I’m not the greatest sleeping partner.

And the hubby can vouch for that. In triplicate. Signed and attested by any notary of your choosing. I guess he probably wishes he’d asked for a trial run before buying the goods so he could return them and get a full refund on day two of purchase.

Anyway, the fact remains I am a deep sleeper. Read, I am the kind of sleeper who is probably a direct descendent thrice removed from Rip Van Winkle. I am the kind of sleeper who has been known to fall asleep hanging on a train strap in a crowded peak hour Mumbai local train, get up right before she needs to get off, fresh and immune to the curses of the unfortunate soul next to her, who supported her slack weight while she snored off her woes. I am the kind of sleeper who couldnt for the life of her remember whether she had put the child back in the cradle after the one zillion midnight feeds, and felt the bed next to her in a cold sweat kind of panic to check whether she had rolled over the fruit of the womb while in the throes of Morpheus.

Therefore. The husband is deserving of a glittering crown with the sash reading “Most tolerant Co-sleeper” slipped on. I dont think he can quite carry off the tears and the delicate patting of face with the tissue though. Though he might just well cry thinking of the years of indignities he has been subjected to. The least of which include being pushed to the very edge of the bed by obstinate sprawling all over the bed kind of deep sleep which brooks no awakening through pushing, shoulder shaking, and other such meek ruses, and is only solved by him physically pushing me to my side of the bed through a heave ho process much the same as employed by them poor slaves in the shifting of them massive stone slabs hauled across the desert to put them Pyramids up.

In the good old days of my adolescence one of the anecdotes that has made its permanent place in the fixture of the “Oh God, dont tell me” stories about self is the day when I returned home from school and went off to sleep, on the divan right next to the main door in the living room. And slept and slept and slept. In fact slept so much that the mother returned home from work and rang the doorbell. And hammered the door. And yelled for me. And neighbours climbed up pipes to try and get to the window to check if I was alive and well inside. I had also in a moment of misplaced concerns for my safety, me being latchkey kid and all, bolted the door from within so it couldnt be opened with the key. Just when the fire brigades were being summoned and the neighbours were fanning my mother, who had collapsed into a faint on the stairway, I awoke and opened the door casually to see what the commotion outside the door was all about. Needless to say, I was forbidden from latching the door ever again, and neighbours given the strict duty of ensuring that I did not open the door to strange people.

Then there was the other mammoth event, which guaranteed me a permanent place in the hall of deep sleepers fame. The day I fell asleep in the afternoon post lunch on a Saturday and awoke the next morning at 11 am. I think back to those days with the kind of awe most people reserve for WWF wrestlers in their prime.

The husband has learnt through bitter experience that if his eyes open before mine he is not to make a moue or even dare sneeze for fear of waking me. Hell hath no fury like a me woken before my shut eye is up. He learnt this the hard way when he decided he would go to the gym at 6 am and decided that I should awake like the dutiful wife he thought I was, and make him a cup of tea. Suffice to say, he took his mangled ears to the doctor to be stitched back onto his scalp and has never since repeated the request.

These are sad days when the eyes open at 5 am, though the man giving the prayer call from the mosque a short distance away might have something to do with it. And then the loudspeakers blaring droneful religious songs that go on and on and on…..and then the nightmares that plague me of waking up and seeing myself having ballooned into a beached whale gets me up and changed and walking shoes on before the alarm goes off.

So anyway, to come back to the horrific picture as presented in the title. I am now informed by the longsuffering husband that I have taken to snoring. While a part of me did the Phtoey to you, and now you know what it feels like jig right back at him, another part of me shrank away from myself in horror. Did this mean I was now officially one of those horrific old ladies snoring away to oblivion with drool and dribble running down their chins?

I didnt sleep a couple of nights in sheer terror and the next night I couldnt keep my eyes open beyond nine pm. So I picked my pillow and my blanket and drifted off into the land of nod. Where, frankly, I couldnt care about how loudly I snored, or how much drool I drenched the pillow with, or whether I presented an altogether inelegant picture sprawled across the bed or whether the room vibrated with the resonance of my sleep apnea.

Do you think separate bedrooms are now in order?

Tattoo mania all around

Bumped into a friend the other day at Shoppers Stop, both of us rushing to bag the only vacant cash counter and almost collided, but collision averted at the nth minute as we recognised each other and converted the elbowing out of other from first spot at cash counter to cheerful hugging and air kissing.

