Legal Paranoia

Lawyering screws with your head. You know how they say, "Doctors make the worst patients?" Well, Lawyers make the worst everything - friends, sisters, girlfriends, mothers, anything. When I say Lawyers, I essentially mean Litigators, though my Corporate Shark friends may have their own point of view. If you watch Boston Legal, two names of the firm "Crane, Poole and Schmidt" are mentally deranged. Can you blame them?

Is this a sudden realization? Not really, though I must confess that the first nags came to me while I was working for an NGO which dealt with relief for women in troubled marriages. Most of my day would involve sitting with young girls, some of them my age, with three kids, crying about how they were beaten by their husbands, how their husbands were having affairs, how their husbands tried to sell them off... for some unexplained reason, the "client counselling" techniques would require one to probe into the history of the relationship, and many of them, surprise, surprise, would begin with a happy happy love story, with some minor aberrations ("once only... we were at bandstand, and he pinched me..." or "he would joke, see, by marrying you I am losing out on 2 crores dowry, ha ha") and then post marriage, it would work out to some sort of living hell. I was very sympathetic, having gone through an abusive relationship for about 3 years myself. Then, however, I began internalizing it. After a long day (and trust me, working there ensured very long days) when I would meet my then boyfriend, who was also working in Mumbai, I found myself over analyzing every small quirk he displayed, thinking, ohmigawd, this is it, he's a psychopath, he's going to sell me to some Arab shaikh once we get married, oh help, oh help.

So when my Sister spoke to me last night, talking about her psycho boyfriend, and asking me for my take on the matter, I had to stop myself several times from giving her "legal" advice. I did point out that he sounded remarkably like the trash a lot of my Clients are married to, and that she should think twice about going long term. She then moved to point out that it's usually me who is doing the trash dating, but at that I decided to change the subject. Whew!

Our entire office is plagued with the paranoia. Yesterday my Boss's crazy brother in law (i.e., crazier than him) landed up with a bag of diabetes medication, credit cards, a cell phone and an ID card, all belonging to the same person. He claimed that someone had left this in a cafe where he was having coffee. Why anyone would keep their entire world in a .5mm thick plastic bag was beyond me. The Crazy had left the bag with the bodyguard, saying that he had called the owner of the belongings and asked him to pick it up. My Boss was highly unconvinced. He stared at the bag in his strange sort of way, stared at me, stared at the bodyguard, and then began reciting the wordings of a Panchnama Report, which was possibly being prepared just as we were innocently studying the contents of the bag:

"He then led us to the Kingpin to whom he had given the stolen goods and who had accepted the goods, knowing them to be stolen. He led us to the third floor of XYZ Building to the office of Advocate...."

Crazy was called back and given the bag, and shown the butt of the Bodyguard's Carbine.

Lawyering, particularly work and research on Terrorism, makes it impossible for me to travel in peace. As if I weren't scared enough of flying, the prospect of getting bombed doesn't make it any easier for me. And last night in the 8:36 Andheri harbour Local, was the pits.

I step into the compartment to find a young girl sitting there, appearing to be slightly imbalanced. You know what I mean? Like there will be the cuckoos who walk around the street, screaming away and laughing at themselves, and everyone knows that they are crazy, and that it's easy to just shove them into a car, take them to the nearest mental hospital and earn the 1000 bucks + blanket + banana (please tell me that the reward for turning in a madman has been revised!). And then again, you have the people who look like all is not well in the brain box, but it's kind of politically incorrect to call for help to deal with the person.

She was wearing a dress, long sleeves, long skirt. Her face was covered with pock marks, it appeared, slit eyed, unkempt hair yet pulled into a ponytail. What got me thinking was not her appearance, at first. It was the fact that she didn't get off the train when it pulled in at VT. She just stood there. I opened my mouth to say something to her. But somehow I couldn't. Maybe she changed her mind, maybe she slept through the Masjid Stop and wants to go back. Fine.

She sat on one end of the compartment and I on the other. Other women got into the train, and two sat directly opposite her. Everyone was oblivious to the girl, some gave her a curious look, but she went largely ignored.

She looked like she was in a trance. I suddenly remembered the tactic of suicide bombers to swallow nerve relaxants before embarking on their last mission. This woman's dress was also funnily shaped. Her waist belt seemed to be unnaturally wide, and slightly protruding. I tensed in a panic, my heart racing. What if this was it? What if she was going to blow us all up? Her hand raised to her face and she looked at them seriously. Maybe she was going to pull the plug, or press the button, or do whatever these suicide bomber types do. I stood up, my face pale, grasping the edge of the seat, wondering which direction I should turn my face to, oh what was the point, these bombs were stuffed with metal shrapnel for deadly impact within a 50m radius, I am such a goner, oh hell... I nearly shut my eyes while she brought her hand up right next to her face... and then into her mouth.

She began eating her fingers, and then eating her fist. She chewed them very purposefully, and even had a look of pleasure on her face, as if the chewing of her digits was satisfying her hunger. He entire hand began disappearing into her mouth, and her eyes kept closing. The women sitting opposite her were still oblivious, and looked up only when she started slipping to the floor in a stupor. Suddenly they realized that she was not wearing any shoes.

They got up and rushed to my side of the compartment. They were frightened by her lack of footwear. We all then moved to the door and tried to get Police intervention, but as usual, there was no one to help us.

Well. In the meanwhile I am trying to plan a holiday with the boy, and he's told me that I'm over-planning the entire thing, just because I got a little excited while booking a hotel and went completely ballistic with the IRCTC website today for repeatedly rejecting my transactions. (Internet reservations my ass...) Incidentally, I am also reviewing a Domestic Violence Case which my boss has thrown on my head. He's filed for Divorce, on grounds of mental instability:

"She would be completely paranoid while making even the most simple arrangements, and though I would tell her to relax she would hyperventilate and start screaming. In case anything did not happen according to plan, she would start screaming and beating inanimate objects which she thought were responsible, and even curse the weather gods. She thus had ample symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia..."

Gulp.

