Thursday, March 1, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Letter from an anguished reader
Dear Chetan Bhagat,
A humble request. Consider it a plea or a petition. I can assure you I can get several people to sign off on this.
What you write in the name of books is utter rubbish. Its trashy writing with one dimensional characters. You write a book, a whole 200+ pages, without even a semblance of a story. It appalls me that people read this.
Your characters are idiots, mostly hopelessly in love and stupid while they are at it. The men in your books see themselves as fat, ugly people and the women are giggly caricatures. No one has any brains or spine. All characters talk in loops and sometimes the exact thing (views, dialogues, introspections) is repeated 70 pages later. Each time a person thinks to themselves, it is portrayed like an epiphany. The only consistency is that all male characters make sharp observations about women like they have breasts. A stroke of sheer brilliance. Of course, your very introspective years at the IIM have blessed you with an insider’s view on what happens in all colleges. And this is hashed and rehashed in every book by simply changing the location of the college.
Take Revolution 2020. Why did you write this at all? I could have watched one of those 90’s movies called ‘Aaj ka Aashiq’ or something like that and that would have been more bearable and maybe even more believable. Books inspire movies. We know that, happens all the time. But copying a movie into a book? That has to be a first. When I read the ‘Three mistakes of my life’, I already knew this one had to be my fourth and I didn’t even make the first three.
Why do I read your books you ask? Don’t you watch Star/Zee Movies for the south-Indian movies dubbed in Hindi sometimes? You know, just to see how bad it can get? Yeah, that’s exactly why.
By the way, just watched your ad on Youtube. Hahaha..you..hahah…really…haha…think…*falls off chair*
*Regaining composure* The only reason your books are selling, and I am trying to break this gently to you, is that they are cheap. You and your publisher know that no one, and I emphasize on no one here, is willing to pay more than a rupee per page for your books and that’s on the higher end. Don’t flatter yourself by thinking you are an author. It’s an insult to people who actually are.
Yours sincerely,
Not-so-amused bystander
A humble request. Consider it a plea or a petition. I can assure you I can get several people to sign off on this.
What you write in the name of books is utter rubbish. Its trashy writing with one dimensional characters. You write a book, a whole 200+ pages, without even a semblance of a story. It appalls me that people read this.
Your characters are idiots, mostly hopelessly in love and stupid while they are at it. The men in your books see themselves as fat, ugly people and the women are giggly caricatures. No one has any brains or spine. All characters talk in loops and sometimes the exact thing (views, dialogues, introspections) is repeated 70 pages later. Each time a person thinks to themselves, it is portrayed like an epiphany. The only consistency is that all male characters make sharp observations about women like they have breasts. A stroke of sheer brilliance. Of course, your very introspective years at the IIM have blessed you with an insider’s view on what happens in all colleges. And this is hashed and rehashed in every book by simply changing the location of the college.
Take Revolution 2020. Why did you write this at all? I could have watched one of those 90’s movies called ‘Aaj ka Aashiq’ or something like that and that would have been more bearable and maybe even more believable. Books inspire movies. We know that, happens all the time. But copying a movie into a book? That has to be a first. When I read the ‘Three mistakes of my life’, I already knew this one had to be my fourth and I didn’t even make the first three.
Why do I read your books you ask? Don’t you watch Star/Zee Movies for the south-Indian movies dubbed in Hindi sometimes? You know, just to see how bad it can get? Yeah, that’s exactly why.
By the way, just watched your ad on Youtube. Hahaha..you..hahah…really…haha…think…*falls off chair*
*Regaining composure* The only reason your books are selling, and I am trying to break this gently to you, is that they are cheap. You and your publisher know that no one, and I emphasize on no one here, is willing to pay more than a rupee per page for your books and that’s on the higher end. Don’t flatter yourself by thinking you are an author. It’s an insult to people who actually are.
Yours sincerely,
Not-so-amused bystander
Thursday, July 14, 2011
And again.
I am disgusted.
Actually, I am beyond disgusted. I am ashamed and for the first time in my life, embarrassed to be Indian. The respect for the tricolor I wear so strongly on sleeve, shattered and mauled.
Today, I lost the last bit of respect I had for Times of India (at this point, most of you are wondering why I had any respect for them anyway, another post) and the Indian media.
Yesterday, Mumbai was treated like a whore. She was raped and sodomised badly and the media, shamelessly reported on every bruise. As she lay there splayed, helpless to collect the tattered remains of her decency, the media fed on her pain and devoured her, taking titillating pictures that they wanted to be proud of. And it was all ok, because you know, its Mumbai and shes free for all.
