit tired too (wait did I mention that already?)
Ok, before you think I'm drunk too, I'm gonna make a dignified exit, lift my legs with both my hands, lie down on bed and crash.

I do, after all, deserve tonight's sleep don't I?

:D

Yours shopping-ly,

Confounded-Lady

Foot-note: Oh btw, we ended up taking both the above mentioned colours at the end of the day. Yes, these shop-keepers are a nasty influence on us gullible juntha. But what to do? Both colours were stunning. So much for complexion, flattery and all that jazz.

:D

An Arranged Wa(ge)r..?

Coming from the family I come from, I grew up all this time without any disillusions of my marriage. I knew that mine would be the quintessential arranged marriage where my choice would predominantly be limited to the colour of my muhoortham-Saree's and designs on the front cover of my invitation card, and I've had absolutely no reservations whatsoever. My parents trust(ed) me for that, and I did too, more than them.

Of late however, I'm beginning to find the very institution of arranged marriages rather questionable. Despite growing up with the sense of security that parents do only whats 'best', I've suddenly started to wonder if thats just a chancy promise they 'hope' to live up to. After all, there are myriad things that are just not under their control.

Tell me, of all the dubious assumptions one makes during the entire process of an arranged marriage, can one afford to 'assume' the temprement or the sanity of the boy/girl? How can one afford to take that for granted?


There was this friend's friend of mine whom I knew...knew as in just plain acquaintances- as she was this major diva in our common circles, very popular, daring and talented while I was..well, lets just say that I was not your typical Hanna Montanah;)
She passed out of a ranking university and got into a top notch company. Last I heard is that she gets beaten up like crazy by her husband for no reason at all. Her's was an arranged marriage.

Case of assumed-stable temperments eh?


Its one thing to fall in love, get married, and then regret it. But its a totally different thing to marry the person your folks tell you to, and then regret it and feel trapped for the rest of your life. The thing is, you cant really blame yourself here, unlike the former case, or blame your parents as that would be truly unfair... So what do you blame? Who do you blame? What is the solution to incompatibility? Compromise?

Let me tell you, I'm not playing sides here with the trite love-marriage-aa-arranged-marriage-aa discussion. I'm beyond all that. Its just that for a person who'd had unadulterated faith in the system of arranged marriages, I'm rather disappointed that I have to start reconsidering its credibility.

Also, I've been thinking, did Adi Shankara really know what he was talking about when he quoted :

निजगृहात्तूर्णं विनिर्गम्यताम्

(Walk out of your home soon )

You know what? I'm thinking too much... God, where's that can of Ice-cream?

ZtheZ - Zapping the Zit

Zit-zit go away,

Come again another day...
...Confounded Lady wants to play,
So scoot from the top of my forehead you mean thingamabop.


Ok, that didn't quite rhyme, so lets try this one more time shall we.

Zit-zit go away
Dont come again another day
This isnt the place for you to stay,
SO just quit my forehead, okay..?


There is something about female hormones that makes them do unkind things to us dainty creatures especially when least anticipate them. I'm sure I'd have the entire female fraternity agreeing with me when I say that the cruelest curse bestowed upon women (after the monthly bleeding we endure of course) is the 'Curse of the Zit'

To the particularly naive or inexperienced (read horribly-lucky souls), the 'zit' is a bright-pink ugly blob that sprouts up out of nowhere one fine day, on the most strategic spot of your face.
Be it on top of your nose which makes you look like Rudolph with measles or on your left cheek which over shadows that cute dimple, the zit can more than just ruin your face, it can very well ruin your day. Red, after all, looks great on women, but certainly not on their faces.

Its more than just that for me.
This coldblooded contrivance is so craftily schemed by my body in such a way that my hormones run their wildest especially when I'm all pepped up for an incredibly important occasion where I'd be expected to look my very best. I've noticed the pattern all these years now.... be it my class photo in class XII, my college farewel, my cousin's engagement, my best friend's wedding, or the most-recent-testimony-to-theory my cousin's Grihapravesham, there is one common factor in all these special occasions in my life - The Zit on my face.

Having my skin crystal clear throughout the month and having a spherical blob the size of Bulgaria pop up exactly 20 hours before a public event, is nothing I'm unaccustomed to. But this time for my cousin's Grihapravesham, I refused to give in. I was determined NOT be seen with that bright red blob in all the pics that were to be taken.
So what did Yours Truly end up doing?
Zap it. Thats right.
Zap the Zit.

