tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-100820072011-12-14T19:35:38.109-07:00Back.TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.comBlogger2691100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-47574390876370066892007-10-09T22:21:00.000-06:002007-10-09T22:26:41.487-06:00

Low morning. The weather outside is beautiful though. It was awful for two days; couldn't step outside without wincing but today it was cloudy and soft when I stepped out.And my heart is getting as heavy as the clouds. All night long, I tossed and turned and it wasn't because of the heat. Just couldn't get to sleep; kept thinking of K... K, who hasn't written in two years. K, who never did want

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1635697586897682642007-10-03T19:54:00.000-06:002007-10-03T19:55:05.856-06:00

What sort of mad existence is this - that you cannot feel the morning on your face, that you cannot feel dusk on your shoulders?There has to be something fundamentally wrong with a world that trades fresh air for air-conditioning. And yet, it is so easy to forget. To forget the morning. To forget how it feels on your face when you lean out of an open window or when you stand outside, sipping tea

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-12841422806073311472007-10-01T05:10:00.001-06:002007-10-01T05:10:29.177-06:00

Despair made me start writing. Made me put up my private life here, in public. For the public to chew on, spit at, click her tongue at and feel for. And then, I despaired of doing that too. So, for a long time, I just held my peace. There wasn't anything new to say and whatever did go on in my life was.... well.... just stuff that was going on in my life. There was no reason for me to write about

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-81021617133497036692007-07-18T03:39:00.000-06:002007-07-18T03:40:01.087-06:00

Okay, so I've talked about kissing here, here, here and here.Now, I'd like to do some more talking about kissing - especially about how to kiss well - but before I do that, I'd also like to do some research, because, after all, how many men does one girl get to experience, eh?So, women out there, this is a questionnaire of sorts. You can even call it a meme/tag. Please do write back either in

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-66467740787363381832007-07-16T08:59:00.000-06:002007-07-16T09:00:13.877-06:00

I've been doing a lot of thinking these days about 'needs'.To survive, fresh air and food is enough. I mean, basically survive. Nobody can guarantee good health, and no matter how rich you are, you won't live forever. Some bug, some tumour, some insect, some predator, some accident will finish you off.But as long as I'm alive, I need.... what? Food?Shelter? Not strictly essential. After all,

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-36207819805808840342007-07-06T03:02:00.000-06:002007-07-06T03:03:18.222-06:00

Have been looking at old posts, and wondering how life has changed.... Well, it hasn't. Still pining. Still in a dead-end relationship. Still mooning about how depressing life is. But, amongst the things that have changed, recently -Got rid of an old piece of metal furniture which was too shabby to keep, but to which I clung out of a misplaced sense of nostalgia.Got a new wicker basket. Hate the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-8306199741367834622007-07-04T03:49:00.001-06:002007-07-04T03:49:29.580-06:00

So, I wrote the last post about depression. And then, a comment got me thinking about animals and depression. I've heard that dogs and cats get depressed, dogs especially. If you leave them alone too long, or if they're locked up all the time or if they lose somebody close - their master or mistress or a fellow-pet, they get sad. They don't eat well. They start falling sick. Their eyes are

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-74306805085142297622007-06-27T02:54:00.000-06:002007-06-27T02:55:26.743-06:00

I've been super-depressed, therefore, thinking abouit depression.See, most people tend to lump all degress of depression into this one big bag of low-ness. You'll call your best friend and say, I need to go drinking coz I'm depressed. You'll sulk over an office lunch and crib about how bad the canteen food is, coz you're depressed. You'll say you feel fat, and that makes you depressed. You'll

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-42983418262440643532007-06-25T02:09:00.001-06:002007-06-25T02:09:30.847-06:00

I've been both angry and bitter and lonely and that's precisely the sort of mood in which I started this blog. Well, not entirely true. I'd started it with a sense and spirit of fun. Which I no longer have. But what I do have is now is a mission. Which to work my way back into some semblance of...what? Recognizable sanity?Umm... not really. I'm not looking for either sanity or insanity. I think

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-87286219972251852132007-06-23T02:24:00.001-06:002007-06-23T02:24:46.084-06:00

I'm back.With all the bitterness you can scoop out of a karela's oval heart. With all the viciousness of pent-up little stories, I'm back here. Where I most certainly do not belong.

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1151064605141531332006-06-23T06:09:00.000-06:002006-06-23T06:10:05.143-06:00

Okay, people.I've had enough of blogging. We're done here.Have a good life everybody.

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1105426958653460612006-05-11T08:59:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:46:50.196-06:00

India has little to offer by way of chick-lit... oops, had little to offer.... past tense.Starting today.