And then I spotted them. Not one, not two, not three but what seemed like a rash of tattoos on her body. On her arm. On her wrist. On the nape of her neck. On her shoulder blade. All devilishly drawn and intricately cute. Some Sanskrit Shloka type. The names of her two children. Some crappy dove and rose peace type image which I wouldnt wish on a Hallmark card, leave alone live skin. I winced and withdrew from the hurried embrace. And she saw my eyes on all her tattoos. And me being me, and being someone who can always be counted on to say the right diplomatic thing at the right time and make anyone who has a conversation with me feel good and happy and warm, blurted out, “What the hell have you done to yourself?”

Of course the ground didnt open up and swallow me right now. But of course, I wish it had. But since it didnt I had to stand grinning like a fool and thinking hard of how I could squirm out of having said that.

The neurons fire delayed responses when one commits a conversational boo boo. And she did look rather hurt, so I quickly applied verbal balm. “Must have hurt like hell!”

She knew she was in the presence of an evolved soul who could by her sheer presence bring peace and calm to her surroundings and bring her to a higher plane of consciousness.  And so she replied. “It did. But once you have had children, whats a little tattoo.”

It was my turn to rub it in, with a grinding stone level of diplomacy. “Thats not a little tattoo, thats a bloody Ajanta Ellora fresco all over you.”

But within me, to be honest, and this is a secret not to be revealed in public, I was strangely envious. Let me admit it, I am a coward. I have a pain threshold that begins at zilch. At the promise of a headache, I take three Disprins. At the hint of a niggling tooth, I demand to be taken to the hospital on a stretcher with glucose attached to a drip and a vein.

Therefore the unspoken admiration for anyone who can a) willingly take on pain, and b) pay for it, and c) choose something to have on their body which cannot be washed off or taken off and sent to the laundry. Or passed on to the servants if one bores of it.

She was, I think, the fifth friend I’d met in the past month sporting black and red and such like on her body. Some other online friends had also gone in for a tattoo. And all had their hotness quotient rise up a couple of notches with the tattoos in place. Add to it, the hint of the bad girl that comes through when there is a tattoo on your body is something, I am told, men find alluring. I’d stick to batting my eyelashes. Thats worked for me so far. And the deep look of interest and then looking away and never looking back. Easier than poking myself with needles.

Anyway, this brought me face to face with certain facets of myself that I had hitherto prefered ignored. Most notably, my fear of the needle. My hands tremble to thread one too. And secondly the fear of the permanent, the immutable. Who is to say what I like today I will like tomorrow and what if I hate it tomorrow? And how do I ever come to a conclusion about what I like, I need constant change, deciding on a particular design for a single tattoo is like a life sentence to me.

And yes, keep the Beckhams and the Jolies and the few odd souls who look good with tattoos aside, for me, most often faded tattoos make the owner and the skin look grubby. Unless the person is sensible enough to keep getting touch ups periodically.

I remember when I was a little girl, visiting Bandra fair, I would see the tattoo artists sitting on their benches, in those glorious pre historic days of no Hep A and B, and when AIDS was a word third world countries used in missives to beg of generous help from world bodies like the UN, and hop frantically from leg to leg demanding that the mother allow me to make at least a K on my hand. How would she recognise me if she lost me in the crowd? Obviously, my mother was made of sterner stuff than Hindi film mothers are made of because she would always flat out refuse and ask me if I wanted to look like a slumdweller.

It really did seem like a tempting prospect to me.

Then I chanced on a luckless relative who had in a bout of self inflicted piety gone and got a cross tattoed at the base of his thumb, which got gangrenous and infected and almost let to the thumb being knocked off, which persuaded me to reconsider my obsession with tattoos.

And of course, the idea that the needle gets poked into the skin one zillion times also played its part in forcing my decision.

I know I will never get a tattoo. I can never make any permanent commitment to any form of body art. And I cannot use my body as an easel. And I am morbidly afraid of a needle, any needle. Yup. Coward. Thats the word you were hunting for.

What about you? Do you have a tattoo? If yes, what is it of, and where is it, and why did you get it? And what when you tire of it? Something like a sugar daddy marrying his arm candy, I might think. Painful to get, painful to get rid of. And would you ever get a tattoo?

Any other lily livered types like me around, raise yer hands high!

Close encounters of the yummy mummy kinds..

