Change is good

www.killthebutterflies.wordpress.com

Too small for shoes(part 2)

No one ever talks about journalism colleges. In fact my family thinks I'm a bit of an airhead for having gone and gotten an admission in one. So you want to be Barkha Dutt? They ask me.

I don't want to be Barkha Dutt.

And so I spend my days doing the most un-Barkha Dutt like things. I am 21 She fumes Obviously I am going to write about love and friends and sex. Give me a break She holds up her assignment sheet, covered in red pen marks.

This is a journalism college you know- I remind her.

But she's RIGHT. We are 21, we sit on the terrace at the villa and mull over whiskey and coke. Sure its barely legal to drink right now, but let's face it guys- we are old.

My girlfriend wants to get married, He tries to slip in offhandedly. Doesn't work.

We all scream, WHAT?

We'll probably just get engaged once college ends, I dunno. We've been together for six years, he reminds us defensively and then curls up to hear our wrathful judgement.

Instead, S cries gleefully, Invite us to the engagement, I want to DANCE

Alcohol- A says slowly, like she can't stress the point enough. I want lots of A-L-C-O-H-O-L


My wedding, I tell them, Will have BUCKETS of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Clearly neither of us is growing up soon.

I don't want to grow old I tell A and S in a half whisper. I'd make a really batty old lady They agree with me.

Probably wont feed your child, they remark.
I will buy him his own food. GOD. How many times do I have to remind you I am not selfish. I just don't share. There is a difference.

We laugh.

The best years of your life, my mother reminds me over the phone, You will never look like this again. Enjoy it. She tells my Dad.

And my dad's no agony aunt. He sends me an email the next day- Stop pitying yourself, he types in caps lock, if it bothers you so much, do something about it.
He cites examples too. Like Raveena Tandon. I am bitter but impressed with his knowledge of Bollywood

Yeah. Gotta start putting anti-wrinkle cream once we are 23 , A reminds me. We are only half joking.

Too small for my shoes

"We are adults now. When did that happen? How do we make it stop?"
(Grey's Anatomy. OBVIOUSLY. The only source I can quote from after three years of English Literature. No thank you to you Mr. Shakespeare. Although I do recall a certain line about a certain little white ewe being tupped by a certain old black ram. But that's only because my perversion got the best of me.)

But we are ADULTS now. Does that mean I have to stop being afraid of banks? I think that's the only thing keeping me from plunging into adulthood. A bank to Kritika, is like a potty to a child afraid of potties. It speaks to me in gutteral tones, "2 out of 100 in math. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? And you walk in here, impudent piece of shit, what do you think of yourself?! You think you can do it NOW? Do you not remember what happened with you and trigonometry last summer? Forgotten the shame already eh? Get out I say. Get OUT."

Do I have to be neat? Like learn how to fold clothes? Apply nail polish INSIDE the nails. Do I have to share now?

Because I can't do these things. there are only so many nachos inside the nachos box, and clothes are vile and tricky,sleev-ey and button-ey. Lets like compromise, I do my nail polish bit and I NEVER have to do banks and clothes and OMG..SHARE.

I don't know how to embark upon this journey to adultland. The land of bills and mortgages and family and marriage...

The HORROR! - That's Joseph Conrad bitches!

Mothers

she-All boys want one thing at this age.

me-Oh so you mean they get better once they are older? Do they get wiser and want other things?

she-Don't be cheeky, yes THEN they are mature. At this age they are all out to have fun.

me-I don't believe you.

she-You think they aren't jerks?

me-Uh not that, I don't believe you when you say they'll get better, wiser, mature-er whatever.

she-We are just trying to protect you.

me-I know.