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107442722847046492006-05-11T08:53:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:38:31.903-06:00

Kissing is grossly over-rated.Yes, I know, I've said that before.Like much of life, it is overrated.Cars, apartment complexes, family ties, expensive educations, books, entertainment, lifestyle gadgets. We could do without all of them (espcially aparment complexes in high-rises). And there are many, many people in the world who do not kiss.No, seriously!From what I've heard (whispered jokes

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1145886309573778962006-05-11T07:42:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:09:01.456-06:00

People, people, I'm going through a terribly busy phase. There is piles of unfinished work, and more keeps arriving.I considered just deleting the blog, because, you know.... at one point, I didn't see the point of it, now that I am too busy to gripe and rant about how terribly hard life is...for instance, New Man is not only busy, he is going through a sort of low phase. He's been holding me at

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1106661945034426572006-05-11T07:37:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:38:54.790-06:00

I wish men would realize, once and for all, that kissing isn't quite the way to open the door into a romance.Like a friend once said - a foot massage is infitenitely superior. There is much more pleasure in getting your feet stroked and kneaded by a strong pair of hands. Kissing is an art, and it should be left to those who really know how.Or else, I wish someone would teach men to kiss.No,

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107350936584122182006-05-11T07:24:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:41:08.996-06:00

The newspapers tell me that a whopping 95 percent of women in India (the survey was conducted in small-town north-India, in fact. Places like Chandigarh etc) are happy with their sex lives.Most of the women surveyed were between 20 and 40 and most were married.They even said they told their partners what they wanted, by way of desire, fantasy, position etc.While I'm very happy for the women

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108208901448721862006-05-11T05:43:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:34:47.110-06:00

ok, confession.So, there's more than one guy in my life. There are... lemme count... three.[There were five, but I've sort of dumped one, and, sort of, gently been let go of, by the other guy.]But there are still three, and three is still too many!This is a weird way to be... nice too.Sure, I feel flattered and wanted and generally, it's a nice feeling to have so many men to think of. But it is

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108114514096867402006-05-11T04:28:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:37:13.433-06:00

A friend of mine sent this to me, saying 'I am only as strong as the coffee I drink, the hairspray I use and the friends I have.' Along with this forward. Normally, I'm not a forwards enthusiast, but it's chicklit of a kind and that's what counts, eh? But I have edited it here and there. I don't agree with all these reasons for womanhood being cool.So, it's good to be a woman:1. We got off the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108550038883515592006-05-11T04:09:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:32:17.056-06:00

I don't like Aishwarya Rai, because -Too many other men do.It gets on your nerves, doesn't it?She has cold eyes... Like light-dark marbles, unusual but stony. Icy demeanor, as well. Marble-like skin. All cold. All hard.She's too 'careful' when she speaks... Too 'correct'.She's slim...Too 'correct' a figure. Too right a bust, too shapely a leg. Give me a little flab, anyday. It's comforting. It's

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108115980408300692006-05-11T03:43:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:35:28.826-06:00

A friend of mine sent me this sms the other day -'According to a new survey, 80 percent of women are against marriage. They've realised that, for 200 grams of sausage, it is not worth buying the whole pig!'I laughed a good five minutes. Then, I sobered down and realised that I agreed completely.No, seriously. I mean, what can a man give you except his 200 grams of sausage? What can he give you

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1105520156596707752006-05-11T03:40:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:52:47.906-06:00

Wanting a guy is such a suspect thing, you know.... I always know why I want a guy, but I never know what I want a guy for (Is it like that with all other desi babes?).See, I want a guy if he's a good-looker (you reach out for that which is beautiful)...I want him for having a silver tongue (the very devil), or for being an idealist (better still, a combination of both). Because there's the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107162704099981912006-05-11T03:37:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:42:49.520-06:00

I really must read the Kamasutra.I did my share of giggling over some bits and extracts, with over girls in college. Some were even illustrated editions, so we really could have learnt a whole lot, if we weren't so busy being shocked and then breaking into sniggers.But back then, Kamasutra, or indeed any reference to sex, was simply an invitation to begin giggling. It didn't seem real. Those men

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107442381047834982006-05-10T08:50:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:40:46.926-06:00

ok, I append what I said last.It's not just about mothers and daughters.It's also about fathers and daughters.And brothers and sisters. And sisters and sisters. And fathers and sons. And mothers and sons.There's no escaping it - they're going to want you to be something else, btuthey're also going to want you to be around. And they're going to change you into the creature they want to be the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111070642828773522006-05-10T08:33:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:18:55.340-06:00

I almost died of shock when I removed the tag from a new bra, this morning. When I took a second look, I laughed until I keeled over.The brand-name of my new bra was 'Porntip', which I had initially mis-read as 'Pontiff'. (Bet Freud would love to analyse that!).Porn-tip is a pretty scandalous name, too. It sends up a hundred suggestive images into the head, the moment you look at the tag.And you

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111069027483441562006-05-10T08:09:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:19:52.210-06:00

Some things my sad evening taught me -Depression does NOT cure depression.Reading about heartbreak will not cure yours.It will only add to your sense of hopelessness.Two blues do not make a happy yellow.Two blues make for a darker shade of blue. Maybe even black.Which is why I think self-help groups are ridiculous when it comes to dealign with emotional predicaments. Therefore, the golden rule is

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109599647152945822006-05-10T07:59:00.001-06:002006-05-08T12:29:26.233-06:00

Men, like I said, check out a lot of arse. And I didn't see why, because there aren't enough great butt-views to go around.I kept wondering why women with less-than-perfect backsides insisted on wearing tight jeans. Why draw attention to that very spot that ought to be hidden? And it is so easy to hide it, really. Long skirts or loose, flannel pants do the disguising trick nicely. I should know..

