Census and Sensibility

A few minutes ago two ladies were at my door for the Education census.
First question, "Who is the head of the family"
And I was thinking, we follow a very linear family system here, there is no monarchy or hierarchy or dictatorship. We try to be as democratic in our approach as we can.
Me: "Umm" (still thinking of what should I say)
Census Lady: "Who is the owner of the house?"
Me: "Well, this is a rented place." Ok, so I have never been asked questions like these before.
Census Lady: (now seeming a little unnerved and probably thinking I am really stupid) "Head of the family, your husband or any one?"
So one look at me and she assumed I was married, excellent! You can't be fat and unmarried you know.
Me: "It's Santhosh Kumar"
Census Lady: "Religion?"
Me: "Umm"
Census Lady: (before I could answer or ask another stupid question) "Hindu, you are Hindu no?"
Me: "No, my husband is Hindu and I am Christian"
Now, for all government purposes I am probably Christian because that's what it says on my birth certificate. So an answer like "Sorry, I don't have any religion. I am born Catholic but I am not a practising Catholic" will not satisfy anybody and definitely not the census lady.
Census Lady: "So should I put Christian?"
Me: Now that his name was on the sheet of paper... "No, you can write Hindu, because he's Hindu."
Census Lady: "Children?"
Me: "No children."
Census Lady: "Ok madam, thank you very much. This was just an education census so we need to ask you these details"
Me: " Not a problem, thank you. Bye"

So the poor lady cannot be blamed for asking me the questions she did, she was just doing her job. And there are other such government surveys which are conducted, with questions which were formed pre-independence and still queried for statistical extrapolation.
We have to accept that the Indian society is driven by religion. It is ridiculous but it is a fact.
In every form we fill out we have to write in our religion and caste. What difference does it make to me? It just reminds me that I was born a Christian and have to just stop myself from writing an essay on how I don't follow any religion.
So do you think that there will ever be a day when the government will not ask me what religion I belong to? I hope so.
Because as my Facebook status says, I am "spiritual but not religious"

- Kavisha Pinto

Guess what? I am nice.

I can never think of myself as a nice person, for one, the way I treat my poor husband (ask him). Facebook has innumerable quizzes. You can find out if you actually have the I.Q of Einstein or if you don't know who Einstein is then your I.Q is probably inching towards double digit negatives anyway.

I took a test around personalities and guess what the verdict was? 'You are a nice person' it said. Nice? Me? The bloody test must be all wrong.

I know I am quirky and I have my moments (good and bad), and that does not make me unlikeable but that definitely does not make me nice.

And don't get me wrong, I like nice but only when it is just right. If someone overdoes the 'nice' bit I get a little bit suspicious (eh, what did I tell you about me being quirky)

So then what actually defines a nice person. If I hold the door out for you I'm being polite, not nice. If I smile at you that means I actually don't mind you or probably like you (in a platonic way), I am not being nice.

And if I am nice to only people I want to be nice to, does that make me a nice person overall? I don't think so.

People will never remember me as nice and I hope they don't. Things that may go down in my eulogy could be humour, laughter, non-stop chatter but definitely not nice.

I'm waiting to take other tests on Facebook, maybe next time it will be revealed that I was Cleopatra in my previous life and in this life God made me fat to strike a balance.

In the group of écrivains

This is with all due respect to writers' forums online. I agree it is a great way to showcase your writing. The audience is also larger, unlike my blog where I have to send the link to everybody in my address book, from "Customer Care" to my gay cousin Ray.

And then it doesn't stop there, I have to send follow up mails to make sure they have read my blog. "Please let me know what you think. Leave a comment." And there's usually nothing in there either.
Of course, "Customer Care" always sends a mail saying, "This is not a monitored mail box. Please do not send us any mails. Do you think we are interested in your mundane my-life-is-so-boring blog? If we receive any more mails about your blog you will be hearing from our lawyer."

So, like I said, online writers' forums are good in that sense. You know, twisted attention-seeking people like me, with the I-want-to-be-famous-now attitude resort to these forums; of course with the pretext that I want critiquing on my work. Dare anyone says that my writing is not good, I'd bludgeon them immediately.

Some people have fancy french words, anything french seems fancy actually, as their display names. And it doesn't stop at that, in a forum of English writers you see a lot of french words thrown into poetry, prose and sometimes "random meanderings". French is oh so romantic and chique, ooh la la. Wait, that's Spanish isn't it? It could be German for all I care; ya baby!

I am sometimes amazed at people's intellect as well at these forums, a poem I wrote and didn't quite understand myself received rave reviews. The reviews were so beautiful that it made me want to cry and give a speech. Maybe I could speak anything and the audience (intelligent as they are what with their French and German) would find it moving and lucid like my what-the-hell-is-this poetry.

I only write in English and that too with the mix of Mangalorean usages (what and all I write man). Now if I am aiming for the Booker that's got to improve eh?

Let's hope the Writers' Forum people don't read this and don't kick me out of the forum (they already ignore my work though).

Au revoir monsieurs et mademoiselles (eh eh, what do you think? oh ok, Google is just lovely)

Recycling is in my face

One morning, after greedily finishing off my breakfast, a pretzel (made in the U.K and not made in Germany), I was wiping my mouth with a paper napkin and on it was printed, 'Made from 100% recycled material.' Now that's just lovely isn't it? Recycled from what?
I have no idea where this napkin has been before and what was it masquerading as in it's previous life. If my mouth gets the fungus infection, I won't even know who to call and who to sue.

Well, I'd like to think of myself of being environment friendly, oh ok, I do get a dirty look from the Environment extra-friendlies at the 'Ladies'' when I am hurriedly pulling out tissues and also using the dryer; what! I like my hands really dry.
So ,while I am all hurrahs for recycling and making our planet a better place (courtesy Green Peace and Michael Jackson) I was just hoping that this would not literally be a foot in the mouth situation.

