Thursday, January 21, 2010


I’m fairly angsty in private. And, I'm fairly serious about making lists. So if it’s in a diary, I really must’ve meant it.

Discovered in my travel plus lists diary, from a year and half ago.

A list. And an insight.


Somewhere deep down, beyond layers of lycra and Maybelline Glow, some place hidden, there are parts of me that wouldn’t trade anything for being from India. Parts that will never relinquish the sense of wellbeing that’s about being Indian. Parts that prefer being washed over being wiped.

Monday, January 18, 2010


As a writer, increasingly, because with practice comes profusion, you see merit in giving everything a slogan.

Including people.

Especially people.

M [not THE M-monumental, but our writer M – yes we have a writer now, for a brief pause to my daily insanity] was very pleased with his. It was my welcoming gift to him.

It goes: Because one ego’s not enough.

And though this happened several months ago, even now when I ask him why he is the way he is, he responds with less gratitude, more pride and no shame: because you said so yourself.

Today, in an act of considerable generosity, struck by sudden inspiration no doubt, M composed mine. Just as I was breezing past him, on my way to the ladies’ let, because that’s when most of our significant conversations happen, when I’m breezing past him to let.

I said, breezing by, when you eat five cheese pasta with bacon, the guilt will kill you before the cheese does. He said, it’s five cheese pasta with bacon. Guilt has no place between a man and his five cheese pasta with bacon. I said you’ve got to be kidding. He said why? I said BECAUSE. He said I’ve got it.
It goes: I’m lady H. Fark off.

Friday, January 15, 2010


If you let words sit in you too long, they ferment and become a bloated palimpsest of rancid phrases and overfed sentences that bear little resemblance to the lucid ideas they once were.

And they make you ill.

There is a piece of work, a spot of writing, the thought of which once sent happy tingles through my head. It was my private pleasure spot which I would fondle with delight every now and then in anticipation of epic gratification. It was the perfectly located itch waiting to be scratched, the epicentre of a giant orgasm that my client was about to experience, the promise of paradise where all good prose is meant to repose.

So I admired it and stroked it and nursed it and fussed over it, afraid to let it out for fear of being overwhelmed. Sometimes the thought of it got so unbearably exciting, I had to put it away promising myself a quiet moment in which to really indulge the joy of expressing it.

Somewhere between then and now, It became a tumour.

A turgid, insensate knot of mangled phrases that have mutated beyond recognition from overstimulation and are choking my head.

So now I need to cauterize it.

What a charming start to the year.