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1110636118851243562006-05-10T07:59:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:25:14.546-06:00

The other day, I was traveling alone in a cab.The driver didn't behave badly, but he did keep glancing up at the rearview mirror, and he would look away the moment I caught him looking.Somehow, that scared me.And I wondered if I would be able to grow old without feeling this tingle of fear running down my spine. If so, when?

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1110635917248254532006-05-10T07:42:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:25:35.840-06:00

Women's Day on television is arhghgh!There was this chick party being covered by Night Out (or something similar on the Page 3 equivalent of the news channels), and there's this party with the theme 'pretty in pink'. Some giggly TV 'reporter' went about asking these partying women what they'd like to change about their men.And guess what? Half the socialite bimbettes in pink grinned into the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107350427513478212006-05-10T07:01:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:41:30.706-06:00

Mothers and daughters are dangerous together. Beyond a certain age, that is.All is well until a mom can dress up her little girl in ribbons and pinafores. But when you're done with the teenaged years, scram! Or at least, when you're done with studies.I guess we're all extensions of our mothers' personalities and we're going to end up like them, some day (groan!!) but... it is imperative to try

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107868841825006502006-05-10T06:57:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:38:06.286-06:00

Wooing is best done with words.That is, if the chick is literate.If she's desi, it doesn't matter that she's illiterate. We desi chicks are so chokful of wispy fantasies, in which a Guru Dutt-type meloncholic nuzzles our neck with half-toxicated Urdu couplets...Of course, not all girls in India share this fantasy.... The NRI girls don't, I bet... You have to have grown up on something like

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108299296660657352006-05-10T06:50:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:34:19.913-06:00

So, here's why I cannot flirt with too many guys at once - the mobile phone bill arrived today!You have no idea how expensive it can be trying to keep multiple relationships alive.The worst is, it's not even like they're relationships. They're more like close friendships that are trying to morph into something that gives us all some personal purpose, and brings smiles to grumpy faces at night...

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107347634998241612006-05-10T06:30:00.001-06:002006-05-08T12:42:24.673-06:00

Family is sin!Family is the original source of all conflict, and the hurdle in the path of nirvana or self-realisation or whatever you call it.It is a jealous, possessive trap of a way of being.I never, ever want to create that kind of hell. God forgive me for ever having wanted it.I atone.

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111495448737002012006-05-10T06:30:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:16:00.920-06:00

Speaking of handwritings and getting yours analysed, I got mine looked at.Or rather, mine got looked at, by this guy who said he was into handwriting analysis. Now, I'm a sucker for this kind of thing - palm-reading, aura-reading, face-reading, writing-reading... anything to tell me about myself.Which is strange, considering I'm someone who knows herself, her heart, her motivations and her

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108208559076444592006-05-10T05:39:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:35:08.686-06:00

I took the Dante Inferno test.Apparently, I'm headed for the second level, where -"You have come to a place mute of all light, where the wind bellows as the sea does in a tempest. This is the realm where the lustful spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for their transgressions. The infernal hurricane that never

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107516343804619502006-05-10T05:18:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:40:08.666-06:00

Marriage, in India, has to be arranged, or 'fixed'.Like funerals. Like events. Like business deals. Like cricket matches.First, there's the business of finding a groom, (or a bride... but in India, it is the bride's side that goes crawling and snivelling all over the place, looking for a way out of the eternal burden of a spinster daughter).If you are very attractive, and very young, and '

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107948128262529892006-05-10T05:15:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:37:38.473-06:00

It's not just us desi chicks!I am so relieved to discover that there are other people (other women) in the world who find it terribly embarrassing to let the sound of their 'bodily functions' be heard. Apparently, the Japanese women are obsessive about it. They run the flush continuously, while they sit on the toilet.Many other 'dainty' women I know, try to cover up by running the tap in the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109330090066348392006-05-10T04:49:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:30:09.690-06:00

I have huge issues with artists 'with a difference'.Have recenty been subjected to the most inane choreography, the most overlook-able ceramic exhibition and the weirdest installation painting-performance last month.Personally, I'm all for experimentation. Creating the same things with a difference is what creativity is all about, eh? But you should experiment in the privacy of the rehearsal room

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109242456088210662006-05-10T04:45:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:30:35.476-06:00

Before I forget, at the ripe old age of 26, I read my first Jackie Collins.And was sorely disappointed.Mommy was right - it is trashy.I'm not talking about the sex. One reviewer did describe 'The World is Full of Married Men' as 'one giant sleeping bag', and he/she was bang (pun unintended) on target. But it was such bad writing.I've never read such a thin storyline, such terribly uninteresting '

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107598530409237422006-05-10T04:13:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:39:20.686-06:00

