Namma Chennai da!

The relentlessly hot sun that is 'sunnier' than Sunny and the heat that sizzles more than the spiciest sizzler. Welcome to Namma Chennai- the large sized oven. There seems to be no respite as day after day the sun becomes warmer and the neighbors smell like sweat tankers. Bathing four times a day, drinking gallons of water and eating tonnes of water melons- nothing helps. The jugs of juice shunted inside the system exit within minutes as sweat, that reminds us of henceforth unknown folds and crevices in the body.

The power outages- both announced and unannounced hit us with vehemence. The apt timing selected by TNEB for power cuts is exactly 11 pm. You slug it out in the kitchen, read the kids a story, smother them to sleep and by the time your head hits the pillow, the AC's hum that sounds Beethoven-ish stops with a boom. End of bliss. I am wondering if this 11 pm power cut is a deliberate measure by Electricity Board in connivance with Population Control to bring down the already dipping birth rates. 

The single cloak that Chennai's women sport- the proverbial 'nightie' which is an effective mosquito repellent during the monsoons now act as an umbrella shading the body from the heat. The larger the size, the airier it is. Buy 5XL size. Would form a shade all around you. 

As for the guys out there- the lungis are airy, but mind you, donning the lungis and sleeping atop terraces of apartments might land you in jail for indecency. The three-fourth shorts has suddenly found prominence. So are the hairy muscular legs on display. The best dress to beat the heat and remain safe would be the Raj Kiran special patta-patti trousers and brown veshtis that were white once upon a time, folded 3 inches above the knee. A few more inches up, you may give Sunny a run for her money;)

Ah! Coolest pic- Rajkiran with his Pattapatti ;)

Chennaiites have taken to the 'tanda tanda cool cool' powders so much that you can make out who has taken bath and who hasn't in the city bus. The ones who were lucky enough to wash themselves with ferrous sulphate and water solution will definitely spot the tell-tale white make up, as if dipped in the entire month's flour rations! Those who haven't, dare not venture near them. The 'sexy sexy' deodorants that they have gassed themselves with might have evaporated faster than the water bodies of Tamilnadu in peak summer. Still if you want to discover the hitherto unexplored 'fragrances', take the chance. Even sarin might spare you, not the underarm odor of the ambassadors of axe!

The easiest and reasonable dish to cook during summers is our all time favorite 'thayir sadam' (curd rice) paired with 'sutta vadu maangai' (stolen raw mango pickle). Having a stomach full of curd rice in the hot summer afternoon and crouching before the AC vent, all you can imagine as your eyes force shut down is the Swiss Alps where the Bolly Kollywood heroes and heroines run around singing, ekdum nanga! Envy!!!

If this is the plight of us humans, imagine the life of cows and trees. Thankfully the cows are chill, awaiting the name of Gurgaon to be changed to Go-gram. It gives them a high and I do wish Chennai isn't renamed Chen'go' going by our love towards cows and their urine. Birds- the occasional pigeons that practically live in our bedroom windows take shitty revenge on our closed windows by pooping their hearts(and stomach) fill on the motor. 

Despite the vagaries of the sun and soaring temperatures, we love 'theri' and the long wait at the malls for tickets. We have the penchant to fall for the two hundred rupees thrown at us for an election campaign meeting at 2 pm. We still love our nannari sarbats with a fag. Was this the Chennai that was flooded and sinking under the rains? I wonder. Rain or shine, we love it- with ferrous sulphate sweat dripping down our noses. NAMMA CHENNAI DA!

p.s.: Bitchy post- alright, its 3 pm and I am almost drained of all hydration

p.p.s.: I wish I could write more often, the writer's block is an imaginary situation created only by my laziness;)

p.p.p.s.: I am in love with Pankaja Munde and her selfies :P

The midsummer train tales

Half way through the summer, as the sun scorches and variety of under arm odors gas us, we run in the crowded platform where the piss perfumed compartments await us. Summer- brings with it travels and travails that we wish we could avoid. The platform teems with people, spit pan and banana peels, where the fan pushes in hot air from under the asbestos, baking you into walking human cookies. Yet when you stand near S3 and read the chart running your fingers over 22F and 24F, along with your name, you feel a high that even dope can’t give! You’ve got tickets, in a bay where there are two young girls! That too from Chennai to Mumbai in this peak summer! 24 hours in wheeled heaven!

Getting confirmed tickets in peak summer is by no means an easy task, tougher than scaling the Everest or getting an appreciative nod from the missus! So how do we hit the lottery? How do we get a confirmed ticket in the summer? The art of procuring confirmed berths in summer is perfected by few and a careful study ahem…of these successful people will help you learn the ropes.

You have to be a voracious reader, reading newspapers left to right without missing a single letter every day. You have to keep yourself abreast of every Railway budget. One fine day, your proficiency in Railway rules would earn you a berth, so keep reading. The advance reservation period is so unpredictable like the weather forecast. When you expect that to be increased, they roll it down and when you expect a decline, they increase it to 120 days as of now. It is better to take the help of the parrot astrologer down the street who can tell you if it is 60 or 120 days the moment you decide on your travel.

Once you decide the date and calculate the advance booking date, using all calendars- Gregorian, Grecian and Roman, next comes the task of deciding how you do it and when you start the prep work. The day before opening day, you line up at the reservation office sharp at 8 pm, armed with water bottle and a newspaper. Beware of the hijackers. The moment you close your eyes sitting in the rusting chair, these hijackers move front and back the row, the more you sleep, the farther behind the queue you would be. The best way out would be to shake your legs once in a while when you sleep. Or better still, don’t take a bath two days prior. You will be a sitting mosquito magnet pulling mosquitoes that hover miles away from you. Your swats and turns will ensure no one dares jump the queue.

