Monday, December 29, 2008

Writer’s plaintive

There are bad mood days and there are bad hair days
but the worst of them, by far, are bad pen days.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Current events, power cuts and tut tuts

Soniaji is in town and these giant airplanes or whatever drone in the sky like giant bumble bees. So did she bring her un-ho-neys (which incidentally, is like the pot calling the kettle black because I don’t know my intezaars from my bekaraars, which in the second incidence of incidentally, are two words I hear often repeated in Hindi movies. How big a pain I am to watch a Hindi movie with is a story I’ll save for later) or does she come with something new for an audience with a limited-edition-on-my-boat Hum Aapke Hain Kaun knowledge of Hindi. Anyways I wonder which language she addressed the gathering in. I DID NOT watch the news, if it crossed your mind to ask by the way. And if anyone’s talking in Malayalam, does she even know what they’re talking about unless they drop names. You know like “Soniajiudey” “Congreesinte” “aiyurithi thonuthile entho entho Rajiv Gandhi (yea! I understood something!) namudey samsthanathil blah blah blah blah ……” Nah, I guess sycophancy is decipherable, regardless of linguistic barriers. One would have to be quite thick to miss the “River of drool” and the one too many “venderfulls” and the “vary nays” and the “truly, I Says” and the “ess ess madem”. (Hey the droning stopped. What? No security after 10 pm? What do they think? Terrorists don’t work after hours?)

Anyways it was quite a pain having her around. Very inconvenient. People who should have been in buses were on the road, competing with poor lil me for an autorickshaw. But hey, I did get an auto quite quickly. Soniaji is here and yet they don’t think twice about pulling the plug (actually) on our electricity. Load shedding right on schedule. All this fuss and no no-power-cut-today-people?!

Moving to a nicer topic, move aside Lolakutty. We’ve got our glam babe Ommanakutty! Paravati Ommanakuttan..literally meaning Parvati (Shiva’s wife?) Apple of the Eye!! How can anyone go wrong with a name like that? But again I can’t help wondering how they must have pronounced the name? They probably must just have squealed or yelped “Miss India”, like that’s supposed to be her name (“Miss India will you come here!” “Miss India you cannot help your self to that calorie-ridden croissant.” “Oh that Miss India! Who does she think she is, Miss India!?”). So she dint WIN THE crown. But she did come second didn’t she. That quite nice for a people who crosses the road zimbly! Wonder when they’ll have a Miss India Malayalees Samajam.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

What a name!

Why would anyone build a 200:1 scale version of their ego stick and then name it Poseidon’s Rear End Rude Sound? *Heh heh* I just found out that the Ambani rad-pad is called “SEAWIND” (!!??!!) Not the gargantuan TarANTILLA that Mukesh Ambani had all of us dropping our jaws at, but the 14-storey (only!) complex that symbolized their We-are-like-anybody-else-ness (I wish I was also a We-are-like-anybody-else). To be fair, everybody Does dream a little dream of moving into a bigger place in time, and Mukeshji is just like anyone else. There you have it, the We-are-like-anybody-else again. Ok, I’m beginning to get sick of We-are-like-anybody-else. (Did anyone mention sour grapes?)

So we were talking about Seawind. Yeah. The first time I heard it (which was this morning) I thought that it reminded me of the sea’s fart. Seawind, seafart, seawind, seafart, seemypoint? Though it is true, like my good friend Sharath suspects and people close to me know, that I have a dirty mind, I must say that the name in all it unpretentiousness did strike me as ridiculously funny. Reminded me of a huge fart bubble that can be mistaken for an air bubble (pass air bubble!:D) that floated to the surface and burst into a smelly sprinkle of seaspray. (Now you know what the reason behind that not so pleasant sea-smell)

