A walk in the clouds.. » I, Me & Myself

The me is back!

Megha — Fri, 05 Oct 2007 21:30:55 +0000

We’re back! Erm. Eeeps. Sorry. No really. We are not going to make any excuses this time. (Mostly cos we have none.) Instead we’ll just start talking furiously, distract you with words and hope that you will not notice that we were gone. So yes, we came back from our trip (it wasn’t THAT long to begin with, you know) and a few weeks after that, came down with a mysterious tummy-ache. We say mysterious cos three doctors of different shapes, sizes and specializations couldn’t figure out what was wrong with us over three different days. (Not one doctor per day, mind you.) Led to conversations like —

Doc: Does it hurt?
Me: Ow. Yes.
Doc: Does it hurt here?
Me: Ow. Yes.
Doc: Which of the two hurts more?
Me: @#$^&!!
Doc: Okay, so it hurts equally, I guess?

Anyhoo, tests had to be done and unpleasant body fluids had to be collected —

Doc: I will need a urine sample.
Me: I’m sorry, I don’t pee on demand. I have already stripped on demand, but pee on demand, that is something I cannot manage. I have morals and all that.

Doc: Er, okay. I’ll just leave this cup here then.

Backup doc: That was funny! You should come here more often!
Me: Er, no?
She: No?
Me: This is a hospital?
She: Oh. Right.

Tsk. After all that, we were sent home with antibiotics for a sinus infection. Huh. All in our head. Literally.

And oh yes, the trip was incredible and we have a lot to say and show for it. We must thank you all for not giving up on us while we were languishing in pain. We weren’t in pain as much as discomfort, but if pain is what will stop you from being hard on us, pain it shall be. Your pokes (unlike the doctor’s), prods, reminders, cajoling, taunts and polite enquiries are all very appreciated.

Particular credit must be given to our judwa-behen (who we affectionately call JB. No we are not very creative when we are affectionate, I suppose) who provided us with sympathetic pat-pats while we whined. And the Dog for that reprimand we got in our commentspace. As our maatashri always says, sticks and stones have never broken our bones but a ‘What have you got to say for yourself, young lady!’ in a stern voice, always gets results. And to the Lou-puddle who was convinced that we never went to Europe, and that we made it up just to avoid posting. Such unshakeable faith, I tell ya. And the self-confessed crotchety geriatric who optimistically asked us if we died or something. Warmed the cockles of our heart, it did. With love like this, we’d even come back from the dead, all Om Shanti Om types. Ah yes, that is what we are going to write about next.

Did we mention it is good to be back?

A block by any other name is equally annoying

Megha — Wed, 10 Jan 2007 17:00:40 +0000

You know how you sometimes have good friends you fall out of touch with? The longer you go without calling them, the more you think about how awkward it will be when you do call, and so you put it off some more? Eventually you wake up one morning to realize that its been months/years/copious-quantities- of-time and now you’re too lazy to change things? Yes, me and my blog have lately been like that only, although drawing parallels between my blog and a close friend probably alludes to a cuckoo-ness and lack-of-life that I shall cleverly not get into.

A regular reader gently brought it to my notice that this is the first time that a whole month has gone by and I have not written anything. Big whoop, I said. Then another reader not-so-kindly pointed out that I am supposed to be a bunny rabbit, not a bear, so could I please stop hibernating? Oh, oops, I said, slowly starting to see the point. I guess I haven’t written. And I guess a blog is a blog only if the blogger actually blogs on it. So .. um .. er .. *gulp*

But to be fair, I *have* noticed. Every day I tell myself, that I shall snap out of this, write something spectacular and the darn block will be gone. Poof! Like that! Except for one minor matter. I can’t think of anything spectacular. Or non-spectacular even. Gah. I look around to see how people do it. Some write about things on their mind but I checked and there’s not much going on there. (Ah, the price of shallowness.) A silly verse about my inability to write might work. But that’s already been done. And there’s the kind that write pseudo-intellectual stuff using the season as a metaphor .. Oh wait, that was me. Never mind.