Don’t worry about the morning when you wake up, while still in the queue. Ensure that you wash your face with the water, not your mouth. You need that special oral perfume to ward off the queue jumpers and your special breath ensures you get the ticket in a fraction of a second from the already fainting counter clerk. Always check if you are seated in the correct queue. There are separate ones for women, senior citizens, representative and self counters. You may even check with analyzing the people in the queue before or behind you- the balding heads, snow white hair and wrinkles mean that you are in the senior citizen queue. The extra bouncy hair, kohl laden eyes and blemish free complexion means you are in the senior citizen…oops…ladies queue. You can be sure you are in the representative queue if you happen to notice ear stud sporting, fair complexioned guys spitting pan all around the place and armed with applications for Navjivan Express, squatting on the chairs.

Leaning and craning your neck, you watch man after man leave the queue with success and you pray your favorite God that you will tonsure your father-in-law’s head if you get a confirmed ticket. Please make sure that he does have a sprinkle of hair, or the God’s wrath may turn on you! By the time your turn arrives, the reluctant clerk will either get a phone call or will get a nature’s call. Thank your lucky stars and open your mouth to say a ‘Good morning’ with a toothy grin. Your breath will ensure he issues your ticket first and then dashes to the restroom to puke out his brains. Awesome! You’ve now got your coveted berth, the counter clerk has even given you change. Congratulations!

Do you intend to get a ticket online on the opening day? Please make tasty vadumangai (dried mango) pickles and send to your second uncle’s fifth cousin in Dallas or Houston when he comes on vacation. A simple missed call will do the trick. When the poor fellow calls you back with saliva dripping from his mouth remembering your wife’s yummy pickle, you draw the net around him. Just tell him you need a ticket on opening day and exactly at 9.00 am Indian time, which makes it midnight for the hapless prey who nods still in a daze. Bait him in, US servers are far quick and should you not capitalize on that? Just add a pinch of sentiment in your chat. Tell him how much you miss him, hallucinate him as Hrithik Roshan with his six pack abs, even if he is filled with a family pack.

If US relatives don’t work, look at single guys in software field. These are easier preys, in twenties and handful of money, they know not what they want. All they know is you have a drool worthy daughter in her teens and whatsapping her the ticket details will be their dream come true. You may or may not repay the card money, who asks money from you anyway? Ensure the lady blocks his number the moment you get the IRCTC SMS to save further trouble. Or if you feel getting online ticket on opening day is the basic qualification for your future son-in-law, just go blind eye. After all, your daughter might get confirmed tickets for her summer travels!

Sequel to the art of being idle

This is obviously part 2 of the earlier "The art of being idle", dedicated to all Sarkari staff. I am in love. With the Government offices, the salubrious climate where no one is working, but everyone seems to work and absolutely in Divine love with the ettukal besari (8 diamond stone studded nose rings) sporting Divas. Here are few more specimens that you ought to know, if you want to engage in a booming laughter, of course!

Artful dodgers

These people are the easiest to locate. They will be the busiest in any section, typing away like mad on their computer screens, their eyes never shifting from the keyboards. Only when you watch them carefully you can see the concealed mobile phones where they whatsapp the near and dear, kept kissing their keyboards. Why would a lovely lady smile when she types the total number of wagons holding different commodities? Ain't so funny, right? Unless the wagons contain gold and she is getting a share of it, why would she smile like silly?

The moment you bring them a file, they point out to the sea of files on their table, wave over wave of dust settling on them that you will be hit by a dust cloud the moment you are anywhere about 10 metres from the lady. Dodger looks at you with pleading eyes, bats her eyelashes and fans her non existent sweat as she says she is too preoccupied with her work. If you insist, well, she says 'aye, aye captain' and goes to the next office at once, where the airconditioner welcomes her with open hand and condescending coworkers pull out chairs for her with smiles. Mind you, dodgers are always the beautiful of the pack, they look cool, dress pweetty and have that killer smile, which when you try to imitate looks like an eerie smile of a zombie!

You insist further, she escapes to the restroom. Now, these are the real restrooms, where the banter of women starts from their mother in laws and ends with the sons of the mother-in-laws, who are the gentlest of the souls next to the Mahatma! Try however hard you might, you are never going to get work done by dodgers, period!

Fanatical Fashionistas

Should I preen more here? The fashionistas- each section has one of them, mind it, only one of them. They dress up like a small child lost in a fancy dress contest, resplendently dressed, boisterously made up and walking the corridors as if they are shooting for the Vogue! The less said about their dresses, the better. Tuesdays and Fridays, you can see each vying with the other as brand ambassadors for Pothys and RmKV silks, the summer has brought out the cottons. You name the variety, you see it. Venkatagiri, Chanderi, Kanchi, Bengal cottons competing with each other, fashion tailors weaving their art as intricate blouses and these divas flaunting them. 

As for the make up, you would be amazed at the perfectly chiseled brows, lashes replete with mascara, eye liners applied with road-rollers and lipsticks ranging from fifty shades of red to fifty shades of nudes. As for the hairstyles, your eyes will pop out at the range of lose hairs flying everywhere. Your lunch on a friday in office is never complete without a fistful of hair entering your food pipe. Hair hair everywhere- be it your file, or your key board or your lunch box, the fashionistas ensure you have a taste of their Khula hair! 

Don't you dare to look at them at 5.45 pm. The mascara and eyeliner around their kohl laden eyes, lose hair and lips stripped off gloss and lipstick, give them the look that can kill. Their looks in the evenings could kill the ghosts from the Exorcist! Mind it, rascala!!