Let me just tell you that its a world acknowledged fact to leave your zits untouched tell they disappear on their own..and 'Zapping the zit' (ZtheZ) is not exactly wisest thing to do to yourself.
I'm not gonna go into all the messy details of what I went through after that painful ordeal of ZtheZ.
I'll let the scar it left on my face do the talking.

(sob!)

So dark the con of woman I say.
So dark the con of woman.

The Middle-Name Tag or What's my Middle-name Ma?

I'm beginning to like these tags; not because they call for a lot of introspection, retrospection or maybe even fill up the otherwise-empty space in my blog.
No wait, those actually are the reasons. :D
Face it, they're fun. Especially when these topics are as absurd as the one I'm doing right now thanks to fellow-blogger Lavs. Check her blog out, she'll make you laugh to splits. :D

The rules of the tag are:
1. The rules must be mentioned in the beginning of the tag.
2. You must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have had.
3. At the end of your blog post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Awritey then.
For starters, I've never actually known what my middle name is. In fact, I never even knew I had one of the sort.
We the people ofTamil Nadu don't have a middle-name or a family name making us pretty much unlike the rest of the nation and we take ultimate pride in doing everything differently (read ostracizing ourselves from the rest of the nation for political reasons I do not wish to get into lest some MLA clad in white from a popular kakshee (read party) happens to bump into my blog and vanquish my family, but wait am I digressing? )

Right...middle-name-tag. I hear you. :D
I just discovered this morning from my mom that my middle name is 'Rukmini'.

Yeah yeah, you can laugh it out while I take a long walk around my house.

Done?

Right.Its my grandmother's name and I'm eternally grateful to my folks for not deciding to christen me by that name (I'm having enough trouble with my first name itself thank you very much)
Reminds me of a conversation between a pair from the-popular-sitcom where they discuss what to name their yet-to-be-born baby girl:

Ross: I like Ruth. What about Ruth?
Rachel: Oh, I'm sorry, are we having an 89-year-old? How about Dayton?

:)

R- for Red.
Dark red. I just love that shade. Thats what most of my wardrobe comprises of. Well, next to pink actually (please don't judge me :D) I've read that red as a colour for your clothes is rather provocative. Bull. I've been to places wearing red and even my mother wouldn't notice me. :P
So much for colour-psychology.

U- for Unique.
Thats what my 'first' name is. Rhymes with Rukmini. Hell lot more complicated than the same. There used to be a time when I'd curse my name for the complexities I had to endure because of it but now, I love it 'coz here is no other like it. No chance of having 2 me's in the same class, in the same college, or for that matter, in the same state itself. (;-P) .
I think this should say more.

K- for Karnatic Music.
My heart. My soul. I wish to do it proud, some day.

M- for Madras.
A place I spend half my time cursing and yet, defending till I run out of breath. A lot of my friends AND a lot of my relatives find some sense of queer pride in chiding this conservative metro for its weather, its people (whom I'm told are very 'unkind'. Yeah, I'll show you unkind ;-P), its narrow-outlook towards contemporary ways of life (read rock-concerts, pubs and discotheques or the lack of them) and most importantly, its haughty auto-men.
(Well with regard to the last point, I sort of agree that our auto-kaarans are a special species altogether and deserve special mention in a separate post itself).

But what about Madras, the cultural-haven?
The place where you can be confident that you're children would have gotten their share of both worlds if not just the ultra-traditional one. The proud host of December Music Season..
The home of India's much prided dance Bharathnatyam...The place where people are simple and don't judge you for not dressing up like Rani Mukherjee just to shop at a vegetable store nearby..

I often do run out of arguments to defend this place for what it is and isnt and sometimes all I'm capable of doing is just being silent. Anyway, its just one less person to tolerate in this city :D

I- for Intolerance.
Thats what I have for people who kill the English language with absolutely no concern for its grammar or pronunciation. Yes, no one's infallible I agree. But to those who refuse to correct 'cannot be able to' or 'please say me how to' despite repeated correction. I'm not playing Shakespear or English-miss here, but if you want to speak a language, shouldn't you at least try to know how?

N- for Neverland.
A place I've truly always been fascinated over ever since I was old enough to understand the dialogues from Disney's Peter Pan. I fell in love with Peter, Tinker-Bell, Captain Hook, the mighty pirates, cute croc and the captivating concept of a faraway land where you'd never grow up.
It was nice to think about then, but as I grow older, I tend to wish it were more than just a fantasy.

