And I have been A Very Bad Girl

Skipped Yoga this morning. Yup. Criminal offence in the husband’s books, considering he is the dedicated kind of fitness freak who could be doing push ups in a plane aisle if the flight timings coincided with his work out schedules. Yes, for a man like this to be married to a woman like me who grabs any opportunity she can to crawl into her blanket and emerge only when sharp high voice barks, Mamma gerrup, must be torture of the first degree. The scathing glance he gave me when I sheepishly looked at him over the morning cuppa was torture. No yoga class this morning, he asks, single eyebrow raised in sharp arch. I mumbled incoherently and slunk away pretending I was needed more in the kitchen than right there to answer uncomfortable questions about why I bunked something that was supposed to do me good. And make me lose weight. And get into shape. And therefore become the picture of even more perfection than I already am.

I mumbled some about Aunty Flo being on me, to which he raised another sardonic eyebrow being in the first hand know about how this had to be a development that occured the moment the cellphone began braying its terrifying screech of an alarm. Ever hear an alarm when you are deep in sleep, snug as a bug in a rug with a mug or whatever, and dreaming blissfully about Richard Gere or Christian Bale in Batman costume or Heath Ledger in Joker make up or whatever it is that makes your dreams blissful. Yup. It doesnt register at first. At second it registers and you dont want to register what it is trying to make you register. And at third, you are ready to fling it out of the open french windows right next to your bed, and hear the satisfying thud of it smashing to smithereens on the ground 15 floors below. You stop yourself with the thought that you will develop Crackberry withdrawal symptoms and have to be institutionalised, and walk around holding an invisible instrument furrowed brow, thumb punching air furiously, I swear I have developed frown lines after the Blackberry happened but that probably owes more to the lack of a visit to the opthalmologist than the instrument itself. Nonetheless, the alarm is the worst invention of the civilised world. This, along with the microwave is the death of me. Easy reheating means easy eating. This means more eating. And therefore more need of the alarm to get up at unearthly hours when ghosts and spirits walk the earth to twist and turn oneself into pretzel shapes and hope the fat cells get the message, to pack their stuff into their suitcases and take the next train out. Vicious cycle.

I didnt offer any further explanations to the man I had pledged my troth to, but went about the morning tasks with the insouciance of one who can toss her head dismissively and say my fat, my lack of will. And sucked the stomach in some more to get the button hole and the button to come together. Did some jumping and twisting and patting in of fat. And checked if I had the spare safety pin ready and available in the handbag in case of sudden button splitting situation having been experienced ever so often and in ever so public situations like waiting outside the child’s school to pick up the critter. And the Oh Mother Earth Swallow Me Now situation happening bang in front of assorted van wallahs waiting to pick up their charges and am sure having their afternoon brightened by vision of horrific CSec belly let loose under too short tshirt.

As the guilt gnawed at my cellulite but did not demolish it, I resolved to do an hour long walk in the evening. I normally stroll around behind the critter but have been side tracked these days by inveterate gossiping or finding folks I am not so eager to walk with insisting on escorting me through a frogmarch situation by placing themselves on either side of me and hauling me round the track, like a convict to the gallows while they plague me with information I dont need on  or enjoy like their digestive processes. What they take to ease their digestive processes. Aand what I should do to reduce my fat. Thank you very much. I am the only person allowed to comment on my fat. The rest of the world, hold your peace or let it be known there will be war if you even suggest that I am not sylph like.

Last night saw me pacing like a caged lion in the passage near the lifts. We have a long passage. Put a black hood over my head and lead me down it and it could be the green mile. Residents gave me funny stares thinking I’d been locked out or worse, thrown out. The child popped the door open occasionally and grinned at me cheekily, no doubt enjoying the free hand he had on his remote control to Cartoon Network. The neighbour invited me in for some chai and sympathy, assuming the husband and I had spatted it and I was clearing the head and choking on some tears.