Unworthy awardees

Every section boasts of one such specimen. He will be the front 'runner' for every award. He is proactive, creative and the boss' henchman. Entire office switches over to 'silent' mode the moment our hero walks in. He has everything in his finger tips- starting from what soap the missus of the boss uses to what tic powder the boss' dogs prefer. His main duty is to the boss's wife, his dog and himself, not necessarily in the same order. Every year, his name will feature in the awardee list and each year he stoops to new lows to reach new heights. 

You can seldom see him in office, though. He will be busy attending to household chores of his immediate boss, than pondering over some dirty file in office. You will be left wondering in which way he impressed the boss, while you, the hardworking ant of the office is left with your tattered pride to pick up. He follows never kiss the boss' *** and tell. I betcha he does it with clinical precision! Never ever enter into 'Who is big?' contest with these kind, unless you want to end up buying choiciest vegetables for the missus of our boss;)

Power packed Politicos

This tribe- the farther you remain from them, the better. To them, every tile in the office floor is a chess board, every one of the staff, pawns. Their game is chopping down anyone in their way of achieving their goal- the goal of becoming an assistant level officer. You would wonder at the levels of power packed in their games, if such politicos are a couple in your office, the game gets interesting. Black, white, black, white- the moves enthrall you, weaving you inside the game and by the time you know of the game, you will be a lost pawn! 

They know every Tom, *** and Harry. Their contact list in phone screams of the who's who in town and they would be sharpening their claws and waiting for their next prey. If you know nothing of them and walk into their booby trap, you are OVER! My best advice would be- avoid them as the bubonic plague;)

Petty Pilferers

Ah! I love them. Their talk is so sugar coated that at any given point of time, if they ask you to die, you will very happily chop off your head and hand it over to them in a golden platter. Such is their skill in looting your work and getting credits for what they never knew. The knuckle head is so talented that you will never know when he undid your underwear and washed it in public;) My! My! Such talent in overshadowing other's work and stealing credit for anything about which they know neither the a's nor the b's. 

Never disclose anything you know to them, their tongues are like the iguana's. It can stick into your brain and pilfer whatever little is available in your already shrinking cerebellum. On borrowed feathers they do a 'nach baliye' while you, who should actually get the credit for will be left with a nagging boss and equally nagging wife!

Ah...the people in a government office! I can never get tired of writing about them. They are the creatures that fascinate me. I have a longstanding affair with studying these specimens at close quarter and this study may please be named- " psy (office)chiatry"! Watch out and tell me about other specimens you have come across. Would help me with writing one more blog post, dedicated to our Head Office :P

p.s.: Still stuck at the Capital of our state and I wonder if the gas I am inhaling is oxygen or hydrogen sulphide! Would have been happier if it was nitrous oxide;)

p.p.s.: I've decided not to be HOT, the climate is hotter than me!

p.p.p.s.: What is the basic criteria for passing a promotion exam in office? Simple, you ain't need no brains :P

The Club Of Noisy Women

This time over, no apologies. A blogger does deserve a break, right? So long as it is not a bone that is broken ;) I have indeed had a very satisfying short vacation to the most divine and wild place- Valparai. Hell no, this is not one more travelogue. I reserve the travelogue for later. This time, it is going to be a post on shhhhhh...silent...calm...gentle....

I am an expressionist. With large eyes protruding from an equally large face, I ooze of well...sound! I am noisy. Not nosy. How is that? Being a woman and noisy? Being a lady and laughing out aloud? Being a woman and witty? Being a woman and walking with head held high and shoulders squared? If you have the same decibel of laughter emanating from you that grips everyone around you, well, welcome to the Club of Noisy Women, ladies!

Having grown up in one of the most conservative village, which is at the heart of a wildlife sanctuary, I am not used to that melodious and mellifluous voice. Though my female cousins inherited the oh so sweet voice of nightingale, I happened to inherit the gruffest kookaburra's voice. It always is a few octaves higher than my mother would have liked. It rose to so many octaves when I was chatting away with friends. I required lot of 'disciplining' from my mother to bring it few notes lower. But I am sorry mom, it has never worked! I just pretend to keep my voice few decibels lower when with family. When I indeed feel happy, hormones wreak havoc and I am the usual 'me'.

I was taught the art of walking for a long long time...how to keep your legs one after the other, crossing each other. Right, then left, the toe placed right at the heel of the right. I wonder why a woman is taught how to walk...when everyone expects her to run! Fetch is the game the family likes to play with her- 'bring my tie', 'mom! Where is my pencil box?', 'amma...where is washing powder?' all questions bombarded at the same moment and being the lady of the family that you are, being responsible, you are expected at 101 places at the same time. 

How would it be, if you walked like a model on the ramp when the husband is yelling at his maximum capacity for the forgotten keys? Somewhere along the 36 odd years, I forgot how mother taught me to cat-walk. My walk now resembles that of a zombie at times when I am early to work and that of a waddling duck when I am late. I envy those women who pretend to be oblivious to the surroundings and walk with such clinical precision of a cat, how much ever late they may be!

Hopefully the number of mothers who now ask their children, especially the girl children to 'keep low' and to 'walk gentle' has dwindled. The myths of olden days when a girl who talked soft, walked gentle and laughed minimal being held as someone with a 'kind heart' and 'girly' girl remain shattered today. All of us have seen otherwise- those 'silent whisperers' are not always that soft and those 'rowdy louder ones' are not that harsh, when it comes to their lives. Those who have been at the receiving end of their arrogant stubbornness of the so-called gentle ones of the female species, would know by now that 'voices and walks' are deceptive!