I had my self esteem taken by death lock grip and raised high, and then dashed to the ground in moves made popular by them wrestlers of the WWF variety over the weekend. For one, the day started promisingly in the morning when a random person from one’s college, male of course, whom one couldnt recall for the life of one, recalled one in glorious detail from one’s heyday as permanent fixture in the canteen after lectures, and then hastened to add that one hadnt changed at all. I was still basking in the glow of feeling I could go and give a college exam right now and have no one check my hall ticket to scrutinise the age on it, and such like, having recently read about woman in the US of A who entered high school and almost became a cheerleader for her daughter, leaving me wondering about how no one would be able to make out that a mother was impersonating her daughter and growing insanely jealous about implied youthfulness of said mother to pass off as said daughter without suspicions being aroused on the part of authorities and such like. But never mind. As long as I am not mistaken for the child’s grandmother I am okay. Though the ego does sink a bit when them teenage types, especially of the hunky variety, whom one has been slying ogly through dark sunglasses like a Mrs Robinson on the prowl, turns and says all innocence of youth, “Excuse me aunty.”

Anyway, one digresses. Coming back to the dashing of the self esteem. Of which much had already been dashed to the ground one gadzillion times earlier, the latest occasion being this very evening with the extreme huffing and puffing and sucking in of stomach one did trying to get the button and the button hole to come together on one’s only decently lycraed pair of skinny fits.

Then one reached the party venue, where one perforce landed being designated escort service for child. The party room was populated by few children sliding on the floor, and intent on decimating the painstakingly put up decorations. My gaze was drawn to the women sitting patiently around the fringes, engrossed in deep intent conversation of no doubt earthshattering matters like which spas have the best hot stone massages on offer. They were glamazons. From the tips of their squared nail french manicures and pedicures. (Yes, square tipped french pedicured toes, folks, I would live in terror of bumping into walls with my toe nails reaching forward before the rest of me did.) And their perfectly blowdried hair. I apologetically scrunched my messy mane into the scrunchy I’d scrunched it into before venturing forth on the trip. One was engrossed with another in deep conversation on the lifechanging decision of whether to roll her hair in or out while blowdrying it before leaving for this do. For me, who only sees the hair dryer anywhere near the head bi-annually during them hair cuts, it was a revolutionary experience. I had seen the holy grail. Just running a comb through ones knots and detangling and delousing the hair was not enough to be groomed. One had to blow dry it before occasions.

Now I knew where the husband’s snorted comment about how my hair looked the same combed or uncombed came from, and why a friend snorted delicately about how untamed and natural my hair always looked. I had actually taken it as a compliment. Now, after this moment, I would always think of hair and self as a wild woman running with the wolves kind of look. You know, matted hair and tangles needing garden rakes and shears to get rid of.

Then there was the base carefully applied and blended in. The perfectly applied eyeliner, and the hint of mascaraed and curled eyelashes. The glassy nude lipstick. The diamonds flashing themselves obscenely at one as they waved their hands graciously in conversation in gestures that screamed see my rings, see my rings, right now, check out the size of the rocks. And the clothes, that was another story. Tight jeans. Tight tees and perfect bodies. Perfect bodies, with zero fat percentage. I siddled into a corner and heard my mother’s voice in my head. Back straight, shoulders back, smile on your lips.

Mother earth swallow me right now. How do they manage so much perfection on a day to day basis, when all one can manage to do is ensure that the nose hair is not sticking out, and the teeth dont have greens sticking between them?

The moral of the story: I have only my brains to fall back on.

New objects of desire… going grey

Because I am fickle…

and because I need to match desperately, in keeping with my bourgouise leanings towards matching matching, read, matching with the newly sprouted grey along the hairline, I find my eye keeps seeking out the greys in the stores. Yes, yes, dont send me the small tail by post, I’ll make one myself and stick it on to complete the look. And lumber along valiantly.

In the meanwhile. In keeping with my current obsession. Here are some greys I would die for. Or at least kill for. Nevermind.

I have fallen absolutely, totally and completely in love with this Fendi swing dress with a feathered trim. So flapper, so forgiving of muffin tops, and perfect for the party season coming up. And grey is the current colour I’m getting increasingly drawn to, no matter that it makes me look like I’ve risen from the dead what with my yellow undertoned, dusky skin.

 

Fendi Swing Dress

The plume trim is what adds the cachet, and a pair of strappy silver stilletoes and a minaudiere, or a jewelled silver crystal clutch, paired with a sleek smooth hairstyle, smoky eyes, and deep thin lips will take you straight to the era of Jazz and flappers. Add some 20s spin to your evening out.