So anyway, I’ve decided to do something different and place my faith in my dear readers. (Yes, those handful of you who still read this blog.) - Pliss to suggest something to write about? Anything, anything at all. Ooh-aah-ing about music, cheesy movie reviews, ways to cause bodily harm to Mika Singh, ten things that annoy me, photoblogs with pretty fall pictures that I promised once upon a time, the importance of ichhadhari nagins in Hindi movies .. any earth-shattering issue of global importance that you think I ought to have an opinion on. You tell and I’ll write.

Here’s wishing you all a warm and wonderful new year. Now give me ideas.

Thodaa khaao thodaa phenko

Megha — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 04:30:46 +0000

This started out as a response to Vivek’s comment on my previous post. So you should go read his comment first. It is nicely written, plus this post will make a whole lot more sense to you, if you do. Of course, this response began as a quick walk to the corner store, but seeing as it has has quickly assumed Dandi march proportions, it has become a post.

So here’s the thing. I am not much of a ranter on my blog. In the one-hundred-thirty odd posts that I have on this blog, about four of them qualify as rants. But every time I rant, I don’t think it is necessary that I be subjected to the ‘Why did you react to them? You shouldn’t let them affect you so much’ response. I know it is well-intentioned and I agree that one shouldn’t get worked up over trivial things. I also understand that hate commenters do what they do because they believe that negative attention is better than no attention. What is also known as the Mika Singh school of public relations.

But the truth is, I am really not worked up. I rant, because ranting is fun. I am not deeply affected by the nasty comments people leave me. I’m far too shallow for that. I spent about five minutes of my life writing the previous post. Now perhaps, the vitriol in that post made you believe I was very angry? That my blood pressure shot up a couple of points cos someone asked me the color of my lingerie? If that is the impression you got, then it is a wrong one. I mock the people that annoy me, not out of anger, but for amusement. It is a cathartic experience, to say the least, so pliss to let me have my fun?

Also, my rant was not against comment SPAM, as has been mistakenly assumed. These are not comments with helpful suggestions on where I can buy sleeping pills and Viagra. (I do wonder though, why anyone would need both of those at the same time. But I digress.) These are not penis enlargement offers, nor are these comments selling me videos of zebra sex. (Don’t even ask.) These are actual people, with blogs of their own, who leave hate comments. So why don’t I link to them when I rant against them? That would be a very good question to ask, if you were to ask it. But I have an answer. (Of course I do. Nobody calls a question a good question, unless they have a ready answer to it. Duh!) The reasons are two — a) I am reacting to what these people say to me and not who they are b) I am not going to link to them and give them more traffic. So phooey.

You talk about technology on your blog, because YOU believe it is what you do best. Not because your reader Joe Mama believes so. (Joe Mama, son of Vasco Da Gama, who went to the drama, without a pajama .. No? None of you ever learnt that rhyme as a kid? Deprived childhood, tsk tsk.) You write what you write, because YOU would like your blog to be technology-centric. But I call my blog a personal blog. Not a humor blog or a movie blog or a PJ blog. Just a personal blog. I crack a silly joke. I get sentimental about a song. I get excited about a cheesy movie. And I get annoyed by a hate commenter. It is all me. And my annoyance, much like my silliness or my humor, rightfully belongs on my blog. My priority for my blog, if I were to ever come up with one — is to be myself and try to write decently. As long as that’s achieved, there’s no other priorities that I need to change.

You’ve read my ‘light-hearted’ posts for a while now, but have never commented. But this time, I wrote something you did not like, and you made an exception to your no-comment habit. You delurked and reacted. You also realized that your comment isn’t going to change what I write on my blog, but you still felt it necessary to say how you felt about it. You spoke up because you didn’t like what you read. Then why is it so hard to accept when I do the same thing? And on my own blog, at that?

There. The customary post for the week is done. Now I shall go back to my rabbit-hole where, staying in the spirit of the post, I shall watch the K C Bokadia classic Kab Tak Chup Rahoongi (1988), starring stud-boy-of-the-80s Aditya Pancholi and Amala. Sigh. Silence sometimes has such a terrible price to pay.

