Wednesday, August 25, 2010

girly love

Love is impatient. Love is unkind.
Love is a poison that weakens the mind

“No balls, that’s what it is!”, they snickered. They called him an indulgent lapdog. They mocked him and said that he was kept. They said he was a sissy and that he was bullied by her. They whispered behind his back and called him hen-pecked to his face. He couldn’t care less. When they felt threatened by her they told him that his bitch was out of control. They laughed at him for being indulgent and scoffed at him for not "keeping her in her place". They said he was foolish for trusting her. A wimp, her obeisant servant, her keep, her toy. Oh, what did they know? They ridiculed what they couldn’t have or understand. They questioned his manhood because he respected her and unlike them, didn’t keep his woman in a cage. He knew better. Insecurity was the eunuch's disease. Not his.


He loved her. A demented sort of affection. Everyday his soul grew more gnarled and twisted with his love. It spilled into his breakfast cereal and burnt his dinners. It filled his soul with the smell of roses and touched him with the sweetness of a child's laughter. It began and ended with the simple wish of wanting to be a part of her life. To him, she was the possibility of knowing how much a man he could be. Any guy could take a woman, but she would only keep a real man. It kept him real. She kept him alive in ways he dared not count or scrutinize. It was his touchstone. It made him wretched with desire and yet, blessed. He could not keep his mind off her. No, that wasn't necessarily true. He very well could keep his mind off her. But he'd rather not. What was a couple of missed deadlines and jumped stop signals next to a thought to return to? It kept him focused and it distracted him. It kept him company during long journeys. It kept him going. It was his grace. He remembered his dreams with her. It made him smile. It gave him strength. It gave him something to look forward to. It was worthwhile. It kept him in good humour. It kept him happy.


She loved him. An almost-complete, feral sort of affection. She could count the number of ways she loved him on her fingers and her toes. And then she would smile smugly to herself. Every day was alive with possibilities, ideas; buzzing with the potential being complete offered. He made counting her blessings a rather delightful exercise and she smiled rather smugly (again) after taking inventory. It made her smile smugly many times a day. She believed she’d earned it and she’d make the person who tried to ruin this for her very sorry. “Don’t you lie to me, or you’ll be sorry.” A contract of trust. Both undersigned. She was his equal. His other half. Soul mates. Partners. Better-worse. Patience-expectation. Anger-forgiveness. Love-love. It was her precarious balance. The closest she had come to prayer. It was her risk. It was her saving grace. It made her ridiculous. It kept her coming back. It set her free. It kept her grounded. It was good. It was bad. It was wicked. It was perverse. It was pure. It was foolish. It was absolute genius. It was wonderful. It was mundane. It was magical. It was the pits. It kept her sane. It kept her sweet.

Love is jealous. Love is a lousy bum.
Love is love and that’s fucking awesome!

Eve would have envied her. She knew that much. They hated her guts. The philistines. They called her vamp. Short for vampire. Shrewd, sexy, dangerous. Unattainable. Out of your league. So they came to drive a stake through her heart. Chop off her head and fill the mouth with garlic. They came with their holier-than-thou protests. "Witch. Witch. Bitch. Burn her at the stake." They grudged her his love. They grudged her his trust. They ridiculed him for standing by her. He did, as he always would. Yes, Eve would have envied her. Eve offered Adam the apple with hopes of him finding his manhood. Instead it lodged somewhere in his throat. Adam's apple. The legacy of denial, bequeathed to his kind; God's condemnation and damnation for not standing by woman. They shall know that you've not done right by your woman. So much for balls!

Friday, August 20, 2010

of axe murderers and crows nests and other strange things

Let me get this straight. I believe in the power of Gray skull and I believe in the power of Axe. But where do these guys get the idea that spraying themselves silly with enough deodorant to fumigate up to 10 sq.ft. of farmland will make them He-man (Or He-men? Or should it them-men? Oh, whatever) Yeah where do they get that silly idea? Oh, I forgot. They got that from the ads. Silly me! And I’m supposed to be in advertising. (For shame, Dannie, for shame!) But I wish these ads came with a teeny-tiny writing below “Stunts tried out by experts. Please don’t try this at home. Or at least before going to office.” Why do I wish this wish? Because of Axe abuse. Because I hate getting stuck in the lift, first thing before office with two (or, heaven forbid, more) morons dunked and drenched in f*****g Axe. It’s an ambush of the bloodiest kind minus the blood. It’s a veritable assault. It’s like being bludgeoned by an invisible, Axe-smelling bludgeon (duh!) right on the back of the head. So far the back of my head has proved to be the Axe-smelling bludgeon’s equivalent of a Viking helmet. I’ve not passed out till date. But it’s left me reeling and feeling rather lightheaded. It’s more like being stuffed headfirst in a sack (that’s not even very big, to begin with) and far, far from frenetic, rabid desire. Unless the desire to puke my guts out counts, of course. Now if you axe me. I beg your pardon.