And now I’m going to welcome you to a brand new world. Where innovation inspires you. Where pictures are truer. Where technology liberates you. Where music is finer. Where movies are dramatic (hello? I thought movies were dramatic, period?!) Where 3.5G superiority comes together to leave the world far below (Whathe?? I thought this was supposed to be a new world? And now they tell us we’ve left the WORLD far below) Welcome to OMNIA! Why oh why would anyone call anything Omnia? It sounds so, Aw-min-you-us like in ominous. Then it sounds like insomnia. I don’t know about you, but to me, then it sounds like a really bad idea. It’s a really strange name for a (shudder) “New world”. Reminds be of the album cover of Iron Maiden’s Brave New World with all those creepy skeletons and all. Think about it. It’s so eerily doom prophetic types. A world filled with dark clouds and global warming, unwhaled heaving seas and Agent Smiths, concrete claustrophobia and slimy green numbers crawling up and down a computer screen like mutant ants (grimaceshuddergrimace!!) Ok so my idea of the apocalypse is a little Matrixesque but that’s what Omnia brings to my mind.

If you’ve got some fantastic reason why Omnia is a good name, like if it means something, do let me know. And while you’re at it, did you know that an ostrich’s brain is smaller than its eye. And please save the “bigger than my brain” jokes. Leave my brain out of this OK?

Thursday, December 4, 2008

view from my window

Pigeons fucking on electric wires.

The shock of love jams

their systems into a series of

electric circuits of pent up desire.

Monday, December 1, 2008

The day God smiled at us

Today is the 1st of December. And today the sky smiled at the earth. Two bright stars, well actually not stars, cos they’re supposed to be Venus and Jupiter or Venus and Mars. I donno. But anyways, these two shiny stars (that sounds prettier than planets) and a dear sickle moon together made this smiley face in the sky. It was like God was smiling or rather grinning at the earth. A rather toothy grin at that. It was so, so cute. Like someone took a chalk and drew a happy face in the sky. It beat all the batman insignias, the Lucies in the sky with diamonds, the pricey-always-has-to-make-an-entrance Haley’s comet, the shoemakers and the levies that ever graced the night sky.

Things have been particularly bad recently. With the economy slipping and sliding, leaving me in no sight of my raise, this nightmare in Bombay was the last thing we all needed. 10 boys who ought to be putting their time to better use like having wet dreams of Pamela Anderson or discussing cars or investing time in the countless mindless pursuits of youth, grabbed that fragile flea-bitten carpet of security that the government affords us, right from under our feet. How could 10 boys do so much damage? I’m still finding it very hard to come to terms with it. And so this smile in the sky did something wonderful to me. It made me happy. It made me feel comforted. Felt like there was someone looking after me, instead of that horrid feeling of being watched you usually have when you stay in the same city as half your snoopy relatives. I hope it portents some good. Christmas is round the corner. I hope there’s good news for the world yet. And I hope my raise comes somewhere within my immediate horizon. And I hope we all find a happy face looking back us from the mirror soon enough.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Holy Mother of God!

If God was campaigning, I wouldn’t be, like, the church’s first choice for secretary of the state. Hell, I wouldn’t even be spokesperson or media relations manager or anything. The reason COULD be cos I use words like the one that the previous sentence began with. Or because I do things like wear my “evil“ tee-shirt to my cousin’s first holy communion. Or tell the priest blankly that I was forced to attend the retreat by the overzealous nuns at St. Teresa’s and all that. So this post is something of a surprise to me as well.

Well this church I go to’s in this hospital where you actually need a miracle to save you. I mean every time someone I knew went to that hospital, the doctors just managed to get it all screwed up. I was born there. Need I say more? it’s this Christian hospital and all…so you have white and blue decked statues of the Most Holy Virgin Mary, bedecked in the most unholy fashion with garish yellow plastic garlands, dotting every corner. It’s not a bad thing. Certainly not, considering the aptitude of the doctors out there, like I mentioned earlier. But I have to mention my pediatrician though he has nothing to do with the subject….he was a sweetheart, even if he gave me those dreadful injections (no, rabies was not one of them. The bitchiness manifested itself much, much later) okay so there are some good doctors, ok. Lord, I’m deviating here!! So about these statues… truth is I’ve been quite a fan of this Virgin Immaculate, Inviolate, Blessed Mary, Most Holy. And we’ know..friends…we do coffee sometimes. I drink the coffee..she’s got an image (and perfect skin)to keep up. Okay, so now you see why I’ve had such a crush on her for so long. I mean, all that mercy and kindness jazz really appealed to the cynic in me. She dint even have a lop-sided smile. FYI I’m talking about the crush little girls have on someone they want to grow up to be on-a-pedestal-idolise-pun-unintended-crush. Nothing from ‘queer dyke school’. (The pope would have such a fit, if it were otherwise). God, I’m like a drunk behind the wheel….weaving, weaving, weaving.

