Spilling my guts

Why is it that the people who are the closest to you, can hurt you the most? Why is it that sometimes, no matter how much you do, it’s never enough? How is it that six members of one family can be so diabolically different from each other, that often it’s like they’re speaking different languages? Why is it easiest to hurt and be cruel to the ones we apparently love the most?

Many people tell me that they like my blog because it’s honest and simple. Others have told me that they are surprised I can bare it all on such a public forum. Still others have accused me of using this blog for personal gain. Well, to the people who enjoy reading my posts, thank you. And I will continue to be honest and spill my heart’s contents out. That was the intention of the blog, to begin with. And those who believe that I’m using this blog for personal gains, well, either you can stop reading, or keep reading knowing that that is probably true. It’s my blog and I’ll do whatever the hell I want with it.

People say, and I harp on this most often, that the secret to the success of any relationship, be it with your partner, parents, friends or siblings, is communication. If you’re upset, talk about it. Discuss the issue as soon as possible and move past it. Dwelling on it simply hurts more and increases the distance between the two people.

And yet, as I grow older, I find that I am no longer able to do this. Partly, I think, because talking or telling the person when and why I am upset, has yielded no result whatsoever, and partly because it becomes an effort to deal with these situations. When you have to travel a good deal to work all day and shoulder all sorts of external stress, is personal duress really welcome? Not at all. So what do I do? I avoid. And so does the other person, because clearly I’m not the only one opting for this easy way out. Does it help? No. Do I feel better? Obviously not. Does it make a difference? I doubt.  

Sometimes, the people you want to look up to, or those you looked up to as a child, have the strongest ability to crush your spirit, like a parent or a guardian or even a teacher. Sometimes, the support you were looking for all your life in one person or certain people, that you believe you have found, turns around and slaps you in the face, hard, reminding you that you are but alone. (Woe)man up!

I had a dream about my grandfather yet again last night. Don’t think that I never got mad at or annoyed with him. We fought plenty. But the truth is that he was and continues to be the only man ever in my life that I could lean on 100 per cent. That is, till he fell and I fell with him. It’s been almost nine years and I’m still trying to get up and find my bearings again. I think whenever I get lonely, sad or angry, he pays me a visit, to remind me that he still is there, somewhere, somehow.

I’ve gotten very good at taking care of myself. What choice do I have? It’s easy to pay up, day after day, year after year, in ‘support’ of someone you apparently love. But being by his or her side, and providing the kind of support that they actually are looking for apparently is near impossible. Or perhaps I expect too much. Or maybe I’m unreasonable in my demands. The man spoiled me, what can I say?

Advice: If you love someone, talk to him or her. If you’re angry, yell at him or her. If you want to be cruel to someone you love, hold back. Cruelty may make you feel better momentarily, but it will drive a wedge between you two forever. 

Random

Haven’t posted in a while so lots of thoughts on various tangents are running through my mind. Hence please excuse the randomness.

Parent-child

Have you noticed that as we grow older, there’s a certain amount of role reversal that happens with our parents or guardians? They take care of us all our lives, till we’re old enough to take care of ourselves. And then suddenly, it’s us who start taking care of them; watching them grow old, frail and generally losing control of their bodies and minds--difficult, to put it mildly. But then we can’t really sit with our hands in our heads, feeling sorry for them and ourselves—we have to get up and take charge, and take care of them to our best capacity. The only problem is that once these so-called adult parents reach that age, they regress mentally. As they grow older, they become more stubborn and child-like, which makes the treatment that much harder. So now, not only are you fighting against the illness, you are literally fighting against them too!

I was too young when my granddad succumbed. Not too young to feel the pain of loss, which still gnaws at me till this very day, but too young to do anything about it or to have taken care of him. But he too, was a stubborn old man. I remember that exactly a year before he left, he had a massive heart attack and had to spend over a week in the hospital. Which also meant he had to spend over a week away from work (the man worked way past his age of retirement, all the way till the day he died). The day he was shifted from the ICU to a regular room, he made me give him my cellphone and teach him how to operate it so that he could call his office. I was stupid enough to give it to him, too. Of course, after that I was soundly given many earfuls of trauma from just about anyone and everyone. But that’s who he was. And I hated saying no to him.