But....how much longer???!

she- Till you're mature enough to handle them yourself.(sub-textually- Till you get married, sub-sub-textually-till you get arrange married)

me-How does it make a difference, when it all boils down to the one thing, which they'll obviously want even when I'm mature enough to know that that's all that they want.

she-But you'll be older then.

me-Wait...so do you want me to be older and more mature, so I can try and find someone who wants the one thing, but is from an Ivy league college, good looking and has a great sports car? I already know what they want. Geez, frankly this is not even the kind discussion I want to be having with you right now. It's awkward and inappropriate.

she-But we are the only people who really care about you. Plus there is the whole deal about the hormones at this age. You know boys and their wild, raging hormones.

me-Ugh! No. Please not the hormones. I refuse to talk about the hormones with you, esp ones that are wild and raging!

she-Why? You know you can talk to me about ANYTHING.

me-Uh..no. Not boys.

she-okay. alcohol? There was alcohol too at the party right?

me-oh ya, vanilla vodka..awesome!

she-WHAT?

me-kidding. I hate alcohol.

she-yes, please hate alcohol and cigarettes.

me-and boys.

she-yes boys. Specially boys with alcohol and cigarettes.

me-oh cmon, you're freaking me out. Are they that bad.

she-yes, at this age, the hor-

me-don't say it!

she-they get better, but not right now, right now they think with their DI-

me-aaaaaahhhhhh!!!!! i'm blocking you out now!!!!!!!!( sing latest hindi movie song at the top of my voice)

she-you get the message.

me-no alcohol. no cigarettes. no boys.

For Apoo

100 Things That I love (in random order)

1. The kissing scene at the end of a movie. Right before the closing credits. Accompanied by a cheesy song.
2. Explaining to people as to why I love Kurkure more than Lays. (More chips in a kurkure packet.)
3. Dancing to Bollywood music.
4. The fifth glass of whiskey and coke.
5. Celebrity hook-ups.
6. Facebook photocomments!
7. Dancing to Lady Gaga.
8. Singing really loudly. In the car.
9. Smudgy kajal.
10. Celebrity Break-ups.
11. Pigs.
12. Pigs as bacon.
13. Foggy mornings.
14. Considering Grey's Anatomy dialogues to be the ultimate advice with regard to relationsips.
15. Considering Entourage to be the ultimate handbook on dealing with men.
16. Colonel Sander's pretty pretty face.
17. Little puppies learning how to walk.
18. Manicure and Pedicures.
19. Facials and Oil massages.
20. Unexpected compliments.
21. New Years Eve kisses.
22. Post-its.
23. The sound the ATM makes before spitting out cash.
24. Overeating.
25. Fluffy Quilts.
26. Stalking the exes on social networking sites.
27. http://www.gofugyourself.com/
28. The sound of the phone ringing.
29. Hot pizza and the cardboard delivery box it comes in.
30. A friendly auto driver who takes you home at a reasonable rate.
31. Mills and Boons. Watching Dirty Dancing, over and over and over again.
32. Giving relationship advice to the girlfriends.
33. The last day of exams.
34. CCDs in general.
35. PVR nachos and cheesy dip. SIGH.
36. Mark Wahlberg in the Italian Job.
37. My mom and dad, close-dancing. awww.
38. Birthday parties!
39. Gifts.
40. Eating my burgers in the grossest way possibly- consuming the bun first and then the filling.
41. Eating my samosa in that exact same manner.
42. My eyebrows, when they are perfectly shaped.
43. Earrings and nose-pins.
44. Vengeant Alanis Morrisette break-up songs. (Does she know how you told me you'd me hold until you die/ But you're still alive!)
45. Linda Goodman's astological precision.
46. Books.
47. Smoke mingled with the smell of cologne.
48. Holding hands for the very first time.
49. Sylvia Plath poetry.
50. Watching mom giggle like a little girl every time she listens to a John Denver song.
51. the words, "I love you"
52. The "getting-back" after the "breaking-up"
53. New seasons of Grey's Anatomy.
54. Harry Potter Books.
55. LOTR movies.
56. Abba, Carpenters and Boney M.
57. E-mails.
58. Pithoo.
59. Secretly being in love with Edward Cullen.
60. Planning my wedding cuisine. (KFC and beer.)
61. Acting a little too feminist to scare my mom.
62. Crazy Relatives.
63. The successful completion of a diet.
64. Being told, "You've lot weight"
65. Eye liner.
66. Pouring my heart out to my best friend on the phone.
67. Watching Patrick Swayze MOVE.
68. Falling in and out of love with Shahrukh Khan.
69. Breaking up repeatedly with Americana. And then ordering the crumb fried chicken in the next two days.
70. Losing self control.
71. Giggling like an idiot.
72. Talking in the middle of movies.
73. Waking up to his voice.
74. Falling asleep to his voice.
75. Bitch-fights.
76. THE WEBCAM
77. Dad's suitcase when he comes back home after 6 months of sailing.
78. Saag paneer chawal.
79. Stray dogs.
80. T-shirts that are cut up around the collar.
81. Short shorts.
82. People who are funny.
83. Truth and Dare
84. Never Have I Ever.
85. Drunk Friends trying to dance.
86. Judging people.
87. Trying out clothes that I secretly know will never fit me in this lifetime.
88. Horror movies.
89. Disneyland!
90. Parantha with a blob of butter in the middle and then watching it melt and spread all over.
91. Mangoes.
92. Swearing on people to prove my innocence.
93. Googling stuff and then wikipedia-ing it for more in-depth knowledge.
94. People who share my enthusiasm for food, or dieting.
95. Hating people who are too smart.
96. Intimidating people.
97. New haircuts. And bangs. :)
98. Licking off melted chocolates from the wrapper.
99. Dancing drunkenly to "I Love Rock and Roll with Apoo and then suddenly singing in unision at the "He said can I take you home...." part of it!



