Shame...

Outrage. Disgrace. Shame!
Shame on the MIM and a louder, stronger shout-out to the media to perhaps feel some of that shame themselves for once again giving the proceedings a tainted religious hue. [I will explain. This is a long, bilious post.]

Yesterday's nauseating events at the Press Club of Hyderabad during the release of Taslima Nasrin's works in Telugu [who cares what, really] did two things.
One, it reiterated to the whole world that, "Look here, this is what we were saying all along. These Muslims are unbelievable. They really are taking things too far."
Two, it played right into the hands of a constantly-waiting, uneducated media, frothing at the mouth for more dirt on a faith known as Islam. All because a handful of very deluded, unlearned men, ranting and raving like so many Nazi Skinheads or Bajrang Dal activists, claimed their incontrollable outrage in the name of all Muslims. And the ravenous media lapped it up, using allllll the cliches and stereotypes one now expects when anything Islam-bash-worthy happens. *makes violent retching noise*

The facts:
1. Taslima Nasrin was invited to release the translations of her works in Hyderabad.
2. She did so.
3. There was no outrageous attack on Islam, no inflammatory speech and no reading of any derogatory material from her books [if indeed her books have such content].
4. After the event wound to a close, some men[led by our well-chosen, popularly elected, esteemed MLAs] broke into the venue and started their shameful, uncouth, violent histrionics. To wit, a group of full-grown men went berserk and started throwing various items- bouquets, flower pots, even chairs were attempted- at a defenseless Taslima and an oldish man who was visibly hurt during the hurly-burly, bravely standing shield between the deranged macho men and their intended victim. There was no incitement, there was nothing that could have sparked the Fire of Fury in the attackers.
5. Live footage of the attack is really embarrassing to watch - poor, sulky Taslima and poor, brave old man.
6. The mental mob then lay down its credentials: they represented "all of the 20 crore Muslims in India" according to an MP of the Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (MIM), Asaduddin Owaisi, an abomination I saw for the first time yesterday. [Enjoy your moment in the limelight, you horrific blight to humanity.]
7. This self-same Owaisi was then seen on all news channels staunchly defending and praising the attackers, and once more *cringe*cringe*cringe* bringing in 'Islam' and 'Muslims' into all of the ugliness.

The Outrage and Opinion:
To Owaisi: You b@##$%#! Isn't it enough the whole world is having a ball at the expense of our religion already? Must you paint your perversions with the brush of Islam? No, you do not represent us, the 20 crore Muslims in India. No, it doesn't make a difference that Taslima Nasrin is not Indian, that she's in exile, that you feel she's a disgrace to Islam because she doesn't like following it, that she writes about things that are hard for you to stomach. She might have been a Puerto Rican nun for all we care - the fact remains that this was a lady whom you let loose on, unprovoked and in the most abominable manner. And then you justify your actions under the banner of Islam. Aaarrrggghhhhhh.

To the media: Have a care, journos. A little homework never harmed anyone, si? Here are some basic goof-ups and incorrect stereotyping that you've perfected to an art.
Lesson 1: Fatwa= opinion [NOT as is widely and popularly accepted, 'death sentence'].
Lesson 2: Islam = NOT a religion that preaches terror/violence. Root word 'Salaam' viz. 'peace' [as in Salaam alaikum]. Even if one did not give you the meaning of the Arabic root, one could hope that a basic respect be given to all world religions and it be quite understood that no faith preaches violence, killing, atrocity or wrong-doing. Why must you then repeatedly and wrongly use terms like Islamists/Islamic fundamentalists/Jihadis/mullahs/ Muslim extremists etc?
Lesson 3: Jehad/Jihad = To strive/struggle in the cause of God. It does not mean 'Holy War' or 'justified killing'. Don't use it alllll the time.
Lesson 4: Jehadis and terrorists are not interchangeable terms, thank you. If I strive to overcome some evil in myself, say trying to stop lying, I am a jehadi. Ergo, jehadi is not equal to terrorist. Simple, ja?
Lesson 5: Haraam= Absolutely, totally not allowed. Drinking alcohol is haraam. Suicide is haraam. Killing the blameless aged, women, children or any innocent person is haraam. Make of 9/11 and every other incident we hear of in Iraq nowadays what you will, those men can't claim to be Muslims. [My opinion, remember.]
Lesson 6: Muslims all over the world [I'm talking educated, civilized, real Muslims who have some knowledge of the Qur'an and Sunnah- not brainwashed illiterates, paid part-timers and chest-beating frenzied men who don't know better] hate what is happening to the name of Islam today. The media has never ever shown this overwhelming point of view. What with your minute-by-minute opinion polls, your wide-ranging documentaries, your impassioned lambasting of the horrors of terrorism, how come it never ever comes across that you BELIEVE that Muslims globally abhor the actions of terrorists, suicide bombers, spies, smugglers, underworld dons and the whole smorgasbord of evil that is now irrevocably connected with Islam? We don't like it either, get it? The few hundreds (or thousands) committing atrocities must never be assumed to be representative of the whole. How about you convey that repeatedly?

Another point:
Noted Muslim celebrities in India gave sound bytes yesterday (at least) expressing their disgust: Javed Akhtar [brilliant as always], Shabana Azmi [ho hum], Nafisa Ali. Ask me, a well-known scholar, a qualified mufti would be a more suitable mouthpiece for expressing Muslim outrage than fillum-ishtaars or Page 3 personalities , who, let's face it, aren't very strong in practice.
Unfortunately, we never see the established Islamic authorities/the educated ullema speak up against such outrages. This is a worm that has eaten across all the Muslim/Arab world. Be it Palestine, Afghanistan, Iraq, terrorism, the governments of all Muslim nations continue to sit mum and twiddle their thumbs, doing nothing. PATHETIC.

Some background to the whole brouhaha:
1. Ms. Nasrin is in India, exiled from her homeland Bangladesh on account of some old men feeling strongly that her book, Lajja, was insulting to Islam, Muslims, the Prophet (Peace be upon him) and thereafter issuing fatwas (Remember! 'Opinion'), death threats and pronouncements in the name of an aggrieved religion.
2. Lajja is none of the above. I have read, or rather, tried reading it. It was quite a pain to get through even the first few chapters and is one of the very few books I have left unfinished. Not because I was offended by the content but because I was bored to tears by it. According to me it was not a good book simply because in very long, excruciating portions it read more like a report on damages caused during the Bangla riots, and the mention of random names and unknown places for pages together failed to grip me. There was an attempted storyline in there somewhere but I lost the threads of that amid all the name-dropping.
3. I feel very strongly that the people who issued the fatwa haven't actually read the substandard book.
4. The book doesn't have anything anti-Islamic in it per se, it is just an account of the maltreatment of the minority Hindu population in Bangladesh during the riots that ensued post the destruction of the Babri Masjid in India [Whole new can of worms. I shan't even go there]. It so happened that the tormentors were the majority Bangla Muslim populace. What is so unbelievable about that?
5. As in all riot scenarios, the weak are always victimised, abused and in general, teated in such a way that 'majority' and 'minority' have no meaning anymore, the only thing that matters to anyone who can see is 'humanity'. Or rather, the lack of it.
6. Nasrin's book just put together many instances where people went rampaging, killing, raping in the name of their religion. Wronging others. Again in the name of their religion. These malefactors happened to be so-called Muslims. In the same way that when the Gujarat riots happened, the aggressors happened to be Hindus. And in the same way that the good old Serbian ethnic cleansers [I'm talking Bosnia] happened to be Orthodox Christians.
My point is that evil does not belong to any faith or religion. Tyrants, terrorists, reprobate persons cannot lay claim to any faith in the midst of their heinous actions.


Oh, look at me, I'm as bloody boring as Taslima's book. Enough. I am done.

Oh, come on, boys. Keep it clean.

Sania-watch continues

Well done again, Miss Mirza. Here!

Dear Daddy

Happy birthday to you.

Couldn't make it last time....

...but I want to try again.
Unsuccessful first attempt at scaling hidden peak. Ve shal go vance more.

