Don't know the script and I am ashamed about it.... but appa yesterday said something delightfully nasty :D So kindly excuse the poor spelling.

"Valakkumaarukku pattu kunjalam,a??"

man! :D :D

There are few things that come close to playing mindless internet games while a kitten is snuggled on ur belly... especially after a heavy lunch.

But, the evening beckons :) and promises to be as exciting as the last one.

090709

Thinking jobs suck ass.
Those who are currently thinking of what to do in the coming weekend, or what not to do, are privileged.
Those who are making up non existent depressions are even more privileged.
Unbridled non-thought is easiest when the reins are tugging.
But. One. Must. Desist.
Garlic butter with cheese cannot be put together easily.
Especially worse when someone charges you 150 and forces carbonated pot cleaners down your throat for minimum take away bill.
I. Shall. Stop. Now.

Grunt..

Its been 10 days now of non stop ridiculous slogging of ass and not doing things that bring people happiness like sleep and eat. But the bad times are scheduled to end. Sometime in the coming lifetime. And so one must look up and tell oneself stuff like this too shall pass.

And so with determined jaw and other body parts clenched tight... I set off to visit the capital. Having resolved to not delight my boss with a hatrick of innovative ways to miss flights.. i got there before time woke up for the day. And I was all geared up. Had everything in place. All my comfort material belongings. Or so I thought. Anyway. Boarding of flight happened and I proceeded to shamelessly chomp on my 'veg burger', giving the Jet Airways guys non-looks... utter indifference and lack of sensitivity to the other million office goers who were dying to dig into the cold breakfast that makes you instantly European and American at the same time - bread with cheese, a non-croissant and plastic cutlery for weapons. After the soul enriching gobbling of the worst things one can eat early in the morning, I felt sufficently deviant and hence, developed a slight teenage nonchalance. That was soon broken, when I realised that excel sheets were awaiting my sensual touch.

After reaching the age of 67, I landed in Delhi. It was a short and rather comfortable trip. Except for constant reminders of Mumbai fragrances 35000 feet high in the sky. Anyway, the real nasty and disgustingly bitchy part comes now.

Landed 2 hours too late, had my boss and other seniors WAITING for me to turn up. Entered the cab and began my ever so long journey to the head office. Work was rather interesting and fun because all I had to do was look like a zombie and people left me alone, except while they were pampering me with yummy homemade 17 varieties of The Roti, 2 varieties of The Bhindi, 4 varieties of The Aloo (inside, on the side, floating in oil, and just generally fried and lying around). And this goes FABULOUSLY with any vegetarian. Cos it largely is our entire menu laid out for us (minus the tamarind of course.. but then again, not everyone is perfect).

The ugly part of the evening happened from 4 until.. well, now. After multiple discussions on whether I needed the "Waingon R" now or later... I decided to go for it NOW. Obviously. I was rather dead and finding myself a comfortable little hole to die in was a good idea. So the NOW happened at around 530 pm along with 2 ladies who needed to be dropped. Fine. No problem. He said its a 15 minute deviation. And so I braced myself.. refused to breathe the dusty heat wave I was being inundated with.. and generally stay put.

There is no city or part of city I have disliked the moment I saw it. It isn't in me to dislike a place on such superficial terms. :D Or so I thought. Huge roads choc-a-bloc with traffic... and man! white Indicas and Ikons all around. White. Ugly. Indica. And. Ikon. Huge walls around. The metro is being built. Direct line to the airport. Wow. Wonderful planning. In fact everything is wonderfully planned. Lovely perfectly laid roads. Dust. No trees. Just mirages of them. And buildings. Tall and beige-d with accents of glass coated with purple metallic sun reflectors. Buildings like the drawings we made in class 3. Multiple rectangles with dark hollows. And hundreds of people living within. Looking out of those dark hollows. They can see us, but we cant see them. Each house reconstructed. One balcony closed up to extend the house. Another covered with potted plants. Another half closed, half open. One with clothes hanging. Another one with expesive hammock. A girl with red and white bangles all the way up to her elbows. Round, fair, hair middle parted.. red salwar kameez and blank stare. More buildings. And more Indicas. Then, houses. Swelling out into the very end of their 60 by 40 pieces of soil. Huge walls all around. Can't see nothing but concrete boundary walls. A peek into the massive thin iron gates with black floral designs. Cars. 3 of them parked one behind the other. Some houses didn't have cars parked. The people inside must be working. Huge beige brown doors. Chemically treated false balsa wood with Victorian carvings. And a brass dip knocker to boot. Every SINGLE house. No trees or even random weeds. But the door is there. Proud and shutting the world out, by mooning them at the same time. Look... and get disgusted. And rows and rows of them. Tall, well built, north Indian women in synthetic salwar kameez and henna-ed hair. And more cars. Dusty, scratched and pan stained. Fine whitish dust. All over. Rows of houses made of white marble tiles. Stuck together al around the edifice. Or a beige version of the same (to not let pollution take its toll).