Pissing Off

The problem with blogging is that I always get overcome with the desire to blog every time anything even remotely out of the way comes up, but I never have the time. But this time, I even scribbled some notes on my N-72 notepad to keep the hope alive till the weekend, and here I am, here I am.

I spent most of my week working out of the Intercontinental at Marine Drive, appalled at being 6 floors below the availability of the city's best Long Island Iced Tea, and having to work on the world's most bizarre software.

For the record, I'm still a Criminal Lawyer.

Anyway, one morning my pressed schedule got me to the IC at 7am, where I sat in the coffee shop drafting urgent petitions with my Clients. The waitress would come by at regular intervals to offer me a refill on my coffee, which I accepted for lack of a better response. After this, I was expected at Kurla at 11am, before which I had to file a Consumer Complaint at Bandra at 1030am. My Clients had to be in Santacruz at 1030, so we left the Hotel in a rush. I was placed in the air conditioned Innova and we were on our way. As I was dropped at the Bandra Highway, I realized that I had forgotten something very important.

I had forgotten about the need to empty my bladder.

It's funny how your body accustoms itself to whatever warped schedule you are used to, and accommodates your finickiness, to whatever absurd extent it may take you. So I have a cup of tea in the morning, and then I come to work, and go to Court by 11am. Sometimes, I'm in Court from 11am to 5pm. I eat lunch in the Court canteen. I do not use the bathroom in this period. I don't even have to. The prospect of using the Court loos was appalling enough to put my bladder on hold. I am never overcome with the urge to release. I hold my cup of tea, another cup of tea, and about a litre of water with exceptional poise. Back at the office, I allow myself to be human again. Many people are amazed with this talent. It has not been easy, cultivating such self restraint.

Firstly, I have excessive hangups about loo cleanliness. My Sunday routine is scrubbing the hell out of my loo. My mantra is that when you leave, no one should have any indication as to what exactly was going on in there. Look before you leave. Simple. I can't understand why people don't get it. People who have less than perfect loo habits deserve no sympathy. In fact, a one year intense relationship came to a screeching halt when, the morning after, I creeped out of bed without disturbing the love of my life, as he was then referred to as, to use the bathroom. My romantic weekend getaway went for a head first collision with what I saw in the toilet. The flush had been used, no doubt, but there was some remnants which were, well, beyond the reach of the flush, which could have been cleaned up by the use of the hand shower like thing attached to the pot (for a shady hotel on the outskirts of Coorg, it had decent facilities). I recoiled in disgust and reevaluated my entire relationship while smoothing out my tousled hair. I lay awake in bed, traumatized, with my bladder frozen in a state of shock.

We broke up a month later.

(Ok, not exactly, but that's the way I'd like to remember it)

Years of bus travel have also helped in my self restraint. You don't want to know what condition loos are at bus pit stops. If I woke up to find that I had turned a man for a day, I'd stand up and pee. And then I'd go back to sleep.

Anyway, my body having been so fine tuned to my own habits, I was pretty confident that I could bear any burden.

Until I felt the strange pangs when I walked out of the Bandra Court to catch an auto to Kurla.

Never underestimate the power of caffeine.

My discomfort continued, and worsened over the non existent roads through the Bandra Kurla Complex. Every bump and pothole worsened my agony. It was already 1130, and I was late for my case. I would probably make it just in time. I imagined the paranoid corporate manager who was the accused I was representing pacing up and down the corridors of the Court waiting for me.

I ignored my urgency. I could handle this.

I clambered up the stairs of the Courtroom and rushed into the Court, checked the Board. The Judge was a weirdo who liked his cases called out in reverse order. My Case was at Serial No. 23. Number 33 was called out. Ten cases. That's time to get to a bathroom, I thought. From the corner of my eye, I saw my Client, looking highly relieved.

Just as I pulled out my files, Number 30 was called out. This Judge was in a mighty hurry. Luckily, so was I. I began to twitch my ankle, unconsciously. Somehow, this distracted my discomfort. The case wasn't to go on for long, I just had to take a date, pretty much.

29, 28, 27, 26, 25 (the idiot lawyer made some kind of application which took 3 whole minutes to decide. grr.), 24...

Finally. I began to stand up as soon as 24 was adjourned, like some smug kid who knows he's going to get the "best student" prize.

"Number 22..."

What?

I hurriedly sat down and panicked. What just happened? How is this possible?

I hissed to the clerk. "What the hell is going on? What happened to 23?"

The Clerk smiled. "Madam, the file is lost. We'll call out the matter when the file is called"

Oof. "And how long will that take?"

"The peon has gone to find it. He'll be back any minute."

Which was essentially any time between now and the apocalypse.

I waited 5 minutes. "Where is he?"

"He's just gone down to get the file madam. It is in the warrants department.He'll just be back."

I knew exactly what was happening. The Peon was sitting in the canteen, smoking a beedi, yapping with some other peons. I was getting highly restless.

"Look. I need to go down. Can I finish my work and come in 10 minutes?" Hey, I couldn't tell this guy I needed to pee, right?

The Clerk looked at me doubtfully. "How long will you take?"

"5 minutes. I need to check something. Please."

"OK" he said, grudgingly. "But 5 minutes only. Remand will start then."

I nearly ran out of the Courtroom.

In Court, its easy to find the loo. Just follow the stench. I went to the ground floor, which was where the bar room was. I walked a few rooms ahead of it, and stopped where it stunk the most. There were two doors - one locked, and one unlocked. A male lawyer walked out of the open door, wringing his hands on a kerchief. He looked at me strangely as I moved to walk into the loo. I saw a clerk standing near the closed door.

"This is the loo, right?"

"Yes Madam," he said.

"Well... can I go in?"

He looked a little uncertain, and pointed towards the locked door.

"Ladies"

By now, I was really losing control. Being this close to a loo and still having to make polite conversation was really playing unsafe.

"And?"

"Madam, the key is with the Bar Association. Ask that Peon."

So I went back to the Bar Association Room and asked the Peon for the key.

He looked me up and down. "You new here?"

"Huh?"

"Are you a member of the Kurla Bar?"

