Writing a book involves a certain amount of navel gazing. That is where it "organically grows"out from you see. I have a very ordinary navel. It is an innie navel, not half as exciting as an outie navel. An outie navel reaches out in a little tendril, an antennae that prods the air reflectively and catches a whole swirl of ideas. Ideas that then spring about inside your tummy, giving you tiny butterfly niggles, till you retch out over sheets and sheets of A4 pages. The Innie navel is hideously self obssessed, with a propensity to avoid the big picture. It collapses over and in itself, going deeper and deeper down into a territory that it has explored since childhood. And the pickings there are slim. So ultimately innie navel gazing writers are destined for two things. Collapsing and falling so deep into themselves that they emerge hideously scarred and come out with a 'Confessions of a.....' book that other hopelessly self involved people (a majority) read. The other destiny is the collapse and fall into and then right through yourself, discovering the universality of the outie navel in a painfully personal way. And the stories you tell then are as old as the universe itself, camouflaged in the here and now. So here's my wish. To fall right through, without a safety net and remain sane enough to bring back the stories.

Never read trashy romance novels on the day before Valentine. Especially with much bursting-at-the-bodice-ripping-off-shirt-friction-pressure-heat action. Actualy if it was just that, it would be fine. But no, they'll have a nice, believable Hollywood romantic comedy script running alongside. The kind that makes you all moo-eyed and moronic. Where the dark-eyed one with cheekbones sharp enough to slice diamonds feeds you nummy things under the stars.
You are looking at an ex-Mills and boons addict. I OD-ied on that crap, especially the ones with adorable kids running about in the middle of the pages. And then I grew up. But sometimes, just sometimes I wish it were all that simple in my head again. Happy Valentine's Day

To whoever posts on this blog...
I can't access my blog page from my office computer because of some firewall crap. All I can do is login, post and see my posts on the dashboard itself and when google is feeling generous, see a cache image of my blog page. Which means even though I get a mail about your comments on the blog, I can't reply to it. It is a sucky situation. But I read each comment and everyone of them is appreciated. Thank you and keep reading.
And to answer the question, I never stopped blogging. Was just getting bored of this one. But I realise even inanimate blog pages have ways of snaking into your heart.

A year ago, I didn't like cats. They were contrary creatures. Loving a dog was so much simpler. You sit on your haunches, make "Shona, bohchai" sounds and chances are they will come running into your arms and give big, fat wet ones on your cheek. If you smell of bacon, chances of reciprocal love - 100%. And then there were ways to pick up a dog. Scoop one arm under the lower belly, support front legs with arms. That is the kindest way. Or upside down like a baby, with his brown eyes looking up trustingly at you. You could break his spine that way but no reproachful glances. You could also drag him towards you with its back legs, prop him on your chest, carry him over one shoulder. More licks shall ensue. In short dogs have no quality control.
But a cat, ahhh, a cat. Approach with small clicking noise made with your tongue, hand outstretched. If the cat is interested, you shall be given a small sniff and the ears will be straight. If they are not in the mood, the ears will immediately flatten across their skulls and the large eyes will look up unblinkingly at you. If you have got the first green signal, go ahead and scratch gently behind their ears or the joint where the neck and cheek meet. The head will now go into this rolling movement where it will try coming closer to your hand, eyes closed in ecstasy. You might even get a purr or two. Next proceed to stroke its back, gently drawing your hand across, right down and over the tail. Done right, the tail will be straight and then flick through your fingers. Then procced to scratch lower back. Never try to scratch a cat's tummy till you know it well. By this time the cat will be in the mood to be picked up. But unlike a dog, the cat loves using its claws to leave little parallel red welts across your hand. So Get This Right. Pick up the cat with one splayed hand, using your fingers to keep the front legs separate, so as to prevent any indignant struggles and support it across the side of your body and use the other hand to stroke it into submission. It works most of the time. This position gurantees 15 mins of petting time. When the cat starts wiggling, drop it the floor. When you become a regular, it will come and rub itself across your jeans and make little dancing movement towards your hands, begging to be picked up.
Now the moot point. Why do I now like cats? All because several have licked me on the palm of my hand. Its addictive and the buggers know it.

It is the initiation ceremony of Bombay. You will emerge with the familiar tattoo of wrinkles on your brow. It will strip you down, it will make you beg, it will leave you impoverished and yet, yet when done will make you swagger and thump your chest in the manner of apes. You will say,"I shifted house."
Every unlucky swain or lass without a room to call their own (and by 'own' I mean conquered with stamp papers to prove it) will be yanked out with the periodicity and painfullness of upper lip hair removal. Every 11 months (or shorter periods if your landlord is an unusually jumpy bastard), just when you are curling your toes in, feeling complacent, will come the familiar keening cry that fills the soul of every bombay animal when his time is up. Bye bye home, hello homelessness.
Dismantle and regroup. Brokers closing in for the kill, showing you palaces just tantalising above your maximum stretching point budget. Where you will contemplate going without food to get that dream flat with those lovely white floors and windows that stretch from the ceiling to ground. (Western toilet, madam, with geyser) When a deposit is not a polite way of referring to your morning dump but cold hard cash that you kiss goodbye for the next 11 months. Money you never see as you shift from place to place but is the Shivastra of bartering.
I am tired. I want to live on the footpath and slay dragons in my dreams. And yes I DO NOT want to file my tax savings by the bloody 15th of Feb. I have no money, yes? I pay rent in bombay. Enough said.

