Any dream will do

1. Be an NRI.

2. Choose girl from a slew of choices and fly down to meet her.

3. Propose marriage.

4. Meet her parents.

5. Say "I want you to meet my family".

6. Go back to Uncle Sam and slowly allow silence to creep into communication over three months.

7. Post girl meeting your family, completely ignore mails and messages.

8. Continue ignore mode till girl loses it and mails you, asking you what's wrong.

9. Tell her you're not quite sure, but once you are, will let her know.

10. Call her a few days later and give her the most inane reason as to why you two can't be together and call it off.

 

My friend and me

Looking through her red box of memories...

 

These things happen, I'm sure. Relationships break for real ridiculous reasons all the time. But there are a few pieces missing in this puzzle that gives you the distinct feeling that there is more to it than meets the eye. For example, from the look of things (and I had a good look), it seems to me that this crack, for want of a better word, developed long before my friend was to go meet his family. And still, she was made to go through the charade of meeting his family in another city at her expense (In case you didn't know from your bar-charts, we don't earn in dollars here). I'm glad that this thing ended before it was formalised with an engagement of sorts, and God forbid if it had gone all the way through to marriage.

 

I bear no illwill towards the guy in question. He is a complete unknown and I wouldn't want to know him, either. I tried my best to give him the benefit of the doubt and yes, I was pretty convinced that he did indeed have a decent reason for taking this extreme step for a while there. He didn't seem to be a cad, from what little I know of him. However, my one grouse is that she could have been saved the look in her eye that says "Huh? Say what?" Lord knows it is tough enough to field questions from "wellwishers" of the family about being 30 and single and a "burden" to parents and to society on the whole. Thank you very much, but we can do without more trouble in our lives, like how will we tell all those "wellwishers" who were informed of the wedding that it's been called off and ignore the ill-concealed "pity" in their eyes and see the light fade in our parents' eyes and chuck this trait that we've honed to perfection over the last three decades of living that doesn't allow us to rave and rant and call you names and tell you to go take a flying fuck.

The heart is NOT a superstition, and it can take many a beating and still function. But what it cannot take is indignity of any kind, especially when we've placed some trust in you. And this is worst kind of blow you could inflict on it. We give away our hearts easily. That is because we have faith in you and that is because we have faith in tomorrow. That doesn't give you the right to walk all over it. Good riddance. Know that whatever your reasons are, they DO NOT justify the tears in my friend's eyes.  And they do not justify the sudden discourteous wall of silence from your side of the court. It really does not paint you and yours in a good light. You bet your sorry ass I'm indignant, I'm furious, I'm downright livid, for you are not the one to wipe away the tears that refuse to flow from her eyes.

 

And I hope you read this. Thank your stars that it was not me in her place. I would have asked you to reimburse my flight expenses and the bill for the lingerie I was going to buy. Hell, I would have even bought the lingerie!

Pared naked apple

I eat juicy flesh and skin

Ptooie your  pits

 

The cooker whistles

The pulao is cooked and done

No one to eat with

 

Illusion, thy name

is Lindt sin on the tongue and

a firm derriere

 

Curd rice and pickle

Spoonfuls of it day and night

You are far away

 

Coffee, tea or milk

To keep you up and running 

Tummy disagrees

 

French fries and ice cream

Not the best combination

For a fat-free frame

 

Baileys Irish Cream

Out of small brown coffee mugs

Ol and I get high 

 

End Note: All 5-7-5. Hah! 

 

Update: Look what you made me write!

 

Musk melon sorbet

You tempt me with promises

of my own Heaven

 

Golden baskets and

Ice pick and Tiramisu

Shiok anytime

 

Now, where's my watermelon sorbet :o)? 

They weren't lying when they told you that it all lies in the thought. "The intention behind the gift is what counts", said with a look in the eyes that told you that they were there physically but miles away from you, recollecting one of the many lessons that life taught them. The slight wag of the finger, the almost imperceptible nod, the little smile that they were trying to suppress, lest you assumed that they were laughing at you. They weren't joking. They knew, for they had lived a long while before you even learned what living was all about. And before you know it, the cycle repeats. You've taken their place, someone else has taken yours. This cycle, I believe, is one of the many overlooked miracles in one's life.

 

Pray, they told you. Your gods changed, maybe they even multiplied, but your beliefs remained. And if you were lucky, they multiplied too. That is the order of things, something that the powers-that-be decided, with or without your consent. From a set of rigid ideals to a faith that refuses to succumb to religion or caste or creed or colour. Faith can move mountains, you were told. And over time, you realised that those mountains can't be seen but are far from metaphorical. And yes, indeed, faith could move them. Pardon me for being an idealist, you'd have to say many a time to idealists who pretend they are everything but.

 

Speech is of time, silence is of eternity, they told you, I'm sure. Only, it would take a lifetime of speaking out of turn and being unheard more often than not to understand that little pearl of wisdom. Don't be afraid, He is there with you, they told you. The gnawing fear of being typecast made you close your mouth, but your mind refused to shut down. And Someone heard your prayers, even if you didn't speak. That is why you felt lighter after a night's fitful rest. The one prayer that was answered long before you prayed. 

