Last night I had a dream about my journalism teacher from way back during post-grad – a sort-of-attractive [if pink teeth and grey gums qualify], hyperactive lunatic who’d tear up our assignments dramatically with predictable regularity and call us [a class of 40 women] ‘kutreya’ [marathi for ‘dogs’] affectionately. For some reason he also had this particularly unattractive habit of lying to us about everything he could lie about from his mother [who he once claimed was a skanky, evil-tempered, penniless Goan fisherwoman] to his house in Goa [which he claimed was an elegant bungalow on a street named after his maternal grandfather] to his still-undetermined sexuality – all of which, strangely enough, gave him this exciting edge in our collective imagination. Which, when given a bit of thought to, is ridiculous because it isn’t often that one expresses in one’s wish list for the Ideal Man a lying, pink-toothed, grey-gummed, vile-tempered mouthy monster.
Anyhow, so in the dream he read my blog, sneered at me and promptly jumped into my cupboard in my nice-clothes section, stuck his thumb in his mouth, curled up amidst my nice clothes and went off to sleep. With his glasses on.
And then, I couldn’t get him out.
While I didn’t really mind it [because my nice clothes aren’t all that terribly nice and my cupboard’s in a perennial mess] it just sort of seemed embarrassing, because all the magazines and newspapers he writes for were looking for him as were thronging hordes of women [ex and present students], and, here’s the frustrating part – I wasn’t allowed to tell them where he was.
I couldn’t quite get a handle on this dream. So I thought I’d offer it up here, for deconstruction[s].
Oh and, don’t ask relevant questions like:
1.) Why did they [newspapers, magazines, students (ex and present)] come to you, if they didn’t know where he was?
2.) How’d he know about your blog? In fact why was he even interested in it?
3.) Etc.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
For JR – you’re beautiful & you’ll always be
My Myers Briggs test indicates that I’m painfully introverted.
True. It also indicates a whole bunch of other uncomfortable nonsense about several other unmentionable traits. Bollocks. I’ll go with introvert. I’ll go only as far as that.
But. This post isn’t about my self-absorbed self-venerating and obviously captivating opinion about my self. Not entirely. It is about a beautiful girl I once knew. Who changed my life for whatever it’s worth.
As a rule, thanks mostly to my painful awkwardness in any given social [even quasi-social-professional] situation I tend to sweepingly dislike all advertising professionals. As a tribe. Blanket. No concessions. They are ALL self-idolising, opinionated, loud, pompous, stereotypically [this is where I start sputtering and frothing prettily] no-substance scum of the media industry in my tiny but defining model-for-the-WGS-84 world. In other words, nutshell-ed, they are my favourite THEY-THEM, universally, unconditionally and eminently blameable for all the world’s pissiness.
But this post isn’t even about them. It’s about this girl. And she happened to be an Accounts Executive at a leading advertising agency in India.
Things were terrible for me those days to put it mildly – shit flew around my head like frisky rain clouds on a mountainside. I was on one of those self-shattering inward rampages that tend to burst several billion rbcs and choke up a few arteries. To make matters worse, I found myself pushed into taking a brief for a corporate film – a crap spoof on a crap Bollywood film to make a song-and-dance about some pointless product. Now. There’s only one thing worse than taking a brief for a flimsy film from a crotchety client – taking the brief from the crotchety client’s cocky no-substance bollixy advertising account rep.
And that’s what I mentally set myself up for when I was forced to meet with JR. I was fashionably late for the meeting. So what if you’re the ass[substitute with client’s preferred genitalia]-for-the-taking in the whole scheme of things? So what if you’re being paid to show unconditional reverence apart from and in addition to excellence-in-service to the pimp and his sugar-mama? So what? So farkin’ what, haanh?! Attitude. A ho’s gotta have attitude.
So I walked in, all 5 feet 8 inches of well-studied at-tuh-tood covered in ice tip-to-toe.
And then she walked in, beautiful, graceful, charming, polite and shy – all 5 feet 9 inches of her. She brought along two cups of steaming hot coffee for us. And I was pacified. For good.
She showed up on time to watch auditions.
She shyly accepted humble lunch invitations at our office.