I haven't written this (doubt I could) but it's one poem all of us women should read... and the men too, those who can deal with it.David Herbert Lawrence (1885-1930)FigsThe proper way to eat a fig, in society,Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.Then you throw away the skinWhich is just

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109241643273588002006-05-10T04:01:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:30:54.886-06:00

Somebody told me once that 92 percent of the population is bisexual. There's hardly any of us who're cent per cent rooted and entrenched in our preferences - straight or not.I don't know who came up with that figure and how they conducted their surveys etc, but I'm guessing that they based their conclusions upon questions like 'Have you ever been touched by someone of the same sex? Did you feel

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108548348498831562006-05-10T03:59:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:32:39.566-06:00

Studies, surveys, surveys, studies.These westerners think they've got it all figured out, if they conduct like three 'scientific' studies.The latest is that pregnant women like 'healthy' faces. That women go for macho men when they're at the height of fertility, but later, they want healthy-looking men around.God, spare me!Who, I'd like to know, doesn't like healthy faces?Who wants to hang out

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107595829954268532006-05-10T03:45:00.001-06:002006-05-08T12:39:42.830-06:00

Men are funny creatures.They claim they are not looking for committed relationships... not just yet -"I'm not ready"... "I've got to make my way in life first"... "I can't afford it"... "We're too young"... "Let's give it a shot first."... We've heard it all, haven't we?Correction - I have not.This is the wierd part.I have only heard of these excuses in magazines, on talk shows and from other

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108547935274809192006-05-10T03:45:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:33:05.073-06:00

This morning, Delhi was BEAUTIFUL!Spring in Delhi is short-lived. But it is like one of those brides you see in the foreign magazines.As I walked a little, near Teen Murti, my eyes kept feasting on this explosion of flowers, and this stretch of neat, green lawn, with a light frost clinging so delicately to the tips of the blades of grass....It was like sunshine captured in large yellow flowers...

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108115018698096562006-05-10T03:35:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:35:50.120-06:00

When people talk of screen Goddesses, they aren't simply going overboard with enthusiastic praise.Come to think of it, that's what a Goddess is, right?A powerful female.Lots of men and women worship her. She's attractive. She's (supposed to be) creative. She's got money. She's got connections with other people who are powerful and have money.In short, a film actress has all the things that people

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111398398503743802006-05-10T03:30:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:16:57.936-06:00

A guy I know was telling me how much he dislikes the word 'slut'.He was most upset by the fact that women could be persuaded to give up sexual liberation under threat of being tagged this awful thing - SLUT!I have to admit that no woman (that I know of) would enjoy being called a slut. As opposed to this, most men would love being called the male equivalent of a slut - a playboy.So, I suppose I

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1108547085034693382006-05-10T03:26:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:33:27.046-06:00

No, seriously. I love being a girl sometimes (I get to wear skirts). But the news is just so depressing.One little girl raped by two men. And those media bastards made her talk about the experience - on camera!!They (I can't be sure but I think it was NDTV) fudged up the image so you couldn't see her face, but damn them, don't they have ANY sensitivity at all? Who allows this sort of stuff? I'd

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1105518350903738152006-05-10T03:16:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:45:52.246-06:00

First real post - it's got to be about love.I mean, all chicklit is essentially about love, isn't it?Looking for love, being disappointed in love, almost-love, lack of love, love denied, love lost, love demanded, love you can't drum up no matter how hard you try, love-in-waiting, love hopefuls, tail-between-legs-love, love(rs).Actually, all literature is about love. Show me a book that isn't

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109236174592361402006-05-10T03:05:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:31:24.640-06:00

Was reading Stephen King's 'On Writing', wherein he makes a great deal of fun of some poor college poetess who wrote about her 'lesbian breasts'.Now, King had many objections to this turn of phrase. He insists that breasts are breasts and cannot, should not, be described as lesbians.I don't agree with him on two counts - one, he doesn't seem to understand the concept of extended metaphors.

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109233195813356362006-05-10T01:32:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:31:52.910-06:00

Valentine's Day and the newspapers are fun.[Yes, baba, I know. V-day is long past, and this is a much delayed post, but hey, I couldn't get my hands on a half-way decent internet connection.]There was this report about the traditional (not so traditional, really) celebrations at Hindu College. The boys offer prayers to Damdami Mai, who's supposed to be the resident campus deity of the chicks in

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109681226931340422006-05-09T10:35:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:28:15.313-06:00

As a post-script to my earlier post on mating habits - here's another reason why I don't believe the whole 'spreading my seed' theory of polygamy.Lions, it is said, mate at least fifty times a day. Now, there's an animal who really wants to spread his seed.Making babies is serious business. The lion KNOWS he's got to work hard to propagate the species. He goes without food when mating. He will

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1110814169740776852006-05-09T09:22:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:24:41.633-06:00

It's so depressing.I googled 'desi chicklit' and look at what I found...Not only was my blog NOT thrown up, but 95% percent of the links thrown up were neither desi not chicklit. In fact, they weren't even chick, nor lit. Nothing literary about them.Of course, there's nothing literary about this blog either. Except me... I'm good with words (oh come on, I'm quite good. I know that much!) But