Bah

Megha — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 01:30:08 +0000

To the dear readers of this blog who wish that I did not exist —

I know how much you like to use the commentspace of my blog as your personal stage to demonstrate how very full of crap you are. But let me break your heart and tell you about that clever little thing called comment moderation. It exists in the general blogosphere, and it certainly exists on this blog. So you can leave me comments about what you think about my various body-parts and what you believe is a better function for them, but those comments won’t see the light of day. So boo hoo for you.

If you have to ask a girl in the commentspace of her blog, about the color of her lingerie and whether she will have sex with you, there is a 137% chance that you will be be spending the rest of your life alone. Then again, you manage to question Darwinism with your existence, so it is only understandable that you try to shake the foundations of probability while you’re at it.

When you want to tell me how pathetic you think I am, please get your basic grammar and spelling right. The purpose of insulting someone, is to insult them, not amuse them. If I am pointing at the screen, holding my tummy, and cackling, it would be reasonably fair to say that the purpose of your insult is lost. A recent example — Have anyonee ever told you that you sucks? Rod Stewart should perhaps compose a song about that.

Seeing as it is so easy to click away from a website that you don’t like, there are only two theories as to why people take the time to visit someone’s blog over and over, just to tell them how much they hate them — a) They were not spanked enough as a child b) They were spanked plenty as a child and have grown to crave it in their adulthood as well. Ooh, such a tough choice that.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears

Megha — Fri, 11 Aug 2006 05:00:54 +0000

Hello, howdy, hola and other assorted greetings. Having abandoned this blog for a month, I know it is a bit much to expect that any of you are around, reading it. But since when have I let reality come in the way of what I do here? Plus what is the point of having imaginary friends in one’s kidhood if one cannot parlay the skill into conversations with my non-existent readers? So I shall continue.

Yes, the me is back. And the me is sick. Of course, my disappearance had nothing to do with being sick, but I am naturally going to milk it for its worth. So instead of giving me grief for vanishing, please to be all sweet and sympathetic. Thankoo.

So, about being sick. No I don’t have a nice cough and cold that allows me to speak funkily. I was looking forward to the I god a gold, snibble, thangoo routine, but nopes, no ah-choos for me. I also haven’t broken an arm or a leg so I can proudly show off my cast and elicit sympathy and perhaps some celebrity autographs. Instead I am stuck with something that hurts like hell but has no grandeur associated with it. An ear infection. Now, the last two people I mentioned that to, have reacted with a Really? I thought only kids got ear infections? Aww, that explains how you got one, snigger snigger. Not funny the first time. Not funny the fortieth time. So stuff it.

And then there was the doctor’s visit. First, the nurse who moonlights as a jackhammer operator —

Nurse: *cheerily* Hello!
Me: *gloomily* Hi..
Nurse: So how are we doing today?
Me: Not too well .. *holding left ear in pain* .. my ear hurts like hell.
Nurse: Aww, do you have a fever too?
Me: Yep.
Nurse: Let me see your temperature ..

*pulls out an ear thermometer and *wham* into my left ear*

Me: Owwwww! (okay, so there were a few unprintables too.)
Nurse: Aww, that’s the painful ear, isn’t it?
Me: Duh?
Nurse: Aww, did that hurt a lot?
Me: Um .. er .. well .. now that you mention it .. HELL YEAH!
Nurse: Aww, you must think I’m some sort of an idiot, eh?
Me: *weak smile and stifling my urge to be honest* Er .. heh.

After the idiot nurse, came the medical resident who couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, who called the senior resident who then called the attending doc who called the senior attending, who finally called the chief of medicine. Well okay, maybe not the last part, but the rest pretty much happened. (I was meanwhile trying to figure out which actors on ER play each of those roles. Is a fun exercise, if one if ever stuck in a hoppital.) Soon a bunch of identical looking docs in identical looking coats were tugging at my ear and shining a light into it, while I furiously made shadow puppets against the wall on the other side.

