Love? Bah! Humbug! - My entry to the GetPublished contest

A beautiful, remote beach resort, renowned for being a honeymooner's paradise. Spread over acres and acres of land, with a private beach, golden sands, luxurious rooms beautiful swimming pools at split levels. Ruby red sunsets, cloudless, shimmering nights and the constant lull of waves that came to kiss the land......

The ideal setting for that perfect love story which could make Romeo and Juliet blush with inadequacy. A love tale that could have been an epic to be told and retold...... Right?

WRONG!!!

G and M couldn't see eye to eye. Literally. They met, they glared, they schemed against each other and they tried to walk separate ways; if only the world would let them be ..............

Based on the real life story of a couple pushed together by fate, love in this story is like a naughty child, springing surprises on the unsuspecting people involved. But sometimes, things really don't happen as you want them to.......... or do they?

Excerpt from the story :

"Wait a minute, you two!" The only person who could make us sit in one room for more than a few seconds was the General Manager of the hotel where G and I were colleagues. "M, if I hear one more complaint about you throwing G's files into the shredder, I will personally ensure your transfer to the Housekeeping department."

I nodded emphatically, hoping that would pacify the Boss. I was in no mood to cut short my career in hotels, just because I wanted to punch G's smirk; but I was seething inside.

G's cinemascopic smile froze on his face when the GM turned to him. "And you..... If I ever hear about you changing the office locks without giving her a key, I will shift your office to the bhoot bangla (the haunted room). Am I clear or do you want written communication to remind you in case you forget?"

"S(He) started it." We both mumbled under our breaths.

This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published contest, which is run with inputs from Yashodhara Lal and HarperCollins India.

Do vote for it on this link at Harper Collins if you would like to see this story complete itself .....

I, Me and dumber Myself

I had an aching posterior, most probably due to the graceful moves associated with slipping on a tiled floor.  After having cursed my inclination towards overdosing the 'Death by chocolate' dessert for my clumsiness, I decided to sleep out the pain.

That's when I had a strange dream where I had a very weird conversation  with a younger, prettier, dumber myself. A ME that was a decade and a half younger....

Me : Hey you look just like me!!

Younger Me : Well duh! I should think so...... I am you, dumbo (followed by an irritating guffaw that had intermittent snorts. I winced, thinking of all the people who knew the Younger Me, and mentally congratulated Me for doing such a good job of Myself!)

Me : WTF!! Then what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be like inside of me or something? I ain't dead or anything am I?

Younger Me: (that guffaw again!..... God! do I laugh like that?) : No you're not dead - for now! But looks like you soon will be!

Me : Ha! You dare advise me? Look at you, you and your silly happy guffaws and your pipeline jeans and your curves and your bloody lovely hair ..... Err.... I mean you with your inexperience, and your hollow existence!

Younger Me : Well, why shouldn't I advise you? Guess who's been making record-breaking embarrassing mistakes just for your benefit? You, however, seem to have an asinine reluctance to learn from them! Do you know how difficult it is to grin stupidly in a roomful of people snickering at you? You do realize that my very existence is questionable if you haven't learnt from my mistakes, right?

Me : No way, dudette! There's nothing you can do that I can't do better!

Younger me : For starters, I can wear spandex - so just shut up and listen. Also, I can laugh at myself ...... can you?

Me : Ha! How hollow! ..... Can you be the super mom that I am? Or the creative mastermind that I am at work? Can you even write an essay without messing up sheets and sheets of paper? Do you even know what a blog is? No match - I told you!

Younger me : Hmmm..... well,  I have a beautiful handwriting, I am told. And honestly, you want to tell me that you prefer punching keys to actually writing? I mean the sound of real pencil on real paper. The joy of discovering that particular pen that fits so perfectly between your index finger and your thumb..... the joy of collecting beautiful pens, the exhilaration when you just changed the refill...... (now looking genuinely surprised)..... you've forgotten all about them, haven't you? (now with an accusing look)

Me (feeling a little uneasy now) : One's got to change with the times. Think of the time it would take me to write all this stuff with a real pen? And use what whitening fluid for corrections? Yuck! Anyway - that's not a big thing! Look at all the stuff I've achieved....