I declined politely and ran back in. Then I tried to go up and down the stairs. Twenty storeys each way I thought would give me gluts I could crack a walnut with. But three floors up, after battling all the spare cartons, cycles and such like on every floor landing, I threw my hands up and surrendered. And returned home huffing and puffing and almost tempted to pretend I’d done the entire 20 floors two times round, but knew the state of my fat would give my lie away.

So I will make my confession to the powers above, and go down to my yoga class tomorrow morning. Do my yoga with renewed fervour. Visualise the fat cells breaking down into lipid liquid and draining out with my sweat. Feel the tingling of cellulite deposits being pummelled into submission and smoothness. Good bye orange peel.

Well a girl can hope, can’t she? Even if it means she needs to hire goons to kick her out of her blankets at 5 am on a winter morning.

The fake LV and me…

So it hangs on my arm, finally. Thanks to Rohini, (Mwah, mwah, girl!), I finally got my hands on a real China fake LV monogrammed shoulder sling. And as you can well imagine, I’ve been overjoyed. Yup. With the fake. Now that I’ve had it on my shoulder for two weeks, I’ve ceased to feel self conscious about it being the fake. I mean, I’ve carried fakes for years. I’ve had a D&G fake. No, make that two. I’ve had a really nice fake Versace complete with nice metallic Medusa head in gold, appropriate for feasting eyes on after donning protective eye gear. I have currently a fake Bottega which has sadly unravelled, a fake Jimmy Choo, a fake Prada, a fake Fendi and curiously enough, two original ones from Guess (Yep, I heard that snigger. Yep. Was loud and clear.) And many original Esbedas. And countless bags off the streets of Lokhandwala. All stuff which is use and throw. And all original rasta stuff.

A quick recce of the recesses of my bag wardrobe makes it abundantly clear that my bags are faker than Pamela Andersen. Which makes up for the rest of me which is all real. Yup, that little bulge you see there, above the waistband of the jeans, that is all real. All 100 per cent unadulterated fat. I have enough fat for autologous transplants to get me to 42 DD if I wish.

But let me not get greedy. No, no, I’m not wanting to topple over and fall down with the imbalance, but the bag situation is what I am talking about. The greed is now sated. And now that I am doine with the pleasure  of  toting around a LV monogrammed number, the desire to invest my life savings in an original has disappeared completely. I would rather save my fillings for better purposes. I would rather sell them to pay for more fillings, seeing as the teeth are on the point of all falling out in unison.

Seeing as each tooth will cost me as much as a Gucci bag on half price sale, I might as well smile broadly, end to end, when I meet people. Can teeth be a status symbol?

Close encounter with Madhuri Dixit…

See, I know that would grab your attention. So I will stick to the topic at hand. At a club the other day. The kind of club that is frequented by television and Bollywood stars. Naturally, then I sat in the foyer looking like something the cat brought in and then refused to even chew on, and spat out in disgust, while I wait to meet some friends I have to meet. No, I am not a member. I dont even want to be. I would die of agony everytime I had to visit, and face the horror of being confronted by such visions of perfection, buffed and polished and matching matching from tip to toe.

And then she walked in. In a simple kurti and jeans. Not a scrap of make up on her face. Holding two little boys with adorable cuteness written all over them, and double stamped to ensure you noticed them and went awwwww. And you looked at her with the strange feeling that you know her from somewhere and maybe you should be polite and smile at her in case she feels you are being snooty. And so you smile your “Hell, I think I know you from somewhere and am damned if I can remember right now,” smile. And she smiles back with a smile so brilliant your brain suddenly lights up with mega stadiumlights of recognition and she passes you, leaving you kicking yourself on the shin for being such a doofus (metaphorically of course, because you are rooted in shock to your seat and cannot for the life of you lift yourself agilely off the deep sofas you’ve plonked yourself into) and not running behind her and begging her for an autograph signed out to the husband which would have made him worship you at the altar of The Perfect Wife for the rest of your days together.

