Broad Brush Paintings – Episode 5

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Chaitali had forgotten the art of enjoying a day off. She could not remember the last time she had a day ahead of her like this: without any plans, or agenda. Barring occasional sick leaves, and year ending holidays for travel, she rarely took leaves. When she did,  they were to tick off things from various ‘todo’ lists. As for weekends, they  were always busier than the weekdays — what with planning out the coming week, shopping, and sundry things.

Seriously, when was the last I ever wondered how should I spend a day?

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Why I Left Indira (Again)!

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The music playing on FM radio, as I drove down Indira’s flat, was “Desi Girl” (literally a song about native girl, and how you won’t find anyone like my native girl, anywhere in the world).

The idea that the nakharas of desi girls are unparalleled in the world is highly suspect. No I wasn’t going back to native charms, I was leaving Uma to go back to Indira who had newly acquired a FB profile, where she was posting her photos in the latest western clothes, updates about her visits to spas, and hair stylists, snaps of pastas and enchiladas she was cooking at home; Indira whose father owned a, now prospering, packaged foods business; and all this with an additional promise of freedom from unmitigated feminism of the likes of Uma.

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Scattered Thoughts on Moral Authority

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Sometime back, I posted an article by Alexander McCall Smith (Old fashioned morals can rescue societies broken by bad behavior) to my Facebook wall. Smith, better known for his Bostwana based series, The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency, although his other two series set in Edinburgh, Scotland, probably delve a lot more into the issues of modern society, and old-fashioned morality, through long monologues of their, (rather similar) mid-aged females characters each (Isabel Dalhousie, the philosopher/accidental detective, in The Sunday Philosophy Club series; and Domenica MacDonald, the reluctant archeologist from 44 Scotland Street series, who spends all her time thinking about the world around her), talks about the degeneration of social morality. He laments the ‘old fashioned morals’ like decency, good manners and so on. A voice, that his above-mentioned female protagonists seem to borrow from time to time. Continue reading

The Urinary Track

For a while, this post has been on the agenda. But today, I cannot procrastinate it any further. Like most urinary matters, there is a sense of urgency here. So what exactly got a lazy bum like me to start dumping my brain contents with urgency?

This:

A Shower for the Hobbits?

What is this? A shower for Hobbits? Of course not, although it might work well as one. It is — you guessed it (you did, didn’t you? especially after the title of the blog?) — a urinal. For a moment I froze when I looked at this. And then I asked a friend who was with me: “Why?”

Yes, philosophical questions rear their ugly heads in practically any context. But here, especially, I think it’s a relevant question. I mean, really, WHY the f$%#! Are those standard, typical, urinals that expensive, that at frigging expensive places like hotels and multiplexes, they have to do cost cutting?

Of course not.

Like I said this post was long due. The previous context was the apparent inverse proportion between how pricey a place is, and the length/height of the wall separating two urinals in a restroom. For instance, a typical restroom for men in posh hotels/multiplexes looks like this:

Get rid of walls and partitions!

It’s like John Lennon’s dream come true.

“Imagine there’s no walls,
No partitions too,
Imagine all the people, peeing in harmony …”

Yes, break down all the walls and partitions. And what a better place to start than restrooms!

In Metro BIG Cinema, or the multiplexed version of the original Metro Cinema in south Mumbai, where tickets are 300 and above, we have something similar to this in the restroom:

Look at the screen, not, um, elsewhere

Okay from what I remember there is a small excuse of a board between the two urinals, but their purpose is to demarcate the area for individual, I guess, because they serve no other purpose (unless again, it’s designed with Hobbits in mind). Here is how the logic goes.

“We’ve given you a digital scree to stare at, so no one should look anywhere else”

Pray tell me: anyone who can afford those digital screens, one per urinal, why can’t they afford a proper partition? Surely affordability is not the issue.

So that gets us back to the point before: why are the rest rooms in more expensive/plush places less privacy oriented? Do people from higher classes of society belong to some sort of not-so-secret society, where this is an initiation routine — feeling comfortable to pee (almost) in the open? Or is this some sort of social justice, where like those poor people who are forced to pee out in the open, through necessity; more well to do people are forced to pee, (virtually) out in the open?

I for one have no answers. Let the theories flow.

Hitler Reacts to Tendulkar’s 100th Ton Mania

Hitler is angry with Indians, and Mumbaikars in particular, for ignoring Pawar incident a day before and watching test match instead for Tendulkars (missed) hundred.

Already posted to twitter and FB. Posting to blog for ‘completeness’. ;-) . All feedback appreciated, as usual. Share, if you feel like it.