Such a disgusting sham. Such a vulgar display of drama. Such an obscene way to treat such a sensitive story. Can we please show some restraint? Yes, its bad but we don’t need to make a sensational story out of it. For once, lets just think beyond ratings and think of the people. Clearly, somewhere down the line, we have lost the plot in media. We are no longer reporting, we are rumoring.
And I am no authority but I am going to try and put some things into perspective. First, lets stop shouting. Quit the marches, the prayers, the fucking candles. Clearly, its not working. Quit blaming the government. They are a bunch of blood sucking motherfuckers and you know that just as well as I do.
For starters, and I am not being insensitive here, these were smaller blasts, not in significance but in magnitude. Fewer lives were lost and I am thankful for that. Which is not to say that we shall not mourn the losses of those involved. We will. But we wont make a show of it. Please.
This time around, I am seeing a distinct difference in the way this is being viewed. People are angry and outraged, just like everytime but we are not blaming the authorities. Lets face it, what can they do? There are millions of people in just this one city. Despite all the checking and vigilance, slips will happen. I have noticed a distinct difference in everyone’s attitude in the city. People are more accepting of the security checks and we women give up our bags for a quick ruffle to the security lady without a squeak. This is definitely better than grunting in fake displeasure every time you got frisked. We are getting better but we are expecting miracles. Can we not see that the problem is bigger than just blaming someone?
Lets not forget how quickly it was nailed down to a terrorist attack. And of course our ball-less politicians will blame Pakistan. Fucking bollocks! I want to scream stop! Its enough. The blame game isn’t shaking anything. Nothing is moving forward. Stop this garish lip service. We don’t want it. If you think you have found the root of the problem, uproot it. Don’t sit there make treaties and pacts, lets stop behaving like bashful brides. Lets kick things where they hurt and not tip toe around issues.
And lastly, don’t make a fuss about Mumbai’s spirit. Media, if you cant see it, let me spell it out for you. Its not Mumbai’s spirit. It is resignation. It is giving up. If you think you are speaking to the aam junta, speak their language. And right now, none of us give a flying fuck. I think Mumbai bounces back because every Mumbaikar somehow believes that if he/she has to be killed, so be it. Life will simply go on.Every mind in Mumbai knows somewhere deep down that losing their life in a bombing is a distinct possibility and that they will be just another statistic. That is Mumbai’s spirit and the one we should be worried about.
Actually, I am beyond disgusted. I am ashamed and for the first time in my life, embarrassed to be Indian. The respect for the tricolor I wear so strongly on sleeve, shattered and mauled.
Today, I lost the last bit of respect I had for Times of India (at this point, most of you are wondering why I had any respect for them anyway, another post) and the Indian media.
Yesterday, Mumbai was treated like a whore. She was raped and sodomised badly and the media, shamelessly reported on every bruise. As she lay there splayed, helpless to collect the tattered remains of her decency, the media fed on her pain and devoured her, taking titillating pictures that they wanted to be proud of. And it was all ok, because you know, its Mumbai and shes free for all.
Such a disgusting sham. Such a vulgar display of drama. Such an obscene way to treat such a sensitive story. Can we please show some restraint? Yes, its bad but we don’t need to make a sensational story out of it. For once, lets just think beyond ratings and think of the people. Clearly, somewhere down the line, we have lost the plot in media. We are no longer reporting, we are rumoring.
And I am no authority but I am going to try and put some things into perspective. First, lets stop shouting. Quit the marches, the prayers, the fucking candles. Clearly, its not working. Quit blaming the government. They are a bunch of blood sucking motherfuckers and you know that just as well as I do.
For starters, and I am not being insensitive here, these were smaller blasts, not in significance but in magnitude. Fewer lives were lost and I am thankful for that. Which is not to say that we shall not mourn the losses of those involved. We will. But we wont make a show of it. Please.
This time around, I am seeing a distinct difference in the way this is being viewed. People are angry and outraged, just like everytime but we are not blaming the authorities. Lets face it, what can they do? There are millions of people in just this one city. Despite all the checking and vigilance, slips will happen. I have noticed a distinct difference in everyone’s attitude in the city. People are more accepting of the security checks and we women give up our bags for a quick ruffle to the security lady without a squeak. This is definitely better than grunting in fake displeasure every time you got frisked. We are getting better but we are expecting miracles. Can we not see that the problem is bigger than just blaming someone?
Lets not forget how quickly it was nailed down to a terrorist attack. And of course our ball-less politicians will blame Pakistan. Fucking bollocks! I want to scream stop! Its enough. The blame game isn’t shaking anything. Nothing is moving forward. Stop this garish lip service. We don’t want it. If you think you have found the root of the problem, uproot it. Don’t sit there make treaties and pacts, lets stop behaving like bashful brides. Lets kick things where they hurt and not tip toe around issues.
