Twittering Facebook

A simple matter of getting friends together requires networking skills of mammoth proportions. 5 friends, 60 text messages, 24 emails to 9 email accounts, 18 Facebook messages, 10 Facebook pokes (the reason for which I am yet to fathom, will someone please tell me what it means and put me out of my misery), 15 emails sent via Blackberry, 8 messages sent via Facebook Mobile - yes just because they can, 7 messages left on mobile voicemail (that I discovered the day after the party), a gazillion twitters on Twitter, and there were probably a few posts left on other cyber communication spaces that I have yet to discover. And yet no one thought to make a phone call.

All this for one not very good party that started 2 hours late, ended an hour later and was inundated with confused and angry statements like:
'but I left you a message saying I couldn't pick you up'
'I texted you the directions. You didn't get it??'
'the invite was on My Space, you didn't check it out'
and my personal favourite:
'ofcourse I informed everyone this was a vegan party. I even put it up as a Facebook event'.

But if only the host had thought to pick up with phone and call us to let us know all of this, there would not have been such utter disappointment at finding Soya Chili Balls, Soya Nugget Curry Soya sticks and Soya Bean sauce at the table. Being vegan also meant that there was no alcohol, no salty snacks and no ice cream and so she really had nothing to improve spirits with and take it from me, soya really does nothing for intoxication. The host had forgotten to tag Forgiveness an invite. I heard one girl mumble to another - babe, when you took that wrong turn for the 4th time, you should have just continued down that road.

It had taken 5 avenues of technology to NOT get the message across.

When did picking up the phone and making a phone call get so un-cool? I can remember when it was THE cool thing to do. Getting an hour with the phone back in the days was the equivalent of getting your own Apple laptop today in a funky metallic red.

Then:
"What were you doing last night?"
"I was on the phone for an hour and I didn't even have to sneak into the closet with it."
Now:
"What were doing last night?"
"I was updating my profile page, after which I took 85 quizzes, wrote 106 comments, sent out 24 gifts, made 254 people my friends, then I twittered, looked through pictures of people I don't know, checked out pages of people I don't know and then cried my self to sleep when my hard drive crashed."

I twittered? It's become a verb now?

Do none of you find anything strange about this?

I went to listen to an Indian rock band the other night. Very good stuff, especially the cover versions. Mr. Too Cool For My Mike lead singer had the Axl Rose act perfected, right down to holding his crotch and staggering around the stage in an attempt to look like he was completely under the influence of the music and er, maybe a few other things (and maybe he was, who knows) . But the coolness factor took a beating when he all of a sudden looked genuinely excited and started pointing out to random people in the audience saying - hey, I know you from Facebook and you, I know you too from Facebook.

I mean, I ask you, would Axl Rose have ever done that?

Recently, a patient felt that it was okay to cancel his dental appointments on Facebook about an hour before he was due at the practice, despite me repeatedly telling him that it was impossible for me to practise dentistry and check Facebook updates at the same time. Sure it's okay, I told him later, but only if you're getting virtual dentistry done by Dr. Preeti Cyberspace-Sharma and as far as I know, she doesn't practise here. I was later very tempted to send him an itemised bill to his Facebook page and tag him on some close-up pictures of his teeth. How many of his girlfriends would still find him attractive when they discovered that he had four teeth with rotting food stuck and chronic gum disease.

Earlier when a wimp broke up with you, he would scrawl you a letter which you would then smell and touch and cry over till the ink smudged and then save it in a little envelope that you kept at the back of your underwear draw and you would take out and re-read it whenever they played Roxette's It Must Have Been Love on the radio. There was a certain ceremony to tragedy then. Now the wimp changes his status profile to single and that's that.

Legacy

When the dust has cleared

And the tear tracks have dried

We are not remembered by what we feared

But by what we tried

Sharps and Flats

I have signed up for piano classes. Why? Well, the most obvious reason being that my piano at home is developing muscular atrophy from disuse. And because I thought that it was high time I learned something fun apart from how to walk straight after an evening at the pub.

Mind you, the search for a piano teacher has been a longer and more treacherous road than you can imagine. I have come across piano teachers who only teach children below the age of 6…yeah I know, the kids would have to hold the milk bottle in one hand and play the piano with which ever was their non milk bottle holding hand. There was the teacher who promised to teach me to play but balked when I asked if she would provide the music books. She apparently taught her students to play without teaching them to read music!! Then there was the guy who promised to teach me to play but for what he was charging, I could hire a 10 member orchestra to serenade me every night! And how can I forget the woman who came so highly recommended. She wanted a joining fee and if I missed more than 3 classes in the ENTIRE YEAR, I would have to pay the joining fee again and a penalty fee…man, learning dentistry wasn’t this complicated or expensive.

My personal favourite though are the ones who say they teach the piano but what they actually teach is all versions of the keyboard. There is a difference my friends. One is the granddaddy of all music and the other is his pipsqueak bastard son. And so one morning I trudge all the way to Santacruz to check out this guy who says he can teach me the piano in 3 months flat. I walk into his room to meet him (he’s got dodgy eyes and all his fingers have rings with colored stones…my shackles are up immediately) and look around for the piano. In a room that is all of 50 sq ft, it should not be too hard to spot a piano, but no I still cannot see it. He then with a flourish unfurls a gunny sack that is covering a bundle on the floor to reveal a keyboard the size of a harmonium! No wonder he was going to teach me the ‘piano’ in 3 months…this instrument didn’t have more than 20 keys, each of which was smaller than my thumb and all combinations of these keys could be covered in five days flat.
“This is your piano?” I asked aghast.
“Madam, I never said piano, I said piano like,” he replies slowly, enunciating each word like he is talking to someone with an IQ of 30.
I know I have problems with memory ( I can rarely remember the things that I do wrong), but I am sure that I would remember if he had said “piano like”…though later a careful review of my hazy memory would throw up a sentence that he did say – Madam, I will teach you the piano like in 3 months.
If only I had then known where he put his punctuations in that sentence, I could have saved myself the trip.

I finally found a music school attached to a well known college close to home. It’s great because it makes me sound uber cool when I say that I am part of a music school; people mistakenly think that I can actually play an instrument. It’s also great because the school focuses on theory as well as practicals and so when I’m done from here I should be able to play anything including the telephone directory.

And so I show up for Day 1 piano class all excited and a bit over dressed. I climb up to the 4th floor on high rickety wooden stairs, praying that it does not end up being the case that I learn the piano but in the process break my neck. There is no esthetic quality to playing Beethovan in a neck brace. I finally totter up panting like a rabid dog. It takes me a while to finish the registration formalities because I need to gasp for breath every thirty seconds and blot the sweat that is dripping onto the tissue thin paper. The girl there finally asks me if I want some water. I nod gratefully and take huge gulps out of a bottle that looks like it’s been there since 1995 and that I wouldn’t normally cross the road to avoid.

Finally my tutor arrives. All my secret hopes of having a gorgeous guy teach me sweet music flies right out the window. She is youngish, looks strict, talks tough and does not crack a smile even when I trip on the uneven tiles on the floor.
“Can you play at all?” she asks, her whole body sighing with the question.
“Only a bit. I mean, I did learn but when I was very young,” I reply. And because she still looks at me as if I have not answered her question, I feel forced to continue, “I play a little by ear.”
“Okay, play something,” she commands.

Okay, so I have several problems with this. One, I can play only two measly tunes and not very well at that. Two, I learned both by myself by ear and so they sound like a nursery rhyme version of the original thing. Three, I get disoriented on any piano apart from my own, which really should not matter because, four, I have not played any piano in over a year.
I play Love Story. I play it very very badly. Nerves. And sweat.

“Did you put that together yourself or did someone help you with it?” she barks.
Er no, I butchered it all by myself, I want to say.
“It was very good,” she said.
That’s the good thing about joining a beginners’ class. Most other students play their first piece by banging their fist on the keys.
I bask in her compliment and beam. She still does not smile.
“But your finger notations are hopeless, wrist position is poor and you slouch,” she continues. Sigh, some people just don’t know how to compliment graciously. But then, she probably favours the truth.

Most of the class comprises of me practicing some finger exercises on the keys. While my brain understands what my fingers need to do, there seems to be some break down in communication between the two and hence my fingers do exactly what they want despite my brain screaming – stop that noise and learn to listen to me. It requires so much concentration that I can either play or breath. I definitely cannot do both together. One look at my tutor’s face and I forget about the breathing.

Midway through the class, the door opens and the cutest guy I have seen in a long time walks in. Dimples, gorgeous smile, crew cut, white t-shirt, blue jeans, a walk that is like a groove to a beat that only he can hear. Hmmm, I think, here is the reason I was destined for this class. At the end of the day, nothing motivates me quite like a cute guy. My vivid imagination is already conjuring images of us making sweet music, sitting side by side, elbow by elbow, at a baby grand (ofcourse, this is once I have mastered the art of breathing and playing simultaneously). Maybe we’ll even get together to practice after today’s class.

He smiles at me. I grin back, all cool and everything.
“Where’s the guitar class happening?” he asks my teacher.

And I tumble back to earth with a cry. Damn damn damn. Why do all the cute ones want to learn the guitar? I hide my disappointment by attacking the piano keys with a vengence. I learn half a book (don’t be impressed, it is a pre-beginner’s book…whatever that means…I suspect it is for 3 year olds). Finally I am playing the pieces correctly. I even try to move to the music (thank you Elton John) but it is impossibly difficult to head bang like a pop star to Old MacDonald, especially when I am still not breathing.

I come away from Day 1 feeling a bit like a driver who has just learned how to drive and cannot believe that he is driving without leaving injured bodies in his tyres’ wake. I am reading the notes right and playing them right, but it’s a surreal experience because I still know for sure that I cannot read music or play.
“Never mind,” says my un-smiling tutor when I confide in her. “You’ll know you can play when you’re up on stage performing.”
“Stage? Performing? There is something wrong with these words??” I stutter. Why on earth should I be on stage subjecting people to slow torture.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” she asks with raised eyebrows, “We’re a music school and we have an annual show when our students perform for a large audience.”
Being on stage is my idea of death. She looks at the unadulterated fear on my face and she finally smiles.
My mind is already reviewing excuses to get out of this disaster. Illness, especially carpel tunnel syndrome sounds great. Or maybe a small finger fracture. Let’s see, I have a year to plot my desertion.

I am supposed to practice atleast twenty minutes a day between my weekly classes. The first day just as I am about to open my piano, I remember that I have to water my dying plants and get sidetracked with the important business of saving life (the plant truly and completely dies the following day!). The second day it is reading a book that I had just gotten my hands onto. I mean I have three days to return the book and five more days to practice the piano. It is a no-brainer, duh. Finally in that entire week I practice all of ten minutes. Like my tutor says as she frowns and rolls her eyes (it’s more difficult than it sounds)– hopeless.

I can only hope that the next time you and I meet, I will be playing beautiful pieces effortlessly (that’s Preeti speak for minimum practice!).

Note: To be a piano maestro extraordinaire it takes about ten thousand hours of practice. I am only trying to figure out how many lifetimes this will mean for me…

Child's Play

The dreaded had happened. I had a face too maternal for my own good. There could be no other reason why I had been enlisted to look after a friend’s children. A 3-year old girl and a 5-year old boy. A note to the uninitiated - looking after children is like playing a dangerous game of poker; irrespective of the innocent face, the child always has the winning hand and you always end up having to pay dearly for your life and sanity. And this is never more evident than when you are looking after someone else’s child. Then the stakes are doubled. Not only does the child win every round but it becomes a game of bribery, cheating, turning a blind eye and lying…and you commit every possible vice with a smile on your face.

There must have been something about my face that made my friend think she could trust me with her two children for the weekend. She was off to Bangkok to celebrate her wedding anniversary and I was her salvation. She came over with a chicken casserole (I am easily bribed) and some wine (I am especially easy to bribe when under the influence of excellent wine – damn you Jacob’s Creek). She told me that it was only for three days. I agreed because I was in an altruistic mood and I genuinely thought some child-free days would do her good. Somehow the issue of my well being during this time never came to mind. There was also the minor problem of not being able to say no to a friend in need and so being the wimp that I was, I agreed with a huge smile plastered on my face.

I had a game plan. It was all down to precision planning, military style. I would let them colour, we would bake a cake, I would fill up the huge plastic water tub for some make-belief swimming, we would read stories…the list was endless and it was tacked up onto the refrigerator. As things got done, they would be ticked off with a large pink marker. Wow, wasn’t planning fun? Simple. Besides the truth of the matter was that I was really great with kids for short periods of time. I could entertain them, make faces, sing funny songs, and play silly games. In that short period of time, most kids were ready to adopt me. I had forgotten one minor point – after that short period of time was done, most kids wanted to get rid of me so bad, they would be ready to exchange me for a packet of soggy chips.

And so Friday morning bright and early, 5 year old boy and 3 year old girl were delivered to my doorstep. I gave them both a huge hug and patted their back in a faux motherly way, but it only made them look at each other suspiciously. I remembered belatedly that children can generally see through bullshit. Oh well, there went my game plan!

The first few hours went very smoothly. He ate cereal, she smashed egg in her hair, he drank juice, she spat it out all over the table. We chatted about school and superheroes and movie stars. All in all I considered breakfast a huge success. Nothing had broken, no one had been mortally wounded and I was still wearing my game face.

I took out some coloring books for them. 5-year old boy got the superman coloring book though he did inform me with some disdain that Power Rangers were so much cooler. 3-year old girl got the Dora coloring book and while she proceeded to stab a large black crayon over Dora’s face, she did comment that Barbie was ‘sexier’! I was obviously in the dark about so many important things. I then stepped out of the room for thirty seconds, but I came back to find that the children had found my old but nonetheless priceless silk carpet a better canvas for their art. 3-year old girl had drawn large black lopsided smileys on my 25-year old pale beige and pink silk carpet while 5-year old boy was tracing the flowers in red crayon.
“Oh shi…,” I screamed, not knowing what to concentrate on more, large black strange smileys on my carpet or my language.
“You said shit,” 5-year old boy says accusingly. “That’s a bad word.”
“No I didn’t,” I quickly refuted, all innocence. “I said shi.”
“There’s no word like shi. You said shit. SHIT SHIT SHIT,” He was thrilled. He had obviously spent way too long being deprived of that glorious word.
“You two spoiled my carpet,” I said through clenched teeth.
“My mom says it’s not good to get angry,” 5-year old boy said. “And you said shit.”
Round one to them.

I went to the next thing on my famed list. Fake swimming. This entailed me exercising my lungs to capacity by blowing huge quantities of air that went into the plastic structure and then just disappeared into it’s mysterious vastness. By the time the tub showed signs of air inside it, I was ready to pass out. But no, the kids were right next to me, egging me on by spewing out air and spittle. I decided that this was not the best time to faint and that I’d ignore the veins on my forehead were threatening to pop. It took me an hour to blow air into the various layers of the tub. I left the bottom un-inflated because I had had it with this inhaling-exhaling business. The deep breathing had left me light headed. Just as I lugged the 5 foot tub into the bathroom, 3-year old girl gently reminded me that I had forgotten about the bottom of the tub. I told her that it was better that way. No it wasn’t, she said in no uncertain terms. And I was back to blowing air into the tub again. Finally the tub was inflated to everyone’s satisfaction (I said a tiny prayer before showing it to my two tiny but lethal visitors). Everyone got into their swimming costumes and ‘dived’ into the ‘pool’ to ‘swim’. We splashed, we put heads underwater (okay to be honest, they put my head underwater which was a good thing because I was the only one who knew how to hold my breath when being held underwater in a death grip), we played with some floating rubber toys and then we all jumped out, ready for lunch. I was thrilled to have occupied them for so long without incident. I was sure we had been ‘swimming’ the entire afternoon. I was a pro. This was easy. A quick look at the clock brought me crashing back to earth. We had spent exactly ten minutes in that tub!

Later, 3-year old girl asked to play ‘mummy mummy’. For those of you blissfully unaware, this entailed the girl dressing up like her mom, giving you (her baby) a list of instructions and then trying to do something that has been done to her, like force feed you some food or put you to sleep or shout at you for bad behavior or something equally as thrilling (for the child, not for you). Whichever the case, it was a game best avoided. 3-year old girl convinced me to get her all dressed up the way her mommy did. Under duress, I put on some lipstick for her, all the while easing my conscience by telling her that little girls should not wear make-up. Mummy does it, she said confidently. Well, if it was good enough for her mother, it was good enough for me. And so I slathered it on. Lipstick (many coats to get the deep red colour), blush, some glitter. 5-year old boy came to investigate what we were upto. He gasped in horror.
“Eeeek, mummy’s going to kill you,” he said in shock.
I wish he was talking to his sister, but then again, he was looking at me.
“She’s not allowed to wear make up at all. Mummy hates it,” he informed me.
“But you said your mom puts it for you all the time,” I looked accusingly to 3-year old girl.
She sighed loudly like she was dealing with an imbecile. “No, I said Mummy puts it all the time. I’m not allowed to wear lipstick,” she said it like she was talking to a one year old without a brain.
I turned for just one second to get the make up remover and her little chubby fingers had snatched my Mac lipstick tube and with super lightening speed, she had pierced her fingers into the soft expensive mass. I wanted to cry. And day 1 was not over yet.

The next day, I was devious. I decided to settle them in front of the tv. A little bit of television never hurt anyone. While I was rummaging through my DVD collection, there was silence in the room. And then I heard some sniggers. I slowly looked up to the screen to see what was on tv and realized that the kids were watching Joey and some girl (from Friends) kissing. The questions came like bullets. What are they doing? Er, displaying affection for each other. Why are they kissing? They like each other a lot. But why are they lying down on the sofa? Er, their backs were paining because of too much sitting up. Why doesn’t mummy let us watch all this kissing? Er, I don’t know but let’s not really mention this to your mom, okay.

Two minutes into the cartoon that I put on for them and the kids were fighting over who would sit where and who would hold the remote. I had the brilliant idea of threatening to switch off the tv if they didn’t settle down. And because they didn’t settle down and because by then I had already said a hundred times – I promise you this tv will go off if you don’t settled down – I finally had to actually switch the movie off. Which basically meant that I had shot myself in the foot. Reminder to self – next time, shut up and let them fight.

Book reading went a bit better, I mean who can screw up reading to a child. But I did make the mistake of telling them that I would read one story. Children take things literally and I mean LITERALLY. I had to read the one story – Jack and the Beanstalk – eleven times.

By day 3, I had given up. I had said shit more times than I cared to count. I told myself it no longer mattered since it was 5-year old boy’s new favorite word anyway. The tub was filled about five times a day just so that the kids could spend copious amounts of time tipping the water out at full speed so that it would spill out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. They were drinking ketchup straight from the bottle (much like an alcoholic does). I had given up hiding the chocolates. Twenty five chocolates in 3 days. That’s what we ate. Though I need to be honest here, about fifteen of those were eaten by me. After all, I needed to keep my energy up.

Finally the moment had arrived. Time for their mother to pick them up. I had spent the better part of the evening washing 3-year old girl’s hair to remove all the dried ketchup from it. I simultaneously tutored 5-year old boy to say ‘shucks’. It only worked when I told him that it was a far worse word than shit! When I opened the door, their mother saw two gleaming children and one bedraggled adult. I think the children were sorry to go (no one else had let them finish up ALL the cake batter before. No wonder I had a special place in their hearts) and surprisingly I was even sorrier to see them go (I know, I know, but they were growing on me. It was especially easy to miss them now that I knew they were going home!) But that was all taken care of when I remembered that I still had to mop all the water from beneath my bed.

As they left my front door, I could hear the kids excitedly tell their mom – we saw lots of kissing and we learned bad words and we held aunty up-side down in the pool (it was during the attempted drowning and no I was not up-side down in 2 feet of water, I was only head down!!!) and we drank so much ketchup and …. My friend did look back at me a little confused and I just shrugged my shoulders as if to say – sheesh, kids you know, what can I say….

My friend called the next day asking why 5-year old boy was saying “shicks” so much. He had obviously gotten his shit and shucks all mixed up but I did not see the need to worry her with trivial details.

Strangely, these kids have never been allowed to visit me again.

Memories From A Lost Age

There are some memories worth hanging on to. I’m not talking about the regular ones that everyone expects you to remember, milestones like graduation (or passing if you were particularly challenged), or marriage, or child birth (ha there’s no way memory cells are likely to let go of that little thing) or death (and no, I’m not talking about one’s own!).