I want to save trees too and want to stop global warming (is it stop or slow down?) but next time I am wiping my mouth with a paper napkin I'd rather not be worrying about it's source (the paper napkin's not my mouth's).

Anyway, it has been a week now and other than two large pimples that (not so mysteriously) have appeared on my face I have so far not contracted any oral diseases and my lips seem normal, thin and pursed.

First Blood Boiling

So what's the best thing to do while hubby is hooked on to the telly watching 'First Blood'? Update your blog of course. What a lovely way to spend quality time with the spouse eh, with blood, shooting and screeching tires in the background.
Well, I am not the couch joining hubby watching the flick because, and this is what Santhosh learned about me today, I just can't stand (nor sit) Sylvester Stallone.
Ooh, ads break and the distinct rhythm of channels changing.
Anyway, coming back to Sylvester Stallone (ugh, brrr), I haven't watched any of the Rocky movies or Rambo movies. I don't know what it is about Stallone but my blood boils whenever he's on the telly. Don't you think a wall found him and slammed into him just because it didn't like him either. I also instinctively gave Stallone the finger when I saw him at (relax, you should wait for me to complete the sentence before you gasp and cause yourself premature strokes) Madame Tussuad's.
Actually, there is one movie of Stallone's I have watched, Cliffhanger and probably my extreme abhorrence for him began there. And when whatever hit his face did, it left him with only one expression for comedy, action and romance. Ok, so I am not the best candidate for the Kiss-Me-Stallone club, guilty as charged (wow, that's a phrase I haven't used in a long long time, should remember not to use it ever again, 'Guilty as charged' hehehe)
So since hubby is still glued to Stallone and I think this is the fun part because I can hear a lot of firing, I think I'll go and have another glass of that bad wine. (I'll know how bad it is tomorrow morning, and I didn't expect Sula's red to be this bad really)

Do we actually move on?

Do we actually move on? I have never fully understood what that phrase actually means. When someone you love passes away you're given 'sound advice' by people, "You should be strong; You should move on." Is being brave so important and is 'moving on' absolutely necessary.
I still think of Dada so much, even though it has been more than a year since his passing. When someone you love has been ill for long and you see them battling a disease, you keep playing those times over and over again thinking if there was something that you could have done to save them. And yes, there are times when it makes me cry hopelessly and that's because I loved and miss my Dad so much.
So what actually do people insinuate when they ask us to move on? Is it that we shouldn't think of them (the loved ones who have passed) anymore? Or should we put on a brave face and pretend that in fact death has not affected us as much?
Then again, as much as a cliche it is, we have to carry on with daily activities of life and 'pull ourselves together.' So is this another demand of the society we live in so as to not appear an emotional wreck?
Also, is there too soon a time to get back on your feet and 'move on'? I took a break and joined Santhosh in Munich just after two months of Dada's passing. And though I was still recovering from the loss, being with Santhosh and being in a different country helped me in a way that I cannot explain. You may be patronized for going on a vacation when your parent has just passed but everyone has a different way of dealing with loss.
Though death or loss doesn't sink in too soon, ultimately we do get on with things to do, simply because they have to be done. And if that's called 'moving on' maybe that's just the course life takes and we just manage to slip into it's pattern.

To Richard: Our Fun Mr.Baldy

How do you deal with the news that someone wonderful you know has just passed away? Santhosh called me a few hours ago to give me the news of Richard's passing, and I was numb. He had been battling non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma since February this year.
Richard and Santhosh met through the Maidenhead Drama Guild and were quite close. I thought he was just wonderful when I met him the first time. The next time I did meet him though he was undergoing treatment for the cancer and was almost unrecognizable but in the best of spirits nevertheless. He maintained a blog (Mr.Baldy's Lymphoma Fun) and you'll know just how upbeat he was in spite of fighting cancer. His wit and humour just amazed me when I read his blog and of course all of us were hoping that he would recover.
At a time like this you think back and wonder if you should have said something even at the risk of sounding corny, 'Richard, sorry about the cancer but let me know if there's anything I can do to help'
At the risk of sounding corny now and awfully cliched I am going to say just what I feel. We'll miss Richard terribly and I wish things didn't turn out the way they did.
Sam, you're being thought about every minute. And though I am not much of a prayer person I promise a few of them will go out tonight for Rich, you and the kids.
Like Sam posted in Rich's blog I am sure his conversation with St.Peter at the Pearly Gates will go on just fine.

The Mumbai Attacks: Me too

Not to be left behind what with everyone blogging on the Mumbai terror attacks (is 'terror attack' even an acceptable phrase? Oh sue me, I was not born with an English dictionary down my throat) here I am.
We were having curry at this Indian place when my friend received a text from her father saying that he was alright. She turned to me asked me if there was something going on in Mumbai. I was busy making sure my 'Kheema Pao' reached me and had no idea that while I was stuffing my face terrorists had struck in Mumbai.
That night the BBC were covering the Mumbai attacks. Shots of the Taj Hotel kept appearing on the screen and no one was sure of what had actually happened. All I heard was people were being held hostage, some people were killed and that too at three different locations in Mumbai.
Well, call me thick skinned but after that heavy dinner I went to bed and slept soundly.
When I got to work the next day no one seemed to mention the attack. Thank God for the Internet and live streaming. I got onto CNN IBN for the news and it was shocking.
For three days I was hooked to NDTV and CNN IBN on my computer switching between the two channels to get the latest update.
And if you ask me why was I so hooked and in what way did this whole thing affect me, I wouldn't be able to answer that. The fact that so many people lost their lives and underwent trauma just saddened me, no explanation for that either.
I tried to imagine what would it feel like if I was waiting to board a train and boom! dead or worse dying; or having an exquisite dinner at a five star restaurant and bham! sorry for the inconvenience but you have just been hit by a bomb. It's just horrifying.

F'art' on the Underground

I could give Transport for London another cause to campaign for or against for that matter, 'Fart on the Underground'.
Sorry, to kill the joke by explaining and dissecting this one, but here: Art on the Underground
Yet another time this was happening; someone decided to break wind and nearly had me knocked out.