Now if you ASK me, I have no idea why men like smelling like each other. Like cattle. How much variety do you think they could have? Why bring democracy under the armpits, in a very nonmetaphoric sense? Go on, experiment. It’s very, very confusing when you smell like each other. It’s worse when the whole world, right from the chaiwallah to the bus conductor and the creepy neighbour and the hunk in the ad smells the same. There you are minding your own business and then this invisible grenade blows your olfactory senses to bits. From there on, it’s a minefield, with Axe bombs going off at every corner. The Axe effect or should I say, the Axe trauma, begins right from high school, when boys stop running away from girls and start running towards them. At this tender age, they slowly turn from nice boys into mutant air-fresheners. Now how many of you girls get turned on by Odonil, hmmmm?

Today I saw an ad with a lot of boys sporting what can be best described as very-badly-made crows’ nests on their head. Looked like they slept on their hair all funny or like their hair was making rude faces and gestures. It turns out to be (surprise, surprise) an ad for gel or hair spray or something. Why would anyone want to consciously invest in bad hair days? Why? Why? Why? Maybe if I found the answers to these questions I just might find the secrets to conjugal bliss the wives in the detergent ads seem to know. And have college girls gasp at my youth and vitality as my neighbour’s kid (whom I have bribed, of course) comes running to me with arms wide open calling me “Mummmmmmmmmy.”

Sunday, August 15, 2010

ka-ching, bling bling

People. I HAVE NEWS. I’m rich. Yes. Very, very , fabulously, enviably rich. I’ve got lottery winnings coming in from my email, my mobile, my ears and my nose. Okay not my ears or my nose. But yeah! I’ve won so many pounds (like in British currency, not weight) followed by even more zeroes in the last 30 days. A real number followed SO MANY zeroes that it would just be plain tacky to count them! I’ve won a zillion from MSN and Yahoo sweepstakes. Then some billions from enterprises right from Japan to Brazil. Then enough from BMW to fill my entire street with their cars. Maybe I should talk to them about the exchange. I rather like the imagery of my entire street lined up with cars with the registration D@NN13. Actually BMW is in this “Take! Take! Dannie, take our money. Oh Dannie, please take our money” mode. I’ve won the lottery so many times. You’d think someone offering this much money wouldn’t be so desperate and particular about ONE person claiming their winnings. I mean I feel more special than Jesus, Neo and Buddha all put together. Cos I’m tha chosen one! I must have won that particular lottery like ten times by now. But in all honesty, it does feel like a bitchslap, cos I’m sitting on all this illiquid (read imaginary) money and in reality I have no job and am more broke than a Ming vase that crashed into a million pieces on the floor.

But technically I’m rich. Cos I have won more money in the last one month than Mukesh Ambani made in the same time period. Well if he made more, life is just not fair and I’m going to sue. Someone. Anyone. I have enough money. So what do I do with all this money?

Maybe I should mindlessly spend it on Louis Vuittons and Guccis and Jimmy Choos and all those fancy names I haven’t bothered learning how to pronounce, because the chances of me asking for them over the counter is like, umm, improbable! Until now, i.e! But nyeaaah, I don’t think so. Not exciting enough.
Or maybe I should adopt Africa. That will show Angelina Jolie. Hmph. The show off! But somehow I think it’ll cost me a lot more to buy Africa. Fecking De Beers and all have beat me to it. So that’s off the agenda. But I’d dearly have loved to steal her thunder. It’s like the woman is monopolizing the weather department. Aah well!

