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.

Food for thought.

Another one bites the dust. Pandu met me online yesterday to tell me that his roommate and my good friend, Bunny, a Tam Brahm (yes, another one) has turned Carnivore. And everyone knows about this, except for his live in girlfriend, Akka, who doesn't even eat eggs.

With friends like these, who needs TV?

When I broke up with my ex, I threw out all the remnants of our relationship, except a pair of Levi's low waist jeans (which he gave to me only because he bought it thinking that they were men's jeans, and there were no exchanges allowed. So it wasn't technically a present), a Pepe Jeans top (which my sister had whacked even before the breakup) and Bunny & Pandu. (Come to think of it, that's all I got in the relationship. Hmm.) Bunny and Co. are my "other" friends, and they make great "other friends". They aren't too dependent, aren't too demanding, highly entertaining, always available and refreshingly quirky. But their stories are for another post.

Bunny used to be a confirmed pure Tam brahm. Then he went to Oxford, came back, and started eating eggs, and developed selective amnesia as regards his earlier denouncements of eating omlettes for beakfast as "bloody murder". Pandu, who is currently frontrunner for KFC Brand Ambassadorship, has been trying for years to get him to convert. But, to no avail. Until 20 days ago, when Bunny decided to grab a bite of Pandu's appetizer, a chicken lollipop, on a dare. The following dinner consisted of butter chicken, chicken fry, and chicken biriyani. He asked for a kheema naan, but withdrew the order when he found out that it was mutton, and not chicken kheema. He had decided to take it one animal at a time.

I read a book in which it was said that every woman finds out the problem with a guy the very first time she meets him. If he's a serial killer, he will find some opportunity to make it known, at which she will laugh and say "haha, that' sooo cute", and ignore it.

I found out my boyfriend was a vegetarian even before our first date. We were walking around the streets of old Delhi, when someone suggested we go to Kareem's. At Kareem's, he astounded the waiter and all of us by ordering a Paneer Tikka.

However, I had developed a huge crush on him. He was cute enough for me to ignore that and send him a seedy scrap on Orkut (ugh, yes). The rest is history. I love him, but he's Tam Brahm, and I am a Saraswat Brahmin. To quote Mr. Awchat, of Goa Portuguesa fame, a Maharashtrian Brahmin ("we don't even cook egg in the house") who married a Saraswat, the Saraswat philosophy is "Praan jaaye par prawn na jaaye".

Vegetarianism is alien to me, though I must confess that I turned green for a good 6 month period. What provoked this was an lunch at a place which supposedly served 'great biriyani' near Campus.

What he didn't hear was that the restaurant slaughtered their chicken right behind the cash counter. After enduring 10 minutes of painful squonks and flapping wings, our order was brought to the table. It was packed, and donated to the boy's hostel. And I swore off any food which was once living and breathing.

So I go home for holidays, and as we sat down for lunch, I tell my parents that things were not going to be the same. My Dad nods his head understandingly and says "Ok. Fine. Now eat your fish curry rice."

"But Dad, I just told you, I'm vegetarian."

"Yeah. So?"

"So?"

"This is fish, not meat!"

"You have to eat fish," said my Mom. "Otherwise what will you eat...dal?"

We argued through lunch, I ate my rice with only the curry, and avoided the fish.

And finally.

"Dad, for God's sakes. Stop getting so fundamentalistic over this. Its just food..."

"This," said Dad, spreading his hand above the tava of fried tiger prawns (aargh... saliva on the keyboard!) "is not just food. This is your culture."

Chapter 45 (b) - The Legacy of the Saraswat Brahmin

The Saraswat Brahmins, a subsect of a wandering group in search of literally, greener pastures, had made their way along the river Saraswati. On the way or thereabouts, they settled on an area which was lush and full of potential, however, in a few years, the land dried up and they had to move on. One adamant figurehead, however, decided to stay on. He claimed that this was the land of promise, and this was where he was destined to die, even if it were of starvation. "What eva", said the fellow castemen, and off they went.