I’m talking special memories here, little nuggets of flashback to take you away to a time in your life that is still special to you despite there not being any obvious-to-the-world reason why. I’m talking about memories that make your bones melt like warm honey, memories that make you catch your breath, or make you smile a wistful smile every single time you think of them. I’m talking first dance, best kiss, full throated praise from your anal retentive boss, a coming of age incident, family get togethers, that kind of stuff. My special memories seem to be about freedom, self realisation and a general mish mash of things that can still today eat into several minutes of my day and it is time I consider well spent.
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Getting ten Nancy Drew novels for my tenth birthday. Complete unadulterated bliss. One new book to read a day for the next ten days. And the most exciting part was not in just getting these books but in being able to scour the bookstore all by myself for the better half of my birthday, select these books with no adult interference, read the backs of about a hundred books and the partial contents of an equal number and finally shortlist these ten books from about twenty ones that I was dying to read. To those of you obsessive about reading, you will understand why I say that this was bliss. Now looking back I realize the things that I didn’t know then. That this was when we had just moved abroad and before the open economy had come to India (yes it’s true, I really am that old)) and while we were reasonably well off, giving your ten year old child enough money and the freedom to choose ten books was a far bigger deal then than it will ever be today. That back in the days, reading was considered an indulgence by many, and I was never made to feel that it was a wasteful indulgence. That my mom knew that I would read these books in ten days flat (or eight days or six) and then probably not look at them again for a very very long time. And that was okay. Now many years later, I still have many of them.
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The first time I attended a ‘party’ at a friend’s house, unchaperoned. All the cool kids from school went to these parties. Since I was significantly un-cool in those days (I'll have you know that I have since upped the coolness factor just a tad bit), I had never been to one of these. This one was however being held by one of today’s top Indian tennis players (no name dropping here, but he and I are family friends and we also went to the same school for a few years) and so I was allowed to go for it. It was all very Beverly Hills 90210 meets The Hills. There were hours of discussion on what to wear, stockings or no (I unfortunately chose yes), who would pick up whom, which guys were going to be there. All the life sustaining things that occupy a young teen’s mind. The party experience was so surreal for me, partly because I refused to go in my glasses and am a bit sight challenged without them. Well, I wasn’t blind enough to trip over someone, but I was blind enough to not be sure if someone standing twelve feet away was talking to me. Hence I spent the entire evening smiling ramdomly at people I did not know and looking right through the people I did. But the reason this party was so memorable was that it was the absolutely first time that a guy told me he liked me and would I agree to be his girlfriend. He was one of the coolest guys in school to boot. I have no idea what I said. I was probably trying to focus my vision to ascertain whether or not he was actually talking to me while simultaneously trying to pick my jaw up from the floor, but I do remember us dancing together for the rest of the evening and his friends whistling and cheering loudly (oh teenage boys, how subtlety eludes them).
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Sunday mornings, about 5 years ago with Ro. Lazy Sunday mornings. Wake up naturally (for me that’s about eleven in the morning, precisely the reason why all things natural are not necessarily good. Er, slight correction here - between peels of laughter, I am being reminded that eleven was early for me in those days), put some John Mayer on loud, order in some breakfast and just lounge, lounge, lounge. Potter around the house doing absolutely nothing except the really important things like exchanging stories and slow dancing in the afternoon and falling asleep against his shoulder. And drinking beer and losing at Scrabble. Sometimes reading. Sometimes watching tv. Loved those days. Loved the indulgence of a spending the whole day in selective solitude. My sundays now are so busy, they actually make Mondays look good! I crave those lazy sundays with a quiet desperation.
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First day at NYU. Adult+alone+U.S.= self discovery of the best kind. New York University College of Dentistry is the oldest and one of the best dental colleges in the country. Being there was like entering a surreal educational world. I knew I was there, but it was almost too good to be true. It was magical to feel Manhattan’s cold March wind blow across my face and to look all around me and see the most fashionable women in their work attire with full make up on. I’m talking foundation, eye shadow, blush, shimmer. I was so taken in with these women, I spent an extra hour the next day getting ready and yet compared to them, I still managed to look like something the cat dragged in. I loved first day of class. In fact I loved every single day of class. World class lecturers (and good looking ones too, which always helps in getting the class motivated about the biologic width of gingiva!) wooing me with their expertise in dentistry and in lecturing. Each lecture was a work of art, you just knew that hours had been spent lovingly pouring over each slide. And most importantly, that first day of class made me feel proud to be a dentist and made me passionate about it. I went to the library out of choice!!! But what I loved most of all was the Smell. I remember how when I was little, cousins would come visiting from the States. They would open their suitcase, and there it was – the Smell. The Smell would cling to their luggage, their clothes, their gifts, their skin. I remember not wanting to wash the clothes they gifted me because it would then lose the Smell. It was only when I started doing my own laundry in Manhattan, did I realize that the Smell was the smell of fabric conditioner, copious amounts of which were poured into the washing machine and this was the smell that I was in love with.
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Attending class at Harvard Business School. Being surrounded by what was supposed to be the best of the best. Being in the same classrooms as those occupied by U.S. Presidents, business leaders and revolutionary thinkers. Drinking coffee in class (liberating), cold calls (scary), case studies (always appeared simple, very rarely was), eating in the cafeteria (competitive – everyone was health conscious, slim and good looking!), being able to give feedback on teachers (empowering), teachers who could recall verbatim what each student said even ten classes later (impressive). The entire time I was there, I spent in awe. Today this experience has other added advantages. For example, all I have to do is say – When I was at Harvard – and it never fails to stop all conversation!
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My first dental patient. An elderly woman. I was so nervous, my hands were shaking. I was repeating post surgical instructions to myself just so that I wouldn't forget anything. I had to check with my instructor on several things right through the procedure. I finally finished the procedure, not quite sure if I had done the right things (besides there was plaster in my hair and instruments had been knocked to the floor). And then before leaving, she said thank you and kissed my hand. I felt like a complete and utter fraud. This memory is special because I realised that the only other profession where people would kiss my hand would be royalty!!
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The day my grandfather was buried, about 5 years ago. He had finally lost his battle with lung cancer. That night, the house was filled with close family – my granddad’s siblings from around the world, his children (my mom and aunt), his grandchildren and friends who had been like family for over half a century. There was laughter, lots of conversation, memories being re-visited, incidences being recounted, his favourite songs being sung. People walked in crying and walked out smiling. My granddad lived for gatherings like this and everyone commented on how much he would have loved to be in the thick of it all, laughing quietly. I also knew that this would be one of the last times that the entire family and so many of his friends would sit together and talk about the man he was and how much he meant to us. It was not a night to waste mourning, there would be plenty of time for that later. This is a memory that often reminds me of why I am so proud to be a part of this family. We celebrate life, no matter what.
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That’s the funny thing about memories. To share them is to keep them alive.

Loser Matchmaker

I decided to set two friends up on a blind date. It wasn't my fault really though in hindsight better sense should have prevailed. In hindsight I should have just stayed curled up in bed reading Twilight (yes, unfortunately I still qualify for young adult fiction) instead of picking up the phone and calling my friend Maya. Maya has been my partner in rhyme for a year now. We have graduated from having random conversations at common friends' houses to meeting at our own homes, writing dark poetry together and singing old country songs. So yes, we are good friends in that sense. She forgives me my poetry and I forgive her her awful howling that she passes off as singing.


For sometime now Maya has been moping about the lack of a love interest in her life. Her moping was of such high calibre that she actually managed to do the improbable - motivate me to do something drastic about it. Hence the phone call.

"Hey Maya, what you doing?" I ask.

"At eleven in the night, what do you think silly? Ofcourse I am indulging in my regular," she replies in her beautiful husky (like she's just smoked her 100th cigarette for the day) voice.

I am almost scared to ask what that might be. Maya is not the most predictable girl on the block. She is emotional beyond repair. She has also been known to talk to lizards, drink tea with flower petals floating in the cup and use beer to condition her hair. And this is just before 8 am. People at her office are convinced that she is a closet alcoholic thanks to the strong beer smell that lingers in her wake so early in the morning.

"I am connecting with my ancestors," she continues.


Ah ofcourse, why didn't I think of that!

I launch into a long commentary about this cute ad agency guy I know whom I think she will like.

She has only 3 questions:
1. Does he wear ultra tight shirts with his chest showing?
No, I say.
Pity, she says.

2. Does he use big words which require that a dictionary be the 3rd person at the table? Sometimes, I say.
Well, he'd better tone it down a notch because I have only 2 chairs at my table, she says.

3. Is he good at acrobatics?
Huh, I ask?
I like guys who bend over backwards trying to please me, she giggles.


This was ill fated from the start. But as with a really dumb person who refuses to see light, I march on like an ostrich in denial.


The next morning I call the potential man of Maya's dreams-Sam, and after an exchange of pleasantries (which generally entails me hearing about his sexy neighbour, his bowel movements and his latest priest-nun joke and all of this not necessarily in that order), I get down to the business at hand. I tell him about this interesting girl I know whom I think he would enjoy meeting.


He has only 2 questions:
1. Is she a Cameron Diaz look alike?
No, I say.
Pity, he says.

2. Would she be interested in investing in a home theatre system at my place?
And why would she want to do that, I sigh.
Because it could just be the thing she needs to start thinking outside the box, do something that is risky and wacky and fun, he says.

I can literally hear him grinning across the telephone lines. Yeah sure, a random girl investing in his entertainment system was all about how it would improve the quality of her life...I could see how he so easily made ads that sold stuff to all us suckers! Besides, if you ask me, speaking to her ancestors was wacky and risky enough.



Since I was the one point contact, all arrangements were being made through me. Where to meet? When to meet? What to wear? How would they recognise each other? Should he kiss her hello? Should she kiss him goodbye? Should she flirt? Can he eat her leftovers? I was doling out advice like a regular Agony Aunt. Yes he should peck her cheek at hello but only if he hasn't munched on some onion just before. Yes she should peck his cheek at goodbye but only if he has not indulged in any of his bowel movement stories. Yes she can flirt but with some decorum please. Yes he can eat her leftovers but only when she's not looking. Wow, I was really tripping on this advice business.


I have no idea how the date actually went. I only know what I heard from the two of them, all contradictory, all worry some. And apparently the restaurant staff are still not giving their tables out to couples even 3 days after the 'incident'.

I get a call at 12 30 that night on my cell phone.
"He's the one," wails Maya.
I hear the beep for another call coming in. It is Sam. I put Maya on hold.
"She's a psycho," yells Sam.

I go back to Maya. "He's my dream man. I think I'm in love," she's speaking in a combination of a wail and a gush (a wush, perhaps? Anyway, not to be tried at home).

I put her on hold again and go back to Sam.
"She's like a rottweiler on a bad hair day," he complains.
"Rottweiler's don't have hair," I remind him.
"This one does!" he says emphatically.

I go back to Maya. "I've been trying his surname out. It sounds great with my name," she sighs. "Maya, I think you should take this slowly," I try to caution her. But it was like I was speaking to myself. "I even got up on stage and sang him 2 love songs," she confesses. "And because he left to use the loo soon after I started, when he got back I sang them again!"

My head was beginning to pound. "So what else did you do?" I asked as casually as I could though my heart was pounding in the way that it does when I know I'm going to be hit by a truck (my imagination of a high stress situation, just for the record, I have never actually had a truck hit me).

"We talked a lot. I told him about how I speak to spirits, and that I'd teach him how to clean up his aura. We held hands and stared into each other's eyes. I think he really liked me because he got real quiet at that point and then said he needed to speak to you urgently. Oh and I took your advice and kissed him," she said gratefully.

"Oh no," I said weakly. No point in me getting all agitated now. I needed to conserve my energy for when I met her next so that I could wring her melodramatic neck.

I put her back on hold and switched to Sam.

"Okay I know you have some strange friends but this one, uh oh, she takes the cake," he sounded seriously pissed off. "For one, she held my hand tight and wouldn't let go even for me to use my napkin. I mean I ended up using both knife and fork with one bloody hand. Then she stared into my eyes for what must have been fifteen uninterrupted minutes. Sometime later I heard her mumble something under her breath and it appeared that she trying on my surname for size. What the hell."


But apparently the worst was yet to come. According to Maya they shared a kiss, it was nice though they both had their eyes open. According to Sam, she tripped over the table cloth while hurling herself at him, all the dinnerware crashed to the floor, the remnants of the roast chicken flew up in the air and the Bloody Marys splashed against the walls. Just as he put his hand out to steady her (or perhaps ward her off, he's not sure at this point) she grabbed him for dear life and engaged in a lip lock somewhere between his lip and his nose, while still staring at him with beady eyes. He stared back with eyes wide open in horror.

I don't know whom to believe and so I decide to call the restaurant the next day for - yes, they lost 2 cocktail glasses, 2 dinner plates, some serving dishes and the patrons at the adjacent table on whom the roast chicken deposited itself. Could I please pay for the bill plus damages because the couple in question made a quick getaway after this fiasco. I ofcourse hang up quickly.


The next few days pass in a blur. Maya cannot understand why he won't call. Sam cannot understand why has he has been getting blank calls late in the night, though realization does dawn on him when he hears faint chanting in the background. Maya calls me in tears two days later. "Why hasn't he called? I thought he liked me. Has he said anything to you?" Sam calls me a few hours later. "Don't you know me?" he demands, "Don't you know the kind of girl I like? You set me up with a stark raving lunatic, you idiot. Thanks for nothing"

I longed for the days when he would share with me his terrible priest-nun jokes.

And just like that, in one fell swoop, I lost two good friends.


A couple of days later, Maya calls me all excited, "I saw him outside his office. His aura is looking better already." How is it that I missed this strange part of her earlier? Or maybe my aura was just dandy and she hadn't seen any point in mentioning it. I asked her how come she was around where his office was? I didn't get an answer.

Then he calls me a few minutes later. (A totally unrelated observation - They may be unsuited for each other, but their calls to me were never more than two hours apart from each other.) "I've had to get a new phone number thanks to the endless blank calls that have been coming every hour on the hour. Infact last evening, one of those calls was late and I actually went to check if my phone was working fine! If you give her this new number, I will tell everyone that you have a crush on my boss" he threatens. And that is a serious threat. His boss is a 65 year old huge lecherous man who is generally avoided like the plague.

Very cool, Sam. Blackmail is definitely the way to go.


Things cooled down after that. Maya moped around and cried and cursed me in general for not getting Sam to call her. I did the best I could to contain her distress - I told her Sam had been transferred abroad! Meanwhile Sam grudgingly came over home for dinner with some other friends of mine and gave me the cold shoulder until, lo and behold, he spied another cute guest. Then it was only a matter of a few minutes before he was running circles around this awfully cute girlfriend of mine visiting from the U.S. To cut a long story short, I now hear that she gets daily updates on his bowel movements and he no longer notices his sexy neighbour. And most importantly, I have redeemed myself in his eyes. As for Maya, we never wrote poetry again (Well, it's only been ten days, but I can see this trend continuing). It is my educated guess that she is trying to refurbish her own aura.


This has been a lesson to me. While I have been able to read people perfectly when it comes to my relationships with them, my super powers of judgement fly out of the window when I need to pair other people up. Maybe he will like her gardening skills and nasal voice. Maybe she will like his bike fetish and vegan diet . I always imagine that people will like what I don't. And they never do. Lesson learned!!

twenty five

they sat across each other, the world ceased to exist
she looked like a dream, too beautiful to resist
he grinned at her, literally felt her heart melt
and the way she smiled at him, he would never forget

would you like to dance, he asked with hope
she gave him her hand, stepped under the strobe
as they swayed, hearts pounding against chest
he knew he’d be taking her back to his love nest

dinner was a blur, dessert a connoisseur’s delight
both of them swallowed without tasting a bite
conversation flowed, the laughs were all real
the electricity between them, you could actually feel

they stood up to leave, holding hands like teenagers
he quietly looked her way as if to gauge her
then the clock struck twelve and he whispered in her ear
thank you for being my wife for twenty five years

Mothers Of Sons

"It's a boy."

That one statement then sets off a series of unfortunate incidences - the automatic dispersal of the mother's apron strings which gently but tenaciously wind themselves around the tiny boy child's body with a ferocity that will never diminish, her heart beat resigns itself to be entirely dependant on his, her self worth will now be judged only by the sacrifices she makes for him and her heart vows to always cook his favourite foods, keep shrewd girls (in case you didn't get it, that includes all girls) away from him and to wash his clothes and keep track of his multiple fungal infections until her own body is being lowered six feet under. Her dying breath will bring thoughts not of her life and her deeds but about who will comb her baby boy's hair just right and who will heat his milk with tumeric for him every morning. She might even extend her dying breath to instruct the cook on how to adjust the milk and tumeric just the way her baby likes it. Meanwhile, the baby boy who may have just celebrated his 38th birthday will sit morosely wondering how he will make decisions without his mother and darn it, who will now take his clothes to the laundry and help him wash behind his ears. He may also realise with a sinking heart that he will have to start being nicer to his wife (yes, she does exist, but you wouldn't know it) because she would now have to go from being part of the wall paper, to being his surrogate mother!


I wonder about this. Mothers who are obsessed with their sons. I would have thought one would go to great lengths to hide this affliction, but obviously I know nothing about these things. To most of these mothers, it's a matter of huge pride to be head over heels in love with their son.


My friend Ashish's mother is a perfect example of this.

"I am telling Ashish to get married," so says Mrs. Girodia.

"Does he have a girl in mind?" I ask cautiously. Ashish's marriage is of huge concern to me, he is the designated odd man out who always gets invited so we can get our group's number right. Marriage would totally screw that.

"No, no, I only will select the girl for him. Problem is he is so good looking and smart, any girl will be so lucky to have him," she says and her eyes actually glaze over as if she has inhaled some Grade A cocaine.


I look at Ashish wondering if I just haven't taken a close enough look at him, but no, he still looks like a mouse with constipation. The last time he smiled with 2004, and because we weren't quick enough with a camera we have nothing to show for it.

"There are very few boys like him now," she says wistfully.

I think there are way too many boys like him, who are nothing more than average and cannot rise above it because their mothers have managed to convinced them that they are already the best. But I wisely nod and bite my tongue.


Ashish got married 8 months later and nothing has changed. His poor wife only looks downwards (she has a PhD in his ingrown toenails, me thinks) and his mother is still the ONLY woman in his life.


It's so much more pragmatic with girls. True, mothers are over protective. True, many mothers are obsessed with their daughters' virtue (sic). But there comes a point when mothers just let their daughters be. They are allowed to manage their own eating habits and hygiene issues, pack their own suitcases and make their own beds. Show me a twenty five year old fellow living at home, and I'll show you a mother who is still making his bed.


My friend Prerna is a few years older than I. Although she had a child very young, she recently got married to a man in his 40s. While she thought she knew everything about him, she ended up learning all the important things only after they were married.


- His mother irons his underwear.

- His mother goes with him for his physicals with the doctor, irrespective of the body part being examined.

- His mother decides when he needs privacy and when not. She questions why the door to his room stays locked so much more now!

- His mother needs to be the last person to hug him before he leaves the house. She says it brings him good luck. As far as Prerna can see, it has caused him to lose two jobs, one car and one expensive watch.


"Why is she so damn possessive of him," Prerna fumes as she folds her son's laundry. "Why does she insist on doing everything for him with such perfection."

I cannot answer because I am so distracted by what Prerna herself is doing. She is ironing her fourteen year old son's underwear. As he bounds into the room, she hands him a freshly ironed one, still hot to touch and looks at him with such abandon joy before he disappears to change. Why is it that mothers think their sons' underwear is like chappati, best when had fresh and hot. And since everyone is in the throes of maternal love, I decide against pointing out what warm underwear can do his sperm levels!!


And thus the precious circle of possessive and obsessive mothers continues.


Speaking of these mothers, they also say the darnest things:

" My Karan, he is so naughty you know. Always playful, always so affectionate."
Karan is a eight year old boy who was reprimanded for pinching his teacher's bottom!

"My son loves me very much. He doesn't trouble me like other boys do. He calls us every week from London."
Her son has been taking a truckload of money from her, claiming to study in a college that he has never enrolled in. His phone calls are all money requests, albeit camouflaged in a bit of "I miss ya, ma."

"All the girls who meet my son want to marry him. But that silly boy is so romantic. He is still looking for that special someone."
That 'silly boy' has been rejected by over twenty five girls because he proudly informs them that his mother still occasionally ties his shoe laces for him. One girl even asked him if his mother still changes his diaper for him.

They reject her just after she rejects them.

"Look at my son. So good looking. A little plump but still so handsome. Just the other day, Suresh mama was saying he looks just like me."
Mother and son are both 110 kgs. Nothing personal against weight, but I have yet to find a mother who says her 110kg daughter is so good looking, tsk tsk.

"My son always wants me around. He is so lazy. Without me, he is useless, you know."
He is actually useless at all times, but his mother will never get it.


A relative sums it up better than I ever could. She had a twenty eight year old son who travels the world, sits at board meetings, manages mind boggling and life threatening dating schedules. Yet, she needs to tell him when to change his bedsheets (Sheesh, one would have thought a Standford MBA means that you have enough common sense to tell a dirty sheet from a clean one) and then before he can move his lazy ass from his computer chair, she has already jumped up and done it for him and is basking in the thanks she imagines she can see in his eyes.

It is simple she says, "If I can do it, he cannot."

Famous last words from the proud momma.

love

own
moan
sire
desire
need
greed
want
daunt
dominate
manipulate
captivate

curt
hurt

care
share
snare

the things we call love
are anything but.

The tale of the Tale End of the Stick

I started a love affair when I was very young. Just a child. Not yet out of diapers…I mean this literally. The object of my ardent affection and when I say ardent I mean I slurped over it, drooled over it and on occasion even peed on it in excitement, was books. I was less than a year old when my mom read me my first book. Apparently I stared wide eyed at the pictures, traced the letters with my then chubby fingers and bestowed upon it the highest honour I knew - I brought up some milk on it. By the time I was two, I was fooling people into thinking that I could read. I knew the words in my many books by heart so much so that when the reader reached the last word of each page, I would turn the page without missing a beat and people around me would be stunned into silence. Sometimes they would even break into applause! If I had the slightest business sense then, I would have charged people to watch this and become the richest self made toddler I know!

My fascination with writers and the process of writing started only much later. My idea of writing was a very romanticized version of someone looking like Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore, dressed in their intellectual best (I could never decide between the PJs and T-shirt look or the jeans and cashmere sweater look), sitting at an oversized table containing a laptop, assorted papers, pictures and books, in a den or library which had many many more books, a comfortable couch and an oversized armchair to die for, and all of this bathed by the light of a modern lamp. And if this wasn’t enough inspiration, the room had full length glass windows overlooking Central Park or alternatively a beautiful beach (just so that you know, I am more partial to Central Park). Sigh. It’s true, my idea of writing had very little to do with writing.

Equally as alluring, I found good English writers to be very sexy people. Hey ho, no offence to writers of other languages, but English is the only language that I have any degree of proficiency in. You could read out to me the most brilliant prose in Urdu, but for all I know it could be the shopping list and this doubt renders it powerless to impress. In fact the only language this does not work is in French…Even the shopping list there sounds like poetry written just for me and ofcourse it’s all the more beautiful because I cannot understand a word of it. But I digress here. There is nothing more impressive than a person who can use words to perfectly convey his thoughts, who can capture imagination and affection through characters, imagery and plots simply by the way he strings words together. Sexy. And I wanted to be part of it.

“I am going to start writing”, I announce to my significant other.
"Fantastic. 2 mandarin vodkas, 1 Bombay Sapphire, 2 tonic waters...", he yells.
"Huh?"I say. Why is literary brilliance sounding so intoxicating?
"You can start by writing the liqour list for tonight's party", he grins back.
I throw my writing pad across the room and hit him right on the nose.

“I’m thinking of writing”, I said to my mom.
“To whom?” my mom asked.
“No one in particular,“ I said
“Oookkaayyy, writing what?”, my mom asked, looking a bit concerned.
“I’m not sure”, I replied thoughtfully.
Gee, I really had to work on my thirty second elevator speech.


And so a month later and still minus an elevator speech, I started this blog – The Tale End Of The Stick. I loved this name. it pains me to admit that the blog lived it’s first few days as
Growing Up Adventures (and if you make it through this, you can later move on to Enid Blyton)
The corner view (lame)
My Way (no way, too Frank Sinatra wannabe ish and typical)
I wasn’t happy with any of these. I wanted a name that was kind of witty so I could mislead (read fool) people into thinking that I was a kind of witty. And when I finally found it, it just fit.