It really doesn't matter how you dress up. The decibel of your voice seldom defines what you are. Your walk never reveals your inner strength and attitude. Whenever I see classes that teach 'soft skills' all I do is heartily laugh. Do you need someone to tell you how to be someone else you are not? Do you need someone to dress you up and put you on a display? Window dressing is needed only when you are not marketable ;) Instead, it is the attitude you have towards life that keeps up your image. Just be you! Laugh heartily...talk freely...walk with confidence! Love the voice that resonates from you. Romance your laughter. Enjoy the way you saunter...Shed your false skin. Leave out your pretensions. The world is ours!

p.s.: I do blog erratically. Guilty as charged :)

p.p.s.: I loved the Narendar Damodardas Modi suit. Narcissism has reached a new level and boy would I like Victoria's Secret to make ahem...such customised undies for women in hostels ;) You know why!

p.p.p.s.: Once we had to hang pumpkins to ward off evil spirits. Now it is sufficient to hang pictures of Rahul Bhaiya...see, the entire Congress Camp is empty!!!

I, the missus

This is one more post bordering on feminism, neo-feminism or narcissism...reader's discretion absolutely essential ;) Lightning stuck me one morning, as I was spreading the washed clothes on my favorite treadmill. What was I doing here? In a no man's land...deep in the desert, where civilization existed only beneath the abayas and where life seemed to oscillate between the mundane and the prosaic. Time seemed to have plunged into an abyss of sheer silence and darkness. 

When did I last see the sun? When did I feel the wind whipping my hair? When was the last time I hummed the latest song? Latest now meant few years before...and movies meant blurry images on TV where I had to make out the images of a hero and heroine romancing as shadows...shadow...that described me better. I had forgotten what I was. 

"I" ceased to exist somewhere in that flight between Chennai and Saudi Arabia. "I" was someone with a Central Government job. "I" was someone who had friends. "I" had an identity. I was a self-made, working woman- a mother of two. I loved my job. I enjoyed to draw my pay from the ATM. The feel of fresh, crisp notes slithering in my hand which was the fruit of my hard work was a powerful aphrodisiac.

All that "I" was ended the day I landed up in the desert, pulling the kids and pushing the luggage through the haunted airport lounge. "Cover up properly" was the first comment from the husband. Cover up...stay indoors...keep silent...don't walk beside me...your hair is showing...pull your scarf..don't look at the other males...be careful...don't board a taxi alone...don't go out of the house alone...the list of "Don't Do's" went longer than my grocery bills. Too much of being tied down and I forgot what "I" was. 

Hours of cooking, cleaning, mopping and sleeping...that was all I did. My whole wide world was a 1500 square feet flat with a sloppy washing machine and a stuffy kitchen. All that changed one fine morning. I had to rediscover me. The miracle did happen. A laptop did all the magic. A blog was born and so was the freelancer. Writing an anonymous blog is a luxury that not many could afford and voicing your opinion in various burning issues on world politics in Arab world is a humongous task. 

Being a woman in Saudi Arabia is itself a confinement and breaking the stereotype of an Indian housewife with nothing to do rather than pampering her ever growing muscle mass is an arduous voyage intertwined with grit and determination. Yet...I found a way. The letters to the editor column of Arab News daily paper was sprinkled with fuming anecdotes and anti- Pakistan, pro-Tamil views, courtesy my new found passion for writing. When I started receiving mails as feedback on my letters from unknown persons...I was overcome with glee. 

I was here to stay. I had made a mark- as a woman who was bold enough to voice opinions in a totally male dominated, exclusively Arab ruled Kingdom and I loved every bit of it. Cloud nine blog was receiving great reviews and finally..."I" was someone with an identity. "I" was a successful blogger, an equally successful freelancer and a perennial happy go lucky housewife. And with equal aplomb I landed back on Indian soil. 

That was when all hell broke loose. The country looked new, everything came with a price tag- friendship, honesty, dignity and affection. This is again a metamorphosis, I am learning the ropes afresh and two years back in my job, I am yet to find some proper footing. Life for the 'missus' is happy as always, provided we don't lose the identity of the 'miss'. 

Marriage and moving to a foreign country is just a chapter in the story of life and we need not ghost-write someone's tale. It is after all, our life. We do exist beyond the diaper changes, grocery bills and stinky kitchens. There is a blogger, writer, poet, wife, daughter, mother and sister within me. I can always don the mask that suits me better any time I want. No other name excites me like being called "Akka". Being addressed Mrs. L or the 'missus' of L never made a difference in my life. Despite all the struggles, I wouldn't say my life is all rosy and bright in my profession, "I" still live as "I", not the 'missus' alone! Never lose this "I" for being the missus or the mommy...Its your life after all, babes ;)

p.s.: Sorry about the erratic posting in blog. I am indeed busy traveling and unraveling the mysteries of life ;)

p.p.s.: This video should not be the p.p.s....should have found its place in the post. Ladies out there... enjoy watching ;)

 p.p.p.s.: How does one 'sit simply' idling in an office? In a crash course on idling and picking ear in a century old building at the State Capital. Another post on how to 'sit simbbbbly' follows...keep hooked ;)

36 and counting...

Dear me,

This is the last time you are going to try fitting into that jean. You are trying that one last time of natural 'tummy tuck'. Easy...close your eyes, puff out all the air in your lungs...and....pull in as much air as you can. There! Hold on...don't let it free. Look down at your toes, I bet that would be so easy as straightening Tommy the mastiff's tail. Try pulling the sides and fasten the button. Almost there...and...oh my! The right tail just slips. This is where I say Yoga classes come in handy. 

You always feel you are gliding through the corridor of your office, the whole wide world around you watches you with dilated pupils. Ever imagined what would be flashing in the deepest crevices of their ugly minds? " Is this a walking whale or a rolling rhino?" Poof! You are used to this, aren't you? Shrugging them off, you try your trademark gesture- tossing your hair to the back from your forehead. Ouch! That is when you realize, the hairline is receding like the sea before a tsunami. Gallons of ervamatin dutifully poured on the scalp has little effect on your depleting hair resources. 