Younger Me : Yeah..... ok. Well, do you have better friends now? I mean do you have the kind of friends I had? The kind who would wake you up in the dead of night to tell you they forgot to wash their clothes tonight and they had to wear it tomorrow, and so you both had to wash it in darkness coz' the landlord would blow his top? No? Well, what about friends who will drop everything to be with you because your dog died? No? Okay I get it! You have friends who would give you the last hundred bucks in their wallet because you had that urgent STD call? Ummmm...... No, huh?

Me : But I have my priorities now! And frankly, this romantic gibberish is far below in my list. Unlike you, I have a house, a car and a career (almost expecting Younger Me to do a 'Shashi Kapoor - Mere paas Ma hai" on me after this!). You didn't think all this just fell into my lap for being a wistful, twenty something with lovely skin, dreamy eyes and long, luscious hair err....... I mean, by being a foolish Utopian, did you?

Younger me : Well, I had more character, you know! Not to mention vivid imagination! Look at you - you watch Shirish Kunder movies!!!!!

Me : Heyyyy! Not fair....that was a mistake - I thought I was going to watch Rowdy Rathore....

Younger Me : Me, Me, Me...... sigh! Now how does that logic make you look any better?

Me : Oh Ok.... that was not the right argument! Anyway, your logic is flawed too. If I was you, I'd be sent to the nearest mental asylum! You laugh like a hiccuping train, you cry when you watch silly stuff like 'Tangled', you smile at absolute strangers, just because you feel 'the sun was nice and bright today', you lend money to people who can't possibly pay you back, you dance 'for the heck of it', you go 'awwwww' the moment you see a stray pup............ you are a certified nut job!

Younger Me : And you? You laugh as though it costs you a fortune! You get embarrassed by emotions - you don't shed a tear even when you know that its the best tribute! You squint and growl at strangers because they delayed starting their car a microsecond too late at a traffic light. You save up for months to buy something of immense monetary value - and yet your happiness does not live beyond a few days, sometimes hours........ Who's the real nut job? (Horrible, horrible laugh again)

Younger Me was a scheming little thing, let me tell you. She used my momentary shock due to the Ravana guffaw, to drive in more irrelevant, irreverent stuff

Younger Me : Do you even remember the last time you laughed while reading a book? No, not that simian show where a cricketer and a man...err...woman...err...I have no clue, sit on a show and laugh themselves senseless on equally tasteless jokes...... but a real book? Or do you remember the last long drive, when you drove to feel the wind in your hair? Or the last time you cooked leisurely, thinking of the reaction when the person you cooked for, saw it?

Rudely woken up by the alarm clock, I was grateful I didn't have to hear that awful laugh again. Ofcourse, I know Younger Me was stupid.......... Right?

(Pic courtesy google images)

 

All is Fair ..... and Lovely!

Apparently, these days, interviews are all about slathering copious amounts of 'Fair and lovely'...errr .... 'Fair and handsome'....err..... 'Dumb and confused' on one's face, accompanied by an exaggerated Tom Selleck cocky eyebrow. It really doesn't matter what crap you say in the interview, as long as you look like a 'fair' model. Thats what this ad would like us to believe anyway. So make way, IITs and IIMs - qualification was just an excuse. What we really want to see is if you turned up the 'fair-o-meter'.

"Just rub 1 ml of cream into eyes of the people you want to impress, and voila!" Pic. courtesy Google

Similarly, if you are a badminton player or a tennis player, you apparently will not win a game, if you aren't (wait for it.......) 'fair' !! Wonder if other racket sports have the same problem? Maybe then the Willaims sisters bribed their way into lead positions!

And how can you forget that unforgettable appendage called gasp! the underarms? Heavens will thunder and the earth crack open if you have dark underarms. Gone are the days when everyone from the carefree Auntyji to the ooh so sexy Bengali didi used to don sleeveless without a care in the world! Today we have to get those 'fairness deos' before we attempt the impossible - wave a hearty goodbye in a sleeveless top!

The height of sophistication seems to be having 'fair' 'intimate parts' too. Losing the lustre in a relationship? No problem. Nah! What you need is not a marriage counsellor, but get your intimate parts shining fair and lovely! (See? We are a progressive nation. Whoever said we were not modern?). Don't believe me? Watch this !!