Or maybe I should turn fundu. Oooooh I like that. With a cause and all! I could really fund a fundamentalist outfit with all this money. And I could get a bazooka. I’ve always lusted after one of those. A bazooka kicks a Herm├ęs bag’s ass, don’t you think? Move over Osama. Danger Dan is here. Jeeez that makes me sound like a superhero with costume-related dyslexia. You know, I’ve often wondered why superheroes wear their undies over their clothes. You’d think their super brains would have figured that one out. Maybe in their hurry they always forget to wear it first when they change. And they realize it only once they’re fully dressed and then they put it on anyway for decency sake. (Superman: “Dang! Forgot to put on those damn jockeys again. Doubt if that three-eyed Godzilla timeout his city-destruction plans till I get this stooopid sticky spandex stocking I call a costume off and put it on all over again. Aaah heck..I’ll wear my undies over my costume. Batty and most of the justice troop do it as well. But I must talk to my stylist! I really should! Must get rid of my favourite flying saucer undies!!”) Talk about job stress!
Errrr..sorry about going totally off the subject. We were talking about me turning fundamentalist. Yeah. I think I’ll be fine in jeans. Maybe I’ll wear a Red Indian’s headdress. NOW there’s a plan!! I’ll get Karl Lagerfeld design one for me! Maybe in pink! I like pink you know! Or maybe not. Paris Hilton will copy me. Or maybe I should patent it and bazooka any likely copycats into the next galaxy. I think I like that plan best.
Now for the multimillion dollar question. Who wants to be in my will, hmmmm?

Monday, August 9, 2010

a place in my childhood

Childhood. It's a veritable attic of memories. And like attics, they can be really scary and daunting. I spent the blossoming years of my childhood at my grandparents' house and remember much too vividly for comfort, the cavernous garret. It was a shadowy grey place and filled with countless spooks and mice. The spooky dark wooden stairway which lead to it was eerily tucked behind a doorway. Why would it be behind a locked doorway unless you wanted to censor what went up and came down those stairs. What if something that never went up the stairs came down them? The door put such ideas into my head and made me nearly pee in my frilly little girl's underpants. I could never get over the feeling that a hundred eyes were watching me, waiting for the moment to strike and eat me up. Back then, i probably thought i was one tasty little morsel, cause i honestly believed that a lot of things wanted to eat me up. Like the monster family under the bed, for instance. Aah! The monster family - papa monster, mama monster, baby monster and the giant cauldron to cook me in. But the monster family under the bed is a story for another time. Let's go back to the garret.

Spiderwebs hung thick like ghostly festoons - trapezing the length and breadth of the attic. They hung there, invisible yet grey as sadness. walking into one of them was like remembering a bad memory. You just could not get over it immediately. And left you feeling somewhat defiled. It stuck to my hands, my face and my hair, and despite my best efforts, I could never shake it off completely. No one liked admitting that the uncomfortable shadows and the corpses of once-useful household things gave them the jeepers. I was the cowardy-custard of the gang, so I was allowed to be scared. And god, I was!! But it more than a small mercy that pigeons hadn't discovered our roomy garret, which in our untrained 5-year-old opinions, extended right into the next universe. I can imagine what their spectral moaning and crackly wings would have done for my jumpy nerves. Like I said, no small mercy.

Old dolls with holes for eyes and scalped heads lay there with their ghoulish pink grins and grime-on-porcelain complexions. Sometimes an accidental nudge would make them wail out a guttural, dying-battery "mama" in that creepy horror-movie way. But through the garret was the only way to get to the terrace. And you know the kind of attraction sunshine in high places holds for bratty children who've got just too much time on their hands and too little supervision. Siesta time, that perfect time of the day when all the grown-ups were much too busy taking their naps to boss us around. When we could be up to any nefarious deed that crept into our heads. Siesta time was when we'd hurry across the length of the attic, which went on forever, ducking at the wooden beams that traversed its width every five yards or so, sometimes bumping our heads very painfully in our hurry, wrestle with the jammed latch till it gave way and opened our exit into the welcome arms of laughing sunshine.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

a very sincere letter

Dear Mum, Dad, this might come as a shock to you. But i'm in love. No, the shock has nothing to do with the new challenge this poses to the established fact that I'm incapable of loving but about the object of my affection. Whom I'm in love with. Mum, Dad I'm emotionally involved with my potato salad. I've been watching too much of the Twilight saga and this happily-ever-after and falling in love with your food has gone to my head (not my stomach). If Edward can fall in love with his dinner, why can't I? I know this is extremely hard for you. But I'm a big girl now and I am in love afterall. I love Twilight. Twilight is my life. If the lion can fall in love with his stupid, stupid lambchop, why can't I fall for my spud-boy? The way I feel about it's not gas. It's the real deal..butterflies..oh so many butterflies. In my stomach. I know it's unconventional and people will talk. But at least I'm not bringing home a hindu or muslim human being, am I!? That would be unpardonable. God forbid i do that. Nor am i bringing home a woman. I assure this is a rather straight, God-fearing catholic potato.