Do you think it would be a good idea to pull the emergency alarm? This is an emergency right, you're practically trying to commit suicide by cutting off your air supply. Also, you don't want to breathe through your mouth for fear of contracting a rare disease caused by mysterious gases.

And it's the silent one's that are the killers. You don't know who the hell did it and only have to hope that another fatal one is not let loose.

But maybe it's not so bad, because when you're actually in between life and death you can play a little game of what did the damned wind breaker have for dinner; Mexican or Indian?

On one underground journey I was reminded of school, when we did the experiment with Hydrogen Sulphide and the result was not exactly Chanel No.5.

I think I have to get myself one of those famous SARS masks, for emergencies like these.

Though I've tried to make sense of it and actually find some 'Art on the Underground' I have come across none except it's evil twin brother. So TFL, what do you say, want to run another campaign?

Any Good News?

Now that I am married people have only one question for me, 'Any good news?'

My Grandma keeps asking my Mom that, fully aware that I am in London and without my husband. Does she not trust me at all or does she think all births are courtesy Lord God from above via a miracle.

And canoodling over the phone has got no one pregnant yet. (What?! Come on, we're all adults here.)

A neighbour who I don't talk to much and who I happened to see at Froth on Top in Mangalore went out of his way just to ask me this question.
He: "Hey, any good news?"
Me: "Like what from the Bible?" (that was a bad joke I know, but what do you expect)
He: "Hey come on ya, you know what I mean."
Me: "Just because I am married..."
He: "Err.. no I thought..."
Me: "Well, I am just getting fat, I am not pregnant."
There I said it and he disappeared. Probably the first time a girl has ever told him that.

And it works the other way round too. If I say, "I have some good news to tell you", the chorus response is "Are you preganant?"
I agree motherhood is a charm and yes, in some ways it is a miracle, something so big coming out of something so small.

But when did blood and screaming and pain that wants to make you kill yourself ever become good news.

Of course, then there are some who ask you the question knowing it's not good news at all. "I went through hell so when is your turn?" That's "Any good news?" with an unheard snicker and evil laugh in the background.

There are also some 'nice people', who don't know how to mind their own business and want some good news or the other all the time. "Any good news? She's going to turn thirty next year, isn't she? Is something wrong with her?" All said in one breath.

So, the 'Good News' will come in it's own good time, maybe the stork will deliver it. Till then, I am going to watch those beers that are giving me that pregnant glow and growing tummy.

Then What?: Conversations of an Old Married Couple

Well, we're not an old couple per se but have been long enough with each other to be called an old couple, since we're not new anymore.
A friend of mine tells me, 'You know we don't have that spark anymore', he and his girlfriend of course; and that was reason enough for them to break up, to go in search of new sparks.
I was torn between being jealous and judgmental, especially when the highlight of your conversation with your other half is 'Then what?'
I should start counting the number of times we say it because then that would give us something more to talk about.

Ever realise that when we were dating and 'seeing' each other we used the phone so much it probably looked like something growing out of your head. We had stuff to talk about all night. Also, staying on line (the phone line) to just hear each other breathe was romantic but now that would have me worried about the phone bill and give me a splitting headache.

Friends who were not 'seeing' anyone at the time would ask, 'What do you guys talk about, that too so much?' Thinking back now, I can't imagine either.
I guess we talk it all out during the dating period and when we're finally married we've exhausted our conversation reserves.
Of course, we exchange how our day went but since neither of us has a secret identity and does not turn into wonder woman by night, topics for conversation can be bleak.

I think the whole point of marriage is so that couples can be together without having to make conversation. Since we see each other everyday anyway, there's no need to talk. It's obviously more complicated when you're married and staying apart because you have to chose between showing your husband that you love him and a possible hernia in your brain which is triggered by the possible barrage of 'Then whats'.

Oh well, I am just waiting to start living with him again, for two reasons. I will be saved from the evil hernia-generating 'Then whats' and I can let him know that I love him with just a grunt.

The Socket Error Story

Now you may scoff and snicker or hopefully might be sympathetic to what I'm going to tell you. But all I can think of, looking back is "How stupid could we be." Yeah, some solace, I was not in it alone.

When the Internet first came to Mangalore we were excited, wondering how was it going to be to have the whole world at our fingertips; what! that's how they advertised for it.

So we went to this Internet centre which obviously was just set-up and new. The computers seemed newly waxed and shiny and there were two dolts there pretending to know everything about everything.

I am not sure if some of you Mangaloreans remember, but this place was owned by some guy called Raj...something and I think it was in this place opposite the Hotel Roopa building. Anyway, this Raj something is past any bad publicity since this was years ago, when we were innocent Internet hungry kids... ok ok... college students.

A bunch of us went to explore the Internet (hey, that was not meant to be corny, it just turned out that way) and well everyone wanted to go to www.yahoo.com.
My friend and I were at one computer, of course I didn't want to go exploring alone; www.yahoo.com it was.

Some guys around there said it was started by Shammi Kapoor, who made the word 'Yahoo!' popular in Hindi cinema when he sang a song called 'Yahoo!' in a movie.

Anyway, when we typed www.yahoo.com, we saw the page getting loaded slowly, very very slowly. We kept craning our necks trying to get a sneak preview of what the Internet looked like on other people's computers. The "Master Computer", which was being used by Raj something seemed to be busy, with lots of pages being loaded and fast. That was where we wanted to be.

When we asked one of the dolts what the hell was wrong with our computer, he said, "Well, it's bound to happen you know. It's all new and it will take some time. Also, there might be a lot of people connecting to the Internet now, so the speed is slow."

Yes, of course the computer had to be primed and had a gestation period of 12 months before it could load a pudgy little page on the screen. But remember the innocent kids (we)? Well we fell for it, hook, line and sinker.