I- for India.
Kidding, that was lame. But wait, actually, why not? For a country that I never ever thought I'd fit into a decade ago, its now become a place I'd live in despite its many cons. I'm now reluctant to live anywhere else under ANY pretext; be it work or the inevitable, matrimony.

I now tag thee Preethi , Venki, Busy_Writer and Mark IV and anyone else who wishes to take this tag up.
Do me proud guys ;-)

Much love!

EOP

New News

Finally. The two movies are out.

I can now heave a sigh of relief and watch all the national chaos on the telly like good 'ol times.
Whether its Mamta Banerjee wailing her guts out in Nandigram or the lil kid with 8 limbs or good 'ol Sonia Gandhi reading out verbatim from her transliterated script...I really missed watching all the real news which was moreorless overshadowed with all the hue 'n cry over the Diwali releases 'Om Shanthi Om' and 'Saawariya'.
Seriously.
One more look at Shahruk's hand getting stuck to Deepika Padukone's pallu or Ranbir Kapoor prancing about the sets of Saawariya in his white towel which looks like its gonna fall off any second and I will solemnly swear never again to switch on the telly (news channels, get a life. Please.)

But wait a minute...whats that I hear you say..Its not yet over???
Movie review time???

Oh Dear.

Kangana, me...and a lot of thinking

Making reviews just isn't my forte because of which I'll never subject the readers of my blog (however few in number they may be) to a movie-review by me . Well, never again at least. I promise. Now that thats out of the way, I begin my blog...on a movie I just saw recently.
* chuckkles slyly*

Some eight months back when Krati and I were roommates in Trivandrum, I'd asked her what the movie Gangster-A Love Story was all about and why people were raving about that movie 'n why girls were swooning over some new dude called Shiney Ahuja. Krati, the very darling she is, patiently narrated the entire story, scene by scene and by the end, I'd already gotten a feeling of watching the movie already.

But ever since then, I longed to watch the movie. I had to see it for myself... Could human emotions be this complex? Could something this intense be portrayed in celluloid without confusing the viewer and making him/her endure two 'n a half hours of an emotional-fun-fest?

I finally got to watch it yesterday with Rema (the diabolical-cousins doing what we do best. Switching on the telly and shutting- up) and it was just what I'd imagined it to be.

Ahuja is a Greek God. Yes. I wish I were 16 years old so that I could openly drool and swoon over him as it doesn't particularly look appropriate for a girl... sorry, 'woman' of my age to be doing so. *I so hate growing up...sob!*

The movie had very intense and poignant scenes which should have ideally made my tear-glands function with unprecedented efficiency, but I surprisingly found my self thinking through the movie and even more intensely after it.

Kangana Ranaut 's character, however whorish it may have seemed in the movie, portrayed the basic instincts of a woman - in its rudimentary and crude form. That, she wasn't satisfied completely until she was emotionally satisfied. That, no matter how much you gave her, how much you loved her, 'n how much you promised to give her, nothing enticed her as much as the inner feeling of knowing that someone could give her/be the solution to her (otherwise) passionless life.

Kangana's character betrayed the man who loved her more than life itself, while in search of true passion.
Well, you'd think that that's perfectly natural, if not justified, for a women to have behaved the way she did in the movie. I mean, with women always carrying that 'emotional' tag around wherever they go and with bullshit quotes like 'Men think with their brains, women think with their heart ..coz they can't otherwise' floating around, you wouldn't expect 'her' to introspect or think deeply on what she'd be gaining or losing in the bargain of satisfying her inner most needs and desires.

A woman has needs and if it means tearing down the curtains and drinking your way to hell, so be it.

But the actual risk, in the blind pursuit of satiating what one's craving for - lies in not being able to realize or understand what she has in her life already. In the quest for more happiness 'n bliss, she might lose whatever little happiness she has.
People say that those who think with their hearts, are the happiest. Well yes, maybe. You may be awarded with bliss and ecstasy,just like you're lil heart wanted. But you can't count on being successful all the time.

hmm...so what was I trying to insinuate all this time?
That there's always a trade off or compromise in love? That you cant *always* afford to follow your heart and that it may be sensible for one to opt for the most rational of all options -even if one knows that it isn't going to promise her/him whatever she/he had dreamt of all her/his life?