My first couple of posts were full of what I had set out to do…write my heart out. I wrote stuff that I thought was inspiring. Used words that I liked. Tried and infused some intellect and some debate. There were only 3 people reading my blog. All 3 were friends who had been blackmailed into it! But as with evolution, the writing style and topics eventually changed. It became more personal, kind of satirical, definitely lighter, slightly poignant, a little funny, it became more like me because it became more about me and my world. I had found my groove and a few brave fans.


Topics were hard to come by initially. I would sit at the laptop and wait patiently, though I was not sure for what. I was somehow under the impression that matter (of the literary kind please) would just flow out of me effortlessly. Writers around the world had worthy things that they shared so beautifully, no reason for me to not be suitably capable. But some topics were too risqué, other too boring, many too personal and the rest not personal enough. For the most part, I would run out of things to say after the first page. Or worst still, I would be bored of it already. Most of you won’t believe me because the posts that I do put up are LONG, but these are the few that finally made it. If anyone wants a huge number of incomplete articles (though for what reason, I cannot fathom, except to use as artistic and non functional toilet paper) that are about a page long, I’m your girl.


Speaking of fans, there was then the business of how many people were actually reading my blog. I mean, what was the use of writing a blog if no one was reading it. I might as well have been writing on MS Word in a file in a hidden folder that was password protected. The first few posts I put up, I checked them every seven minutes. Disgusting, I know. Every comment made me feel warm and fuzzy, even the spam! I started reading other blogs. I disliked most of it. Really hated some of it. But what stupefied me was that some of the worst writing had some of the most comments. 25 comments. 63 comments. Even 105 comments. How? Were they giving out free T-shirts or free meals or free CDs? What could I give out? Free dental check ups?? Or maybe a free mouth mirror! But I also came across a few rare bloggems (blog gems, get it?) that kept me reading, laughing, thinking and re-reading. After a few posts, the desire to see who had commented was brought under strict control. I allowed myself to check only once in two waking hours…or twice in one hour if I knew I was going to be busy for the next few hours! The first time the blog hit 10 comments, I took a friend out for a celebratory drink.

“ I had 10 people comment on my blog,” I said with the pride of a new momma.
“You have a blog??” she asked, scrunching her face up in distaste.
See, even close friends did not know I was writing. I really really needed to get that elevator speech in order.
“I just started one. You should check it out,” I said
“Can’t,” she said, blowing bubbles in her cocktail “I have a life.”
I finished her drink for her.


Today, I am a happy camper in blogosphere. I have made my peace with it. I occasionally read my older posts and am amazed that I had the insight / wit / hysteria to write some of it. I am amazed I had the patience to write any of it. I now also know the truth about writing. It is a lot less glamorous when you do it on an unmade bed, with laundry all around you, and an army of over zealous electricians drilling for six straight hours in the apartment right above you. More tragically, me in my strappy T-shirt and PJs does not a Sarah Jessica Parker make.

But the good news is that I can write (self evaluation ofcourse. I am too chicken to ask anyone else for their opinion, but feel free to give it nonetheless). With the right topic, the right room temperature and with any luck the right amount of alcohol coursing through my veins, by gosh I can write. So, here’s raising a toast to more tales on The Tale End Of The Stick. Stick around folks (all puns intended).

The Days Are Long And The Years Are Short

4 friends, 16 years of friendship, over a million conversations, over two million shared tears (to be mathematically precise about 1.999998 million tears between the two girls probably over the loss of a boyfriend, and 2 full tears shared between the two boys probably over the loss of a favorite Playboy magazine), close to five million laughs, about a eight thousand secrets, about a hundred items of shared clothing (the sharing of the underwear happened only between the boys, we girls had our standards) and oh, probably five thousand shared hopes and dreams.


Over the years, the four of us have stayed in touch – landline, cell phone, blackberry, email, snail mail, networking sites, flikr, alumni. Our friendship has not only stood the test of time, it has done something far more tenacious, it has kept up with technology, waited patiently through dropped signals, hung tight through lost cell phones, stayed alive while buried under spam, waded through multiple (and redundant) email addresses, found it’s way to new postal addresses and has lingered on through marriages, babies and divorce.


We were meeting again after 8 years. This was so exciting. Beyond exciting, it is exhilarating. While I know every little thing about these 3 people, seeing them in person after so long would be so much more gratifying than an email or a photo or even a phone conversation. I know their personalities like I know the back of my hand, I know what makes them tick, I know what makes them laugh and I know what makes them love. I know them.


There is Lila, tall, gorgeous, talkative, the most generous person I know and with a sense of humour that could make a comedian laugh had he not already been so completely occupied fantasizing about her.

There is Nishant, naughty, too cute for his own good, quick on the rebuttal, can tease you till you cry (or till you promise AND attempt some damage to his anatomy), he was the bad boy whom every girl with the slightest mothering instinct wanted to reform. He is still wonderfully incorrigible.

There is Rudy, affectionate, trustworthy, by far the best looking guy in class, Mr. Clooney meets Dr. Phil, the girls (er, some teachers included here) went to him with problems ranging from class politics to PMS, secretly hoping that he would stop being everyone’s best buddy and start being their special friend. Couch philosopher and Mr. Popular.


It is one warm winter’s evening (only in Mumbai!) when we all meet at my house. Nishant walks in first. The years have been very kind to him. He still is cute as hell, still boyish and ‘endearingly immature’ (he assures me that this is a well practiced act to get the attention of girls under 21, a fine art that can only be achieved by the very astute male and includes a bit of bad behavior, some corny jokes, outstanding pick up lines and a complete lack of responsibility except when it comes to protecting the girl of his attention from the attention of other bad boys) and still as irritating as a gnat. We hug. His 6 ft frame warmly envelopes my 5.2 ft one in a familiar embrace. It feels like coming home. Hug over, we punch each other in the gut, insult each other’s looks and settled down thrilled that we have not really grown up all that much.


We’ve just popped open a beer when Lila breezes in. Seeing her pictures on email or Facebook does not prepare me for seeing her in person again, her huge beaming smile, her dimples, her tremendous height, her infectious giggle and the unmistakable smell of 5th Avenue perfume that has surrounded her since 1993. Just seeing her can make me happy. I don’t mean just plain ole happy, I mean supremely happy, I mean a kind of happy which does not let me stop smiling. We hug, her 5.10 ft frame stooping down to literally lift me off my feet. What was it with me and tall friends anyway.

Hello my nymph, she grins. No it’s not what you think, you rotten reader, it’s got nothing to do with any nymphomaniacal sort of things, this nymph purely refers to the young cockroach that I probably resembled through much of my college days. She was the only one who could get away with calling me that. That’s another idiosyncrasy – my closest friends get to insult me the most and I love them all the more for it. Strange, huh.

I ask about her children, she asks about the love of my life. I tell her about life in Mumbai – exciting, satisfying, hurried, tiring. She tells me about life in Vermont – comfortable, happy, lonely, frustrating . I show her my love handles, she shows me her thighs (both equally as out of shape might I add). Nishant lets out a deep sigh of bliss. The friends’ reunion has officially kick started.


Drinks are poured, snacks are served, gossip is exchanged, we talk about old flames and new loves, marriages and deaths, old habits and new jokes. We unanimously agree that children are born to us only to teach us a lesson! We talk about old teachers who thought they were such hot stuff while they made our life living hell. In truth the only hot stuff about them was that they could make our lives living hell!


“Did you hear about Glen”, Lila asks? Glen was Lila true love right through 5 years of professional college. He was 3” shorter than she was and had a frame tiny enough to make him look like her son. Yet she had the worst case of puppy love.

“Turns out he got married to two women at the same time”, she says.

“What??”, Nishant and I exclaim. Nothing beats gossip like really hot and true gossip from someone who relishes telling it.

“Yes”, Lila says in trademark style with lips smacking and arms waving, “he first married the girlfriend, then married a girl that his mother found and finally got caught when they both wives showed up at his surprise birthday party!”

“Yup”, she says grinning, “the surprise birthday party turned out to be a surprise for all three of them. Apparently the official party organizer has not gotten a single referral from THAT party.”

“Oh oh oh, what about Josh”, quips Nishant. “Turns out he is gay.”

“No way”, I say vehemently.” Josh was ever so hot. And sensitive. And not callous like the rest of you low EQ bulls. And his personal hygiene was always so darn good.” (Don’t ask, I once shared rooms with him for 3 days for out of state inter-collegiate competition. I came back with encyclopedic knowledge about deodorants, nose hair trimmers and hand sanitizers).

“G-A-Y”, spells out Nishant. This from a man of the famed heterosexual variety who had once on a bet, worn the same underwear for a WEEK and then proceeded to dust it with talcum powder and wear it for another 3 days. God had obviously given him no appreciation for the finer points of life, clean underwear included.

“Excuse me”, I say, “you telling me that if you’re a guy and you’re caring and sensitive and clean and in general not a complete pain, it means that you are gay?”

“G-A-Y”, repeats Nishant.

This was obviously an argument I am not going to win.


“What about Rudy?” I ask quietly. Rudy had had it pretty bad the past few years. He had his marriage break down, he lost his brother, he lost his job, he was living testimony that sometimes not everything turns out fine despite being an absolute gem of a person. Shit happens. Even to the best of us. And Rudy is one of the best and one of us.
The door bell rings. I open the door to find Rudy outside. I don’t recognize this Rudy though. He is gaunt, with sunken eyes and a stooped back as if he has aged sixty years in the last sixteen. I hug him as tight as I can. He is close to 6 ft tall and yet I feel like the taller person. I have never seen him look so beaten. I search for the lively and fun person I know so well and come away empty handed. Lila hugs him. She doesn’t know what to say either. Sometimes mere kindness is grossly inadequate. And as we girls struggle to find the right thing to say, Nishant shouts “You bastard”, to Rudy and gives him a huge bear hug that lifts him off the floor and brings him close to suffocation. Rudy breaks into a huge smile and we all go back to being our normal abusive selves.


As Rudy takes us through what his life has been for the past five years, we all say what we can to try and make this just a tiny little bit better for him.

“Focus on the positive. You have a loving family, funds to support you for a while and a great personality. You will move on and you will come out stronger”. This is me, at my preacher’s best. It gets a weak smile from him.

“Ya, you still have fantastic sex appeal”. Ah, Lila. She always knows the most important thing to say to make you feel good about yourself. This gets a bashful smile from him.

“She just wasn’t right for you.” I say, but what I actually want to say is, “what kind of crazy woman would leave you? What? Was her brain eaten by locusts and her thought process now managed by her large intestine? How else could she leave you?”

“Forget not being right for you”, Nishant says as he struggles to find the right words, “she was also a little squint, walked like a wrestler and had a nasty snarl. Think about it, if you get a boxer terrier, you won’t notice she’s gone at all”. Nishant, Mr. Sensitive. But it gets Rudy to guffaw loudly and I think he finally sees the answer to getting through the worst phase of his life – a little love therapy, a smatter of bad jokes and some light truths.


Over 6 hours, 32 beers, 80 songs from the 1990s (yes, all hot numbers in our college days, and yes, I do plan well, thank you) and 45 cigarettes, we make new memories of the 4 of us. Older, not necessarily wiser, new personalities traits, some bad habits, some good mistakes, and yet the sense of friendship between us is stronger than ever. As we part, we make a promise to meet five years from now. I tell Lila that by then my love handles will probably be love pillows. She tells me that her thighs will probably obliterate her calves and extend to her toes. We decide to have a competition to see who will look more pathetic in five years. Nishant generously offered to check the said body parts in five years in order to judge this competition fairly. Rudy says he will play second judge and is open to extreme bribing, which sets off a whole new animated discussion about whether he is more susceptible to women or liquor, or would he prefer a new dictionary of swear words to greet Nishant with. I personally think he’s leaning towards the latter….


16 years of friendship, gone so soon.

The Slippery Slope to Nothingness

(To those of you who really are not paying attention around here, I recently took a month off work and off other productive activities. It was a noble plan but one that refused to stick to the blueprint in my mind)

So are you one of those who think doing nothing is easy? It’s a cakewalk? Maybe you’ve even mentioned to someone that you’d love to live a life where you did absolutely nothing. BIG MISTAKE, my friend. I have just spent a month doing nothing, and I have news for all you do-nothing lovers. A month of nothing amounts to exactly that…nothing. Nothing to show for it, nothing to rejoice, nothing to bitch about, nothing to work towards and nothing to congratulate yourself for. Oh uh, I am sorry, I forgot, oh yes you do get something out of it, you get yourself a big fat ZERO.

The past month has been a death of sorts and a re-birth of an entirely different sort. When I decided to take one month off from work, it was meant to be the start of something monumentous. Okay, maybe to say that it was to be a ‘start’ is a bit optimistic, but at the very least it was meant to be a month’s hiatus from regular work craziness and a welcome to brief but supremely dazzling fun and excitement. I had even defined what the fun and excitement would be (albeit a bit randomly). I would learn something fantastic like jazz piano or karate (I know, I know). I would re-connect with nature…in Mumbai that would mean walks by the sea while listening to Katie Melua melt my heart or Usher making love in the club. I would have exotic cocktails and dinner parties at home, which would include (but not limited to, for all you lawyers out there!) a table set to perfection, music to suit the mood, an eclectic menu and great conversation. I was going to spend the month meditating and focusing on my positive affirmations. I was going to come out of this month a new and improved me, better health, better attitude. I was going to re-connect with old friends. Lunches, dinners, drinks, dancing, plays, drives, agony aunt, psychopathic counselor, I was going to do it all. I was going to read serious books (all those chick flicks could find another fan, I was going to defect over to the dark side). I was going to write. A piece a day…okay…let’s be honest, a piece every two days. Okay, lets’s be really really honest…a piece every five days. And finally, I was going to catch up on my sleep and tv watching. Now, for those of you who think I am being extremely superficial, welcome to the real me. And just for my ego, let me put this into perspective. I have not had a decent night’s sleep for longer than I care to remember (no funny thoughts here, please). And I barely watch a full episode of anything once a month. So no, as far as I am concerned, a full night’s sleep and watching tv are the Rolls Royce of luxury. I would even go as far as to say that I would swap a Swedish massage for these two. Er…actually on second thoughts, there’s no way that would happen, I take it back with immediate effect…the only thing I would put over sleep and senseless tv is a Swedish massage.

But you know what they say about the best laid plans. My plans invariably have a plan of their own. For starters, on the very first day, I re-invented the word ‘lounging’. Which means that I did nothing meaningful. I hung around at home. I was in my pajamas at 11 in the morning, at 4 in the evening, at 8 in the night. A month of finding myself was ahead of me. Sure I could take a day off to do nothing. I could find myself in the remaining 27 days. But as I quickly discovered, lounging is addictive. It’s a slippery slope. Even more so than tobacco, or alcohol or narcotics…it’s free and requires absolutely no application of any kind, mental or physical, no searching for suspicious looking dealers in shady bars, or guilty puffing on the footpath or stocking expensive scotch. No, all you need for this addiction is to keep your body still and turn the switch in your brain to the OFF position and you are all set. And so as with all things addictive, I lounged on day 2 , day 3 and day 4. By day 5, even my ever-ready-to- laze mind began to worry about this no-end-in-sight lounging.

So I finally pulled up my socks (I love the pun) and went for that long walk on Bandstand, right along the sea. The first round of walking was perfect. I looked at the setting sun and sighed with satisfaction – Ah, this is the life, the sea, the fresh air, the exercise, getting all those endorphins flowing, nodding to fellow walkers, timing the walk. Ofcourse, barely 3.5 seconds after this wonderful thought, I felt the first fat raindrop on my nose. It must be my own strange doing that the month I choose to take off to do all these great outdoor things is the wettest month of the year. Now walking in the rain sounds great. It even felt great initially. The first few seconds were so liberating, like as if I was finally taking a chance with life. But as the sweatshirt got drenched and water seeped into the socks, and starting making squeaky sounds, the rain started to fast loses its charm. And five minutes later there was no hope in sight, literally. There were no autorickshaws in sight on a road that is usually swarming with them. The rain was really coming down and I found myself cold and clammy with an entirely inadequate coconut tree for shelter. It rained nonstop for the next eight days. And I watched my walks literally go down the drain. It reiterates why I never ever plan on regular exercise. The plan inevitably gets jinxed….it’s all one big conspiracy to keep me from becoming any fitter / trimmer / any more gorgeous than I already am :-)

And so I decided to stay home and start some of that serious reading – I took the first important step towards that – I went shopping! I stocked myself with The Pleasure Of Finding Things Out, Surely Your Joking, Mr. Fenyman, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, The Tenderness of Wolves, Of Men and Mice, Paradise, Awaken the Giant Within. I stopped myself from picking up any cover with pink on it or with a remotely pleasant script. It was gut wrenching to choose war over psychological thrillers and science over sex, love and rock and roll. For the next few days I was nose deep in words that required a dictionary and thoughts that required a revolution. I am sure I emerged a more mature thinker and a better person somewhere deep down, but the process was not pretty. I loved some of the books and some I could not even finish. The bad ones were worse than watching paint dry but on a positive note, I had found a pretty effective cure for insomnia.

And for the bit that really got my goat: The rain would cause my Direct to Home television connection to go on the blink before the first drop even fell. It was so accurate that I began to wonder why the weather bureau didn’t link up with my tv service provider. My tv was able to predict rain far more accurately than the weatherman! My ultimate ambition of being a couch potato was proving to be far more difficult to achieve than I imagined.

So in the final analysis of things: There was no piano playing (too much work for what was meant to be time off from work). There was no learning something new (there was no way I was getting out into the rain to learn anything). There were no fantastic dinner parties (sure there were plenty of dinner parties, but regular drunken, dumb charade / Uno ones which do not qualify as fantastic). There was very little writing, for writing requires application of the mind and when the mind was as lazy as mine was, the only thing I my hand could produce were doodles of top caliber and I doubt anyone would want to decipher those. Friends who were normally free to hang out at a moment’s notice were completely indisposed that month – pregnancies, death in the family, freelance work, travel, ill health – you name it, they had it. As for the positive affirmations, I wrote exactly one down, it had something to do with being positive and living each moment to the fullest, which the month ended up being anything but. And seeing how everything else was going that month, I decided to not even bother with starting any meditation. I had seriously failed in being able to have serious fun.

But you know what, as the month came to an end, I gratefully embraced real life with both arms. The work and the running around like a headless chicken and the caring for people in my life and the confusion and the chaos and the laughter and the adventures and the craziness that is my life were so worth living for. It’s funny how it took a month of nothing for me to see it.

PS – I am quite sure that there is no word such as ‘nothingness’. I was aiming for the nothing equivalent of emptiness. So there.

Marriage, Mayhem and Mysore

So it was that time again to visit people from the past. Well, not my past exactly but the past of someone close enough to me for me to have by virtue of sheer proximity, imbibed most of his past....I'm not talking about the rowdy been-there-done-that past which includes vast numbers of drunken nights passed out in one's own puke and the days spent shamelessly chasing any skirt in town, yes even the ones who had buck teeth and acne and squint eyes and had the unforgiving task of teaching anatomy to dental school nineteen years olds who acted like fourteen years olds in the throes of puberty. No, I've got plenty of that past myself and don't need anyone elses, thank you. I'm talking about, well, the joyous past of friends and bonding and ...I am quickly reminded here that there isn't much of that goody goody nonsense in his past, but what the hell, I've imbibed the minuscule amount that exists anyway.



While the official agenda involved attending a wedding of an old dental school classmate in Mysore, the unspoken plan was to play hooky away from work, play hooky from most of the wedding, gulp all the free drinks we could manage AND hit 140 on the Bangalore - Mysore highway (er, hopefully the drinking like a fish and the flying too low would not happen on the same day, but in my life I can never be too sure of coincidences like these) . It did occur to me that we were a couple of doctors who doing really well and who were acting like cut throat first year hostelites - following the free food, free drinks and high speed in the invincible way that only broke and hungry students can. Through the course of the next day, someone did mention something about "they can take you out of the hostel but can never take the hostel out of you". Ever notice how the really bad lines are the ones that ring true the most?



So anyway, we're off to Mysore, driving my dad's 2002 Honda City (the one with the nice gentlemanly shape) from Bangalore. We reached Mysore in record time thanks to some great roads and some even better acceleration. We checked into a hotel and started getting ready for the pre-wedding bash. I wore a multicoloured cowl neck top with skinny jeans and shiny high heels. This was an outfit chosen with great care. The cowl neck was to make my neck appear longer, the skinny jeans was to make me appear skinny (bet you didn't guess that!) and the high heels was to add to the glamour quotient. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this was what I thought was acceptable for a pre-wedding bash (not 'function', mind you, but 'bash' which to me and to all those who speak English means non formal, fun, time to let the hair down ). So we show up at the venue which is a large hall, 100 white tube lights, 10,000,000 flying insects and outdoor wash basins with cracked soap. I step out of the car and my stilettos sink into 2 inches of muck. As I struggle to free the heel without dismembering my foot, I look up to see a huge banner draped across the parking lot with blinking red and blue lights, which said with no absolutely ambiguity, in size 72 font letters-

Welcome to the Happy Weeding of Shivkumar and Shailaja.
Your present is presence enough.



We nearly tripped over ourselves with laughter. So much so that it took me a while to realise that I was kind of inappropriately dressed for this 'bash'. There were two kinds of dressers at the pre-'weeding' thing. Type A dressers - those who looked like they were out buying vegetables for dinner - faded white un-tucked shirt, open sandals, sari border 4 inches above the ground, plastic or cloth bag / pouch in hand, talcum powder on the face. Then there were type B dressers - heavy silk saris, gold by the kilo, cravats, jackets, berets. But there were no jeans, no slinky cowl necks and sure as hell there were no cleavages to be seen.


My companion looked at me and grinned gleefully.

You're the official skin show for the night, he laughed, adding: Who would have thought you'd be the designated Pamela Anderson of the evening, he whispered in my ear.

Well, you're no Tommy Lee, I hissed back.

And that took care of that!