She picked me up and dropped me for meetings with the client.
She never once let on that she was hassled.
She was always polite.
Always helpful.
Always charming.
Always smiling.
We even discovered common friends from Calcutta, who were part of the happiest memories of my childhood.
She was like an oasis in the varmint-infested crap-festooned world I was living and breathing in. It was a pleasure to work with her. A reaffirmation of sorts – that you don’t need to be a raging bitch-on-speed to get past the world. You can be shy and honest and vulnerable, and yet not have people walk all over you.
Amid the fuming towers of my arid mental shitscape it was a sign – that things would be on the mend soon. The seductive imminence of ‘something good to come’.
We were one [I’d like to believe now] meeting short of a girlie night out on the town; a post work, vodka-drenched-bloodies tossing, gossip sharing I-like-you night out that often goes into the making of fond friends.
And then my colleague ASB texted me, on the 13th of Feb. Early in the morning. Not nearly one month since I had first met her.
“J R is dead” appended with an exclamation mark.
It stung. His crude words. His crass expression. The cheap exclamation mark. Nauseous. Fuck you ASB. Fuck you. You’re an incontrovertible arse. And you always will be. And it’s taken me one year to say this to you ASB. You’re an A R S E. Whole.
Dispassionate little newspaper article. Tripping over words.
No.Three people.
Girl from advertising agency.
No.Car caught fire.
Instantly.
No.
That day, something just gave up in my head. Bits and pieces folded up and left. One. By one. By one. The billion and some rbcs lay down and died. Arteries curled up and the rampage became a slow death march to a grave for all things hopeless.
Several happy endings flushed down to the bowels of deep dark nothing by something seemingly unrelated. Like the stone that launches an avalanche, the last straw that unbalances the cart, the final call for curtains-down. And I could go on, spurred by my own sickly sense of the tragic poignancy of being unravelled. Completely.
Depression can go no lower, can it? And it didn’t.
Sometimes, from the depth of deep down below, the memory of a smile and a Mother’s constant love can be all you need by way of faith. That all will be well.
That dignity too, can be practised like a martial art.
And some friendships, though they might never have been in here and now, can come back from beyond forever and save your soul. Gently.
***
JR.
For whatever little it’s worth… thank you.
You’re remembered. And you always will be.
You’re appreciated. And you always will be.
You’re beautiful. And you always will be.
True. It also indicates a whole bunch of other uncomfortable nonsense about several other unmentionable traits. Bollocks. I’ll go with introvert. I’ll go only as far as that.
But. This post isn’t about my self-absorbed self-venerating and obviously captivating opinion about my self. Not entirely. It is about a beautiful girl I once knew. Who changed my life for whatever it’s worth.
As a rule, thanks mostly to my painful awkwardness in any given social [even quasi-social-professional] situation I tend to sweepingly dislike all advertising professionals. As a tribe. Blanket. No concessions. They are ALL self-idolising, opinionated, loud, pompous, stereotypically [this is where I start sputtering and frothing prettily] no-substance scum of the media industry in my tiny but defining model-for-the-WGS-84 world. In other words, nutshell-ed, they are my favourite THEY-THEM, universally, unconditionally and eminently blameable for all the world’s pissiness.
But this post isn’t even about them. It’s about this girl. And she happened to be an Accounts Executive at a leading advertising agency in India.
Things were terrible for me those days to put it mildly – shit flew around my head like frisky rain clouds on a mountainside. I was on one of those self-shattering inward rampages that tend to burst several billion rbcs and choke up a few arteries. To make matters worse, I found myself pushed into taking a brief for a corporate film – a crap spoof on a crap Bollywood film to make a song-and-dance about some pointless product. Now. There’s only one thing worse than taking a brief for a flimsy film from a crotchety client – taking the brief from the crotchety client’s cocky no-substance bollixy advertising account rep.
And that’s what I mentally set myself up for when I was forced to meet with JR. I was fashionably late for the meeting. So what if you’re the ass[substitute with client’s preferred genitalia]-for-the-taking in the whole scheme of things? So what if you’re being paid to show unconditional reverence apart from and in addition to excellence-in-service to the pimp and his sugar-mama? So what? So farkin’ what, haanh?! Attitude. A ho’s gotta have attitude.