At this time, I imagined that giving into this uncontrollable urge would serve all of these people right, the useless bureaucracy of the lower judiciary, to have to clean up the ensuing mess. Anyway, I have to put up with their shit, so its only fair that they get to deal with my pee."

"What, only Kurla Bar Members get to go, or what?"

The Peon shrugged his shoulders. "Return it when you're done."

I walked as fast as was socially acceptable, in the circumstances. I unlocked the door, which I half expected to be jammed, and went it and locked the door from the inside. The overwhelming stench of a stinky loo denied the facility of ventilation hit me like a truck, and I hung my bag from a hook which thankfully existed (the state of the floor was unmentionable) yanked up my salwar, and stepped into the toilet area, refused to look down at what already existed there, undid apparel and...

Sigh. Don't even ask me to describe the feeling. Words fail me.

I washed my fingers, unlocked the door and came out. After locking the door, I adjusted my clothing, despite the various people hanging around. I refused to entertain the possibility of my trouser cuffs touching the ground in there. I locked the door, handed the peon the key, and went back to the Court.

For the record, they never found the file. I stood up, informed the Judge, who adjourned the case anyway.

Bad toilets just make being a woman that much more painful than it isn't.

Courting Violence

I came home to find that there have been serial blasts all over Uttar Pradesh. 6 blasts, and 13 people have been killed, so far. Extremely tragic, but what is interesting is that these blasts were all in Court premises.

I knew this was coming.

Security in Courts, at least in Mumbai, is pathetic. The High Court has a metal detector and any baggage is scanned, fine, but other Courts are oblivious to the need for security. Even Courts which have high profile cases going on. The only Court that takes any serious measures is the Maharashtra Control of Organized Crimes Act Court at the Sessions Court of Mumbai. Not that the measures are really impressive, though.

Once, I sat in the Court while a visibly disturbed individual came in. He pushed his way through the Security Check, and no one really protested because he was a lawyer. He came in, and started asking everyone something. Then he saw me looking intently at him.

"Is the Bomb Blast Case today?", he yelled.

"Shh...." I admonished him.

He came closer, bent down to my ear, and said:

"IS THE BOMB BLAST CASE TODAY?"

Luckily the Judge didn't notice. But everyone else did, and I got really flustered and rushed out of the Court. The guy followed.

"What Madam, you got angry because I shouted? I did not shout. I AM NOT SHOUTING!"

"Will you quiet down?" I hissed.

A Havaldar came to my rescue and led him out of the enclosure. I angrily walked up to the dozen Policemen who stood outside the Courtroom.

"What is your problem? How could you let this guy in?" I was so wild that I actually began hopping up and down.

"Sorry Madam, but he said he was an Advocate!"

"So what?" I asked. "Remember Ashwin Naik?"

Ashwin Naik, brother of Underworld biggie Amar Naik, was gunned down in the premises of the Sessions Court by two assailants who were dressed as lawyers.

"Yes, what Madam is saying is right," said one Cop, shaking his head from side to side like all Marathis do.

"I'm not here to play Underworld Trivia. I'm serious. I'm here almost every day, and I refuse to be killed because you guys can't do your job properly. If I ever see any random people inside again, you've had it. And what's wrong with checking every one who walks in? Check me, I have no objection."

"No no no no Madam, how can we?" the Havaldar blushed.

I sighed resignedly. This was really going nowhere.

But it got me thinking. So what if you were checked at the door of the MCOCA Court? You could walk into the Court with a bomb and explode it subsequently. You could walk to the door with a gun and shoot the set of decorative policemen down. Anything was possible. Even at the risk of having to get to Court ten minutes in advance to get through Security checks and get to Court by 11, is a worthy sacrifice, as long as it assures that you get out alive.

But why lawyers?

The blasts came a week after the Uttar Pradesh police along with central security agencies busted a Jaish-e-Mohammed module who wanted to target Rahul Gandhi. Lawyers had thrashed the three JeM militants when they were being produced before a court here. Police believe the lawyers were targeted because they refused to appear in cases where suspected militants arrested.

For more see here.

True. A suspected Militant in India would find it very difficult to find a lawyer. After the July 11th Serial Bomb Blasts in Mumbai, Raj Thackeray made the infamous 'fatwa' against any lawyer who would defend anyone arrested in connection with the blasts. Lawyers refusing to defend accused persons is probably one of the most blatant denials to the rights of persons which exist. Accused persons being beaten up by lawyers is also highly shameful conduct, doubtlessly. However, this is in no way a justification for blowing up Courts and killing lawyers. Needless to say that anyone arrested in this case probably will have the worst time getting a fair trial.

Another pointless Act of violence. And very scary. Because when these blasts went off, I was, well, in Court. Thousands of kilometers away, perhaps, but still.

Father of the Slime

Sensei, my friend, philosopher, guide, role model (I must stop now) and I are very rarely in touch, however, we do make it a point to call or message each other whenever something bizarre happens. My Bizarre index, therefore, is whether an incident has provoked me to call Sensei or not.

Sensei and I share the same problem which plague women all over. We are young, pretty, sexually attractive (Sensei has those wolves howling, oh yeah), well qualified (am skipping the economically independent line), funny and smart. There's nothing wrong with us. At least too much.

But we've been with the worst men ever. Ever. Seriously.

(Ooh...ooh. Whatay opportunity to start ex bashing. But no, no. I am above all this.)

Sensei has a theory behind why the craziest things always end up happening to me. We have a theory on everything. Her theory is that the craziest things happen to me, because I have the wonderful capability of making all these little instances extremely hilarious and narrating them to her and the rest of my friends for their entertainment.

So Sensei, this one's for you.

Yesterday, at a wedding, I got felt up by a yucky old man. So what, happens all the time. There are zillions of yucky old men out there. This wasn't even the first time that this yucky man felt me up.

But what makes this one, uh, special?

Because, tan-ta-ta, about a year back, I was being felt up by his son.

If this turns you on, kindly close this browser window and never, ever come back to this blog again. Yuck. What kind of a person are you, anyway? Disgusto!

So this, I suppose merits a flashback. Here we go:

There once was a girl in Mumbai, who found herself single after about 5 years. To top it off, she was in a new city, in a new job, and very disorganized. She had a friend, who decided to do her a favour and set her up with her other best friend.