That is when you become so self absorbed- your hair is definitely due for another change of style. Every time your favorite hair stylist touches your hair with reverence, you go dreaming as if you have the silkiest, softest, cutest hair. What you don't know is the poor fellow uttering Hail Marys, seeking divine intervention in helping him retain what minimal hair is left in your scalp after the cutting and styling.  

Every time you lift your eyebrows with that knock out questioning gesture of yours, the opponent will be trying to decipher the exact location of your eyebrows. Or the part of your face that you once saw arched like a bow. Had you tried to draw the same cranky eyebrows on canvas with your eyebrow pencil and eyeconic kajal few centuries back, you would have given Picasso and Rembrandt a run for their money! 

You were always a charmer...that million watt smile of yours can lighten up an entire room. You were once the brand ambassador of Happydent. Your killer smile had captivated and enthralled people. Squaring your shoulders, you try that smile every time you feel let down. Did I say squaring your shoulders? Yes, that must be toughest task- a frame of 6 feet wide and 4 feet tall, with shoulder length of equal size, you have got to pump in 5000 Hp power to shrug your shoulders leave alone squaring it.

 Smile...you remind yourself again. You give it your best try, exhibiting those molars that is left after numerous root canal sessions. As you imagine your laugh lines, all that is seen are the worry lines and frown lines kissing your forehead. A frosty smile and a throaty laugh later, you find yourself sidelined and pushed to a corner. Yes, that is where you are wallow in self pity. When you are 36 and pushed to a corner, all you encounter is the feeling of returning to the past. To turn the clocks back, to bring back the torn calendar sheets, to retrieve all those glorious moments when you were the glory lily in the wilderness. 

Middle age! Aptly called so, as it is a serious condition that affects your mid-section! Boy would you shell out a fortune for flat board abs and a hardly there tummy. The length of your pony tail is directly proportional to your age. The more the years, the higher the altitude. Your smile resembles that literally 'full blown' smile of the mask's Jim Carrey- minus the green. That is when you seek advice- expert advice, well actually, any advice. That is when you look out for someone in your life look at you and say how beautiful you are.

That is when you reflect that all along, you have earned brownie points called love, affection and friendship. That is when a cup of coffee and laughter with your middle aged agony aunt adda brings you immense pleasure. That is when a peck on cheek from your little one means a world and that is when a teeny weeny flower delivered as a surprise from your usually 'forget everything' husband touches your heart. 

Heart did I say? Yes. That is where the key lies. The key to being happy. The password to your dreams and passions. The one stop solution for all your appearance miseries and getting- into- the- jeans disasters. Something called LOVE that permeates your soul from the known and the unknowns. That is what you have to radiate with. That is what all other 36 something women out there lust for, thirst for. Share all that you got, lady! The kindness of the soul reflects and reaches far more people than the radiance of your so imagined happydent smile! Keep smiling and keep radiating the glow of your soul! Mwwwaaaahhhhh ;))))

Love,

Me- as I feverishly outline my shape in front of the mirror.

Courtesy: Aunty Acid

 p.s.: This post is dedicated to all the women nearing their forties. Aunties, we rock!!!

p.p.s.: Someone judged my speech as not worthy of even a third prize in a contest. Middle fingers to him!

p.p.s.: To the baby in me- I love ya...MMMwwwaaaahhhh :)))

Travel- C(b)attle class!

Travel. A small word holding huge trouble. Whether it is an overnight flight to the Gulf or a rickety ride in two-wheeler to the nearest grocery shop, we love to travel- bindaas. Without hiccups. Without itching to hit the person snoring next to us in an overnight train. Without churning out the last eaten dosas out of our stomachs as the glutton sharing the aisle seat dumps his 6th drink. We love to travel, with no trouble. We are so meticulous in planning the bus ride for 2 kilometers  that would put India's Chandrayaan journey look cake walk.

Securing that coveted 'window' seat is everyone's dream. A dream pricier than marrying Aishwarya rai. If you are wedded to someone who is a 'nature lover' who ogles on the corner seat more than he/she ever looked at you, your journeys are definitely going to be in the aisle seat, glued to the iPad. If you have a child, you are going to baby-sit in the middle seat, sandwiched between the snoring husband and the animated child. If you have two children, bless your hearts dears, you are going to be the acting referee for a multi-round WWF match between the two for the 'corner seat'.

Seat secured, luggage secured, the next thing we have to secure is our torso. If you travel with family, the job is easier, it is again a normal night at bed, you being kicked, scratched and nudged by the husband dear and the children. If you travel alone, beware of that lady sitting near you who has ten liters of oil plastered to her 3 inches of hair. She will dutifully rub it all on your favorite white kurta and you can very well go home, wring your kurta for that month's oil reserve. Be careful of the male of the species, they are particularly headstrong in sleeping on the journey, rolling their heads on your shoulders and you become unfortunate 'Atlases' holding their heads. Only you wish you became Medusa that instant, snakes hissing from your head to ward off the sleepy douche bag near you.

The next thing you have to take care is your privacy and sanity. Train journeys are to be dreaded here, especially the sleeper classes that teem with senior citizens who are hell bent in knowing the where, how, when, why and what of your travel agenda. Shut your eyes, insert your head phone, or bury your nose in that proverbial Sydney Sheldon, the 60 plus aunty in the lower berth is never going to leave you alone. She starts with a seemingly obnoxious question of what time the train is supposed to reach Chennai. By the next ten minutes, you will find yourself telling her the story of how your fourth cousin's second wife's third child ran away with a no-gooder. Are men better? Nah. The questions asked are so deft that by the time you disembark, the wicked man would have pocketed your office address or mobile number. 