When the page didn't load, we kept hitting the refresh button and then it went through the painful process of starting to load up all over again and suddenly stop.
And bear in mind, this bloody show was costing us 90 bucks an hour (in Indian Rupees of course).
Being students this was not cheap at all but our great adventurous spirits were keeping us up, until we hit,"Socket Error."

"Socket Error" post-fixed with a vague integer was the highlight of the day.
After half an hour of staring at "Socket Error" and wearing out the refresh key and clicking every possible button on the page, one of the dolts came to us, "You're one hour is up. That will be ninety rupees please."

So our first Internet experience was probably like the first time we did it, the big question being, "Did it or did it not happen."

At the end of one hour we were almost broke, confused and knew that we should NOT be telling this story to ANYBODY.

And after almost twelve years, I snapped.

Oh what the hell, Blog It!

While browsing the net I came across this advertisement which announced "We need writers. Publish, be read, and get paid. Start writing instantly! www.blogit.com/"

The link took me to an introductory page of how writers could have their own personal space (isn't that what even blogger gives you?) and a list of features like editing tools and all the other good stuff. Also, their guarantee is that you will be read widely and appear on Internet searches and in time (maybe posthumously) get paid for your writing.

I was not warming up to the idea at all. This is my primary blog and I love being here. My friend introduced me to Sulekha and asked me to post my writings there. I did and I got a fairly good response and I did meet other good writers. And though my blog is still there, eating up Megabytes of space, I'm back here. This feels like home.

Of course, my friend wanted to help because he thinks I need to get rid of my laziness, start writing more and incorporate people's feedback into my writing; after all they are my audience and it will be a good way for me to learn. I was very enthusiastic and that enthusiasm lasted exactly 23 hours including eight hours of sleep.

My husband has tried too, like I have said before he is my worst critique, he tries to break things gently to me, but after me going , "Oh enough with your lectures, already!", the poor guy has relented. He now quietly reads whatever I write and will tell me that something needs to be changed only if it is absolutely necessary. Like in one piece I wrote, the taboo, for some, four letter word was written correctly and not misspelled with the *. After his critique, I had to go back to misspelling it, and not grudgingly.

So, there is a dream of writing well, and getting published, some day (maybe posthumously!). But till then, I will attempt to keep writing regularly and share with you my thoughts, eccentric moments and wild soul. Amen. (Now that's a phrase I've heard before!)

The Joke's On Me

My friends and I were at The Comedy Store a few months ago and one of them said to me, "You know, may be you should try getting up there. You're funny."
Yes, I might be funny in a very non-standup comedian way. I can give you witty one-liners, sarcastic retorts which the "retorted" might not find amusing and sometimes, just sometimes, some original lines which seem so funny at the time that your cocktail might come out of your nose but then just not worth writing down.
But given all that, I do have the superpower to butcher jokes when I tell them.
There's this one joke I love, which was extremely funny when I read and also extremely funny when this guy who has the talent of remembering and delivering jokes told it.
This was my version.
Quote. Hey have you heard this joke about an Australian... no wait...English soldier who gets caught... no not caught...I think he was injured. Well, nevermind. There was this English soldier, or maybe he was a pilot, I don't exactly remember but he is injured... I think it's the World War.. but Australia was not involved in the World War... so anyway, in some war this English soldier is found injured, well not injured, he was unconcious and the Australian army... I didn't know Australia had an army. So moving on, I think this guy was found wounded and unconcious and then the next day...yeah it should be the next day... ok, so the next day he comes to conciousness and realises that he is gravely wounded...or may be he lost an arm or leg or something... and he sees the nurse and says... actually cried, "Did I come here to die." and she says, "No you came here yesterday."
Unquote.
When I was finished, there was a stretch, yawn and snicker all from different people. There might have been others who probably just killed themselves but I was not counting.

Now when I am with people who speak the way I do and when I say speak the way I do I mean in my comfortable Indian accent where I am understood no matter what I say, I am eloquent and my one line quips are instantly caught by only the intellgent of course and I get a few laughs. But now in England, if I have to be funny, I have to be funny in an accent I am not comfortable in and then I slur, mix the words up and stutter.
I was ill last week and my colleague extending sympathy to me said, "Oh poor you, I hope you're feeling better." And my response was something around me not dying but that I just had a cold. If I said that eloquently, it sure would've been funny but in between the stuttering and slurring he probably thought I was having a fit and was ready to call 999.

The only way I get around telling jokes is when everyone is pissed drunk. And since I am in the same state too, the only jokes I can remember are the knock knock jokes which I first heard in high school and haven't updated the list after.

So next time you're in a big drunken group and hear a woman tell you this disgusting knock knock joke about a mosquito and another mosquito, that would be me.

I "didn't" go down to the Crossroads

Eric Clapton and John Mayer played at Hard Rock Calling at Hyde Park on the 28th and 29th of June, 2008. And it was not until two days before the concert that I got wind of this happening. Really daft of me given that I was there for almost two months (bangs head really hard). Obviously, tickets for this would've been sold months in advance, so I didn't try to get hold of tickets either (I deserve a hard kick in the backside for that).

So yes, I thought I'd be delusional about it and pretend that I didn't miss much. (well, my heart sinks everytime I think about it; John Mayer, Eric Clapton, they work magic on their guitars). And this Sunday when browsing channels on T.V, what do I see, Hard Rock Calling at Hyde Park and I just managed to catch the finale, the encore. JM, EC, Randolph and Sheryl Crow jammed to Crossroads, the famous Cream song.
And I know I am listening to something good when I get the goosebumps.

So having missed what I could call my dream rock concert, I now screen through the free London papers, twist my neck to catch the advertisements on the big red buses, eavesdrop on conversations if I hear the word festival or rock and hope that John Mayer comes to London again and yeah Eric Clapton of course. (Angshu, you'll probably want to kill me for putting EC second, but JM is just the best.)

Well, since this is what gave me goosebumps I tried looking for a decent video of this on youtube.
Enjoy!