100. The butterflies in my stomach when I am excited.

The Joke

THE JOKE still haunts me. I live with it every day, its poltergeisty appearance not leaving me for one waking second till I just wish it would lock me up in my T.V. and then GO AWAY. I’m familiar with it, THE JOKE, so I talk to it. Basically it makes Chandler-esque sarcastic comments like, “Could that Sub BE anymore cheesier?” and I ask it to shut up. THE JOKE, that happened so long ago that I have forgotten its origins, its incidence and its basic geography, has come to define me and the woman that I will turn into one day (-most probably my mother, but I blame the THE JOKE and not THE GENES which I shall talk to you about in a separate story.)

[THE JOKE- 199?-200? – THE JOKE was introduced in the late 90s, it entertained many people while it was alive (and thriving). It brought smiles to the faces of adolescent pimply boys and bitchy long-legged girls.
The JOKE is a part of the genre that combines the power of the ordinary joke (building up of the tempo that culminates into a thundering climax) and the one-liner. THE JOKE needs no tempo and yet it is no ordinary one liner- it is itself, the very punch-line, a punch line being far more superior to a mere one liner.
Once the cool kids grew up eventually, and turned into what most cool kids turn into i.e. the world asks them to get over themselves (if I am lucky the girls even become fat.)- THE JOKE fell from the glory it had enjoyed in its former heydays and it transferred from the lips of a well meaning friend into my heart and soul and began living parasitically within me. I was feeding off the drama; it was feeding off my misery.]

It’s just A JOKE, she tells me. Me, I’m the Fat Kid. Every group on the playground has a Fat Kid. My personality is defined by that title. See, once you’re branded the Fat Kid, they call you names that pertain to your “Fat Kid” status (fatso, moti, etc). It’s not a mere title, it is your persona. You subscribe to all its prejudices. You live by its commandments-

1. Thou shalt forever be branded a glutton because well...everyone knows that Fat Kids eat a LOT. Every bite of food you eat shall be judged, and dare you be viewed eating an orange bar in public, thou shall be humiliated by the calling out of names aforementioned.
2. Thou shalt NEVER be asked out by a boy. It is below any normal weighted boy’s dignity to be seen with a fat girl. Your name, shalt however come up regularly, linking you to several boys so that well, they get very very embarrassed and say, “Shaat app!!! Why would I date HERRRR??!”
3. Thou shalt be picked last for every team. Because well...who are thou kidding, everyone knows Fat Kids cannot run.
4. Thou shalt be ignored at all social gatherings, gossip sessions, dance-parties and that’s because thou art not cool enough.