As it were, they found a new land, and prospered. One of them decided that it was a good idea to go back and give the Village elder a decent funeral. When a group of Saraswats land up at the former land, they were amazed to find out that not only was the abandoned casteman alive, but he also appeared to be in great health and well fed.

"Fish is the secret of my energy!" exclaimed the Sage.

As this man lay dying of starvation on the banks of the river, for lack of food as a result of the sapping of the goodness of the land, the Goddess Saraswati herself appeared before the near corpse.

"Idiot," she said, "why aren't you eating the fish in the river?"

"I can't," he said. "It is against our religion. Isn't it?"

The Goddess tapped her feet impatiently.

"To cut a long story short," said the sage, "the Goddess herself said that I should eat the fish."

The villagers looked highly skeptical.

"Try these fried prawns. This can only be described as divine..."

As a result, Saraswats never had to move away again, and they settled in Goa, as not only was it close to the sea, but also, the duty on alcohol was the lowest in the country. That again was due to divine intervention, but more on that later. Thus, Saraswats are permitted to eat fish, (later expanded to include feathered fish, also known as chicken, and grass eating fish, known as mutton) by God herself.

***

As it turned out, my parents didn't have to fret too much. I caved in on my next trip home. Never underestimate the power of chicken cafreal.

***

Saraswats are still burdened with the bane of Brahminism, though, so religious functions are still uber vegetarian (no onion, no garlic). They have separate vessels and utensils for non vegetarian food. And they are hilariously hypocritical. They will sob through three days of Ganesh Chaturthi, and when the menfolk leave to immerse the idol, the women will quickly get to work on cleaning and cooking the succulent mackerels available post monsoon. And let's not even begin the stories of Saraswats smuggling dried shark fillets on "Bangalore-Mysore-Ooty 3 night four day package tours" to make the Sambar-Rasam Saadam palatable. Haven't you wondered why MTR is on a sniffer dog hiring spree?

All important non religious functions must conscribe to these long established traditions. The result of deviation is disastrous. An uncle who made the mistake of celebrating his birthday on some religious festival was denied a one year increase in age by my 5 year old niece.

"How can you have a birthday without chicken?", she asked, in all seriousness.

***

Back to the thrilling adventures of Pandu and Bunny, I took the opportunity to invite Pandu and Bunny home for some good ol' home style chicken curry.

"Only boneless," said Pandu. "That way she won't know. She'll think its Paneer."

Bunny has an another woman in his life, and she's one hell of a chick!

Diwali, or is it?

Appalled at my inactivity, Lax, probably the only dedicated reader of this blog, sent me some food for thought to provoke me into writing. Some article about some ex employee of his Company. Yes, very much a "Your uncle who lives in Bombay is getting married on March 15th. Your Board exams are going to be held between the 10th to 20th of March. Write a letter to your Uncle explaining the difficulty and conveying your best wishes (20 marks)" effort, i realize.

But its the Diwali long weekend. My grandfather used to say that whatever you do on Diwali is reflective of what will be happening the whole year. Therefore you should follow the routine that you would want the next year to follow - so you get up early, have a bath, wear nice clothes, eat sweets... so that you end up sleep deprived and fat, but at least neat and clean. This is my standard Diwali story, and being "our" first Diwali I narrated this to the Boyfriend, whose reaction was: "Well, we should be having sex, then." Sigh. One could only hope. Instead he is hopping a flight to Bangalore, and I, well, am here.

Coming back to my Grandfather's theory, I suppose it was only poetic therefore that today morning was full of controversy. My Maid looked appalled when I opened the door in a visibly just out of bed state. I hadn't just gotten up, I was up since 5am, having been unable to go back to sleep after early morning bathroom, thanks to crackers being burst continuously.

"Haven't you gotten up? Haven't you done the pehili angol?"

Roughly translated, that means "first bath". When you smear yourself with Uptan and Oil and spend two hours in the bathroom trying to wash it off.

"Why?", I yawned. "Diwali is tomorrow, isn't it?"