But confident as I was, there is nothing more discomforting than being under dressed in the truest sense of the word in a over lit room with a neck line 3 inches lower than anyone other woman's and the only ones to keep me company in that department were the type A dressers, the guys with the untucked shirts who has 2 buttons open from the bottom and 3 buttons open from the top. Infact from what I could gather looking at the vast expanses of their hairy chests, their shirts were being held together by only one loose button in the middle. But in the final analysis, they were men and their chests were far less interesting. I did try briefly to find dark corners to hide in, but the only ones dark enough were right next to the outdoor loos which on closer inspection had no doors, just slightly convoluted entrances. So I did the next best thing. I squared my shoulders, pasted a smile on my face and went in search of alcohol. I came back with rum and warm coke in a plastic glass...it really does not get more hostel-like than this, believe me.



I was introduced to all his old friends. The smart ones who spoke a lot and the quiet ones who looked, looked away, then looked back again, the boisterous ones who back slapped too much, sloshing alcohol all over my toes and the middle aged ones who just plain depressed me. The last ones were the lot that worried me the most. They were my age and yet seemed middle aged in a depressing way. The back was slouched, the waist was ballooning, the pate was balding (no not in a sexy way, but in a way that looked like the head was the focal point for voluminous fungal growth), their colours of life were between cement and muck and their biggest adventure involved travelling to Bangalore for a weekend.



We finally bumped into Aby, close friend, experienced corrupter, he was the one who introduced the bulk of their class to alcohol in their 2nd year and a wearer of loud shirts in every neon colour that exists and a burper of competition calibre.


So how you doing in Bombay eh? he asks. He's on his 11th glass I think (to be fair though, the plastic glasses hold about three sips...)


I'm doing well, I say. Polite conversation is hard when you're swatting flying insects and covering the mouth of your glass so that none fall in. Life's real busy, I add with a 70 mm smile.


Aah ****, he said, spittle flying all over, he then paused to slurp/suck it all back into his mouth before he continued: You guys never come to visit. Gone to Bombay and then you have become too busy, he continues.


He thought for a moment and then said - now poor bugger Shiva, he is married, now he too will disappear, he will get busy, yevery time we will call him, he will say he cannot come, wife is saying no, work in the house, this and that. Poor bugger.



I smile at Aby ranting. He is the unlikely alpha male. He has a thick bushy mustache, a huge stomach, the mouth of a sailor, calls everyone (sorry, yevery one) bugger or you fool, or idiot or f****** depending on his mood and his biggest claim to fame is his favourite statement: I can stand in the middle of the road in Kottayam without a shirt and girls' parents will throw 3 crores at me just like that to marry their daughters, hehe.



Er, to bring a little perspective to this, in no way is he better shirtless, infact his stomach and the folds of skin around it are enough to cause a traffic accident. What he means that even when he behaves badly, he is confident that all Malayali homes are dying to have him for a son-in-law. All I can see is that Aby has been saying this for six years now - there's still no money or girl flying in his direction, or maybe he just has not taken off his shirt as yet :-) But in his defence, he is lovable in an very small quantities! And especially so if you don't mind burps, farts and warts.



The bash which was actually turned out to be a 'function' in disguise ended up being fun. I had gained quite the fan following by the end of it. My partner had gained a lot of envy. The dean of the dental college who was in attendance wanted to talk to me. The bridegroom wanted to talk to me. This was our short conversation:

Him: So how're you liking Mysore.

Me: It's great. So congratulations, you're getting married. (Duh)

Him: Ahhaha yes I am. I came to Bombay once.

Me: Did you like it?

Him: Na, too fast. Cannot enjoy in a place like that. I like it here only.

During the entire conversation, the bridegroom did not look me in the eye. It may not have been intentional though, he was only 5 ft tall in dress shoes.

It was then time to get introduced to my companion's ex-girlfriend, a girl who was very pretty in college but who had now metamorphosed into a slightly harassed, matronly looking woman chasing after two kids.

Good thing you didn't marry her, I said cattily. People may have mistaken you for her son.

That's okay, he grinned back. Right now people are mistaking you for Aby's daughter.

Did I mention that my companion and I are best friends with no holds barred....



A big bunch of us went back to our hotel room to finally drink some cold liquor, only to find that there was no electricity and the generator was not working. Aby said a few more f****, bastards, KLPDs, WTFs (Aby was the undisputed king of abusive abbreviations) and we drank some more warm liquor and talked about college days, cheating in the exams, always borrowing money that never got paid back, falling in love, writing love letters that fell in the wrong hands, bunking class, failing exams despite cheating, canteen food and forging the Dean's signature or the parents' signature depending on the situation.



And at 4 am when I thought we had run out of things to talk about, questions about Mumbai started popping up - Isn't it too crowded? Do you make lots of money, you bastards? Are the people unfriendly? Why are the girls so skinny? Don't they know being that skinny does not look nice?
It was so odd how they spoke of Mumbai like it was a universe away, like it was Vietnam or Hawaii or at the least Harlem. An alien land, a foreign country. Something they didn't know and didn't understand and hence didn't like and were loathe to visit.



The next day the wedding went off well. Or atleast I assume it did. We made it for last 30 minutes. The first 2 hours of it were lost in groggy sleep - thanks to the fact that XXX rum had stopped suiting me ten years ago. And then ofcourse, I had to drape a sari. A part of me wanted to show everyone - So what if I had dressed a little adventurously yesterday? I can also carry off Indian nari with equal panache (completely untrue, I cannot even drape a sari properly, it took four tries, but what the hell, whose counting anyway).



We finally showed up in time to wish the couple. I stood with our huge gift in a snaking line that had about 175 people. Thank God we had gotten them a gift and had not thought that our presence would be present enough!!! When we finally got onto the stage, no small feat considering that my heels got caught on the coir floor mat every step of the way and the pleats of the sari were slowly beginning to unravel, we wished the couple, handed over the ever important present, smiled for the camera and then just when I was congratulating myself on how well the morning had gone, I tripped on the stairs down and fell flat at the feet of the ex-girlfriend.


3 days later, I was back in Mumbai. I was back in the city of fast lives and skinny girls. The 'weeding' had been an eye opener of sorts. These are the lessons I learned the hard way:

1. When going to a wedding at a new place, dress like you think your mother would. It is better to be safe than sexy.

2. Limit interaction with the exes to the minimum. Grovelling at her feet is NOT becoming.

3. Do not call the Dean of the college by the wrong name. He will not turn a pretty shade of purple.

4. Carry a present no matter what the invitation says. A glittering banner at the venue may inform you otherwise.

5. Do not drink more than 1.5 glasses of XXX rum. If you can manage more than that without getting acquainted with the inside of the toilet bowl, you are a better man than I.

6. Wear a sari blouse that fits. You never know when you may fall and the sari may unravel to reveal a blouse borrowed from a friend who is 2 sizes too small.

Foot-Loose

I saw a pregnant woman walk by

her waddle could make a duck cry

and when she sat right next to me

she did it slowly to the count of three

her face held the knowledge of hidden joy

I could see her wondering - girl or boy?

her feet were swollen, tired and veined

the weight of two had them strained

she stroked her stomach like a lover

the subconscious act of an expecting mother

her breath was laboured, with none to spare

as if the baby was using up half her air

I asked her when she was due

in reply she turned a strange hue of blue

I looked more closely and my mouth opened wide

to reveal my foot that was stuck inside

Earth Calling Mr. Michelangelo

I paint. Colours, canvas, paints, brushes, inspiration, you get it. I'd like to make this very clear - I cannot draw to save my life ( I will eternally regret that nudes are out for me!!!). In second year of dental school, we had to learn dental anatomy in such detail that we were required to draw to perfection every tooth in the mouth. It took a lot of convincing to assure my professor that my initial few drawings of molars were infact actually teeth and not the lopsided stars that they appeared to be. But wonders of wonders, I sure can paint. Not that I do it very often. Inspiration strikes, oh, about once in six months and perspiration shows it's face about once a year. As you can imagine, all of this makes for one very rare painting.


For an artist who does not sell paintings, there are two options. Either you fill your home with your art, or you gift everyone you know a piece of your work and hope that they like it enough to keep it around for a few months before they look at it closely enough to say - what the hell is this painting about anyway or I'm not sure I really like this, or worst of all have them say - cheapskate, giving me one of her own paintings.


Several of my paintings hang at my dental centre and patients and visitors have been very kind in their remarks. However, even the most ardent fan has not offered to buy any of them (and I would sell them at a bargain that undercuts all other bargains). And so you can imagine my utter surprise when a visitor to the my centre took a huge interest in a large green and red painting in the reception area. The painting was done one late slightly inebriated night (well, what can I say, it was a rare moment when both inspiration and perspiration walked hand in hand through the door). The hazy trees and the hazy red poppies were perfect when I saw it in the light of the following morning.

And so, one full year after the painting was done, I was unexpectedly treated to the sight of a very distinguished gentleman viewing it critically. He first walked in front of it for about three minutes, looking at it from different angles. He then stood still right in front of it. He looked at it with his glasses in place. He then took his glasses off and examined it more closely. He then placed the glasses at the tip of his nose and looked at the painting with his nose stuck up in the air (I’d like to believe that the painting looked best when he looked at it in this position!). My receptionist all of a sudden got suspicious of this man who refused to sit, refused to say a word, paced the room like a zombie and gave the painting on the wall strange looks. In all her wisdom, she got up and not too quietly hid the tray of cookies and mints that we keep for patients. She then gave him a look that said – okay pal, now let’s see what you planning on flicking.


Do you know the artist? he asked me, giving me a cursory look.


Kind of, I replied, still not sure of what his game was and hence not wanting to give too much information away. This was all very espionage-like in any case – the dark suit, the two mobiles (one in his hand and another one somewhere else on him. I didn't get to see the second one, I only heard it ring once before he thumped the right side of his jacket and the unseen mobile miraculously went silent), the lack of pleasantries, the looking at the painting as if a secret camera was going to jump out any second. There was some kind of tension in the air that I could not put my finger on.


By this time, he was gently scratching the painting with a manicured finger. I wanted to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but I then thought it was too much of an attack for a painting that I had actually spilled Sprite on just as the paint was drying. Surely if anything, his gently ministrations would serve to only scratch off the sorry bits of dried liquid. And so I let him carry on caressing it.


He then looked at me right in the eye and smiled a very charming smile, which immediately made two things happen. Firstly it made me put my guard up. I don’t know about you but I tend to get suspicious of people who are completely disinterested in me for the longest time and then in the matter of a split second they look at me like I am the centre of their universe! It makes me SUSPICIOUS in capital letters. But on the other hand, I was also relieved. Maybe he was normal after all and not in the business of being a psycho or a spy or several other dubious professions that came to mind.


How can I reach the artist? he asked, now at his charming best.

You’re speaking to her, I answered.

His face registered his surprise. Ha, I thought, let it not be said that I was a woman with no talents.

Have you thought about selling your art? he asked.

Of course I’ve thought about it. If only thoughts could generate actual buyers, I’d be in boom town, I said.

Maybe your thoughts are actually working for you and you just need to be patient enough, he said.

Huh, I think, is he indirectly saying he has a buyer for my hazy painting with fizzy drink impressions on it? Well on the other hand, it really was one of a kind, let this man try and find another like it, just let him try.

He was still looking at me expectantly. And so I asked the question begging to be asked:
Do you have a buyer, er, Mr…., er…, I stammer.

Mr. Kaushik Raj Kumar, he said extending his hand.

I shook it, disappointed that he answered the less important question.

So do you, do you? I asked. After all I didn’t want to show too much eagerness!

I might, he said smugly. I wanted to whack him across his head and kiss him at the same time.

What would you expect to sell this for? he asked.

I named my price. I thought of how much a decent painting that size would cost. I added some more to that amount. I had the good sense to not mention to him that I would have even sold it for 1000 Rs. just so that I could have my painting hanging in someone else’s house.

His eyebrows went up as he heard my price. Too much or too little, I wondered. He said nothing. He took his mobile phone that was in his hand and whispered into it for an indefinite amount of time. I was getting nervous. Should I interrupt him and tell him that I could scale the price down? But I stuck to my guns. I hadn’t sold a painting ever. No reason to sell myself short now. The thought made me laugh. He put the phone down.


My buyer would be interested in this. Infact he would be interested in 10 more paintings. Can you get them done in 3 weeks? he said casually.


3 weeks? Did he see my second painting hand anywhere? If he did could he please tell me where it was!


Let me think about it, I said just as casually, noticing that he had not said anything about the price.


He took some pictures of the painting. We shook on it. And then he was gone. Only, as he walked out the door, he turned around to say that the price was fine.


Too little, I berated myself. But I could not keep the smile off. I was an artist. I wanted to go to my window and scream out - Everyone listen up, I am an ARTIST. And if I had a buyer, I must be darn good.


That evening I sat at home and imagined what it would be like to be a selling artist. I did some research after Mr. Kumar left. Everyone in the know said that it was a very generous price for a painting, let alone one from an unknown artist and an artist who would probably never ever be famous….no, my friends do not mince words! But that also meant that my work was really good.


I sat down at my table, night glass of milk in hand and thought of why I hadn't thought of this before. Why hadn't I thought of making a business of this. Probably because I had never had an offer before, but despite knowing the obvious answer, I still pondered on the point. It made the fact that I had a buyer all the more sweeter. And I did the math. 10 times the amount that I had quoted was an obscenely large amount. I had to pinch myself. Was it really that simple? I suddenly had visions of me as a famous artist - Michelangelo or Da Vinci, spending my days in artistic and torturous ways, people not recognising or understanding my genius until long after I was gone...oh wait...that would not happen...my genius was being recognised right now :-) Maybe all the stars were shining down on me. This was Preeti Shining. Maybe I should buy my first lottery ticket.


I quickly reigned in my thoughts. Oh well, I could take a few evenings off work and paint the ten paintings. Maybe I could even get into a contract to supply more paintings to him. The possibilities were endless. And I was brilliant. And I was a tad bit confused. Why would an unknown buyer who had never seen my work and who had never heard of me, be willing to spend so much for one painting and commission ten more? Was there a catch somewhere in here ? I had never been this lucky. I had never even won a pair of socks, let alone a large payment fora painting. But I reminded myself that this was not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth.


The elusive Mr. Kumar called a few days later. He said he needed to speak to me. I told him to come on over. Anyone helping me fill my coffers and appreciate my talent was more than welcome. He came over bearing a huge file of papers. Probably a file for his chartered accountant, I thought to myself. But as he placed it on the table in front of me, I realised that the file which contained about 200 pages was for me. I know I was hoping for a contract, but this? And in any case what kind of a contract ran into 200 pages? How many pages were required to make me promise not to recreate the same painting twice and to relinquish all claims to the ones that I had sold. Two pages was my guess and perhaps if my lucky stars were still shining, an additional page to say that I would be required to paint 20 exquisite paintings a year for a totally crazy amount (thoughts of making huge amounts of money doing nothing has been an ultimate fantasy). What the balance 197 pages contained was a mystery. And to read 200 pages in the middle of a work day would call for more brilliance than I possessed.

It's just a formality, said suave Mr. Kumar.

What is? I asked.

The paperwork, he said, casually shrugging.

Whats in it? I had to ask, though I really didn't care, it could have been a draft for a romance novel for all I know. What I really cared about was whether he was carrying the amount for my painting. I looked at his suit up and down, checking for what appeared to be a wad of cash (in other words, a bulge!) but could spot none.

He started speaking really quickly - It basically says that the paintings will be unsigned, you will agree to lose all claim to them and you will never talk of this deal or of these paintings or when they were painted or mention any knowledge of them to anyone.


My jaw dropped open. This was the fishy smell I had been getting all along. Someone was going to be taken for a ride with MY paintings. I looked at Mr. Kumar. He looked at me unflinchingly. He was obviously an expert at this. I foolishly wondered if he could see the 'BOZO' written on my forehead with the twenty five light bulbs flashing around it. I was being made a part of a scam and I was being paid a tidy sum of money to keep quiet about it. No lucky stars were shining on me except for the BOZO which must have been shining bright.


I shut the file. No actually, I threw the file in my dustbin. I wish I could squeeze the dumbstruck man in front of me into my dustbin. But it would have been a waste of a good dustbin.

That painting is no longer for sale, I said.

And with that I held the door open and kicked him out of the room. And that was that, I was no longer Michelangelo, I was no longer the to-be-famous artist (more likely I would have ended up the infamous artist) but I was back to being Preeti the accidental artist.

The last I saw of Mr. Kumar, he had sneaked back into my consultation room and was rummaging through the dustbin for missing page number 122 of the shady contract. I let him grovel like that, looking really silly with his butt stuck up in the air while I had the last laugh.

29 hours and counting

The past month has been a writer's disaster. Between vocabulary challenges, grammatical confusions and subjects that are either too riske to write about or just flat too boring, August has not been one to put down on paper (or screen). Mind space has been occupied with more pressing problems like how to throw a sudden dinner party for 18 when I have crockery only for 12 and how to fall asleep at eight in the evening and sleep right through an evening of my life without waking up to regret it the next day. Like I said...pressing problems!

Every time I sat down to write, there were forces beyond my self that would force me to stop.

- The doorbell at midnight (all very exciting, friends from an ad agency dropping in to talk life strategies and fight about ethics and gossip about whose seeing whom and whose cheating on whom and whose flirting with the boss). I readily exchanged a chance to write for a chance to sit with 6 very interesting, very smart, very funny and slightly drunk friends.

- A phone call from an ex boyfriend who had completely vanished from my world only to re-surface, strangely enough, as I was trying to write. Ofcourse I had to take the call and ofcourse we spoke for 3 hours, and it goes without saying that I had to reminence and mull and snort over several things in the hours after the call, all of which effectively spelled death for my article which was oh, about fifteen words at that time.

- The arrival of my next patient. I am testimony to the fact that it is a lousy idea to try and sqeeze some writing between patients. Sometimes I barely get in five thoughts and one word before my receptionist comes in to say the four o'clock is here. Besides thoughts do tend to get a little confused in my head. I found myself sometimes thinking of root canals while writing articles and thinking of article topics (er, think - funny, shoes, clothes, poetry, boys) while elbow deep in a mouth...it was a bad bad idea.

- The urge to move and fidget and do something physical even if it meant twiddling my thumbs. For a person who can sit still for hours on end (book, movie, sleep, faking exhaustion!), I have named last month Angsty August. My body was in some kind of unknown angst. I was fidgety, it was impossible to keep hands and legs still. If my body couldn't keep still, my mind was even more unfocussed. Thoughts would enter my head and fly out at 300 miles / hour. I was craving fresh air, I wanted to be outdoors, I wanted music pumping in my ears and I wanted to walk, or rock climb, or dive from a really high rock in a really blue sea. I wanted adrenalin and I wanted it now. Most importantly, I wanted to not have to think.

It was a conspiracy. I was not meant to plan. I was not meant to control. I was not meant to try too hard. Everything about last month was about not doing what you think you should be doing, but just going with the flow. It was about making 24 hours feel like an eternity and not the other way around.

Now that Angsty August has gone, I am back to what I do best - planning and dreaming. If I could plan one perfect day just for me, this would be it:

9 hours of sleep
5 hours of work
2 hours of reading
2 hours of writing
2 hours of walking
2 hours of movie watching
3 hours of eating (now you know my weakness, I like long relaxed meals and eating out)
2 hours of learning something
2 hours of friends (extendable to 8 hours if necessary)

That is 29 hours and counting...and it sounds just about right.

It Happened One Evening At A Coffee Shop

I admit it. I am one of those people. I am one of those people who adores coffee shops. My love affair with these cozy little spaces which smell of warm coffee and harbour romance and writers and dreamers, spans a timeframe that can rival my love for books or my obsession for doing strange and mostly unattractive things to my hair. One of my favourite things to do is to find a cozy corner, get settled in and then lose time and myself in a book. Just the thought of this relaxes me. The actual event itself, the right coffee shop with the right mood with just the right combination of coffee bean aroma juxtaposed with just the perfect view (and in a perfect world, just the right smattering of intelligence and good looks within these glass enclosed walls), is unadulterated nirvana. And the funny thing is that I actually do not drink much tea or coffee at home. People close to me have correctly stated that i only drink coffee if I have to pay upwards of Rs. 75 for it!

And thus a cool evening not too long time ago, I was cocooned in my neighbourhood coffee shop, completely immersed in a great book, The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver. I was supposed to meet a friend at 7 :30 for drinks and dinner and had thus discarded my regular uniform of a pair of jeans and a top, for a slightly more jazzed up fashionable...well...pair of jeans and a shiny slinky top. I was looking forward to some time alone before what promised to be a long, loud and fun filled evening. I seated myself, smiled at the two women at the table in front of me and opened my book. A few moments later, a guy walked in. In a coffee shop with eight empty tables, how was it that he found it fit to come and sit at a table 5 inches from where I was. Darn. But I thought nothing more of him until three minutes later when he leaned over to my table and asked me a question. I looked up rather blankly, to see a pair of huge brown eyes, a close buzz cut and a delicate face with a very very nice smile (this dentist approved of it at any rate). Now let me state just for the record, I have sat alone in coffee shops all over the world, China, US, UK, Thailand, and yet have actually had very few guys try to start a conversation with me, and no I am not talking about the gay guys who flirt with me as a cover when they come in with their mothers or the geriatrics who need help with their trays and who then thank me by telling me all about their grandchildren. But very rarely (I can count the instances on one hand...er...actually on 4 fingers) has someone spoken to me without asking me to pick up their paper napkin or if the chair next to me is available or something equally as unexciting.

Did you say something, I asked him with an expression of mild curiosity on my face (all faked, I was actually terribly curious. Maybe he was going to tell me I dropped my wallet).

The two women sitting in front of me were all of a sudden taking interest in what was transpiring here. So embarrasing for a insanely private person like me.

Can I see the book, he said. I gave him the book and looked away, just a little irritated. I mean couldn't he tell that my sole intention in sitting here was to read and what was the point if someone was going to borrow the book for a while, and leave me to ineffectively twiddle my thumbs. So I did the next best thing one does when one has nothing to do. I started messaging my friend to see if she was running on time. He held on to the book long enough for me to suspect that he was actually reading the back cover and the first chapter. It was either that or that he had pocketed the book and left the scene of the crime. But when I looked back at him, he was miraculously still there, still reading with a slight smile on his face (doctored, I suspect).


So who do you think lies more, men or women - he asks. I am blown away. For one, the question perfectly pertains to the book and how the hell had he figured it out by reading just the back cover. For two, what a brilliantly open ended question. He had already guaranteed himself an hour of conversation. Much as I tried to resist the temptation to answer, I could already see the words forming in my mind.

I think men lie more, I said. I refused to elaborate since I was still trying to not have this conversation.