Enter: Sub Conscious Boy. (SCB)

If only he was a creation of my inner self. Oh no. Of course I dismissed him at once - a "perfectionist", a guy who got into relationships "for keeps" (I had actually gotten used to the idea of being single), etc etc. And then one night he lands up at my house.

Point: You never meet Prince Charming when he walks into your house at an unearthly hour.

No sparks, nope. It also helped that I was wearing my infamous "PMS - Putting Up with Men's Shit" t-shirt. Egged on by our Cupid, though, we wound up meeting up one evening.

Point: A date that keeps you starving is a bad date.

There I was, freezing on Marine Drive (it gets chilly in November) and starving to death while this guy went on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and... and... and... and... on...

To be honest, at the time, I didn't realize that he just kept talking about himself and that we just kept talking about HIS job and HIS plans and HIS family and HIS friends until maybe 4 months later, when I was sitting at Bandra Bandstand with a curly haired boy who now, hopefully, will end my accumulation of ex boyfriends. He asked me questions which were rather innocuous, but all about me - my job, my house, why I was single (grin, grin). I opened and closed my mouth like a goldfish. I had almost forgotten how to talk about myself.

Ugh, how distracted I get. Anyway, SCB and I talk on the phone, a lot, and when our Cupid is back in town, we get together to see her off and then decide to sloth at home.

Point: Dodging is for Dicks.

Now let's make one thing clear here. If a guy does not want to kiss a girl, and if he makes no attempt to do so, even when 'accessibility' is not in question, well. It's pretty damn insulting. So my ego decided to make the move, and I was unceremoniously 'dodged'. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was Dodged.

And then, to add insult to injury, I get lectured. Lectured, on how kissing is only for the 'one' and its too early and...well, you get it. This story should have ended with me throwing him out of the house right then, but it can't, can it? Instead, he left for Pune, for study leave, for 4 weeks.

I expected in all honesty that the good boy would not be seeing much more of this giri hui ladki, but, surprise surprise, he would call me about 8 times a day.

Point: If he calls you to discuss 'feminist jurisprudence' and actually discusses 'feminist jurisprudence', then, Houston, we certainly have a problem.

So 4 weeks, examinations, bad time at work, and allied matters later, I found myself boarding a bus for Pune. He convinced me to spend his post exam weekend in Pune with him. And so it was - holding hands, footsies, random hugs, but no, no, nothing further.

Back in Bombay, however, I decided to pull over and ask for directions.

"Exactly what is happening here?"

"Nothing. I think we are very happy together."

"And what are we?"

"We are friends. Very good friends."

"Riiight", I said. "I think friends shouldn't be sitting on each others laps while having conversations."

Just as he had succeeded in explaining to me how happy he was with this warped arrangement and just as I began to realize he was crazy, we had a (very bad) kiss.

And that just killed it.

According to SCB, a kiss was just opening the Pandora's box to evil, and evil followed suit.

"I don't know what came over me, Ruma, I swear. What is my shirt doing on the floor?"

I had enough, and so I told him that it was not possible for us to be 'friends'. By now, I was really mindfucked. From 'kissing is only for the girl I want to marry' to now more-than-kissing with a 'good friend', this was not working out at all. I banished him, only for him to land up at my place a day later unshaven and bleary eyed.

"I can't live without you. Please don't leave me."

The damage had been done, because just the previous day a very pained Ruma called up Crossword's "Dial a Book" service and got home delivered the single woman's bible - "He's Just Not That Into You". I cried through it, laughed through it, and now, I was ready. That evening, his shirt may have done the disappearing act again, but this time, I was in control.

He shifted base to Delhi, and after one torrid bye bye session it looked like things were getting sorted out, although it was increasingly getting nasty. He felt the relationship was great but had no future as we were going to be in different cities, and he was getting married in 2 years. He didn't know who she was, she would be anyone deemed suitable. Don't get me wrong here, I didn't see marriage in the picture at all, but him prioritizing a woman who he didn't even know over me was insulting, to say the least, but then again so was this entire relationship. I was lonely, the city was getting to me, and I saw, rather, misread something to look forward to. Obviously, I hadn't paid close attention to the Bible.

Every story has a happy ending, and I'm glad that in this case it didn't end with another guy coming in and saving me. In fact, it ended thanks to a guy who I saved.

Republic day weekend, me and Singo are in a car to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, my lifelong cherished dream. We never get there, though, because our car gets smashed behind a truck, and Singo's life is saved by a whisker. Two traumatic days in Delhi later, I get back to Mumbai. SCB, ironically, is in Mumbai at this time.

SCB comes to see me, bedridden by a whiplash injury, and in spite of my resolve to now put an end to this farce of a relationship, I found my hurt body and peace of mind warming to the idea of some physical comfort.

And again, I am dodged.

I look at him, puzzled through the Valium and Ibuprofen.

"Ruma, I can't. I can't get involved with you."

"What the fuck were you doing for the last 2 months, then?"

"No... you see, every time I got involved with you, it was my subconscious' doing. I am involved with you only at a subconscious level. My morality doesn't allow me to get involved with you consciously."

"So you mean to say that if your subconscious took over and made out with me right now, it was perfectly OK."

"Exactly."

Perhaps it was Greg Behrendt's teachings. Perhaps it was the drugs. Perhaps it was the joyous look on his face when he learnt that I had figured out his warped thinking. I would like to think that it was the rush of life I felt, having survived a 7 car pile up and saved the life of one of my closest friends. Life was short. Too short to waste on scum of the earth, for sure.

"Why don't you, your Conscious, your Sub Conscious and your Morality go outside, have a conference call, and get back to me." I stumbled off the bed, and walked towards the door.

"Where are you going? Why don't you lie down? What happened?"

"ABC, just get out of my house."

And that is how the story ended.

***

Life must always be complicated, and so SCB's Dad and my Boss are chaddi buddies. SCB's Dad handles the Supreme Court work of my Boss, and in a sooper important matter, he even came down to the High Court.

As I stood, waiting for our matter, I saw him staring at me. Whatever.

