Have you noticed that unbreakable tensile object pushing right up your arse through your spine making you more unbendable each day. That slow realisation that you are no longer a flexible piece of floatsam that will adjust, change, morph into anything you have to be. The edges are more clearly defined now and you aren't quite sure you like the image that's emerging. Small, vindictive adjectives you used as a kid to describe grown-ups seem to fit perfectly. So last season, eh? well, you'll join the old hag club someday and I have bigger breasts for now. so pfptttt....

"jeebone ar ki hoche, shuni?" If I have that question asked to me in any language I know, I promise to string out the tongue of the questioner and hang it very painfully to the tip of my very dirty fan blades. GOT IT??? Do not ask me "what's up?" Do not say "And what else?" And DO NOT on the pain of death say "so what's new"
New is a overrated concept. Forget about it. Everything in this world has already been said, done, experienced, disemboweled and discredited. All there are now are cycles. Hollow ups and downs. Comprendo? Deal with nada and you'll be a far happier creature.

Floated a candle in the Arabian Sea for Nico. He was a bit of a pirate in real life, so it seemed appropriate. Unusually the dogs followed for a while, one of them howled and the ocean seemed to rush forward and pretty much grab the offering. Wolfie-kulfie, hope you rest in peace.

my dog died.

Hear ye, Hear ye. My blog's been linked to not one, but two sex search engines. One because I used 'washpot' in my Stephen Fry post and two because 'clog' happens to be in my blog title. Tell me now that life is not a series of coincidences designed to embarass me.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season 6: Tabula Rasa
Spike Quotes

Oh, listen to Mary Poppins. He's got his crust all stiff and upper with that nancy-boy accent. (everyone looking at him) You Englishmen are always so... (pauses) Bloody hell! (ticks off on his fingers) Sodding, blimey, shagging, knickers, bollocks, oh God! I'm English!

Spike examines his clothing, finds a label on the inside of his suit jacket.
SPIKE: 'Made with care for Randy.' (looks at Giles angrily) Randy Giles? Why not just call me 'Horny Giles,' or 'Desperate for a Shag Giles'? I knew there was a reason I hated you!

Dad can drive. He's bound to have some classic midlife-crisis transport. (puts arm around Giles's shoulder) Something red, shiny, shaped like a penis.

I met Mihir Manker while flaying my hands wildly at taxis that were whizzing towards Bandra, all occupied by smug solitary passengers. Then one car stopped, a head popped out and said “Bandra?” I have never loved a head more.
Squashed in with three strange men a minute later I thought the best way to go was chatty. "Where are you headed?" I asked. "Going to Bhabha Hospital, thought I'd volunteer." Not the answer I expected, so I prodded a little more. Mihir was coming from a meeting with the Additional Commisioner of Police, Tardeo, asking him if he could be a volunteer with the relief operation teams fanning across the city. The police in typical pandu fashion of course had just taken his contact details, gave him some hearty pats on the back and sent him on his way. So he did the next best thing — gave people stranded like me a lift that night and then stayed till three in the morning helping nurses, hauling gurneys and getting patients to their wards at Bhabha.
May Mihir reproduce like a rabbit and produce many mini-hims.

How do you tell people that you belong to a city even though you haven't lived there the requisite 10, 15 years? When that inevitable question pops up, "Where are you from?", I have to fight the urge to say "Bombay". Not Delhi, not even Mumbai. But Bombay. How do you tell them that the idea of the city is in your soul even as you scatter across its alien landscape anchorless. But you still know you belong and you have never been more sure of anything else. That quiet knowledge that You are where You should be.
So next time I am asked that question, I think I'll say, "from here, but I moved to Bombay a month ago." So they'll think I'm a kook. But that's hardly new.

The 86 year old woman, with whom I share my flat with, is an active little hen

a) She keeps the TV on all night, even if its in the "Khosshhhhh" mode. The volume is set just high enough to be irritating.
b) She keeps getting up to shit in her bed-side potty, strategically placed at her room's entrance. To get to it, she uses a wooden chair like a walker, dragging it in slow-sad-old-woman style. Nails across a wall? I wish.
c) I have lost count of the number of times I have seen her bare ass, when she is occupied thus. My retinas are slightly scorched.
Gaaaah.