Then there is the biggest of all troubles- everyone intent on travelling love to bathe in sweat and use that eau-de-cologne that smells better than axe deo. They are so hellbent on raising their underarms straight over your nose. No escaping that, dear madam. Men love to hold on to the armrests that you ward off carefully or those funny shaped loops high above their heads. Those loops are  pre-planned ploys to make you swoon at the perfume dabbed at the underarms. Close your nostrils and fight for oxygen, peel a dozen oranges from your bag, smell and re-smell your perfumed hanky- nothing is going to save you from the pungent odor of unshaved underarms. 

Now wait! Your ordeal is not over. You feel your flight has landed and open your tightly shut eye lids. Only to realise to your horror that the 100 odd passengers of your flight jostle for space at the exitways. Thank your lucky stars that the flight did not nosedive into the mantle of the earth due to them 'urgent' passengers. You set your alarm at 4.00 am to get down at a station where your train reaches at 4.15 am. Alas, my dear. The whole coach is awake by 3.30 with chappals stomping and lights blinding. A howling infant and terrifying baritone of his father pacifying him, a hundred cell phones blaring simultaneously at 4.00 and by the time you reach the door to get down, there is a mini Kumbh mela crowd thronging the door way. All you can do is climb down the train and walk like a zombie to the waiting bus. It is again a nightmare to get a seat there.

How do we the cattle class corner seats in a just-arriving bus? It is a historic event worth a Guinness mention! As the bus turns round the corner, you have to make a towel/ handkerchief  your loop, ready to hoist the noose around the seat. Keep calm, concentrate, say a prayer, take aim and throw the noose. If you are lucky and lady luck smiles at you, your towel lands with a plop on the corner seat. Now, only half the process is over. The moment the driver applies the brake, all you have to so is close your eyes and elbow your way through the maddening crowd. Not for the weak at heart. No mercy, absolutely. 

Now that is one hell of a bus ride!

You got every right to stomp, kick, hit and be hit by the mob at the doorway, you pay a whopping Rs. 5 for the ride! All you have to do is focus on that corner seat where your darling towel lies, awaiting your back to seat on her. Did you fail to throw the towel? No worrying there. Jostle through the crowd, use your karate moves subtly, climb the bus and sit on someone else's towel. There...easy, isn't it? The moment you sit however, be ready for a stream of abuses hurtling your way from the motor mouth who threw the towel, yet lost the seat to you. This is where your Yoga skills come in handy. Calm yourself, close your eyes, shut down your auditory nerve system and imagine you are in Greater Kailash/ Mansarovar with clouds hanging and mist closing in. The abuses will stop eventually by the time you visit your great great grandfather in his Heavenly abode! Have a kid? The seat securing marathon is just a piece of cake. Throw in the kid instead of the towel, minus the diaper. Seat- guaranteed!

Though all these minuses weigh us down, we do love travel. We do like to wander the far off lands in the most 'convenient' way. For everyone else who likes to travel royally, you can always have a car, marry the owner/ driver or own a driver/owner ( I mean marry someone!) and buy a car, travel with ease. Cattle class or battle class, we Indians are always ready for the game!

p.s.: This is one post written after a terrifying train journey where I stood for almost 2 hours. So, I got the right to whine!

p.p.s.: Schools reopen tomorrow after vacations. Yayyy! The kids are now saved from my constant picking and yelling;)

p.p.p.s.: Sick of watching Chotta Bheem's umpteen episodes at home. Makes me wonder how do mothers cope with watching hours and hours of that laddoo eating crazy guy...by imagining him as Hrithik Roshan? ;)

A Lay(wo)man's Guide to Chamchagiri

Almost 14 years of yeomen service to the nation's wheels and its ever demanding, always demeaning customers... Looking back at the path that I have strode, all I can feel is numbness. The heart ache and sourness has happened only because I have nothing to my credit, except for a service record that screams out red brighter than Taylor Swift's red lipstick! Looking for an outstanding green entry in my service record needs a telescope the size of moon and a periscope the size of earth! 

Alas! The favorable awards that everyone seems to be receiving at official functions with smiles that outbeat Rahul Gandhi's famous losing smile remains a distant dream to me. So, that brings us to the question, how do some people always succeed in excelling in everything they do, especially scoring those extra points over the mundane and ordinary? 

You can always identify the 'award- winner' by a simple glance. He always remains the shadow of the boss in your office- never mind, your boss may fart, this shadow never leaves his back, not even twitches his eyebrow over the hydrogen bomb dropped ;) So much for his Bhakthi! Our 'butter'man or chamcha is always by the side of our 'Sup' aka supervisor, casting worried glances at the simple two line leave letter that you put on his table for his approval. He is the personal scanner cum identifier of the Sup, he scans your letter for any error- grammatical, emotional, protocol errors. Only if the scan is complete, does your letter gets through. 

A letter as simple as, "as I am suffering from fever kindly grant me one day leave" would have seen a heated debate on the veracity and authenticity of me getting a fever off season, 101 reasons as to why I ask for a leave during peak summer, including a botched abortion doing the rounds. By the time my leave is approved, our chamcha would have grown the size of Rajinikanth's cutout on Mount Road, on the release date of Kochadaiyan in the mind's eye of my Sup. Enna Rascala! MIIIINNNDDD IIITTT!!!