Matter called out, Boss stands up, I stand behind Boss, but am forced to move away.

No excuse me, no friendly tap on shoulder. Instead, I feel a hand on my bare waist (saree, sorry) and am physically shoved to the side.

Enter: Father of Sub Conscious Boy.

Not only that, after the matter is over and we are collecting the volumes of papers which were being pulled out during arguments, I was walking off with about 4 bundles in my hand.

"Why should I take the papers? What are these Juniors here for?"

So saying he dumped another 3 bundles on my arms. Now, I was not only overburdened, and sexually harassed, but also, blinded.

That's kind of what his son did, right, felt me up and then treated me like shit? Just that he did it all in 2 hours instead of 2 months. Sweet.

And so he turns up at Boss's son's wedding, and spies me slinking away from his line of vision. He graps my hand and pumps it up and down.

"How are you?"

"Fine, Sir"

"Good, good." And the icky leery grin of the century. "Remain like this only."

Yes, whatever that means.

My Dad, while warning me against dating the son of a convicted molester (no, this isn't a 'type' I date), reminded me that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. As a rebellious 21 year old, I dismissed it. Now, am not too sure.

So much so that I consciously (haw haw) avoided the area where the sub conscious family sat - father, mother, other son and other son's cute baby. Maybe the whole family knows our history, I mused. Maybe they are into this whole sharing thing. What do I do if the other brother starts messing around? Or, god forbid, the little baby?

The killer of course was when I met SCB online after my first encounter with his father.

"I met your Dad. I can see where you get your influence from"
"Thanks :)"

Bachelor Party!

I am so happy with my Saturday night adventures that I have decided to immortalize it on my blog. I am also very hung over and too dehydrated to sleep so I have nothing to do. Here goes:

What do you do when a Buddy is getting married and he tells you that he wants his Bachelor Party on a Boat?

You give it to him!

So when A asked Gaugau what he wanted for his big day, he also asked for me and A to come out of life sized cakes. That wasn't about to happen (not only because, In the words of Lax, as my boyfriend would also be present on this momentous occasion, "watching your girlfriend jump out of a cake must be one of the worst experiences that a man could ever undergo"), so a few days before the D-Day (he warned us that the 17th November weekend was his last bachelor weekend) A looked up from her essays and asked: "So, what are we doing?"

A, Lax and me began to angst much on who was going to get the details. We (actually gaugau) found out that it was possible, and that boats left from Gateway.

Finally, after much passing the buck I googled it and came up with a shady looking sulekha.com type directory. Snuggled between "Party - Fame Gurukul disciple to perform..." and "Event Managers", I found two mobile numbers for "BOAT PARTY MUMBAI".

I speak to Rakesh, who immediately directs me to his website after expressing displeasure at the fact that we had only ten people for our party.

Website?

http://www.funnfoodfiesta.com/ is interesting but gives little indication as to pricing. Rakesh, of Fun n Food Fiesta, is enterprising, enthusiastic and completely sympathetic to the difficulties of finance. So here goes, this was our big boat party budget:

Boat rental: 2000 an hour. 8000

Lights, Generator 2000

Barman + Ice 1000

DJ + sound system 2500

Snacklets and mixers 1000

14500

So for four hours, we were cruising the Mumbai waters, playing loud Punjabi Hip Hop and literally, living the lifestyle of the rich and famous. We got along alcohol (which we fell short of) and Jafferbhai's Delhi Darbar Biriyani (About a thousand more, for 1 kg veg and 1 kg chicken. 1 kg biriyani is not 1 kg of cooked biriyani. Its 1 kg of rice and 1 kg of the vegetables/meat. That's a lot.) And we had a whole BOAT to ourselves. Lovely weather, literally cruising away. And some of the best people to ever be with (A, Lax, Sidin, Gaugau and of course, the boyfriend).

Our only glitch was that everyone took "1.5 k a head" to mean "pay whenever you want", so we were rummaging around for finance at the last minute. But as I told Lax, I may have less money in my Bank Account that ever before, but I've never felt this rich in my entire life. After we progressed to Dome (at the Intercontinental) to top off the evening with a Long Island Iced Tea, and finally home, the elation has not worn off. And when I recline on my Diwan with the laptop on Belly Warmer Mode, I can feel myself bobbing up and down, still.

(Short break after I go to wash my feet. Ugh. Don't take your shoes off while dancing.)

So while I was doing my research on Bachelor Parties (yes, I realize that its ironic that two women were involved in the execution of this plan. SO?) I came across this blogpost on the Anatomy of an Indian Bachelor Party http://asterix2k.blogspot.com/2007/01/anatomy-of-indian-bachelor-party-i.html. At the risk of sounding naive, it's not as if Bachelor Parties are only meant for guys to get laid. That may be something to look forward to, since men are so obsessed with sex, but I don't know.

Marriage changes a lot, and I guess the one thing that gets compromised is the amount of time you get to hang out with the buddies. There's someone waiting for you at home, or something that you have to do. In the unaccountable life of the singleton, everything can wait till tomorrow, you can get smashed and sleep over at the house of the only guy who remembers where he lives and it will all be just fine. You can sit around in your drawing room guzzling beer with the girls without getting distracted by someone standing at the entrance trying to attract your attention. And most importantly, no one has to 'approve' of your friends. Saturday night is not required for the "quality time alone together", the Dettol Handwash of relationships. The truth is, that marriage for a lot of people means a complete change in lifestyle, and a Bachelor Party may give that person a handful of memories to hang on to.

Senti ramble, and no, I am not trying to over analyze the Institution of the Bachelor Party. Like for us last night, we just wanted to get drunk on a Boat. Any problem?

The noble aim of trying to create memories was slightly missed, maybe.

"It's good that you guys wanted to throw Gaugau a party that he'd never forget. Too bad he won't remember anything tomorrow morning."

Aaja Nachle!

Bad morning. . I've been leaving the house at 9am all week, being the only functioning person in office, and hence entrusted with the responsibility of opening office up and then running to whichever godforsaken corner of Mumbai I need to appear in.

