Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Consider this a request from me, please watch Cinderella Man if you haven't watched it yet. It's a sacrament of a movie. And it got me in the gut. I know I'm really late on this bandwagon, but Lord, I'm glad I got on it. Russell Crowe is such a epiphany, even if he happens to be a badass one at that. I have no idea what it is about him, his rugged yumminess notwithstanding, that makes you believe him. The Cinderella Man, pugilist Jimmy Braddock who decided to take on the Great Depression in the ring. Jimmy Braddock who makes you believe in hope again. Jimmy Braddock who reminds you that you can only put up your best fight if you have someone to fight for. Jimmy Braddock who makes Johnny Bravos of all the fancy-pants heroes we have today.
The movie reminded me to be thankful for the things I have. And I have been jaded for a really, really long time. I probably can't begin to compare this to sensation returning to a paralysed limb, it felt good to feel blood and feeling rush into all those crevices where I felt nothing for ever so long. It felt good not to numb again. It felt good to see something that wasn't painted over, touched up or maybe even veneered with cynicism. Felt good to see a woman stand by her man and he, by her. Old fashioned, yes i know. But wow. Renee Zellweger makes a beautiful Mae Braddock. She's vulnerable, fragile yet incredibly strong. It felt good to feel so inspired. It felt good to see him make pudding out of Max Baer, this cheese-assed, cocky, big-bully, nasty weasel of an opponent, who bears a startling resemblance to a particularly difficult client. Felt excellent to see him being humbled. Made me believe in the concept of good guys. Aah! Fairytales and happy endings didn't have such moxie.
In my head, maybe, most of us are lost ‘cos we're missing that something to believe in factor. Our mothers believe in their marriages, their devotion to our dads, their faith in God, in propriety. Our dad's believe in their duty, in their self-importance, in their lineage, in what's best for us, in their dreams. What do we believe in? I think the only thing I've got unshakable faith in is Boredom. As a staunch, card-carrying believer of God, I'm not saying this for added effect or coolness. It's just that I know whatever the status quo happens to be, Boredom will soon settle like dust on it and turn it a shade dull. Cynical? Yeah. But while I watched this movie, I thought, it doesn't necessarily have to be the case.
Please watch it if you haven't seen it already.

Instant Salvation

Cold Milk - 1 cup
Oreo Cookies - To your heart's desire

It's a very complicated recipe. But absolutely worth it. Stick to it carefully and you're sitting on God's favourite chair already!

Put all ingredients in a blender (what we all call mixie). Beat it like how Michael Jackson adviced you to. Five seconds. Full Power. Pour. Drink. Amen.

Works equally well on hot days and rainy afternoons. Got someone to share it with? Oooh, you're cuter and cosier than Goldilocks ever could have been in the Three Bears' home.

Thursday, April 22, 2010


Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we stopped making the p word, read period, such a big deal. Like what would happen if we girls just stripped it off its glamour, iffy-quotient by being downright causal about it. “Listen guys, I’m chumming today. So I’d like to take it easy ok!” That’s all there is to it. Nice and outright. Deprive it of its mystery rights. Either ways, boys love to arrive at conclusions and the signs are so unmistakable that it all becomes elementary my dear Watson! Jump into conclusions they will. They have little respect for the logistics of biology and the fact that it comes only once a month. Anything is THAT thing. Looking-under-the-weather according to them is a dead giveaway or the legendary stomach pain/back pain (apparently stomach upsets or back sprains are the sole privileges of the male species. If girls have them, it’s DEFINITELY ‘that’!) or that stupid traffic-halting pimple that heralds the misery week like the first flower does of spring “Hello sunshine”!!

But yeah. Why not? Why not drag it down from its embarassment pedestal and make it an insignficant deal? So that we don't have to whisper obviously about it. It's just biology afterall. And its not syphillis, for heavensake! Now that would be a reason to be embarrassed. Why not just come out in the open and let the person decide how they want to handle that particular piece of information. Put the burden on them. Most likely they'd be more embarrassed and that's very well. At least you won't have to be subjected to speculation. And there is a great deal of sympathy involved when boys are let in on the secret! But keep them out and all you'll get is sniggering and adolescent curiosity. Bad enough there is all this mind-numbing pain to deal with. So you we really need to make it some kind of high-profile-embarrassment as well? Such a lot to deal with.