We are now so bombarded with the fairness virus, that we do not bat an eyelid if a pehelwan uses a whitening cream, or if we have men rushing for shelter to protect their delicate skin from the sun's darkening rays. A new dimension to gender equality, folks! Just when we thought the 'fairer sex' was just a metaphor, we now have competition here too!

By the way, if you are a talented singer, or dancer, all is lost of you are not granted that magic cream which gives you the 'raison d'etre' ..... Fairness!  After all, can you see even one matrimonial ad that says 'dusky, awesome girl'? Chances are, you will not. And ofcourse, we all know that the final destination is righ there in these ads...... so why not start young, huh?

What tickles my funny bone is that when an appropriately called "FakingNews" newsletter declares that a new Fairness Cream for Newborns has been discovered, they received a rush of comments asking for further details. (dont forget to scroll down to read the comments for a huge dose of laughter)

Can you imagine the pain, the frustration of a parent with a beautiful but dusky complexioned baby? The poor kid will not be able to win a match, or display a talent, or hell, even get an 'affsar - wala' job, for heavens' sake! And lets not even get to the part where the poor family looks for a 'fair' spouse for the kid!!

The post itself is howlarious, with a reporter called 'Pagal Patrakaar' doing a superb job of calling a spade a tractor; but what really takes the cake is the comments section - do go through the pitiful frantic pleas of worried mothers (and fathers) waiting to lay their hands on this cream for newborns ....................

There are yet others who have given appropriate (if not deserving) replies to these parents. Some replies I wanted to stand up and give a standing ovation. :-)

Certainly makes one stop and think - is beauty really skin deep? I am afraid not.

Letter to the Torch Bearers of Indian Civilization

This post is a Blogadda Spicy Saturday Pick

Dear Sirs and Madams,

We are indeed blessed to have been born into the oldest civilization in the world. The glorious land of thousands of Gods and Goddesses, where unmatched works of art and literature were created; where we have people like you to lead us into the most desired, most blessed civilization the world is yet to see.

The most remarkable individuals that you are, we have to thank you for all those times that you have proved again and again that we are indeed, a nation full of idiots.

While we have people like the Madam who taught us that being called 'sexy' by a bunch of rogues in a street full of castrated, spineless creatures is actually a good thing. We, mere women, were so stupid to think that being treated as an object was actually bad! You opened our eyes to the truth, Madam. Ofcourse, such remarks from random guys on the road are, in reality, a boost to our morale. It also gives us the impression that we, just like you, are young and desirable. Does that also mean, Madam, that when we ignore such comments, and the said 'enthusiastic boys' decide to discover silence as a code to push their luck further, we send them to your address?

In yet another enlightening moment, Madam also educated us simple mortals that your jeans, or your off shoulder dress is actually a code, in the language of her ancestors, to invite an assault on yourself. Ofcourse! Why didn't we ever think of that, Madam - really a eureka moment here. Poor 'enthusiatic boys'! How can we expect them to control their animal urges when we invite them to rape us by not following a dress code? And to think we had the audacity to demand punishment for the poor rapists! Shame on us!

By the way, lets not forget your esteemed sister, who had very selflessly given away the details of a molestation victim all over national media! In these troubled times, who gives away the limelight to another? But Madam did it with such ease! It takes unfathomable levels of stupidity, and an equal measure of insensitivity to achieve such a feat! Kudos, Madam.

But nothing quite prepares the mind for the astounding discovery by you, esteemed Sir, on the direct co relation between the marriageable age of girls of our nation and the enviable rape statistics of the country. I am sure a discovery of this magnitude could only have come with rigorous research and single minded devotion on the part of the highly educated research analysts assigned to our rural villages, also lovingly known as khaps. You have proven beyond a sliver of doubt that the right to decide when to marry, who to marry and whether to marry at all or not, should not rest with the stupid parents, or gasp!! the girl!........ God forbid if they decide to wait till the girl child is a well educated, confident woman!  Can you imagine how tragic it would be if every girl in the country knew all her rights!! Thank God for such visionaries such as yourself, who most certainly will take us back to the days of glorious Aurangzeb reign! Also, thank God for this glorified, legal, indigenous institution whereby you can, in the comfort of your home, rape young girls at your own convenience - legally!