Sometimes I was not invited. I think that’s when the THE JOKE began to be circulated.
It went like this, “Imagine Bubbles in a BRA.”
I am Bubbles. The butt of several, “I enjoy watching Bubbles in the bathtub” jokes as well but NOTHING, nothing in the world (not even the 2 out of 100 in MATH, which, according to my mother should have been my first priority at that age and was the biggest disgrace this family had faced since the hush-hush wedding of a barely legal cousin), could make me cry like THE JOKE.
“Imagine Bubbles in a bra?” I screamed. “How could she? That WHORE!” (I doubt I used “whore”, must have been more like “that IDIOT!” at that time but it betrays the magnitude of rage that was in my heart.)

I wanted to prove to myself that they were wrong. So I went to the bathroom, stripped off my shirt and looked at myself in the mirror. The fact that my mother was making me wear ugly, conical bras to “make my breasts develop the right shape” did not help. No one told me that I should be glad that my breasts were growing rapidly out-of-control while those girls, almost four years older to me, did not have any. The point being, what I saw in the mirror that day, confirmed THE JOKE.

From thereon, every time someone laughed at me during a game of hide and seek, I freaked out, are they imagining me in a bra?

People I did not know very well, people I had just met, people I passed on the street- I looked at them and I wondered- Are they too imagining me in a bra?
The fear of not being bra-worthy plagued me all my life.
We’ve grown up. Barely anyone calls me Bubbles anymore. I am hardly in touch with my childhood frenemies. But every day I stand in front of the mirror in my bra and the ghost smiles at me tauntingly; I know it will never leave.

Bad Toenail Day

Hello. I am back home. Tonight was a good GOOD Nigh-a-aight. (Woo hoo Fergie. RESPECT) Currently applying black nailpolish on toenails, that never behave. They curl...proudly..disgustingly. My grandmother's heritage, or thats what my mom likes to tell me. I always seems to inherit the worst of the family. My dad's skin allergies, my grandma's toenails, my mom's weight problem's and general paranoia AND her stinginess. Except your values. She reminds me. Don't worry you're like a peacock. Beautiful with ugly feet.
Try telling that to other people. And then watch them laugh. Hmph.

I hate boys sometimes. When I am being all feminist. Hypocritically putting on a push up bra and then judging them for staring at my assets. "You're DISGUSTING" I scream at them mentally but judgementally, "STOP OBJECTIFYING ME". Then I go and adjust it in the bathroom.

Writer's Block

I have been losing myself lately, and finding it all back during conversations with the mother, the boyfriend and the best-friend- who are all back at home, all as lost as me. Some haven't yet moved from where I last left them, be it lying on the bed watching T.V. or angsting over their love lives, some have partly moved on.

"I have been watching the World Movies Channel, the Golden globes- Jennifer Garner's soooo skinny now", it is funny watching my mother talk about Hollywood and phoren cinema when I will always remember her as a hardcore Jagjit Singh fan.

My best-friend's still trying to find herself, I wish she'd just stop- because from where I stand- she's everything, even the things I want to be one day. (I'm not just talking about the fifty kilos.) But you know- the kind of person who walks into restaurants like she owns them, ("I lived in Prague for two years you have no idea how they look at a person with brown skin, that's when I decided to walk around the goddamn city like its MINE.)

Sometimes I find myself in pages of books. Hoping those words will validate me, let them be examples- I'd rather be remembered as a part of an archetype rather than as nothing at all.

I want to go home for sometime. The land of free laundry, never-too-broke-to-have-a-pizza and plenty of hugs (that choke and smother, but are so warm, and so much love that sometimes you're almost scared that you probably dont deserve it).