The Long and Short of Surprises

Well, if celebrities can update their blogs regularly in between their concerts, filming, travelling and philanthropic activities then I guess it shouldn't be too much for me to just get off my lazy ass and write.

My excuse for not writing often: Time, inspiration
The actual reason for not writing often: Sheer laziness (if it comes in that pattern, Sheer!)

So to record events chronologically this is what happened in the past few weeks that I have not been writing.

Leaving London:
My manager comes over to me on one bright, rare sunny day and tells me that I can leave earlier than scheduled because they had found a replacement who was willing to get here asap. So, I could leave on the 4th of July (Independence Day! Come on, with all the alien fighting and innumerable American movies oozing patriotism you're not thinking Aug 15th, it's always 4th of July)

So ecstatic as I was, the week preceding my departure I decided to finally do things I was holding myself back to in the past months. I drank everyday, Strongbow, Magners, Guinness, Kronenberg and Ouzo ( I had just a sip of it and wanted to wash my mouth with soap). I indulged in food that tickled my tastebuds and only added another layer of fat around my already not-so-flat tummy (thought I'd go on a detox diet when I get back to India). I shopped, something I don't actually like doing, but I think when I see the word 'SALE' some chemical in my brain triggers and my feet automatically move in the direction of that word.

On the 3rd of July, (1 day to go - I love it when they do that in movies, it appears on the screen in a very electronic font, and you're hoping the moron hero does something quick before the world blows up into a huge ball of fire), I was out to do some last minute shopping, basically take advantage of the 32kg limit that BA gives.

Also, I had not told anyone except my brother-in-law and sis that I would be in India earlier than scheduled. I wanted to surprise my husband (probably would've scared or shocked him).

Anyway, while shopping I didn't bother about my phone which was tucked somewhere in my handbag. When I actually bothered checking it, I had loads of missed calls and a voicemail from my manager which was a very strange message, something to the effect of me doing something important for my team. Well, I am no American hero and definitely no, err, who would be equivalent of a supergirl who saved the world, Bionic Woman? err, Lara Croft?

Anyway, when I did call him back I got his voicemail as well so I left him a message. I was not sure what to make of his message since it was so vague. I was out with my friend and I was looking forward to this gorgeous meal of Pakistani food and a great last night in London. Well, I did have a great evening and by the time I got back home it was really late. Checked my phone and there was another voice message, 'Call me at ANY time', also a note from my room-mate saying that two people from work were desperately trying to reach me. Heck, at 2 in the morning I was not going to call anybody. So I finished my packing (had done most of it the previous day) and tried to go to sleep, I was so excited to be leaving the next morning (effectively that morning).

I get another call in the morning, asking me not to leave. My ****ing flight is at 2, I have a ****ing cab at 10 and here at ****ing 8 o'clock I am asked not to leave. c, k, f, u have been replaced with the wonderful *, after my greatest fan and critique told me that those letters in a certain order are just in your face.

So, of course you should know the reason why I was being asked to stay. The guy who came to replace me apparently was caught sleeping, TWICE, at a client meeting. The client was not impressed with his behaviour and let's cut the poor chap some slack, with jet lag his clock must've been totally screwed. But the client would not stand to have him in the project any more and with another prissy little prick going on leave the next week I was asked to stay.

Needless to stay I was in the worst of moods that day, extremely snappish and foul mouthed, now that's not a pretty picture.

Surviving London:
Now that I had to stay I went on that detox diet anyway. I had to flush my system of all the unholy indulgences (food only) of the past week.
So ask me how long will I be here and I'll answer 'Indefinitely', like Julia in Notting Hill (oh yes, I watch romantic movies too)

In all the excitement to surprise my husband and family, I was the one who was ultimately given the shock.

- Kavisha Pinto

Nine, Ten; Big Fat Hen

A fellow member on a writer's forum, that I am part of, suggested we list out 10 of our favourite literary characters. I thought it would be a good thing to dive into memory, ponder upon all the lovely characters I have known since childhood and just have some fun.

You know it is tough to restrict to 10 so I am just going to have to axe some of the fairies and pixies I knew as a child and focus on some more recent ones (not fairies and pixies I met as an adult).


Severus Snape: From the Harry Potter series by J.K.Rowling. Yes, I love Harry and his two bum chums but I like Snape more. A complex character very well written. In the final book he comes out a hero and my heart just went out to him.


Nancy Drew: From the Nancy Drew mystery series (but of course!) I wanted to be like when growing up. She was the ultimate girl; pretty, suave, intelligent and a teenager who had her head firmly screwed on to her shoulders. And yes, she had an equally charming boyfriend too. I wanted to be just like her.


Fatty a.k.a Frederick Algernon Trotteville: From the Five Find Outers and Dog series by Enid Blyton. I wanted to be like him too. He always had lots of pocket money, he always got to do exciting suff, he always solved mysteries and I think at that time he was only 12.


Viviane Walker: From the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells. I only read this book recently but the character of Viviane Walker being so spunky and strong has creeped into my favourite list. She loves her kids but hates them too (you know it happens, not that you really hate them), she would die or kill for any of her other three friends who are part of the sisterhood. This character is just so real.


Sherlock Holmes: When reading the series I was so enamoured by his personality I thought I'd fall in love with him. Wit, wisdom, intelligence he had it all. Actually I should've been in love with Arthur Conan Doyle for creating such an exceptional character.


Florentyna Kane: From The Prodigal Daughter, Shall we tell the President (later editions) and also Kane & Abel by Jeffrey Archer. When I was in college Florentyna was "the" woman. I liked her so much I went ahead and created an email id for myself by that name.


Don Vito Corleone: Need I say more?

Zoya: Zoya by Danielle Steele. Oh yes, I did read a lot of Danielle Steele in high school and though I cannot stand to read them now, this character Zoya, I cannot forget. She weathered war, poverty and loss and also managed to rise above all that. I don't think I'd want to read this book again, possibly my respect for Zoya might change. But more than being my favourite she's an unforgettable character that I have come across.