And for those who are curious, this woman is not photogenic. Not by a long shot. Thats how beautiful she is.

And yes, the husband moped around with square jaw at mid-calf level for days, and watched re runs of Madhuri movies in mourning for opportunity missed, when he was informed by a chuckling moi as to a cheeky “Guess whom I saw today???”. Yes, this after her becoming do bachcho ki maa.  Didn’t see this devotion to moi even when I was no bachchon ki maa…

Kind of makes one want to curl up in some corner and fast unto death in protest. One could least knock off some kilos in the process. Looking so good should be banned by the law.

Did you watch the inauguration yesterday?

I did for a bit, before I drifted off to sleep amidst the thundering music of The Omen that the husband was watching on full volume in the living room. Some random thoughts, and no comment on policies, since I am supremely unqualified to do any commenting on such issues. Instead I will stick to what I know best.

Emotion. Ran High. The crowds were moist eyed. I was moist eyed. The entire event was one surge of tears on overdrive. I wondered why I was getting the occasional tear running down my face and concluded that I needed to live up to my bleeding heart status and cry at the merest hint of any tears in the remote vicinity. Even if the vicinity happened to be as remote as Washington D C.

Nope. I was indeed over awed. From being treated as a race inferior to the whites, the blacks in America now have truly proved they are truly and completely equals. More power.

And someone get Mrs Obama a good stylist please. From the red and black horror on victory day to yesterday’s monstrosity.  I would have liked a good sharp dresser in the wife’s corner in the White House, seeing as one is going to be needlessly seeing a lot of her around. But, no Jackie Os since Jackie O. Cant think of a single one. But then, we’ve not seen a personality like a JFK too, Monroes and Lewinskys apart.

Ran, Mumbai, Ran

And so the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon is over and done with. We did a bit of awareness raising, but thats not dope for thirtysixandcounting, so head over to India Helps to read more about that.

What this post is about is my firm resolve, yes, as firm as the jelly that masquerades as my thighs these days, to get into ship shape to at least do the dream run next year. Yes, I have a banner to hold up now. And I will buy industrial strength sunblock or one of those caps with an umbrella attached to deal with my sun paranoia and undoubted skin turned to coal phenomenon which has my child jump back and yelp in fear when he sees me after a day out bareheaded in the sun.

Therefore, I asked the husband, a little cautiously, whether he thought I could do it. You must understand the husband is a national swimming champ. He is used to gruelling schedules and when four pegs down is guaranteed to bore wet paint into drying double quick by detailing his training schedules, the races he won, his records and such like. I on the other hand was a kachcha limbu (remember that term) in the compound of kids gang until I was in my teens. I was only tolerated in teams because I was a very generous child and would hand out chocolates to all and sundry in the team regardless of whether we won or lost, and regardless of the mater’s futile efforts to hide said chocolates in unfindable spots within the fridge including the vegetable and frozen meats compartments. I retain the same skills at sniffing out sweet and fattening foods, age has not diminished the ability. Therefore, twas with great trepidation that I asked the husband if I would be able to get into decent shape to run the dream run. He snorted dismissively. This is a man who goes for a ten km jog before a spot of breakfast on random days when he feels like and then comes home all refreshed and raring to get to work, while I splash water on my face after fainting hearing the distance he covers.  “What is the dream run?” he snorts even more dismissively. “Its a cakewalk. Anyone who wants can do it. Just stop calling the car to the entrance of the lobby and walk your way every where. You will get in shape.”