Doc: What do you think you are doing?
Me: Making shadow puppets with my fingers? See? *making a dog to demonstrate*
Doc: *looking at me wondering just how extensive this infection is* Huh?
Me: You’re shining a light here? Head empty? Light emerges at other end, yes?
Doc: *weak smile* Could you please put your hand down?

Tchah. No sense of humor only, these boring lab coats have.

Anyway after some conversation that involved highfalutin lines like ‘that is indeed an unusual manifestation of a , but I concur with your initial diagnosis that this is an inflammation of the ’, several test-tubes of blood were drawn and I was sent home to live in a drug-induced haze for the next ten days. And the worst of it all — with a warning to not be around loud noises and music. So, if I murjhaofy like a phulwa that has been denied water, because of the lack of music in my life, you know whom to blame. Dr Song, that’s who. Yep, that’s my doc. Talk about cosmic irony.

Vishesh Tippani

Megha — Tue, 16 May 2006 21:00:05 +0000

Someone remarked recently about a dearth of Pancham related writing on my blog. For someone whose music I obsess about, I don’t seem to write enough dedicated posts gushing praise about him, pledging to name my first-born after him and such. The latter though, is an issue, not for a lack of love for Pancham but because a name has already been picked for the purpose. Yesh, like all girls, I too, have gazed wistfully ahead and picked a name for the futuristic apple of its maa ki aankh. Or rather, maa ki aaaunkkk if you are a Rajnikanth in Chaalbaaz (1989) fan.

So I’m thinking, that the kid should be called — ta-da! — Vishesh Tippani. Yesh. Mera naam Vishesh. Baap ka naam Tippani. That way, everytime people ask for my opinion, I have something to offer.

Person: Can I have your vishesh tippani (expert opinion) on this matter?
Me: *promptly deposit wailing baby in bewildered person’s lap*

Nice, no? We can call it Vishy for short or VT. (No, not Victoria Terminus — the Bombay station that sounds like a disease that killed the queen.) C’mon now, it’s not that bad. Just to put things in perspective for you, prior to the Vishy idea, we were considering naming them Kid1, Kid2 and so on. Or if we’re being gender-specific maybe, Dude1, Dudette2. So Vishy is pretty much an upgrade, we think.

Seeing as this kid will obviously grow up with matricidal tendencies, some of you readers are probably concerned about my future well-being. Not to fikar. It is inevitable that the kid is going to hate its mother for a zillion other things, so a couple of things here and there won’t matter. Really. And if you are feeling particularly sympathetic towards the kid, console yourself with Shakespeare’s ‘What’s in a name?’ Then again, with a name like Will Shakespeare, he probably stood in the schoolyard as a teenager, with a bullseye painted on him, so it is only understandable that he had a somewhat unemotional view of things.

Coming back to the person we are not naming our kid after — this post has gotten long enough already, so we’ll return in a few days with more gushing about his music. No no, we promise it won’t be weeks. The thumbtack of your waiting has started to prick at our balloon of conscience plenty, so we’ll be back much sooner. Really. Vishy ki kasam!

ps .. No, Vishy is NOT on his way. Don’t even THINK of asking, else heads will roll. Thankoo very much.

Eh? M?

Megha — Mon, 20 Mar 2006 05:30:05 +0000

Conversations with friends have led to the realization that we come across way too friendly on the blog. Not that it is an entirely bad thing, mind you. The whole ‘Wheee! Look at me! I’m such a sprightly bunny rabbit! Don’t you want to be my friend?’ image has led to many an offer of gaajar halwa to be sent our way. But one has decided that one wants to be more enigmatic ‘Ahem, don’t you want to get to know me more?’ types. So one went scouting around the blogosphere and quickly gleaned some useful tips from several popular female bloggers on how to increase one’s sex appeal. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you —

First — the dragon tattoo on my hip.

(Yes my hip, not a tree trunk. And yes that is fire. No not fishies an underwater dragon is chasing after, but fire. Snort. And yes it is wearing white gloves. A dragon with a fashion sense, of course! And we’re rather proud of the Vulcan ears, yes.)