I think women lie more, they just do it better, he said all the while smiling at me with those gorgeous gorgeous teeth.

So how's the book, he asked. Now I have never seen such empathy and eloquence in ones eyes when enquiring about a book. It was more appropriate for perhaps a question like - will he live?

And as I proceeded to talk about the book, he proceeded to move over to my table, much to my surprise and much to the entertainment of the two women behind me who had given up all pretense of having a conversation in favour of staring owl eyed at us. I'm guessing action in front of their eyes sure beat gossip behind someone else's back.


This, I told myself, was to make up for the fact that no one ever came up to me otherwise. Some force greater than myself was ensuring that I was now getting it in double doses.

So what do you do, he asked me.

I am a dentist, I said suddenly conscious that he'd wonder what kind of a dentist I was if I was sitting at a coffee shop at 6:30 in the evening. The lucky kind, I decided.

Oh great, he said, I need help with my teeth. Again he flashed me that perfect smile.

I seriously doubt it, I said grinning back.


We spoke about all the things people talk about when they first meet. Music, hobbies, friends, food. My book was long forgotten, which was so shocking to me since I usually open the book even before I sit. But I had forgotten that the one thing I liked even more than a great book is a fun conversation.

We discussed clubs. He told me that every time he went to a popular club he had the Chinese Box there.

What is that? Is that a game? I asked him, to which he laughed and laughed and joyfully patted my hand like I was the most endearing thing he had seen in a long time.

It's a platter that has all kinds of Chinese food on it, he educated me. He was learning more things about me than most people knew. For example he now knew that I had no taste for fine dining.


And we talked some more and laughed a lot. The two women behind us were staring at us with huge smiles as if they had personally played a role in boy meets girl. I looked at them and felt a little foolish. It was so obvious that he was flirting for all he was worth, in front of ten filled tables, approximately thirty curious people, without a care in the world. Why wasn't I telling him to bugger off? To be honest, I was more busy waiting for him to ask if I had someone special, just so that I could see his reaction when I told him I was married and had a child who had thrown up on me that morning. Or maybe I would fabricate twins. I was dying to see how he would extricate himself from a hopeless situation. Would he slink back to his table, tail between his legs? Would he get up and leave? Or would he change tracks and stop flirting so charmingly? But no, we spoke of everything but THAT.


A large chunk of our conversation revolved around him guessing my age. He started from 20, God bless him. I did give him a huge hint by telling him I was almost old enough to be his mother (did I ever tell you he looked young? Polished and well spoken and young. Could not have been more than 24 even if I added a few years to his age). He grinned back and said his mother was most definitely not 25. He added all the many years of my professional education (8) and then looked confused because that would make me much older than what he thought. I had half a mind to put him out of his misery, but this was way too much fun.

He asked for my number.

For your teeth? I asked him

Ofcourse. Whatever did you think, he grinned back.

And just like that I gave him my number. To all of you who think that it is really foolish of me to give out my number, I am DOCTOR, you people!. Everyone and their mothers have my number. Complete strangers have my number. About 200 dental companies have my number. My business board has my number. My website has my number. One more person would hardly make a difference. And so I gave him my business card with name, address, number, email and website, as I have to so many hundreds of people. I could see victory in the two women's eyes - Guy got Girl - they were thinking. Hardly, I wanted to tell them. It was more - Guy got Dentist's Number. Or Dentist got Patient, if he was really persistent and I was really lucky!!


He paid for my coffee. I tried to stop him but it seemed to involve too much of touching his arm and hand and torso and was only going to give him more pleasure than I wanted to. And so I did what the very rich do. I graciously allowed him to pay. I was only wishing I had had the foresight to order the special coffee with the hazelnuts and icecream. He said I could pay next time. I told him there would be no next time. He still paid (would have been rather awkward for him to wriggle out now). And then walked me to an auto outside. The two women probably though we were leaving together and I could literally see them judging the youth of today while secretly giving me the thumbs up.


As I walked into the restaurant where I was to meet my friend ten minutes later, I got a message from him.

'You are the sweetest thing ever'

Wow, with a line like that I now know for sure that he was probably not a day over 18! But hey, it's not everyday that I get to be called 'the sweetest thing'. And that is ageless. And so much fun.

Flush-Wordy

Some days there's a whole lot to say

And words trip over each other

Erupting out in a gush

Other days like today

Words are silent with decay

Like water stuck in an ancient rusted flush

Doctor, My Pain Has Subsidized And Other Tales From The Chair. Vol 2

Dentistry is no laughing matter. Coming to the dentist is often a sombre occasion - there's nothing funny to be found in between a root canal and 3-inch thick tartar, no matter how deep you dig. It's all serious business of pain relief, more efficient chewing, better smiles and greater confidence (well there you have it, my 25 second elevator speech on how I help humanity. How many of you can say the same, ha? ha?? Let's not get into a discussion right now on how many of you actually WANT to say these things, especially the chewing part.... ). But if you think that dentistry makes for a boring day, I am happy to report that the biggest laughs and faux paus come from the patients themselves...in house entertainment to rival any prime time sitcom. Let me clarify, it's not that I laugh at patients, but what can I do when Mrs. Vaswani tells me that her pain has subsidized! I look at her in earnest and want to ask her how much her pain costs now with the subsidy.



Sometime the fun is in the topic of discussion. For example I spend about thirty minutes explaining to Mr. Reston that teeth move. And for most of that time, he looks at me strangely, a little doubtfully. I can see him wondering if the dentist has been drinking.

What do you mean, he say for the fifth time, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

I try to look as professional as possible as I say this - Well if there is an empty space near a tooth, it will tend to move into that space. Or if I shape a tooth for a crown and the crown is not fixed in time, the tooth can move in any direction and the crown will no longer fit.

He looks increasingly uncomfortable with this information and says, you tellin' me my teeth are moving? Will I'm tellin' you that they're not.

I explain to him that the teeth do not develop legs and start walking. Teeth drift. They drift very slowly. But drifting is moving.

He summarises - So what you're saying is that some day soon my teeth will 'drift' into my gullet or glide into my palate. What a load of bullock.

I look at his red face flushed with the beginning of anger, his stubborn tone, his hair standing on edge and I do the only thing that a self respecting doctor can do when faced with an excessively argumentative patient - I change the topic and ask him if his bad breath problem is solved.





Or take for instance the matter of repairing a broken tooth. Sometimes teeth break in such a way that they cannot be repaired. And the last time I looked, a dentist was not God. Abhay is one of my favourite patients. He's relaxed on the chair (he falls asleep during treatment on a regular basis), he trusts my treatment and judgement and this helps me treat him to the best of my capabilities. Yet, early Monday morning he walks in carefully cradling I piece of tissue in his palm. I know of his long term relationship with a girl and for a second think that he is going to show me some jewellery that he has bought for her. At the back of my mind, a small voice is asking why he would be carrying said piece of jewellery in a tissue in his palm. He unveils the tissue to expose a crown of the non-jewelled kind.


The top of my tooth just cracked off, he says.


I look at it and yes, he has in his hand the entire crown of his molar. I peek into his mouth and see just an empty space where the molar should be. An xray reveals a tooth broken beyond hope. And yet, Abhay is as hopeful as ever.


We can stick it back right, he asks


No we cant, I say.


Can't we just glue it back on, he says. And then for my benefit he adds - Superglue? Fevikwik?? Fevicol??? Kwikfix???? I wonder at his familiarity with various glue materials.


This is not a cocktail stirrer. It cannot be 'glued' back, I say.


How about if we keep it in place with a rubber band which bands it to the next tooth, he asks.


Wont work, I tell him honestly.


Ok, he says, what about if we drill a hole in the root and screwed this top back onto the root, he asks.

It's not like a screw on your washing machine fell off, I tell him, feeling the need to put things into perspective.

But perseverance is Abhay's middle name.

The last thing he said to me before we both burst out laughing is - Lets take the root out too. Then we can weld the crown back to the root and it can be placed right back into my gum.

I do know this - if I ever decide to do research in how to fix a badly broken tooth, Abhay is the first person I'll call.


And sometimes you just cannot help but laugh at the silliness. Arjun is a well known model and has been a patient for the past several months. We're just about to start his treatment when his phone rings. He picks it up and tells the person on the line - I can't talk now. I am in the middle of a shoot!!


A dentist has a tough job. We occasionally have to deal with paranoid partners, as in the case of Nikhil and his girlfriend. Nikhil is getting a smile makeover. It involves veneers, crowns, teeth whitening and many hours on my chair. After the third day of treatment, he tells me that his girlfriend is getting mad at him because he seems to be spending so much time with me.

As if on cue, his girlfriend (whom I have never met before) barges into my operating room and says - Anytime I ask him where he is, he says he's at the dentist.

I look at her benevolently and start to explain how this is a long procedure with no short cuts, but she is on a roll and I cannot get a word in edgewise. When I stop talking, I realise that she is saying - He's with you at nine in the morning, at two in the afternoon, at eleven in the night.

I tell her, he maybe with me at nine in the morning and at two in the afternoon, but I have no idea who he is with at eleven in the night and it sure as hell aint me.

Nikhil responds intelligently by burying his face into his hands....


Most recently, it was Mr Lall who was getting a root canal done. I had placed a temporary filling in his tooth (the temporary filling is a bit rubbery). He calls me later to say that the 'bubblegum' that I had placed in his mouth was getting loose and should be take it out and throw it or could he chew on it for a while!!!

I rest my case.

Happy smiling everyone.

Hello and Goodbye

Goodbye

friendships that don't mean much

mechanical days and tired nights

focussing on things that in the long run mean nothing

viewing the world through dark and cynical eyes

bad books and worse music

mourning the past and obsessing over the future

unmindful of the present

agonizing over boys with issues

agonizing over boys, period

monday morning blues and saturday night highs

loss of freedom and spontaneity

planning for the next 1 year or 10

broken dreams and failing courage

giving up and losing out

living incompletely


Hello

living preciously

living passionately

living


(Written on the eve of taking a one month break from work. Star gazing, bonding with friends, rediscovering old loves [er, of the non-human kind], basking in eternal love [yes, of the human kind] and living fearlessly are under-rated professions in my opinion and I look forward to a month of doing them justice)

All Left Feet

I peep around the door and see a huge room with about 20 couples. Lots of youngsters, but also quite a few grey heads. There is some Latin music playing in the background. The sense of anticipation is so high, I can feel adrenalin shoot through my veins as if I am at the start of an Olympic race. But no, this is something of far less national interest and of far greater personal interest - I am joining a dance class session at the Bangalore Club. My parents recently signed up for this dance class and they cajoled the instructor into letting me try a session out when I was visiting. I haven't been this excited since...er...well....to be honest, since Brian tried to hold my hand in high school (that was the very first of my hand holding experiences and tragically still rates as my all time high) . In my mind I can already see myself gliding across the floor. I can see myself doing twists and little marches and twirls and all the while looking fantastic while staring into my partner's eyes and making great conversation...yes, my mind is a wicked thing and I firmly believe that my power to hallucinate is one of my greater talents.



Alan is our instructor. He's there in track pants and a t-shirt that says - Chicks fall for guys who dance. I like him already. Most others have dressed up for the occasion - not sure of it's a Bangalore thing or a Bangalore Club thing. Since all the women get to dance with all the men (as in you don't just stick to your partner but you shift partners at every step), I can see that care has been taken with creaming hands, painting nails, spraying on the deodorant, then spraying plenty of perfume over it, shaving off the 4 o'clock whiskers and shoes polished to a reflective shine. It is all in all quite a grand affair for a dance class. Even the youngsters are well dressed and non-grungy. How cool is that.



Most of the class has already had a few sessions of Salsa. As the Salsa music comes on, the groups deftly divides itself as efficiently as Moses divided the Red Sea - men on one side, women on the other. This is where everyone re-caps their steps without partners. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. More precisely it is 1-2-3-clap-5-6-7-clap. The steps are easy enough to pick up by watching the others. The basic salsa step is a forward backward step. If you can manage to shake your hips and arms along with the footwork, and at the same time miraculously manage to not look like a rabid dog, you then know that you have a bright future in the dance world and you can then work on upping the 'sexy' quotient. For me, the challenge is more on looking 'human' and less on looking 'sexy', a problem I recognise right away. But hey, I am getting into the groove, I am doing the steps right and feeling a wonderful sense of liberation. I am thinking that I should have done this years ago.



And then suddenly it is time to pair up. I am paired with a man who dances like Fred Astaire and smells like the Malboro man - a heady mix of cologne and tobacco which magically transforms the aura around him. The only problem here is my two left feet are no match to his perfectly performing ones. When I bump into him and step over his feet for the second time, he kindly asks me if this is my first time. I start to nod yes, which causes a seconds lack of concentration and my two feet finally trip over each other and I fall flat on my face. The dancing comes to a complete stop, people rush over, my parents (who until then, I thought were kind people) are laughing away in a corner and wondering if they should tell anyone that they are related to me, I sit up far more embarrassed than hurt. It has taken me a mere 6 salsa steps and fifteen minutes to learn that dancing is indeed rocket science and I am the equivalent of a third grade imbecile.



But when you hit rock bottom things can only move up. I stand up to discover that my new partner is a cute young chap who looks extremely nervous at partnering the new girl whose dance moves involve intimate contact of her face iwth the floor. I gather up my fast fading courage and draw my thick skin closer and I start to dance cautiously. Maybe because this boy isn't as good a dancer or maybe because falling is the absolute worst thing that can happen to me, but my initial trepidation and self consciousness evaporate. I start doing the steps right, of course I have to stare at my feet all the while without which my mind goes blank and I cannot remember the next step. Alan keeps telling me that dancing is all about romance and social interaction and staring at my feet means that I am completely ignoring my partner. I smile at him, all the while wanting to grab him by the collar and let him in on the secret that staring at my feet has less to do with being unsocial and more to do with keeping myself upright instead of horizontal on the floor.


Alan moves onto a new step. It involves holding the right leg at right angles to the left one and then moving the left leg behind the right one and moving your body the other way, then twirling and finishing it off with a hair combing action...I wasn't kidding when I said this is rocket science. A few practise rounds of this and those who can dance are looking pretty darn good. Those who cannot dance look like they are on the verge of a grand mal epilepsy attack. My mom has mastered the steps pretty well, her habit of doing things precisely has permeated into her dancing. My dad on the other hand has a non-existant sense of rythmn, he cannot tell his left from his right and no matter how hard he tries, he can only start the first step on the third beat! With all these handicaps, his salsa looks like he is playing tennis on the spot. I suspect that I look like drunk toddler when I dance but by now I am having too good a time to care.


It is a one hour class. I get the chance to dance with all the guys. The tall one who has to bend at his waist to hold my hands. The young one who has to count loudly to keep his feet in time. The aggressive one who insists on showing me all the wrong steps (like I wasn't doing enough of that all on my own). The good looking one whose eyes I look into, never mind that I don't get a single step right with him. The 65 year old who stops to catch his breath after every 3 steps. The cute one who dances so well, the only thing I can do is stop and admire. The corporate one who decides when to start and stop and delegates the job of keeping the beat to me. The Bollywood one who keeps looking at himself in the mirror and (oh horror) keeps pouting.

The dancing class is over too soon. Did I learn to dance over that one hour - probably not. But I did learn that I would love to try it again. I imagine that in a hundred classes or so, I just might learn to be slightly graceful, to not step on too many toes and to smile and keep beat at the same time. But I know that I'll start enjoying the process from the first step.

We Are Just Good Friends

Some questions are eternal. They serve to eternally perplex and eternally amuse. My favourite quintessential eternal question is - Can a guy and girl be just good friends? It's one of those age old questions, one that has no right answer and yet it begs to be asked every now and then.

Ofcourse the ambiance in which this question is asked determines the quality of the answers you get. Ask it during a mellow evening, 3 beers down and Doors playing in the background, and chances are you'll get to hear some very funny experiences and some very honest opinions. Ask it at a less opportune time (like just before entering a meeting, if you have really bad judgement) and your guaranteed response will be a cold sharp look.

I'm sitting in a bar with a friend, rock music on the side and potato fries in our mouths. This is the perfect setting to delve into shady conversation such as this.

Can a guy and girl be just good friends? I ask her. Her being Priya, an old friend and someone who has just exited her 15th relationship in half as many years. Probably not the most appropriate person to get an opinion on being just good friends with a guy , but hey, she's candid and opinionated and she could be just what I need to get this question answered.

Sheesh ofcourse they can, she replies, all the while trying to make eye contact with the rocker looking fellow sitting on the opposite side of the bar. She continues - The pre-requisite is that each has to be physically repulsive to the other, otherwise there is always the danger that chemistry may creep in through the back door.

This from the girl who is drop dead gorgeous...but then again she can just about spell platonic. Hmmm, maybe she does have a point here.

So does a platonic friendship rely on smelly fungal feet, black teeth with holes in them and 300 gigantic warts? I turn to ask her this but am instead treated to the eye rumba between her and the rocker. I am guessing that those two are not heading up the platonic street any time soon.

I ask this to another friend, Sara. She's petite and bubbly and adorable and has been married for ten years, but not without her share of guy adventures.

Sure a guy and a girl can be friends. But I have found that a guy and I just cannot be good friends, she says ruefully. She puts it down to the fact that she thinks she sends out wrongs signals inadvertently, she is all green lights where reds should be glowing. Hence she has cut men friends out, no men, no complications. And yet despite her best attempts, her stubborn signals must be shining bright for she's is always the one to get hit on when when we go out, she has old boyfriends (and boys who were friends) constantly trying to get back in touch and a series of new men trying to get her number. In her defence, I have to say that the only guy she actually hangs out with a lot is someone who is awfully cute but obviously someone in whom she senses no danger and someone she introduces as 'my best girlfriend'.

I ask a guy I have known for quite sometime now. Can you and a girl be just good friends?

I'm just good friends with you, are'nt I, he asks with a twinkle in his eye. According to him, this is a question for an 18 year old. They are apparently the only ones who should be racked with strange and meaningless questions like this. Once you have crossed 30, you should only worry about the monumental questions like, how can I keep from balding and how can I make it last longer? We giggle together like the old friends that we are.

This question is irrelevant to an 18 years old, I tell him. Most 18 year olds can muster up enough chemistry even with a tea pot.

It's all age related, he insists. Then he elaborates - At 18, every girl you see has potential. At 30, you are probably in a relationship and it becomes easier to be just friends with other girls. At 70, the only friendship that exists is of the platonic type. Chemistry at this age is related to how quickly the aspirin tablet will dissolve in water.

Okay, so here's a new twist to an old tale. Can a guy and a girl be just good friends despite some initial chemistry / attraction? Are'nt there people we all know who were attracted to each other, maybe even went out for a bit before realising that they worked better as friends than as a couple and have stayed great friends ever since?

They probably can be friends even when the attraction exists, my friends says after chewing on the thought for a while. He continues - but as long as there is some amount of attraction, under no circumstances, not even accidently, should she try to look any prettier or touch his hand or kiss his cheek or say she missed him and wear a blouse with the top button undone!

Our final conclusion is that minor attractions can be managed if the girl acts like a bitch, dresses like a nun and keeps a room's distance between them.

It appears that being just good friends is hard work. Either there needs to be replusion of some sort. Or one foot needs to be in the grave. So what about people who really are just good friends? Work colleagues? Gym buddies? Singing in the same choir? Drinking buddies? Movie buddies?

They're probably people who just dont find other people sexually attractive, says Arpana, close friend, confidant and someone who has managed to convert even the most complicated of relationships - her marriage - into a platonic state of two good friends living together as flat-mates. She says that opposite sexes can be great friends, but only if the friendship is not complicated by lust. You can never be friends with a guy you fantasize about. I agree completely. No point playing Scrabble with a guy and pretending to think of a word that starts with an s and ends with a t, which will fetch you 22 points, when all you are dying to do is run your fingers through his hair. Bad bad idea.

So here is the final conclusion from a bunch of been-there-done-that people. As a girl if you want to be good friends with a guy, you need to be terrible looking, mean, married and not in touch with your sexual side. As a guy, if you want to be good friends with a girl, you need to leave your testosterone at home and belch a few times for good measure.

As for me, I do think guys and girls can be just good friends. It's got do with being with the right people, being happy with other aspects of your life, being in a satisfying relationship, having areas of interest with your friends and trust . Have I had strange vibes from guys I thought I was being just friends with? Er, yes, especially in those hormone driven college days, but I moved beyond it or through it depending on how important the friendship was.

But today I am good friends with several guys. Fun, intellegient, talented guys. And I dont look at them as 'guys', I look at them as friends. And we're just good friends. No complications, no issues. And you know what this means right - Either that I am acompletely unattractive pain in the neck or that I'm one of the luckiest girls in this world.

the mind vs. destiny

destiny is muscled, sinewy and strong

plowing through best laid plans

unheeding to what the soul wants

erect and unweilding it stands

but my mind has a mind of it's own

more fierce and willful than fate's hand

it knows my heart which destiny ignores

and i know life will always be grand

for as fate pulls and shoves with might

the mind fights tooth and nail

both may be matched in strength and wrath

but my mind will rarely fail

Mini Arranged Marriage

Mini is getting married. To all of you who don’t know her (and most of you won’t since Mini is not really her name, you see), she is one of my closest friends. This is an event that marks miracles this side of the resurrection. To recap mildly, Mini is an aberration. She fits into her family the same way a pole dancer would fit into the knitting club. She is bold, they are conservative. She is reckless, they are planners. She stands a full head taller than them, they are...well...short people. Her family routinely discusses which planet they think she has dropped down from and regular blame is assigned for her faulty genes (her father’s father is the most popular culprit since his was the family had the rogues, the smugglers, the travellers and the thinkers).

Mini for her part, is an expert eye-roller. She can even roll her eyes with her eyelids shut. It has gotten to be such a habit that I am quite sure it has been taken the place of a nervous tick. She now does it involuntarily (much like her breathing) and at the most inappropriate times (like when someone poor unsuspecting soul is complimenting her).

Mini’s marriage (or more recently the lack of one) has been a source of conversation in her house since she was 21. Most girls in their family are married by the time they reach 24. 25 and single is considered a very dangerous place to be. 26 is considered dead. At 32, Mini is apparently a walking talking veteran ghost. Yet she remains unfazed. Her strategy, for better or worse, is that if you can’t beat them or join them, then ignore them. And she does it with such panache. Her not being married is not for her family’s lack of trying. There was the boy who wanted a homely girl, only to meet her and amend it to ‘quiet’ girl. Then there was the proposal where she was asked to sing. She did walk out of that one saying she was definitely underqualified for the position. There was also the boy who was 2 inches shorter than she was. She didn’t mind, he did, end of story. Her family even tried where there was no hope. The boy who was already married. Only that it was in an obscure court and could / would be annulled and could she please marry him now since he promised to get everything sorted out within the year. She was thrilled to have a reason to not talk to her family for days after that. She was 28 at the time.