Epic brainwave, I tell you Sir!!

Last but certainly not the least, this years winner of 'Size 11 foot in mouth' Award goes to the epitome of intelligent life forms. This gentleman has single-handedly, managed to discover the missing link in the evolution of man from monkeys - himself!!

There was a time when consensual sex meant just that! Today, thanks to this genius of a monkey....errr....man, we now know that 'gang-rap(e)' (not to be confused with Gangsta rap, an art form which requires much higher skill levels than owning a penis) is actually a mutated variant of consensual sex. So what if popular belief defines gang rape different from consensual sex! We know it to be one and the same, and this explains our tolerance, and our encouraging, nurturing attitude towards the previously misunderstood breed of people called rapists! Way to go, Vatsyayna'a first cousin!

Sincerely yours,

The Stupid people who vote for you

The Cord (redux-ed)

This was my first work of fiction, which got published in an online fiction mag. (Some of you may have already read it). But the mag seems to have drowned into a state of suspension, and I miss reading it ....... so here goes! (Please do remember that this was written by a younger me. Judge gently :-))

She stretched on her bed, while attempting to open her eyes against the morning sun. The movement caused her feet to tingle - her legs seemed to have developed a sleep-wake cycle of their own these days. She saw the red nail paint on her feet and suddenly remembered that she had to wear white today. She never had many clothes in white; Ma didn’t approve of young women wearing white – they were reserved for funerals. She remembered Ma insisting on colorful stoles to counter the whites in her wardrobe when she would dress for college.

     But this was a funeral – the first one in her life. Ma had kept both the sisters out of funerals. But Kartika couldn’t avoid this one..

     Kartika didn’t know whether she was supposed to wear the gold bangles and chain that she was wearing. Ma insisted she wear them all the time. Funny how she remembered the white outfits, but not if people wore jewelry for funerals. She decided to remove the jewelry too – better to err on the conservative side.  As Ma always reminded them all the time, “You can always add more salt to the curry later…”

     Kartika giggled as she remembered Ma's long dress with yellow flowers, the one that Ma wore when had run behind the school bus the day of her school picnic. Kartika was already seated in the bus, and the girls had already finished the customary “Hi Kartika” chorus. Suddenly the bus had stopped, and only then did Kartika see the bright yellow dress…

     The harassed bus driver had stopped the bus, Ma convincing him that it was imperative to stop the bus while holding up traffic, so that she could give her daughter a goodbye kiss.  Kartika was 5 and she  hadn't been able to hide her embarrassment.

     But Ma being Ma, had walked right in, hugged a wiggling Kartika, planted a moist kiss on her forehead, and given her last minute instructions. As a parting shot, she had called out a ‘bye-bye’ to all the kids in the bus……..

     Kartika remembered how the sisters became young adults with hormones, emotions and egos running wild. They liked everything Ma did not; and then Ma began to adjust to the burgers meals and the party wears – sometimes even offering suggestions for both…..

     Marriage took Kartika geographically away from Ma, but emotionally closer to her. Ma now stopped monitoring her clothes, her friends and her exits from home......but Kartika would call up every time she had a little detail of her life to share with Ma.

     Kartika was shaken out of her reverie by the sound of crows outside. Weddings or funerals – you’d always find crows here. Large, black and impatient. She wondered why they made such a racket. She could hear the sounds of domesticity outside her room – there was some strange comfort in those sounds. She struggled to get out of bed, and change into ivory colored dress.

     She went into the kitchen and saw her aunt come in carrying a tray of empty tea cups and biscuit plates. She started when she saw Kartika at the door of the kitchen. Her aunt was a tiny woman, with the birdlike delicate mannerisms that tiny people usually have. She gave Kartika a wordless hug, and turned around, continuing to keep herself busy. Everyone around seemed to be caught up in a frenzy of activity that allowed them the luxury of an unthinking, mechanical state of mind.

     There were at least a hundred people out there. They had come for the funeral yesterday. Ma’s funeral……

     "You could have waited for me Ma."