And lastly, don’t make a fuss about Mumbai’s spirit. Media, if you cant see it, let me spell it out for you. Its not Mumbai’s spirit. It is resignation. It is giving up. If you think you are speaking to the aam junta, speak their language. And right now, none of us give a flying fuck. I think Mumbai bounces back because every Mumbaikar somehow believes that if he/she has to be killed, so be it. Life will simply go on.Every mind in Mumbai knows somewhere deep down that losing their life in a bombing is a distinct possibility and that they will be just another statistic. That is Mumbai’s spirit and the one we should be worried about.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Desi Firangi
For someone who has grown up in an age where everything “American” or “Westernised” was considered cool and imitated blindly, I am facing an intensely entertaining dilemma now. There was a time when swooning over Bollywood heroes was most passé and quickly put you in the “so uncool” category. Women who wore salwars were decidedly not “with it” and Indian women forced their cellulite-laden behinds into tight denims scaring the entire population that may happen to be behind them. Then things started to change. It was cool to listen to Bollywood music again. It became equally cool to bob your head to Munni as it was to Lady Gaga. Kurtas came back with a vengeance and it became the outfit for the serious, meant business women of the corporate world. No longer scoffed at, we embraced the Indian individuality with much love.
I decided it was time that all other American references, especially the ones in media and literature need their Indian counterparts.
See below:
Losing your virginity at the back of an old Chevy truck
Such a common instance in most things involving a young American girl (preferably blonde, blue eyed with legs that go on forever). Usually the protagonist, this girl would hold on to this memory of her first time, in the backseat of a car or truck and would involve the fumbling, pimply boyfriend and a rather disappointing and quick finish.
In India, we do not lose our virginity. Never. Not till we get married anyway. Now that women have started having some pre-marital sex in our books and movies, we usually lose our virginity on trips. Of course, Goa tops the Lusty place 101 list. Or when the parents are out of town. But since we are a horny bunch, we need somewhere you sneak in some naughtiness which we do at cinemas, clubs and sometimes even cyber cafes.
My dog ate my homework
American boys and girls going to school will claim their dog/younger brother/pet anaconda ate their homework. They come up with versions of this but its on the same lines. Nothing spectacular.
The Indian equivalent is far more interesting and much more difficult to believe. Your homework can be stolen by your aunty in the neighbourhood so her son does better at school. Your homework can be doused in colour because it’s Holi. You could not even do it because the maid ran away and you had to do all the housework. There was no electricity. There was too much electricity and your building caught fire. You puked over your homework because you ate street-side food. The street urchin tore out the page and used it to wipe his behind. The beggar was looking to shelter himself from the rain and you offered your book because you are only a human after all.
Prom night
Everyone knows this is the biggest deal for high school American students. Dresses, dates, make up, permissions and boys, there is loads a girl has to do for this one night. The boys, and this is definitely not an American thing, are looking to get laid. While they wont get that lucky, most of the students will have their first dance, the first kiss and a bunch of firsts this night. A whole lot of hoopla surrounds this night – and it becomes almost like the rite of passage to adulthood.
In India, the closest girls and boys will get to dancing before they can legally enter clubs is Garba/ Dandiya. Yes, its not remotely the same thing except both the sexes dancing together. It’s not sexy except the occasional hint of cleavage hastily covered by a dupatta or bare backs. Clearly, this doesn’t cut it. We should have proms.
Cheerleading
Nubile, young women in teeny-weeny skirts prance around flashing their underpants to the entire school. They jump, fly and catch each other and of course are the favourites with the football team boys. They are shallow and usually have miserable grades. If it’s a horror movie, she is definitely the one that gets picked first to be killed. Terribly lucky.
Some people in India knew about cheerleaders only after the IPL. There is no equivalent. We are Indian and we no flash our underwear to anyone.
Locker Room talk
Naked men and women. Each gender wishes they could walk into the others’ locker room and check out the scenery. Men brag about their sex lives and how many times (cant talk about size coz that’s all out there for everyone to see) and women talk about how he was in bed and how many times. There are no secrets and its gossip at its steamiest best (I love puns). Men shamelessly stroll around with not an iota of cloth on them and women potter around equally unabashed.
In India, our gossip is done on the phone or during slumber parties. Most Indian men and women have not seen their friends naked, which is probably a good thing. For the most daring Indian women, a bikini is a huge step causing loads of giggling and checking out of the anatomy and pointing out her flaws by her girlfriends. For men, a Speedo is considered sexy (eww) and the pot-bellied, hairy Indian man walks around with much masculinity in case he is wearing one. None of us are in the nude. Oh wait, except the homeless, but that’s not by choice.
I decided it was time that all other American references, especially the ones in media and literature need their Indian counterparts.