I nodded wisely with furrowed brow and resolved to walk everywhere. And save some petrol in the process. In theory the idea seemed good. So there I was wanting to get to the supermarket down on the main road from where we live. The walk is a five minute distance away. And so I set out. Cap on head. Sneakers on foot. Water bottle in bag in case of acute dehydration.  Two minutes into the uneven path that links the two buildings, I realised I had forgotten to slather on sunscreen. Convinced I would emerge from my trip as baked as a beach hippie I tried to siddle against the sidelines of the path where miniscule shrubbery gave one some modicum of cover. An errant branch lay out waiting for the prime opportunity to trip me up. And so, like an alcoholic to a wine shop, I went straight into its crooked arm and toppled right over. Picked myself up, nothing bruised but the ego and perhaps the earth mourning with the sheer force of the impact. I hobbled to the supermarket, realising that the twinge of pain in the ankle is Not A Good Sign At All. Looking down, I noticed the ankle had ballooned to twice the normal size, which is milk bottles on growth hormones. Therefore, the driver was summoned on the speed dial, as I sat on the stoop of the supermarket, garnering ice and sympathy and such like from concerned folk around. The next time I think I should do my walking on paved paths. And learn that it is essential to look down at said path before advancing forth on it. And also carry ice buckets with me. Just in case.

The new frugal moi

Can you survive in Mumbai on Rs 100 per day? Surely people do. Surely people should learn how to, given that with boogeyman inflation getting perverse thrills in sneaking right up to you and laughing in your face, while waving price tags of innocous things like cooking oil that you now need to sell your soul in order to buy five kilo cans of, and dont even ask about the price of fruits or vegetables. I think it would be nice if one could pop a calorific requirement worth of a pill and sit back and relax. Save the stress of running around like a headless chicken in the supermarkets, squinting in shock and double shock at prices of things and then looking at some other products in the same category, working out price differentials with my pre primary level mathematical abilities, fainting some in supermarket aisles, having water sprinkled on my face and such like, and then resolving to live on chewing gum for the rest of my life But since that is so not going to happen, given that I need to fill the four stomachs I have with enough cud to last me many winters of hibernation, I must learn to save. And therefore, this man’s blog, as reported in the Hindustan Times today, grabbed me by my four eyes.

Called Wang Hao, this man is a business management major living in Beijing and blogs about living on 100 yuan (Rs 720) a week. It would also be fair to surmise that this man is unmarried and lives alone and doesnt really have a pressing need to change his clothes too often. Have you seen the price of detergent lately? He also probably doesnt like pastries. Or watching movies in theatres? Take a family of four to a movie and you probably need to empty out your pockets of small change to pay for the popcorn and colas. Therefore we have invested in a home theatre system. And now for the cost of one DVD, we can continue getting well on our way to noise abuse accelerated deafness, without spending on the popcorn.

Mr  Hao, I read, cycles to work. eats at cheap eateries and cooking Chinese dinners at home to save money. The Manral household could do with a crash course on frugality from him. We have a household comprising four adults and one child. And three support staff. And as the man known not to mince his words, aka the husband, states in all sincerity and pain of one who is footing the bill, the amount of food cooked in the house, could be handed over to relief camps to feed the hungry. And as far as cycling to work goes, if I cycle to work and back I will probably do wonders for my cellulite and horrors to my tan, not to mention the fact that I will probably spend the entire day on the cycle. Can you imagine the kind of yeast infections that could lead to in the muggy Mumbai weather? Therefore, in the interest of my health, and therefore saving potential doctors expenses, I will take the car. Public transport, you said? Stridently, at that? Ever try to hurl yourself into a BEST bus? I have a child to look after. He needs me alive till he can tell me he hates me for ruining his life and how he wished I was dead circa age 14. I can die happily then.

Therefore I reduce needless trips in the car. I am actually walking it to the supermarket up ahead and walking back lugging backs and cribbing endlessly about the dismal condition of the pathway between the buildings connecting us to the rest of the world, taking a stumble or two, and getting my arms wrenched out of their sockets by balancing two heavy bags simultaneously. Resisting the temptation of speed dialling the driver and asking him to get the car round in two shakes of an accelerator on overdrive and relieve me of playing beast of burden.