     “What for? You are always embarrassed when I kiss you … even at your wedding; you said it spoiled your makeup.”

     “But that never stopped you from doing what you wanted.… You kissed me every time you felt I needed it. You made me wear those hideous caps every time you thought it was cold. You listened in on the extension when you thought I was talking to ‘that useless fellow’. You put butter in my food in spite of my pleas – because you thought I was skinny. You bought me stuff over my protests. Why is this suddenly about what I feel?”

     ‘There are some things I cannot control, Kartika. You knew I was going. You and I, we were fighting this disease for a long time, weren’t we? Life needs to go on for both of you – I’ve taught you all that I know….  Now go comb your hair away from your face, so that people know you have a forehead as well. No daughter of mine is going to look like she’s been hit by a truck!’

     Kartika giggled at Ma’s attempts to tame her. The somber-looking old women who had come to mourn her mother’s death were watching her with shock. She went in to comb her hair just the way Ma would have liked it. She even put on some nude lipstick. She was about ready when the nausea hit her.

     She remembered she had not eaten yet; the doctor had said she must not let acidity strike her in the mornings. She had almost forgotten the iron pills too. Heck, she’d almost forgotten that she had only a couple more weeks to go before the baby would arrive. It was one of those moments when she felt she could do with a hug.

    

      She could see Ma shaking her head in disapproval.

‘Your life is not only yours, you know….... That baby needs nutrition. What kind of a mother will you be if you don’t even remember to feed your baby on time?’  

Kartika looked at the mirror, her palm gently rubbing her bulge. She smiled.

“I am waiting for you, Ma. And this time, we’ll see who gets embarrassed.”

The Krishna Key - A review

When blogadda announced that Ashwin Sanghi's next book was up for review, I pounced on the opportunity to read up on what could be a worthy successor to his Chanakya's Chants (which really was a 'cannot-put-down' read).

So when the book came, I could barely wait for nightfall (reading is a pleasure that is now confined to when the kids are tucked in and the rest of the world has drifted to sleep). A few pages down, and one gets a sense of deja-vu in the book. That's when it hits you - a brilliant (and sexy) scientist, framed for murder, on the run with another female scientist (yup! sexy one again) trying to solve a mystery while evading the law. Vaguely familiar? It's like someone tore up the pages of 'The Da Vinci Code' and 'Angels and Demons', shuffled them up, and replaced the Christian stories with Hindu mythology, and sewed it up again.

Not that one should dismiss the book as a 'copy'..... Its not original, but definitely worth a read. Let me try and get into the nitty-gritties without giving away the plot. As I usually approach reviews, lets look at the various aspects:

• Plot : Yes, you've already read something that looks like this, and in all probability, you know what the next chapter is going to tell you sooner or later. You also know that the similarities between this book and other best sellers are not coincidences. But the book still manages to strike a chord - maybe its the renewed interpretation of the stories we've heard from our grannies; or maybe its the attempt to get to the 'patriotic' Indian in us - the book gloats about the superiority of the mighty civilizations that existed in the Indian sub-continent (there! doesn't that ALREADY appeal to you?) and how historians from the 'West' tried to change a few facts to change history. So yes, the book certainly has pages and pages of well-researched feel-good facts about our glorious past, interwoven with a tried and tested plot.

However, the only problem with this plot was that sometimes, it goes all over the place, hinting that the author himself might have been confused how he wants it to end. Somehow, the climax leaves you wanting to turn yet another page and find a closure to the whole madness in the murders. The gruesome murders seem pointless and unexplained in the end.