The morning ritual in our house is for me to wake up, usually at the sound of the doorbell (our maid), and depending on the schedule ahead, begin to make tea, or go back to sleep and then make tea. Once the tea is ready, I start waking A up. She's usually up by 845. A little random chat, a little reading of the newspaper, and after we bathe (separately, sorry for ruining the moment, guys) and dress up in corporate/legal attire, we scoot out by 930.

This morning, however, A was at the mercy of a highly apologetic investment banker who would change their document structure every half an hour, so she had to be in office by 9am. She woke up at 730, and i snuggled deeper into my pillow. I couldn't believe my luck - an extra half an hour of sleep!

Yeah, right.

The phone rings. Its my boss.

"I need a Judgment"

Lawyers live on precedent to save the day. Somewhere, there will be a case, similar to yours, which was decided in the Supreme Court or High Court, and the way this case was decided and the rationale behind the decision (as stated in the Judgment, and not "I thought the lawyer was hot, so I gave it in her favour") is what will bind your case.

Murphy's Law on Legal Research

1. 
   
   If your Boss gives you a citation format to locate a Judgment, the Journal will not be available. If the Journal is available, the Volume will be missing. If the Volume is available, the page on which the Judgment is supposed to be will be torn out.


2. 
   
   If your Boss tells you that he recalls a "1996 Judgment on the point, of the Delhi High Court", it is as likely to be a "2006 Judgment of the Calcutta High Court" or a "1976 Judgment of the Mumbai High Court".


3. 
   
   If your Boss tells you to find a Judgment on a particular point of law, you will find a binding Judgment saying the exact opposite.

This time, however, our subscription to our Legal Internet database had expired. The guys made the friendly reminder call earlier in the week, at which I told them to send a guy to pick up the cheque on Monday.

The account had not been deactivated, though, or so I thought. I logged on, opened the search engine, tried all sorts of permutations and combinations to refine my search to the exact point which I wanted, then opened the headnote (or summary) of the case to see if this was the one, and I looked through several head notes until... voila! So I clicked on the case to open it, after which it was to be saved as a PDF form and printed out.

As soon as I clicked on the case name, the Case opened, however, so did a little window.

Your account has expired. To renew your account online, click OK

OK Cancel

Clicking OK would get you to a Credit Card secure thingamajig, Cancel would just get you back to the home page, having been unceremoniously logged out and your research endeavour coming to a complete and utter waste.

Evil.

As I sat sprawled on the floor, exasperated, my eyes turned to the TV, which was on for no particular reason, and there she was.

Dressed in blue and black, kohl rimmed light brown eyes, she was dancing. And how she danced! Hips swaying, pirouetting on her heels effortlessly and gracefully. But what shone through the most was her exuberance, through every expression, and from the way she smiled.

Hooray for the return of Madhuri Dixit!

So I must confess that in the 90's, I wasn't much of a Madhuri fan. I was living at my Grandmother's house, and totally out of sync with the Hindi Movie scene, having spent most of my life abroad. I had a Korean girl in my class who told me that she had seen a Hindi Movie.

"There was this guy, and he throws his wife into a River full of alligators! They eat her face up and then she gets surgery and she comes back!"

"Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod!" I exclaimed. This was more exciting than the latest New Kids on the Block Video. "I've seen that movie tooo!"

"Aaaaa!" (I was eight. Give me a break)

Besides Khoon Bhari Maang, I had seen two other movies - Chandni and Aashiqui. I loved the music of Aashiqui and even got my Mama to buy me the audio cassette. Every Sunday, some network would broadcast a Hindi Movie, which was the high point for my parents and my uncle and aunt. But none of them caught the attention of either me or my Cousin, who were more enthralled with the name of the Broadcaster:

"Dick-shit... haw haw haw..."

Anyway, I was a voracious reader, and the only English literature (of sorts) which was available at Granny's was my Mama (mother's brother's) Movie Magazine collection. Movie Magazine, under the editorship of Dinesh Raheja and Jitendra Kothari, I still believe, was the best film magazine ever published in India, and I have read a lot of film magazines in my two years of braces at my Dentist's office. The subject matter may have been trashy, but the presentation and writing had a lot of style and class.

The first magazine that I read, I recall, was under the coffee table, and had a strikingly lovely woman on the cover. The Magazine advertised its inner contents on the cover, and included the story of a young starlet who died after falling from her veranda - Divya Bharti, who was, much to my dismay, the cover girl. I read all the other issues under the table, and even trashed my Mama's room when he was at work to look for the past issues, which I found and deliriously gobbled them up.

When we moved into our own house, I asked my Dad to subscribe to Movie, and I guess he was still in the throes of excitement over his super purchasing power thanks to dollar rupee conversion (from middle class, we were now upper middle class, yo) and so every month, there was a Movie Magazine on our doorstep.

Movie conducted a poll every year based on reader's votes, for best movie, best actor, best actress and the like. The favourite actor would always go to Amitabh Bachan. This was during his period of retirement (after Khuda Gawah and before Mrityudaata) and I couldn't figure out what the hell everyone was talking about, just as I could not figure where Rahul Roy had vanished off to (Aashiqui being sure shot to super stardom). The worst actor would go to Kishen Kumar, which was understandable. And the best actress would go to Madhuri Dixit.

Though the surname failed to amuse me any longer, I couldn't understand what the whole fuss was about. I was too young to appreciate her sensuality in Dhak Dhak, or Choli ke Peeche, and I just thought she was badly dressed (which she actually was). And she had starred in Hum Aapke Hain Kaun, which I thought was the worst movie I had ever seen (I've seen worse, but mainly Barjatya products only). I was more of a Juhi Chawla fan, (you think that's funny? have you even seen Hum Hai Rahi Pyaar Ke?) and was thrilled to bits when she made it to favourite actress one year, finally!

So I was anti Madhuri, to the extent of cribbing over Dil Toh Pagal hai when she wins over Shah Rukh, despite Karisma's awful "main buri nahin hoon tum bure ho" routine. I thought she was too old to do stuff like this, which was also true.