See below:
Losing your virginity at the back of an old Chevy truck
Such a common instance in most things involving a young American girl (preferably blonde, blue eyed with legs that go on forever). Usually the protagonist, this girl would hold on to this memory of her first time, in the backseat of a car or truck and would involve the fumbling, pimply boyfriend and a rather disappointing and quick finish.
In India, we do not lose our virginity. Never. Not till we get married anyway. Now that women have started having some pre-marital sex in our books and movies, we usually lose our virginity on trips. Of course, Goa tops the Lusty place 101 list. Or when the parents are out of town. But since we are a horny bunch, we need somewhere you sneak in some naughtiness which we do at cinemas, clubs and sometimes even cyber cafes.
My dog ate my homework
American boys and girls going to school will claim their dog/younger brother/pet anaconda ate their homework. They come up with versions of this but its on the same lines. Nothing spectacular.
The Indian equivalent is far more interesting and much more difficult to believe. Your homework can be stolen by your aunty in the neighbourhood so her son does better at school. Your homework can be doused in colour because it’s Holi. You could not even do it because the maid ran away and you had to do all the housework. There was no electricity. There was too much electricity and your building caught fire. You puked over your homework because you ate street-side food. The street urchin tore out the page and used it to wipe his behind. The beggar was looking to shelter himself from the rain and you offered your book because you are only a human after all.
Prom night
Everyone knows this is the biggest deal for high school American students. Dresses, dates, make up, permissions and boys, there is loads a girl has to do for this one night. The boys, and this is definitely not an American thing, are looking to get laid. While they wont get that lucky, most of the students will have their first dance, the first kiss and a bunch of firsts this night. A whole lot of hoopla surrounds this night – and it becomes almost like the rite of passage to adulthood.
In India, the closest girls and boys will get to dancing before they can legally enter clubs is Garba/ Dandiya. Yes, its not remotely the same thing except both the sexes dancing together. It’s not sexy except the occasional hint of cleavage hastily covered by a dupatta or bare backs. Clearly, this doesn’t cut it. We should have proms.
Cheerleading
Nubile, young women in teeny-weeny skirts prance around flashing their underpants to the entire school. They jump, fly and catch each other and of course are the favourites with the football team boys. They are shallow and usually have miserable grades. If it’s a horror movie, she is definitely the one that gets picked first to be killed. Terribly lucky.
Some people in India knew about cheerleaders only after the IPL. There is no equivalent. We are Indian and we no flash our underwear to anyone.
Locker Room talk
Naked men and women. Each gender wishes they could walk into the others’ locker room and check out the scenery. Men brag about their sex lives and how many times (cant talk about size coz that’s all out there for everyone to see) and women talk about how he was in bed and how many times. There are no secrets and its gossip at its steamiest best (I love puns). Men shamelessly stroll around with not an iota of cloth on them and women potter around equally unabashed.
In India, our gossip is done on the phone or during slumber parties. Most Indian men and women have not seen their friends naked, which is probably a good thing. For the most daring Indian women, a bikini is a huge step causing loads of giggling and checking out of the anatomy and pointing out her flaws by her girlfriends. For men, a Speedo is considered sexy (eww) and the pot-bellied, hairy Indian man walks around with much masculinity in case he is wearing one. None of us are in the nude. Oh wait, except the homeless, but that’s not by choice.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Single -made to mingle...
“I think, when I make a plan, God smirks and says “Hah! That’s what you think.””
This was once my facebook status. Funnily enough, I feel like this pretty much all the time now. And not in a bad way. Not in, come on God, you cant be screwing with my system all the time. But in a good way.
As is fairly obvious, this has happened to me recently.
I have been enjoying singledom for a while now (a while by my standards anyway). I have been happy, social and rather indulgent. I have loved every moment of it. And as any single Indian girl will tell you, this state of bliss sits very uncomfortably with the married, hips-the-size-of-Russia and brains-the-size-of a pea aunties. Their desire to get you married off is so intense, they cause themselves some serious heartburn just thinking about it.
Anyway, thanks to the incessant head shaking and not-so-gentle-nudging by these aunties and other jealous people, my parents thought arranged marriage was the way to go for me.
By now, you may have noticed, I have wrapped my head around the fact that I will never single-handedly find someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. Given this fact and that I have had some pretty tough relationships, I was willing to give the arranged marriage circus a twirl.
And something like looking for a boy for marriage seems to generate a lot of interest amongst my social networks. Everyone seems to want to offer gems of advice, stuff that landed them “the one” and how “I will just know”. Advice like make a list of your priorities, you surely want an NRI boy, don’t settle if you aren’t convinced and all that made its way to my head.