The place where he's just around the corner, and he'll sit across from you, the most goodlooking boy you have ever seen in your life, - with a voice so deep. Somedays he'll help you find yourself, and the days that you don't, he'll simply offer you plenty of golden packets, warm coffee and lots and lots of food (and tell you that you're pretty even though you look like shit.)

phone conversations.

Why did you cut your hair?, she thunders, that was the ONLY feminine thing about you!
Mother!
What! have you SEEN the way you walk?
MOTHER!

Speaking of childhood enemies.
"----'s mom is gonna start looking"
Be not confused my dear readers, there is but one thing that mothers of all daughters look for. A HUSBAND.
So, get this, she tells her mom, "Ma i don't trust my choice in men, since all my relationships have only ended the wrong way", maybe you should pick someone for me."
Seriously?
Seriously.
Is she CRA-
SUCH a nice girl.
-ZYY!

So Apoo and me are going to watch Valentine's Day together.
With whom?
Ummm...with... each other??
I hope you are not gay now. (jokingly)
What if I was though?(not so jokingly)
(Tragi-comically) Haha, no you would never do that to me.

Cancerous

We are the crabs. Linda Goodman says. And crabs, as we all know, are crabby. With shells. Ergo, don't mess with crabs, she warns, So they don't scurry away and retreat into "the shells".

Being a crabby crab I have a shell too you know. A fully furnished shell in fact, with a T.V. that plays Grey's Anatomy on loop, a couple of romance novels and lots and lots of food.

I invited you in and said, "Make yourself at home".

And now its lonely in here without you.

Pearls of wisdom that haunt me till today

My mother- Fall in love with a clean looking guy.

She said so at a wedding.

THAT groom, she said to me, is not ugly. He is clean looking. She took a large sip of vodka and sighed, Beta, fall in love with a clean looking guy.

I didn’t know what she meant by this statement back then anymore than I do now. I think it had something to do with the kind of boys I was falling in love with at that time. My mother’s standards always intimidated me, you see, because they were so much higher than mine. And everyone else’s. They did not just include the predictable disapproval of hippies and crazies.

Moreover, her admirable standards belittled and trifled love. They were MONUMENTAL and could not possibly be bothered by stupid things like that. Fall in love with a clean looking guy, she repeated through all those years. Or better still scout him out, marry him and then fall in love by and by.

I am in love again, but I’m afraid she might see it as a sign of weakness.

My father- Never ride at the back of motorcycles

After some mighty scarring in his teenage years, my father followed the old-age idiom of prevention is better than cure and gave me my life’s most important advice. “Paro”, and I cringe as I quote this verbatim but I’m a fan of authenticity, “you’re a big girl now, going to live alone in Chennai. Sweetheart, you gotta keep your head straight and focus. Eyes on the prize like Arjuna would have said in Mahabharatha. No alcohol and cigarettes. (No drugs, he would have also said but I doubt he thinks I know of their existence).

And please, PLEASE, never sit at the back of motorcycles.”

And so, the thought of doing something as outrageous as THAT, still makes my knees quake.

A friend, “Bitches bite girls in short skirts.”

I know now, that the words were said in jest and possible snootiness. Yes, I am well aware of that NOW. But that does not mean that every time I wear a short skirt I don’t look around at the slightest sound, grabbing my skirt with both hands and yanking it down considerably so that the bitches don’t maul my legs.

Your body is your temple.

Lets unlearn what you've learnt. The dark ages of body fat are gone, this is ENLIGHTENMENT. The body, a temple? How orthodox! How 1990s! - We here, ma'am, are completely and fashionably atheist. We believe in machines and worship them. Here let me just grab your side tyre and show you what we are talking about. 29%- do you realise how close that is to being OBESE???? And an obese body, as we all know, is NOT a temple. Figuratively yeah, but spiritually well..you get the drift. This my dear friend is the RENNAISSANCE of fat- we have bikinis now, if we starve you enough you might grow packs- don't look so baffled my dear, a pack is, well lets just call it a limb. If Darwin were here he'd talk about the elimination of all those who don't have it. Decimate the flabbies!-he'd say. Aye aye! Repeat after me, "Survival of the FITTEST".