 

Marc Jacobs Casey Shopper

A sleek belt, a faux clasp and lovely quilting, makes this a perfect bag for a busy day, going brilliantly with almost every colour you might choose to wear, from red, to navy to black, to white.

 

Marc Jacobs Metallic Pumps

 Metallic pumps are not for the meek. Wear these when you’re out dancing, or if you dare, under a smart black or navy suit on a work day.

I love them. They look sturdy and comfortable enough for serious walking around in the course of a busy day, and stylish enough to catch the eye, which any shoe worth its price should be.

Now let me go hunt down the fakes, if I can find them.

Late nights and early mornings

“There are no ugly women. Only lazy women.”

Helena Rubenstein

So I quoted to the husband when he’d asked me for the nth time whether I was quite done with creaming my face and my hands and my legs and oiling my hair and could he use the bathroom, or I would be responsible for a grown man regressing to infantile behaviour and wet spots on the floor.

I dont think he was amused. Nor does he appreciate the amount of effort it takes to keep oneself looking from the creature one sees in the mirror in the bathroom, during sleep drugged blurry middle of the night bathroom visitations that almost have one going down on ones hands and knees and begging for mercy, and promising to sign away one’s soul in triplicate, before realising that it is the self which is being reflected.

On a bad day, a good scrubbing of the face, oiling the hair and plaiting it tight, and slathering on the night cream can actually make me go off to la la land in a trice. I guess it is the adult equivalent to the bed time story for me.  Can actually feel my eyes droop as I do the rub a dub routine. The husband, who has been criminally blessed with genetically great skin, snorts in derision. Of course, one is programmed to ignore such snorts, and continue with mauling one’s skin. “Just let your skin breathe sometimes,” he says, well meaningly. Maybe he doesnt quite like ending up with a mouthful of goop and antiwrinkling his tongue. What he doesnt know is that I’m terrified of seeing myself without the goop on. Either of make up or of cream. Maybe I should just wear a mask and be Superwoman.

Been getting up early these days for an early morning walk. How early you ask, with arched brow? Five am. Okay okay. Five am is the alarm. It rings, I shut it. Open one eye. Look outside, pray it is raining. See that the horizon is cloudless. Cloudless till the distant horizon four suburbs away. Yup. I can see till four suburbs away. I snooze some more. Until a determined hand shakes my shoulders. “Lemme sleep.”

Tis the loving husband. “Get up and go walk.” The unsaid accusation being that tis time the butt got trimmed to proportions where it didnt need its own zip code. Of course, on being virulently confronted with this assumption when I am more awake and coherent he denies it completely and goes off on a tangent about some drivel about health and well being and such, but I remember days when he would be only too happy if I got up early and went nowhere from the bed. Alas and alack. How the mighty have fallen.

In between all this shaking of shoulder and hissing, and ignoring, the child will mutter in his sleep and we will freeze in deathly silence rather than risk waking said fruit of our womb and sperm combined. Visions of rolls of muffin top hanging over my jeans waistline will make rude faces at me, and I will drag myself to the bathroom. I am very organised. I keep all my walking gear out the previous night so dressing takes me five minutes. What eats up the time is the hyperventilation that happens when I confront my groggy self in the bathroom mirror.

Surely those are not suitcases under my eyes? What happened to my nose, did it grow a mile while I slept, and who is this fat aunty, and those cant be my hips alone, where’s the rest of the person they belong to, show yerself, and how dare you stick your fat on me etc, etc.

Therefore, confronted by this horrific vision, I run out, put on the walking shoes and start to leave the house. Then realise perhaps, I should change into track pants and a tee. A nightgown, no matter how conducive to free movement, doesnt quite cut it on the jogging track.

This morning, I reached down at 5.30 am, as usual. The air was dark and hushed. The lights of the garden were still on. A pack of strays had made themselves very comfortable at various intermissions along the track and were loathe to move for this fat, asinine woman insisting on torturing her bones while the rest of her race populating the stacked homes slept and snored.

An hour and a half later, I am awake. Finally. When you’re walking at a point, you feel that one step more and your family will have to scrape you from the road with a spatula. But you take that next step and find you’ve got some double dose of oxygen floating in your bloodstream making you go on and on and on. Yup, yup. Energiser bunny, thats just what I am. Stick on the furry ears, and the bobtail. Though the spouse might not prefer that on track pants and tee. Sort of doesn’t go with the look, right?