Mr Butter man is one crazy guy. The sup wants a soap, the fellow stands at his doorstep soaping his pet dog that poops straight on butter man's foot. Does he mind? nah! Butterman knows always what tastes the best at which restaurant. He is a connoisseur of fine dining. He knows which joint has the sumptuous biryani, which restaurant has the softest dosas and which joint has the yummiest halwas. The Babu wants a handful of jasmine for his bobbed wife, our butter man plants a basket of flowers on Her Majesty's bird's nest hair. The Babu wants to attend a temple festival, our butterman awaits him at the temple door even before Our Lord Renganatha wakes up from his slumber. 

The boss thinks of his chaai, our butterman stands by his side, fanning his piping hot chaai. The looks butterman sends to the Sup can put Marilyn Monroe to shame. If he had a tail, boy would it wag;) But in work, butterman is one awesome hard worker! He will be the one who plays dominoes while the whole office around him is on fire. Deadlines will be met, targets will be achieved, entire office will go beserk, but our butterman remains oblivious to all these, discussing his boss's 143rd love affair with his 23rd secretary who had warded him off like the bubonic plague! 

So...you want to become butterman? Simple- follow these.

1. Wake up before your sup and send him some stupid forwarded good morning message.

2. Find out what soap your sup's puppy uses and stand on his doorstep holding the soap in a basket, bit by your molars.

3. Buy freshest brinjals, not the BT variety, but organic farm grown brinjals and ladiesfingers from the local flea market and impress the Sup's wifey.

4. Clogged drains, leaking taps, stinking bathrooms- whatever smells awful, your sup must go 'dhak dhak' remembering you and your six-pack abs when you wield the pipe wrench and toilet hose.

5. Always be updated on the latest gossip in office of the who's dating who and pass on all that sensual grape vine juice to your sup.

6. Keep your nose tightly closed when the sup farts. You can instead close your eyes and remind yourself of Axe deo and angels falling from Heaven.

7. When the sup picks his nose, or itches to remove that stray piece of chicken in his teeth, be there for him with tooth pick and tissue...oops...it should be in the reverse order;)

8. Always be Gandhi's three apes. Close your eyes, close your motor mouth, close your ears and close your *hole. Your sup has the sole rights of opening all these, the last of these he always does...

9. Be the first to report anything to the boss. Be it the birthday party of the secretary's third puppy or the guys night off where alcohol flows like a river, be ready with your mobiles to catch the hottest and latest and transmit data to the boss, faster than Chitti the Robot.

10. Last but not the ultimate golden rule- Your sup is always right. His left hand is always his right hand and his left foot is his right. He has no left. Everything in him is right. He is right brained too- never can analyse and calculate. But don't you worry. When everyone is served peanuts, remember, you the butterman will receive the awards and the rewards!

P.S.: Ouch! I know it is one grumpy post, but serves someone right;)

P.P.S.: By the way, someone please tell me how to remain calm, cool and composed while sitting opposite to the person whom I am mentally thrashing to a pulp and flushing down the public washroom!

P.P.P.S.: This post is written for the genuine pleasure and happiness awards at mybheja.com :P Please comment on how you have tried chamchagiri and failed miserably. We are one bunch of losers out here ;)

The other side of the counter!

Hands on experience of almost a decade in Enquiry counter of a railway reservation office and I wonder how I am still sane and 'sound'. Everyday at the counter is an ordeal. Every shift a nightmare! The perfectly designed counters ensnare you with the tiny opening called the 'window' smaller than a mustard. Placing your mouth and ear at a vantage point so you can hear the passenger needs the precision of Abhinav Bhindra with his target.

A morning shift can always land you in trouble, mind you. The 'opening date' booking enthusiast would have forgotten to brush his teeth for the last two days and floss for a few years. You can secretly wish you could wear Armstrong's space suit to save you from the spray- a finely scented spray, far more effective than the pepper spray can idling in your hand bag. 

The evening shifts are no better either.  Hundreds of night trains plying across the nation run on diesel? Nah! They run on alcohol! Seriously...it is duty bound to drink booze and dance with the train if you have a night travel. If the dude's ticket is not confirmed, he is definitely going to gun for you- poor enquiry clerk with his 'booze scented' queries. You need an aspirin to clear your head and come to senses in the night after an evening shift.

The way questions are shot at and the speed- a rapid fire round of Siddharth Basu will take a beating. Always expect the most asked 'intelligent' question of all times- "Madam, will this ticket get confirmed?" Hope so, Sir, probably Waiting List 400 in second sleeper will get confirmed if they run two more trains the same day, same time. Tarot reading skills might be of help here...or rather you can look at the imaginary crystal ball and shake your head, say, " I think it will get confirmed, Sir". Or better call Paul, the Octopus to predict if Mr Sivasubramanian travelling on April 14th from Chennai to Delhi by Tamilnadu Express with waiting list number 200 will get a confirmed berth...

You need special skills to make the passenger understand train numbers. You say 16188 for the 21st time when he asks you one more time...is it 16128? Some stalwarts write down the train numbers on applications themselves to avoid counting all the numbers like a KG kid! I am number - obsessed! I love to blurt out all the 5000 odd train numbers to the glass counter with a window 5 miles above my head!

Then there is our Doubt Dhanabal. Mr Dhanabal always has a doubt that the counter clerk is cheating him his hard earned money. He gets ticket in window 3, checks the fare in two more counters and finally comes to the enquiry with questions like 'what is the single fare? what is the senior citizen fare? what is the child fare'. He is so methodical that he sits back in a chair, counts 1 to 10 with all his fingers, at times uses his toes and fingers on his legs too to count. All this you can watch without a smile, mind you. One smile at him, he comes charging at you!