Have fun, Shobs...

Dear Shobie
We're missing you aldreddy. *Huggs*
Have much fun in Bombay, doll. Meet exciting people [fillum stars] and don't snub them, throw yourself at Akshay Kumar [remember, he takes the trouble to wax himself. Ouch.] and don't forget to make a weekend trip to Pune and meet Sanju Baba.

Will call often and, as per routine, please don't pick up on the first attempt. I shall do the same at my end. Henji.

PS: (Enjoyed like anything at Take 5, especially when you wet yourself. Your camera smile is inspiring. I shall practise in front of my mirror everyday.)



To the common man: Shobhie is the nut in the picture above [extreme left with big red bag]. She left us, Bereft in Bangalore, and headed to Bombay on the fateful morning 6th of August, 2007. Moday morning blues like yenything.
She's a darling and we hope she has a mad, mad time and is part of more interesting stories in the near future.

Beyond Compare

Sunday, August 5, 2007: Gayatri Vihar, Palace Grouds, Bangalore hosts a live concert- "Beyond Boundaries" - with ghazal meastros Ustad Ghulam Ali and Padmabhushan Jagjit Singh. I was there [wooohooo!] and enjoyed a lovely evening with the two greats. One is obviously of a higher caliber than the other, as Jagjit himself admits, and in this pleasant understanding of what's what, the music flowed.

The show was supposed to kick off at 6 pm, and audience memebers were requested to dress formally. So obviously a huge chunk of Bangaloreans traipsed in well after 1845 hrs, dressed in cargos, dirty jeans, scuffed sneakers, three-fourths and other horrors.
The seating arrangements were godawful- the venue was basically a big shamiana with rows and rows of plastic chairs. For our tickets worth Rs. 600/-, we were hoping to be in a nice enough place to be able to comfortably view the performance but unfortunately we were quite ways behind and managed to NOT see any of the stage. We had to make do with the big-screen projectors. This being a ghazal concert, what was important was that the sound quality be good and thank the Lord, it was. Great audio throughout the show.
(Except when the caterers just outside the shamiana took to collectively rattling their cutlery, or when the rumbling from the nearby Freedom Jam made itself heard. At which point Ghulam Ali paused mid-song to say, "Iss aafat ko guzarne do.")

At 7 pm, Jagjit Singh took the stage and we had a lovely two hours' worth of his most popular numbers. He took us through the best of his repertoire: Mein nashe main hoon, Yeh daulat bhi le lo, Baat niklegi toh phir, Kiskaa chehraa, Kal chaudvin ki raat thi and Sarakti jaaye hai among others.
The audience was lapping it up, singing along with Baritone Jagjit in most places. He threw in a few pleasant variations on some lines but for the most part stuck to the script and the crowd had a fun time feeling full of itself thinking, "We know our ghazals so well."

Jagit Singh wound up around 9 pm and made way for the fabulous Ustad Ghulam Ali. There was a touching moment or two on stage when the dear old men started hugging each other, smiling and pulling one another's cheeks like so many 4-year-old kindergarten girls. Pleasantries done with, Ustadji took the stage.

And then........ *drumroll*

For the next two hours, we sampled the brilliance that is Ustad Ghulam Ali. He dazzled the remaining audience and how! Ghulam Ali took on each new piece as a separate work of love, slowly guiding the audience, explaining the difference between a ghazal and a nazm, giving a short, pleasant preamble to each number, giving due credit to the poets, and, when in the song itself, explaining the Urdu shaaiyiri to the crowd as needed.
The gorgeous rolling deepness of Ustad's voice, his ease with the language, his genuine love for the form were all evident during his performance. The audience were loving the poetry, of a much higher quality than Jagjit's engaging but simple lyrics. Each sher was followed by a resounding cheer after the spilt-second it took them to understand what had just passed. Unlike Jagjit Singh, Ghulam Ali gave us a variety of ghazals not many in the crowd had heard before. It was right up the alley for those of us with a genuine love [if not understanding] of classical music and shaayiri, a guided tour with arguably one of the best ghazal singers in the world. I had goosies for a good part of his performance, along with a silly smile and much contentment at the crowd's pleasure.

Unfortunately, all of the audience was not deserving. As with all big gatherings, there has to be an Embarrassing Group. I had had a nasty sinking feeling at the beginning of the show itself when I saw the very obviously cavalier, non-serious set of people coming in for the show. And the foreboding came true during the performance.
After Jagjit Singh finished his segment, a lot of our overfriendly, noisy, culturally-deficient Bangalorean friends left since the popular hit ghazals they were familiar with were done. Good riddance. Unfortunately a lot of annoying, brash items stayed behind, talking loudly to each other during songs, walking up and down the aisles, taking calls on their cell-phones [good grief] and other indecorous behavour.
If this wasn't bad enough,we had unbelievable audience members somewhere in the very front [and therefore the freebie/ uber-rich ticketholders] repeatedly disturbing Ghulam Ali during his performance. He actually had to stop in the middle of his songs and ask them to stop goading, taking videos, talking/whistling, clapping out of turn etc. Also, as if this was a college band performing cover versions at a cafe somewhere, some freak kept on shouting his farmaaishes to Ghulam Ali. "Oh, God, do you realise who is up on stage, you twit?" The cringe-factor went very high for me, personally. I wanted to tear those people from their places and boot them into the rain outside. What was more infuriating was that none of the organisers stepped in to take preventive action. Terrible. I can only apologise to the maestro for the (mis)behaviour of the hooligans left behind to mess up the evening.

Ustadji took in all this unpleasantness in his wonderful stride ["Yeh toh inke pyaar ki daleel bataati hain"], kept the audience entertained with jokes and anecdotes and wound up his performance with his very famous numbers Hungama hai kyun barpaa, and Chupke chupke raat din. The 11 pm axe was hanging around everyone's necks or he might have carried on for a while more. Unfortunately, things had to come to a close and they did wit a sweet farewell from Ustad saheb.
At around 11pm I made my way out, for the most part a very happy girl, but also, with slightly murderous thoughts directed towards the Embarrassments.

What's going on, boys?

Another great run for McLaren at Hungary, but as usual, a cloud came along to spoil the silver lining's party. No Constructor Points for Team McLaren on account of some shady business during the Qualifying. Bleehhhhhh. Well done, Lewis. Alonso.... Promise us more drama at Turkey?
Before the whole world and its uncle jumps in to fling mud at Alonso, though, have a look here.
Look like there MIGHT POSSIBLY BE another side to the story. Mayhap young Lewis was a little bit to blame himself? This is not to say that Alonso doesn't have a habit of getting headlined in the most awful stories. One must admit, the guy has a knack.
In any case, I adore both drivers though I have no idea how they still manage to work around each other. Slight awkwardness at the office, what?
Great run by Raikkonen as well, but overtaking was always going to be next to impossible on this circuit. [Thought to self: Why, oh WHY did he switch to Ferrari?]

Well done, Sania.

Sania Mirza is on a roll. After an iffy performance at Wimbledon [just back from injury etc], she's moving up and how. She's the fittest she's ever been and if she would only work on that serve of hers plus reign in on the unforceds a bit, she's going to get nicely dangerous.
Well done at Stanford and San Diego, Sania. Seed-toppling is very nice [for us].
Have a personal soft spot for Mirza because her match at the Bangalore Open [where she won the doubles finals, 2006] is the only tennis match I've watched in person. Also, I think she's a smarty-pants. I'm going to keep track of this kid.

Bonzo has a new friend

His name is Party Pooh. He's a nice guy to have around simply because no matter what you do to Pooh [like take his head in your teeth and shred it to bits], he'll always smile stupidly back.
Bonz takes turn loving and hating him. I caught him here at a particularly weak, mushy moment when he was just nodding off and I naughtily Placed Pooh under his "Protective Paw." [Transliteration like yenything.]
My plan is, when Bonz grows up and starts having friends over for beer and poker, I'll pull out these incriminating snaps and ruin his social life. Mooooaaahahahhahaaaahaaaaaaaa.....
Click header for more pics.