Of gossip and brain workouts

Read recently that Salman Rushdie’s mother was a first rate gossip and it was her gossiping which led him to develop his skills at story telling. I’m not insinuating anything here, but going by that precedent my son could in the future win a Booker twice over. Never mind. It is unseemly to plan for future greatness, one should just anticipate it.

Being a first rate gossip isnt a life skill one plans for, one just acquires it on the way. It is driven by pure desire to know more about other people’s lives to console yourself that you arent alone and bored out of your skull by the daily drudge of wakey, school, office, home, park and some more that comprises what is optimistically termed as your daily ‘routine’.

I genuinely like hearing about people. I genuinely like people. And I have always been insanely curious about people. All skills that have stood me in no good stead.

Nosey parker being the preferred moniker that comes to mind when I am being discussed, in company that excludes me of course. I do draw the line at malicious unsubstantiated gossip of course, only revealing stuff that I cant keep to myself or I will burst right now to my poor mother who has no clue whose shennanigans I am enlightening her with and promptly forgets all I said within the next few minutes. Which is the best place for nasty gossip to reach.

Then I read recently (yup, contrary to the philistine impression this blog might give you, I do read quite a bit. And stuff that does not necessarily limit itself to fashion magazines. And agony aunt columns) that gossiping is the best mental workout you could give your brain, excluding a hour long back to back Suduko or crossword solving tryst.

Chatting with a friend doesn’t just catch you up on gossip–it may also strengthen your mind, found a new University of Michigan study. Before taking cognitive tests, 76 participants prepped for 10 minutes in one of three ways: They chatted socially in pairs, completed reading exercises, or watched a clip from Seinfeld. Surprisingly, the schmoozers did just as well on tests as those who worked out their brains (the TV viewers were a distant third). At the very least, make a phone call or two before you turn on the tube at night.

Why is it that among all the primates, only humans have language? According to Professor Robin Dunbar’s new book, Grooming, Gossip, and the Evolution of Language, humans gossip because we don’t groom each other. Dunbar builds his argument in a lively discussion that touches on such varied topics as the behavior of gelada baboons, Darwin’s theory of evolution, computer-generated poetry, and the significance of brain size. He begins with the social organization of the great apes. These animals live in small groups and maintain social cohesion through almost constant grooming activities. Grooming is a way to forge alliances, establish hierarchy, offer comfort, or make apology. Once a population expands beyond a certain number, however, it becomes impossible for each member to maintain constant physical contact with every other member of the group. Considering the large groups in which human beings have found it necessary to live, Dunbar posits that we developed language as a substitute for physical intimacy.

Which is why to me, gossip is not about tearing someone to shreds over a free incoming plan. Gossip to me is all about being connected with the world I live in, my little microcosm of friends and acquaintances and relatives, knowing what is happening with everyone’s lives, making sure they know what they need to know about what is happening in mine. Carefully edited and embellished of course, nothing quite as bland as the truth. No one wants to know I creamed my feet at 9.30 pm, pulled on my socks, read the child a bedtime story and snored till the walls rattled.

I’m told new neuron networks get fired everytime I hear some “I must tell someone now or I will burst’ kind of news. I’m told I’m building social networks too at the same time. And talking on the phone brings something to an interaction that no amount of smsing, emailing or facebooking can ever bring, namely the sense of the person. Give me a choice between an afternoon on facebook, or an afternoon having a leisurely lunch with a couple of friends, and three guesses for what I would choose. The lunch not being an incentive. It is my evolutionary need that I am sating here.

Any reputations shredded here? No. I have a strict dictum. I only shred my own or celebrity reputations. Both of which no one can take any offence to.

As for the rest, I like the term storytelling. I am a storyteller. I tell stories that harm no one and entertain everyone. Dont grudge an old lady her daily brain workout, folks. Gotta keep those synapses in firing order.

 

The new urban ghettos

Everyone expecting the usual laugh riot, please stop reading this right now and get your mitts on a PG Wodehouse. The rest of you, be ready for some very angry outpourings.

