Here I am, this is me - there's no way else I'd rather be

What could be worse than:

Being broke

In debt

With a broken heart

Spiralling out of control

as Life calmy watches you -

sadistic bitch.

It would be worse if I never realised these things - if I never wanted 'more', if I truly believed 'you can't have everything you want.' I would settle for what I got, accept the love that I'm dished out in routine, make peace with myself. And then, how would I live?

Thank you for the frustration, the questions, the agony, the tears. Thank you for the pain, it makes me realise I'm still young, raring to go, looking out for myself. And thank you for a son, who balms the soul. Even rebels need to pause.

The wisdom of the wise

A lifetime ago, I used to marvel at the ones who were wise. They knew the ending, the outcome, the solution, the answer. And I only had questions. Does it always feel like this, will this last forever, is this how I will end up, will my dreams come true.

Naive, they said, like it was a contagious disease. It was. It was an epidemic with the young. Just like Hope.

Another four-letter word I'm getting increasingly weary of. It tastes like dirt everytime I say it. Because I'm the wise one now, almost. I know the ending, the outcome, the solution, the answer, almost. No it will not always feel like this, nothing lasts forever, yes this is how you would have ended up no matter what you chose.... But it's the last bit I'm still unable to decipher. You see, some dreams came true, some came dressed differently, some came unasked and some, I'm still clinging on too. Stubborn, they say, like it's a contagious disease. It is. It is an epidemic with the old.

--

I've just realised my work table has papers with dark, gothic doodles spread all over it. Wait, it's not dark, gothic doodles, it's just doodles in a black sketch-pen: the only pen I'm carrying in my bag this week. So there are cubes, lots of them, circles, squares, very little flowers and lots of spirals. I caught the team grinning as I muttered yesterday about the mess on the desk. You did these, one of them asked, smiling. I glared back. The grin beat a hasty retreat into its chair far away from me. Damn, they now know the ogre is a kid after all. Thanks a lot.

pic courtsey: artofgarth.com/category/doodles/

In Memoriam

The first time I met him, he was a young boy, fighting for his ideals, brave even in the face of death. He was Gabriel at that time, which, fittingly means God is my might. The movie was The Patriot (2000), a rousing movie about America’s war of independence from Britain. Even in those few and far in-between scenes, Heath Ledger stood out: with a simmering intensity that endeared him to the audience, to me.

The next time I saw him, he broke my heart. Ennis Del Mar, torn between the love he needs and the love he has been taught to need, painted a poignant picture of what we define as affection, as relationships and as appropriate. Brokeback Mountain (2005) is quintessentially a love story – one of attraction, conflict and the eventual betrayal at the hands of society, norms and personal fears. It was only incidental that the love story was about two men. Ledger, who got nominated for an Oscar for his haunting role in the film was at his best: real, relatable and that rare breed - an actor who made his character unforgettable.

Today, almost three years after I last saw him, Ledger is splashed across newspapers, websites and gossip columns. The 28-year old actor died in his sleep on January 22 and while theories abound from sleeping pills to drug overdose, it has been a shocking end to a talent that touched so many people, so far away.

For all that he might have been, for all that he was, for touching my heart, thank you.

Who nose before a fall?

Before I begin, on the vanities of the human equivalent to the beak, read this:

"Ashley Tisdale doesn't regret nose job
Thu Jan 17

NEW YORK - Ashley Tisdale says she was somewhat distressed when she first saw her new profile after her recent nose job.
She "kind of freaked out," the 22-year-old actress-singer tells People magazine in its Jan. 28 issue. "I was so swollen, I was like, `Oh my gosh, is it going to stay like this?'"
Tisdale says she doesn't regret having the surgery but is sorry she decided to sing in public two weeks later.
Since performing at last month's Z100 Jingle Ball concert in New York, she has suffered a backlash from fans who say they barely recognize the actress they loved as scene-stealing Sharpay in the Disney Channel TV movie "High School Musical" and its sequel.
"People were saying I was `unveiling my look,' but I was still recovering! That's not what I look like right now," she tells the magazine.
"I think I still look like me," she says.
Tisdale had surgery Nov. 30 to correct a deviated septum that worsened over the years and contributed to breathing problems. She says her nose had changed shape and "was leaning in a different direction" after being fractured twice.
Tisdale says she decided to talk about her surgery because she "didn't want to play a game of denying it or being coy."
"I wanted my fans to know because I don't take plastic surgery lightly," she says."

Aah, now back to me.

Imagine a scrawny teenager staring in the mirror, tears pooling on the chin, Anupam Kher's Aaina mujh se meri pehli si surat maange playing in the background... sigh. (psst, Hint at growing bipolar syndrome: It's never been about what is: it's always been about what is in my brain.)

I have a nose (but obviously) that is cause of much woe to me. It's flat, can't stand up and flares at its edges in a fashion that makes me at times, look like a snorting bull.