You need help. Yes you might DIE. I KNOW you are not really overweight, you're BMI says you're okay, but you and I both know that the BMI LIES! ALL the time. You could die of heart disease, when, why I believe right now, at this very moment! It is written right here in your folds of fat.

Don't gape at me, you know what that is, that is FAT. You are fat. The digital weighing machine has pronounced its verdict. You are guilty of fatness!. All the boys who laughed at you when you were a pudgy child, all the fancy schmancy showroom attendents who sniggered behind your back while you weeped inside locked changing rooms- THANK those people. Go down on your knees! You wouldn't be here if it weren't for them.

Welcome to our gym. Here is your membership ID. You are not fat anymore. You are ENLIGHTENED.

Resolutions Smechzolutions

Once again I vow, solemnly, dolefully, resolutely and one-last-day-before-I-get-to-it-ly: I WILL lose weight. Yes that's right. I finished a big fat burger, half a box of dark chocolates, and a rava masala dosa and let me tell you that I am cured of all my left-over depression and am satisfied with a capital S.

The biryani I had 45 minutes ago is the last high carb dish I will ever touch for the next one month.

An angry bitter blog

9:45- Woke up to an onslaught of alarms- La Bamba, Accidentally in love and some random beeping.

9:47- After knocking on the bathroom door for over 3 minutes, decided to change in the middle of the room. Roommate caught sight of naked torso, gasped in horror and turned to the other side, willing herself to go back to sleep.

9:50- Looked for kajal which was carefully hidden behind heaps of newspapers, Maggie soup packets, roasted chana packets, libray books that will never ever be returned, ever, and fluorescent coloured mugs.

9:55- Watched roommate stir again. Struck a deal.(If I go for morning class, you'll do the afternoon one?)

10:00- Promised myself that I would eat one paratha and one paratha only.

10:05- Ate two paranthas.

11:30- Informal meeting with Professors. Got singled out. Oh yes! (Who is the editor???! Ridiculous headline, RIDICULOUS!) Skulked to the lab, re-re-edited page and sat around for the designer to come and help change my life.

12:30- Came back to room. Watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding, almost crying at the funny parts.

1:00- Slept.

5:00- Woke up to phone screaming out "Bohemian Like You" and to find people who were not my roommates beside me on the conjoined beds. Clutched sheet to chest, and poked one of the non-female intruders. It was a friend. Somebody pitched an idea, "Let's order Americana", someone else yelled, "I am on a diet!". Wills weakened, wallets groaned in protest. "Yay Americana" screams punctuated by, "I hate Chennai! It's making me FAT"

6:00- No money=No Americana

7:00- Phone calls that made me wish I could EAT love.

8:00- Read two pages of a book I don't intend to finish. Decided to starve.

9:00- Stalked people on facebook.

9:30- Stalked some more. Read celebrity gossip. Snapped at roommate after which we analysed her love life. Skipped dinner, drank some soup, swore that we'd do Surya Namaskar the next day.

10:00- Watched a french movie with hap-hazard subtitles. Googled my body shape, which to my dismay was apple. "But you can't be an apple", said my roommate, her eyes wide with pity. "That would mean you're round!"

12:00- Fought over who'd switch off the lights, and then fought about whether we'd switch off the lights.

1:00- Sat alone. With the lights on. Torn between loneliness, hunger and self pity. Googled apple shaped celebrities to make self feel better.

2:00- Wrote an angry bitter blog.

Sighing and Groaning

My mum did not meet my dad at some party, over cigarette smoke and vodka shots. The story does not go like, “So I ran to the loo, to adjust my dress strap and on the way I saw him standing there, with his back against the wall... “

Nope, my dad was like William. You know, the Conqueror. She had rejected hordes of marriage proposals before he walked into her living room with my grandmother. He came, he saw and he conquered, under my grandmother’s careful supervision of course.