Hunkal Trek pics here!

Hunkal Trek, weekend of July 27-29th

Spent a fantastic weekend in the Western Ghats near Chikmaglur at a gorgeous private estate in Thogarihunkal, called The Hunkal Woods. Trek weekend organized by Kaushik Bajibab of Wishbone Interactive, and featuring Gerry Martin. Other star cast comprised of a Xavier and a Vivek Sundaram.
Met some really nice people, walked a lot of kms, used muscles that had been inactive for some time and returned with very nice memories and photo-pictures.
Highly recommend Hunkal Woods as the place to stay. Very out of the way, excellent service and perfect stay comfort. Run by a very young Nandan Gowda for the most part.

Catharsis

And so it unfolds… Same old story, different people. Everywhere I turn nowadays, I get a different version of the same old, same old.

Girl – 1 no.s.

Well educated, good job in hand, financially independent, strong sense of space, great parental support and the common domestic situation nowadays where a girl is allowed to think freely for herself, have a say in matters, be moody, be crazy, be normal, and in general be as bull-headed as all the previous generations’ overbearing paterfamilias if she so feels like it.

Cut to Boy - 1 no.s

Modern day Indian male, “I am so progressive”, is friends with as many girls as boys, (prefers hanging out with the slimmer, prettier, more fun girls but pretty bearable otherwise). Also well-educated, having job, not necessarily financially independent, but so what, beta hai na? Anywho.

Girl meets boy, they fall in like, they fall in love, things are hunky-dory for a couple of years, they’re young, no need to think about anything serious just yet, just have a lot of fun and enjoy time with each other etc etc. Boy is extremely nice to girl all along, seems smitten as hell, girl is smitten of course, girl’s friends begin to approve of this ‘gem of a boy’, girl’s family is in the loop because really, the girl is completely comfortable with her choice of relationship, nothing shady about it at all.

A few years later, girl starts wondering ‘where are we headed’ [yes, please note: the girl has to start thinking this]. Girl brings it up with boy because there is no possible reason why he should have even thought about it. I mean, good grief.
And this is where the disturbing twist in the tale begins.

I mean, after years of friendship and adoration and through-thick-and-thins and what have you, is it really unfathomable for a boy to see the light and take it to the next step with the one he professes to [as he repeatedly does] love?

Boy dilly-dallies for a while, then a while longer, then forever it seems. What is the problem? Girls’ parents [who have more often than not nowadays] a very sensible, open and mature relationship with their girl-child, talk to her freely about this. Girl has a great support group in friends, family, family friends. If not parents [okay, it’s been known to happen], there are a lot of other people the girl can have a heart-to-heart with.

Except, disturbingly, the boy. Se can’t get through to him on this.

Boy has become a little aloof, doesn’t meet up as much or as readily, they don’t go out on cute romantic dates anymore, only in big noisy groups, he doesn’t talk about it too much, pretends to carry on just as they have been all these years except for the tiny niggling fact that it has bee all these years ad really, pull up your damn socks now!

Girl starts feeling a little not-so-great. Everyone thinks they are as rock-steady as ay couple can be, everyone constantly beams upon this ideal twosome, this made-for-each-other duo, but slowly everyone also starts wondering [like the girl did long ago], what next?

Girl starts feeling a bit ill-treated. So she brings it up with daft boy again. Boy has turned into blockhead with no realization of the decent thing to do, and possibly, a distinct lack of balls. Strain enters into formerly perfect relationship. Girl would tell boy anything and everything earlier; he was her best friend after all. Not so anymore, because now when girl starts talking about the one thing that really is bothering her, it is to be construed as nagging by the poor victimized boy.

God damn.

In the meanwhile, girl’s other good girlfriend is going through similar shit, one step further in fact. Boy had agreed to marry girlfriend, they were engaged, they had a beautiful understanding of how they would live their new life together, until, as usual, the boy’s balls seemed to perceptibly shrink and then cease to exist because of gargoylish pressures from materfamilias.

Boy turns into A-Grade wimp, refuting “strong-companion” tag and taking on the new [and yet age-old] moniker of “Mama’s boy.” Girlfriend becomes secondary, mother’s unreasonable and draconian needs come first. And all this after boy-girl had mutually agreed to live their future life a certain independent, dignified way. Boy-wimp suddenly is quoting such text as “I only agreed because of you…” and “I’m sure other girls would have no problem with my Ma” etc, cringe puke.

Well, darling, if other girls is what you were aiming for, if other mousy, non-thinking, compromising, Hindi-movie-sati-saavitri, saree-clad, demure, eyes-downcast, mindless girls is what your dream was, then why the #$$@ did you spend all these years misleading your best friend- a beautiful, modern, independent, strong-willed, intelligent, jeans-clad woman of the 21^st century? I mean, if you wanted a glorified housemaid who could carry off a silk saree with élan, bending down with ease to scrape the feet of all the elders in your family, adhere to your glorious patriarchal notion of a good wife and respectable daughter-in-law, why the hell did you pretend to be a “progressive, forward-thinking” git with 2 cents’ worth of sense in him?

Here’s the problem. The young urban Indian woman has come of age. Her eyes are wide open, she has a beautiful head on her shoulders, she knows who she is and more importantly, she knows what she wants. There is no earthly reason for her to compromise on this, especially to unreasonable demands. Which is not to say she won’t bend over backwards if she feels it’s worth doing. That’s because young Indian woman is sensible, compassionate and strong.

This puts young urban Indian man in a quandary of sorts. He thinks he is modern, liberal-minded and a staunch supporter of feminism. All this is well and good until he is actually in the hotspot himself and then the veneer fades a bit. Young NRI in America decides that he in fact wants to marry a nice, homely Indian girl from back in India. Young urban Indian man decides he’s had a lot of fun with his girlfriend(s), and now it’s time to find ‘wife-material’. Mama will definitely have some ideas. Non-conformity is out of the question. You will bow to my traditions, my cultural expectations, my schedule, my rules. It’s all right to have been this way so far, now that you want to be my wife, fall in line. Ye gods.

Dave Matthews was on to a good thing there years ago:

“Why are you different?

Why are you that way?

If you don’t fall in line

We’ll lock you away…”

So, like I was saying, this sort of thing is happening too often and to too many people I know for it to be a one-off case. My girlfriends and I have talked this over and over. [Yes, one of those bitter, bile-ridden girl-talks where we diss men and their lot with an earnestness that has to be seen to be believed.]

We’ve hit upon a few theories as to the current state of affairs [urban p.o.v.]:

1. Women rule. This is not chest-beating bravado [that’s what men do.] This is fact.
2. Women now know they rule, and so do men, and that’s what’s causing all the trouble.
3. Women are starting to lose patience with can’t-get-their-act-together male forms.
4. Women have a great support system and like-minded girlfriends to hang out with and feel better about themselves and everything.
5. Women very often meet up to chat with said like-minded girlfriends and release pent-up anger, vitriol etc and in so doing have realized that life is perfectly wonderful without the added troubles of nurturing a boy-toy for years and then finding out he’s a wimp anyway.
6. Women are kicked as hell about adoption getting easier. If there was one thing that was bothering us about lack-of-suitable-boys, it was the fact that we’d have to miss out on motherhood. Not any more. Ha ha!
7. Women are definitely on to a good thing here.
8. Women-friends who have totally lost hope that any suitables will ever exist again, will probably decide to move in together in a few years, raise their adopted children and run neat, organized but still very mad, fun households together. [And everyone will be cleaning up after themselves. Bonus!]
9. The next-gen of kids that will be the outcome of growing up in such mad happiness will hopefully have got their bearings right and things will look up for the next lot of young Indian women.
10. Which is not so say that the next-gen of young Indian men won’t be thanking their lucky stars it happened like this! They’ll love us, their brilliant mothers to bits. And we won’t pull a draconian on them.

Over and out.

Happy Birthday, Boo!