I never thought I'd be saying this into a phone. Tersely.
"Bust 34, waist 25 low waist 29 and a half, hips 34" Pause. "Neck 12, pant length 37.5. Arm hole 13, sleeve length 23" For such labours and for getting above-mentioned, attribute-laden model for free, I get to see my name emblazened on a Fashion Photo Feature as Co-ordinator. Hmmm.
And I get to do this every week. see me all atwitter with joy.

notice change at the wee right of the screen. yes. cause and effect, laddies, cause and effect. so yes, bombay it has been for a week, in which I have already seen 'Bunty aur Babli' twice, switched to Wills Classic Milds and been hit on by Australian men (which is not AT ALL as exciting as it sounds). While living in santa cruz is markedly different from being located bang in the centre of Town, there are advantages. I finally get what the local train phenomenon is. The whole 'heart of bombay' spiel. I still have to stalk people who buy churchgate tickets before me, because signs like C and BO and 'S' and 'F' make me reach for my babel fish.
recommendations for the week: the Grand Hyatt with exceedingly good coffee and deee-vine desserts. layers and layers and layers of creamy nothingness to swim into

My Calcutta rant is building up. It hasn’t reached the right viscosity of fungal putridness that is this city. I shall spew forth soon enough but for now my home computer has come to the rescue in my limbo phase here in Calcutta where I shall unfortunately be detained till the 6th of June. If you know me and love me, mail by the cartloads. I am still yours at harakiri_girl@yahoo.com
Meanwhile… a scratchy parchment, printed from a HP deskjet3550, has been found. It contains the warblings of a future-senior-correspondent-to-be when she first joined the Hogwash School of Journalism. Read. Actually don’t.


Sarojini Nagar market, middle lane
Time- 12 o’ clock in the afternoon
I have a typical idiot expression, mouth wide open. A fly buzzed dangerously close. My friend, the more confident specimen stands a few centimetres away surveying the market Nero-like. I’m an absolute novice at shopping. If I like a thing, I go ask the price & peer into my wallet for affirmation. But my friend does things differently. If she likes something she’ll poke me in the ribs (hard) and grin. Then she’ll tame her expression and walk in. She’ll look at two, maybe three things before she turns to look at what caught her eye in the first place. Then she’ll cock her head & purse her lips, looking at it. Turning slightly, she wills me to play my part. So I cock my head & purse my lips and give a non-committal shrug. (Aside: I have been restricted to gestures since My Great Gaffe in Gol Bazaar).
The shopkeeper starts off, almost immediately. “Very good, Madam”; “High quality Madam”; “unique piece, etc., etc., Madam”. And then the vital — “Only 65, Madam”. Our eyes glaze over as the pre-planned heart attacks strike. My friend recovers first to ask him to stop kidding. The guy starts grumbling ”Aaccha, 60 de do”. We both start moving out of the shop - very slowly. Very, very slowly.
”Kitna do ge, madam.”; “30”. The shopkeeper’s has HIS heart attack, right about now. We are still moving out, by the way. “40 de do”. “35, final” we chorus, our faces half turned away. The guy is jumping up & down by now. Finally he stops and with a downcast expression, agrees. No, my friend and I do not give out a warhoop & start our victory dance. We pay the price, walk away until we are at a reasonably safe distance from the shop. Only then do we let ourselves go. We females hate to rub the salt in.

It didn't feel like an unusual afternoon. I woke up de-rigeur, teeth gnashing and slightly hung over. The clock followed my usual descent into the cubby hole kitchen. The spoons frowned unwashed from the sink as I yanked the fridge open. The germs waved exicitedly, as they were wont to, from mouldy leftovers. Yup, if my memory serves me right, it was just another day.
Till my door bell decided to ring that is.

Note: The first few lines of a still born story.

Hysterical with Joy Fitism I GOT THE JOB AT HT BOMBAY!! NEXT, WORLD DOMINATION!!! Guess how much they are paying me? A FRIGGIN POT FULL PLUS CELL PHONE AND TRAVEL EXPENSES!!! Muhaha Muhaha Muhahahaha.....I feel like Raabon with ten heads. A very religious Raabon though, a very sweet, cuddly, shonu Ravana...dash it, Gupi and Bagha then, doing their chorus on the hill top...Monda mithai kabho, the imported belgian variety AND I shall build ze homiest, dreamiest wahoo of a den. The world shall never have seen such perfection before...

imported toilet paper is back in the office loo! I realise the happiness I am getting out of this is disproportional to the actual event, but other people are not as anal as I am. I like the fact that imported toilet paper tears beautifully on its perforated divisions. I like the fact that it is pristinely white and most of all I love its feel, oh the feel. Cleopatra would have them put in her bath just to feel them snaking around.
Image that refuses to get out of head: Mila Jovovich in her French toilet-paper couture in Fifth Element.

Shobita, who was unperturbed by news of a stalker, was also suitably scared after meeting the brat. She was caressing a lau with three spoons stuck savagely into it.
Yes, I do lock my door every night and hang garlic around my bed.