Dealing with 120 hours of downtime is by itself a problem without having to deal with smirking morons. Then there is PMS. It's slander, if anything was. Everything we do is PMS. We're crying, it's PMS. We're yelling, it's PMS. We're fighting, it's PMS. We're sulking, it's PMS. "Nothing serious yaar, I bet she's just PMSing." Either we're PMSing or we're lunatics and we need to be institutionalized. A threat to society, either way. I've not known infuriation like I do when my boy friend asks me, when i'm hauling him up for being a jerk, with much practised concern if I'm PMSing. Just like that he acquits himself of all blame and accredits my foul mood to the chemical imbalance of my hormones. Makes my blood boil. And wringing his neck seems like such a sweet option.

So should we deglamorize it and make it mundane? I don't know. I don't even know why we glamourized it in the first place. Though it WAS a lot of fun to freak nosey, horrid college lecturers by shaking the "female problems" excuse in his terrified face and bunk class. Like i said, they have little respect for the logistics of biology and the fact that it comes only once a month and so the excuse held good every two weeks.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010


The moth bumped its head against the windowpane for the seventy-third time. It had been trying to get out all morning and in the dying heat of the late afternoon, its white wings trembled with ache. Soft bits of moth dust lay spent like dandruff on the windowsill. Outside freedom reached its welcome arms out, open and wide. With every attempt, rents turned into alleyways and alleyways turned into gaping voids in its wings and spirit. Life tasted weary in its tasteless mouth. Yesterday felt like a hundred years ago. It was hard to believe and harder to remember that it had been reckless with the joy of being alive, so-called-hundred-years-ago. The dank iron taste of imprisonment numbed its motors and spread the sweet poison of ennui slowly, evenly.

Every time it beat its gossamer fists against the unrelenting cold of the glass, life waned futile. Every time it threw itself against this wall that separated tomorrow from today, desperation got the better of wit. Every time it rebelled uselessly, compromise gained strength from a faraway option and despite its dubious credentials, began to look like a valid route of escape. And every time it fell back in defeat, it forgot that outside the radius of its immediate misery, life was passing it by.

On the other side life beckoned. On the other side beauty reigned. Opportunities lay glittering in jewel boxes, all it needed to do is get to the other side of the window. Just get to the other side. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't.

I certainly hope I will.

Friday, April 2, 2010


The moment she thought longingly of a baby, she realized, that in her mind, she had become a mother. She knew she was ready. And from thereon she took the first step of her journey towards motherhood. From that very second she had begun to reach out to her baby, who had been waiting forever, to be wanted. Her very own baby, who waited among the stars for her call. Her little person, who was destined for her, way before time even began and written history found its way into records.

I've been waiting a long, long time for her call. Sometimes I thought she'd never call. And then I have been very sad. Sometimes I've been afraid she'd never find me. Sometimes I've thought she'd never want me. But I am her baby and I always will be. Sometimes I thought they'd never be ready for me. They were always so busy, always running, always broke by the 15th of the month. But you see, I am her baby. I was destined for her, it says so right here, in the blueprint of creation. We babies are destined for our mothers. And we only hear the call of our mothers. We only heed the call of our mothers. I was sometimes afraid that she would conceive before she called me. That is just scary, because I could start growing in her in flesh but still be stuck here in spirit. Because if she doesn't call, it means that she isn't ready. And if she isn't ready how could she possibly become a mother. She could hold me in her arms and still not be my mother. Deep inside her heart, she wouldn't be a mother and I'd still be here waiting for her to call me. Waiting for her to want me. Waiting for to make me her own. I could be waiting forever, and it might be when I'm old that she might finally call me. And make me her own. I could be waiting forever before she baptises me with her love, and make me her child. I could be waiting forever before she wants me.

In the sweetness of a winter afternoon, she felt the stirrings of motherhood even before the determined tadpole-shaped squirt had a chance to find her waiting egg. This wasn't about sex. This was something far too sacred. This, she thought guiltily, had nothing to do with him. This was just between her and her dream-child. Her little fledgling. This was about her finding something in her, a part of her that had been there all this while but she had no clue about. This was about her being ready. This was about a destiny in gestation, coming full circle. And here she was, ready and willing. And somewhere in the outreaches of heaven, a little voice said "Mamma, I'm coming."

Dedicated to a dear friend of mine who discovered recently that she was ready for motherhood. I hope this journey is fulling and brings you all the joy and love you deserve.