I hope you wil forgive me and find it in your heart to accept our love.

Your loving daughter

(I've changed my name to a mallu-ised version of Bella)

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

pondering, wondering and some more pondering

So my parents want me to get married. Not just want, they're bordering on harassment. And not just my parents. The entire community. Including my extended family, my neighbours, their extended family, their neighbours, the extended family of the extended family's neighbours. Or was it the extended family of the neighbours' extended families? Whatever, it doesn't merit grammatical and punctuational (is that a word?) accuracy.
"FOR WHAT?", is what I want to ask all these rather lovely people who have made my life their business. To serve what useful purpose of this very useful institution, may I ask? They won’t let me marry the only person I want to marry. Well to be honest, I'm not sure myself if I want to marry the only person I want to marry. But that's not the question. They won't let me, so ‘for love’ is out of the question.
For children and to keep the bloodline going? I’m a woman so there won’t be any Correyas springing from my loins and besides, we’re entering into an era of scientifically engineered genetically screwed up food. Hello? Do I look I want to raise my kids on three-drumsticks-per-chicken type of chicken and butter endorsed by a four-eyed moppet? Well, FYI, I DO NOT. I'd sooner adopt aliens!
Then, to keep loneliness at bay? I’m getting a husband here, people, not a lifetime validity prepaid connection. He can leave me or I can leave him anytime. There isn't even an anti-straying contract in the picture.
Then umm.. how about someone to drive the car so that you can do your nails? I think I could master driving yet and I don’t do my nails, so next?
Maybe as a sort of companion? I thought we were through this already, grrrr! Maybe you should wake up and then note what time people get back from work these days? Nobody has time for anything they don’t want to have time for, understand. And any man other than my (supposed to be) man comes under Section anything-they-don’t-want-to-have-time-for. Full marks, full qualification.
Okay, so maybe to keep the naatukaaru and the veetukaaru to shut their traps? Please listen to yourselves, realize and think about how pathetic you sound and I’ll think about forgiving you.
Cos you’re growing older, yeah that’s a real reason. My grandmother is much older, you’re going to find her a husband too?
Then maybe cause you’re waaaaay out of line and it drives us insane to watch you have so much fun? Ah-ha there you have it, the real reason huh, you people-with-terrible-envy-in-your-heart, you!! And sorry, that's hardly a real reason. Nice talking to you!

Sunday, August 1, 2010


Economies can rise and fall, stock markets can crash and catapult, industries can boom and fizzle. But its been a long, long time since the world stopped to reconsider and reevaluate the market value of dignity. A personal asset of absurdly high capital value, paradoxically without currency, we've chosen to forget the role it plays in the economics of everyday life. No exchange value, no role. Short of shelf life, easily tradable and grossly undervalued, its personal cost is much too high that its upkeep is something most of us believe we can do without. A white elephant, an heirloom that's been with the family for ages, cherished but redundant. Unlike deposits or bonds, dignity does not grow by the principle of interest over time and crashes in a tizzy faster than the grizzliest of bear markets.

Lets talk about dignity's primary nemesis Ass Licking. It offers more feasible investment opportunities, likely returns and offers shareholder benefits of, well, holding something. What, is a matter of absolute discretion. An archaic notion like dignity stands as much a chance as a hothouse flower in the Arctic. The sun shines not in the sky anymore, but from scores of decision-making rearends, requiring the good people of the universe to trade their non-performing assets like dignity and originality for more speculative goods like servitude and sycophancy. Conference rooms turn into echo chambers, parliamentary sessions turn into auctions, catwalks turn into assembly lines, people turn into statistics, governance into window displays of too large teeth and shaking hands. Governments annihilate scores of lives in cold blood. We live by cues and in cages. Leftist, right wing, social worker, politico, bitch, sonofabitch, snitch, informant, performer, troublemaker (mime gesture: hand slicing across neck), pervert, opportunist, terrorist, self-righteousist, fagot, dyke. So many tags, lest we forget our roles in the grand scheme of things. All the world is a stage and we are all but backstabbers. We're all a part of a carefully formulated plan. A plan that gives only two-options. Voluntary bending over. Or forced down on your knees hands bound by your so-called dignity. You know the drill. It's your choice at the end of the day, hey!

Welcome to the lap dog economy.