So, armed with a checklist and hope, I set out for my marriage voyage. My checklist was a motley mix of sane parameters like should be intelligent and smart and the more zanier stuff like should hold my hand in public (you would be surprised how many men don’t think this essential)
In all honesty, the guys weren’t bad. They just weren’t for me. But over many cups of coffee and sometimes bland conversations, you kind of get used to it. And I did.. Got used to the usual questions of “what do you do on weekends?”, “your hobbies”..etc..after a point, you don’t really care. You don’t think you will actually find someone. Your hopes tank. And mine nose-dived.
But, all hope is not lose. So, to all you people struggling in this situation, here are some well-researched and tested commandments for the arranged marriage routine (or not)
1) Thou shall always choose a coffee place to meet
While this may seem like crap advice, it has its merits. Let me explain. Coffee shops are affordable, which means the guy gets out of the meeting above poverty line. Plus, there is always enough people to offer you the security of being in the public eye (which means he has to keep his hands off you, that sleazy bastard). The best part, you don’t have to eat with him. A blessing in so many ways. You don’t have to spend more time with him. You don’t have to watch him wolf down his food, turning you off forever. You wont have spinach in your teeth. Perfect huh?
What I did wrong: I met one guy at a coffee shop where the employees attacked the blender with intensity that should be reserved for other areas of life. The guy and I were shouting to be heard, each struggling to hold on to the conversation while mostly catching the end of the others sentence and replying to it.
Also, I love whipped cream with a passion. I think I ended up turning on atleast two of my well-meaning suitors while I licked away on the cream on the coffee.
2) Thou shall always be confident, but not over confident
It’s awesome to be confident. Not so awesome if you come across as a cocky asshole. One guy, clearly on some ego trip because of his sterling credentials, asks his first question – “So what did your MBA teach you?” I did a double take, he was obviously mistaking this for a job interview. Turns out he wasn’t. He was so full of himself, he couldn’t look beyond his toes.
What I did wrong: Even if I may say so myself, I have a pretty strong personality that can be overpowering. But I am nice. Its only when I want to be intimidating that I get nasty. One guy (of course he thought he was being funny) referred to me as “Miss Knowledgeable.” I returned the compliment by asking him questions like ‘what is the Gestapo or where am I if I am having Nasi Goreng’. He didn’t know.
3) Thou shall dress as you usually do
Come on girls. You cant be dressing in something that isn’t you. You cant be covered from head to toe when you leave nothing to imagination when you dress up for a club. How’s this for a thought, if you like him, you are going to spend a lot of your life with him. Let him fall for the real you, not the dolled up, contrived version of yourself. This way, you wont shock the shit out of him when he sees you outside of the shy bride role.
What I did wrong: Convention be damned, I was dressed in jeans and a top when I met every guy. That’s not the wrong bit. The part that working against me was that people who didn’t come from the same school of thought as me, thought I was too cool to be in his family. Ah well, fuck that.
4) Thou shall ask about his family
Let’s get this straight. This isn’t a date. He’s not suppose to be a commitment phobe. It’s perfectly acceptable to ask about his family, his dog, his house and his interests. It’s not ok to ask about his size, if he likes drunk women and whether he has had a sexual disease. Please let maintain some decorum here. And its ok to ask him when he looks to get married. If his timeline is when you will be getting botox, drop him like a hot potato. He is supposed to be emotionally available.
What I did wrong: I asked about marriage and his family. They thought I was funny. I didn’t think they were.
Now, beyond this somewhere, you will find him. It’s like a game of hide and seek. You know he’s somewhere, you just can’t see him yet.
And no, lightning will not strike. You will not magically know it’s him. But if you give it chance, you will feel it. It will feel right. Nothing will be a force fit. You won’t be struggling to breathe. It will feel natural. His hug will feel right, it will make things all right. When he touches you, it wont be awkward, you will respond. You maybe the most confident person around, but when you enter a room that he is in, you will be slightly nervous. When he holds your hand, your fingers blend in perfectly. He takes your tantrums and still loves you. He stares into your eyes and you blush. You see him stare at you from across the room. When you do crazy things, he smiles and says, “That rockstar, that’s my babe”. He holds you when you need to cry and laughs at your madness. He makes you feel like a princess and will go to the ends of the earth to make you smile.
He completes you and you know it.
This was once my facebook status. Funnily enough, I feel like this pretty much all the time now. And not in a bad way. Not in, come on God, you cant be screwing with my system all the time. But in a good way.
As is fairly obvious, this has happened to me recently.
I have been enjoying singledom for a while now (a while by my standards anyway). I have been happy, social and rather indulgent. I have loved every moment of it. And as any single Indian girl will tell you, this state of bliss sits very uncomfortably with the married, hips-the-size-of-Russia and brains-the-size-of a pea aunties. Their desire to get you married off is so intense, they cause themselves some serious heartburn just thinking about it.