Hospitals are the least fun places in the world. With words like death, dead bodies, patients, diseases, doctors and many more depressing ones being thrown around regularly, and the visible dents those roller beds make in the elevators, it’s a miracle that even visitors, doctors and admin staff don’t faint or contract something.

Write or wrong?

I’ve been a writer for a fair number of years and till date, I still question my skills as one. While freelancing, I would regular pour over my pieces wondering whether they were good enough for the publication I was sending them to—whether they would all hover over the computer and laugh at some silly mistake I had made or at my amateur-esque style. Don’t get me wrong; I know this is what I’m meant to do, and I absolutely love it, but still, there are moments of self-doubt and deprecation. So when I receive articles, written by writers who have apparently been writing for years, which are full of grammatical, spelling and even tense errors and with no style so to speak, I am amazed. Some writers don’t even give their piece a final read-through or a spellcheck before sending it in. So you find random spelling errors, punctuation that is all over the place and sentences that make no sense whatsoever. Really? 
I know many people think that the clean-up job is that of the editor’s, which is undoubtedly true. But the editor’s clean-up job is to spruce up the copy to complement the publication’s style sheet, not to correct basic, second grade language. Yes, I am simply venting out pure frustration. A request to any writer who may read this: before submitting your copy to anyone, whether you’re a freelancer or on payroll, do a basic spellcheck and a read-through, and check whether the sentences make sense. After your article is published, compare the final edited copy to your original one and see if you can learn from the mistakes, rather than make the same mistakes again, and thereby lose your job. Take pride in what you write, after all, your name goes on it, but don’t get smothered in unwarranted self-confidence. I mean all this in the nicest possible way. 

Ash RB

What is up with Aishwarya? And I mean what is up with her size and what is up with the media going ballistic about it? Yes, sounds ironic, double standard-ed and hypocritical, no? Every time I have set eyes on Aishwarya in the last few months, I am amazed at how huge she’s become. I mean I know many new moms and they look nothing like her. Yet, somewhere, as a woman, I am also enraged at how much kachra people have been throwing at her with regard to her weight. Dude she’s (apparently and open to debate) happily married, blissfully happy as a new mom and ok with being fat. Leave her alone, right?

And yet, when I saw her in that Elie Saab at Cannes, where many have lauded her for being daring yet beautiful, I just felt terrible and all I could think was, “How did that happen? How did she get so huge?” I feel like a very bad person. Oh well, if you’re in the limelight, you’ve got to get used to the criticism. She doesn’t seem to care, so meh.

Indecision is my middle name

For most people, the prospect of going out of for dinner is a pleasant one, whether with friends, family or on a date. For me, it’s a little different. When I am asked to decide on the dinner venue, I come close to panicking. Even worse is when I’m asked to order, for myself or the others at the table. And this holds true for just about any decision I am asked to or need to take in life. Panic.

Why? Why is it so much more difficult for some people than others to make decisions? Why is it that some people know exactly where to go on a Friday night, what to wear to work in the morning, where to go on a weekend trip or whether or not to move? While others…like yours truly…just pass everything off saying, “I don’t do decisions.”

I’m trying to figure out why I have this phobia and handicap of making decisions. Is it because I’m scared of the consequences, and since it is my own decision, I won’t be able to blame the post-decision mess on anyone else? Or is it just that choice is difficult for me? In fact, I don’t even like going shopping alone. Although I’m not one of those psychos who spends hours trying out a gazillion different kinds of clothes, I do need some amount of reassurance or another person’s opinion before I can commit to spending money on something.