So these porcelain figures with their porcelain countenance(s) filled me with what I thought was piety. And my catholic trained arm ached to reach out to every one of them and place a kiss on her feet. (We’re quite the pagan, us Catholics. Have you even seen our church ceremonies?!?)

Let’s just get this over with, shall we. The point is, it seems that one particular statue cried tears of fragrant rose-scented oil. Did I believe it? I’m not sure. Am I that na├»ve? I guess. But nevertheless, after mass I went right over. And there she was, a tiny little unassuming statue, glorified (subject to opinion. Not in mine, certainly) in catholic kitsch. Someone had even stuck a shiny, sparkly, costume jewellery hairclip-like crown on her head. Her face had a I’ve-been-crying-rose-scented-oil look. I don’t know if it happened or not. If it’s a hoax or whatever. But I know one thing, it has given all these people something to believe in. It shook the routine in faith and hit the refresh button, you know what I’m saying. A little pizzazz, if I may say so.

They all come to church – devout, unquestioning, accepting, like reporting for duty. If there were an attendance register, we all know who’d be St. Peter’s darlings. But how many of them would dare to believe in a miracle. Not in the bible types, for turning to water to wine and walking on wine and seas separating on whim is all fine in the Old Testament and New Testament. It makes great bedtime story telling (tell me about it) but how many of them would tell their grandchildren about a miracle that happened in their lives? how many of them would invest hope in their faith, ask knowing they shall receive? All the same it was a good thing. Like I said, a refresh button. Faith Version 2.0 loading. As for me, all I can testify to was an overwhelming sense of peace. And I almost smelt the fragrance in the air.

P.S: this isn’t even what I wanted to talk about. But what the hell, I guess what should be said, finds a way to be heard.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

cookies for the jaded soul

10 pm.(in India) Running to stand still by u2 plays in the background while the wonderful consummation of Oreo cookies and cold milk warms both mouth and mind with chocolate edged sighs of absolute, uncontained pleasure. (These little black cookies with their pure white souls, oooh they're made in heaven.)

Truckloads of work, a very annoying and annoyed colleague are kept waiting on the flanks of recall (whatever that is) for my attention. As a matter of fact they clamour for it with a nail-scraping-against-the-wall quality of urgency. Like they even exist in my consecutive cookie universe!(read uninterrupted cookie universe, but I like the alliteration better)

Sin, black as white can be, softened by the moist hands of milk….mmmm…..

Didn’t someone, I forget who, say that it is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do? Well, amen to that.

p.s: this kind of philosophy I certainly can digest.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Untitled #1

It rolls under my


And goes to sleep like

an exhausted dog.

Oblivious to the

thieves that sneak

in and out of my mind.

Someone opens a

window but no

light filters in.

My heart heaves

Like the ocean

Filled with shipwrecks

and scarred by

storms. Invisible

lacerations that lurk

20 feet beneath

the surface.

Somewhere far away

Life honks its distant horn.

A container rumbling the earth

with its weight, somewhere

beyond the precincts of horizon.

Floating away.

A maroon island in sea blues.

I call it feeling sad.


Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Talkin about a Revolution

Obama Won!!!

O yeah

O wow

O cool

O baby

O right

And in true Mallu fashion …. O-some!!!

Sunday, November 2, 2008

If Jesus was a movie...

I just watched The Shawshank Redemption. And I’m telling you. There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who have seen The Shawshank Redemption and those who are yet to see The Shawshank Redemption. Those who will never see it in their lifetimes, they’re just going to have several more lifetimes until they see it. It’s part of the karma or dharma cycle. Which one I don’t know. I have NO CLUE why I took this long. I guess everything happens in its own time.(karma or dharma?)