Second — a mysterious peek-a-boo glimpse. And no, I was not having a bad hair day, thank you very much.

There. All the imagery firmly in place. La-di-da!

Grateful acknowledgements to eM, IdeaSmith, Rimi and Neha. And to Heh Heh for showing us how a lot can be said with just a demented picture.

FA-Q

Megha — Mon, 20 Feb 2006 05:00:46 +0000

Brevity has never been the soul of our wit. Yes, soul-less wit, that’s us. Not to be confused with a wit-less soul. Okay, token silly wordplay over. So yes, this post is just a wee bit long. But, the time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things, and so it will have to be done. Oh and by the way — this is not for the weak-hearted, impressionable-of-age and bearing-of-child. Heh heh.

You’d think it is a foregone conclusion that the people who read this blog actually want to read this blog? Amazingly enough, no. Apparently, a lot of people who find me annoyingly cute and find my writing suicide-inspiring also read this blog. Yippee-de-doo! And no no. Not just read it and go back to infest the dungeons they inhabit. Nosiree. Instead they visit an ungodly twenty-three times a day, post comments full of pimply angst and dutifully check back every few minutes to see if I’ve kicked their asses nine ways to Nairobi. And you know how we hate to disappoint.

So yes, excruciating love and affection of certain peoples has been compelling them to pepper the blogosphere with sweet nothings about me and my blog, since a while now. My non-controversial, couldn’t hurt a fly if it tried blog. Damn, I can’t even say that with a straight face. Ah well. Some nasties are in posts written about me, some in comments on other people’s blogs and some via email. And of course, how can I leave out my most favorite kind? My dah’lings — my anonymous commenters. Yeah, wayyy too much loving, I tell you! So here you go. All the things you wanted to know but were afraid to ask. At least in public.

Q: Are you real or imaginary?
A: I am complex.
Q: Is Megha your real name?
A: No. I am Pentakumari Pamulaparthi. I realized Megha was cooler, so I went with that instead. And before you ask, no I am not related to P V Narasimha Rao. Yep, that’s what the P in his name stands for.
Q: Are you single?
A: Viktorrr .. hunny bunny! This one’s for you!
Q: Do you have a life other than your blog?
A: Yes, multiples ones, in fact. A convenient side-effect of having multiple personalities.
Q: Why are you so full of yourself?
A: Aren’t you? How sad. I for one, find it a wonderful way to ignore everyone else who is full of themselves. In any case, would you rather be full of me, instead?

My writing

Q: This blog is so annoyingly silly and pointless.
A: Yeah, it is. So? Why does it bug you if I am frivolous? No seriously, please to tell me why, so I can hone my skills and annoy you some more. And more importantly, why is being frivolous such a bad thing? If you’ve never been frivolous, you should seriously consider trying it some time. Immensely therapeutic. And while you’re at it, you might want to remove that stick out of your ass too. Ah there. Much better, ain’t it? Pat pat. Nah, it was no big deal. Always willing to help.

I think some people take themselves way too seriously. I, on the other hand, revel in my shallowness. I don’t claim to be profound. If you have those pretensions, pliss to write deep posts of your own and then drown yourself in them. Blub blub. But why do you expect them from me and then throw hissy fits when you don’t get them? If you’re in the mood for Chinese, why order a Gujarati thali, I say?

Which comes to my other issue — who said writing pointless and silly posts was a trivial matter? Every one of the cretins who crib and whine about my writing — I’d like to see YOU write something that is silly, pointless and make at least one person in the world smile or laugh. No, seriously. Why is humor/wit/satire (yes we shall be so pompous as to believe we do some of that) given the red-headed step-sisterly treatment in general? Why is serious writing lauded and silly writing, considered less-than-equal? And who decided what was blog-worthy, in the first place? Who says Asha Parekh’s posterior or a cow’s dialect are not serious enough issues? Oh hush, you skeptics. I have a letter here from a very distraught Mr Asha Parekh, that will change your mind.