I am not eating out much. It saves the money and the calories. I do, of course, spend an inordinately long time surveying the menu, doing quick calorific counts of the tempting items and then spend the rest of my time in the joint smiling beatifically at the supreme sacrifice I have made for the betterment of my bank balance. And waistline.

I have also perfected the art of sauntering into shops and sauntering out without bounding up and down in delight when I spot something I like, and dragging it, slobbering like a dog with the bone to the cash counter and staring at the cashier adoringly in the hope that he or she will bill it that very instant and enter zero next to price. Of course, I hope in vain. But whats life without a little hope.

And finally, I have saved on my biggest expense yet. I have given up fashion magazines. This is two pronged strategy. I dont spend on them magazines. I dont see the fabulous stuff within that I absolutely must, have to, will die if I dont buy this very minute. I stay happy and content. I dont see stick insects modelling high couture. I reach out for more pastry and stay happy and content.

Yup. Saving money and stress. Whats your strategy? And could you survive on Rs 100 for a day? I know I couldnt. Unless I stayed at home all day and took a vow of silence. Am sure my phone bill for the day surpasses that.

Its a dark day in hell

…when I see a piece of pastry lying unclaimed in the refrigerator for an entire day and let it remain undiminished.

Someone get the Brasso to my halo.

Skin

Clothe me with your tautness,

I feel you smoothen yourself over my hiccuping thoughts

and fall away to wondering folds where movement overlaps with

contours that undulate and feel

tensions that cannot be erased by touch

lines unravel across your surface

as I live, and etch themselves through subcutaneous tissue into

blood vessels which ache with the burden of carrying sighs

of whatmighthavebeens through to extremities

deadened with the numbness of what is

The burbie hick goes into town

Given in the past five years, my entire life has rotated around the suburbs with the thought of going beyond Bandra necessitating overnight bags being packed and fond goodbyes with hugs and tears exchanged, you might surmise rightly that I have not ventured forth beyond the boundary of my cosy suburban cocoon. Yup. There have been thrills in town. The Trident has a shopping arcade that the drooling caused can help me swab a ship with. Fashion Street is fashion street for nostalgia. Though I dont think hopping around and counting out petty change and begging the vendors to give it to us at the odd figure we have left with us would cut any ice now.

So it came to pass that I needed to go into town. In the good old days I went into town everyday. I worked in town and this was a non negotiable if I needed to pay my bills and not live on the streets. Therefore I woke, bathed, and ran. To the bus to the station and from there jump into the first Borivali return fast, grab a window seat and doze off happily. Havent seen the inside of a train for a good decade now I think, and survival skills on a local train have been reduced to zilch. There was a time when I could jump into a train pulling into the Churchgate station and run to grab a seat, and I tell you, this was done with four inch stilletoes on most days. Any person who can do that is instantly eligible for a commando course. The skill levels are beyond the pale of the ordinary person. Precise hand eye and foot coordination, agility, dexterity, manoevering skills, and strong strong arms to shove aside other contenders for window seats. Or dammit. Any seats. I dont think things have improved much over the years. Its been years since I got into a local train railway station but I see the crowds spilling out as I pass them and the old twitch to be allowed to push and shove and yell and fight comes to the fore. In my hey day I could have given them fishmongers a run for their money when it came to putting up a fight. With appropriate yelling and gesticulating and some pushing and shoving too. Yup. I travelled first class too. This was not the junta dabba.

Ah, for the good old days. But then one was young. And the joints well oiled. And the backbone unpierced with epidural and therefore prone on giving up on me in mid jump. Would I dare do that now? Nah. I’m chicken. I have the driver on speed dial. And will now condescend to move from pavement to road to car. This also probably explains why the butt is on a growathon.