But wow…what a movie. Honestly, WHAT A MOVIE!!

“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies.”

Friday, October 31, 2008

Are you done staring at my ass, yet?

Picture this. It’s just another day at work and you’re minding your own business. Suddenly you feel the heat of a lecherous stare burn a (two?) hole on your bum. And you whip around and you catch the aforesaid stare detaching itself in a hurry and you watch it stumble away from you. It buzzes around like a bee caught in a jar, and settles on the nearest inanimate object (hoping that you'll turn around, so that it can pounce on you again). Meanwhile, the world moves on and so do you. But the stare...oh no, it doesn't move on. The stare stays.

Whether you accept it or not (you’d have to be in serious denial not to) men just have to stare at your ass or your breasts, for that matter. While pinching, grabbing and the ‘accidental’ brushing are privileges of strangers, men you know by name, place and wife, have to be content with “looking” or like they call it "checking it out". Like colleagues for instance. You know them. Like from the watercooler and the next cubicle and the guy who salaams you when you walk in (ever noticed how the salaam follows his eyes down once you've walked past? "Salaam Madam. Salaam Bottom.") No one can deliver that stare quite like a Mallu male colleague can. And after sometime, once you’ve gone through the motions of hurt, anger, betrayal and disgust, you finally settle for a weary sense of "whatever". ("But he's a good friend!! Whatever!", "But we're really good friends!! Whatever!!!", "But he's got a wife!!! Whatever!!!", "He's a eeffing Bastard!! Whatever!!)

I’m not sure how many women can resign themselves to “men are like that” mindset and pretend like everything’s just the way it should be. But it hurts me crazy to catch someone I know or joke with or talk to, fixedly gazing or even glancing a little south of my chin. Or to know that it isn’t beneath him to discuss my proportions with a co-asshole. Still worse is being third party to a man stripping a woman off her clothes and self-respect with his eyes. And if the man in question is married, he ought to live in a sewer and should be crawling on his no-good, wife’s-food-fattened belly. Imagine if your fancy pants CEO ogles at your boobs like a pimply adolescent? Where oh where in your heart can you find admiration and respect for that low-life? It’s like all that education and career-building went down south to the headquarters of ego, and left him a little empty in the heart-to-head corridor. No wonder the good lord created ED.

Along with the humiliation, that sense of being violated comes with a strong sense of being cheated. BETRAYAL!!!! Someone you respected, looked up to or perceived as a good human being, whose work you admired. When someone like that becomes just another lousy, lecherous bastard in your eyes. That letdown leaves you with a bitterness that gnaws right into your faith in humanity, in men, in respect. That acrid taste of disappointment, that comes from knowing that you’re going to be on display, an object, despite the hours, work, sacrifice and accolades you put in. (I don’t even want to start on how hard it is for a woman to be taken seriously as a professional especially in a testos-fascist-terone society like Kerala. And colleagues with eye-control issues is something we don’t need) That the man is son, brother, cousin, father to some woman; forcing you to accept that you’re the other gender to this loathsome creature, makes you want to barf. Do you guys even realise how far below on the ladder you leave your wives? Oh, but I forgot, you don’t give a damn.

Did you say dress code? Way overrated. Ass and boobs are just as pronounced in salwars and sarees, just as much as they are in jeans and trousers. Chiffon and silk give them pretty contours if anything! So all that “dress properly” jazz – does not work. So women who think that their ‘inappropriately attired’ colleagues had it coming, I’d request you to come down from your high horse. Then you’d see that the guys get a better view from below. and they're watching you,honey.