I think it is tougher to make people laugh than it is to make them cry. Tugging at your heartstrings is much easier than tickling your funny-bone. But no, I am not so full of myself as to believe that I always make you laugh. But I love to write the nonsense that I do and if in doing so, I manage to bring a smile on your face every once in a while, I cannot really ask for much more, can I?
Q: Why do you refer to yourself as ‘we’?
A: There are a whole bunch of us. Seventeen at last count. Good one, Evil two, Psycho three, Sentimental four, Kooky five .. and so on. And all of us write this blog. Hence the we. Plus, we suffer from delusions of grandeur. We think we are royalty. We write our blog sitting on a velvet recliner, with grapes being dangled over our mouth. A delectable stud, wearing a strategically placed fig-leaf, fans us, while another of his hubba-hubba ilk, draws us a bath of goat’s milk and rose petals. In the background, our pet white tiger with a diamond-studded collar, yawns disinterestedly, while perched on his silk pillow. Is that enough of a visual for you? Now shoo.
Q: Your blog is emetogenic. It makes me want to throw up. What should I do?
A: Don’t visit it so often. And if you must, the brown paper bags are near the exit.

My commenters

Q: I can’t believe you deleted the obnoxious comment I posted last week! What the heck?
A: Really? After fifty-three deletions you still have trouble believing it? My my, quite the optimist, aren’t we? Gee, what can I possibly do to convince you, I wonder? Maybe this and this will help?
Q: Why don’t I see any female commenters?
A: You don’t? Hmm, it must be ‘cos all my female readers are higher beings so they have powers of invisibility that are beyond your comprehension. I alone can read their comments. Yep, that’s got to be it.
Q: Why are your commenters only men?
A: Aww, you have a problem with that? Why, I have just the solution for you! Here is how you can help change that. Aw, no biggie. You can thank me later by stopping by and commenting. Post-op of course.

My beguiling charms

Q: People read your blog only because you are female.
A: Oooh, thank you for your faith in the allure of my gender. As it turns out, my being a female precludes me from being capable of writing anything readable. People read my blog only for my feminine wiles and charms, *coy blush* and not for what I have to say. And sadly, silly me didn’t get the memo explaining these fine intricacies of the blogging world. Tch tch. What a waste. Apparently I could have written about how my dog ate pickled prunes and pooped and all of you would have come along and lapped it up willingly. Ugh.

While that speaks very highly of my aforementioned wiles, *obvious eyelash flutter-flutter*, it is so deliciously insulting on so many levels, innit? One, it suggests that I am not capable of writing something that people actually want to read. Two, it suggests that my typical reader, as a habit, leaves their brain on the local train before visiting my blog. Three, it implies that all my readers read my blog only in the hope of getting into my pants. Aww, li’l old me? Really? *giggle giggle* Now I am as delusional as the next person, but not even I, with all my megalomania (and a homonymous website to boot), think that is possible.

But let us for a moment, for entertainment sake, assume that to be true. So who do you think would have a problem with my commenters’ nefarious agendas, my insidious intentions and the coy song-and-dance routine we are jointly indulging in? Someone who has made it his or her life’s goal to be one of the aforementioned get-into-my-pants-ers, that’s who. Now for that kind person, I have a few words of wisdom — please do unto yourself what others would not do unto you. Enough said.
Q: How many men do you flirt with simultaneously?
A: I’ve never been much about numbers. It’s all about quality, not quantity.
Q: Why not me? I am a man too, you know?
A: Ah, you are? Your mama must be so proud!
Q: Will you have a blog fling with me?
A: Can I fling you from my blog?
Q: Do you secretly hope to get sexual gratification from your blog?
A: Wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you, would it?

Ah, all done. See, I didn’t want to get diabetic all by myself, so this was just a way of returning some of the suggah. Yeah, I know. Sometimes I am so nice that I make myself nauseous too. But niceties apart, they say you haven’t really arrived until you’ve got someone thoroughly hot and bothered by your very existence. If I’ve managed to make people launch into random vitriolic bombast about a person they know nothing of and care even lesser about, then I MUST be doing something right, no? So yay for me!

Oh, and by the way — don’t forget to pick up that stick on your way out. Thanks much.