The brain is a weird a place. You have a brilliant germ of an idea. It is so sparkly and pretty that you kind of want to play with it all by yourself for sometime. And all of a sudden the mundanities of life start clinging to it like lint. Within a day, that idea doesn’t seem that great anymore. Analysing it to bits, pre-empting your worst crtic’s remarks and soon enough there it is. A neat little grave in your head for one more thing you thought too much about.

Bunny porn!
http://angryalien.com/0905/bigchillbuns.asp

you are not working are you? Tsk Tsk

met a boy today who at the ripe old age of 21 has got bored of drinking, smoking and smoking pot...he still smokes but with this disintersted air of a 40 year old. Instead he gets his kicks out of playing the stock market and tells me how he lost six times my annual salary in three hours. He also has what I term the post-post modern relationship with a girl who like any normal Indian sex deprived girl wants to get it on but is faced with polite yawns. THIS is what happens if you carry a hip flask to school, smoke behind the basketball court and get all the girls too early.
Instead you should have parents like my dad who despite the casualness of email, 10 years of relatively frank bonhomie and late night calls everyday still sends mails that would make a lawyer blink twice "requesting" me to have my milk in the morning.

I have a cold...the fifth one of this year which means 25 days have been spent this year, sniffling and feeling sorry for myself. And smelling everything from eucalyptus and melted Vicks vapo rub in water.
To make matters worse Hindustan Times just completed 100 days in Mumbai and since they can't legally torture anyone to celebrate this conquest, they are making do by putting a hideous bright red and yellow HT CELEBRATES 100 DAYS wallpaper on every computer, which we can't remove for the next 15 days. It will be their fault when hordes of people call in sick.
On the bright side, they will be vomitting food cooked in our very own pantry. Yup we can go down and order cheese toasties and poha and lunch whenever we want till 9 in the night and it doesn't cost the bomb. All in all life has regained normal grey hued dreariness with sparks of light and hope in the middle if you look closely.

Presenting Mallu rap....

Yaa, MC Vikram and Luda Krishna representing y'all,
That's right ... increase the volume please ... thank you.

Welcome to India, mango juices and lassis, samosa crazy desis
and little kids that are milking the bhainses.
Toothbrush in my pocket, what is that?
We use our fingers here to keep our teeth so clear, who said that?

Luda Krishna here, Vikram pulling the Tata gears,
and I am sitting in the Maruti Supreme
with the cooling glass on, no one bothers me,
biggest stars since the ever famous Mamooty.

Come with me to a place where we sip Frooties,
and we eat the sweets while monkeys roam the streets.
Old uncle sits - big bellies and burps smelly (burp!)
Thank you Vikram, would you please pass the jelly,

I walked into the local corner-store,
bought myself a very nice looking carroms board.
My fingers get sore when I shoot and I score,
and the ladkis all scream coz they all want some more,
of the Luda Krishna and the Vikram MC,
Sweetest thing to hit the States since mango chutney.
We keep the kundis shaking, you better trust me.
The name is Luda Krishna, but my friends call me Thambi, watch!! (burp!)

Welcome to India where the cows eat hay,
and we drive auto-rickshaws everyday,
Goat meats, yummy sweets, wild monkeys roaming,
The roosters don't crow till five in the morning! (2x)
Now the kundis don't jiggle till I'm rapping,
So please don't pass the gas when you're laughing.

Up the music charts like mango trees I climb,
With a smooth voice like mine, is it a crime?
Representing FOB-iness since ninety-seven
Rap maharaja, I don't work at 7-Eleven.
Throw your hands in the air if you've got facial hair,
Not just for the guys, c'mon ladies be fair!

I'm the MFP - Most FOB-ious Player,
Wearing hot lungis, do you think I really care?
Monday night - computer club
Tuesday night - at Akbaar grocery saying "Sweet thang, what is up?"
Wednesday - I'm out making rupees
Thurday - On lookout for Bharatnatyam queen
Friday - Everybody must know where I'm at,
coz I'm chilling on the field with my big cricket bat.
Saturday - my farts are breezy ...
believe me, so strong they will get you mad dizzy,
Sunday - Yaar, I cannot start weeping
because on Monday I will start the creeping ... Hallo!

Oh, oh, go Luda, go Luda.
Ah, it's my birthday!
That is your birthday, man!
Yaaaaah. You go boy!
Oh oh oh ... it's great!
Ah, Indian honor my friend. Good night!

Have just discovered a brilliant new author, Garth Nix. Picked up Sabriel, the first book in his trilogy set in The Old Kingdom where stable and pure Charter Magic is disrupted by the powerful and dangerous power of Free Magic used by sorcerers and necromancers to help dead things cross over to Life. The only necromancer who instead binds the dead and banishes them beyond the Ninth and Final Gate of Death is the Abhorsen. A title passed from parent to child. Sabriel, the daughter of Abhorsen knows little of what this entails but is forced to find out when her father is trapped in Death and one of the Greater Dead threatens to cross over. The first orginal piece of fantasy writing I have seen in a long time.

I went to kerala! but more about that later when I am in cal for TEN days doing blissfully nothing at all. For now enjoy picture

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.