Robert Kincaid: Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller. If a man could be any more of a man and a gentleman, it would be Robert Kincaid.

Frank Gilbreth: Cheaper by the Dozen by Frank Gilbreth,Jr and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey. The main character of this book, also he's not fictional but definitely my favourite. For the Father he is, for the slightly eccentric but fun human being he is. Well, I don't want to give out more for people who haven't read this book. But I loved this character.

So there's my ten, though it was hard making the choices.

First Day at School

I remember my first day at St.Mary's so vividly, I just love telling this tale.

I joined St.Mary's Girls School in the sixth standard, and I was all new and shiny like a pair of freshly polished boots. I think Mama scrubbed me really hard to get that effect.

This was my first school in India (yes, till I was in the fifth standard we were in Muscat, Oman)and I was not looking forward to it. I remember that Mama bought me a new pencil box that looked like a Cadbury's bar, the chocoholic I am I probably wanted to eat it then. In the box were Nataraj pencils(you know the black and red ones) all pointy, a new eraser and a pencil sharpener.
I kind of missed my previous fancy pencil box which had a magnifying glass, magnets to both the doors (yes, a two-doored pencil box), in-built pencil sharpener and little slot for the eraser to go in; I can't remember the other useless attachments it had but it was pretty and pink and smelled of strawberry. Oh yeah, poor little "my-earlier-pencil-box-smelled-like-strawberry girl".

I went to school in an auto-rickshaw which worked on a pool system. There were kids everywhere, some spilling out of the rickshaw, some inside who were jammed, some sitting and some standing in that two feet of space.

The great pearly gates, oh alright I'll stop exaggerating; I stood in front of the huge iron gates of St.Mary's Girls High School very sceptical of stepping in. I spotted a statue of Mother Mary at a distance and the good Catholic girl that I was immediately went there and asked for blessings on my first day of school.

I asked around and finally found my classroom which was on the first floor of the building. The teacher asked me to sit next to a girl; someone who I don't remember now.

Everyone was quite excited or so it seemed then, to have a new girl in the class. The girls already had their own groups and best friends and I wondered if I was ever going to fit in. My neighbour asked me, "Are you a foreigner?" Yeah, I used to get that a lot in India. I just can't believe it now, terribly brown skinned that I am (and I am proud of it)

"No, I am from Mangalore."
People thinking I was and calling me a foreigner annoyed me, always. I am proud to be an Indian.

"I am Indian. I was born in Mangalore." I had to convince some of the girls who had gathered around me.

During the break the girls took me out of class, to get some fresh air. And there was a swarm of blue and white (our school uniform, white shirt and blue pleated skirt) in a matter of seconds.

There were girls pulling my cheeks. "She's like a doll, so chubby and so pink."
Some were poking my hands. "She's so fair man. So nice no."
I really didn't know what the big deal was. It was just weird. And I won't deny it, in a way it felt good to get all the attention and not sit in a corner and worry about not making friends.
No one ever swarmed me in my previous school. I wasn't the cool girl or the pretty girl. Suddenly I was in a moment I had probably sub-conciously craved for and now that it was here I didn't know how to handle it.
So, I just smiled, extremely embarrassed, and told people that I was Indian and that my parents and whole family right from the start of the family tree, was Indian.

I had confused some who thought I was lying about being a foreigner and they thought I was at least Anglo-Indian, there surely had to be some English blood in me.

So my first day was a hit and I went back home, again in the bursting auto-rickshaw, waiting to tell Mama about my new school and confused new friends.

Still Married

After reading my previous blog, Turning 29, many were surprised about the "without my husband" line and also the jest mention of the word "divorce". There might have been a snicker or two, "I knew that marriage wouldn't last" or some with the ready tongue click and simultaneous head nod, "It shouldn't have happened to them", like we died or something.

Well, hear ye, I am still married and that too happily, may be the "happily" is attributed a little bit to the distance, since we cannot get on each other's nerves anymore. And we are separated, geographically and in the non-legal sense.

I am in London on work and he is in Bangalore. Well, he claims that I am the one who left him this time, but work calls.

On my 29th birthday I was surprised with a personalised box of Belgian Truffles, the best. It came with my name on it and also a lovely card with a message from him. That was really so sweet of him, excuse the pun.

I think I can stay a day without talking to him, but then I am on the phone the instant I get home from work. And yes, I am tired of kissing that ugly phone that sits on my dining table. That would be the most love that damn phone has gotten ever.

So save all your tears, prayers, nodding heads and clucking tongues, I am still married.

- Kavisha Pinto

Turning 29

You know what's worse before turning 30? Turning 29. Yes, I am so depressed that I am giving out my age in public, not that I have been able to hide it anyways. I never get that, "So which college do you study in?" question any more.

At 29 here I am, without my husband, (no we're not divorced yet, just living in different countries) feeling old and wrinkled.

Yes, I am a grouchy, 29 year old woman. Finally, I call myself a woman. Oh, how I loved being called a girl. Girl!

The morning of the 30th of May (yes D-day, my birthday, belated presents are most welcome), I look into the mirror and I'm sure I see extra lines around my eyes. My feet feel scaly and my hands a little wrinkly, and I definitely spotted a bald patch on my head.

With my husband not with me, I had no one to whine about the appearance of mysterious fine lines and the bright ripe pimple that popped up overnight. Those lines were probably there when I turned 28 but of course I didn't notice then. At 28 you still feel young, it's like you're not there yet, there's plenty of time until 30.

So now was the time for some damage control and to get some smooth glowing skin. Hmm, yes, smooth glowing skin doesn't happen to wait around the corner and jump at you. So I went to The Body Shop, no not to get a new body, which would've been a lot easier actually.

At The Body Shop, I looked around a bit and my head was swirling with the kind of products they had. Anti-ageing, bust firming, body scrubs made of exotic fruits, repairing creams, sensual massage oils, foot softening packs, all with the promise of making you more beautiful; notice how they always say "more beautiful", makes you believe that you are already beautiful and just need that little extra to make you look smashing hot gorgeous.

