Monday, September 24, 2007

Yeh Hai Kirkit, Meri Jaan

I'm watching the match right now. They'd better win this one or goes on. But this is fun. I haven't watched a full cricket match in ages. An India-Pakistan match, to boot. I've been mad about cricket for so long. I've patiently watched India lose over five long days, over a hundred overs and so on. I've raved and ranted and vowed never to watch another match, and then religiously watched the next encounter.

But they'd better win this one, or else...

Update: - They WON :)

Monday, September 17, 2007

Ten Sureshot Ways To.....

....Irritate the HECK out of me.

1. Call me a 'nice kid'. If you are not Big Papa/ Mama, then don't act like it.

2. Condescend, or talk down to me. I may not be the wisest person in the world, but if you think you are, you're clearly not wiser than I am.

3. Make me watch inane soaps on TV when That 70s Show is airing on the other channel and I'm dying to watch Steven Hyde. If the soap is the kind that believes in drilling things into your brain by showing every scene thrice, so much the better.

4. When asinine jokes are being cracked on TV, you not only laugh loudly, but then proceed to explain the jokes to me. Yeah, I got the joke. And no, it's not funnier when you say it. I will not laugh.

5. Sit on my bed and pass wind audibly, and then look at me brazenly as if daring me to respond.

6. Use the kitchen before me and make a holy mess. Oil on the walls, utensils dirtied, potato peels everywhere.

7. Use the bathroom when its my turn to bathe and I'm in a hurry. Sing crappy songs loudly to add to the effect.

8. When I'm watching something on the laptop or reading, keep peering in pointedly. Ask useless questions as well.

9. If you're one of the people that I like, neglect to call me for more than ten days. I'm reasonable; I give people ten days before blacklisting them. Or better still, hang up on me a couple of times.

10. When you find out that you've been blacklisted, wail plaintively,"But I was waiting for You to call me". Yeah, bub, enjoy the wait.

Are you wondering why I'm ranting? Because apart from work people, nobody, and I mean NOBODY has called me in the last three days. All of us know, deep in our shrivelled little hearts, that we are dispensable. We know that if some celestial eraser were to rub us right out of the picture, life would prance along merrily. Our biggest insecurities arise from this knowledge, and our quest for love, companionship and understanding is aimed at being indispensable for atleast one other person in this world. On my part, I would like to be thought of on a Sunday. Sometimes.

So as I have been so forcefully reminded of my dispensability, I'm miffed at You. And You too. And do not call me now, thinking,"Oh, poor thing". The eleventh thing that irritates me the most is pity. Stuff it.

Monday, September 10, 2007


I've noticed that I adhere to very set structures while writing. So there has to be a beginning, a middle and an end. There have to be paragraphs, there has to be accurate punctuation. The tenses have to be consistent, the spelling has to be correct. When I'm cooking, the vegetables have to be cut into an even size, the spices have to be just so, the salt has to be that many grains and not one more. Obsessive Compulsive? Let's not answer that. This post shall try to do without structure. Or is the absence of structure some sort of structure in itself? Aaaargh...

I hate Murphy. He decreed that the day you decide that the rains are over and you can wear your favourite kurta that you had washed and ironed with your own two hands, the monsoon gods will be in a playful mood. Not only that, when you manage to do the whole train changing routine and land up at your station, the Railways will choose that very day to seal off and repair one of the exits. So the whole of humanity will have to go out the other way, a presumptuous and foul smelling woman will scratch the living daylights out of your kurta and your pretty Pakistani kolhapuris will have to tread on garbage (and I mean garbage) to get to the office. People smell so very bad, and there just has to be an open garbage dump to add to the sea of olfactory nuisances.

They will tell you that with time, it'll get better. They'll tell you that as the years go by, the hurt will lessen till it barely exists anymore. They say a lot of things about time being the greatest healer. Nine times out of ten, they'll be right. But what they won't tell you is that there's always a tenth time. They can't possibly tell you that there will be moments when the pain will stage such a spectacular comeback that you'll feel like you've been punched in the stomach, that you'll struggle to keep your hurt from becoming audible to the other people that you share your room with. They may be right for most days of the year, but they aren't there with you when time takes away its protective cover. They won't see you almost calling some of them, looking for solace, a listen, or just a hug, because every time you will look at some of their numbers flashing on your phone and then decide not to call. It's better to leave the awkwardness out of relationships. Not better maybe, but definitely easier.

You will have a moment of epiphany when you will realize that the reason your problems have such long lives is that while most people wrestle their demons, you nurse yours.

Then you will decide to redeem the promise you made to yourself three years ago, and will join up for dancing lessons. After spending two hours realizing that snails can probably jive better than you can, you will undertake to come back for the salsa version of embarrassment the next weekend. As a reward, your calf muscles and your back will spend their time reminding you of your adventure at every waking moment.

There. Almost no structure, except for the paragraphs. Ah well, one can't change one's spots. Especially if one has just decided that spots are in.