Anyway, thanks to the incessant head shaking and not-so-gentle-nudging by these aunties and other jealous people, my parents thought arranged marriage was the way to go for me.
By now, you may have noticed, I have wrapped my head around the fact that I will never single-handedly find someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. Given this fact and that I have had some pretty tough relationships, I was willing to give the arranged marriage circus a twirl.
And something like looking for a boy for marriage seems to generate a lot of interest amongst my social networks. Everyone seems to want to offer gems of advice, stuff that landed them “the one” and how “I will just know”. Advice like make a list of your priorities, you surely want an NRI boy, don’t settle if you aren’t convinced and all that made its way to my head.
So, armed with a checklist and hope, I set out for my marriage voyage. My checklist was a motley mix of sane parameters like should be intelligent and smart and the more zanier stuff like should hold my hand in public (you would be surprised how many men don’t think this essential)
In all honesty, the guys weren’t bad. They just weren’t for me. But over many cups of coffee and sometimes bland conversations, you kind of get used to it. And I did.. Got used to the usual questions of “what do you do on weekends?”, “your hobbies”..etc..after a point, you don’t really care. You don’t think you will actually find someone. Your hopes tank. And mine nose-dived.
But, all hope is not lose. So, to all you people struggling in this situation, here are some well-researched and tested commandments for the arranged marriage routine (or not)
1) Thou shall always choose a coffee place to meet
While this may seem like crap advice, it has its merits. Let me explain. Coffee shops are affordable, which means the guy gets out of the meeting above poverty line. Plus, there is always enough people to offer you the security of being in the public eye (which means he has to keep his hands off you, that sleazy bastard). The best part, you don’t have to eat with him. A blessing in so many ways. You don’t have to spend more time with him. You don’t have to watch him wolf down his food, turning you off forever. You wont have spinach in your teeth. Perfect huh?
What I did wrong: I met one guy at a coffee shop where the employees attacked the blender with intensity that should be reserved for other areas of life. The guy and I were shouting to be heard, each struggling to hold on to the conversation while mostly catching the end of the others sentence and replying to it.
Also, I love whipped cream with a passion. I think I ended up turning on atleast two of my well-meaning suitors while I licked away on the cream on the coffee.
2) Thou shall always be confident, but not over confident
It’s awesome to be confident. Not so awesome if you come across as a cocky asshole. One guy, clearly on some ego trip because of his sterling credentials, asks his first question – “So what did your MBA teach you?” I did a double take, he was obviously mistaking this for a job interview. Turns out he wasn’t. He was so full of himself, he couldn’t look beyond his toes.
What I did wrong: Even if I may say so myself, I have a pretty strong personality that can be overpowering. But I am nice. Its only when I want to be intimidating that I get nasty. One guy (of course he thought he was being funny) referred to me as “Miss Knowledgeable.” I returned the compliment by asking him questions like ‘what is the Gestapo or where am I if I am having Nasi Goreng’. He didn’t know.
3) Thou shall dress as you usually do
Come on girls. You cant be dressing in something that isn’t you. You cant be covered from head to toe when you leave nothing to imagination when you dress up for a club. How’s this for a thought, if you like him, you are going to spend a lot of your life with him. Let him fall for the real you, not the dolled up, contrived version of yourself. This way, you wont shock the shit out of him when he sees you outside of the shy bride role.
What I did wrong: Convention be damned, I was dressed in jeans and a top when I met every guy. That’s not the wrong bit. The part that working against me was that people who didn’t come from the same school of thought as me, thought I was too cool to be in his family. Ah well, fuck that.
4) Thou shall ask about his family
Let’s get this straight. This isn’t a date. He’s not suppose to be a commitment phobe. It’s perfectly acceptable to ask about his family, his dog, his house and his interests. It’s not ok to ask about his size, if he likes drunk women and whether he has had a sexual disease. Please let maintain some decorum here. And its ok to ask him when he looks to get married. If his timeline is when you will be getting botox, drop him like a hot potato. He is supposed to be emotionally available.
What I did wrong: I asked about marriage and his family. They thought I was funny. I didn’t think they were.
Now, beyond this somewhere, you will find him. It’s like a game of hide and seek. You know he’s somewhere, you just can’t see him yet.
And no, lightning will not strike. You will not magically know it’s him. But if you give it chance, you will feel it. It will feel right. Nothing will be a force fit. You won’t be struggling to breathe. It will feel natural. His hug will feel right, it will make things all right. When he touches you, it wont be awkward, you will respond. You maybe the most confident person around, but when you enter a room that he is in, you will be slightly nervous. When he holds your hand, your fingers blend in perfectly. He takes your tantrums and still loves you. He stares into your eyes and you blush. You see him stare at you from across the room. When you do crazy things, he smiles and says, “That rockstar, that’s my babe”. He holds you when you need to cry and laughs at your madness. He makes you feel like a princess and will go to the ends of the earth to make you smile.