16th July, per annum. :)

One fine Sunday afternoon

Ozz and Suhail loafing in the pool at Guestline Resorts after the fun and games. It was a beautiful day even though I barely lost to Ozz at tennis by one close game. Dyammit. I shall blame my blisters.

Also celebrating their 27th....

Ma's elder sister and her hubby. Ma and Khala got married the same day. They had their first child 10 days apart. [I know, it's almost creepy.]

Happy 27th Anniversary, folks!

Excellent work, parentals. Love you much.

Foucault's gone. Walkabout. That's all.

Post Partum: post parts, um....

"Look, Ma! No balls!"
These are our little babies, after Doc Pawan Kumar [5-ishtaar rating] took care of their privates. June 4th, it was. And funny Doc said, grinning, [to lighten the atmosphere]: "I'm sorry. They'll never be fathers now."

The boys are just dandy now. And they have taken to the outdoors like their naughty mother. I only hope they realise they should poop and otherwise expunge outside, and not come running for the litter box when they feel the urge. Silly cats.

Cheeni Kum.....

What a superb! Tabu, you have outdone yourself. It saddens me to see you persisting with C-grade movies starring a screaming, wigged Sunny Deol [whom I used to have the massivest crush on circa Betaab.] Ugh.

For a louwwwly review of this movie, read louwwly Suma's blog, here: http://blog.360.yahoo.com/sumantics273

At the Insaneguptas'

Where I have spent many vundrefulll hours.

That's Aloka on the left, and Shro [my dorlinggg] on the right.

Titla, you smile like an angel.

(Titter titter. Those Banashankari shades are something else.)

It's a Boy!!!!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present: NOAH.

How gorgeous is this? Masha'Allah!
My darling frundship Alisha/Zubin [the A to Z of nomenclature as it were] has had, partnered in crime with her lovely husband Navin, a gorgeous, fabulous, sweetheart of a baby boy who shall be henceforth known as "Noah".
I am a SuperAunt yet again.
Fatty and Chinju, you make me very happy.

Bruno

Our pointer. What a stud. Dripping, even. (Please check out Abba's fine leg in the background.)

And then there were none.

Uh-oh... I think our girls are actually boys. Boomsaaaaa, what do we do, what do we do?

What a stupid question. What is there to do? We'll just have to stop calling them "Ladies".

Amazing Race!!!!

We're going to try to get on it. Woooo hoooo!

(See our application. Click on the title.)

Read additional synopsis here

Here's a beauty from that page: "Pakistan lost the match because of their batting -- their top scorer was extras with 29."

haaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.....

(Muttering profanities like yenything)



And look at these sweet babes. Awwww.

Haw haw

Well done, Ireland. A wet fish smack in the face of the "champions" Pakistan. Damn them. Growing up being a huge fan, drooling every time Imran Khan deigned to smile, crinkly eyes and all, actual breathing trouble when Wasim and Waqar would clean up the oppositon [and especially when Wasim would smile, glare, stare, huff up, even do nothing, so long as that hot mama was on screen], Saeed Anwar pre- and post- ghastly beard stage, Moin Khan yakking non-stop behind the stumps, "Val done, bvois, val done!", Inzy lazily winning matches, Abdul Razzak being a serious good boy, Saqlain and more recently Danish looking nuts during their bowling and also otherwise, Shahid Berserk Afridi shamelessly losing it more often than not on-field, and hundreds of other tiny, proud memories over the years. And it's all come to this. *Bitter laughter to fade*

Standing ovation to Bangladesh and Ireland. Show them what's what.

In retrospect, we've moved

Meaning, I omitted to inform my vast readership base of 3 people, that Boo and I have moved to newer, more colourful digs.

This was our pretty Dona Maria 202 Cat Corner, but without any cats. You can only ever understand the analogy if you have had the chance to see Boo stretched out at a strange angle by the window with the sun falling on her goofily smiling face. Purrrrrr.

Hello, Cats!

Boo and I have kids now. Please wear full-sleeved pants and protective upper-body clothing when you come to visit us. Our affectionate, wild, nutty chicks have a tendency to endurance test any visible skin. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED......

Down my street one lovely morning.

Hutchins looks lovely in purple.

My two hearts. Frundships. Babes. Boomsa and Tits.

Catch-22

Don't know why I took so long to put this up:
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Delphi/8731/

Enjaaai. And for those of you who haven't yet read it, what gives?

Happy Birthday, Mama

That's my mama in a pretty saree, wayyyyy back when. And that extremely stoned item in her arm is me. (I have no excuse for looking the way I look. I'm sorry.)
Hope you have a superb birthday, mater. Have funs, have laughs, have a lot of good fooderies, and have someone give you diamonds. Haw haw.

BBQ Nation pics

And here's what we were doing there.....

Please check out Ozz's mohawk.

Barbecue Nation

A glorious new restaurant that has come up in what I believe is the best area in Bangalore to eat out at: Indiranagar. I mean fine-dining-wise more than your regular Church Street anything-goes kind of place.
Barbecue Nation is located at the very beginning of 100 Feet Road, Indiranagar, when you slide off the flyover from Koramangala. What used to stand there before this has of course disappeared into Oblivion [*wiggling eyebrows* If you know what I mean...].
So anyway. When we got there around tennish, the place was packed. Fortunately, we had made reservations earlier and were immediately taken indoors to the main dining area. There is outdoor seating as well as terrace dining, so you can take your pick.
This is how it works: There is a fixed price of Rs. 400/- per head. The fare includes five veg plus five non-veg starters. And a huge buffet after that.
Here is the best part. A lighted gril, coals and all, is placed/inserted into the centre of your table. The starters are brought to you at your table on skewers, and you have to barbecue them yourselves to your liking. Provided alongside the barbecue is a tray of suaces and basting brushes. You can go wild and have a lot of fun while cooking your own meal. In addition to the starters, included in this fixed price deal is a fantastic buffet spread of salads, soup, main course and dessert.
The service is splendid with sweet, friendly waiters bustling about and waiting to help.
Drinks come extra and ther's a nice selction to choose from.
I enjoyed the starters so much, I had no appetite left for main course AND dessert, so I opted for dessert, of course. For the rest who had a little of the main course, freshly baked, hot steaming naans and rotis were brought to our table as ordered.

It was lovely, lovely, lovely.
The interiors were done up very well with comfortable wooden seating, cushions and warm lighting.
I think I have found my favorite eating out place in Bangalore. Yay!!!

I'm baaaack

Of course, after all this while, I know this becomes a sort of Notes to Myself business. But anyway, I am. So there.

Yasin the Software Geek

My Febi's bundle of joy. [And mine, and mine!] Yasin all of 14 months, very busy with his father's laptop..and very focussed too.

Quick-Fix!!!!

Quick acknowledgement in the face of scary accusations of plagiarism:

The credit for title of previous post "Post party-um Depression", must be duly shared with one Giggly Items whose beautilful blog is linked on the right.
It has taken offence that I have passed it off as mine without so much as a blink. Well, well, well. I am blinking like anything. Like Bertie, in fact. I have no qualms in admitting that great minds think alike and that, in our case, dearest Giggles, even at the exact same time. Mooahahaha.

Guess we'll have to mud-wrestle to decide this one.
On that optimistic note, have a supaar weekends. Ta!

Post party-um depression

My dearest Tits and Jakkur Jazz,
It was wonderful and am gladdest for you rascals. Yay! Joy! My cups runneth over! Let the madness nevvver, evvver cease. For shuvvvvar.

Aw, Mithai-di, we miss you like anything. It was insanely nice meeting you and the rest of the loonies. Except that now, and for a month on at least or till my next PMS, whichever kicks in first, I'll be in a blue funk. [And when i say blue, I DO NOT MEAN PORNOGRAPHIC. Lillah!]
A beedi will never be looked at in the same off-hand, perfunctory way again. No other nape will ever be looked at, period. Sniffle.

Boomsa went back to Monarch's last night and stole your bedsheets, just so you know.

Come off, fast fastly. In the meanwhile, I'll make a preparatory trip to Blush.... Rrrrrrrr.

So long, maestro.