So I walked in, all 5 feet 8 inches of well-studied at-tuh-tood covered in ice tip-to-toe.
And then she walked in, beautiful, graceful, charming, polite and shy – all 5 feet 9 inches of her. She brought along two cups of steaming hot coffee for us. And I was pacified. For good.
She showed up on time to watch auditions.
She shyly accepted humble lunch invitations at our office.
She picked me up and dropped me for meetings with the client.
She never once let on that she was hassled.
She was always polite.
Always helpful.
Always charming.
Always smiling.
We even discovered common friends from Calcutta, who were part of the happiest memories of my childhood.
She was like an oasis in the varmint-infested crap-festooned world I was living and breathing in. It was a pleasure to work with her. A reaffirmation of sorts – that you don’t need to be a raging bitch-on-speed to get past the world. You can be shy and honest and vulnerable, and yet not have people walk all over you.
Amid the fuming towers of my arid mental shitscape it was a sign – that things would be on the mend soon. The seductive imminence of ‘something good to come’.
We were one [I’d like to believe now] meeting short of a girlie night out on the town; a post work, vodka-drenched-bloodies tossing, gossip sharing I-like-you night out that often goes into the making of fond friends.
And then my colleague ASB texted me, on the 13th of Feb. Early in the morning. Not nearly one month since I had first met her.
“J R is dead” appended with an exclamation mark.
It stung. His crude words. His crass expression. The cheap exclamation mark. Nauseous. Fuck you ASB. Fuck you. You’re an incontrovertible arse. And you always will be. And it’s taken me one year to say this to you ASB. You’re an A R S E. Whole.
Dispassionate little newspaper article. Tripping over words.
No.Three people.
Girl from advertising agency.
No.Car caught fire.
Instantly.
No.
That day, something just gave up in my head. Bits and pieces folded up and left. One. By one. By one. The billion and some rbcs lay down and died. Arteries curled up and the rampage became a slow death march to a grave for all things hopeless.
Several happy endings flushed down to the bowels of deep dark nothing by something seemingly unrelated. Like the stone that launches an avalanche, the last straw that unbalances the cart, the final call for curtains-down. And I could go on, spurred by my own sickly sense of the tragic poignancy of being unravelled. Completely.
Depression can go no lower, can it? And it didn’t.
Sometimes, from the depth of deep down below, the memory of a smile and a Mother’s constant love can be all you need by way of faith. That all will be well.
That dignity too, can be practised like a martial art.
And some friendships, though they might never have been in here and now, can come back from beyond forever and save your soul. Gently.
***
JR.
For whatever little it’s worth… thank you.
You’re remembered. And you always will be.
You’re appreciated. And you always will be.
You’re beautiful. And you always will be.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Year of the Pig
Right-brain-of-H [clearing throat]: “So.”
Left-brain-of-H: “Huh? Said something idiot?”
Right-brain-of-H: “So. It’s the Chinese New Year. 9th Feb to 25th Feb.”
Left-brain-of-H: “So?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Year of the Pig”.
Left-brain-of-H: “SO?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Nothing. Just reminding you”
Left-brain-of-H [sharply]: “Why?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Nothing, really, it’s just that it’s the Chinese New Year…”
Left-brain-of-H: “Yes. I got that bit. Go ON [say it, I dare you. Say it…]”
Right-brain-of-H [smirking]: “And… ummm… As you’re [no doubt] aware this is when people from this part of the world take leave in that part of the world and come home, back to this part of the world…“
Left-brain-of-H: “So? SO what? Haanh? So farkin’ what?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Nope. Nothing. Just thought you’d be interested… And maybe… you know…”.
Left-brain-of-H [viciously]: “Maybe what?? HANH? You pile of shit! Why do you exist? You’re such colossal waste, aren’t you? Face it. You have no sense of shame, or dignity, do you?”
Right-brain-of-H [coolly]: “Many pertinent questions princess. Ha. Joined as we are, at the hip and all, maybe you’d know?”
