Anon

You promise yourself sincerely, firmly and with every intention of following it through to the best of your abilities upon the integrity of your moral fibre etc. that you will not succumb. Ever again, to the temptation of just one more glance. One more look. One more once-over. Not even once.

But you fail. Bound as you are by the gonads [figuratively] to the object of your presently lavished affection. You even vote for it secretly at the Bloggies [which is how I’d have it anyway, though the secretness of it was not of my choosing] despite how lacking-in-respectability it sounds to you [imagine saying ‘I won a bloggy’]. And if it wins [and I have a feeling it will] you expect that he [the writer of ‘it’] will fall at your brown feet and kiss them with undying, unfailing gratitude… for that one defining vote.

What is it about being a fan [uggghhhly word] that makes you so deplorably helpless [and perhaps a teeenieweeeniebit indignant]?

I adore you and you should feel eternal gratitude for the number of minutes that I spend adoring you each day. Don’t get me wrong here [I’m not a stalker] but I have an ego as large, and probably more bruisable than yours and you should know that I [of The H-ness] am allowing you to hold me in a spell and expect that you should know this and perhaps consider feeling somewhat, if not reciprocally spellbound by my adulation, then at least AWED by the space you take up in my brain and obliged thereof to allow me some space in yours, even if just to remark at how I [of The H-ness] have dedicated a valuable chunk of my time to adoring you.

Uggg. This really is disgusting.

But you do know how I have come to adore you, right?

Best of luck with the Bloggies. I hope you win. From the deepest corner of my head.

This is as secretly [since I shan’t share Anon with you] selfless [because I've dedicated one entire post to this drivel] as I could get, unlike Lizza, who dedicates her Saturdays very generously, and selflessly to posts on the many fun blogs she enjoys through the week.

I am not that nice. Clearly.

A thought [many (yet again)] that I’m not...

...going to be consumed by this feeling of being consumed. For so many things that are intangible and unachievable [there’s a better word for it, and I can’t be bothered right now].

...going to waste away precious moments minutes hours days weeks months and eventually years of my life fawning over things, thoughts, achievements that do not belong to me.

...going to be infatuated with anything even remotely popular, again.

...going to get taken in by cleverly personalised speeches of gratitude that are mass-ether-mailed across the globe.

...going to feel so easily undermined by the order of the universe.

...going to be so peevish and pettily pissy about things that I cannot help.

Eventually.

Microbe homicide

A real ringer. This one.

Microbicides are a life defining alternative to condoms in preventing, effectively at that, STIs and HIV.

Except of course that there isn’t yet a microbicide that is effective.

But how encouraging. For people like me. Who are. Seriously. [over-punctuating, you’ll say] interested in this sort of thing. Not because I have lots of unprotected sex with lots of strange exotic men [being Indian and all that intrinsic exotica].

Not because of that. Not really.

But because, I am generally interested in that sort of thing. No not other people’s sex lives. But what they could happen to stumble upon unwittingly in a moment of gay abandon. And why must I keep explaining myself? I’m talking about carefree, casual unprotected fa-la-la-la-la kind of happy sunny bright gay.

Gurgle.

So this is how it works. It lines your bits and parts with microbe-busters. Armies of little-critter-killers. They either form a physical sheath or they boost the vaginal ph levels. Oh and I forgot to add… they’re especially effective for women in developing countries. Giddy wheee! For me for me! Not because we have special chambers… but because our men [bless their gentle exotic souls] are animals. Apparently.

So then boys and girls. Be good. Use a condom. Till such time that an effective microbicide hits your town. And then watch your girlfriend dissolve your microbe thingie, just like that.

Fun Phoofs

I’m a poster girl for fun flips. Capital F [-u-n]. Capital F [-l-i-p-s]. Proper noun.

The cheapest snack on Earth. [ok maybe not. Chuskis are cheaper]

Rs. 5 for a packet of super-salted, baked-not-fried, low-fat-for-the-delusional [because it’s packed with wholesome vegetable oil and trucks-fulla-carbs] phoofs.