Given the above, you can well imagine how difficult it is for me to make serious, heavy-duty life decisions. I think the only decision that I can remember taking without a single moment of doubt was the move to Bombay. Of course, after moving there have been and continue to be several moments of confusion, when the city drives me nuts and I just want to get the hell out of it. But I did get out of it for a year and then realised that this is where I belong. But since then, switching jobs and switching homes have been ridiculously difficult decisions to make. And sleeping over it doesn’t quite work with me. I pass out, wake up and am still indecisive.

I think the universal debate on destiny versus choices is appropriate here. I am a strong believer in destiny, while interestingly enough, my significant other is a staunch believer in choices. I think I believe in a little bit of both, though. I think that destiny offers us a few choices, then leaves us to make those choices, after which again, she takes over. So really, not much is in our hands. Then, why does it feel like the burden of which direction our lives will turn is upon our not-so-strong shoulders?

Clearly, I am once again at the crossroads of a decision. Life is constantly throwing these things at me. I want to be dramatic and say and that I’m the ONLY one who is constantly going through some stressful, decision-making situation or the other, but my brain is telling me that that is not true. I’ve begun to follow my gut, as far as making decisions go. And I’ve learnt, especially recently, that my gut is often right. This is, of course, peppered with the opinions of those who matter to me. But really, can’t I just hire someone to make my decisions for me? Not that I have the money to hire someone, but the thought is pleasant, isn’t it? Till then, I guess it will have to be lots of phone calls, some long-distance ones to London and New York, to get me by. Sigh. 

Foodie much

It’s been a while since I last posted. I can’t decide whether I’ve genuinely been that busy or that since the sorrow in my life has reduced, I’m lacking inspiration. Hmm. Work has been crazy. Sending a magazine to print pretty much on your own is a rather Herculean task, if I do say so myself. But I can’t say that I don’t enjoy it, stress et al. And yes, the gut-wrenching pain is on its way out – most of you know why. J

This post is about food. My sister, a total foodie, asked me a while ago to write about food. And now I feel like this would be bang-on appropriate because all I think about nowadays is yum non-vegetarian food. It’s not that my consumption of food has increased greatly, though in my eyes my waistline is constantly expanding. But all day, every day I think “What will I eat today? I am hungry. What yumness can I consume today?” I’m beginning to think I may have a problem. Oh well, we all do, don’t we?

Nowadays, I mostly think about chicken-curry-and-rice kind of meals. Blame it on the Bong in me. My friend recently told me that I eat rice like a chaashi (villager/farmer). After initially feeling insulted, I realised this was, in fact, true, especially on Sunday afternoons. And I’m no longer ashamed of it.

The last really good meal I had (that I can recall) was at Jumjoji, the new-ish Parsi restaurant in Bandra. There was chicken and there was rice – what else do I need? The flavours were distinctly bawa and my company was great too. Hence a wonderful meal.

I’ve also been craving Goan food lately – like the oily Goan Sausages, or Chicken Cafreal – with rice of course! The plan currently stands at visiting Goa Portugesa soon, not sure when though but it must be soon.

I’ve also been suggested this Kashmiri restaurant called Poush, though I have been warned, in the same breath, that the food will be spicy. Ah, what the hell; I’m willing to take the risk.

Oh oh oh! Arsalan, Kolkata’s awesomely famous biriyani place has opened in Bombay and made me a very happy camper. Though the restaurant itself is way too swanky, the food is just like home – to die for. That is the other last memorable meal I had – Chicken Biriyani a la Kolkata, Mutton Chanp and Reshmi Kebab. Slurp.

My sister is coming home after five years this August. We both intend to eat a lot, so I must find the best places for us to visit, gorge on and thereby get fatter. So, if you have any suggestions, please feel free!

And let’s go for dinner sometime, shall we? ;)

  

Nostalgia

Statutory warning: This is a very random post.