Left-brain-of-H [sputtering]: “Shut up. Shut UP. SHUT UP SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP…”
Colleague: “H? you ok? Why’re you grinding your teeth?”
H: “Huh? No no nothing. I’m fine. By the way, it’s the Chinese New Year, 9th to 25th Feb. Year of the Pig. I’d almost forgotten.”
Colleague: “Okkkay… [?] [Respectful pause] Ummm, listen, about the script…”
Left-brain-of-H: “Huh? Said something idiot?”
Right-brain-of-H: “So. It’s the Chinese New Year. 9th Feb to 25th Feb.”
Left-brain-of-H: “So?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Year of the Pig”.
Left-brain-of-H: “SO?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Nothing. Just reminding you”
Left-brain-of-H [sharply]: “Why?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Nothing, really, it’s just that it’s the Chinese New Year…”
Left-brain-of-H: “Yes. I got that bit. Go ON [say it, I dare you. Say it…]”
Right-brain-of-H [smirking]: “And… ummm… As you’re [no doubt] aware this is when people from this part of the world take leave in that part of the world and come home, back to this part of the world…“
Left-brain-of-H: “So? SO what? Haanh? So farkin’ what?”
Right-brain-of-H: “Nope. Nothing. Just thought you’d be interested… And maybe… you know…”.
Left-brain-of-H [viciously]: “Maybe what?? HANH? You pile of shit! Why do you exist? You’re such colossal waste, aren’t you? Face it. You have no sense of shame, or dignity, do you?”
Right-brain-of-H [coolly]: “Many pertinent questions princess. Ha. Joined as we are, at the hip and all, maybe you’d know?”
Left-brain-of-H [sputtering]: “Shut up. Shut UP. SHUT UP SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP…”
Colleague: “H? you ok? Why’re you grinding your teeth?”
H: “Huh? No no nothing. I’m fine. By the way, it’s the Chinese New Year, 9th to 25th Feb. Year of the Pig. I’d almost forgotten.”
Colleague: “Okkkay… [?] [Respectful pause] Ummm, listen, about the script…”
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Round 1
So I woke up this morning battling with demons and their mothers, flames that won’t die down, pirate-type iron weights that drag you down to the ocean bed; and walls.
We continued with the battle [it crept up on me stealthily in my car] after breakfast. When I was alone. Battles are respectful creatures, they will engage with you only when the family is out of the way. When you’re on your own. Alone.
It got messy. I’ll admit. Very messy. We had an epic Bollywood song on the radio for effect too [several] which doesn’t help really. It makes things murkier. So, amidst the Ashram flyover traffic, we raged on, it and I, splashing tears all over the windscreen, blurring out pesky, intrusive [hello babeh wanna ride together-together] motorcyclists and motorists, ignoring traffic lights, wrestling for control over my head.
Luckily, earlier this morning I had taken a wily precautionary measure.
Camouflage.
Red black pungent purple acid green and silver. Today I am a confused rainbow. Tomorrow I might be a white and blue cloud.
But I’m not sure it’s worked. Yet. Can’t say. I’m anticipating another round on my way back home. I think I'll paste on some red lipstick. For reinforcement.
We continued with the battle [it crept up on me stealthily in my car] after breakfast. When I was alone. Battles are respectful creatures, they will engage with you only when the family is out of the way. When you’re on your own. Alone.
It got messy. I’ll admit. Very messy. We had an epic Bollywood song on the radio for effect too [several] which doesn’t help really. It makes things murkier. So, amidst the Ashram flyover traffic, we raged on, it and I, splashing tears all over the windscreen, blurring out pesky, intrusive [hello babeh wanna ride together-together] motorcyclists and motorists, ignoring traffic lights, wrestling for control over my head.
Luckily, earlier this morning I had taken a wily precautionary measure.
Camouflage.
Red black pungent purple acid green and silver. Today I am a confused rainbow. Tomorrow I might be a white and blue cloud.
But I’m not sure it’s worked. Yet. Can’t say. I’m anticipating another round on my way back home. I think I'll paste on some red lipstick. For reinforcement.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
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.
...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.
Friday, January 19, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 05, 2007
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.
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.
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