It was bad enough to have a pug-nose, be the brunt of jokes at school. What was worse was the elder sibling has a nice nose that gives her a Roman profile.

It was bad enough to be called a chimp by most people I know, drunk or otherwise, including the husband. What is worse is my son's inherited the same nose: and he's already hearing jibes, not that he understands one word of it.

Ofcourse, there's the gyaan about genes, and the flat nose being in its fifth generation thanks to amma's mum, as well as the ultimate USP: the nose goes with brains, mum says, as explanation to my academic performance, so I'm hopeful for the son - BUT- I'll admit I've spent many mid-summer nights dreaming of being in a short (and not nasty) accident - door banging, mistaken fist fight, etc - that broke my nose so that a plastic surgeon could give me a nice, sharp, and shapely nose.

I don't know if Ashley really had to change her nose so she could breathe, but it's a line I'm going to try on the husband this evening - and hope the cheap gujju in him does shell out the dough to give me a nose even Rushdie (Midnight's Children, remember?) would love to write about. Then there's the fact that if I do end up looking nothing like old me - I can make my mistakes all over again, anonymously, na?

Ashley, unknown entity of the shallow, it's only skin-deep space, thankyou - even if it's in advance.

An everyday hero

He's just become the first Indian cricketer and the third for the sport to claim 600 wickets.

And as papers pay homage to him: for once, I'm reading, watching and in awe.

He will perhaps be remembered more for the man he is off the field than on it. Perhaps he'd be happier knowing that. I'm sure Ricky Ponting squirmed in his shoes when Kumble said after the Sydney test that 'only one team had played with the spirit of the game.' With him, there's no in-you-face-tv-deal, no stripping off of tee-shirt, no agressive hooplah. With him, there's just the look that comes from having worked as the waterboy, warmed the benches and humbled greats through pure talent. The Times of India headine today said it all - which is quite a lot to say, considering their headlines are often an ode to gimmicky populism - Gentlemen Do Win.

I first heard of Kumble from my Mum. And no, it was not in relation to cricket. She stopped watching the game when Srikanth stopped batting, and I never took to the game that always prevented me from watching what I wanted on our one and only tv while growing up.

Mum was lavishing praise on this good south-Indian boy (in our house, if you're anything south, that's plus ten marks) from Bangalore (an additional ten points) who had married a divorcee with a kid. And while that may not be a big deal, back then, for us it was. We as a family had just gone through my sibling's divorce and my neice was often viewed as 'unnecessary baggage' by the suitors that were to follow.

Yes, so Kumble (who could have had any girl he wanted, to quote Mum) married this woman and even faced-off her ex in a messy court battle that he survived with the same talent he applies to his game: grace, and more grace. I know for a fact that my parents, who din't even know him and are never likely to get to know him personally, blessed him.

Eventually, we found ourselves a Kumble too, someone who's everyinch a great guy, and an everyday hero.

And today, as Kumble stands tall, and as colleagues and sporting greats gather around to backslap him, the success must taste sweet. It came at a price: Kapil Dev famously made him cry in his first Test when he called him the bespectacled geek from the south who knew nothing - his critics refuse to even call him a spinner because he does not bowl textbook type.

And yet, that's what sets him apart. He broke the mould. On the field and off it. Just like our Kumble. To two men, very different and yet very alike, thanks.

'I was so much older then, I'm much younger now'

Friday, November 30, 2007

Work's lousy: Editing for a community magazine that no-one else wants to do, and has therefore been shuttled to me. They don't really care about my content ideas - what matters is if the community organisation managers have enough pictures of themselves and the events they've done. I'm merely supposed to write inspiring captions and make a bunch of people seem like motivated, caring and committed people.

Anyways, was sleeptyping through most of the morning, till someone suggested I've a Cafe Coffee Day Coffe Latte. Yeah right, I said. Me, the one weaned on authentic filter coffee, settle for watery stuff they peddle at astronomical rates. I mean, look at the cafes themselves. The young ones who hang out there, simply having coffee, checking suitable opposites out. So... juvenile.

But it came, with a cute stirrer that doubled as a straw. And it worked. Yes, it was watery, but the gloom's gone, and I'm here, saying thanks.

My 'back pages' have been altered.

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder

Sunday, November 18, 2007

The cosmetics hamper looked big, but it had three small things: a black mascara, a ‘sparkly’ brown lipstick and metallic blue eye-shadow.

The mascara does not ‘open up my peepers’ like Vogue promised it would: but it’s saved me money, so thanks.

The brown lipstick looks nice when smudged with toilet paper or Da’s kisses, and it makes my full lips look soft, so thanks. Da is the husband.

The blue metallic eye-shadow does not show very well on my eye-lids: and blue does not go with my complexion. But I wore it one evening and my almost two-year-old son looked at me and said: “Mama put make-up?” He smiled and settled down to sleep in my lap.

Thanks.