Flashback. Circa 1992. A widow and her young daughter were househunting. They lived in staff quarters because the widow had a bank job, but she was nearing retirement age and she would need to vacate those soon. In a few years. They had saved money. This was the pre-phone a loan era. They went from building to building, from builder to builder, with their meagre savings and their dreams of a roof over the head to find themselves getting turned away for the vaguest of reasons. Finally, the broker they were going with hesitantly asked them whether they could not buy the house in the lady’s maiden name. Which was a Christian name. Much better than her married name. Which was a Muslim name. And could she pretend that her husband was abroad. A single lady with a daughter and that too a Muslim, society members were raising objections. That lady refused point blank. And she managed to find a home in an upcoming project in what was then a distant suburb, on a plot of land which was still then, wilderness. That lady was my mother.

Fast forward to 2004. The daughter is hunting for a flat. She has gotten married in the interim. To a Hindu Rajput. Her first name was always a Hindu name. Her married surname is a Hindu surname. She still visits the church, visits temples, does pujas with her married family, doesnt celebrate Id anymore, but she had done so only till her father was alive. And he had died when she was barely nine.

She gets the red carpet treatment everywhere. And some builders and brokers declare proudly to her that they’ve kept their projects free of Muslims. One of the buildings she saw had a PIL filed against it later by a TV actor. She was told this building would be kept purely for Hindus. She turns away in disgust, bearing in her arms, her then barely year old mongrel baby, he a confluence of Christian, Muslim and Hindu blood. The tears smarting her eyes.

And there are some other buildings. Actually one she loved. Just behind Shoppers Stop in Kandivili. Where she is almost ready to put down a booking cheque when she’s asked if she and her family are non vegetarian. When she replies in the affirmative, she’s told gently, that this project is only for vegetarians. No offence. Dont want the smell of non veg cooking polluting the area, replies the builder. We’ve all heard of the stories of the meat Nazis in Mumbai’s posh Malabar Hill area forcing non vegetarian restaurants to shut down by pouring filth on their customers.

She finally finds a new home. The complex, she is delighted to see when she reads the names off the board in the lobby, has a wonderful mix. North Indians, South Indians, people from the North East, people from Rajasthan and Gujarat. Surnames that denote every religion, every community. And her child plays with their children every evening. Not asking whether they’re Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Parsi or from the North or the South. He forges his own tenuous equations with them, all children, who yet are blank slates, who dont know they’re supposed to be different.

And she knows that all is not lost. Somewhere, sanity prevails. But she also knows she could afford this sanity. What about those who cant?

She refuses to believe that a belonging to a religion or a creed should form the basis of a decision as to where one should live. And knows that, if she would search hard enough she would find the right home.  

And this is not only about Muslims. This is about the ghettoism. About the subversion of secularism. Non vegetarians. Bachelors. Single Women. Muslims. People from the film industry. All not welcome. For varying reasons. Only available for members of a certain community. Preference given to ________. Fill in the blanks. We’re creating our own new fangled apartheid.

The hatred of the other makes me nauseous.

We could rise up as one against the white supremacy to combat apartheid. How can we rise up against ourselves?

Read more about this and let me know what you think.

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/3371893.cms

http://news.oneindia.in/2008/08/17/muslims-face-discrimination-in-india-shabana-azmi.html

http://www.dnaindia.com/mobile/report.asp?n=1177553

http://indianmuslims.in/denying-residence-to-muslims-in-housing-societies/

http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/Markets/Real_Estate/Realty_Trends/Housing_in_Ahmedabad_Many_non-Hindus_find_doors_closed/articleshow/3369334.cms

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main14.asp?filename=hub091705noentry_we.asp

Highlighted and Rocking on

It was, to put it briefly, an exciting weekend. To start with I had the unstoppable itch just waiting to be scratched, and put into itch hyperdrive after the Ganapati photographs last week where it was confirmed that one has truly and absolutely morphed into comfortably rotund behenji mould. The itch being the realisation that highlights put in way back in May have reached the shoulders and the roots are blacker than a moonless night, and therefore shamefully virgin. Untouched with the abominations of chemicals and dyes, given I’d decided to give them a rest and let the hair be for a while. Make that two months of peace.

Therefore, the weekend saw me hightailing it, like I had a rocket tied onto my broomstick to the friendly neighbourhood parlour and grovelling before the puzzled girls there to do something to my hair, slap on the highlights, some colour, cut it short, do anything but save me from dying a behenji.

Four hours later I have emerged a copper streaked tabby cat, and very chuffed with self. The mother in law reminesced fondly of her glorious childhood in the native pahad land where the poor and snotty with no money to oil their hair achieved a similiar effect through negligence and sun exposure. I developed selective deafness.