• Writing style : Its a la Sanghi all the way. Just as in Chanakya's Chants, we move back and forth in time. The events in the mythological character's life are used as bookmarks to pave the way to the next big revelation in the present. But one can't help comparing the two books by this author; and when one does compare this to Chanakya's Chants, this one comes across as slightly confused, slightly forced. Some of the connections between mythology and the present were lost to me, which was not the case with Chanakya. But, having said that Sanghi does not disappoint with the research. (I learnt that Ranchordas is a name for Krishna!!) Yes, sometimes one does feel inadequate while reading (you see, everyone in the book - from a murderer to a thug, seems to be an expert in history and symbolism!) but the explanations are made out in simple language. It does force one to rethink all that was taught to us in the name of 'Indus Valley Civilization'.
• Character development : Could have been much, much better. When one reads, the words have to be able to paint faces to the names. Somehow, I couldn't put a well-defined face to even the main protagonists in the story. The characters with shades of grey had much more scope in terms of why they are as they are. Like I said earlier, some actions seem forced - because the author wanted a certain closure -  and not because that would have been the logical course of events.
• Words and print quality: There were no grammatical or typo errors, which is a big thing these days. Editing could have done much more, some distinctive words (the kinds you would remember when you read them once) have been repeated quite close to each other, and in two places the character names have been mixed up. (I had to read the para twice to understand what the author wanted to express!). Good print quality, spaced out words, right font size..... it is easy on the eyes.

Final verdict : A definite one time read. I don't think it will go on the bookshelf as a timeless classic, but it is definitely one that I would lend out to a friend when they are on a long flight; the flight will seem shorter. Expect however, to feel a little disappointed for want of a more reasonable closure.

This review is a part of the Blogadda Indian Bloggers Book Reviews Program at Blogadda. Participate now to get free books!

The Backdoor VIPs

Rural Kerala is discretely chauvinistic. Even the houses. Even modern, upper middle class houses. But these houses only gave the woman of the house much more personal space than other normal houses. Let me explain.

Every home (unless they are the unimaginative new apartments that are mushrooming everywhere!) has a boundary wall (varying from mud mounds lined with the thorny pineapple plants, to imposing structures with spikes and electric lamps) with a gate (again varying from little bamboo strips to iron), which then leads through a pathway into a front door.

The front was a signature for most homes - this was where the man of the house would spend most of his 'thinking' time. Morning teas to after dinner debates were all held at the veranda of the front door. One could often see a worn out easy-chair that usually belonged to the patriarch of the house.

Looking closely at the pathway, one could see another smaller path winding itself towards the back yard of the home. Usually in close proximity with the kitchen or the wash-up area, the back door was a little less glamorous than its pompous brother. If one overlooks this minor superficial point, the back door had much more character - maybe because of the colorful variety of  visitors that door saw through.

In my home, the back door was always open, unlike the front door, which was more anglicised. The front door was of carved wood, with a fancy door knob and an even fancier door bell. Traditionally, all houses in Kerala had open doors. But then, what was the point of keeping a fancy door bell if one did not have to summon someone to open the door? So, the front door evolved into being the 'closed' door, while the back door had sunlight, random noises, and happiness streaming in throughout the day.

After much prodding, my mother relented and allowed a net door to be placed, which could be closed without interrupting the senses. This also meant a stop to the stray visitors who flew in along with the sun - little sparrows looking for the rice that managed to sneak out along with the husk while Mom had sifted the two; or little lost squirrels who suddenly discovered that the floor was a lot cooler than the one outside.

But other visitors were not dissuaded by the net door - my Mother's "VIP"s (as we all liked to call them). The old lady servant who had, in her better years, bathed, powdered, kohl-ed and trudged the little kids of the household to a school many kilometers away; the neighbour's mother who did not hear too well anymore; the slightly deranged schoolteacher who was once a freedom fighter, but was hazy on the difference between fantasy and reality; and many more such interesting old folks - the ones who have the time to pause and admire the drawing of a child; or the ones who have the time to sit and tell you fascinating stories of kings and queens.

Every day, there would be one or more of these visitors. They came just to chat sometimes; or just to have a cup of tea served to them with a smile. They came because they saw in Mom, a connection to the good days they had witnessed; or maybe because they were hungry and wanted a few bites without seeing a frown. As young children, we were fascinated, sometimes scared, and yet sometimes, entertained, by Mom's VIPs. This then changed to irritation at the perceived loss of privacy, and then to just plain indifference.

As we moved on in life, we saw them only once in a few months, and then heard news of them moving on to a different world, one which, in all probability, would treat them much better than this one did.

Why do I write about them today? I don't know. Maybe I seek pardon for having been irritable and indifferent to people who really did care without a reason. Maybe I realize that life does mean all about little pleasures - like the sparrows and the squirrels who mistook the back door balcony for their homes....