A few weeks ago, Mini calls me. I can immediately tell that something is up from her deceptively calm voice that quivers just a little bit. Mini is only calm when things are going terribly wrong. Otherwise she is the human equivalent of an electric storm.

There’s a boy coming to see me, she says without preamble.

Boy? I am a bit confused.

Boy, man, whatever, she replies and I get it.

I don’t know what to say. We’ ve done the “wow, that’s great” routine way too many times. So I say the next best thing - oh no.

Oh yes, only now that I’m 32 it no longer qualifies as a proposal. They’re calling it the ‘Family Friends Visit’, she mutters.

What do you know about him, I ask her. I am always more curious about the boys than she is (I don’t think I even want to know what that says about me!).

She sighs. He’s a venture capitalist, he is with a bank, he’s 35 years old, he probably weighs 100 kgs and has bad breath, she rattles off.

I can help with the bad breath, I tell her.

I can literally see her rolling her eyes. Do you think mainly about teeth and nothing else, she complains.

I have half a mind to tell her that I think only of teeth and nothing else, but I do like to keep the image going that I have half a dozen important and interesting things perusing in my head and hence wisely keep my mouth shut.

He’s coming over tomorrow. Say you’ll come over and hang out with me so I feel like I have one friend in the room, she says.

Mini needing moral support is an alien concept. She normally has enough mental strength to booster the Indian army. But I am not about to say no and turn down the chance to be in the middle of more action than I’ve seen in a very long time.

I go to her house early the next day. I am dressed inappropriately in jeans and a t-shirt. Her mother gives me severe disapproving looks. I try to look apologetic. Mini is in her room. She has a list ready of all the things that she will not do. I first think that she is talking about her life, but soon realize that she is referring to the next 4 hours.

I will not walk into the room carrying a tray of tea. I will not wear a sari. I will not sing/dance/recite poetry/touch my toes. I will not attempt to make 20 bhajjias in 5 minutes. I will not look coyly at him and bat my eyelids. I will not cry afterwards.

I cannot agree with her more. Besides, the only thing she can do effectively with her eyes is roll them. Batting them is not in her repertoire, I point out to her.

She wears a beautiful cotton salwar kameez. In mild rebellion she ties her lovely hair up in a pony tail. Wears minimal make up which in my opinion only makes her look more beautiful. Puts on 3 inch heels which makes her very tall indeed. She’s ready.

The ‘family visitors’ have arrived. Mini is upstairs but her eye rolling has started as soon as the first hello is said between the prospective families. Her grandmother has already started her nervous cough.

This is all so blasé, she grumbles.

I look at her as strictly as I know how and say, Mini, no matter what, no matter why, please please do not roll your eyes when you get down there.

Her mother comes up to say that her grandmother is having a bad coughing fit in the middle of all this and can Mini please first get her some warm water and then come out to meet everyone. Mini puts a glass of warm water onto a tray and goes in search of her grandmother only to realize that her grandmother is sitting with all the visitors and that Mini has entered the room with the dreaded glass on a tray. I can see her kicking herself over breaking the first in the list of things-I-will-not-do, never mind that the tea is now a glass of water. Her family is creative at desperate times, I give them that. I give her credit for not rolling her eyes, though she’s had to keep her eyes remarkably fixed on her gran to prevent them from making their usual journey upwards. In all this Mini has yet to look at the boy, but I have had no such delays. As I look at him looking at her, I begin to smile. Maybe this day will be alright after all.

She finally stops glaring at her gran long enough to look around the room. As her gaze settles on him, I see her break another promise in her will-not-do list. She smiles coyly at him and bats her eyelids. The rest as they say is history. And no she didn’t have to do sit ups or sew a button in front of them. No he is not shorter than her in her 3 inch heels. And no he is not overweight, or geeky, or creepy, or just plain old, or boring (all the things she was worried about). And as she triumphantly informs me later, no he has does not have bad breath.

She’s getting married 3 months from now. More importantly, she is reformed. She tells him to drive safe. A few months ago, she would not have tolerated anyone giving her the same advice. A drive safe comment would normally push her into careening across asphalt at 100 km per hour. She now spends hours on the phone when in the normal case she is so distracted that it is near impossible to keep her on the line for more than 3 minutes even in a life or death situation. She now worries about whether he’s eaten enough. I am beyond shocked. The last time Mini worried about anyone eating enough was in 2002 when her dog fell ill. She now watches romantic comedies and cries when earlier her idea of a light flick was Kill Bill.

And finally, finally, she has stopped rolling her eyes! God bless you, Mini.

Hush

Listen carefully

Look inwards

For God speaks

In quiet whispers

Last And Final Call

I love flying. Admittedly for purely selfish reasons. I love being in my own coccoon of peace for two hours or ten, being able to watch movies back to back, being able to relish food that a hungry person would not touch normally, being able to read while the body moves at 800 kilometers per hour (amazing), for being completely cut off from the world with a very valid reason. But most importantly, I love the identity crisis that flying presents me with. Once I enter the airport, I am anonymous. Despite the fact that the ticket, the boarding pass, my passport, and all documents of any relevance have my name on it, when I fly I am anonymous. I am surrounded by 300 people who don't know me from Adam (er, Eve in this case). I can be whomever I want. I can be this gorgeous sophisticated girl who turns her nose up at everything (I carry this out to perfection despite my nose being a little too flat for it). Or I can be this giggly cute girl who smiles at everyone. Or I can be the pain in the ass who complains about everything. Oh, I relish the thought of re-defining myself if only for a few air borne hours.



Ofcourse then there are the flights that have forced me to be a certain persona despite my best intentions at being someone else. Like the British Airways flight that lost my luggage (again). Up until that time, I was Ms. Calm & Unruffled, my head did not turn even when the passenger in front of me threw up loudly. Yet the lost luggage miraculously transformed me into a screaming and shouting shrew, fighting for the 200 pounds compensation to buy new underwear and a few jackets - yes it was a matter of life and death, I yelled at them. Did they want the complication of death by hypothermia - cause of death: loss of baggage and warm clothes by careless airline? Or the Singapore Airlines flight where I was the ultra casual, torn jeans, thin t-shirt, well worn sneakers, no make up Ms. Grunge until I realised that I was seated next to the Fashion Editor for Elle. I did desperately attempt damage control by taking out the newest Estee Lauder mascara from my purse and waving it around like a wand hoping she'd notice that I was infact slightly fashion conscious - but she just looked at me though eyelashes that were like a forest and said - honey, I'm not sure if you know but that is expensive. I did deliberate laying out my Clinique and Mac make-up on my food tray, but for that I'd have to get into the aisle and then she'd see my ultra scruffed shoes. But my favourite was when I was Ms. Gothic - 1 inch thick black kajal on my upper and lower eyelids, funky hair, dark blue nail polish, nude lipstick, 10 black and silver bracelets, two silver crosses on my ears, a larger silver cross hanging from my neck and an all black ensemble where the t-shirt said BAD BOYS ROCK. The steward looked at me strangely as he seated me, I saw him glancing at my seat number, probably earmarking it as a source of future problems. About 10 minutes later someone sits next to me. I turn trilled at the prospect of scaring someone new when I see a very distinguished looking gentleman whom I recognise to be an extremely well known doctor. I spend the rest of my flight trying to convince him that I am a doctor too and that yes, I do have a great practice and no, I do not normally dress this way and no I am NOT a troubled teenager.



I recently flew to the U.S. on work. This time I was going to focus on the things that were important - the movies, the desserts, the sleep, catch up on my reading. I was looking forward to a quiet flight. I was going to be Ms. Not Interested In Talking and would have my iPod glued into my ears for good measure.



I sit back loving the seats, I go through the food menu, I scan the entertainment listings, boy was I in for the flight of my life. In hindsight, I cannot fathom how something that started so right, ended up so wrong.



It all starts when he sat next to me. He smiles, I smile. I look away, it is all part of the 'dont even think of starting a conversation' move. Twenty seconds later, he taps me on my shoulder. I look at him. His lips are moving. Does he not see the eyephone in my ears? I slowly take my iPod out.


Yes, I smile

Hi, he says, travelling to New York?

I stare at him in amazement. I am on a flight to New York and yet he asks me this?

Yes, I say for lack of a better answer.



I turn away. I turn the volume up on my music till I am sure he too can hear it. Twenty seconds later, he taps me again. I turn towards him incredulously. This time I can see his lips moving but I do not take my eyephones out. It is only when I see him gesticulating wildly that I realise perhaps he is trying to tell me something important. I take my iPod off and smile.


I hope you don't mind but I might snore when I sleep, he says sheepishly

No problem, that's what my head phones are for, I smile back

There is one more thing, he says, when they come around with the liqour can you please take two extra bottles of Black Label for me, if you don't mind?

I don't know what I am more aghast at - that fact that he feels comfortable enough to ask me this or the fact that he has mistaken me for his wife or sister or best friend.

I'm sorry I cannot do that, I say and firmly plug my earphone back in.

And the flight has not even taken off.

As the liqour cart is being wheeled around, he sneaks glances at me. I figure he is trying to muster up the courage to ask me again and so I pointedly stare into my book. I order some white wine for now and a Coke for later. He orders two bottles of Black Label. After forty minutes, he goes for a walk and comes back with one more bottle.

Good for him, he has figured this out all on his own, I think.


As I plug into the in-flight entertainment, he drifts off to sleep. A few minutes later, I cannot understand why the movie has a strange background sound. Something like a drum roll. I fiddle around with the settings but cannot seem to get rid of the sound. It is at this stage that I also begin to notice some other passengers looking my way.

As I take off the headphones, a very loud unnatural sound accousts me. A sound that overshadows the drone of the aircraft, that dulls the chatter of the other passengers, that even infiltrates through the inflight entertainment. It is the sound of a chugging locomotive going through a tunnel to a background orchestra of a hundred out of tune trumpets - by gosh it is his snore. No wonder he had felt the need to warn me about it. If only he had told me he makes a horrendous, painful, choking whining noise when he sleeps, but no, he chose to call it a snore which completely misled me into thinking it would be...well...a snore.

I have no option. I put the volume on loud and try and lose myself in George Clooney's eyes, a feat normally achieved without any effort on my part, but not today. I feel cheated. I briefly contemplate stuffing two pens up his nose or putting a wad of paper in his mouth but chicken out at the last moment. Just as I am staring at him in complete frustration, he opens his eyes, yawns loudly (I stop breathing for a minute lest there be any exchange of air), goes for a walk down the aisle and comes back with a Black Label bottle. I watch him surreptiously as I have yet to see him take a single sip of the stuff. He glances around furtively and then opens the lapel of his jacket and the bottle disappears inside. I stifle a grin, I can't wait for him to start loading up his jeans pockets with bottles.

In the meanwhile, I know my seat comes with a foot massage. Mine is wonderful and puts me to sleep almost immediately. A long, black, dreamless sleep, during which time, unknown to me, two more bottles have been delivered to the next seat. As I wake up and make my way to the washroom a little unsteadily, two air hostesses smile at me sympathetically. Another one comes to hold my hand and guide me into the washroom. I am perplexed.

As I exit, one of them asks me if I'm feeling well and says that a lot of liqour can sometimes cause dehydration when flying.

A lot of liqour??? Could they possibly be referring to my 30 ml of white zinfandel consumed 6 hours ago?

The airhostess continues unfazed. She has appearently seen many drunk passengers feigning sobriety.

Do you think a coffee would help? she asks me

Help what? I ask, really confused.

Help you feel better, she says

But I feel fine, just a little groggy, I insist.

She smiles knowingly. It's fine honey, she says. Most people are pretty groggy after a few Balck Labels.


I think the shock on my face finally registers.


But he kept telling us that his friend would like some more and we thought you were the friend, she says.


I march back to my seat distintively less groggy and significantly more angry. What audacity. How dare he. As I reached my seat, I note that he has his foot massage going on and is sitting with his eyes shut and listening to something on his headphone.

I try and control my temper as I do not want to create a scene in front of the crew. So I stick my headphones back into place and this time I try I really try to focus on the movie. After a while, from the corner of my eye, I can see that he is saying something to me. I look determindely at the screen, I ignore him, I refuse to look at him. I know that his voice is growing louder, but this is my space and I am not obliged to chare it with him. But then he starts gesticulating again, wild gestures which for some reason seem to be concentrated around the front of his pants. I finally look at him helplessly as I turn down the volume. I am just in time to catch him tell me, at the top of his voice - Your zip is undone.

All eyes turn towards me. I look down and he is right. Now I know and the entire plane knows that my zip is down and that worse still, I'll probably have to stand up to zip up.

It is the longest 10 hours of my life. I refuse to acknowledge him for the rest of the journey. He on the other hand now seems to think that we're best friends since we have crossed a personal line (my zip being down and all that). He talks a lot, I keep completely silent and shut my eyes.

Finally when we get off the flight, I am almost tempted to ask for a refund. He on the other hand has arrived in good spirits. As he is disembarking, he confides in me - My friend in New York loves Black Label and asked me to get him some from the aircraft. The crew were really nice about it, I just had to tell them that it was for my friend and they kept giving me more without asking any questions.

I know, I say wearily to his retreating back, as I finally pull my zip up.

Five x Four

Memories like dusk fade away
Into a night of black and blue
The bad ones change shape and size
Only the good ones stay true
__________________________

He said he loved her though he didn't
She said she'd love him or die
He walked away without a thought
She hung herself with his tie
__________________________

I am a wandering soul
With no destination in mind
I travel with a simple passion
To see what I will find
__________________________

Life throws you a curveball
You think it's coming straight
You put your hand down to catch it
And it whacks you on your pate
__________________________

Pleasure is not unlike pain
One joy, the other strife
The biggest purpose of both
Is to remind us that we're alive

Being Single And Fabulous for a Day

Inspiration can hit me at the most frivolous of times. I can get terribly inspired by good food and then I suddenly find my self in my kitchen whipping up a mess and trying to look good while I'm at it. Thankfully my food related inspiration is always short lived! Or if I meet a friend who has just run a marathon, this invariably sparks a fresh wave of desire to be an athlete. I'll walk briskly for a few days and if I am truly inspired I might do a good imitation of a run, if I'm lucky I might even break into a sweat. Not surprisingly, exercise related inspiration lasts even shorter than my cooking ones and soon common sense prevails and I am grateful to be back to getting my exercise from dancing in high heels (to those poh pahing this, please try a 3 hour dancing session in pointy toed high heels. I assure you that gruelling levels match that of a marathon and you don't even get a medal to show for it).


More uselessly, movies which have gorgeous women in it - Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore, Drew Barrymore, Cameron Dias, Julia Roberts - never fail to inspire me to the scary extent that I can take on their accent, the toss of their heads and their sexy walk (if only from the theatre seat till the parking lot). No, none of these last long - after all, inspiration from a flaky sources is, at the end of the day, flaky inspiration.


Speaking of flaky inspiration, I decided to see if I could be a Sex and the City kind of gal. Not any particular character from the series, but a composite of what a fabulous Manhattan woman would be like. I am determined to examine if buying 50 pairs of shoes can high heel my troubles away, and if I can still look great after endless nights of partying with countless glasses of cosmopolitans and if plunging necklines and shrinking hemlines can make me appear more attractive (you already know the answer to that but for some reason I feel compelled to test the theory in person!). I imagine this would be a truly liberating experience.


First things first - I scour my shoe shelves (sorry Carrie Bradshaw, I wish I had an entire shoe closet, but if I did, it would probably be filled with books). I take out all my high heels and choose a pair of gorgeous maroon stilettos. Then the outfit - a neck line slightly lower than what I would wear to work, wind tousled hair that took 30 minutes to carefully create, a cute pink beret on my head (I normally don't do berets), a scarf around my neck and some chunky jewelery. Finally, the make up. Make no mistake, Manhattan women really go the full nine yards with make up, even just for regular work. I wasn't going to sell myself short. And so I spend an inordinate amount of time applying concealer, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, lipstick and a hint of gloss. I know I am digressing here but I feel compelled to say that purple eye shadow really does look purple...there is none of that delicate hue that you see gorgeous women wearing on their eyes. This is eek, what is that on her eye, did someone hurt you honey, purple. Try washing it away vigorously with dish washing liquid and if lucky, you then may get the colour you are hoping for, but then again it may clash with the very red eyes.


And thus I set off to work. Huge sunglasses, gorgeous handbag that fits nothing that is of use in it's 5mm length and a confidence that comes with...well...ignorance. In hindsight I should have realised that I look like a transvestite with an Hermes bag, on his/her first night at the dance club. But at 9 am in the morning, what is obvious to everyone else (hence the stares that I mistake for admiration) is completely lost on me.


As I strut into my practice, the receptionist nearly drops the phone. I cannot tell if it is the neckline or the 4" heels or the huge gold rings dangling from my ears, but I help pick her jaw up from the floor.


As we gather for the morning patient case discussions, my partner looks at me and casually says - Forgot to comb the hair?


I hate unsolicited comments, er...actually, only the ones that don't compliment. I roll my eyes and say, it's the natural look.


I get an unnatural look in response from him.


The first patient who also happens to be a friend walks in. What's with the hair? she exclaims. And this is before she sees the makeup and the stilettos, which effectively renders her speechless. The only plus in this is that I can work on her teeth without any of the usual interruptions from her. Needless to say, she spends the entire appointment with her mouth open and her eyes on my purple eye shadow. I could have opened a root canal without anaesthesia and she wouldn't have blinked an eyelid.


Somehow what I think is going to be a morning of Sex and the City meets Grey's Anatomy ends up being a bad remake of the beginning of Pretty Woman.


I go out to lunch. After all that's what the fabulous women in Manhattan do - they are the women who lunch. And despite the less than auspicious start, I am determined to complete this day in Manhattan style. So in my favourite pair of high heels I step out onto Mumbai's rain drenched streets. An in ghastly moment that I don't recall seeing on Sex and the City, my heel goes and gets stuck into the gaps in the metal lid over a gutter, in full view of 5 autorickshaw drivers, 3 roadside romeos, 25 construction workers and 2 really hot guys.


As I limp into the restaurant, my lunch date looks at my feet in concern.

What the hell happened? he asks

My heel got stuck in a gutter, I mumble.

Oh poor you, he sympathises, is that also where you got the bruise around your eyes?

I am never wearing this damn purple eye shadow again.

He looks at me quizzically. Why such high heels on such a miserably rainy day? he asks.

Because I want to be absolutely fabulous for one day and look and act completely unlike myself, I try to explain. I want to reinvent myself as a walking talking object of brilliance and beauty and style.

He grins back. Yes the black eye is very in, he says, going back to eating his steak.

I contemplate whacking him with the one remaining heel, but instead sneak the fries off his plate which I am sure will hurt him more.


After the afternoon gutter incident, I am also now forced to go shoe shopping - yes, it is in the plan, just that now it is completely justified. I go from one shoe store to the next, feeling like Cinderella. I am also testing the theory that like the characters from Sex and the City who can pay ransomish amounts for designer shoes that call out to them (!) and still have a wallet with money for drinks, lunch and more shopping, will my wallet have an endless bottom. I am sad to report, an afternoon of aggressive shoe shopping leaves me with an empty wallet (no, not even coins), a rumbling stomach but ooh, truly divine shoes.


That evening as I get ready to go out for a night of dancing with friends, I am hopeful that atleast the evening will end on a high note. I am dressed in Manhattan chic - the little black dress, silver strappy shoes, loads of make up (to compensate for dim lighting) and re-installed confidence. I am determined to have the city strewn with gorgeous men in my wake. Two dances into the night and I'm feeling a vibe. I know someone has their eye on me. My ears are burning up. My antenna is catching a signal. I then feel a hand tap me on my shoulder. I turn around to see a large moustache.


Hello, says the moustache, myself N.D. Shashi Subramanium. I peer below the moustache to see a mouth full of very white teeth which glow neon blue in the discotheque lights.


I smile sweetly at him and say, hello, myself going.


As my friends and I toss back the cosmopolitans and walk out of there, I am hit with the epiphany of a lifetime....(I admit it, my epiphanies are as frivolous as my inspirations)....sure I can do Sex and the City as long I slightly modify to suit local conditions, like lets say Heels and the Gutters or Cosmopolitans and the Moustache.


I have achieved one thing though. It has been a liberating experience - I no longer feel the desire to be Manhattan-fabulous. For what I might be able to carry off in Manhattan, I now know I cannot in Mumbai. From personal (and some of it painful) experience, I can tell you that you can bring Manhattan to the girl, but you sure as hell cannot take Mumbai out of her.

There Is No Such Thing As A Sane Family Reunion

As far as family reunions go, this one was quite tame - no one was murdered and atleast half of the family still talks to each other. The other half is ofcourse plotting it's revenge.

It all started with Rajanchayan sending out an innocent email inviting about 65 members of our extended family to the family home in Thumpamon, Kerala. Rajanchayan and his wife are citizens of the US, but have returned to India post retirement to enjoy the good simple life (that means getting local gossip at the beauty parlour, reading the obituary fastidiously and getting involved in local YWCA or church activities and politics...the politics at times far outweighing the activities).

The family house in Thumpamon is the old house that my great grandparents lived in. It is huge with 15 rooms, a long verandah, large wooded areas around the house, a 200 year old well and a cow shed which now houses the lone cow Susie. The red oxide floors have now given way to printed ceramic tiles and there are four indoor bathrooms with plumbing (I hear several male cousins were disappointed to hear that no one bathed at the well anymore). But for the better part, the house still feels like part of history. Over the years it had absorbed the charcoal firewood smell which now lingers on despite firewood having not been used there for over fifteen years. The smell is part of the house's legacy.

Day 1: Many of Rajanchayan's brothers came into town including my grandfather with my grandmother. I had already arrived that morning with my parents. As each car came up the driveway, there was a bit of a welcome ceremony. It was Taj meets Cozy Inn Motel. Omanakochama (Rajanchayan's wife) got a welcome drink out complete with an umbrella and a cherry for each guest. Rumour has it that troublesome visitors had their drink spiked with plenty of rum to put them in a better mood. I cannot attest to this for unfortunately I was not troublesome enough and I arrived before the fancy plans were in place. Each person also got a garland made of banana leaves.