The husband looked at me and raised singular eyebrow in question. The child burst out laughing. I rest my case. I probably go to LOreal Excellence creme overall coverage sometime this week to rectify the damage. Or, what the hell, I’ll just be my brilliantly insouciant self and pretend thats the way its supposed to be.

Then we went to see Rock On. Or should I say, I knew I should dress up for this movie and put my eyes in and my eyeliner on. Having heard from a bunch of girlfriends about how hot Farhan Akhtar is in this movie worth giving up your wedding vows for, I went fully prepared with a new set written down only to find myself panting like a puppy dog everytime Arjun Ramphal came on screen. In the most undignified fashion. I screamed. And shouted. And even put them fingers in the mouth and wolfwhistled in the most vulgar fashion possible, And then quickly glanced at the husband, fully expecting the standard raised left brow, but found the man air guitaring in ecstasy.

Okay. This confirms it. I am officially old. I am tripping on movies that remind me of Queen and Dire Straits and Mark Knofler and Pink Floyd and Roger Waters and other such demi gods. Even if the guitaring was far from perfect and the vocals were a good ‘effort’, but clearly enough, nowhere close to the level of excellence required. Farhan Akhtar, god bless the man, has his fathers voice. And it is not a voice that is suited for rock vocals. Nonetheless I am willing to suspend belief and just get caught up in the moment and the movie and go with the flow. For a moment. I was 25 again and back at the Deep Purple concert, and waving my arms in the air, and standing for hours on totally unsuitable shoes.

The first movie from this director, Abhishek Kapoor, Aryan, was good. But this one, it rocks. Way to go, guys. But I wish they’d stayed away from the cliches. The idealistic musician who is a no good, the one who sacrificed music for a career in investment banking and lost his soul, the one who compromises and sells his tunes for jingles.

Go see the film. If you’re over thirty, it will eat your soul with the regrets of the passions you gave up to get on with the business of life.

Yeah, yeah, get those sunnies out, I am Brilliant!!!

 

 

 

Got this from Silvara  and Anamika of Thinking Cramps and Roop and Itchy. Am honoured and flattered. And as always amazed that I actually get a readership for my self obsessed whinings. So girls, *dramatic pause to daub at overflowing eyes, standing with hand on the heart, mouth half open sort of pose, minus tiara and slinky gown*, thank you, thank you, for the ego boost.

 So without much ado, here go the rules:

This award is for blogs whose content and/or design are brilliant as well as creative.The purpose of the prize is to promote as many blogs as possible in the blogosphere.

1. When you receive the prize you must write a post showing it, together with the name of who has given it to you, and link them back
2. Choose a minimum of 7 blogs (or even more) that you find brilliant in their content or design.
3. Show their names and links and leave them a comment informing they were prized with ‘Brilliant Weblog’
4. Show a picture of those who awarded you and those you give the prize (optional).
5. And then we pass it on!

And here’s where I pass it on, thinking hard…

Dipali: She’s comfortable, cheering, and feels like you’re sitting across the room, chatting to an old friend.

Suki: If I had a younger sister I think I would have liked one like her. Head screwed on straight, focused on and loving her education in a way few youngsters these days do, and an insight into an age I have long long left behind.

 Chandni: Read her. She’s the kind of BFF I wish I had. Sensible. Practical. With a twist of fun.

Grail: A sense of humour to die for. Brilliant, ballsy and the kind of woman I wish I had the courage to be. Raising three children on her ownsome lonesome, with one of them so close to my own I feel a kinship with her.

Sraikh: Four children and a very very determined mother. She puts me to complete shame by the ease with which she handles her life, her children and whittles self down to svelte while I just keep promising myself that someday I will.

CeeKay: She awarded me on karmickids. I nominate her back here. She intimidates me, with her ability to think things through clearly and succintly and the wonderful way she raises her daughters is an inspiration to me.

Surabhi: She’s fiesty. She’s fun. She writes like a dream, making poetry with words and visuals. She makes me feel I’m not the only 70s born individual in the blogosphere. And I am pre booking her gorgeous daughter for my son.

 Blog winners, you know what to do!

On popular demand…..

 

…me in the red crepe. Picture carefully cropped, if you notice to exclude burgeoning corpus.

Aunty No 1.

I need to do the multiple bindis and the eye rolling as well now.