You have given us great joy.
Tashkor, Hrishida.

So, I really love these guys.

Can someone get them to come over? Please? For a small little private concert here in Bangalore?

Thanks very much.
Regards,
Black Veil, Long

How Green Is My Valley. Larks!

Ma and Abba are having a grand time up in the mountains. Them and their frund-couples from the last generation, having relievedly [and finally] dispensed with such afflictions as: [1] Us kids, [2] Us kids' weddings/educations/miseries, [3] Each family's private scandals and heartaches, have all come to that beautiful phase of life where, hopefully, it's all done with.
They're having a mad picnic in a place untouched by silly things as electricity, noise, and yes, even the wrong kind of people. There is a grounded goodness in our villages that one can only hope never dies. Ma's giggling over the phone yesterday telling me about it warmed me to the cockles of my heat, whatever that means. She was telling me about all those things I remember from my holidays there: misty days, cold breeze, hurts-your-eyes-green hills, sweet water springs, wooden cottages, bonfires, buffaloes, sheep and.... the inevitable- shish kebabs and barbecues! [Mooahaha. Sorry, Giggly.]
We are lucky to have that beautiful village on top of that remote mountain. Where Abba spends a lot of the year being a Son of the Soil. He revels in it. It has taken years off his considerable years. By the time I'm as old as him, I'll probably need an voice-driven wheelchair and 12 helpers. (I shall make sure they are good-looking and well-toned just for the heck of it.) But there be's my pater, swinging a scythe with the best of them. Turning over leaves in the apple orchards looking for tell-tale signs of things only he knows. Watching the movement of bees to predict whether we'll have honey this year. Sitting outside the village mosque after the evening prayers with friends, telling tales. [Some tall tales, granted, but...] He's happy and I'm happier for him.
As for Ma, if anyone ever deserved a break from life, she did. She's taken our family through it all. She is the mother from The Grapes of Wrath. I think a million times to myself, "How much more can she take?" And then I promptly go and add my own little two-bit to her world of troubles. There's a beautiful, she is. What I mean to say is, I hope we're done tormenting her for the anon. That laugh of hers yesterday- it was gorgeous.

Here's to you, my Parentals. Enjaii like anything.

Just.

It is so tiring to have to be pleasant and chirpy allll the bleddy time. It is.
Sometimes I don't want to, okay?

So, yesterday was an old, old Friend's birthday. From way back when I was a gawky, unsure teenager. I mean, she used to be a friend though I won't say we were ever tight. It's just that growing up with someone, no matter how weak the link be, feels like a whole new feel when you look back years later. So anyway, it was her hap-birthday. And it was an annual ritual of mine to write her a few wishful words on her big day. No matter that the greetings weren't ever returned or that we really had nothing else to say otherwise. Whatever. I liked to wish my friends, and I would. It was my thing.
Except all of that changed last year. What with leaving an unspeakably ugly phase of my life behind, severing ties with an Unwholesome Lot of People [ULP] I am glad to be rid of- [definitely very Killable - have formed vivid, graphic, and eerily doable plans of how to dismember, hang, quater etc. etc. one particular Festering Individual among them all, and say victoriously at the end of the Operation: "Said Fester Has Been Neutralised."]- it just so happens that leaving the Ugly also made me leave a large portion of the Nice behind. Persons from the Past I actually really liked, old acquaintances, a whole photo-montage of faces that I have grown up with. A whole childhood worth of memories. Have tied them up in pretty purple string and locked them in a cabinet. But the cabinet is at eye-level. And it has a glass door, so I cannot entirely forget.

'Tis a shame, what else? Tsk tsk.

So, on that note, Happy Birthday, Old Frund.
(And to hell with the rest of you!)

"A loss of something ever felt I—
The first that I could recollect
Bereft I was—of what I knew not
Too young that any should suspect

Elder, Today, a session wiser
And fainter, too, as Wiseness is—
I find myself still softly searching
For my Delinguent Palaces—"
-Emily Dickinson

It's a bleddy shame!

Getting your period very young

Makes you wise beyond your years
Makes you cries a lot of tears
Makes you lies to your peers
Makes you wish you was not heres
Makes you aches everywheres

If only I had got a comma instead.

I learnt the same stuff as everyone else in school
Then Life taught me other things
And Boomsa still udders

Mooooahahaha.
Dear Mad Cow
It is nice living with you.

Cheers and good luck!

A not so nice month

Actually, a very bad one. I speak of the first week of July through to the first week of August.
In no particular order, recent events that have really disturbed one :
-The Mumbai blasts. Inhumans, sullying the name of religion, and what's more, the whole world lapping it up so that now Islam=Terrorism=Jehad and some such claptrap. My friends and I talk about this often and it is relieving to know that they DO understand that that's not the equation, but really, how many people do? Or care? This is the pits. Especially since I for one, am proud as dammit of Islam.
-Israel: Has 2 soldiers kidnapped and unleash an unbelievably cruel assault on Lebanon as the world watches and the US [but of course!] pats its back. Hello? Civilians being killed. Women and kids in Qana. I suppose state-backed terrorism is okay because really, what else can one call this? Growl.
-Yet another tsunami hits Indonesia. This time round, it doesn't even make it to the front page of any newspaper.
-Alonso doesn't win any and Schumi takes many. Damn it!
-Sania hasn;t been winning ANYTHING either. What's up with that? I'm a big fan ever since I've seen her play up close and personal. Very infuriating to see her throw it all away. Over and over.
-More locally: Deeply respected guru-entity Long Legs left work. Mins like, all louww for her. Deeply saddened [to a surprisingly extreme degree] by her departure etc. and was in blue funk for days. Shortly followed by departure of another old hand, Long Locks, which sort of takes care of the Age of Experience at the Orifice. Feel especially bad for the Reams who pines and weeps silently in her deserted aisle.
-Felt a little at sea after the Mater left for back home. Little at sea means sadness.
-There were other things I'm sure, that made it distasteful, but I forget. Waste.

On a high note, after the dreaded past month, the 2nd week of August on is looking pretty spiffy. My dorling Boomsa has moved in with me. That makes it three mad cats in our cosy flat: Skinny, Boomsa and I. We are parting with all borrowed furniture of yore, and Boomsa and I have been frantically running around procuring essentials. Skinny is on work in the US of [barf] A. She'll be surprised when she gets back. As a helpful note to personalities looking for cheap treasures to strew around the house, I suggest you head to Shivajinagar and discover the whole new world you'll see there. It is a lovely!

And now, enough.

Infancy conforms to nobody: all conform to it, so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who prattle and play to it.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

But I still want babies. Maybe more than ever now.

Outlook, the perv

Tells me strange things like "You have unopened items."
[High five, Giggly!]

Mah dear Giggly. You are now linked.

Yay!!!!!

Welcome, Hanan The Barbarian

This site be's top secret for Orifice entities. Unless specially invited by moi.

Dear Tits...

It HAS been very long. I have been out of commission for a while, meaning I haven't had the split second required to update my blog.
Post arrival and grand news of fraternal foray into the higher reaches of Academia, the next bright spot in my last month has been esteemed arrival of my Parentals. They have brought with hem bonhomie, warmth and many many cheesy jokes which only us in our nuclear family enjoy and appreciate like nobody's business. We try it out on others as well, but.... No, no, let us not go there.

So anyway, the Mater has firmly entrenched herself in the kitchenette. So far, no one is complaining. Burping, yes. But complaining? No.
The Pater slowly imbibes the morning newsies from 0600 hours till well past 0900. With the tripe that our fascinating dailies have in them, I can only feel pained at what he has to sift through to make sense of the nonsense. With the grand exception of Jug Suraiya's JUGULAR VEIN for which I pine each week till its appearance in the Sunday Times.

Hope the Parentals don't get bored. We flock run out of the house to college and work in the mornings and return home disgruntled in the eves. What do they do in the meanwhiles? They relax, they have funs, and most importantly, they play cards against each oher! Moooahahahah. I love it.
We have taught them the way out of the back-of-beyond where my sister's digs are, so in case of dire boredom, they CAN always escape into a more meaningful part of civilization.

