Spring Cleaning

I managed to inherit the worst family traits from my parents - instead of my mother’s metabolism (at least pre pregnancy), height, skin and patience. As for my Dad, I get his family’s hips, height and complexion and his outspokenness (the last one I don’t have much crib about, though my grandmother does).

Now that my parents have decided to move house, I have to confront what my Dad alleges is my worst mommy–like behaviour - my tendency to hoard.

 

I took a lot of offence to being compared to my mother on this front. Until I started rummaging through 15 years of accumulated items of varying value.

 

I was turning into my mother. Seriously this time.

 

So, welcome to my mess, which could be largely grouped as follows:

1. Usable: Items of stationery etc. which had definite use. Unfortunately “definite use” was limited only to the time at which I had decided they had some use which was about 10 years ago. So I found around 6 different compass sets, lots of (dried up) markers, pens and pencils, cotton balls, rulers which could also be used to trace out stars and moons, erasers (the ones in the shape of fruits, cars and animals which were absolutely useless as erasers but cute as hell), playing cards (useful in the imaginary world where I found the other 51), monopoly…

2. Useless: Let’s not even get into this, but to illustrate, I found 3 decapitated Barbie Dolls.

3. Sentimental value: Ah.

 

As a young adult, I would meticulously store all letters, cards, chits of significance – basically any written correspondence from ANYONE for reasons that I cannot recollect right now, but which largely have to do with one day looking back fondly at them and sharing them with the original authors. Nearly 10 years down the line, I was presented with the opportunity to go through them and bask in nostalgia. Right?

 

Not quite. If anything else, my reality was quite distorted.

 

Sifting through birthday cards, I found a very setting-sun-random-boats-and-palm-trees-having-no-relevance-to-the-theme-of-the-card-but-hey-what-did-you-expect-it’s-hallmark card with “To a Dear Friend” in bold Monotype Corsiva. Besides the usual corny 6 line message, the sender had included a handwritten message:

“Thanks a lot for being there. I never really liked you and the way you handle things but now I know that it was because of what people say about you and really I hope we can be friends. I know you must be surprised with this card because I think (I could be wrong, I hope so) you don’t like me, but still I hope we can be friends. I didn’t want to give anyone a card this year but I found this while shopping for raakhis and thought it was apt for you.”

My first reaction was denial. I couldn’t believe that there was a time where we all thought that life’s emotions can effectively be conveyed by a Greeting Card. This was also the same time that we were setting dance routines to “Backstreet’s Back” and “Five Six Seven Eight” so I suppose we could have been forgiven anything. My second reaction was shock, because lo and behold, the person who wrote this letter (was not a guy who came out of the closet, I know that’s what you were expecting, but ha ha ha) is a girl who I had gone out to dinner with the previous night, one of the few classmates from school who I was actively in touch with, and with whom I had no recollection of ill will whatsoever. I flipped the card around. It was a 25 buck card. 25 bucks for a greeting card was a lot on those times, and this wasn’t even a birthday card. What on earth had gone on between us? I tried to imagine the worst thing 8^th standard kids could do to each other. Did I not give her homework to copy? Impossible – I never did my homework until I got to class. Did we have a crush on the same guy? What? What?

 

I moved onto the next set of cards, best of luck cards for my 10^th board exams. I counted 15. Amazing, considering what an insignificant exam it is. A bookmark fell out.

“I’m going to miss you now that you’re leaving.

Have a great time and all the best to achieve whatever you want in life

Above all, NEVER FORGET ME!!!

With love, Fiona”

 

Cute. Obviously a memento from our farewell party. The only question was, who on earth was Fiona?

 

More sifting – cards from various admirers, relatives, and friends. A letter from a boy from Chandigarh which accompanied a birthday card, pleading with me to reply to his previous letter and despairing how my silence was making his life a living hell. Definitely not his finest hour. He had managed to contact me on Orkut and is a much more refined individual working for an MNC.

 

I then stumbled upon (literally, by now there was no place to stand) a pile of carefully preserved chits, letters and cards from a “bestest friend in the whole wide world”, who was the world to me and whose opinion was the only thing that ever mattered and she was such a dear friend that after school, in the five years that we studied in the same city, we met only once, when she wanted to buy food coupons from the cash counter at our annual rock festival.

 

Trust me, it gets better.

 

In a Manila envelope, I find mound of cards from one of my oldest friends. Like most close friends between different sexes, we had our period of “uncertainty” long long time ago where I developed a crush on him and where he started seeing an old “friend” and then we got back to being “just friends”. We never really discussed this, and my telling of the story was that I was naïve and really impressed by the guy in a school girlish way and I was on my own trip and got carried way with my own fantasies, while he was all the while in love with his girl back home. I found a lot of the cards (yes, again) and other paraphernalia that he sent me in 1999, just after we had met, all of which were signed off “with love” and “with lots of kisses”. That was alright, I suppose.

 

I then found a “miss you more and more every day” card from him, typically Archies, full of pining and “waiting to see you again”. Again, a handwritten message (if you have to include a handwritten note anyway why bother with the card?)

“I woke up this morning and realized that I was dreaming of you, and I’ve been missing you ever since. I don’t think I can stay without meeting you for long. So now I’m waiting…”

And others.

 

My Criminal Lawyer tendencies drew me to check the date of the card and compare it to the time period surrounding our “uncertainty” and when he started seeing the other woman (and of course I managed to remember that he didn’t tell me he was seeing her until 6 months after he actually did) Luckily I managed to check myself just before I drowned in overanalysis.

 

I shook the dust off me and went for a run along the beach. When I came back, my clearing up speed increased exponentially. Everything was neatly torn up and hopefully will be found on its way to the incinerator in a day’s time.

 

There’s a reason why the past is the past and that’s exactly where it should stay.