 

 

Ethics of Drinking

There are some people who’ll say that ‘ethics of drinking’ is an oxymoron of sorts, while others will say, screw ethics, drink, have fun. But over the years, I’ve burned some grey matter over this.

When I was too young to drink, I had taken on a, for that age typical, position that drinking is a bad thing, and I will NEVER drink. The NEVER lasted for a couple of years, by when I was not too young to drink anymore. I let go my former diktat to myself. I started with the stronger brew: the iconic Old Monk rum. Then, for a while, scoffing at beers, and insisting that wines are a snobbish waste of money, I stuck to rum, despite inability of my system to really cope with it. Over the years I had puked in the roadside gutter, I had a new year’s first day completely wiped off the calender due to extreme bouts of vomiting, and so on. Finally, I embraced beer, another U-Turn, gradually started loving it. Continue reading

Broad Brush Paintings – Episode 4

Note: Restarting the series I started in Oct, 2 years back! :) . I guess, this must be first serial fiction which spanned two years for four parts. And by now, I’ve no hope of anyone following this. But what the hell. Writing is its own reward, consoles every failed writer. In a curious way, though, we are right.

To recap: Not much has happened in episodes 1, 2 and 3, beyond some thoughts by characters — about life, love, writing, and other petty things.


Chaitali was woken up by a jazzy ring tone she hadn’t heard before. Another quintessential V habit, she thought, changing the caller tune every other day. For a moment, she tried to think if she had heard the music before — it did sound very familiar, but she could not recall where she had heard it. Then she really woke up.

First thing she noticed was the room: she was not in the bedroom, but in the living room, slumped on the sofa, her neck somewhat stiff. The next thing she noticed was the bright sunlight in the room, unlike the semi-darkness that she was used to when she woke up every day. She sprang to her feet when it dawned on her that she had overslept! She went to the bedroom and found her phone; it had a few missed calls from the office. Only then did she notice V’s absence. She kicked the bed in rage. Continue reading

The Grammar of an Unknown Language

Notes:

1. The title is a tribute to Alexander McCall Smith — although the story has nothing to do with him, either in style or content. But I’ve been searching for a title for just about all the time I’ve been writing this, and none came to mind.
2. The story has been been written over some fifty odd sittings, over nine or so months, two countries, (at least) 3 cities. At times a few words, or sentences were added, or deleted. At time I just read and reread it to find a way to take it somewhere. Consequently, there is no flow. This has been, undoubtedly, the hardest story, in terms of effort I put in. Not that there is anything to show for it.
3. This is just an attempt to keep fiction writing alive, perseverance for the sake of it, mostly. And I suspect even the usual suspects are going to be disappointed. So read at your own peril, especially if you’re a first time visitor.
4. And still I’m happy, that it’s out. It’s finished, somehow. I’m going nowhere. And that, I believe is a good thing.
5. Kids, stay away. Has a bit of mature content.

Now all the disclaimers done, let’s start at the beginning, for a change.


I looked at Shivani as she gulped down another peg of scotch. She was dressed in a crimson colored sleeveless top, and a pale yellow skirt. In her late thirties, Shivani carried all colors well. But then she hardly looked her age. One had to look carefully to see a few graying hair (she, thankfully did not color her hair and they looked real), or watch her face from a close distance, to see inevitable signs of aging. Still, with two children and a job to manage, it was surprising that she managed to look that young. But one look at her eyes would have been enough for anyone to know that she wasn’t as young as she looked — her gaze was sufficient for that. That is, if you looked into her eyes and did not look away as she held your gaze. That night, though, she was looking almost schoolgirlish, as she kept on glancing sideways at Nirmal, her insane adulation for the creep visible to anyone who cared to look. But who, from the predominantly twenty something ‘we are the world’ generation would look at a women in her late-thirties with a gaze that told you to stay away? If you discount me, that is? Continue reading

Pidgins, Love, and Meanings

It was long after,

after the sunsets
lost their meaning,
and colors, in a
monochrome rendering
of the world

after the nights
lost their urgency,
rituals replacing
intimacy, and we started
noticing heat, humidity
and aftertastes,

after distance was, no more
inevitable pause, dreaded
but relief guiltily enjoyed,
space, zealously defended
a respite, eagerly anticipated

long after all that
and more, and less
i realized
that we did not have
to invent a pidgin
to say I love you

that love is the
easiest word to learn
in any language,
shared or otherwise,
and I,
and you

it’s the other way round
you have to invent love
to fit the pidgin,
to hold on to the
slippery meaning,
the illusive immortality,
promised when it all
begun, when we worried
needlessly,
about inventing pidgins
instead of love.