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111072933329187762006-05-09T09:16:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:18:23.316-06:00

I was actually getting hopeful, y'know.Surfed up this link to a blog called My boyfriend is a Twat.I mean, such an incredible name, eh? I had such high hopes from it. It sounded girlie, but punchy. Like something with dum!Girl-power, I thought. Besides, this was an award-winning blog! It's won the bloggies' Best European Weblog...But I found I couldn't wade through more than two posts. And then,

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111676425748052112006-05-09T08:50:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:14:07.846-06:00

I was just blogging my third post of yesterday, when the electricity went off!And to think I'd almost written a thousand words... of course, it made me sad, but oh well.. I've survived worse. I've lost stuff like half a novel I'd been working on - ten thousand words and more... why worry about a blog?In some ways, it was good that I lost that post. I'd been so upset while writing it - it was like

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109601290882219472006-05-09T08:34:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:26:45.333-06:00

So, I'm sitting across this guy at a restaurant and we're through the main course and into dessert. (I've been at his place earlier and the morning has been... oh, so predictable. Both of us are feeling sort of sulky, and trying hard to make up for the disappointment with a nice, expensive lunch.)I order - what else - something appropriately chocolatey.And this guy asks me - "You like chocolate?"

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109601064812282172006-05-09T08:30:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:27:29.896-06:00

I think it would be nice, living in a commune.I've never seen one - but I have a rough idea that communes are places where everyone lives on the assumption that resources and responsibility are meant to be shared, and nothing really belongs to individuals.I am quite in agreement, there.And it would be awfully nice not to have to cook and clean for yourself every single day.I mean, I don't mind

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111069964688759832006-05-09T08:28:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:19:28.286-06:00

After I'd fallen asleep last evening, I was woken by the phone ringing.For a split second, I thought "Ah! It is not such a lonely life, perhaps... somebody cares... somebody is calling... somebody loves me".But it was only Reliance, my telephone service provider.Some chick from Chennai called to thank me... for paying my bills on time.Oh well, that's some gratitude, from somebody!

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109600374168892902006-05-09T08:16:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:28:47.533-06:00

A lot of guys give me a mouthful of 'genetic instinct' bakwaas when it comes to fidelity.There's some theortical hogwash that they've gleaned from 'scientific' research, according to which, men are genetically engineered to be polygamous. The theory says that men are geared to be unfaithful as many times as their libido will permit, because they need to 'spread their seed'.The male animal

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111068507927141552006-05-09T07:54:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:20:15.543-06:00

I've read that men are like, perpetual slobs...they leave things like wet towels on the floor; they eat anything, anywhere and leave dirty dishes around the bed.All this is based purely on hearsay, because I haven't lived in with a guy so far. (Doubt if I will, either... if I'm going to clean up my act for some guy, I might as well marry him and please the dear mother, back home). Though, in

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111067655918012372006-05-09T07:41:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:22:52.660-06:00

Yesterday was so sad, I thought I'd die.All through the afternoon, I had these visions of a desperate me taking a razor to her wrists, bleeding to a lonely death. I remember thinking "Thank God, the razor's almost new... don't think it's rusted... would be awful to have to get tetanus shots later..."Which is stupid, because, imagine worrying about infection when you're... well, dead.I also

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109857703835981742006-05-09T07:39:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:25:57.816-06:00

I suppose men (maybe women too) get all their wooing info from the movies. [Lord alone knows where they get their info about the real act; from all accounts, it seems that they know very little]How else do you explain that almost all guys (especially the ones who've grown up watching Hollywood movies) begin with a smooch? The more desi the guy - that is, the closer he is to Bollywood and home

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1112102252853404192006-05-09T07:12:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:08:18.696-06:00

GOOD NEWS!!Now, when I google up 'desi chicklit', this blog is being thrown up.At number one slot.Which is a far cry from the dismal situation a couple of weeks ago.Need I add, I'm feeling SO kicked!

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1106745580716163972006-05-09T07:08:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:44:09.190-06:00

I have decided -The absolutely bestest, mostest beautiful sight in the whole world is the mustard fields stretching across the bosom on this country.All I need to have my soul filled with this dreamy, fluid resin is the sight of those bright yellow heads, those rich green bodies... rooted in deeply brown earth... sarson ke khet... and your heart goes ' Hai'!There's something seriously seductive

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1112101905888551522006-05-09T06:55:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:10:34.906-06:00

Thanks to a guy (I mentioned him before, in a spell of grateful chocophilia), I've discovered I have a sixth sense kind of instinct.This guy... He's been having a bad time. His personal life is a mess. He's been in and out of hospitals. His career is on the verge of a collapse.And I... well, I didn't want a relationship with him, but I have offered a sympathetic ear, out of sheer... sympathy, I

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109599123192885512006-05-09T06:54:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:29:50.200-06:00