Yesterday we took them to a nice little resort out on Hosur Road. This place is not your run-of-the-mill weekend retreat for pampering and luxury. It is primarily an activity-related joint, and let me be more clear and say that these activites are sports. Hah.
So, we played badminton for a couple of hours, where Abba [being the Pater] whipped our collective arses and made us introspect sheepishly on our idea of our own fitness and skill. Then we took in a below par lunch buffet. Post lunch we all trudged to the tennis courts where we played an initial lacklustre few games, but towards the end we really had a nice go at it.
The Fraternal figure, being Usman, whupped our collective arses on this front.

The boys [being an Usman and a cousin Suhail] then frolicked and splashed about outrageously in the swimming pool while we sophisticated elders stylishly unwound on the sun loungers by its side.
Then the Rain gods had a party and poured like there was no tomorrow. In a bit we collected stray items of foowear, underwear, rainwear and other suchlikes and made our way back to Home Sweet Home. [When I say we collected stray pieces of miscellaneous, I of course mean to say that it was our stuff that had strayed and not any random pieces of underwear etc. that we found about the resort! Hmmph. As if.]

So today.... it is the morning after, and strange and interesting body parts are aching. I feel I have discovered several new muscles in my bum and back-shoulder region. Sorely, this shall soon be over!

I shall now get back to the first priority in my current life. Mins like, works is worships.
Byeeeeeee.

PS: Tits, have many funs in the Chennai, but don't you dare comment on pre-marital sex or safety measures to be used whilst so indulging! Take lessons from recent history.

Yay! My brotherly louww is now a college boy.
Let the games begin....

Qestion of the day: How hot is Anthony Hopkins?
Answer: Very.

ahoy

Frundhsips. Hullo, hullo.

Am updating at the behest of one kind Sir Vaibhav.
Unfortunately, have nothing to say really. Yes.... such is the excitement I experience in my life and times.

Let's say the most fun thing I've been doing in the past few weeks has been gallivanting around town with my little brother, who is now almost a foot taller than me. Life is unfair. Here's a 14-year-old strapping lad at 6 feet [what!!!!] and here am I, barely scraping the line at 5'3". BAWL!
We've been off for movies, to my favorite eat-outs, to musical almost-shindigs: TAKE 5 - a failed evening], to shoot hoops at the Amoeba stalls and win tonnes of tickets with which we then buy Snickers bars, and finally, we hang at home and play games on X-Box. He whups my ass all the bloody time.
He's a good lad. I have high hopes for him. He shan't be falling prey to the vices and immoralities of depraved drug-induced moronic somewhats. He has a steady head on his shoulders.
My main agenda in life for the anon is to get him into a nice scholl/college.
Where he will indulge in some curricular and many extra-curricular activities, thereby developing into a wholesome, well-rounded, interesting and not-annoying personality. Sigh. Yes. I have big smoky dreams for my baby.

How boring id this, I say. Do you guys really want to read bout my fermenting maternal instincts? Noooooo.
So.
Over and out.

PS: Sir Vaibhav, see you around, maybe.
[I might pop in to Bombay soonly. MIGHT. It's a plan in my head.]

Sigh. I know, I know. Had Fernando won this past weekend, I would have splashed my joy across all pages of the blog. Turns out that creep Schumi manged to keep him a nose behind for a lot of the time. Even to the end! Crikey.
Still. Now that I am well and truly over the bittersweet result of Sunday, here's my warm-fuzzy recipe. Guaranteed to bring a goofy grin on the mug of any aesthetically sensitive humanoid.Enjaaaaii.

Insipidity

May I just say it does not become an establishment to employ grumpy, snooty [and godawfully ugly] men as maitre des. Especially when said grumpy fart has no point to his existence except to annoy the bejeesus out of refined, suave, classy diners, such as ourselves.
Am making public the slip-shod treatment meted out to us jolly office-mongers, when we headed out to Mainland China, Church Street for much raved about lunch buffet.

All arrangements were smoothly executed the previous day. Over phonery items.

ME: Hi, yadda yadda yadda, nice weather, blah blah blah, do you still have a weekday lunch buffet at your fine dinery, kind lady?
KIND LADY RECEPTIONIST: Yes, of course, why not give it a shot? Alive and kicking as anything.
ME: Right ho, then expect around 30-40 of us from my orifice on the morrow. What shall be the financial damages?
KIND: INR 195/- per head, plus taxes.....

[long pause]

ME: Yes, I'm still waiting. So what will be the final financial damages, and let me be crystalline this time: how much INCLUDING taxes?
KIND: Oh, err, yes, of course. That comes to INR 219/- per head, Ma'am.
ME: [stiffly] Yes, thank you. It's a done deal, then. Let's shake on it.
KIND: Err....

So, anyway, any astute legal minds out there will notice that no stone was left unturned. All factoids were clarified, like butter. Weekday, check. Lunch Buffet, check. Cost per head, check.
In this glowing frame of mind, official invites were mailed out to orificers.

Come next day, and we folks [substantially lesser than 30-40, of course. That was just an empty threat] pranced off in the blasted heat to said restaurant. At the door we were kindly welcomed inside by a personality whom I assume was KIND LADY from previous day's conversation.

All looked rosy until then. The A/C had just begun to soothe frayed nerves. The faux Oriental music that they play in all such joints was mildly amusing. The ambience was building to a beautiful something-and-all when... when KIND LADY of our memoirs disappeared and a horrific substitution in the form of GRUMPY FART turned up. With nary a smile, and as if the weight of the whole weight rested on his podgy shoulders [and his podgy shoulders alone] he whisked us up and away to the 2nd floor of the dinery, away from the other human patrons enjoying their food items. His side of the story was it was "JUST FOR US." Aw shucks.

So anyway, that surprise being smoothly taken into stride, we were guided to a long row of tables attached bumper to bumper, so that at any point of time if Person A from the Left wanted to get up, the entire row of people on his side would have to shift base so he/she could move. This idea not being conducive to our sense of freedom and whatnot, we asked many times that the tables be rent asunder so that we, the jolly diners, could easily wander hither and thither. I mean, the whole essence of a buffet is you keep on jumping out of your seat to first survey the spread, then return to report your findings to your friends, then go back to clarify some minute details you had forgotten to check on your first soiree,and from then on, to get your first, second, third and fourth helpings. Right?
Wrong.
Our Lovely Shady Grumps had decided in his mind tha it would be better if we all just sat down at the beginning of our meal, and that instead of the Mahomet going to the mountain, the mountain would indeed come for us! That is to say, he said we should plonk ourselves fixedly on our seats, and that the buffet would be served to us at the table.

Ummm. Sorry, what?

Obviously, this threw the whole festive buffet atmosphere right out the window. But Grumps persisted. After our 3rd attempt at explaining to him that No, really, we'd LIKE to go for the buffet ourselves, we gave up. We were, after all, only human in the face of this monstrosity.

Only concession made: We got about a half foot of space in between tables. For what joy, I shall never know to my dying day.

So to cut a bloody long story short, the buffet came to us in painstakingly slow and unappetizing instalments. First, weak ,watered-down and warmish mocktails arrived. After about 3 years, the starters came. For a while after that again, nothing. Then soup. Followed by another thumb-twiddling episode. To preempt any further inexplicable waiting, we asked GRUMPO if he could please speed things up. Soddy fellow got slightly uppity. I believe he believes that the longer you take to serve your fooderies, the classier your joint will seem.
Sir? That is a fallacy. Please keep in mind for further use and pleasure.

The food in itself wasn't bad. Not to say it was excellentissime,, either. Just about so-so. And of course, we couldn't get rid of the niggling doubt that there were 13 more secret dishes on the buffet that they weren't letting us get a peek at. Grass-grosser-greener-side-theory.

All in all, on a scale of 1-10, that meal gets an overall rating of a piffling 4.78, purely on the merit of some good ol' Chinese fare.
The fact that we had to hand around spoons, knives, forks, plates, glasses and every other thing on the table for about half the time we were eating, didn't help matters. The waiters couldn't reach, you see. Too tight a fit. See above for half-foot spatial arrangements.