Predictions, predilections, elections

Megha — Sat, 07 Jan 2006 06:00:41 +0000

This post is a sham. It may be wrapped in the guise of a warm-and-fuzzy childhood tale, but at the heart of it all, it’s just shameless self-promotion. As discerning readers you have probably come to expect that from this blog anyway, but once in a while, we like to state the obvious.

My mom takes her astrology very seriously. She’s drawn up jaatakams and janm-kundlis of mine from the day I howled my way into the universe. This is how I think the story happened — It was a dark and stormy night, many many moons ago. Barely a few days after a certain kid we all know was dropped on her head, a nervous mom stumbled her way over to the family astrologer, cloaked in a black shawl. Darting indoors, she presented the freak-kid in question to the kindly bespectacled astrologer, a Mr X Y Z Krishnamurthy, who peered at it suspiciously. You sure this is what the hospital handed over to you? he asked. Yes, I’m positive, she said. Okay, he sighed. Sit down. I’ll see what I can do.

Charts were drawn, planets were nudged around and a couple of lunar ecplises were forced in. And finally a game plan was created. She will be a lawyer, he announced, his voice echoing suitably for effect. The clouds thundered ominously and prophetically. And a satisfied mom went home, dreaming visions of her dotty on the bench. No not the techie consultant kind, the weird wig kind.

The years passed and a harassed mommy went through yetanudder day of dotty-dear refusing to do as she was told and counter-arguing everything. The whole lawyer thing wasn’t apparently working out like planned. Checking the fine-print in the astrologer contract, she saw to her relief that there was a money-back guarantee. Aha! she said, and promptly appeared at the astrologer’s doorstep. After some machinations, a dinosaur egg was hatched.

One summer evening, I had just returned home after playing hopscotch — a pigtailed kid, clueless about the things life had in store for her. I met Krishnamurthy uncle today, said mom. He says you will be a big celebrity one day! Images of being a famous-yet-mysterious, Zorro-type persona rushed into my ten-year old head. Really?, I asked eagerly. Yes, your horoscope is identical to N T Rama Rao, said mom excitedly. A pink splotch of strawberry Complan remains on the kitchen wall today, bearing testament to my visceral reaction at that moment. My head swam with kaleidoscopic visions of red pants, shiny shirts, industrial strength make-up and glued-on wigs. (What’s with the recurring wig theme, anyway?) You mean I will raise my thick eyebrows menacingly while thrusting my hips at Sridevi and Jayaprada?, I asked nervously. No silly, said mom dismissively. You will become a famous politician one day.

Heavy-duty words that followed me for life. Hounded by them, I became a geeky engineer instead. I avoided bright lights and never wore cheap makeup or glitter. I went into denial each time I aced a civics test or recited the preamble to the Constitution of India by-heart. And bushy eyebrows still freak me out.

But all that is a-changing today. This drama-queen is asking for your votes and becoming the very actor-turned-politican she loathed to be. And unabashedly so. Much joy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this blog has been nominated at the IndiBloggies in two categories — IndiBlog of the year and Best Designed IndiBlog. Ahem. Cool, no? Yes we are in some august company, and it is only January. Yeah okay, enough with the banal puns. Now pliss to be the nice readers that you are and head over to the IndiBloggies site and do the needful.

Of course, regardless of who you choose, I will continue to torment you with my nonsense, surreptitiously packaging it in a wispy cloud template so you never see it coming. But if you do vote for this madhouse, you shall have my eternal thanks and all associated niceties. What? You want more? Oh fine, I’ll try not to generate kids that end up looking like Balakrishna. No wait. I can’t promise that. I’ll have to check with Krishnamurthy uncle first.

Surpriiiise!

Megha — Tue, 06 Dec 2005 05:00:40 +0000

I hate surprises. I really really do. Well fustofall, unpleasant surprises are no-brainers. But I am one of those people who hate pleasant surprises as well. If flowers arrive without warning, I sniff suspiciously wondering if a burst of soot will hit my face. When an unrecognized voice calls me and chirpily asks — Guess who?, I scowl and reply — No, I won’t. But those are just the tip of the iceberg. Or rather, Adnan Sami’s nose. The ultimate test of human tolerance, comes in the form of that most special surprise of them all — surprise parties thrown by desi married couples.