 

It used to be tough to laugh at yourself just yesterday, wasn't it? You cried when you thought no one was looking. And look at you today. You laugh at yourself, and cry for those you don't even know. They told you you would grow up, only they didn't tell you when or how or why or where. That was not because they didn't know, they just wanted you to figure it out for yourself. 

 

And look at you now. 

-----------------------

 

*For my friend who celebrated her 30th birthday today and my little gorgeous lovely pretty one.

May God bless you and give you all you ever wanted.

Since I don't think I will sit down and type four different posts, I'm dumping everything together in this. I expect to see four comments from each of you, please. I don't like being ignored, my blog doesn't like me being ignored, my blog doesn't like being ignored, and I don't like my blog being ignored. Get?

 

Bangalore finally saw some rains, YAY! Thanks, Austy. You're a dear. Also, cheering up a sad 11-year-old who has a bad attack of dustitis isn't easy. But then, a woman has to do what she has to do. Especially if she's the girl's favourite aunt. Little Miss Muffet was sad that she had to bunk school and that her mother was getting on her nerves and that her throat and nose were irritating her. And so, I came to her rescue by telling of my own escapades from school when I was her age. Through the ages of 6 to 12, I have bunked school many a day and Dad has always given me a leave letter the day after to take to the class teacher. Our maid's husband would take me to school, usually. We would walk right up to the gate and I would make him go and tell the ayah that I wasn't well and he would take me back home. If it was my maid who had to take me because her husband was too drunk, halfway through, I would tell her that I had forgotten to wear my panties. My sister thought it was not something my niece needed to know and my niece laughed. A genius is never appreciated in her lifetime. Sigh.

Please, God, I want my butt of yore back. I miss my pink bloomers.

 

I bought Kathleen Bird York's 'Wicked Little High'. It's my best music buy of this year. Lyrically brilliant, and an astoundingly gorgeous smoky voice. To borrow from Robert James Waller, her voice is like 'woodsmoke on an autumn night'. Those who like good music, buy. And spread the word around. This album demands more takers, and not many know. 

 

Thursday, fun was had with my dear Dolon, one of my oldest blog friends and Maushi.  Truffle chocolates, BathnBodyworks stuff, new clothes, gossip, shopping, food, the works!!!! Not only did I get a bag of goodies, and a big one at that courtesy Dolon, Maushi treated us to dinner at Shiok. Grrrrrreat food and some awesome cocktails. Madman is a true artiste, bless him. Please ask for the musk melon sorbet (cantaloupe for you Yankifieds), one of his *many* creations and prepare to swoon in ecstasy. And for those of you I know and you who I know you know I know you, please ask for an exclusive snap of the three of us going 'Mmmmmmm' post the said sorbet. It shall be sent to your mailboxes for your eyes only. And don't just wrinkle your nose yet. It IS every bit as awesome as I'm making it out to be. 

 

Fourth post? I don't quite remember what I wanted to write about. But I think it was about bombing all terrorist areas of the world and penalising Materazzi for life.

 

Remember the comments.

 
It's raining leaves everywhere. From tall trees, small trees, sturdy trees and felled trees. They are felling trees by the dozen, the authorities. To make way for the scores of people and vehicles that have descended upon my land of plenty to suck it dry of all that it has to offer. All in the name of progress. Little cream-walled houses with grey doors are being replaced by stylish bungalows and small roadside shops have had to bow out for the multiplexes and the malls. These new structures lack the one thing that they set out to find in the first place. Character. My city and its dwellers of generations refused to part with it. Nature is angry, too.  I saw yesterday morning that she was furious. She had commanded a big, old grandpa tree to uproot itself and crush the wall of a house she didn't like. I wanted to stay and count the rings of age, but I didn't.

 

Me, an endless journey

pictures in the mind

that refuse to age

a lying mirror

a lull that storms taught me to hold on to 

 

The rains are late this monsoon. They seem to have given my city the go-by. This time last year, the monsoon was relentless, leaving pain and fear in its wake. My city, known for its well-balanced seasons, where the summers aren't too hot, monsoons aren't too wet, winters aren't too cold and spring isn't around long enough for us to enjoy it witnessed a squall quite unlike any other late June last year. I remember the day well for I was cold and wet and had to walk with measured steps through slush and live wires on dark unlit streets for hours before I could hitch a ride back home. But we are well into July now, and there isn't a whiff of rain for miles and miles around. The familiar nip in the air that monsoon brings is playing an annoying game of hide-and-seek. There is dust everywhere, the kind that stings your eyes if you so much as dare open them when you're in the midst of its fury. The kind that sticks to your feet that no matter how many times you wash them, refuses to be washed away. The dust hasn't settled down, thanks to no rain. And for no reason at all, I thought of you today.