So when did I convert? The romanticized Sanjay Leela Bhansali-ed take on Indian Literature's worst commitment phobic, Devdas, has Madhuri playing Chandramukhi, the courtesan with the heart of gold, to SRK's Devdas and Aishwarya as Paro. Her performance and grace and everything was outstanding, especially the way she kicks Ash's non existent behind in the Dola Dola song.

So what changed in me to appreciate this Diva? 5 years of law school, inculcation of feminism, and the realization that popular culture's portrayal of women was skewed and Twiggy-fied, and the image of the real woman - maternal, well endowed, not very young, effervescent and confident - was what we needed to uphold. Madhuri Dixit, now Nene, nearing her 40's, well proportioned, mother of two children, and now playing mature roles and thanks to Manish Malhotra and Co, much better dressed, is the Indian Woman. Not Aishwarya and her terrible accent.

No wonder then, that when you see her on the Hoardings that adorn the Western Expressway, with her exuberance and her smile, and her head slightly cocked to the side with her arms wide, palms slightly curled in invitation, you really want to dance with her.

Aaja Nachle!

PS: Yes, I am straight.

Bizarro

My friends will tell you that I'm obsessed with Seinfeld, that I have a Seinfeld anecdote for practically everything that happens in my life. There was a time that I had even declared myself to be Elaine Bennes. And why not? We dated the same kind of guys, and have had the worst workplaces even though we're both in professions we love. Yes, I have not had to buy white socks for my Boss. yet. But I have had to do some weird things for my job. Keep reading.

There's a Seinfeld episode where Elaine starts dating the "Bizarro Jerry", so nominated because he is the absolute antithesis of Jerry, like the Bizarro character in Superman, who is the exact opposite of the man from Krypton.

Well, not exactly since then, but in general, I have been obsessed with the idea of the my Bizarro. I try and identify every woman I meet (I appreciate that an antithesis of me should ideally be male, but as a concept, it sucks, so...) as the One, but something or the other happens to make them less... bizarro?

Anyway, now I have, I've met her, and boy, is she something.

She's marrying my Boss's son.

How did I get involved in my Boss's son's wedding? I have no idea. I have gotten enough flak from my Dad on how there's no need for me to bother about this. But yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have spent an entire day on the phone inquiring on the location, availability and costs of Air Conditioned Halls in Mumbai with a capacity of 800 people or more. Anyone who needs advice, feel free to contact me. I just have one answer - its cheaper to get married in Goa. It has better coolness value also.

Anyway...

Boss drags me with him for Hall Inspection No. 1. He has already committed the crucial mistake of marital organization:

"Arre, we place complete and utter faith on your Judgment. Whatever you think is right, we will do it"

Their judgement: Hall located in the back of beyond of Andheri. Takes us 1 1/2 hours in traffic (mother f^&%$(^ express highway my a%#) to get there.

'Baby', as she shall be henceforth referred, bears a strong resemblance to me, claims Boss. Surprisingly even her parents thought so. Parents usually take a lot of convincing to acknowledge that someone bears a resemblance to their kid. This time, her parents actually thought (from a distance, to be fair) that the woman who emerged from my Boss's car was Baby. Baby may have looked like me, if it weren't for the fact that her face was like a ski jump - 5 inches of powder, 6 inches of base. (I wish I could cite the Author of this quote, but I can't remember!) and she needs to read the latest Cosmo on "Blusher Bloopers". This similar looking thing is important in the Bizarro context, mind you. Baby and Boss's son are getting married the traditional way, meeting for the first time on the day of the Marriage Registration. Ladies and Gentlemen, applause for the wonders of the Internet era.

As decided, the hall was examined. However, like a skit from "Who's line is it anyway" I was shown the card who made me the "Wedding Planner from Hell".

The rest of the Hall survey went a lot like this:

In laws: "Lovely Hall, no?"

Boss: "Oh, lovely. Ruma, what do you think?"

Boss's wife: "Very lovely. Ruma, what do you think?"

So we are in the car. I am being given a tour of Andheri East (snort, snort).

Daddy: This is the lane leading to our house.

Me: Uh huh.

(Five minutes drive later)

Mommy: This is Baby's office.

Me: That's convenient (thinking of my 45 minute commute)

Mommy: Yes. Every day, I get Baby's lunch to her in Office.

Me: (silent)

Mommy: She gets to have hot food every day.

Me: (wondering what one says to something like this, somehow 'how nice' seems difficult to enunciate, hoping someone will change the topic)

Daddy: Did you hear that? Every day she gets tiffin.

Me: Yes, I did. (thankful that I am in the back seat so expression is concealed). Lucky her.

Mommy: Hahn, everyone asks, Baby ke saath Mummy free aati hai kya?

Me: And she has not been arrested for attempt to social suicide yet?

Quickly, change the freaking topic NOW!!!

Me: Well, you must be really rushing to get your shopping done, yeah?

Mommy: Yes yes, we are buying some things. But Baby is always shopping. Yesterday she went to Lokhandwala and saw this Chaniya Choli for Dandiya. It was for 50,000.

Me: This was the platinum edition?

Mommy: And her papa is like, what, 50,000 ka chaniya choli?

Me: Ah...

Mommy: And I was like, arre, you don't know, what she bought last week was 60,000. Ha ha ha!

Me: Ah...

Mommy: But I didn't think it was really worth it, you know. It wasn't anything great. I saw it. So I chose another one. It was a real unique design.

Me: Right.

Mommy: It was 90,000.

Me: Right. Right.

Mommy: Anyway, our Baby never wears anything twice.

I was taken back to the time when A and I were reading the Splurge supplement to the HT on Saturdays, about the 5000 buck bra.

"Dude, I'd never take it off. Not even while having sex."

Another 10 minutes to the finish line. One more change of topic. Thankfully, this time, Mommy initiated it.

Mommy: Do you stay alone?

Me: No, I stay with my roommate. We were together in College.

Daddy: So, how do you manage food and all?

Me: Uh, lunch is in office, I cook otherwise.

Mommy: YOU cook?

Daddy: You COOK?

Me: Um, yes?

Daddy: Well, do you cook well?

What kind of question was that? I thought of Lax offering me double my salary to come cook for him.