There is "i know everything, you know nothing" Mr Kalyanasundaram. He knows all train numbers, all status and fare, all quotas. Only thing he doesn't know is where the hell he is headed to. He asks availability in all classes, all dates, all trains and finally books a pooled quota waiting list 50 when you can smile sweetly and wish he gets his berth confirmed;) 

Ahhh...can you forget the 'enquiry families'? The whole family is on an enquiry spree. They prepare in advance a questionnaire to be asked, the order never changes, the tone remains the same and the family members attack you at regular intervals with the same questionnaire. Be glad if the family is small- 5 or 6 members. Imagine what would be left in your mouth if the number shoots to 15 or 16;) Someone has to carry you back home in a stretcher!

Be prepared to never laugh or even smile when you are asked " which platform does the Gorilla express arrive?" ( ahem...It is the Kurla Express!) or " Can i book a ticket for sambak gandhi express?" ( That would be Sampark Kranti Express!) "Is there a separate queue for Taatkal" ( That is tatkal;)) And there are few who refuse to acknowledge Karagpur and Gorakpur are different, Kashi, Varanasi, Benares are the same. 

Thank your lucky stars if you don't encounter  a senior citizen who forgot his hearing machine at home. Imagine how you would feel when your stomach churns for food at 1 pm and this gentleman approaches you sans his hearing machine with a hundred enquiries. You are doomed! 

The next time you encounter someone in the enquiry without a smile in her face, please know that she is over worked. Know that she has shouted out her lungs to someone. Know that the chair in which she sits has seen atleast 10 summers. Know that she has children back home wailing for food. Know that she is simply a 'human' too!

p.s.: This is what a shift in enquiry counter can do to you;) Extremely bitchy post!

p.p.s.: Seriously trying to overcome the writer's block. Probably it is now the size of a boulder!

p.p.p.s.: Summer in my place is a bliss, provided you sit at home 24*7 under the AC and transform into a frog. Even then, I would be searching for the Frog Prince :P

Windshield declarations ;)

Adjusting the rear view mirror, I smile. The smile grows to a knowing smirk as I slow down deliberately to look at the spectacle. One more four wheeled visiting card! This game of reading and pondering at the subtle hints and admiring the guts of the propagandists, allures me as usual. Right from the absurd ‘ ondi karuppu thunai’ to the atrocious ‘kiss me’ stencilled on the glass panes of cars, the new gamut of globe-trotting Indians never fail to amuse me.

And boy they are a funny lot- a mixed bag of lunatics. One professes his undying passion for cricket with Sachin written across and there is one who proffers his love for his mom-‘ mom’s gift’! Once in a while I do come across the name of the owner complete with qualification. Here it goes- ‘ Senthil, MA., BL. OK, Mr. Senthil, we know you depleted your daddy’s hard earned money finishing that law degree. But I ain’t no advocate to appoint you as my assistant! For Heaven’s sake, use your degree in your visiting card. Not at the 50 cmx 50 cm space at the back of your poor car...

Let’s forgive Mr. Senthil this once, how about Mr. Hari, who thinks his only achievement in life are his off springs- here goes his car with sticker that reads- Hari, Banu, Janu. So far so nice, Mr. Hari. But what is the crime Jimmy committed? How dare you omit his name? Just because he bit off your ex’s right toe, mistaking it for a coveted bone, you omitted his name from the car name list. How could you?? So mean, so very mean…and by the way, I know why you named your daughter Banu…wink*!

 There is one more breed- the devouts. Religion is so important that they forget cars run on fuel. The cars they drive run on ‘spiritual’ ahem…petrol. The trust these fanatics place on their gods and goddesses can put hermits and sages to shame. The trust they place on their Supremes is so great that all they want to see when hit by a truck is a shortcut to God that is written on the front windshield. When they are hit, they can just double click on the ‘ Bannari Amman Thunai’ written on the front window with their opening cranium and reach the Lotus feet of Lord! Wow…what a short cut! The funniest of these is of course “Bodyguard Muneeswaran thunai”. Now can you beat that? Do I say other religions don’t profess their profound love for God? Yes, they do.

It was 2am and I was fast asleep along with the other occupants of the car. There is a loud thud…car grunts to a knowing rhythm and I am wide awake looking at the QUEEN OF ANGELS sticker of my car. My subconscious sees the off white, budget- costumed angels flapping their wings and pulling me up as the high budget, milk white, Vera Wang- clad Queen of Angels sporting a pout at me! Thankfully they realised it was the wrong car seeing the rosary hanging above my head and faded away. Wasn’t I saved by the sticker? Tell me, folks* wink*!!

And how do you tell the world that you are taken? Paint it in your car, of course! “I love Nandini” appears as a bolt out of the blue, definitely an upgrade from proclamations in the train toilets! How do you call for potential applicants? Simple- stencil your bbm number on your car’s back or your mobile number with funky names- ‘lover boy’ or ‘romance king’ complete with a heart logo pierced with an arrow ;) Oh! The lasses come tumbling down at your feet. Don’t forget to write the ultimate dialogue- ‘hypothecated to- State Bank of India’. Oh dear…we know your CIBIL rating thanks to your car proclamations! Do you have to tell the entire world you own an air conditioned car? No, you know pretty well the whole wide world owns AC cars. But there are morons who still think they are Bill Gates and stencil in huge font- A/C...

Next time you see a car zipping past, check the windshields. Will jolly good bring you a smile ;) What best could you get in life while waiting for someone or whiling away time in a small walk? Let the windshields bring you happiness!

p.s.: I am afraid I have become extremely lazy with my blog...but do i care? Nah!

p.p.s.: I am in the process of learning how to survive in a Government Organisation, amid all the politics and back stabbing. Boy! looks like a game of chess where you are playing the white and every other person you come across making a check-mate! Phew! Makes me sick :(

p.p.p.s.: Valentine's Day fast approaching and this is a reminder...ahem...I know you are reading this post honey ;) Awaiting your gift :P