Nostalgia is happening. Very random memories and people from my past are dropping on me like bombs – I still don’t know whether they are good bombs or bad. I suddenly picture us, “The Fantastic Four”, cooking at Jodhpur Park, sneaking up on each other stealing uncooked ingredients. Honestly, we barely cooked, Shyamali mashi did most of the work – but today, when I cook in my own kitchen, that was still the most fun culinary experience I’ve had.

Two ex-roommates from years ago have suddenly dropped by my life again, like dropping in on a neighbour, claiming to miss me and all the fun we’ve had. Much like my relationships, my roommate history has also been turbulent. Well, when you are a gypsy living in a city for seven years, that’s bound to happen, right? I have lived with a grand total of eleven people (including roommates and the then boyfriend) between Mumbai and Chennai in the last seven years. And I’m moving for the seventh time soon. No mean feat.

With each, no doubt, there were more than some merry times. Community living, as we called it. Also, living on your own in the city frees you from many restrictions as well. When I pass by the Bandra highways, or Carter Road and Bandstand, I truly feel for all the couples who have to show their intimacy in such public spots. I mean, if both people in the relationship live with family, what do you do? And don’t frown at the concept of a kiss, sex or general intimacy in a relationship – please lead the elephant out of the room. Hello, we are the land of Kamasutra! I’ve been lucky that in all my years of boy-intimacy, I’ve never had to resort to public displays of private affection. Unless, of course, it was deliberate.

But I wonder why the sea brings out of us this ridiculous sappiness. When I first came to Bombay, I was thrilled at the thought of having access to the sea regularly. Which is ironic, given that I’m scared of water and not a swimmer. Still. When I lived in the cubby pigeonhole of a PG in Marine Lines, I walked down Marine Drive almost every day, all the way till Nariman Point. It didn’t do much for my weight, but it was my escape, my purging sessions. Sitting there facing the ocean, I could often feel my boy-troubles, family-troubles, homesickness and friend-troubles disappearing into the waves. Knowing that the Middle East was just across this sea also excited me. I’m not sure why, it just did.

When I took my then-boyfriend-now-best-friend to Marine Drive to experience what I had, and maybe share a romantic moment, all he could say was, “It smells here.” So much for that.

A few years later, when I used to work in Worli, my friend and I would often drive down to Worli sea face after work, and sit and vent to each other. Work, love et al. Unfortunately, love, as you can guess, has always been a problem area. 

More recently, I remember all too clearly splashing in the waves at Kelwa, a beach destination ahead of Virar, and in Pondicherry. Just him and me. Both scared of water, both can’t swim, both giggling and taking photographs like children. Purge.

There’s a lot more nostalgia where the last one came from. Unfortunately, no amount of alcohol can erase memories you make, that you want to keep and that you never want to forget. Memories of your first real, committed, long-term relationship. Well, at least for the women, I know, it can’t be done. Men deal differently with pain. I get it. But nostalgia is human – it can catch you anywhere, anytime, when you least expect it, whether you’re a boy or a girl pining in and for love. Sometimes even in the acronym of a bank that has decided to up its visibility. You just never know.

P.s. – Given the amount I talk, I hate cold wars. They suck. 

Ahoy Matey!

What I love about Bombay is that there’s never a dearth of options. There’s always something to do to make sure you have a fun day / week / weekend. Pubs, bars, clubs, movies, theatre - the works. And sometimes you can go sailing. Yep, that’s what I did this Saturday afternoon. I went sailing.

My friend from work, Viraf, is a regular sailor – yes, that’s what I want to call him. He’s been doing this for years and has even introduced his sons, all of five and three respectively, to the sport. He’s been telling me for weeks to join him, so I finally did, this Saturday – as part of my ‘let’s try new, different and fun things in life’ plan. I invited my college buddy Danny to come along too, since he had just given his GMAT and needed a fun break.

We set off from the Gateway of India jetty around 4:30 in the evening, the sun blazing on our heads. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I’m quite scared of water, more so because I can’t swim. I also get seasick when travelling by ferry to Alibaug. Having said that, I have also jumped into the rushing and gushing Ganga on a backpacking trip a few years ago – white water rafting, as it is called.