Women check out other women aaaall the time.Galling as the habit is, I must confess: not a single woman passes me by, but that I must check her out.It's not a real curiosity or an attraction thing, as it is with men. I check out men too, but that's instinctive - if a man finds favour with my particular form of conditioning or genetic preference or whatever, I let my gaze linger longer. If he

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111496818694155852006-05-09T06:52:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:15:36.066-06:00

It's a miserable conclusion to come to, but I have come to it:A holiday isn't a holiday until you've got someone to share it with.I used to think it would be huge fun if I could travel all by myself.This 'I want to be by myself' bug bites all of us, girls in particular, at some stage. This stage is usually our twenties, when we're old enough and maybe confident enough to move about the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109682136305869332006-05-09T06:48:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:27:51.886-06:00

Since I have been doing a bit of reading about mating habits, I've come to the conclusion that, ideally, we should be like peacocks.There's something to be said for all mating habits, but the peacock gets my vote.The male has all the flashy colours. The male has to strut, dance and fan his tail and hot-step during the monsoon (and to think, our teachers always told us that the peacock danced

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111582204054930262006-05-09T06:40:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:14:33.336-06:00

There's this friend of a friend (whom I like much more than my friend, but with whom I cannot get closer, because my friend is extremely possessive about her friend, to the extent that the duo has ben accused of being a lesbian... yes, I mean 'accused'. In India, the word is still hurled at you like an insult.)So, let's call her R, this friend of my friend.I bring R up because she seems to like

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111237422683125022006-05-09T06:39:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:17:28.276-06:00

I'm SUCH a loser and the Goddess of all thing fun is probably pissed off majorly, because it's been ages since I've had some FUN!Last night, I came close, but I should have known; that bitch Goddess was just playing with my dry-raisin of a heart.A friend called at half past eleven (11.39 pm, to be precise) and asked me if I'd like to go out. To a disc.I was like - 'Now? At this hour?'She was like

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1107348563026910152006-05-09T06:34:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:41:58.446-06:00

This morning, I had renewed proof (not that we need any) that the world would be a much better place if women called the shots.I was traveling in a bus today, I saw this cripple get on. He made straight for the seat reserved for the handicapped. There were these two young hulks of men, sitting there. Neither of them made a move to get up.So, the poor cripple very gently touched one of these guys

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1106743924680676422006-05-09T06:31:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:44:30.353-06:00

They say ultimately, all women need a man in their lives.... do we?I got thinking about this when, the day before, I couldn't open a bottle of jam. This being a the first time I'm in a zero-male house, I've had to cope with things like putting up curtains, hammering in nails, opening jars and cutting through tin and carrying buckets of water.It's inconvenient, I admit. And I did think, for a

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1110890885625070082006-05-09T06:28:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:23:43.620-06:00

So, I should have sorted this out right at the beginning, but I'm doing so now and that should be good enough...What makes for good chicklit?I'm reading this book right now, called Good In Bed. (I went to bed with it, in fact... poor me.)It's not a wonderful book.For one, it's not unputdownable. And when it comes to light reading, my criteria for good lit is that I should want to sit up all night

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1112013979063902362006-05-09T06:19:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:10:55.403-06:00

Sometimes, friendships need an oxygen mask.I was really friendly with SM, this girl I know from our hostel days. Almost a decade-long friendship.Ours was the sort of coming-of-age friendship one sees in movies (only the coming of age bit happens much earlier in the movies... one actually grows up only in the late teens or early twenties).We were a big group - seven girls.One got married and went

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111580354920945172006-05-09T06:03:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:15:10.060-06:00

So, this morning, my brother calls up and tells me to get married.Just like that.He calls up and says, "It's time. When are you planning to get married?"And this coming from a man barely eight months into his own marriage, and already losing his sanity because of it. He's seeing the horrors of being a family man, up close and person. That tug-of-war between the family of origin and the family of

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1110889639817578412006-05-09T05:58:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:24:13.163-06:00

I have absolutely no faith in this nonsense sect of Homokaasu, whatever that is.Can you believe it - they say I'm 71% good.Me? Good? Almost three-quarters goodness in this black, chockablok heart?And all this based on some matrices that are defined by... what? The length of vowels...Pooh!

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111747942578476222006-05-09T04:39:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:11:56.006-06:00

I have just been introduced to this strange woman, Grace Quek - porn star, subject of award-winning documentary and unabashed, articulate woman!I haven't met her; I've just read about her.But I would like to meet her.Here, I've been screaming myself hoarse that women do not like indiscriminate sex, and then, I hear about this woman who's having a sexual marathon, with 251 men, no less! (It's a

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111747127762491512006-05-09T04:26:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:12:20.426-06:00

There was this (vurtual) conversation I had recently with a firang friend.He is one of those that hold Mother Nature responsible for the male inability to stick with one woman. The old argument about the need to spread your seed, genetic evolution and strengthening genes and blah blah...But, in the same breath, he also says that he thinks it is mark of distinction, in a woman, if she sleeps with

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111746383988509072006-05-09T04:17:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:12:40.863-06:00