He completes you and you know it.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
It worked out well for me.
The best feeling in the world is proving someone wrong. And it’s almost orgasmic if it’s done by action and not by words. Not standing in front of the person and gesturing madly but gently fucking them over for being a bitch to you. Telling them they were wrong and how. How that when they sat there, all haughty and nauseously smarty, they had the upper hand and now I have turned that around. I can sit here and smirk because I made it to where you didn’t think I would. That you read me all wrong. That I wasn’t stupid and I knew that, I just wanted you to know so you can wallow in self pity.
On 23rd November 2005, I was sat down in college and mercilessly criticized for wanting to be in advertising. I didn’t know enough about it. I couldn’t think advertising. I didn’t know a good ad from a bad one. Three people sat down in front of me pulling my confidence down to my ankles, shredding my esteem to bits and gloating, a right granted to them by the sheer merit of position.
Even then, when I wasn’t so worldly, I knew they were petty. What I didn’t know was the darkness of the human heart. I didn’t think it was possible for people in power to misuse it with such alarming lack of conscience. To make people feel like shit because you can. To use such hurtful and cruel words only to indulge in the joy of another person’s misery.
It was half an hour and I know each moment with vivid clarity. Where each one was seated, their faces, their false disappointment in me, their small leap in the heart as I failed. What they said, what they didn’t. What was implied. An insult still sits strong in my heart. One of them said, “You are doing this for a lark. Not taking this seriously. You are never going anywhere.”
It’s 23rd November 2010. I am doing a job I like, I have friends I love, I have a career and I am standing on my own feet. I am happy.
To you I have to say, HA!
On 23rd November 2005, I was sat down in college and mercilessly criticized for wanting to be in advertising. I didn’t know enough about it. I couldn’t think advertising. I didn’t know a good ad from a bad one. Three people sat down in front of me pulling my confidence down to my ankles, shredding my esteem to bits and gloating, a right granted to them by the sheer merit of position.
Even then, when I wasn’t so worldly, I knew they were petty. What I didn’t know was the darkness of the human heart. I didn’t think it was possible for people in power to misuse it with such alarming lack of conscience. To make people feel like shit because you can. To use such hurtful and cruel words only to indulge in the joy of another person’s misery.
It was half an hour and I know each moment with vivid clarity. Where each one was seated, their faces, their false disappointment in me, their small leap in the heart as I failed. What they said, what they didn’t. What was implied. An insult still sits strong in my heart. One of them said, “You are doing this for a lark. Not taking this seriously. You are never going anywhere.”
It’s 23rd November 2010. I am doing a job I like, I have friends I love, I have a career and I am standing on my own feet. I am happy.
To you I have to say, HA!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
My one baby step, maybe a giant step for womankind?
I have always been a radical one. A revolutionary is my own way. Rebellious by my very nature. Not taking things as they come, but hunting, pursuing, persuading to get things my way. With school, with work, with even love, I have thwarted all norms and done what I have wanted. The way I have wanted it. Actually, especially in love. I have never been the kind to wait around for a man to make the move. If I liked him, I would make it obvious. Make sure he knew. Subtle hints, fleeting touches, leading smiles. Any guy with half a brain would catch on. Most have, thinking this would be a purely physical thing. And then after we have lusted enough, invariably, we have loved. Not the perfect start to a relationship but it’s a start. Yes, its immodest but I can mostly certainly claim the men fell in love with me after. And me with them.
And the rocky at first but crazy fun later has been a pattern with each relationship. Then, some have fallen out of love with me and at other times, I thought it wasn’t meant to be. But it’s when I have been a little reluctant to give in, a little unwilling to commit, a little wary of the man, that he’s pursued me relentlessly. He has worked harder to make it work. Way harder to keep me happy. When he’s given his soul to make the relationship his priority. To put it in a candy floss adjective, my relationships have worked best when I have been treated like a princess.
A lot of them have fizzled out for various reasons. Distance, falling out of love, or even plain boredom. But the most treasured ones have fallen apart when I fell completely in love. When I wanted him more than he wanted me. When I have wanted it to work so bad, I pushed the limits of my patience and took a lot of shit from him. Let him behave badly and let him get away with it. Let my ego, pride and my esteem hurt. Then, when my last relationship ended, it dawned on me. It was never going to work. Not this way, anyway.