So there we were, cautiously stepping into a dingy that would take us to the sailboat. A few minutes later, I was grabbing both my friends’ hands and stepping into the motor-less sailboat that even has a boom! Kingfisher, as the sailboat was aptly called.

The winds were crazy and the waves lapped dangerously onto our boat. And yet, I felt no fear. There was no giddiness since I had taken a strong anti-seasickness pill that worked wonders. We were out in the open seas, the cool salt water splashing against us, the salty wind settling in our hair. We popped open some beers and munched on snacks as we passed a number of other sailors and literally sailed towards the sunset.

But the highlight of the trip was yet to come. On our way back, we (well, Viraf and the boat’s caretaker) let the winds sail us back. However, we were soon moving towards a giant Navy ship that looked daunting in its mere presence. Before we knew it, we heard someone call out on a megaphone ‘door jao’ (move away). The boat quickly had to be turned so that we could sail back to land far away from this magnificent hunk of steel. We were shooed away by the Navy! Uber cool!

Soon, we were nearing land and were on calmer waters. Right before we disembarked our dingy at the jetty, we saw a Dominoes delivery boy, delivering pizza to a boat. Seriously, anything is possible in Bombay!

The rest of the weekend was also great, with a dinner here, a pub there and a play to close it up. But the sailing experience was truly exhilarating. I felt the stress and pain of my real life melting away as the Arabian Sea ebbed and flowed against the boat. And all I could think was “Now, this is the life.”

I should be so lucky...

If you’ve grown up in the 1990s or have older siblings, then you have probably heard Kylie Minogue’s happy song “I should be so lucky in love”. I’ve loved this song ever since I was a kid. Thanks to my sister, I was exposed to all sorts of interesting international music from a young age (remember Informer?). In fact, I still love this song. I have no faith in its lyrics, but nonetheless.

However, I do feel lucky in friendship. My oldest friends are my three besties from when we were about six years old and about two feet tall. The years have rolled by, the heights have barely changed, but we still remain ‘The Fantastic Four”. The other day a friend of mine was asking, “How are you still in touch with your school friends?” Well, I guess I’m just lucky.

We all enjoy hanging out with friends to laugh, party, eat and drink. But it’s only when you are at your lowest low that you find out how lucky (or not) you are to have these friends. While I go through a difficult phase in my life, I have friends from all over the world calling and mailing me to check up on me. I opened my eyes this morning to an email from a friend I haven’t seen in over two years. And yet, her name popped up in my inbox when I’m having trouble.

I am truly lucky. I have friends who have become so close that they are now family. I also have a family who I have chosen to be friends with – my sister and my mother (the fights et al).

The funny thing is, we’re all looking for companionship, for that soulmate who will finally get us and never let us go. And the truth also is, that someday they will let us go. You can never really know what a person is like. They weren’t kidding when they said that it takes a lifetime to get to know someone; forever to earn someone’s trust and just a moment to break it. But the truth is, we already have so many companions and soulmates in our friends and family – people who will drop everything and rush to your side just to hear you rant or wipe the snot off your nose while you’re bawling away. Or even come out drinking with you to give you company, even though he or she may not even consume a sip since it’s Lent.

The truth is, boys and girls will come and go, but friends will stay rooted to the spot. I’ve realised it’s much easier to break a heart and be cruel to someone you once were in love with than give up on a solid friendship. You fight, scream and cry, and then go out drinking again. And what’s even funnier is that I’m sure my guy friends have broken hearts too, but when it’s my heart that’s been broken, they’d like to break a jaw.

I may not be lucky in love. But I sure as hell am lucky with friends. And the number of views I get on my ranting-much blog is testament to that. I love Kylie Minogue. I want to dance with her and all my besties in colourful tights and striped, oversized shirts.