Well like I said, I did a lot of thinking. Plus it was the weekend -I had nothing better to do.
So, *contemplates very deeply* I think I'd be better off thinking with my brains than my heart.
But wait. Did I just say that?
Who am I trying to kid anyway.



P.S- Krati. You've been an inspiration for this post. Please read my blog (from now on at least).

:D

Ta!

Of shrewd mothers, presumptious daughters and two louts in between.

The more I think about it, the more I find it quite funny being uncharacteristically tongue-tied infront of a 9 year old kid and watch her deftly rag us when we ‘attempted’ to do the same.
Ragging will never be the same for me, whether from the ragger’s end or the receiver’s end.
The phrase ‘Putting my foot where my mouth is’ has never ever made more sense than it does now.

My parents wanted to go to Thiruvendipuram for the weekend for some sort of ritual/pilgrimage and I wasn’t particularly thrilled when they forced me to tag along first thing Saturday morning.
Not that I have anything against the hundreds of rituals we Hindus perform on practically any and every day of the year (with due respect to their respective reasons of course), but what triggers the intolerance in me is when they require migration or any activity of that sort on a Saturday morning. Saturday mornings are for hibernation, just for hibernation and nothing BUT hibernation. But then again, who listens to me.
I thus move on.

My cousin Rema had also volunteered to accompany us, thankfully for me. So, that kept me from whining and complaining all along our way to the Aashram. It was a 6 hour journey in our Ambassador. I didn’t compromise on the hibernation-part ..even if it meant leaning and dribbling over my mommy’s shoulder on our way there.

After visiting a few temples nearby and having a sumptuous Iyengar-type dinner in the Aashram with some 30 other people within the community whom we hardly knew yet smiled at for reasons which are still unknown to yours truly, Rema and I sat down on the steps outside and watched all the oldies retire for the day.

It was 8pm and the whole village was asleep. There could be a bomb blast and yet people wouldn’t notice.

All of a sudden a girl comes prancing down the steps, hopping merrily on the road.
This girl reminded me of….well, I’m not ashamed to say it but..me, when I was a kid. She was perhaps the plumpiest kid in the face of the Earth and she was our meat tonight.

“Hey ponnae! Romba Azhaga irikae won dress…. Won paer enna? (Translated to: Hey girl! Your dress is very cute… Whats your name?) “

“Thanks. Solla maataen” (Sollamataen=I won’t tell you)

(Sensing that we were dealing with a smart-alec) “Sollamaten? What a cute name. That’s a nice name you have there Sollamaaten. Is that what they call you at school Sollamaataen ”

(Defensively) “Noooooo..Sollamaataen is not my name.”

“Then what is your name?”

“Sollamaataen!”

“Precisely what we’re calling you, kid”

“ But that’s not my name. And I’m not going to tell you my name. So there.”

On saying this, she comes and sits beside us on the steps.

Now this was beginning to seem like fun. I mean, any other normal kid would have walked just right past us into the Ashram or ignored us all the way. Most of the other kids did just that..but not this one.

It was around 9:30 pm now…it was Saturday night…we had no telly, no music, and most of the lights in the street where out..And just when we’d lost all hope on how we were going to survive the early night, here we had an incredibly chubby, plumpy entertaining, over confident kid who refused to give in.

“This is indeed a very cute dress Sollamaataen. Where did you buy this?”
This was Rema trying to start a conversation.

“Hyderbad”

“Oh”

“I dance.”

“Eh?”

“I dance. I learn dance”

Wow. That was quick.
I mean here we were, trying to break the ice and socialize the cordial way or to be more precise, the ‘corporate’ way, asking her her name, complimenting her on her oversized flashy chumkee-chimkee dress, while Miss. Chubby here was more interested in giving us the bigger details.

“You do eh? How nice! What dance do you learn?”
Us sounding genuinely interested.

“I learn Bharatnatyam” Like every second kid in South India.

“Ok..so how many jathis have you learnt? Have you learnt all the adavus and jathis till Allaripu?”
Ok, This was me, trying to flaunt the very little dance I could remember from my younger days.

“You know dance?” Kid, Incredulously.

“Yes I do” Correction, ‘did’ .

“Don’t lie ok-va? I learn from Lakshmipriya Miss.”

“Who’s Lakshmipriya-miss?"

“My miss” Saying it like she were Queen of England or something.