An entire mega city of people displaying personalised mini taj mahals. Contemporarised too. Modern long lasting non wood. Smooth surfaces reflecting polished perfection via laminate. Laminated wood... with rings for design. Hey... it 'looks' like it came from a tree. And i reconstructed it... the right thickness for easy use. Fevicol-ing oakness on to our skin. The budget aristocrat. See. Me. Bigger. Whiter. Shinier. Deluded obsession with white outside. and only white. Huge white putty coated walls. And barbed wire on top. Guard the jewel. While showing it to everyone. White marble. White marble. White marble.

I'm sorry. I just couldn't take it. I know this isn't important to stuff like Life, The Universe and Everything, but I couldn't unstuck it from my mind.

I should focus on bigger things in life. Hmm...

More er...

I am ex-zeeba neighbaa..

Er...

Some parts of your childhood become visible only after they are over. And thank god for that It would be a terrible loss if you are always conscious of whats happening to you when it is happening to you.

And so I’m happy to say that I discovered I had always loved MJ… only when he was gone. When I spent the entire night working to videos of his greatest hits. And I realised I had not only caught most of em, I remembered every bit of the ones I had seen. The thing with MJ is that he was there before liberalisation brought us our daily diet of music. The idea of it was such a paradigm shift from what television was for us back then, it was almost a new philosophy to digest. And needless to say, it resulted in an immense feeling of satiation. Coming home from school… after the longest auto ride to the end of the city, punctuated with generous bumps on our backsides, my sis and I would get home, kick off our shoes (not too carelessly) and take our uncomfortable belts off. And suddenly the pinafore transformed into the most comfortable version of western clothing. And we’d sit waiting for my tired mum to freshen up and give us something fresh and hot to gorge on. And until then, we would gorge on MTV. The voluptuous Shefali would give us our daily dose of boy bands… telling us at the same time that it was not good music and it was for the under evolved. I would mentally brush off the hurtful remarks, cos who teh hell can come and tell me that the only outlet to a language I understood better than my mother tongue coming out from accented blonde pretty boys was bad and take it away from me??

And my sis and I would sit there crooning to them with our version of their lyrics, and ma would pop in and out telling us at which point of time they went off tune and which ones can sing and which ones cant. The idea of doctored songs and lyrics would hurt her. This isn’t music, she would say. How can you shamelessly sing when your voice has a smaller range than my husband’s snores!! (OK she didn’t say that, but I think I’m right.) Anyway, MTV became our daily unwind zone and suddenly without warning, the screen would burst open with a well facial-ed tiny nosed man who would sizzle across the scene and sing about things like colour and freedom and the environment. Man!! What all people think of?? And how do the faces keep changing like that? And what all he does!!! The man is a rubber band!!

And we’d watch spell bound.. a smile slowly growing on our faces.. ending with a glazed look once the song ended. Suddenly he would have a Kathak dancer that he would match steps with in Western style. Or there was an Egyptian queen with a familiar looking actor.. who was a bad guy!! Why did he agree to act like a loser?? And women wearing weird tribal clothes and dancing around like their bodies were no limitation to their minds.