I'm not a man-hater, I'm really not.But when I hear reports of men who throw acid on the faces of little schoolgirls that they've been lusting after.... I want to somehow clear the earth of men.I love a lot of men. I do.But I think it might be for the betterment of humanity if we had a new world which had no men in it at all. Or maybe, a few hand-picked ones. Good, gentle, intelligent ones who

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111399216041501342006-05-09T03:46:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:16:30.693-06:00

So, I did go out this weekend. Hated it.After dinner with a lot of friends, we ended up going to Turquoise Cottage. It's this really happening place - restaurant/nightclub/joint/pub... whatever - in Delhi. Everyone I know insisted that I MUST go to TC.I hated it.It was small - or seemed small, with more than five hundred people jammed in. The dance floor was small. People were pressed against

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111137381403101272006-05-09T02:55:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:17:49.326-06:00

Mommy, like almost-always, is right: you should be careful what you wish for - you just might get it!Recently, I'd been hoping that I'd get a little less love.Me wanting male attention is a given. I just wish it would come to me serially, in instalments from different sources, rather than rocks of love being hurled at you from all sides.In India, we have this saying : Bhagwaan jab detaa hai,

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1109754745434412252006-05-09T02:24:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:27:07.396-06:00

A friend sent me a forward about why men are happier creatures.Which got me thinking: the things that were known as male habits, privileges or attitudes, are pretty much the same as women's habits, privileges and attitudes, now.Does that mean we women are turning into men?Consider this list -Your last name stays put (Mine is going to stay put too... and a lot of women I know refuse to change

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1110959141153036802006-05-09T01:21:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:23:15.603-06:00

This is a horrible morning.I've been wanting to cry. Just like that,Did indulge in surreptious eye-wiping in a cab, on my way to work. I considered banging my head a few times against the sides of the cab, except that I knew the cabbie would get upset and drive me straight to the nearest mental asylum.Worse, I woke up with a headache, after a mere four hours of sleep (me being a somniac-mammoth

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1111850397165337352006-05-08T21:12:00.000-06:002006-05-08T12:11:22.283-06:00

I'm in a quandary.Today, when I went to visit my friend (I've known her nine years) at her family home, I was told that she's been having issues with another common friend (whom I've known as long).My friend wouldn't give me the details, but it seems something unpleasant was said about 'a common friend'. Since she refused to tell me the details of this bitchy conversation (which is very unusual,

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1113386366878462192006-05-01T15:54:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:24:07.806-06:00

And this morning, we discovered that we'd been drinking cockroach-jam-enriched water, in office... 'ew!'... eh?Somebody took a look inside the water-machine (fancy filter thing that boils water too...what's it called?) and discovered bits of fuzzy little leg and antennae. Yeah... Eww!We've been joking about how we'll get those great proteins with the genetic material that makes cockroaches so

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1117445138415198662006-05-01T15:44:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:08:32.266-06:00

Was so horribly shocked and disgusted, the other day, at TGIFs.For the first time in my life, I saw this bunch of people who'd brought along their kids' ayah, and made her sit at a separate table! And, this was the absolute pits, they didn't get her anything to eat or drink!!I have never see anything so appalling, in all my life.We saw this six-year old running to and fro, between two tables -

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1117703566528567932006-05-01T14:37:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:04:56.786-06:00

(Part 1 and Part 2 of the Mmuuaaaah series)It is stupid to begin with a kiss.The whole 'kiss at the first date' scene is all Hollywood's fault - kissing being shown as both beginning and culmination of troubled see-saw romances on celluloid.Which is a most unfortunate trend, because men assume that you can't wait for that glorious moment of slobbering saliva exchange. (Which, within thirty

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1120836155586402642006-05-01T08:52:00.000-06:002006-04-30T11:45:13.580-06:00

I seem to have a phone stalker called Amit.He just calls one day, and says 'We met... You gave me your phone number yourself'.Which is really scary, because it's possible. I do meet people at random because of my work - very likely I handed over a visiting card, which has my cell phone number on it - and completely forgot the guy, his name, his profession, his face... everything!So, I could not

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1114868148880868902006-05-01T08:45:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:18:03.276-06:00

And I keep wondering how it would be, if I had paid sex.I know, it has always been denigrated. Paid-for sex is known as the last refuge of a sexual reject, and the first sign of being a loser on the personal-charm front.Yet, I wonder, about both options - having sex for money (which is what marriage often amounts to), and having sex by paying someone to do it with me.The first option is just

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1119193626743154622006-05-01T08:44:00.000-06:002006-04-30T11:50:59.666-06:00

Lazy, lazy sunday. Hot, hot Sunday!I just ventured forth, out of my little sauna of a room - Delhi... it's blazing hot. And there is a beyond-warm breeze that completely fries your brains. It's what we call a 'loo' in north-India (don't know why we call it 'loo', but we do, and once it hits you, it has the potential to kill).The heat in UP and Delhi is known to be fatal - as is the cold. We have

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1117119371616489022006-05-01T08:42:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:09:53.586-06:00