"Ohhh!!! Lakshmipriya-va? Of course! We remember her....We only taught her dance”
This was uttered in unison by the both of us, Rema and I, the diabolical cousins we are.

“You taught Lakshmipriya Miss?” Voice sounding incredibly surprised.

“ Yes we did. We taught her everything we could. But poor child, she wasn’t a very bright student. That’s why she’s still teaching despite learning dance for sooo many years”. Rema was unstoppable now.

“Lakshmipriya-Miss is 22 years old”. Boy, this kid was shrewd.

‘Only’ 22 years old? See what too much of dialogue can get you into?

“Oh? Well…there have been dancers who have achieved much more at that young age” This was me trying to back Rema up.

“You mean Sheela-miss? ”

“Who’s Sheela-Miss?”

“Sheela-miss is Lakhsmipriya-Miss’s miss”.
And the plot thickens.

“ Oh Sheela-miss a? Ah, I remember her! Yes, she was an extremely bright student. One of a kind. They don’t make ‘em students like her these days”.
I was trying my best to make all this seem plausible to the 8 year old kid.

“You know Sheela-miss?”
Kid’s eyes widened like space-saucers from space.

“ Know her?? She is what she is because of us. We put her up on the map. You go and ask Sheela if she knows ‘Maythini Sridharan’ and she’ll tell you of the sacred relationship we share. Go and ask her tomorrow itself at dance-class, ok-va? ”
Ok, I was trying a bit TOO hard.
And, I was beginning to get the ok-va slang from Miss. Chubby. Kids! Geez!

“ Sheela-miss isn’t in India. She’s in the U.S. running a dance school”
This was said very matter-of-factly by kid.
I was losing all weapons of defence.

Rema to my rescue. “She left without telling us?? Maythini, after all you’ve done for Sheela-miss, just see how she’s absconded without the slightest indication. Dancers these days, cha!”

“ I know, Rema. Cha! I am very upset now.” Trying to fake a hurt-look.

Kid tries to cheer up the not-so-diabolical twins by changing the topic.

“So…Are you running a school anywhere?”
Kid now fishing for more details from the not-so-diabolical cousins.

“Oh yes certainly. “

“Don’t lie, ok-va?”

“We aren’t lying ok-va!” I was sounding a bit desperate now.

Kid waits patiently as one of us makes the story up as we go along.

“We run a school in Australia and Bostwana. We’re doing very well in northern parts of Australia (heavens forbid she opens up a map and discovers a desert all over) and also in Bostwana (clueless of which part of the world the place may be in). The problem with opening up a school in London is that there is a lot of racial-discrimination there and also oflate a lot of political disturbances. You know how these English people are, don’t you? They’re never gonna send their kids for dance lessons once they know that a guy from our country is bombing up their place. So we preferred not to expand towards Europe, and decided to just settle with our success in Australia and Botswana.”

All this to an 8 year old kid with a flashy chumkee-chumkee dress.
Like they say, if you can’t convince them, confuse them.

“ Oh, ok. But Sheela-miss is doing very well ” Kid is still smitten by Sheela-miss.

Hell with your Sheela-miss I felt like saying. But all I could think of is “ I can only be too glad for her. She’ll contact me if she needs to learn some more dance the next time she comes to India”

Just when we were going to switch topics to a much more ‘safer’ one, a woman comes down the stairs calling out for Rajalakshmi.

In a split second, Sollamaten-dearie jumps up and shrieks, “Amma! They know Sheela-miss”.

Ok… firstly, Sollamaten’s name is Rajalakshmi eh? Well, that’s a lot of help.

And secondly… Now, we have your mom in this mess???
What the *@#*$@!

Mommy-dear looks at 2 pretty girls clad in a sari with the most skeptical of looks.
“You know Sheela-miss, do you? Which Sheela-miss?”

We’re both silent like we were caught cheating in an exam.
Rema. Not a sound from her.
Me. “ Well….Sheela-miss..the one who….who…..”
And we both burst out laughing.
And we were laughing and laughing.

Kid pointed her index finger at us and was chirping, “ I knew it all along. I knew it alllll along. I knew you guys were bluffing. I was just waiting for my mom to get here”.

Guess kid wasn’t that dumb after all.

Mommy-dear wasn’t ready to forgive our sinful act. Stern, teacher-amma look all over her face.

“So..where are you girls coming from?”

“Madras” Both of us spoke in unision.