There was much hugging and kissing (the Kerala way of kissing is to inhale sharply as lip touches cheek) and many many comments on weight lost or gained and receeding hair lines. Malayalis are not in the least bit diplomatic and this was in full evidence here. As soon as Maryamma got out of the car, everyone immediately asked her why she was looking so old and frail. As for Thampichayan, he was left struggling to answer why his paunch had grown so much and was told that if his pants were any further down, the children would be asked to close their eyes.

And so began the reunion.

Relatives were pouring in from various parts of the world. The first of the 'incidences' as I call them, happened soon after noon on Day 1. Ryan arrived - he's a cousin from the U.K.. His mom Daisykochama was already there. Everyone ran out to welcome him. As he got out of his car, his face hinted that there was more to come. Sure enough, behind him popped out 2 long legs, green high heels and a very short skirt. Ryan, in all his wisdom, had chosen the family reunion to introduce his Puerto Rican dancer girlfriend of 3 months, to his mother. Daisykochoma was first shocked, then furious. She started muttering under her breath about bad children, ungratefulness, selfishness, embarassment and the such. At lunch she kept banging the plates as she laid them down. After 2 plates cracked, Omanakochama gently removed the rest of them from Daisykochama's hands...this was too minor an issue to break Wedgewood China over.

By evening there were 28 relatives at the reunion. Patsy Aunty suggested a small prayer before the evening round of drinks started (let me just state at this point, Alcohol is a family member and present at all family gatherings). So everyone was summoned into the dining room where Patsy Aunty stood in the front with the Bible and started singing a hymn. One hymn led to another and very soon you could see the men look at each other restlessly. As the fifth hymn drew to an end, there was a collective sigh of relief. Patsy Aunty took the opportunity to start a prayer which had no end. Finally as she was praying for a whole bunch of people no one knew, Rajanchayan asked her if we could stop. In the few moments that it took her to decide what to reply, the 'congregation' had dispersed and within 3 seconds, everyone was knocking back vodka shots. Patsy Aunty was offended and went off to brood in a corner.

Dinner was an awkward affair. Patsy Aunty bravely proposed a prayer before dinner (she's not one to give up easily) - it just propelled everyone to shovel spoonfulls into their mouths and chew loudly. Ryan's girlfriend was drunk and kept trying to kiss him. Ryan was not drunk enough to reciprocate. Everyone else tried to look away except for his mother Daisykochama who glared straight at him without blinking.

It was eloquently summed up by my 6 year old niece Tia who said "sheesh" as she rolled her eyes as only six year olds can.

Day 2: New visitors. The Americans had arrived - aunts, uncles, cousins. Between the twelve of them, they covered all vitally crucial questions - how many calories did the welcome drink have, was the water in it bottled, was malaria going around, why had'nt the airport improved, did the cable tv offer Fox channels. They took over the house with their protein bars, mineral water, Blackberrys, vitamin pills, exercise videos (I am not joking) , iPods, laptops and other exotic things. Sara was my mom's cousin from L.A.

So Preeti, said Sara, how are you?

Great. Absolutely fine, I replied breezily with a huge smile on my face.

I was quickly reminded that Sara was treated for depression a few years ago. I wanted to be extra cautious not to trigger any strong emotions in her, such as jealousy or envy.

I quickly lost the smile. Er, actually things are not perfect perfect, they're just ok fine, I amended.

She looked at me as if I were the one a little off my rocker.

She held my hand. Do you feel no one understands you? Do you need someone to talk to? she asked me in a low whisper.

Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into, I thought.

I was saved from answering by the bell, literally. We opened to door to find Sara's ex-husband standing there, big grin on his face, new wife on his arm.

Rajanchayan and Omanakochama look at each other in horror. Someone had screwed up. Who the hell had invited the ex?

Sara went white and speechless. Ex-husband leaned forward to give her a peck. Sara lifted her hand to push him away. New wife got in the way. A bloody nose and a bruised eye followed.

Everyone watched this like a movie unfolding. Everyone except for Rajanchayan who was at his computer, frantically through the reunion invite mailing list. He was furious- who was responsible for this fiasco? A few seconds later, he returned with a guilty look on his face.

Sara went in to lie down. The aunts fawned over her. The young boys fawned over the new wife - they tripped over each other to get her ice for her black eye. Rajanchayan got dirty looks for messing things up.

A few minutes later, an aunt came running out of the bedroom. Sara had appearently swallowed five anti-depressant tablets. A doctor was summoned, though some idiot did say - Let Preeti have a look at her. I stared back - I am a dentist, I dont think checking her teeth at this time will help, I said pointedly. The doctor arrived 2 hours later. He checked Sara and pronounced her safe. He then checked the new wife's eye which was swollen like a lemon. There was much emphasis on how the doctor was not to let one know that he was checking the other.

That evening everyone hit the bar even before Patsy Aunty could make her usual suggestion. So she headed to Sara's room instead to offer a special prayer. As soon as Sara saw her coming, she reached for her pills. Patsy Aunty had to be led away gently. The rejection of her prayer sessions was getting her down and I suspected she would soon need some of medication of her own.

And thus the second day passed. Ryan avoided Daisykochama. Daisykochama avoided Ryan's girlfriend. Sara avoided ex husband. Everyone avoided Patsy Aunty. Rajanchayan was fired for sending the ex an invitation, even if it was by mistake.

The reunion was really on a roll.

Day 3: 11 am and I was sitting at the arack shop with Sue, a cousin sister from the UK. Sue is half Malayali and half English, a combination that makes her exquisite. We're were stopping traffic as people spied 2 girls in strappy tops and shorts sitting at an arack shop. Sue was especially arresting with her blonde curls and 5 ft 8in height. A crowd of men wearing lungis hiked up to their underwear had gathered outside the shop and were openly staring at us. A few more cousins joined us and pretty soon we had 15 people inside the 3x6 ft arack shop. For most of us, it was the cheapest (and quite frankly strangest tasting) 'liqour' we had drunk in a very very long time.

As we returned home, we noticed two people huddled together in the cow shed. On closer inspection it was Ryan's girlfriend (presumably ex girlfriend now) and the neighbours son!

That afternoon while most took a nap, Sara was heard telling Patsy Aunty about the benefits of anti depressants. Ryan meanwhile, was asking everyone below the age of 25 if they had a joint (atleast 5 people did...). The ex husband and the new wife left quietly, appearently she was quite miffed with the welcome she got! Sue was headed back to the arack shop - the owner had promised her eight free bottles if she spent some time there drawing attention to his little shop.

The evening tea was finally the first normal, peaceful meal in 3 days. Everyone was heaving a collective sigh of relief when Yohan, cousin from Chennai, loudly announced that he was gay...and all hell broke loose again.

Love, anger, deceipt, drugs, prayers, black eyes, excitement. Such was the nature of the family reunion. Rajanchayan has been banned from ever proposing one again, or else his wife Omanakochama has predicted that the next one will come complete with it's own divorce.

Yours Fatally

life said to death

it's a downright pity we met

death said to life

I'm always around but you forget

Scratching the Seven Year Itch

I am told that the institute of marriage should have it's license revoked or expire at seven years. Not less, because there is a certain freshness that exists even at five years of marriage that somehow and strangely disappears at seven. Not more, because experts tell me that after 10 years of marriage, the spouse is more sibling-like and less better-half...they fight over old wounds, they develop selective hearing and worst of all, husband and wife start to look like each other thus reinforcing the sibling theory. Thus after 10 years, it seems pointless to dissolve one union only to get into a fresh one and have to slowly metamorph into yet another person's sibling-like being!

Seven years , wow that's a long time, says my good friend (lets call her SAS for Short And Sweet).

We are in fact attending a wedding and chatting to fill time while we wait for the bride to arrive. The groom is already in the church, sweating a wet patch through his pristine white shirt. The heat? Could be. But my bet is that he is nervous and wondering if he has foolishly killed any last minute chance of sprinting out of here. I pray (being in church and all that) that the video recording of the service does not capture any snippets of our talk. SAS however has no such concerns as she states her opinion in a loud stage whisper which I swear can be heard three pews down.

How can seven years be a long time? I ask, bewildered. When you have promised "till death do us apart", you should be hoping for 50 years upwards. Do you really want death just seven years later? Should the priest modify his sermon to include "till death do you apart or till the first seven years, whichever comes first". And what about the astrologers who joyously tell you that you'll be together for the next seven lifetimes?

With certain people seven years can feel like seven lifetimes, SAS says, her voice no longer qualifying as a whisper (it is now gaining strength in terms of decible level and speed).

I hush her but it only fuels her enthusiam for the subject.

Besides, she continues, marriage and life span should not be so intricately connected. When the priest says - till death do you apart - he may not be talking about physical death but death of the marriage.

Her warped logic strangely makes sense and even I cannot argue it.


So how do people move beyond the seven year barrier? Is it like pretending it does not exist? Does one go from celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary directly to celebrating their eighth?

Oh well, says another friend sitting in the pew behind (I'll call him SAM for Semi Automatic Marriage), I decided to give the seventh year all I had. I had been flying on auto pilot for so long that I decided it was time to romance my wife, I wrote her poetry, I took her out, I complimented her.

Did it work? I was so curious. Could the seven year itch be appeased if enough effort was put into it?

The problem, SAM says, is that she continued to itch while I tried to be the emotional equivalent of soothing lotion .

Effort from his side did not equal effort from her side. It's a lesson hard learnt. Six years of being a bad partner could not be itched away so easily.

No one says marriage is easy.

The wedding on the other hand, proceeds without a hitch. Vows are exchanged in nervous voices, rings are exchanged with only mildly shaky hands, the kiss takes place (an unfortunately short one keeping in mind that parents were watching!). SAS sighs in disappointment over the last one. As the couple walk down the aisle after the ceremony is over, the bride is busy straightening her dress and veil and pushes the grooms hand away with a grimace as soon as he tries to help.

Trouble in paradise? I wonder aloud.

Oh no, SAS says gleefully, that's the seven year itch getting an early start on things.

Everything would have been just fine had the couple not heard us!


As I came home that night, I could not help but wonder - do all marriages go through this? If yes, the future looks kind of bleak.

Nonsense, says ALIA (stands for nothing, it really is just her name), best friend and confidant, married for 15 years. The seven year itch is a misnomer. It is actually pre-wedding jitters which are proven right over the course of the next seven years.

I am sorry I asked. And I rest my case.


A few nights later, I sit with MBH (that's Married But Happy!). She's the sister of the bride and the one who had to convince the bride not to beat SAS up in front of all the other guests.

How did you manage the seven year itch? I ask her.

She thinks about it. She looks at me and then decides that I deserve the truth.

I got my seven year itch in my second year, she says. I did everything one dreams of doing during this time. I gave into it completely. It was unadultrated hedonism 101. I got close to another man, I ignored my home, I went back to study, I went into therapy hoping to find myself, I travelled around the world pretty much for the same reason. I finally came back home 8 months later, completely spent and with the startling clarity for the very first time in my life that my husband and my marriage were absolutely perfect for ME. No other man and no other marriage would do it for me. The seven year itch saved my marriage and taught me more about life and choices than anything else ever will.


As for me, I dont know what the future holds. Does bliss today ensure an itch-proof tomorrow? I'm taking my chance with time, love and marriage. I'll learn my own lessons along the way.

But this much I know for sure - SAS should no longer be invited to weddings!

Perfection

Ice cold beer and Tom Petty's Walls. Savoring the cold liquid trickle down the throat while listening to Tom Petty tell you that "Some days are diamonds, some days are rocks".

Laughing so hard over silly jokes with friends that you get an ache in your side. Then looking at each of their faces and feeling a love so profound, so fierce, that you know you would rather give up your life than lose the friend.

Saying sorry even when you know you are right. Because ego melts away in the face of love so strong.

Riding in the rain, feeling not cold or wet, only the rain on your face and more free than you have in years. Riding in the rain with no looking back.

The morning after...still feeling loved and cherished.

Reading Toni Morrison's Beloved. Re-reading passages because they are so beautifully written, unable to read ahead until you have savored each precious word a 100 times as it lilts off the page.

The first kiss, awkward, hands dont know what to do, eyes half shut, heart beating wildly. Beautiful with promise.

For the first time, not worrying about finger positions or the complexity of notes, but playing Beethovan's Moonlight Sonata on the piano and getting absorbed in a music so powerful that you fear nothing else will ever compare. And nothing else ever will.

Sitting with a man, having the best conversation you have had in a long long time, thoughts, opinions, secrets flowing back and forth. Laughing. Realising. Knowing that you'll never be as attracted to anyone as you are to this man who matches you sentence for sentence with a twinkle in his eye.

Achieving everything you have ever wanted and then giving it up for the freedom you truly desire.

Spending time with your partner, an intimacy so deep that words seem superflous, a silence so comfortable it lulls you, a peace so profound it moves you to tears.

Sitting on a hot hot day, drinking an ice cold beer.

Sometimes perfection is as simple as an ice cold beer.

Teething Trouble in Kindergarten

Child's play, I think to myself, secretly thrilled at the pun. I am all set to give a talk on teeth and dental care at a kindergarten class. My research tells me I should wear wear pink and blue (does not bring a very fashionable image to mind, I know, but appearently these are the soothing colours for children). I carry my doctor's coat and I'm off. In my mind I practise easy ways of explaining complicated dental situations-

Scientifically: Caries is the breakdown of tooth structure caused as a result of pathogenic bacteria which in the presence of sugar produces acid which degenerates the enamel and deeper structures of the tooth.

Modified for kindergarten kids: A cavity is formed when you eat chocolates, and all the chocolatey gunk gets stuck between your teeth and you forget to brush it away. That is what creates a hole in your tooth.

Piece of cake.

Subconsciously I wonder if 3 & 4 year olds know the meaning of create. Never mind. I am brilliant. I'll think of something. I am good with on-the-spur-of-the-moment situations.


30 minutes later:
18 pairs of curious eyes stare at me. I smile back at them, confident that I am about to change their life, motivate them towards better dental health forever, give them a lifetime of good oral habits. It is such a bouyant feeling. I hope that they are not shy or uncomfortable around me. A cute as button girl grins back at me and then out of the blue and for absoutely no reason that I can fathom:

Where do babies come from, she asks.

Huh, I say, my smile fading just a little bit. I was under the impression this was to be a talk about teeth...

I mean, she continues paying no attention to my growing confusion, do they fall from the sky? My mommy told me they come from the penguin.

I'm guessing she actually means the stork, unless ofcourse mommy thinks the stork is a penguin in disguise...


I look helplessly at the teacher. Were the children told the gynaecologist was coming today and got the dentist by mistake? Had one orifice been exchanged for the other? But she's tending to her cuticles, oblivious to the disaster unfurling around me. This is probably the most peace she's had in her class and she is determined to dedicate the precious time to her fingers while her mind takes a nap.


Ah, I said, babies, er..., well, you see..., they come from mommy's stomach. Er..., they're a gift from God, I add for good measure.

(I again wonder how a dentist has ended up in the strange position of explaining such a delicate matter to a bunch of precocious babies.)

While most of the kids are looking dubiously at me, one boy who was earlier busy digging his nose now peeps up to declare - No, I know, babies come from Preity Zinta's stomach.

My eyes are as wide as saucers now. My only hope is that he has recently seen Salaam Namaste.

I am thankfully prevented from answering by another little boy who chooses just this moment to tell me - My father is Superman.

Wow, I say, grateful that we're headed to firmer ground. I nod encouragingly at him. I am thinking, this cannot be as bad as all the baby talk.

Yes, the boy says in all seriousness, he walks around in his underwear, with a towel on his back.


I wish my firm ground would just open and swallow me whole. This is Nightmare on Kindergarten Street. I have yet to say a single word about dentistry and teeth and all those exciting things that I had planned to say. Instead I have been swept into a world of the birds and bees and unlikely Supermen by a bunch of 3-4 year olds. Why? How? Most importantly Why Me? And were my special soothing colours really doing nothing to help me?


As if to answer my questions, a little girl with pigtails tugs on my trousers.
Are you a dentist, she asks.
Yes, I say hopefully, wondering if this was finally my chance to get back on track, to strut my stuff.
Can you take me to the bathroom, she asks shyly.

I take my coat off. The coat seems rather superflous considering the way things have turned out. The teacher has finally got her cuticles exactly as she likes them. She looks up at me and smiles - all done? I nod, not trusting myself to speak.


Parents have come to pick up their kids. As I leave the classroom, I see Mr. Superman claim his child. He weighs about 200 lbs and has a gravity defying paunch. Much as I try not to, I cannot but help imagine him in his underwear and towel cape, dashing around the house. It is not a pretty picture I assure you.


I get a call a few days later from the school. Apparantly the children were saying they had not heard anything about teeth from me. Would I care to come in and speak to them once more. I said I would love to, as soon as I have recovered from my previous visit. In the meanwhile I volunteer the name of a gyneacologist who say I am sure the kids would love to meet....there is stony silence on the line....the school has not gotten back to me since.

Some Days

some days like today

are meant not for

talking or

working or

even loving

they're meant

for doing nothing

and doing it

blissfully

The Friendship With A Noose Around It's Neck

I shot a friendship in its foot. It was a classic case of homicide. I planned it, went armed with carefully constructed sentences aimed to maim if not kill, I took aim when least expected and fired. I imagined the friendship would cry out like a wounded animal or flap its tail helplessly and struggle to stay alive. But no, it just smiled and said – No problem darling. Whatever you are comfortable with, I’m always there for you. And just like that, the friendship flipped over on its side and I suppose it died.


I met him 3 years ago; we worked together on a project. We lost touch really quickly that time – a direct result of really having nothing in common between us. We met again a year ago at the most unlikely of places – he came in to the practice to get some work done on his teeth. He was obviously more in need of a friend this time around – he started calling regularly, he messaged me good morning every morning, he invented exciting things for me to do (specifically involving movies, Thai food, lots of cola spiked or otherwise, drives, random flattery and stories of his advertising world – I am susceptible to all of these and not necessarily in this particular order!).


We still had nothing in common. We didn’t have great conversations - mostly I spoke and he didn’t listen very well. The few moments that our conversations actually showed sparks of depth in it, we would quickly kill it lest it became a regular thing. The friendship initially hung by a very fragile thread and then slowly became something more tenacious - Habit. But what a habit it was – we spoke of nothing, every single day.

He would say – So what’s happening?

I would tell him.

His only reply would be – So what else is happening? (Though sometimes when he was feeling
creative he would vary it by saying – You’re crazy.)

And I would tell him some more.

He would always end by saying – Lovely, lovely – irrespective of what I told him.

That was the sum total of our conversations, except when the tables were turned and he complained about life and I got my sadistic chance at saying “Lovely”. Yet he called or messaged no matter where in the world he was. And I do have to thank him for some outstanding gifts.


No one in his life knew I existed – not his family or friends. I was his escape from the inane. I was the bubbly cheer that made him feel good about himself and pulled him up from the quicksand of his negativity (his words, not mine and in a rare moment of introspection). I gave him job advice (he didn’t need it), I gave him house hunting tips (he did need it), I gave him relationship advice (he said he didn't need it but I didn't know a person who needed it more). Mostly I just gave him my shoulder to moan on.


We stayed friends for a year. In a friendship that was by turns symbiotic, infuriating and frustrating, one that threatened to morph into something else or nothing at all. Or worse, one that would be at a stand still for the rest of our lives, unable to go back, yet refusing to budge ahead. And thus, one fine afternoon I shot it and walked away.


It’s been 1 month now. I’m ashamed to say I don’t miss it much. I guess there is nothing to miss when there is nothing to cherish. I do miss the convenience of it but when was friendship ever supposed to be convenient.


Some days I wonder if I should call and say – how are you? Because I do care. But then what? Relive history again? I don’t even know if my aim to kill will be as good the next time around.

The Comedian

There once lived a Comedian in a club
His eye was a goat's and his foot a stub
But when he started talking, you forgot it all
For he was full of tricks, humour and gall
In twenty seconds and two lines he could make
A divorce lawyer, a snake
A foot doctor, a fraud
A real estate agent, God
The weatherman bore the brunt of his act
The actress he turned hooker but with such tact
The worst off was the President without a doubt
He was always being caught with his foot in his mouth
There was nothing the Comedian could not make funny
He could make you laugh over a nose that was runny
He had strange faces he could pull in a lark
And face paint that would glow in the dark
But if you met him after the show
Sat with him for a moment, only then you'd know
Behind the laughs and the jokes he'd thrown
Lived the saddest man you've ever known

Tiny Little Steps that Matter

What will it take for this world to be just a little better? Not miles better, not better by leaps and bounds, just a tiny little bit better.

For example, what would it take to have just one more happy person everyday? 365 happier people every year. That's not a lot, it is a drop in the humanity ocean. But one of those persons could be you or it could be me or your neighbour next door or my best friend, and for that one person , it is going to be 25 or 50 years of a better life. Now THAT is a huge gigantic deal. To get here, would it take more teachers to teach us about the world around us and show us how we impact it and how it impacts us? Would is take more interaction with children? Children are instinctively happy, cocooned in their world of simplicity and innocence. Is that what we need? Or do we all need to learn to be travellers - see how others live, experience their lives, see their sorrows and learn to grow beyond ourselves? What about lack of peace and solitude - Is it this lack of introspect and lack of meditation and self understanding that leads to constant disappointment and a sense of failure? Or could it be the other way around? In an ovecrowded world with everyone searching for their own quiet space, has aloneness given way to isolation and loneliness? Ever known a lonely person to be happy? Being able to share and talk and laugh and exchange and to love and be loved and cherished and to hope, these are the stepping stones to happiness. Do too many of us not have this today? How glorious it would be to make just one more person happy everyday.

How can we keep one more person healthy everyday? Is it really lack of affordable medical care and access to medication that starts us on the path of ill health? I don't think so. I think most often sickness starts in homes where families don't know better or just don't care enough - don't care to keep their children warm in winter, don't care about their own nourishment, don't care about keeping the home stress free, don't care about sitting in front of the television instead of getting some exercise. A lot of times sickness starts and stays with people who have long forgotten how to hope to be well again. If we could keep just one more person healthy everyday, how much better this world would be.

Finally, the thing that is closest to my heart - how much better the world would be if more people could find the one thing that they are truly passionate about. The one thing that can raise you above the humdrum and give you a special reason for waking up each day, inspired and grateful.