So I ask the shopping assistant what would suit me best, she started with my face.
"You can probably use the Tea tree cleanser followed with the toner. Do you use a moisturiser?"
At this point I am wondering whether I should tell her the truth at the risk of coming out, "Why the hell do you need a moisturiser" or just lie and say "Yes".
"Yes"
"Are you happy with it?"
"Yes"
"Then you can use the cleanser and toner followed by your moisturiser. I'd recommend the night cream as well for you. It will take care of the redness and blemish problem."
"Err, you think a night cream is good for my skin."
"Definitely. I sometimes don't bother with my Day Cream but I make sure I put on my Night Cream before bed."

At this point I was probably hyper-ventilating, wondering if my skin was ever going to get that smooth texture and cherubic glow. You know, they should teach you that in school; "When you turn 15 make sure you use a day cream and night cream. This will guarantee you wrinkle free exquisite skin when you turn 29."

Oh well, I had to start somewhere and soon. If I at least started at 29 some parts of my skin would hopefully be glowing when I turned 50.

So this is what I put into my basket:
A body lotion: for smooth and silky skin.
A foot scrub and a lotion: to keep my feet refreshed and revived and apparently deodorised.
A shampoo and a conditioner: which moisturises and conditions the hair, giving it shine.
A cleanser and a toner: which soothes blemished skin and reduces puffiness.
A day cream and a night cream: which also does the above but works some other magic during their respective times of application.
A face mask: which also soothes the skin in addition to cleansing it and removing impurities.

Convinced that I was on the way to younger looking skin I stepped out, leaving a very happy shopping assistant behind.

The products have now been lined neatly in my bathroom, creating a mini body shop exhibit and I just don't know where to start. I should have brought the shopping assistant home with me (in a purely non-sexual way), she definitely seemed to know a lot.

Oh what the hell, let me just take the plunge into making myself "more beautiful". Lovely skin, here I come in 3, 2, 1.

Just Shoot Me!

You would think flying off to London for three months would be exciting; "Oh wow, in London for 3 months? That's awesome." "You're so lucky man, going to London and all."
Well, yeah if I had to go by all the things my younger cousins and siblings said, I would probably be in Disneyland, eating cotton candy and kissing Mickey Mouse.

The thought of going to London was a bit exciting, but then I was leaving behind my husband, the crazy sibling gang which now includes my brother-in-law and Mama, I thought I would start bawling at the airport. All the years of the stubborn " I don't cry in public" paid off. After the hugs and kisses I was off, on my own.

I dragged my heavy bags hoping that I was well within the limit. The guy at the counter eyeing my huge bag suspiciously, the "Are you abandoning your family and moving base to London?" look or it must have been the "You ladies pack way too many things" look. Luckily it was just under the limit and I was relieved. Now I was wondering if my cabin baggage would fit into the overhead locker, "unaided", like they mention in your Baggage allowance details. My laptop bag was stuffed with books and the zipper seemed like it would zap away on its own. Earlier that day my husband had to arrange and rearrange my little cabin suitcase so that everything fit in; yes it was over stuffed. I knew I would need all the "aid"to haul it in the overhead locker.

I tried sleeping throughout the flight, but the evil of "In-flight Entertainment" tempts you. When I decided to watch "The Kite Runner" I noticed that my headphones were missing, but of course that was bound to happen.
When I tried to stuff my laptop bag under the seat in front of me and heard a rip, I thought that that would be the end. Then when the guy in front of me inconsiderately pushed back his seat while I was still in the middle of breakfast, I thought God would probably stop punishing me now. So, not having headphones and it being delivered after a long wait, was no surprise.

BA airs an ad with an emotional factor, showing a white woman joining her hands in the namaste posture, I wouldn't go by that. The fat white air hostess very curtly cut me off when I couldn't find space for my cabin baggage and requested if she could help me. Another thin white woman finally obliged and did help me find space, and they are quite spot on when they say that passengers should place their baggage in the overhead locker unaided. Yeah, yeah call me racist.

I finally landed in London, with a ripped laptop bag, sore thumbs trying to open my mobile phone to put in a UK Sim and just very very tired. Thankfully the company had sent a kind man to fetch me who helped me with my luggage and made small talk on the way.

After collecting my apartment keys, I finally arrived at my apartment building, which was not very fancy but seemed nice. The driver, whose name I missed asking, very kindly asked me to check if the main door opened. Once it did, he left.

I was waiting to get into the apartment and take a hot shower and sleep. I pressed the button for the lift and none came down. I assumed I was pressing the wrong button which didn't look like a button but rather a sticker; one of those sleek and extremely advanced buttons which didn't get the bloody lift down. I lugged my huge bag of 22kgs, my over stuffed cabin baggage and ready-to-zap-zipper laptop bag up four floors where my apartment was.

I thought I had had enough of an adventure for one day and then my key didn't work.

The person at the apartment help desk , over the phone, took me over the process of meticulously opening a door; yeah, like we don't have those in India, ooh a door with a lock!

They finally sent someone over who tried the same things I did and concluded, "You've been given the wrong key." Yes, thank you very much, I think I figured that out an hour ago. He then went to get the right key, I was so sure he would come back with another wrong one.

After what seemed like an hour he was back and thankfully with the right key. When I spoke to my husband later, there I was bawling like a baby wanting to go back home.

Does this happen to everyone or is it just me? I guess I have to wait and see what's next in store for me in unpredictable London.