“Ok. My daughter really learns dance” The word ‘really’ stressed with a bit of emphasis.
“ We’re looking for a good teacher now, because our Rajalakshmi is very very talented”.

Sure she is.

I was now trying to cover up the seemingly sinful act of deceiving young Rajalakshmi for which Mommy-dear was still glaring at us.
“Well why don’t put her in a good school? I travelled all the way from Nangannaloor to Kotturpuram (some 20 kilometres) for dance-classes.”
I was now giving my 2-cents worth advice.

Mommy-dear now fires. “You learnt dance?”
History sure does repeat itself.

“Yes, aunty I did”.

“Which school?”

“The Dhananjayans.”

“The Dhananjayans? You learnt from the Dhananjayans?”
She looked as though wouldn’t have believed me even if I said that cows moo and pigs oink.
She gives her child a crafty smile and moves her right hand in a circular motion to indicate that what I was saying was ‘reel’.

“Noooo”. This was me now.
“I really 'did' learn from the Dhananjayans school. Srilatha Vinod is my miss’s name. I was her student. Honest to god ”.

Ok now, I was sounding really desperate.
But this was the truth. And mommy-ji and chubby-ji were reluctant to believe me.

Rema and I tried to indulge in some other polite form of small talk. But aunty-ji didn’t budge. She still had that ‘you-tried-to-fool-my-daughter..MY-DAUGHTER’ look on her face.

We knew that mommy-dear was inconsolable. So we politely said our good-bye as fast as we could and tried to bail out without a trace.


I think about it now..and still wonder what went wrong where. We had everything under control while Rema and I worked with such unity in concocting crap instantly. But still we felt like losers in the end.

Kids these days. And their moms.
Gotta lot to learn.
But its not fun.....being stuck in the middle of one shrewd mom and a presumptious kid.

Shivaji - I rest my case

I've never actually been a Rajini fan. Never really liked him all that much.
But I’ve seen it for myself now.

There is no denying in it anymore and now I'm forced to eat my own words.

Rajini-kanth…Tamil-Nadu’s sooobar-star. You can love him or you can hate him…but you certainly CERTAINLY can’t ignore him.


The Tamil-movie industry has an uncanny way of reminding its faithful patronizers who the 'boss’ still is (pun unintended) and now the prejudiced-section of the audience (a part of which I was, till a while back) can no longer sit at home and twiddle their thumbs while the entire nation (and I read, the whole world too) gazes in bedazzlement at this high-budget phenomenon from Asia.

I know. Rajini has grown old and is now rather squidgy around the edges.
I’d be lying if I said that I found him to be sinfully sexy with/without that magical make-up and fluffy wig of his.
Yep, he no longer can do those eye-catchy dance steps with sooper jhatkas & matkas because of which his dance steps are tragically limited to the ‘bulb-dance’ sequence (college’s ragging routine which involves hand-movements analogous to the activity of screwing/unscrewing a bulb)

But all those cons just seem to vanish out of sight when he delivers those lines of his with unmeasurable attitude and class knowing that the audience is going to lap it up for whatever ludicrous content it may bear.

I perceive Shivaji- to be a beautiful movie for more reasons than one.

a) Shankar. Need I say more.

b) A not too-serious-yet-rather-striking theme based on giving your mother-land your
very best ; even when shit happens (Which is quite a lot these days).

c) Money money everywhere in every frame of the movie. Lets you get in touch with the surreal part of reality.

d) Raghuvaran. An small yet honest role that reminded the Tamil audience of what this fine actor was and is capable of doing. Every movement and line had a genuine feel to it. He definitely deserved this. And much more.

e) The wardrobe.
Man! Mind boggling stuff there...couldnt take my eyes of Shriya's attire. Manish Malhotra has delivered to this movie more than he ever would and could to Bollywood itself. Shriya is here to stay and she's climbing up up wayyyyyy up.

f) Cute humour... Enna vicha Commedy onnum pannaliyae, Kids paakardidu Pogo; Shivaji kitta vechikkadae gogo :P Vivek, your my man!

g) Music. A.R. Rahman. I'd be wasting my time if I wrote anything here.

h) Songs.
For their resplendence and overtly ostentatious choreography. You’ve to see it to believe it. Karan Johar’s got some records to beat here.

i) Rajinikanth (well of course...who did you expect here..Paris Hilton?)


I thoroughly enjoyed this movie despite detesting logically-depraved movies.