 

You, a lyricless song 

the absence of first rain

the missing colours of the rainbow

the soft glow

around the pall in the sky 

The very idea of lost love demands that the days be cold, thoughts be gloomy and tears be unshed to think of what-could-have-beens. It's strange for this is not a warm day in September to remember you and your green plaid shirt by. I haven't walked down the street that leads to somewhere to remind me of the first time I heard your voice. I haven't had a cup of mocha in that dinghy cafe in recent months. Where I first hugged you. Or was it you who hugged me? I didn't read any old mail from you, nor have I listened to...

Follow me where I go,

What I do, who I know,

Make it part of you to be a part of me

...in ages. But something about today made me think of you. Memories fade, new dreams replace old ones, people move on, but some things linger on in their absence. And catch you unawares to bring back the smile that you missed.

Us, a wordless story

secrets never to share

faded yellow leaves

fallen on a lazy puddle

that yesterday's almost rain left behind.

It's that time of the year again. "Your biological clock is tick-tick-ticking away" echoes-from-every-corner time. When my own flesh and blood gang up on me to remind me ever-so-kindly that I'm not getting any. Younger, that is. (One-track minds, I know - NOTHING can be done, lost causes.) Like I need be reminded of the fact. 

 

I think it's the monsoons. South Indian tradition has it that if it rains on your wedding day, it's auspicious and you have a better chance at a longer and a more successful run at wedded bliss. (I'm South Indian and I don't know what the rest of the world thinks, so sue me.) Me-personally-thinks that wedded bliss doesn't last long, wink, wink, very few and far between occurences for short bits of time. Real short bits of time, like 30 seconds. But let's not go there now. So anyway, as I was saying, according to them, monsoon+marriage=maha chances of satisfactory nooky sessions=more than reason enough for pitter-patter of new tiny feet within a year. Green card for entry, pun intended. (Actually, there's no pun - only one meaning implied.) Most of us in the family are Feb-Apr borns, which only compounds my theory. And by us, I mean, me and nieces, so my dear pater and siblings can't tell me IVF blah de blah. 

 

I mean, if the man I were to marry looked like this or this, it's a wholly different way of looking at things. Season most definitely wouldn't matter then, for one thing. But alas, that is not to be. They have to have everything going for them except where it matters. Like I was telling a friend some time ago, he has to be loaded up here and down there and in the money department. But NO. It just doesn't work that way. If they do manage to have an effect up here, nothing happens down there. And vice versa. Never together in one package. Bane of my existence, you see. And money factor? Hah.

 

So, once proposals from friendly neighbourhood tailors and aunties-I-never-knew-existed were considered, pooh-poohed at, suffered through and boxed under REJECTS, my dear father, my very own second X chromosome contributor, masterminded an evil scheme to get me to meet the son of a friend without my knowing. Parents not involved, you can meet in total privacy, you take your decision, we will stick by you schmaltzy nonsense. Like a bolt from the blue, Johnny-come-lately, no allusion to his sexual abilities, mind you, I'm sure, calls me up at work and tells me all about the plan of our fathers. This was the time when I still believed in men, how long ago was it, let me see, 5-6 years ago. So, said Studmuffin Adman lands up on my office doorstep and stunned-little-me, no allusion to my size, goes along for a cup of coffee. Turns out that it was to be the most banal conversation of my life ever. Excerpts:

Adman: This industry makes men impotent. Most of my bosses' wives have had sex with me. I'm slowly but surely moving up the ladder. (Note the irony in statement, please.)

Me: (Thinking) Are you now, lad? And what do you depend on for grip? Knockers of the said wives?

Adman: Cigarette, alcohol, nothing works for me anymore. Though I need grass and magic mushrooms once in a while.

Me: (Thinking) And I thought those mushrooms were fancy sex toys and LSD deabbreviated was Loss of Screwability Disorder.

Adman: Depression calms me. What calms you?

Me: (Aloud)  Really, now. A good laugh does the trick and I think I shall have me one of those tonight.

 

Yup, goes without saying, we didn't take it forward. Did nothing for my libido, I tell you. OR to it, thank the Lord God. Cut to two years later at Vasantahabba where I was with a few friends of mine. Depressed Studmuffin was there, too. So I told this HOT very male friend of mine all that happened back when and he paid extra attention to me that night. We cuddled under a single blanket and made moony eyes at each other. Though nothing much happened under the blanket, much to my disappointment, it gave me one potent helluva kick knowing that Studmuffin-can't-get-it-up-anymore was oh-so-desperately trying to catch my eye.

 

Now where am I going with this, you ask. Nowhere. Just wanted to recollect my dear family's matchmaking efforts so that I don't allow them to do it again. Hmmmm. This is not an ideal world as you will know by what comes next.

Where are they now?

• Cuddler-under-the-blanket got married three years ago. On my birthday. To this uber-gorgeous, supersexy good friend of mine. 

• Studmuffin Adman acts in local Kannada TV shows and has a Frenchie. Facial hair growth, that is. (Ok, I think the world's a wee bit ideal now :D.)

And as for me, single, straight, 30, cellulite, gray hair, want to marry a gay man.

 

Finito.