Phoofs, because I don’t know how to describe them. They’re airy. Without shape. Whitish. With speckles of masala.

They come in about five different flavours. Four of which have so much salt that they are almost unbearable. Actually quite unbearable. Which is half of why I’m so loyal to the brand. Because it’s an acquired taste. Acquired over two decades of serious pigheadedness [what is it with me and pigs?]. Far more gruelling than say acquiring a taste for liquorice [which I reallllllly like]. Or cigarettes [which I dislike].

They also give a free butterscotch toffee inside. Which I’ve never tried because I hate hard boiled toffees. But I always always look forward to it. There’s nothing like a ‘free gift inside’ in that super exciting jagged yellow-black blurb [they told us in communication school that yellow-black is the most eye catching colour combination]. The thrill of finding a greasy, masala caked toffee, which on an upper-than-upside allows me to be generous. “Here, a toffee for you little girl [or little boy]. Don’t mind the shit on it though”.

Right in the beginning [as far back as I can recall] they had a polythene covering. Very unassuming. Allowed you to see the stuff that you ate. In those days they had only one flavour. Masala [with a double whammy of salt]. The packaging changed nearly a decade after Lays hit the market. Fun Flips in sexier packaging, but with the same loveable flavour. Super-salt of our babyhood.

Then they brought out the four new flavours [plus one]. In lurid colours. Purple [Tamarind]. Maroon [Chutpata-salted – which is the same as Masala, but with a double whammy of red chilli to compliment the salt]. Green [Mint-salted]. White [Plain Salted-salted] and the original Orange [Masala-salted].

An All Time Fun Snack. For boys and girls and tiger cubs.

They’ve just changed it yet again. You can tell they’ve become more market-savvy. Slicker. From no proclamation [originally], to “low-fat snack” they’ve now re-worded it to shouting out in big bold letters: “0% TRANS FATS!”

Fun Flips just got fancy!

But the salt. Is still as unbearable.

Lost and Found

One year. Ago.
Today.
Last year.
Ask Tony, he knows.
Tony from West Delhi. At the airport. One last glimpse. But he’d already turned away.
“I’ve found Tony. I’m late. But he says I’ll make it.”
Tony says he’ll make it. Tony’s found. I’m lost.
Tony can’t help me find what I’ve lost.
Hell Tony doesn’t even know who I am.
Tony.
Such a stupid name.
But family is family is family.

Lost. And. I’m waiting.

Happy New Year girls and boys, I love you [raise that bloody HIGH]

So. Something somewhere needs to give.

I suppose it’s the first sign of some sort of stability – a settling boredom with things as they are.

For starters [I hate this phrase], I’ve started drinking again [four bloodies for a hip-shaking bottom-slimming pretending-to-pole-dance-in-absence-of-the-pole back-busting new years eve]. Which really hasn’t changed much in my life, except that I’m back to being a bigger arse under the influence than when not-under-the-influence.

Not true really. But true enough.

It struck me the other day [another shining pull-outta-me-arse-and-plug-on-the-page impoverished-writer’s-phrase], as I fell into Roddy’s latest offering that this is one man I would like right here, right now. Not for one of those lasting emotion-over-body, mind-absorbing [relationship] things. Just to beget me a little girl or boy. My little angel who will write as well as daddy, and think like mama. Think of mama. Perhaps even write about mama and what she could’ve done with her potential-packed, ever-so-often-going-off-track life. Like Eminem.

So much for shitty, groupie style, low down bottom feeding atavism.

Sometimes I surprise myself. I really can think like that. Without shame.

So here’s to giving joy, peace and acceptance a chance. To stories and adventures beyond flesh, blood & here and now.

To the completion of the Last Roundup series.

To better punctuation.
To finer verbiage.
To minimalism.

To us.