This one is exclusively for Tamil folks...and they simply love it.
Typically entertaining, typically Rajini.
And thats all that matters.


Amen.

For a Name's Sake

The Namesake would have been just another book I scrambled to read in a hurry in order to avoid paying a customary fine to the librarian (who of late has considered making me one of the library's official stakeholders for the fat income it gets out of the fine I pay).... if it weren't for the profound retrospection it gave way to.

Retrospection, on all those times as a kid when I'd wish I had a cooler name or at least an easier one to call myself by so that I wouldn't have to repeat my name some 5-10 times to all the British kids and teachers at school.

Having your name mutilated by the Indian masses is one thing (Mythili, Mydeenee, Maydilee,Megini...yeah, I've heard it all) but having your name shrunk to the size of a month of the year and being called that by everyone including your teachers is another; and this certainly is not my idea of 'cool'.

My name was a serious issue for me when I was in Junior-School more so because of the cute names my friends in class would have. Even the Indians in my school had short and chic names.
I remember Kajal Pai being a hot favorite and I secretly liked the way it sounded as opposed to the 3-syllabled first-name I possessed followed by yet another 3-syllabled sirname......too much for Non-Indian standards.
And too much for a sensitive 7 year old.
There were seriously times when I'd ask my mom if we could change my name...and she'dlook at me incredulously and ask..again?

Unlike the book where in Gogol changed his name from a un-cool one to a cool one, my name when I was a kid was changed from a simple one to a complex one. This bugged me for quite some time. (long saga...might blog on it sometime. Or then again, maybe not)

But yes, my detestation for my name did die down soon.
I moved schools. The Indian School, to be precise.
I was no longer the strange kid with the weird name.
I discovered that Indians (especially South-Indians) have the innate ability to name their children with the longest of names and I was no longer left alone in the dark.

Ah, those were the days (loud sigh)....where the smallest of things would leave me excited!
I'd go running home to my mom (well not really but I'd like to think so) exclaiming, 'Ma! There's a girl called Hamsavardhini in the neighbouring class' and I would count my fingers while I chirped Ham-sa-var-dhi-nee in glee.

(Note to self: keep topic of blog in mind while blogging)

Ah right..so what was trying to say (somewhere) is that, despite the initial apathy I had for my name, I'd begun to love my name . The very sound of it...and very way its written in Sanskrit and in Tamil; Not because of its uniqueness or anything or because there are perhaps only a hand-few of 'me's in this world.... but because its my identity and its perhaps one of the few (or only) decisions my parents have both harmoniously agreed upon.


On reading The Namesake, I felt grave pity for Gogol. (the protagonist of the book who apart from leading an unfortunately-loser life, changes his name to suit the American way of life) ...pity, because he'd turned down his father's most precious gift to him...an identity, with a solid meaning to cherish.

I sometimes fear that there's a Gogol in all of us. Inside me.
I could categorically dismiss this thought as seeming absurd...but I don't know.
I really don't know.

You know that its just NOT your Sunday at the Movies when...

1.You plan for an exciting meetup at Sathyam expecting some 15 people; where only 7 turn up.

2. You rush like a maniac across the roads of Chennai and park your vandi outside the theatre gate just to get there on time; only to discover that your quite early than expected.

3. Watching a movie turns out to be a visually tiring experience leaving you feeling as though you've faught a battle against the Pirates from the movie.

4. You spend half your time gaping at the screen wondering what the hell in going on out there; and the rest of the time waiting for the pop-corn to arrive.

5. You've been dumped with a life-supply of pop-corn and what easily seems to be one-litre of ice-cold Coke which you struggle to drive down your throat throughout the movie; only in vain.

6. You've sat through the movie for 180 minutes and you still don't know what the movie's all about.

7. You leave the theatre just to find that your vandi has been towed by the Chennai Police; on the grounds of parking in a non-parking area.

8. Your friends accompany you in travelling another 2 kms to get to the Police station to demand for your vandi because your the rightful owner (hell, yeah!).

9. You pay up and eventually don't get a receipt. Ahem.:D

10. You decide to cross the road and park at Spencer's Plaza with Vikram, Shyamz and Surosa...for a blissful sandwhich at Sub-ways and a good stroll at Landmark.

11. You think to yourslef,

"Aaaaah....all in a day's work.
Shouldn't all Sundays be as invigorating as this?"
:P