Man, MJ was the first idea of a superstar that actually lived while we were there. Not like the selfish beatles who broke up before I came along. Who teased me with their voices.. and only later told me that a certain Mark Chapman had put an end to the voice I so loved. But the incessant playing of the tape on loop didn’t stop. My cousin had given us a 4 cassette album of the Beatles with radio interviews in teh middle. I knew every word uttered by every person, I matched faces to voices by listening over and over again. I picked favourites and dropped em… slowly graduating to the more introspective songs within the greatest htis album. I saw them progress from teenage heartthrobs to slightly more adult thinking men.. in that ONE album. I woke up every damn morning and played my favourite songs… jumping up adn down in bed EVERY morning… till I shook off the morning sleep and my body made peace with the unkind cold that was Bangalore. And the Beatles warmed my heart with every note in I wanna hold your hand. She love you I heard from a tape I filched from my friend. I was a lucky girl. I had 2 tape recorders.. and so i played it on one and recorded it on another.. buying an expensive 40 rupee tape and made the entire house shut up and breathe only in the loo. And i recorded and re-recorded lest I felt the sound seemed distant. I cursed the air that floated between the tape recorders… makingn them literally smooch each other during the transfer of the soul food.

And I wished every night that I would sleep and wake up in the 60s. A love that takes you without warning, never leaves you. And so the beatles never will. I never grew up to listen to Sgt. Pepper. I stuck to the dreamy happy Ringo Starr deep voice. I stuck to the giggly Mc Cartney, the slightly more reclusive Harrison and the intelligent cocky sounding Lennon. I LOVED each and every one of them. And I watched a movie on their escapades. And that night I cried. The men had become real. They had done all the things I thought I did with them in my dreams. They broke girls hearts… and more than one each. They told me that love and lust are two different things… and you might feel both at some point of time. They told me that you might hate what you love if it gets too much. That music actually changes over time. The tune you sing tells everyone who you are. And how you have changed. That music isnt only about nostalgia or pain or love emanating from the Archies greeting cards. Music can be intelligent. And they made me happy. They left me choked every night and made me feel an unusual longing for something I never understood.

But they were gone. Before I came. They will never know I existed. But then again, millions of people loved them. They were superstars. But look at MJ! He dances and sings and kicks ass at both. He smiles like a naughty child and has volume levels like “Are you Nuts??!” He romances a manly looking woman around dumpsters. he jumps up and down and stands very unlike a man. He croons and screams and gets to that kooky level that only teen girls might want to do. And he kicks ass!!

Many years later, a rock band did a cover of his song. Smooth criminal sang to quick guitar riffs. With a strong quick manly voice that kepy up. And Man!!! is music this open minded?? It lets you pimp it in any manner??? Whoa! I never liked ANY covers of the beatles. And I dare say I probably still wont. Despite knowing that my favourite tape had largely only covers themselves. Some Marvin gaye guy… who ever he was. But now, it actually sounded good. And slowly I learnt to allow people to do their stuff to original songs. Genuine labours of love actually elevated the original to a halo-ed space. And I slowly learnt to love them.

Music taught me about life. My version of life nonetheless. They did it to me within an enclosed locked space that was already gone. It sucked me in and let me goof around. Told me that cold weary boring mornings in class were just waiting time before I could run back in. Like the rough warmth of my brown sweater. They shaped my frail body and brought sensation to my spindly legs. Music penetrated my soul and never left.

I don’t understand arrogance about musical styles. Except when it is Bryan Adams. For some reason, I can’t stand him. Maybe its too easily unpoetic. And his voice is hardly worth crooning to. I don’t know. Maybe I was at the height of my teenage rebellion when I heard him. Whatever the reason, I don’t like him. But other artists, never insulted me so. Never ever. Its amazing that music can have so many faces and voices and personalities. And every piece is so powerful that it can steal my mind from me. Every damn time. Be it the thumpy Bhangra or Hip hop or pop ballads. I can’t stand rock ballads though. They straddle two worlds I can never see meeting.

Anyway, right now, I’m happy allowing the cloudy Mumbai skies to remind me of cold car rides in an old blue Maruti 800 with my dad playing MJ tunes thinking he was the Beatles. His inability to differentiate I never got. But I understand linking every piece of good sensation to the only band you knew you were listening to. BBC radio shows called Saturday night fever during the mid 60s I’m sure make a lasting impression.

Did I mention I love my job??

Thankfully, one matra is missing... :) But the next one takes the cake :D


P.S: Comments will be moderated :)