So, my gal-pal P, is nuts about somebody, finally.That is, somebody other than that best-buddy of hers, who made her so unhappy, because he won't do a thing about taking their relationship further. He was funny guy - loved her, would admit to it; needed her around, would admit to it... but also had a girlfriend and also having an affair on the side with a colleague, who in turn, was having

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1115562834120964832006-05-01T08:14:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:16:27.173-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about naked bodies recently. And about how hard it is to face upto nakedness - my own and others'.How easy it is to accept a person (as attractive, as a friend, as a profession, as an intimate, just as the person he/she is), as long as he/she has their clothes on.But the moment you see a person completely nude, you can never think of them otherwise - always, forever and

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1114611572150902542006-05-01T08:11:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:19:33.716-06:00

A newspaper report in London says that one in three men in the UK drink breast-milk!!Apparently, the survey was undertaken by some milk firm called Cow & Gate, asking men who've just fathered babies if they felt excluded from the breast-feeding ritual. And, surprise-surpise, one-third of the men actually admitted to having tried their partner's breast-milk!Hmm. What I want to know is, did these

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1120141195726554402006-05-01T08:10:00.000-06:002006-04-30T11:48:43.350-06:00

To think we're still equating rape with marriage?!This report made my blood boil.Not just because of the victim's forcibly annulled marriage. (I doubt she wants to stay married, anyway. After all, he doesn't seem to be speaking up at all in this whole business. He's not supporting her, standing up to the mullahs or even suggesting that they leave the country and begin life anew... no sir, he is a

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1113384023020567452006-05-01T08:05:00.001-06:002006-04-30T12:25:23.223-06:00

Last night, I almost did something I've longed fantasized about -going upto a leching guy and treating him exactly like he's been treating me.There was this bunch of blokes eating dinner at this small roadside restaurant where I go to pick up food, when I'm too tired to cook and/or too broke to eat at a decent place.Usually, the dhaba-owner and his assistants treat me well. Oh yes, they smile

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1115561624651832882006-05-01T08:05:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:16:47.913-06:00

I was looking for cheap kurtas at Lajpatnagar's Central Market today and guess what I saw:I saw a middle-aged, greying, balding man shopping for his grown-up daughter, at the next stall that sold long skirts. And, to great surprise and joy, he said, "Do you have a meenee-ishkurt (mini-skirt)?"The stall-keeper, a boy of about twenty or less, looked at him dumb-struck, not believing what he'd just

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1120313360114259172006-05-01T07:57:00.000-06:002006-04-30T11:47:27.130-06:00

Ever thought about the word 'fuck', and it's very versatile dimensions.There use to be an internet forward going round, that did a funny take on what so-n-so usage of fuck meant, when used in a given context.And how did it all begin?I mean, who first thought to say 'fuck' when he/she (though more likely, a he) really wanted to say 'I'm in really deep shit'.And why is fuck and only fuck an

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1120139900167678852006-05-01T07:49:00.000-06:002006-04-30T11:49:22.803-06:00

All my friends are having babies.Ugh! At first, it was just one.One much-married settled-abroad NRI babe got pregnant. That was to be expected. She wasn't doing much with life, anyway.And then, suddenly, there was a flood. Three different married friends got pregnant. So did a sister-in-law and one cousin. Careers were put on hold. Life itself was put on hold.Nowadays, I get invitations to view

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1116942877427260592006-05-01T07:47:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:11:03.596-06:00

A site-meter is a wonderful thing. Figuring out how people have been reaching your blog is such an amusing pastime.I am quite flattered by the fact that people from Portugal and Australia and wherenot have been checking out my blog.And there's this one person whose blog is in a language I don't even recognize, but it's got a naked girl's image on it... very interesting...Then, there is the fact

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1114610764960469352006-05-01T07:39:00.000-06:002006-04-30T12:22:13.580-06:00

So, I went out last night to this place called Laid-back Waters, with some foreign/NRI-type friends.I don't like the restaurant so much. The decor is a little like a mixture of Koyla (the rooftop place in Colaba, Bombay) and the Mocha at Churchgate (also in Bombay). There are some traditional-looking lamps (not authentic ancient stuff, unlike Mocha, where the owners had actually gone around the

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1121089382402665662006-05-01T07:34:00.000-06:002006-04-30T11:44:16.410-06:00

Touch is such a funny thing.You crave it. But you resent it. It all depends on who does the touching.It is not like hunger at all.When you're hungry, you eat anything. Right? Even if you prefer Belgian chocolates, or waffles or carrot cake... but if you're hungry, you'll settle for bread-butter, or even baigan-aloo ki subzi.It doesn't matter who's cooking. It doesn't matter where you're eating.

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10082007.post-1120837010759874862006-05-01T07:30:00.000-06:002006-04-30T11:41:59.096-06:00

Anonymous tells me love isn't stronger than roti-kapda-makaan.My take on it is simple - test it for yourself.Would you give up your home and nice clothes and good food for a guy/girl you love?I think the answer is yes - when in love, people give up a lot. They give up their lives. Willingly.and if you can't, the problem is that you haven't been in love, the way love is meant to be.I'm not even

TBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285423772691965878noreply@blogger.com5