The clincher was, in the middle of all of this, a tragic incident occurred with a waiter shattering a glass of drinking water right at the feet [and trousers] of our belle of the ball that day- one Ms. L. Perfect shocked expression she had, as would make any thespian proud.

*Applause*

When the bill came, KIND LADY'S promise to me over the phone struck gold. 'Twas exactly as we had planned it. About the only part of the meal that was.
With a heavy heart we decided to leave tips for the poor incompetent waiters working under the whip of GRUMPS. For GRUMPS himself, we had no tip, no words, no nothing, no anything. We just wanted to leave him be.

Hope you read this someday, GRUMPO. And suffferrrrrrrr.....

My brotherly love has arrived in town!
Yay!
Yahooeeeey!
*supaar backward flip, triple somersault and perfect landing!*

Ranting. And also Raving.

Watched another couple of back-to-back Sex and the City episodes last night and realised why I don't try to catch it anymore. Am fully convinced that I completely dislike the show and the characters in it. Especially the whiny, confused, spoilt city-brat Sarah Jessica Parker-character. Or nympho blonde. Or deserves-to-have-sense-slapped-into-her-brunette. About the only bearable character is redhead. Sometimes. [She's one of them.....]
But really. This is a show I will never ever be able to relate to, on any level. Plus there's not a story line in sight anywhere. [Fans might argue that there isn't supposed to be one. Oooooooo-kay then!] Plus, when Whiny Parker does her laptop writing-narration bit, I find it puerile and silly as dammit. I mean, really, it sucks. More than anything else I feel like kicking myself for having wasted more time on watching the damned show.

PS: With the great big deal made about her [Aha! Her charcter's name is Carrie! I got it at last!] Carrie's sense of style, I find her wardrobe atrocious at times. Many times. Mins like, vaaaandi comes to me.


Disclaimer: This is not to say I have hostile feelings towards any of the actresses. I'm sure they'll do nicely elsewhere. I just find the characters in this show to be "eeeeyuk". I kid you not.

And again!

Nyahahahah. This is a guten year.

RRRRRRRRROOOOOOWWWRRRRR!!!!

And in other news....

Went to The Octopus on a Sunday Kroak Night for the first time, after hearing many nice things about it in the not-so-distant-past. Have to say, amidst heart-rending sobs and other whatnots, my insides did a double flip before finally taking the deep plunge into uber-cess.
The joint was flooded with Spinn-offs, bimbettes in contempt-inducing wardrobe and expressions, undergrown boy items with spwarks in their hair-ishtyles, flaky bits of coversation [vaaaandi!] and all-in-all, many many things that I utterly think ruin many a good evening. And have the potential to for many more.
Notwithstanding that my fruit punch costs thrice as much as a chilled-beeru, which I can understand if I'm given the right ambience and good music, the place was packed with humanities and most of its dregs. Plus, the music was, erm.... yes.

Give me lovely talentful nights of Boomsas, Ostriches, Shankies, Sherils, and yet others any old day. Mins like, so long as what I remembered of the nice old place can live peacefully in my head at least.

Ye gods, I cannot begin to tell you the horrors. And what's more, NO SHEESHAH. Waste, I say.

I asked Tits the other day whether she was overwhelmed by her new work-digs. Turns out she wasn't. Which is not to say she was underwhelmed. [Although that is what she claimed at the end of Day 1 there.]

I believe Tits was just about Whelmed. Which would mean she slipped in smoothly and comfortably into her new shoes. Same to same like me. I believe I was whelmed in just the right amount when I joined this here workplace. Like a smooth operator. Err, yes.

So what have we learned today?
Nothing.

Dear Thirtha

Happy Birthday. Very.

Hmm.

Err. This is what I have had to work on for the past week or so.
Highly substandard fare. C-Grade moving down to D-Grade.

But in retrospect, very amusing. Check out the interesting tint of green.

Nooooooooooooo!!!!!
Thy're stepping up software security at our workplace. And one of the silly measures being taken is cleaning out each system. That means our music. Naaaaaw! Not fair.
Don't they trust us? [Read as: I've already finished illegally downloading all the songs I want, they're stored beautifully in my D Drive, and I won't be secretly downloading more stuff in the near future, so Why? Why? Why?].
And anyway, how is my music going to hurt anyone? First of all, it's good music. And I swear upon many sacred things that my system hasn't slowed down any. Works like Speedy Gonzalves on speed. Eeks.

But... ugh.. sputter.. choke...

Take it away, ladies

Or Take 5 at least.

Much funs were had at a lovely shady joint [shady implying dim lighting] on 100 Ft Rd yestereve.
I had a Cooli Mooli. Need more be said?

Bye, Chy

Chy leaves this Saturday.
And we've had some great moments of utter and complete madness.
Have fun, longlegs. I shall miss you like anything and all.

Don't forget the masterplan. Earn millions in the Gelf, then come back here, collect me, and we head off to Japan for loafing, and just quite possibly, staying there.

Our earlier plan was a mansion in the Caribbeans, but we watched Memoirs Of A Geisha last night and it doesn't really take much to change our minds.

Speaking of which, it was a nice movie, and the surprise package [in addition to the obviouses of sweepingly beautiful visuals and soundtrack] was the actress who played Hatsumomo. Evil and drop-dead gorgeous. I think she's Gong Li or somesuch.

As for Ken Watanabe... I have loved you from The Last Samurai, good sir.
Hubba Hubba.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOVELY

To my dearest- HAPPIEST ON YOUR BIRD DAY.
(Mins like better late than never.)

Whooooopeeeee!!!@!##@#!!%$?? for the 22nd. Such larks, Tits, such larks.
100 points to Pinaki for getting the perfect chocolate mousse cake to stuff our faces with after magnificent dinner.
Lovely to see JJ and Kash Disco Balls, The Bomb and her Eveready Reddy [!!!]. And of course the madness that is Aloks. Deedan was just thrilled to see The Bomb HAD a boyfriend in tow. Yahahaha.

Tum jeeyo hazaaron saal... [why? why? why would anyone want that?]

PS: Oink, Tits. Here's an old, old pic from the old, old days... Skirts for all us ladies. Me in blues, you in pinks. A mad girls'-night-out and our crazy stroll at 4 a.m. through the HAL bylanes. *Sniff*

[Remember when we got back home from Boibabh's restaurant, you found you still had the price tag on your new clothing items? *Titter titter*]

Tits came over to see after me in my time of being an eye-sore. Or rather, of having one. Zo zweet. We went to nearby Arabic food joint to pick up, err, food, for her folkses. I wore my shades and looked shady. I hope people thought I was a superstar and not a freak. This truth I will never know for certain.

This brings me to a deep, dark, disturbing thought which I must share with you,
my dear readers.
I strongly believe, and have for many years now strongly believed,
that STEVIE WONDER IS NOT BLIND!!!
I swear, I get goosebumps [Not goosepimples- I never get pimples of any sort. Ha ha!] everytime I see him grinning maniacally, because I think he's having the last laugh. [Also because I don't really like any of his songs.]
This piece of information is not mend to offend anyone, but hey! We are SO BIG on freedom of expression nowadays. [$#@^^$@!!!!#^%&&$@@@!!!! with regards to that issue].

Dear Tits
Thanks for :
1]Coming to see me last eve. [Even if I couldn't really see you back.]
2]Getting me lovely bakery items.
3]Not giggling at me and my eyewear.
4]Cracking very bad jokes and larfing like 14 hyenas. [Abbreviated career!]
5]Attempted matchmaking dreams, in tandem with Jakkur Jazz.

6]But the clincher was..... *rolling on floor and choking to death types*... your lame-ass attempted lecture session, with expected catstrophic result. Please, Tits, nyahahahha. Tum bhi na kabhi kabhi.

Pls to come off anytime and all. It was much fun items.

This too shall pass.

Pig sty.
Eye.