Sure, the world needs more food, stable weather, better governance and so many other important things. But at the end of the day, in our hands lie the little things which we so easily forget can have a huge positive impact on our world.

"Not only is another world possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing." - Arundhati Roy

"The Grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for." - Allan K. Chalmers

ANTICIPATION

She sits alone at a table for two,

waiting, watching, wilting, as

second after languid second ambles by.

Her fingers drum on the table,

she reminds herself to not be shy.



She knows she is early, painfully so.

To distract she tugs her neckline up,

smoothes the hemline down.

She absently twirls her spoon,

her reflection stares back up-side down.



She wonders:

Do I look alright,

or is my kohl too dark

or my lipstick too bright?


Should I talk a lot,

bare my soul?

...or maybe not.


Will he like what he sees?

Or will it be an illusion,

for he can't see the real me?



The waiting, the suspense, is mounting,

her confidence a thin veneer.

As the clock strikes nine,

the chimes sing to her,

"He's still not here, he's still not here."



She feels her heart beat wildly,

thumping at a galloping pace.

She hears it echo in her ears,

feels the tingle down to her toes.

She hopes the night won't drown in tears.



Then suddenly without warning the door opens

He's there looking right at her.

One hand out, he holds a rose

and smiles at her

And she just knows.

Doctor, My Tooth Is very Sentimental and Other Tales from the Chair

Dentistry can be a pretty cut and dry kind of profession. You see, you drill, you fill. The quintessential image of a dentist has been that of a middle aged man of slight built, with a back that is hunched at 45 degrees to the rest of the body (the more hunched the better the proof that he is a seasoned veteran at extracting very stubborn back teeth), spectacles balancing at the tip of his nose and a very serious disposition. So serious in fact, that he discourages any conversation between him and the patient. Thus in earlier days, the dentist would enter the room, open your mouth, figure out what the problem was, fix it and send you on your way without there being a single exchange of words between you and him.

To be honest, this was pretty much the way I worked when I was doing my Dentistry at Mangalore. There was no point me listening to what the patients said about their dental problem for the simple reason that I didn’t understand a word of the language. So, irrespective of what was said, I would open their mouths and figure out what the real issue was…I had a far better chance of providing accurate treatment this way than by deciphering all the various local dialects of Kannada, Tulu, Konkani and Malayalam.

Today, I am happy to state that things are very different. Now there are days I do a lot less clinical dentistry and a lot more talking with my patients. Ofcourse we do talk about teeth. Thankfully we also talk about things that really matter to people – health, family, finances, interests. I even have a few brave patients asking me for relationship advice. Much as I love doling it out (and I really do, ask me for advice and you’ll see), I have warned them to follow my advice at their own risk.

It is in these many conversations about teeth and other things that lie little nuggets of inadvertent humour so funny, that despite appearing to keep a straight face thanks to a very large mouthmask, I am actually grinning from ear to ear.

The following are conversations or incidences that have taken place between patients and myself

A Sensitive Issue
Mrs. Raman sits on the chair. I ask her if all’s well with her teeth.
Yes, she replies, but this last tooth is a bit sentimental!

Hilling Away
I walk into the room to see Mrs. Nair on the chair. She is a sweet 75 year old woman who insists on speaking English with me. She already has the good judgment to realize that my communication skills in most other languages, gets her gender all wrong.
I ask her that the matter is.
My lower teeth are hilling, she replies.
Never in 10 years of Dentistry, or in my many other years of life, have I heard this phrase. So I think maybe she means they need a filling. I take a look at them and by gosh, they are definitely ‘hilling’ - shaking and literally rotating in their sockets!

Bottom Line
Mr. and Mrs. Shah are visiting us from the UK. They have been living there for about 2 years. They have just about reached the stage where they have adopted the British pronunciations without the fluency. So happy are they with their treatment that Mr. Shah returns the next day with a box of sweets.
To thank you from the bottom of my heart, he says smiling, and from my wife’s bottom.
That was one thank you I sincerely hope he did not mean!

Strip Show
Mr. Harry Wright is a top guy at one of the consulates. He weighs 110 kgs and his stomach generally makes an entry before he does. The first time he comes to me, just before he sits on the dental chair, he says he needs a minute. Then right there before my very eyes, he starts to loosen his tie and belt. He then removes both. He proceeds to remove his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. He unbuttons his shirt to expose his vest (thank God). He then starts to unbutton his trousers. I feel that I urgently needed to stop him at this time but am completely stunned. I had never had anyone feel the need to strip in my clinic before. Is he angling for a discount, I wonder. As he lowers his trouser zip, I finally find my voice.

Mr. Wright, I say as casually as I can, what are you doing?

Oh, gas, is all he says. Cannot lie down with tight clothes.

I am so relieved. My clinic is not turning into a strip club after all. And if gas is a problem, I will gladly help him kick those trousers off! Needless to say, my assistant gets the shock of her life when she walks into the room to see Mr. Wright stand there in his vest and boxers and socks. She gives me a dirty look. So does the next patient waiting outside, who sees Mr. Wright when he steps out to use the washroom. As for Mr. Wright, I have never seen anyone dress more comfortably for the dental chair. There are days when I even have to remind him to put his clothes back on when he leaves.

Mr. Sujan
I had just started work. It was my first day as an associate at a well known dentist’s clinic. I was going to show him how good I was and how great my patient management skills were. My very first patient walked in. A very fashionable woman called Mrs. Makhijani.

She speaks to me in Hindi and unwisely I reply likewise. She says that there is ‘sujan’ on the outside, looking at me suspiciously. (No one has faith in a new doctor in my experience.)

Now ‘sujan’ was another word that I had never heard before. To me it sounded very much like a first name. Perhaps someone who had come with Mrs. Makhijani and who was waiting outside, I concluded.

I take off my gloves and walk out into the waiting room and loudly call out for Mr. Sujan a few times. I then walk back in and confidently inform Mrs. Makhijani that there is no ‘Sujan’ in the waiting room. She looks at me shocked and asks for Dr. Arora, my boss.

Needless to say that for the next 4 years that I worked there and pretty much took care of the entire practice, Mrs. Makhijani never once let me treat her.

(To those of you, who like me, are not very familiar with Hindi, sujan is the Hindi word for swelling. Something every dentist needs to know before he sees his first patient!)

Identity Problem
This happened at the previous practice where I used to work. The conversation was again all in Hindi and very, very strange.
She walks in with her mother. Both are looking rather scared, but this is to be expected in a dental clinic. I make her sit on the chair and she spends a while adjusting her sari. She works as a domestic help and has taken time off for this very important visit. I am impressed with her dedication to her dental health. She is very shy and speaks very softly.
So, I ask in Hindi, what’s the problem with your teeth?
She says there is no problem.
I am perplexed. Do you have pain in your teeth, I ask her.
She’s looking at me just a bit strangely. No pain in the teeth, she answers.
So what is the problem with mouth? I ask again
She’s beginning to look worried, thinks really hard and then says, no problem with my mouth.
I decide to use my age old method. I ask her to open her mouth and peek inside. After doing a thorough check up, I have to agree with her. Her teeth are in sparkling good condition. By this time mother and daughter are in the midst of a conversation, rapid sentences going back and forth, and quick furtive glances being stolen at me and at the door.
I finally ask, why have you come here?
Because of the itching, she says.
I’m thrilled to finally have an answer. But wait a minute, itching in the mouth?
Itching down there, she says.
I take my gloves off and refer her to the VD clinic next door.

In case you are wondering, all of these stories are true. To make them up would require more imagination than I possess!

Divine Gift

Poetry is like a good friend
Both, heaven sent.

Running on a Treadmill and Going Nowhere

I see them everywhere. Flat abs (for those who have been living in outer space, that’s abdomen in gym talk), buffed arms, broad shoulders. If you cannot tell them by their bodies, their conversations are dead give-aways. They liberally use these 4 key phrases /words – carbs, fat content, diet & workout. These are the new generation gym bodies. Chest puffed out (no, not just the guys), stomach sucked in, 36”-24”-36” has a new meaning all together.

I start to panic. I am definitely slim, but I can’t really say I am perfectly toned. And I downright refuse to be the only un-toned body around. I re-think my health mantra, which when simply put, is to eat absolutely everything, drink almost everything and walk like a manic. Only it now seems terribly inadequate. Oh, what abuse I have been subjecting my body to. In a desperate attempt to set things right (and also in my quest to aim for higher things, like a JLo body) I join a top gym. I pay for 6 months (to be fair, they have a deal going on that gets me a great membership at 50% of the cost).

Joining the gym is like getting into a special club. I all of a sudden develop a paraphernalia of things that did not exist earlier – clothes of 100% spandex or lycra that cling and make me look horrendous, special gym shoes that I’m promised is different from shoes for tennis or shoes for sprinting, a water bottle from which I can squirt water into my mouth from a distance, a napkin to wipe away that bucket of sweat that comes with losing 1500 calories an hour, a change of clothes, a deodorant and a gym bag to hold all this.

Day 1: I walk in, terrified. Everyone looks at the new girl and I keep my eyes firmly on the floor. I spy the trainer and head straight towards him.

What do I need to do? I ask.

Let’s start with measuring your fat content, he says.

Please note: I personally think that it is much better to hear someone say let’s start a root canal, compared to let’s measure your fat content…but hey, it could just be me.

He gets a strange vernier caliper like gadget and then asks me to hold out various parts of my body, which he then proceeds to pinch and measure. Finally after doing great mathematical calculations, he looks at me and clears his throat.

21, he says.
What’s that, I ask, wondering if he is really asking me for my age.
That’s your fat content, he says.
21% of my body is fat? I am thoroughly disgusted. 1/5 of my body is FAT? I would have pinned the figure closer to 10%, but then again I am an optimist by nature….

It’s actually not too bad, he says, quickly adding – for a girl.

I ask him some questions, get no real answer and come to the conclusion that most people are so shocked at hearing their fat content, they lose their power of speech. This gives the trainers time to pop you on a machine and start your workout, after which you cannot talk even if your life depends on it.

I am started on the basic treadmill.

Don’t touch the red button, don’t touch the yellow switch, don’t touch the keys on your left side, he says.

I keep my hands firmly on the handle and don’t touch anything. I am walking at a happy pace and am thinking this gym thing is not so bad. No wonder everyone is doing it.

He comes back 2 minutes later.

You have not increased speed, he barks.

This, from the man, who told me not to touch anything.

He increases my speed intermittently and after quite a while (er, 7 mins exactly) I begin to feel weak limbed and light headed. I touch the only button he has actually given me permission to – STOP. The treadmill comes to a blissful stop and I tumble off, so glad to be on non-moving ground. Just as my eyes are beginning to focus again, he puts me on the cross trainer. Now this is the mother of all torture in my humble and very limited experience. It requires extreme coordination, great stamina and lots of courage. I lack all of the above, but step on it nonetheless. He starts it up, again after giving me a list of technical instructions that I do not understand. 45 seconds is all it took for me to jump off in a state of extreme agony – my throat is so dry I cannot swallow, my legs are burning, my stomach is paining and as for my lungs – well, they have just collapsed. I lie on the floor (now everyone is really looking at the new girl sprawled on the floor between the cross trainers and the exercise bikes) and I wonder for the 100th time – WHY???

He gives me a squirt of water. I can catch only half of it in my mouth, my eyes are not focusing too well, you see. I am just wondering how I could slink away without being noticed when he says that I should do 15 minutes on the exercise bike and then stop for the day. I pedal at 0 resistance and at 1.5 km per hour – it is all I could do without fainting.

Day 2: My body aches a bit, but my self-appointed personal trainer calls to tell me that I have to come in today. I try to tell him I have a serious life- threatening disease, but I can already hear him scream at someone – another 10 reps - before he hangs up on me.

I show up. I survive 8 minutes on the treadmill, steer clear of the cross trainer, and do 20 minutes on the cycle. He is not amused to see the resistance level and tells me I need to be more sincere. I tell him I just need to be able to breathe right now.

Day 3 – 10: Things get better, but only by a bit. I am no longer on the verge of death, but I still look it as I step off the cross trainer, wet hair plastered across my forehead, sweat dripping off my chin, T-shirt clinging to me in the worst way possible. But I think it can only get better from here.

Day 15: I am wrong. Without warning, he introduces me to resistance training. I am shown a series of exercises on some very scary looking machines. I nod and try to look enthusiastic, all the while hoping those weights don’t do serious body damage.

I’ll start you on the lightest weight, he says.

Ok, I say. It’s what I say when I have no option.

And so I start. 1 rep, 2 reps and the arms just won’t lift it for a 3rd rep. The mind is willing, I am pushing myself, but the body is flatly refusing, non negotiable. He sees me struggling and for the first time I see humanity in him….or maybe it is just pity. Either way, I am grateful and frankly, beyond caring.

I’ll take off all weights and you do these exercises with only the base ok, he says.
Have you any idea how strange it is to see someone do weights with no weights on? 3 people stopped to ask me if I knew the machine had no weights. One sweet boy offered to put 10 kgs on. NO, I screamed and he backed away slowly.

Day 16: My muscles ache so bad, I lie in bed and take a painkiller. Someone tells me that I need to move, because otherwise the muscles will tighten and hurt more. So I take a slow walk to the fridge and get a tub of ice cream. Except for the pain, it is a great gym-free day.

Day 17 – 40: I have gotten better at this, albeit slightly. My trainer and I no longer look at each other with dread. He is actually quite sweet when he isn’t trying to get me to do 3 sets of 30 reps each. Right now I can proudly do 1 set of 10 reps. He spends a lot of time these days telling me all about his dental problems. I even sneak a peek at his molars, all the while holding a 10 kg dumbbell in one hand. He is a brave man, I’m thinking.

Have I lost weight with all this exercise? No.

Have I lost fat? Probably not, though I have not asked him to measure my fat again. I am probably down to 20% but then again, I did say that I am an optimist!

Day 55: I am playing tennis after 2 years. After being in a closed, airconditioned gym for 2 months, this feels like heaven. I can feel the breeze on my face. I can smell only my sweat and no one else’s…ah, what bliss. And then it happens. A bad backhand and I feel a sharp pull and a radiating burning pain in my back. The Doctor says I’ve pulled a very large muscle, could be a sprain, no lifting heavy weights, no excessive pressure on the legs, no aggressive twisting at the waist. In other words, no gym for a significant duration. I could have kissed him!

When I tell my trainer this, I could see the look of pure liberation on his face. He is trying to hold his joy in when he tells me that I should take a couple of months off and then re-start all the way from the beginning again. I say no, I am not that masochistic by nature. I don’t know who is happier at this news, him or me. Either way, I say goodbye to him, kiss my 4 months of membership goodbye (no, they would not let me transfer it to anyone, much as I begged) and am back to happily walking in the fresh air.

As for that perfectly toned body? I’ll get it someday, just not today.


"To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable." - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891

Goodbye Old Year

Another year gone, only memories remain
What I saw and what I heard will never come again,
Like leaves floating on air, it’s there and then it’s gone
The old year has just decided to move on.

The skin is the same and so is the hair
The sight is as bad. No, no improvement there.
The smile is as wide, the waist is as lean
There is no sign of age, no more than last year.

Relationships have changed, some grown, some died
My heart has rejoiced, it has loved, it has cried.
All this has now passed, now wrapped in a thought
to be stored somewhere safe and thus not forgot.

Some new friends have come and left with a smile
Most old friends are around, they’ll stay for a while
They know what’s important and hence I am told
“Baby it’s not you, but the year that's grown old”.

Having a Boss vs. Being the Boss

6 years of corporate life has spoiled me rotten. Centrally airconditioned office set to a comfortable 23 degree celsius, 24 hours on-site computer support (alas, cannot blame a computer break down for not having done anything productive in any given hour), airport pick up and drop, flight bookings taken care of by the company travel desk who are so efficient they can change your bookings about 25 times in a span of 2 days and can literally get you on a flight that has already taken off. And oh, the coffee dispenser coffee – so sweet and strong, it can make a believer even out of a coffee teetotaler. And I have not even begun to talk about exciting meetings at exotic locales, personality and leadership building courses that aim at building the perfect..well..er, person and leader, and the benefits of having a full time secretary who keeps the wrong people out, gets the right people in and answers all those pesky emails.

A Company is more than the sum of its parts. I use a capital C for Company because it really does have a personality of its own and I do speak of it as if it is a flesh and blood person….

"This stupid Company won’t even give me a Saturday off."

"The Company says that it will reward good work and good results."

And thus the Company is like a huge human being, with a brain and limbs and hopefully, a heart. Working for a Company is a lot less about who you are and a lot more about whom they need you to be. The Company dictates your vision, your mission and the terms of your bonus. Then ofcourse, there is the question of power. In a large company, and in my position (and completely irrespective of the important sounding designation on my visiting card), I have finally accepted that I only have complete power to choose when to go to the loo and when to call home to check if all is okay. Every other action and timeline is evaluated, discussed and decided at team meetings, by company policies, by my boss or at the very least by my secretary. Sure I can decide when to call these meetings, when to re-evaluate budgets and expand business, but only if all 25 people that I work directly with (and including the temporary secretary) are in complete agreement!

It took me a year to realize that I had given up autonomy in exchange for the tremendous sense of achievement that working in a large Company can bring. I have the authority to make decisions that can affect millions of people around the world, I have the monies to make this happen, I have the resources of brilliant minds and technical know-how literally at my finger tips (I email many of these minds several times a day in hopes that they will save me from impending disasters. Till date, they have, which is why I live to tell this tale). I have efficient supply chain systems in place and powerful advertising to make this happen. It just does not get any better than this, does it?

At the end of the day, when I work here, I am the Company and the Company is me. I am bigger than myself.

But my dental practice is my baby. I dreamed about it…well that’s actually a gross understatement. I fantasized about it. I obsessed about what kind of practice it would be and about the kind of dentistry it would provide. I made blue print after blue print of layout plans, I was architect cum supply chain manager cum desk top publisher cum sweeper. (Thank God the plumbing was being taken care of by someone else.) I chose the exact equipment that I wanted, I selected the perfect wall colour, I decided what my work hours would be, how many staff I needed and what my rates would be. Then more importantly and quite impossibly, I had to be Dr. Genuis and Ms. Sales Person at the same time. Let's just say, I am still working on some of these skills, and no, it's not the former!

When I decided to expand my practice and put in an additional dental chair and some more equipment, it was such a relief to not have to get a work order passed by a purchasing department and to not have to speak to the man who holds the budget who just happens to be sitting in Paris and who wants to club the purchase of my dental chair with the start of another project in a completely different part of the world, thus delaying my plans by 4 months! My new dental chair was in place in 3 weeks – the perks of being my own boss is pretty great.
That’s the beauty of running your own show – there is absolutely nothing stopping you from making it as fantastic as you want it to be. It is clay in your hands, waiting for you to mould it and give it life. But every step has to be well thought out and researched. Mould it one way, and it may be impossible to change it's shape later on. The history of any business weighs heavily on it's future. When it's your baby, you get to determine what it's history is.

To be honest, it is not true that if you run your own business, that you do not have a boss. For me, my bank can make a formidable boss! On some days, so do my patients:-)

Today if I have a happy practice, all the glory is mine. I’ll be the first to admit that all the failures have been mine as well. The buck ends with ME. And I will have it no other way. It’s really is the best feeling in the world to start your own little Company and grow it into a giant. The hardest part is to take that first step.

"Success in business requires training and discipline and hard work. But if you're not frightened by these things, the opportunities are just as great today as they ever were." - David Rockefeller, US banker (1915 )

LOVE is not a four letter word

Care is a word, a four letter word
It can make you soar on the wings of a bird
If care is the soul, then love is the heart
Two sides of a coin, they are slightly apart

Hope is a word, a four letter word
The most wonderful thing you ever heard
If hope brings peace, then love springs joy
Both merging into life giving alloy

Kiss is a word, a four letter word
Two lips touch while their hearts roar
If kiss is the thread, then love is the quilt
For many a kiss may not love build

Dare is a word, a four letter word
It can capture the warrior and the nerd
If dare is on earth, then love floats above
For you may love to dare but not dare to love

Love is not a word, not a noun nor a verb
It is but life’s most precious herb
To love is to give, to hold and to free
All of one’s being to another’s eternity

A Life Less Ordinary

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. It is a brand new start. Today I have decided to live a life more intentional, a life more deliberate. To not just go with the flow, lovely as it may sound. For, as experience has taught me, the flow may not go any place I want it to. It may not even actually 'flow', but may just pool and puddle and do nothing else but look at me with large droopy eyes, waiting for me to create a wave. I am going to take initiative. Give wishful thinking the promise of reality. No more finding excuses for not doing the things that I really want to do and for not learning more about the things that really interest me.

You ever met one of those people who can take 24 hours and make 48 out of them? They are the ones who do what we can in a day and then so much more. They work, study, play, party and are pretty darn successful at all of these. They find the time to do things that they have to (like work) and then find some more time in the day to do things to are important to their soul. Things that they are passionate about and things that actually make their day worthwhile. This does not happen by incident or accident, rather it does by desire, focus and smart prioritizing.

I know a person just like this. For starters, he works 10 hour days in a high level stressful job. Now if he were a regular jock, he would spend the rest of his time between bed, bath and tv and wishing that he were not missing out on all the fun things in life. But no, this boy - he is way beyond ordinary. He devours fantasy fiction. You know he has read a lot of it when he can quote from them verbatim and then give you a history lesson on when the book was written and what made the author tick. He works out - his physique does not reflect it but hopefully his heart and arteries do. He keeps track of current affairs - nothing like a meal with him to bring me up to date with all topics that I know nothing about - national politics, implications of the budget, new age swamis, and the perils of being in the IITs and IIMs. He does yoga in the mornings, every morning irrespective of the night before. And he listens to music with an unbridled passion. Rock bands from 20-30 years ago are his thing. He knows his bands, he knows their first albums and their last. He listens to them everyday. I learn from him everytime we meet. More than anything I see how rich his life is because he gives his 100% to everything he does.

So here's to a new beginning. I'll start small, big starts always scare the hell out of me. There are so many things that are close to my heart and that I really want to do - re-learn the piano, start a 2nd business, travel more for pleasure, walk everyday, nurture certain friendships, read more of the kinds of books that leave an impression, learn to cook the kind of foods that I like to eat... I've always wanted to write - this blog is my start to a life less ordinary.

"Work like you dont need the money, love like you've never been hurt and dance like no one is watching" - Randall G. Leighton