I was fighting with nature. And while protesting and digging my heels in the ground worked for all things man made, nature just simply waited till I struggled, went limp with exhaustion, picked me up like a fly and firmly but surely put me back in place. I was told (atleast it felt like telling) in no uncertain terms that this would not work. Not with relationships.
Nature intended for the men to chase, to be competitive and to work to get a goal. Nature also intended for the women to be perched high on a pedestal and look down at her man, but to never help him climb up, not hurt his ego like that. And if he liked her enough, there isn’t a man on this planet who would not work down to his bone to claim his fair maiden. And no matter how hard and how fast we march ahead, I think these roles were not meant to be messed with. We women could burn bras and fight for literacy and against infanticide and we should, but no matter how many revolutions we inspire, we will come home and wonder if he will call. We could bravely venture into territories no woman has gone before, but we still stare at the mirror hoping he will like what he sees.
We are awesome, mind you and I am not saying otherwise. And I am not also regressing and saying people should be confined to gender specific roles. No, that would be archaic on my part. I still think we should do, wear, read and talk about what makes us happy and confident. We should rush past glass ceilings, demand to be paid equally and redefine boundaries in the workplace and life. But in a relationship, men should take the lead. Here, we women should stop thinking like the 21st woman of today and go back to being the fragile flower men have to take care of. And fragile flower does not mean that we change ourselves to being whimpering lasses. It means we revel in our roles as women and let the men do all the work. We will still talk politics, business and news, but we will not pursue him for a relationship. We will keep him excited about meeting us but will not drop everything the minute he calls to make a vague plan. That we will know he’s a booty call and not get all emotional about sleeping with him. In other words, we will be in charge, only we will pretend he is.
I think, it works better that way. Everyone is happier.
A lot of you may think I am being sexist and stupid at the same time. Maybe even jaded. And you maybe itching to throw something at me. You may. This is me thinking out loud. Maybe I did get this all wrong. But you have to admit, there is an iota of possibility that I am right.
And the rocky at first but crazy fun later has been a pattern with each relationship. Then, some have fallen out of love with me and at other times, I thought it wasn’t meant to be. But it’s when I have been a little reluctant to give in, a little unwilling to commit, a little wary of the man, that he’s pursued me relentlessly. He has worked harder to make it work. Way harder to keep me happy. When he’s given his soul to make the relationship his priority. To put it in a candy floss adjective, my relationships have worked best when I have been treated like a princess.
A lot of them have fizzled out for various reasons. Distance, falling out of love, or even plain boredom. But the most treasured ones have fallen apart when I fell completely in love. When I wanted him more than he wanted me. When I have wanted it to work so bad, I pushed the limits of my patience and took a lot of shit from him. Let him behave badly and let him get away with it. Let my ego, pride and my esteem hurt. Then, when my last relationship ended, it dawned on me. It was never going to work. Not this way, anyway.
I was fighting with nature. And while protesting and digging my heels in the ground worked for all things man made, nature just simply waited till I struggled, went limp with exhaustion, picked me up like a fly and firmly but surely put me back in place. I was told (atleast it felt like telling) in no uncertain terms that this would not work. Not with relationships.
Nature intended for the men to chase, to be competitive and to work to get a goal. Nature also intended for the women to be perched high on a pedestal and look down at her man, but to never help him climb up, not hurt his ego like that. And if he liked her enough, there isn’t a man on this planet who would not work down to his bone to claim his fair maiden. And no matter how hard and how fast we march ahead, I think these roles were not meant to be messed with. We women could burn bras and fight for literacy and against infanticide and we should, but no matter how many revolutions we inspire, we will come home and wonder if he will call. We could bravely venture into territories no woman has gone before, but we still stare at the mirror hoping he will like what he sees.
We are awesome, mind you and I am not saying otherwise. And I am not also regressing and saying people should be confined to gender specific roles. No, that would be archaic on my part. I still think we should do, wear, read and talk about what makes us happy and confident. We should rush past glass ceilings, demand to be paid equally and redefine boundaries in the workplace and life. But in a relationship, men should take the lead. Here, we women should stop thinking like the 21st woman of today and go back to being the fragile flower men have to take care of. And fragile flower does not mean that we change ourselves to being whimpering lasses. It means we revel in our roles as women and let the men do all the work. We will still talk politics, business and news, but we will not pursue him for a relationship. We will keep him excited about meeting us but will not drop everything the minute he calls to make a vague plan. That we will know he’s a booty call and not get all emotional about sleeping with him. In other words, we will be in charge, only we will pretend he is.
I think, it works better that way. Everyone is happier.
A lot of you may think I am being sexist and stupid at the same time. Maybe even jaded. And you maybe itching to throw something at me. You may. This is me thinking out loud. Maybe I did get this all wrong. But you have to admit, there is an iota of possibility that I am right.
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