If you are a man and you can’t muster enough respect for a female colleague and you need to keep being lewd, you are an asshole. And right from the office boy to the boss’s boss, an asshole is an asshole is an asshole. If the shoe fits, I sincerely hope it f!@#ing pinches your goddamn feet to ribbons. Ass****.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

When desire rains

The monsoons are when Kerala, God’s Own Country, loses all inkling of inhibition and goes into a rather unholy frenzy of whim. During this time of the year, the wind, intoxicated by the earth’s musk, picks up her skirts and runs wildly across rain drenched fields and forests, unmindful of the eyes turned upward beneath her. When the colour green ripens and blooms into a riot of red, lavender and pink. The waters are possessed by invisible sprites – dangerous swirls and choppy ripples half-tempt and half -reveal dark intentions. The skies darken in shades of desire and the air is thick with romance.

In the light or rather in the absence of light, of this amorous dance of the elements – man, the thinking species, is caught in between, a reluctant dancer whose feet move against his will, flung to the clumsy rhythm of restraint giving way to abandon. Clothes cling onto the skin with flamboyant audacity. Contours become very pronounced curves. Faces, shameless as the flowers, turn to the sky, and suppressed wants surface, rather inconveniently. To a contained mass, this unabashed opening of legs by nature comes across as – a guilty pleasure, I guess. They’re turned on and off at the same time, they both hide under umbrellas and kiss the rain with their mouths open. It’s a time of partial possession and people do things they normally wouldn’t. Like the normally abashed womenfolk hiking their mundus way above their knees, all the while, feeling the sensuous slap of water against their thighs. I just happened to, from my train window, see one such woman in the process.

Middle-aged or maybe even beyond middle aged, she was for sure of that age when malayalee women believe that they’re drying up inside and their husbands are already dipping themselves, or maybe even wading in younger pools. An age when they think that they’re beyond desire – their’s and others’. When they start to believe that their locking of their knees and wants is equivalent to righteousness. A woman of this age was wading through mid thigh water. Her mundu was scrunched up at quarter thigh and her torso was covered only with a skimpy saree blouse, making her look like a bollywood starlet. She waded in slow, languorous moments with the water, like a hungry lover kissing any and every part of her anatomy that it chanced upon. And she, the coy recipient of these attentions, drawing away in shy reluctance and yet expecting in bated anticipation for the lover’s next kiss. Her face was turned away from me but I can’t help but wonder if she tingled at the water’s touch. Did she shiver deliciously and did her face flush when its icy fingers ran up her bare flesh? Did she bite her lip, holding back a cry as the wet tongue lapped up her thighs? Did she realize that age did not mean exempted from the wants of the flesh and soul. Did she realize that she could never be beyond desire?

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

I’m presumptuous. Therefore I write.

I’d like to star in my own show.

And then, while we’re at it

Could you consider letting me direct, produce and script it as well?

Perhaps, a little editing?

Would that be too much to ask?

Don’t want those places where I bloop the blooper

To be my publicity.

Unless it’s unglam all the way. You know,

The whole nine yards of angst.

That way, I can win an award for pretending?

So where were we? Oh yeah, my show.

Could I compose the song. And put in the music?

Write the score? Or score the score, or whatever?

But I don’t play the keyboard, the guitar or percussion.

Oh never mind, we’ll figure that one out.

Maybe have the spotlight trained mostly on me?

Oh, dint I tell you, I’m gonna star.

Yeah, I like the sound of that.

But I’d like to be my audience as well.

So how can we fix that?

I like sleeping in front of mirrors

And eating while watching television.

Then again, that has nothing to do with the show

I guess. But the show’s about me.

Too much of me? Whatdyamean there’s too much

Of me? Well that I disagree.

How can there possibly be too much

of me? What’s so too-much-about-me anyway?

Hello? The last time I checked,

This was still MY life.

And I haven’t written its rights off to anyone yet.

To whomsoever that may read this blog……

Let me be presumptuous enough to think that you just might be interested in what I have to (oh yes, its as compulsive as it gets) write about. And that you just might be interested enough (or strange enough) to actually follow my ‘going in circles’ trail of thought (wow).
About me? Girl, writer, (reluctant?) copywriter. Quite necessarily in that order, as future posts will prove. And I have this affliction of clutching my heart in my fist…so if blood makes you queasy, don’t tell me I did not warn you!