"That's what even I thought. But everyone is doing it. Can't you hear the crackers?"

Why you need to burst crackers after having gotten up at the crack of dawn is beyond me. Maybe its out of spite, to wake up everyone else who decided that this part of the holiday is clearly a waste of time. As I lay awake in bed I recalled an article saying that anyone who bursts crackers after 1030PM can be fined upto 1 lakh for Noise Pollution. Isn't there a Starting Time for these legislations?

"We don't have holidays today", I said, walking back into the bedroom. "Tomorrow".

My neighbours are secretly miffed at my non participation in Diwali gallata. But that's about to change. A and I have decided to go for it. The building kids, who have been told by their parents to avoid us and sneer at us, will face a dilemma of sorts. A and I have decided to buy fireworks, and we have two advantages that the Building Kids do not:

1. (Relatively) Limitless Budgetary constraints.

2. No parental supervision.

Muahahaha.

Anyway, back to the task at hand:

"...about 30 minutes after the aircraft took off, Chandrashekar apparently fell asleep. “The girl realised that Chandrashekar’s head was resting on her shoulder. She however did not take it seriously thinking it was an accident and unintended,” Sidam said.However, after about 10 minutes, the complainant was shocked to realise that Chandrashekar was not asleep, but had unzipped his trousers and was trying to touch her."

The man in question, Sriram Chandrashekar, is said to be a 'software engineer from Bangalore' in the mid day story, however, Lax tells me that he is actually some IIM alumni who used to work for big Indian Group and now with big Software Company in the US. Still, he was flying Indigo.

But honestly, what a creep. What a creep.

Who does that? How long does it take to travel from Bangalore to Mumbai? 2 hours, tops? You think you can score in 2 hours, that too in a low cost carrier which doesn't provide water, let alone alcohol, which could have given you half a chance? And say you really were into the chick, instead of trying to get her into a comfort zone, you plonk yourself on her shoulder and start a 'hand party'? And you really don't expect to be noticed? What are they teaching at IIM nowadays?

Once on a bus from Bangalore to Goa, I was asleep and I felt something strange on my back. For a few minutes of drug induced confusion (I had taken a avomine for motion sickness-effective but it knocks you out) I couldn't figure what was happening, but when the feeling moved towards my underarm I figured exactly where this was coming from - from the crevice between my seat and that of my neighbour. I pulled the hand, whirled around, knelt on the seat and slapped the guy. My neighbour woke up, as did most other passengers, and watched in horror, slap after slap. No one knew what to do, and neither did I, so I kept the slaps going. After maybe 6 slaps my palm was burning and my head was whirring with the Avomine. By this time the Conductor was woken up, and the Villain of the piece was moved to the front of the bus and evicted at the first stop off the highway.

Not afraid to show my little might at happy go lucky molesters, in a bus from Girgaum once, I noticed a man's hand moving slyly towards the backside of a young girl who was standing right in front of me. As his hand moved to the point of no excuse (just about to slip into her back pocket), I rolled up my file and swatted his hand, much like one would do to a fly. More chaos, the girl turned around to see what was going on, other passengers had witnesses the whole scene, chants of "Ghar mein maa behen nahin hai kya", "Haramkhor", "Tujha mayyla" erupted as the guy was thrown off the bus. The Girl looked at me inquisitively.

"He was going to molest you, but I intercepted him"

"But he didn't touch me!", she protested.

"I know", I said, reassuringly, "He didn't, because I hit him before he did that"

"No, but he didn't touch me, really!". She glanced around at the other passengers nervously and then pinched the skin of her throat and shook her head from side to side. "Godpromise, I didn't feel anything!"

I wanted to say something, but she was about to cry. Luckily, my stop was just around the corner. Come to think of it, with air fares becoming so cheap, I guess its only natural that creeps would find new hunting grounds. And success would ensure membership of the esteemed 'mile high' club.

I wonder what my Grandfather would say if he saw me blogging about molesters on Diwali (if it is Diwali?). He'd probably blame it on my waking up late.

Hmm. I think I'm going back to sleep.