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.

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.

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.

Me

• 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.

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.

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 survivor’s story. Read and learn. And be afraid, be verrry afraid.