Now now, before you stomp off angrily, think about it. I am sure it has happened to every one of you at one point or the other. For you married folks, I am sure you have gone through it when single, but you are now married, switched parties and have quickly become the perpetrators of this crime rather than the victims. So nah. No sympathies for you.

A random married male friend will call. Let’s call him Rakesh. He probably responds to other unflattering names as well, but we’ll get to those later. It is Pooja’s birthday. I am throwing a party for her, he will say coyly. You musst come! You sigh silently. And then, building up enough excitement in your voice you say — Ah, how nice! But you can’t mention a word about this. It is a surprise!, he will add. Argh. An unwanted secret. Just what you need. Yet another triviality hogging your precious brain space. Sigh. But wait. The party is being hosted by Nisha aka Ms Efficient Party Planner (EPP) who usually makes a mean gaajar halwa. And with a carrot like that, how can the bunny not chomp? So, you dutifully get the needed details. As you hang up, he threateningly adds — Remember, Pooja shouldn’t know.

But Pooja will know. She will definitely know. Not only will she know, she will carefully pick out an outfit to contrast perfectly with the cream-colored upholstery at EPP’s house. It will also match the green of the palak paneer and the red of the chicken tikka masala on the planned menu. And you can bet your last pre-ordered poori that she will practice her expression of surprise at least seventy five times in front of the mirror. C’mon, no husband who has been married long enough and desires continued marital bliss, will throw his wife a surprise party without giving her adequate warning to look her smashing best for it. The husbands in the audience will vouch for that, yes?

And yet, despite everyone being in the know, the charade continues ad infinitum, ad nauseam. The birthday girl will be whisked off to some local mall while the pre-planning happens. The guests arrive obediently at the pre-determined time. If you are fashionably late, you will have killer looks shot at you by Ms EPP. Why are you so late! Poo and Rakesh are almost here!, she will sternly ask. Damn, you think. Two extra hours of sleep and I still didn’t miss it? But you smile a semi-embarrassed smile, mumble something about the traffic, and go stand in your pre-assigned spot inside the closet.

But soon, the earth-shattering moment arrives and you are dragged out. The lights are switched off along with a medley of sssssshhhhh-s although nobody in particular is making a noise. Random elbows jab at you in unmentionable places which makes you go ‘what the ..’, but you try your best to be polite and not mutter unprintables. Finally, the doorbell rings and a suitably bewildered lady enters with a beaming husband in tow. A disharmony of voices yelp surpriiiiiiiiiise with just the right amount of fake enthusiasm. You make a mental note to go home and send a thank you note to the inventor of earplugs.

But just when you thought it was over, there is more. It is now time for some award-worthy acting. Awww, you guys, you shouldn’t have! This is such a surprise! I never saw this coming, Poo will coo, while clasping her hands to her cheeks in mock shock. You will scour the living room for heavy glass vases to throw as Rakesh narrates the tale of how Poo almost discovered his clever little plan. At which point, the wifey will turn to the hubby. Ohh Rocky, you are such a sneaky thing! she will say and playfully whack him, while you furiously search for a decorative ribbon to strangle yourself with. Eventually, candles will be blown, cake-with-too-much-icing will be cut, greasy food pre-ordered from ‘Maharaja - home of fine Indian cuisine’ will be eaten, and you will discover that the promised home-cooked gaajar halwa was alas, just an illusion.

And finally, your life will resemble the half-empty two-litre bottle of coke on the table that is devoid of fizz and has a lump of cake stuck to it. When the very desire to live has been successfully sapped out of you and you ponder about the futility of life itself, that is when Poo and Rocky’s surprise party will ultimately come to an end.

Few survive these surprises, and of those who do, fewer retain the sanity to tell the tale. This is one such insane survivorâ€™s story. Read and learn. And be afraid, be verrry afraid.