=Big stye.
Ouch.

This kills my grand plans for promiscuous socialising over the weekend.

enjaaaaiii

Special dedication: Boomsa!

What a long it has been since my last sortie here...

Spoke with Febi yesterday. Was highly interested in physiological, intellectual spiritual and supernatural development of her little one, the Yasin.
The verdict: All systems are go, and how! Yay.


This weekend saw us beaming at a mad, mad Ian Anderson at the Tull show. What a joyousness he is. Slightly off in just the right portions. Had much funs.

However, splendid thought it may have been, the concert brought home to me
a sobering and disturbing realisation. That.... slowly but surely, I am getting decrepit, palsied, run-down, ramshackle, tottering and possibly rheumy-eyed. Personally, I like to think of myself as 'wizened.' Ha ha.
What I mean is, whereas in the not so distant past I would have been bouncing off the walls and turning cartwheels even after the end of an exhausting, acrobatic concert of mayhem and more, I find that now, in my ebb-tide,
I am spent as an overused debit card towards the end of a month.
It was like so. I was unbelievably pooped.
Perchance [and I say this more to console myself than anything else], it was because I haven't got much sleep for the past 6 moths or more. Accumulate that lack of sleep and it probably translates into Exhaustion and Fatigue, strange, miserable Neck And Shoulder Soreness and the Omnipresent Headache.

Then again, and I like this line of thinking better, it just means I need to get a regular weekly weekend massage to take away my pain and sorrow. Nyahahaha. I love this. Methinks it's a plan. Tits, come off. Let's reasearch some nice masseuse individuals with hygienic joints to help us out. Joints means 'place of work', not elbows, wrists, ankles and knees. Of course, they MUST ALSO be hygienic.

Enough. I must away.

Personalities in Bangalore, kindly suggest places of comfort and care where I may head out to this weekend.
Thanking you,
Yours Kindly,
The Long Black Veil.

New blog

After many important, interesting and infinitely busy days, here I am, back at the blogging mill. Hello, Sir Vaibhav.
Or as Pinaki The Kyoot pronounces it: Boibhabh.
Pinaki is Bengali [Ah!].
Many thanks for reminding me that I should get back to it.

Had the most outstandingly debauch day yetserday. 'Twas a Sunday, and for the first time in my new digs, I slept in late. Or relatively late, at 0930-10ish. Had interesting breakfast [have I mentioned I love cooking?] and then lazed around beauteously.
Sunday, being my Fun day, I folded sleeves [mine] and started on house-cleaning activities. [Say, did I mention I love house-cleaning?]
When house was rendered spick and also span, I moved the entity that is known as me to the bathroom. Also spruced up that mother.
From there on, it was all therapeutic bathing rituals. Had long, long, luxurious type of bath. Sans bathtub, but it was long and luxurious nevertheless. I have recently acquired interesting scented bath-soap from Fabindia. Had much fun with it.
Also have Palmolive Aromatherapy Shower Gel. By the end of it all had to open bathroom windows to allow for easy breathing.

Wrapped in my huge bath-towel, was traipsing around the apartment, till I realised [once more, yet again] that my hall curtains stood at a respectable distance from each other, thereby providing the Outsides with a wonderful view of the Insides. Thank the Lordy I couldn't make out any human forms with binoculars or telephoto camera lens. Although a couple of lecherous crows were hanging about looking shady.
I don't think they matter in the large scheme of things.

Once I gathered my wounded honour, thinking in my head to the imagined voyeurs: Kya tumhare ghar mein maan-behen nahin hai?, I finally put on comfy PJ's and headed for the kitchen. Made lip-smacking something and all for me.
Lounged about, read papers, put on musical items on... OOOH! I haven't mentioned it: I have acquired byootious Creative MuVo Slim Player from kind family members. Have a look-see.

Met up with Boomsa and the Elder Chandrasekaran, and whoo-hoo! old acquaintance from school era at a Daily affair. The Ostrich perched with us after a bit. Ate muchly and more. And yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy! Jai Boomsa. It is having grand, lovely, heartwarming newses. Yaaaaaaaaaaayyyy.

Then. Aameley.
Rushed back home to prettify my face for impending Dinner at college-era-frundship's house. Coorg deal. Very sweet parents, very nice to see the Coorg after so long, very nice time had by all and fabulous dinner items.
Stuffed to the gills, and Tits dropped me home sweet home after.

Highlight of evening. On spur of moment, Tits and me bought the Coorg a dil-shaped balloon with "I Love You" written on it, from traffic junction en route to her place. Much funs it was.


I am tired. You must be too.
This ends my weekend update.

Ta!

Merry Christmas and Harping on the New Year, to all.

I love this time of the year. It's called the 'good riddance' phase.
Yay.

Yaaaaaaaahahahhahahahahaha!!!!

Oh, my God, the coincidence. The miraculous eerie coincidence.
Had a marvellous real-life rendition of this by Boomsa at Potato's Blushing Bride party this past Saturday night. Could not/would not believe that it could be an actuality.

And now, ye gods, I have video footage, with detailed and complete lyrics. Many thanks to the younger Chandrasekaran for making my day.

Pls read magnificent lyrics off her site first, then take the plunge for the video.

Boo at The Octopus

Yay, yay, yay.
I had much funs, dear Boo.
You and the Ostrich, red and green, Shanky on stringed instrument, great weather, good food, strong sheeshaa and Tadaaaaaa! We have ourselves a great evening, ladies and gen'lemen.

Am muchly proud of it. *huggs**mwuaaah*

I shall stalk it at all future performances though you'll probably find me out because of my long black veil.
And also, because you happen to know me.

So, until next time.

Sending out an SOS!!!

Hullo.
There's a reason for 3 exclamation marks in my title. It suggests Urgency.

The crisis is as such.
Am living in divine, large, roomy, airy, comfy, furnished 1-bedroom flat in a pretty sleepy residential part of town.
No, that is not the problem, thank you very much, smarty-pants.
That is the intro to the problem.
The trouble arises in the fact that that current flatmate is moving in to neighboring digs with Her Heartthrob.
Not leaving me in the lurch with immediate effect, but in time, that could be the state of affirs.
The crux of the matter is, if and when it happens, this writer shall not be able to bear the economic burden of monthly rent by her lonesome self. Sob.

So, hence, therefore, thusly, and ergo , am all eyes peeled for new lady persons to move in with me. This is very important. I am firm on this point. I will not have men/boys/ants/goats as flatmates.
This offer is open in Bangalore. For those of you in Delhi, Mumbai, Afghanistan or Jamaica, who jumped up with joy at this serendipitious [spelling ok?] news, too bad. Unless you want to go on living wherever you currently live and split my rent with me anyways?
*beatific smile at the thought*

So. Sing the Police song as stated in the title, and gimme a ring!

I watched that lovely, lovely movie Almost Famous over the weekend.

And again, was smitten by this gorgeous kid Patrick Fugit.
How sweet was he?
Awww shucks.

Of course, Kate Hudson was smashing, but this boy Took A Little Piece Of My Heart

The Octopus

Finally, after years and years, I made it to Opus.
Watched the Ostrich and buddies playing Hooky. Far, far better setting for brilliant music of the kind that they play. Pat on back for the crowd.

Boomsa was gorgeous in red swari. She was, as remarked upon by a gentleman on alighting from stage, having both traditional and spiritual. Yahahahahah.

Completely enjoyed the entire evening. Even the nibbles we had were good, plus I had a little Double Apple sheesha. 4 puffs exactly, because beyond that I tend to get nauseous.

Joke of the nuit: My fresh Fruit Punch- IRS 175/-
Friend's pint of KingFisher's- IRS 65/-

Ye gods.


Boomsa and Tinkerbell crashed at my house afterwards. Yeah!!!! My house, my house! I can say that after so long. It's a nice, warm and slightly fuzzy feeling.

Had mega-omelettes at about 0130 hrs in the morning because of hunger pangs. Boomsa is veg, but now, thank god, loves omelette. We shall have many more, my frundhsips. Just come off anytimes.