Me: Well, my friends say so.

Daddy : Is that so?

Me: Yeah.

Mommy: Our Baby doesn't even know how to put on the gas!

Me: Of course.

Then of course, when she went, accompanied by AP, my Office colleague, for the marriage registration preliminaries. Now AP is the sweetest, the most patient, understanding and chivalrous man in the Crim Lit fraternity, to say the least. AP is asked to watch over her as she fills out the form, and she comes to the section on 'address'.

"This says permanent address. What do I write?"

So AP explains to her exactly what is a 'permanent address' and she writes it down.

"Now it says residential address. Now what?"

"Write the same address."

Triumphantly she hands the form over to AP for his admiration. AP suddenly chokes. I kid you not, AP even got the form xeroxed ("you should always keep a copy for the record") just to show us this gem.

"V. RESIDENTIAL ADDRESS: write the same address"

Don't you love it when fact gets stranger than fiction?

Empowerment

A dash of Public Interest here - please contribute to http://www.girlchildblog.blogspot.com/, which has been set up by a brilliant young academic, Parul Sharma, as the blog of the Rajdulari Foundation. The aim of the Rajdulari Foundation is to empower the status of girls in Punjab, through scholarships for young girls in their education, and micro-credit schemes for women.The slogan "Today I’ll make a difference, and tomorrow my daughter will..." clearly indicates the aim to reach out through generations, from a mother to her daughter.

Life is too short on opportunities to make a difference. So make the most of this one.

Diwali Baksheesh

For a festival of prosperity, Diwali leaves me real broke. It's not like I blow up my money on new clothes and firecrackers alone. What kills is the Diwali Baksheesh tradition of Mumbai.

I guess this requires an explanation - on Diwali, all workers in Mumbai are supposed to be given a gift, or 'baksheesh', in the spirit of the season. So you are supposed to pay an annual tip, of sorts, to every person who provides some service for you - be it your domestic help, your cook, your watchman, everyone.

As my Dabbawaala (a guy who delivered a dabba for 8 days exactly but now knows where my office is) puts it, "aap ko apni khushi se 100 rupees dena hai"

(You have to give 100 rupees out of your own volition).

In my building, like everything else, Diwali Baksheesh is also regulated. As a new entrant last year, I was given a briefing:

Domestic Help: Double the salary, salary plus new saree.

Watchmen: 50 rupees each

Gardener: 20 rupees.

Garbage lady: 20 rupees.

Municipality workers: 50 rupees (for five of them)

So the first year, I conscribed. Except that I used to get home too late to catch the day watchman, and by the time I left, he was usually missing. In any case I didn't like this guy, Sunil, he was also the letchy Secretary's snitch-in-chief. So I willingly spazzed out.

One morning Anita, the maid, comes in. She never asks me anything. She never passes any value judgments on what we do. Instead, she adopts a different tactic:

Instead of : "Who are these boys who keep coming over?"

She says : "The so-and-so's wife was asking me, this girl keeps getting these boys over. I said, I don't know. Anyway what's it to her?"

This time around, however, I was provoked:

"Sunil was saying that he hadn't gotten a Diwali bonus from you. He asked if you gave me. I didn't answer him, I said why are you asking me?"

"Really? Well, I haven't been able to locate him", I lied.

"Then he asked the garbage lady, and she said that you had paid her..."

I blanched at the idea that I was the subject of discussion over pan masala beedi exchange at the gate. It's disconcerting, how much of information your domestic help, watchman and garbage collector possess. What else do they discuss? The Seagram's Fuel Bottles that are placed outside our door every monday morning? The nocturnal visitors? The maroon satin underwear? How we changed our home pack to Durex ultra thins since last weekend?

"Well, I was just about to pay him," I said.

I saw the day watchman washing cars later that morning. He was a little balder than I remembered, and a little fatter. It had been some time since I bothered about him. I tapped him on the shoulder, gave him the money and saw his eyes light up.

Done.

Two days later, the Bai started off. "Sunil keeps disappearing, and then he says that you didn't pay him. I told him that you are so busy. Where will you go looking for him?"

"Uhh...", I was wildly confused.

"It doesn't help that he went on leave in between."

"He did, eh?"

"Yeah, and he sent that silly brother of his, Anil."

Oh crap. This was awful. I had become the victim of a identical twin plot. Argh!

I found Sunil, paid him his 50 bucks, and told him that I had also paid Anil. Nothing like a little sibling rivalry to spice up your Diwali.

This year, A and I decided to screw the system which was in place, for the reason which provoked most of our actions - spite. I thought the Society was being sweet in telling me the maximum rates of Diwali Bonus. They weren't. It was just a cover up for the Great Maharashtrian Brahmanical Stinginess.

Obviously. Now that I found out that Baksheesh was a debated and discussed subject amongst the menials, it was a prestige issue for the residents as well. Uniform Baksheesh reduced controversy. There would be no "He got a promotion but he still only gives 20 rupees" whispers. We also felt a little rebellious, especially after the good girlness we displayed on Diwali.

Heh Heh.

In case confronted, for the record, we have taken into consideration that since we are two women living alone with slightly unconventional habits, it would be nicer to have everyone nice to us. And come on. We end up tipping waiters more than a 100 at times. Finally, neither me nor A get a Diwali Bonus. We might as well to be bitchy.

So, the Bai got double salary and fireworks for the kids, the Watchmen got 100 bucks each, the Garbage lady got 50 bucks and clothing and shoes that are unsuitable for office wear anymore for her kids. Everyone's a winner.

Contrary to our ambitious plan, we got tired after using half our of stock of fireworks. Also, we realized that we are very old, we only had 'chakras' (spinning wheels) and anars (fountains), and missed out on atomic bombs in chakras, and the thing that lights up into a bouncing flubber ball. Not to mention the banshee sounding like fountain. After packing up, we went to have beer at Sea View, Juhu. Other than that, it was a largely traditional Diwali. We giggled as neighbours gave us guilty looks while passing by us doing a Rangoli. Would alcoholic philanderers celebrate Diwali in such a traditional fashion?

Excuse me while I flutter my eyelashes.