- Kavisha Pinto

On Air

I listen to a lot of Radio Indigo, especially while driving. Also, somewhere within is this motor-mouth monster waiting to be unleashed; this monster will be unleashed only on the radio by the way.
I have always envied RJs. What a cool job I think, whenever I listen to them. They get to play cool songs, they have "fans", ofcourse they do and their voices are recognised; you see I can be a star and not go through a strict diet regimen. I will be able to order pork chops and beef steaks and need not order fashionably small portions of the "garden salad".
One Monday evening I was listening to Barker (yes, that's his last name!) on the Radio and he said that people could send in their selection of songs, why they want to play them and get to be on the show. The monster in me was lashing around uncomfortably, for a moment I was almost possessed. So I sent in my songs and I got called in two days.
I went in for the recording and pretended to be cool. Yeah, so I was talking too much, trying to suppress my wide grin and was keeping my ever rotating head in check. The recording room was awesome. And I sat in what I would like to assume to be Barker's seat. The feeling was great.
I was prepared with my lines and thought I would blow Bangalore away with my wit. And then I started talking.
I was fumbling, slurring, and there were these odd tribal sounds coming out of my mouth. Gargi (who I am assuming is a producer), was patiently waiting for some coherable English to spill out of me. She was nice actually, and she could probably see that the huge microphone in front of me was making me nervous.
In about twenty minutes I was done. I had forgotten dedications to my family and some of my close friends, but the whole deal was done. Barker came in (courtesy call), shook my hand and told me to tune in on Monday, 10th March.
I was feeling exhilarated (if people still use that word to express their feelings!)
So on Monday, a few of my buddies and I got together, went for a drive and there I was, Live on the Radio. "Hi, you're listening to me Kavisha on the Drive Home Takeover on Cruise Control"

Lucky Strike?

I am one of those people who never wins in these send-an-sms, dial-to-win, this-is-your-lucky-day, if-you-don't-call-us-today-you-will-die competitions; at least until now.

Some time last year I was on my way back from the doctor's, down with viral fever and the chills, listening to Radio Indigo. Over the air a competition was announced, a line was played and we had to a guess the movie. I don't remember the line now but I instantly knew it was from the Matrix, not because Matrix is one of my favourite movies, it really isn't, but it just sounded very "Matrixy"; with cooling glasses, black leather jackets and i-can-do-anything-in-slow-motion graphics; oh whatever!
So I was on air, sounding extremely sick and stiffling a cough. I won two tickets to watch any movie at PVR Cinemas or so I thought. After waiting for several days and convincing myself that it was free after all, I got a call from PVR asking me which movie I wanted to book. Conveniently for him (the guy from PVR) all the good movies and prime shows were "fully booked".
After promising to call me again he hung up and never called back.
Just my luck I thought, see I never win in these competitions.

I still listen to Radio Indigo though because the RJ's blabber a lot less and play some good music, not all the time but most of the time.

Of course, there were more competitions that followed and I sent in answers wrong and right, but never won; yeah, I know you can't win with wrong answers.
And then last month while I was driving back home from work another question was asked, "Name Madonna's song which is all about fashion and movies".
I was a huge Madonna fan as a little girl. Have tried copying her moves from "Material Girl" and "Like a Virgin", when my parents were out and had no clue that they left a gyrating, pouting monster back at home.
So, I immediately pulled my car over to the side of the road in what I would like to think as a very cool, action movie style move, minus the screeching, whirling and kicking up the dust. Once stopped I sent in the answer; duh! it's "Vogue".
A few minutes later my name was announced on the radio and I won a goodie bag from an upcoming designer. I asked my brother to pick up the bag for me and the goodie bag was all I could think of while driving home.
There might be some great designer tops, a dress maybe and when I was home all those dreams were squished.
In the bag, were two-shirts with sun-sign prints, size SMALL! Well, SMALL is definitely not my size though I have been hoping to get there ever since I was 12. Apart from the t-shirts there was a polka dot belt, which went around about 3 quarters of my waste and shiny hair clips, did grown-ups wear these things?
Well, all of them were given away, the generous soul that I am.

And yesterday while listening to Radio Indigo, there was yet another competition which was giving away gift vouchers to a shoe store of an international brand. I sent in the correct answer and won! I couldn't believe it.
I now have to collect my voucher. At least this time I am going to own a new pair of shoes!

Writer's Block: SPF 365

When I woke up this morning I seemed to have a lot of "writing" ideas. You know what they say about free flowing creative thoughts when in a state of semi-consciousness, well I don't know exactly but it is true.
Now, it seems like I am having the writer’s block again, no it's not sold in an environment friendly recyclable container; but seems like I have adequate supply, any takers?

I wonder if writers can insure themselves against this henious, comes-and-goes-as-it-likes disease.
What if my next meal depended upon it.
"Hey Kav, you've lost an awful lot of weight." "Yeah, I'm having the writer's block." Oh well, you can't say it does not have any advantages after all.

I wonder how these newspaper columnists churn out piece after piece every week. Well, they're not all good all the time, but even then, it is a commitment and they have to keep up to it, else they will all be joining the skinny brigade.
What about authors who have editors and publishers breathing down their necks to meet deadlines? Is the "block" a valid excuse for missing a deadline? "I would've made a best selling author but I just got hit by the block."

Have you ever had those brief triumphant moments when you've written this extremely brilliant line and that's that. For hours after, you keep staring at it and no more brilliance is oozing from nowhere. And the harder you stare the brilliance of the brilliant line also keeps diminishing till frustration prompts you to do the inevitable, ctrl+a and shift+del.
Oh the number of times I have been on that trip.

And then my friends ask me, "Hey, you haven't written in a long time." "What happened to your blog, is it still there." Of course, it is still there. You think the blog people would dare delete my blog, which is waiting to overflow with brilliant writing.
Err, maybe it has been a while, you know writer’s block and all, but that's just a passing phase. I think writer’s block can hit you at any time. After one line, one paragraph, one page and in my case sometimes even after one word.
"Preposterous", I thought I was getting somewhere with that word and thought I had a great piece outlined when it hit me. So after the staring and crinkling of the nose and sheer disbelief that I couldn't write further I just hit backspace; ctrl+a and shift+del would've taken longer.

There it is again, I know it, I can feel it. And people ask me why I end my writing abruptly.

To hell with God, Prayers & Miracles

Dada passed away in the wee hours of September 8th. The only solace, we were with him when he breathed his last.