Had to go into town for a couple of meetings for Indiahelps yesterday. I almost took out my overnighter and packed in food, change of clothes and shoes, a night suit, and some bottles of water. And of course, a torch, some energy bars, a first aid kit, etc. Seriously though, the trip into town was a jiffy. I was going to Colaba for the first time since 26/11. Part of me wanted to take a recce through the spots the terrorists unleashed terror at. The Taj, the Trident, Leopold, Cama Hospital, CST. The more practical side of me looked at traffic and my predeliction to collapse into unseemly loud sobbing in public situations and begged me to stick to the agenda. Didnt want the nice bright young girl accompanying me to the meetings to shrivel in horror at my unseemly behavior.

I did however revisit an old haunt, Gaylords and drank some lousy bathwater coffee there. Which instead of squashing my four oclock coffee withdrawal symptoms smacked me with a double load migraine and nausea to boot. Their chicken kathi roll however saved the day and the head, and I was human again. I am pleased to announce I was Very Very Good and did not hover for more than even a moment extra near the pastry and cake counter.

Meetings done, I had the arduous task of the drive back home. I left at 6.30pm. I reached home at 9.30 pm. Feeling like I could have gone to Pune and back and felt fresher for it. Seriously, the train would have been a better bet. If only I could rustle up the courage to do the jump in jump out push shove shout scream elbow routine again.

The best thing about the entire trip? A pair of funky canary yellow Kolhapuris the lovely Serendipity gifted me. Maybe I could jump into some trains if I wear these now.

Happy Anniversary to us…

Dearest Husband

Jan 4 1996. I made the most unseemly bride ever, no tears, except for when the smoke from the havan played havoc with them contact lenses. You were the handsomest creature in a pair of pants I had ever seen. And you knew it. Modesty was, and still is, definitely not an adjective associated with you.

I sat the other day to count down the years. We met in Jan 1991. We fought like cat and dog for six years till we decided to get married. Got married in Jan 1996. And have continued the cat and dog act since, with a squealing puppy added to the fray. We have spent now together as many years together as I was when we met. A lifetime together. It has slipped past so quickly I barely realised it.

You have changed. You are calmer, mellower, more understanding. I would like to think it is my cooking that changed you. Anyone who survives that on a regular basis would be a changed man. Counting his blessings to be hale and hearty. You have learnt to read through people. It has disillusioned you for sure, but it has not made you cynical. You still help beyond what you can afford.  Being disillusioned hasnt stopped you. Seriously though, you are not brash anymore. But you are not young anymore. Your hair still, touchwood, a thick head of silver. To me you are still the same as the boy I smiled at all those years, outside the ladies common room. Long love story folks, suffice to say, Rajshri films had not a patch on us. The most major shift for me? You have become a reader.  I have not become athletic or sporty in return though. I always maintained you changed yourself for me more than I did for you. Or did we both do a little give and take to fit into each others lives? If there was an effort it wasnt an effort. It happened.

I’m sure I have changed too. For one. The silhouette in profile is now a tree trunk. For another I have more lines on my face than the roadmap of India in relief. For a third I no longer care about stepping out without putting my lenses in. Which means I step out with my spectacles. In the days of yore, I didnt dare stand in the balcony without the lenses in. Yup. I dont spend half my waking hours contemplating the face or the wardrobe anymore. Well maybe onefourth the waking hours. Not much left for contemplation anyway therefore, not worth the effort.

We have both changed. We can now sit in a closed room together and have our clothes on for the entire duration. We can now have a conversation without it guaranteed to end with one of us ending up in a sulk or a grump. We can, gasp, actually agree to disagree.  Could it be possible, do you think, we have actually grown up? Grown up together? Or we were forced to grow up to be parents? Couldnt have the child being brought up by two children, could we?

 Just wanted to tell you I am so thankful to have you as my husband. You support me, indulge me, tick me off and keep me grounded. You pamper me and yet push me to my limits. Its been a great ride. Through the bumps and the smooths. Thank you for being the wonderful person you are.  And yes, you still make my heart go bumpity bump when you walk into the room. My handsome dude.