St. Ubro has his moments, molested as he is. Alas you had to be there to see him enact "mera pau bhari ho gaya" from a past dumb charade session and swaer like a Punjabi, which involved a lot of "bh"s and spitting...and o the pelvic thrusting, despite the painful absence of the main ingredient.

When the left part of your butt wiggles independently.
When you are agravatingly aware of your breasts and want to fling them out of the way, like untidy ends of a muffler.
When objects in your sprawl-area are nuked.
When you are caught in compromising positions with the bed, the fridge, the floor.
When a successfully lit fag induces misty eyes.
When you instinctively twist yourself pretzel-like when Hypnos comes calling,
Sleep sweet child and know that Bacchus Da loves you.

They want me to do another cover *blanks out in blind panic*

"It could happen to you, like it happened to me,
There is no immunity, no gurantee"

No I am not talking about laab, or laau or love. This is about the complete and total identification with the characters in the book you read, the film you see. A few weeks ago I was a gay, confused charming fella in Britain, today I'm Fanny Price - dirty, starving and charmless in Paris hanging dead from a string of rope.
It's not a good feeling being depressed by an external stimuli and I have done it to myself countless times.
I remember walking out of 'The Thomas Crown Affair' screening, feeling every bit as sexy, smart and fruity (in a lush sort of way) as Rene Russo. Then my heel broke and I hobbled to the nearest mochi but that's besides the point. My point is, am I essentially without a personality then, since I take on alter egos so quickly.
I get children flinging themselves off furniture because they KNOW they'll fly, just like superwoman, but this? At the age of 23?
Very pissing off.

Things people have said last week:
* Beat chillo
* Gand e angul dukhie boshe thake
* Coca Cola is so chunt no?
* I am on a sticky wicket
* Boisterous is not sexy, is it?
* So ganga is always this virginal, fair aishwarya, while yamuna stands on the side, a little neglected, like a dusky Sushmita Sen
And the prize goes to this exchange:
A: Why didn't your parents call me too?
Me: You WANTED to be called at 2 am?
A: Yes and have fluttery feelings of concern
Me: Feeling left out?
A: Yup.
(Hysterical giggling on both sides of the phone)

Alanis Morissette is unfortunately my back up.
When the low point hits the solar plex
All I can do is hear her half-raving voice, full volume.
The absolute rage in her voice is pure balm.

That is me, Monday morning when they realise I still haven't proceeded beyond the first 1000 blasted words of the cover story. Procastinator thy name is smita. What have I been doing since 3 in the afternoon then you say? Lets see blogged, read blogs, mailed my sister, cropped pictures to put up as my desktop wallpaper, reactivated my Yahoo geocities site, visted every online community I have ever joined, trawled through both my yahoo mail accounts to see what people have written to me since 2002, googled my editor's name and friends who write and generally ran around the office floor saying lalalalala.
Make me write. Make me write for the dear lord in heaven's sake. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ok. all done. You can look now.

S is a very nice woman. She is. She makes allu posto, opens rum bottles with nail cutters AND has red curtains. I mean really, what else do you want? But there is a thorn between us now. And its a pack of Will's Silk Cuts.
But I get ahead of myself. A little backtracking will help. I am broke and thus it falls on her to buy the pack of smokes. She goes for the aforementioned Silk Cuts. I pout and demand my regular Gold Flakes instead. She pats me with the air of the very wise and says, "this has got a white filter."
I am unimpressed.
"The tobacco smells better."
I am sold. Anything that smells better does it for me in most instances. So here I am, being unfaithful to my blonde originals, sucking at their pale cousins instead. These pathetic, sissy excuses for cigarettes that do their tribe an injustice by even existing.
S shall pay ofcourse. Someday I shall switch the allu in her posto with kochu.

Cover Story Massacre

This is how all good stories begin, no? A day dawned when Smita’s almost still born, refusing to kick, cover story idea suddenly jerked back to life.
Tiny tendrils of information that confirmed the hotness of the idea snaked in and zapped The Powers That Be. “We must, we must, we must/ before the story does rust/ In words do fetter/ The quicker the better/ without too much of a fuss.”
They comandeth, I followeth. Since the deadline was now fixed firmly and unassailably "for next week," it was used like Mowgli's thaba. Charming but deadly emails were sent out asking for inputs or else. They came. There was mad scramble for pictures and much hand wringing, begging on bended knees was done in person and on phone. They came. It was all coming together in one blindingly beautiful blaze of doingness.
Then My Specs Broke. I get contact lenses. Then My Story Is Swept Off Cover. I end day by drinking massive amount of rum. The End. The End.