I can imagine my dadi as she climbed the steps of the Agra bungalow, her mind whirring with mental checklists. Punjabi. Check. Beautiful with child-bearing hips. Check. Cooks. Cleans. Sings. Check check check....

My mom continues, ‘I had six beautiful months to decide whether I wanted him or not. He took me for movies and dinners, the works...’

It’s cute and Victorian. It’s my mother, so I am glad that there are no vodka shots involved. I don’t even understand my cynicism, they’re happy. They are in love. A love that is way more long-term and scrupulous than the kind that my friend’s fall into.

And because I am her daughter, she does not want me playing the fallen woman, who adjusts her straps in bathroom mirrors, in my love story either.

‘No alcohol’ she told me at an unnecessarily young age. ‘And no cigarettes... ever’

I would rather have men dropping out of the sky, than walking in through the living room door, for me.

“You’ll fall in love with the right guy”, she would tell me, “At the right time.”
The right time, was a very ambiguous term. Sometimes it extended to college, sometimes it extended across years. I was not supposed to question/debate the right time. It was fate. It was ‘parental fate’, which, as we all know, is of the worst kind.

Until I reached that right time, my mother told me, I was to study. Because that was my entire life’s purpose. “It is all you have to do beta. Just study. Forget everything else. You are not supposed to be doing anything else. You are only supposed to be studying.”

She found a Mills and Boons under my pillow once.

“What is all this sighing and groaning?” She screamed, quoting indirectly from the text, “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?!!”

I fucking miss bollywood.

I starve till I am blue in the face. Every second begins to count, I feel the back of my eyelids turn darker and darker, till they are no longer pink but red-brown. Unhealthy but oh-so-happy I continue living like nothing happened. Nothing matters. Not even the food on the table and in my mind.

Home

We run out of conversation pretty fast, and that's a pity since we were running out of time in the first place.

"So.." I buy more time with the word, elongating to several more "o's" until I stumble upon the perfect topic "tell me what everyone was wearing?"

We're women now. (Estrogen or not) (Unshaped nails and scraggly hair still count)

"Nothing great" she says in her sing-song voice, "xyz-maasi has put on weight, wore a deep neck blouse as usual. She looked horrrreeeebblleee" The last word said in such a beautifully exaggerated tone, it would put the French to shame.

"But I thought she was on that diet" -I join in with my best conspiratorial whisper.

"You know her diets"

She's rolling her eyes. I KNOW she's rolling her eyes.

We might as well be sitting in a black Santro, on our way to PVR. I hang up and dream of nachos.

Shiny Disco Balls

We are sex in the not so big, almost semi-circular (thank you urban studies) city. Chennai seems more and more charming each day, no longer do I view it with the same prejudicial glare as I did before, when I saw its map and all it looked like to me was a phallic bulge in someone's pants, if you know what I mean..but then...that's probably just me.

And then God decided to give it all up, on a platter, "Let's make her happy" he must have said in his gruff voice since that's what I presume he must sound like. "Put an end to the cribbing and the whining, the sentimentalizing and the blackmailing, and the unnecessary threats of converting to atheism. Here is your free-pass to chennai, your boy, your good-hair day..."

Sigh.

Thank You.

Mirror Image

We are different. No I don't copy you. It's the genes,you know, the "I-suck-at-math gene" and the "horrible-taste-in-music" gene. And as I lie choking in the dressing room, and implore you to let me buy yet another loose/extra large/kaftan-looking top, and spray my hand with lavender body spray, and tell the thela-man to load up on the momos- I realise that I AM you. When driving you almost knock down the people on the road and say that's because "They don't listen". I raise an eyebrow and and so you scream-

"I AM LOW ON ESTROGEN!"

We have diet coke with extra large popcorn and I wonder who copied who there.