 

But it was reason good enough to get me to blog again!     

      

    

Culinary Pursuits

My roommate has moved away, and I officially live alone. One of the best parts of living alone is the independence of thought and planning - there's no chance of anyone even suggesting a course of action which is contrary to your own, even if you have none whatsoever. So after a whole spate of doing-everything-possible-in-Mumbai before A left, suspected flu, and another round of doing-everything-possible-in-Mumbai when A came back (quite similar to the first round, only with umbrellas), I spent what feels like the first Saturday in ages (1) Not working and (2) at home (3) not drinking, but that was only because my stash of Carlsberg was finished. The only productivity was thanks to my attempt at snacking before leaving for Dashavtaram with Bunny and Co., when I reached into my cheese box (30 cubes for 30 rupee discount) Who moved my cheese? Well, that didn't matter, but a trip to the Big Bazaar certainly was required. And I picked up a lof of exciting stir fry pastes from the Dollar Store, along with cold cuts, dressing, and a lot of other (discounted) goodies to experiment with at mealtimes.

Someone once expressed a lot of shock at the fact that I loved cooking and would cook for myself even when I lived alone, earlier.

"Isn't cooking for yourself boring?" she asked.

Of course it isn't. In fact, it leaves more scope for experimentation because there's only you to bear the results of your efforts. Also, there's no "other person" to think about - you may want to cook, your partner may be voraciously hungry, so ordering in is the most polite option, rather than have them hovering around you eating raw ingredients and hopping up and down. That's the sort of thing that brings out the worst in me (ask my sister). Also, as I am the least fussy eater I know (I eat anything that moves, and even stuff that doesn't), the widest variety of seasonal vegetables have made an entry into the kitchen pantry.

The painful bit is the preparing of the tiffin, not so much for the fact that I have to wake up early for that, but also because the tiffin is eaten in public view (office) and open to comments and questions from interested bystanders, basically, Pooh.

(You do remember Pooh, don't you?)

On one occasion where I chanced to bring ladyfinger (bhindi):

"What is that?"

"Bhindi"

"Oh God, why does it look like THAT?"

I was a little taken aback. Was there fungus on it?

"Huh?"

"Its in such small pieces!"

"Pooh, it cooks faster that way."

"Oh..."

Pooh prides herself on bringing sorry looking sabzis to office. Of course if you prompt her she will tell you this whole story about how she made her maid cut the vegetables but she didn't cut it properly, and so Pooh had to re-cut it, and make the sabzi along with another sabzi for dinner, and rotis, and so on, and how in the whole mess she missed the 9:00 Thane Mumbai AC Bus and then she had to take the 930 one, and that is why she made someone else rush to attend her matter at 11 at the Sessions Court. Despite all these efforts, her food tastes really crappy. For instance, she was so proud of a spinach curry which was so oversalted that I couldn't taste anything else.

All women who I know who make "dabbas" for their husbands/significant others complain about how much of an effort it is and how no one understands that. So I usually give them the option of the friendly neighbourhood dabbawaala, which they are not willing to discuss. Preparing a dabba for their loved one gives them a lot of pride, evidently. But, they still crib about it. The reason I feel the exact opposite (no pride, but no effort either) is because, I am convinced, that I am doing it for myself. I cook nice food to spoil myself. Where's the effort in that? There's no pride, because no one envies you for having yourself to cook for yourself. If nothing else, they feel sorry for you.

I stopped making myself a Dabba (I'd only carry a veggie, I'd buy rotis at a place near office) when my roommate moved in. There was no real issue in making one for her too - but it's not that simple. Anyway she had office catering, and then I'd just be cooking for myself, which was selfish, in an unexplainable kind of way.

Pooh once asked me what my roommate used to do when I'd be cooking.

"Nothing", I said after some thought.

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Well, most of the time she isn't home. If she is, well, she talks to me and all."

"I mean does she help you?"

"Well, she sets the table, and things like that, here and there."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

I hate that question, simply because it is evident from the previous conversation that the fact that she does not do anything has not even occurred to me, let alone cause me any anguish.

But there's another dimension to this.

Pooh gets up and makes breakfast for hubby, and then makes lunch and dinner. Her Husband wakes up, reads the paper, drinks his tea, and leaves at 730am for work. He'll come back and help her heat stuff in the microwave. But that doesn't bother Pooh, because he is a MAN - and its OK for men not to help around the kitchen.

Girls, on the other hand, need to "slave around". One girl "slaving around" for another is not acceptable.

"Pooh, I don't know about you, but I find cooking very destressing".

[For the record, Pooh does not find cooking destressing. In fact, when she has lots of guests over and insists on cooking, she actually takes the next day off to recuperate.]

But yes, cooking is destressing to me, because in a lot of ways it is the exact opposite of my professional world. Between 11am to 5pm, my life is full of frustration and uncertainties. I have a matter, I prepare for it, I have the precedents, I'm clear on the law, I'm ready to rock. However - sometimes the other side isn't present, sometimes they are present and aren't ready to argue. Sometimes the Judge isn't present, sometimes he's not willing to take up the matter. Sometimes the other side is present and ready to go on, sometimes the Judge is present and is ready to hear the matter, but they can't find the case papers. Sometimes the other side is present and ready to go on, sometimes the Judge is present and is ready to hear the matter, and they have the papers and I argue but the Judge doesn't order in my favour because he doesn't like my face, or because he's been bought by the other side, or because he just doesn't see my point. Sometimes the Judge rules in my favour and I am thrilled but only to step outside the Court and find the Court peon sneak upto me and tell me to tell my Client that the Judge is waiting for his last and final installment.

In my kitchen, however, there are no uncertainties. I prepare myself by using the best ingredients and I know my recipe well. The bright flames of the gas leap up and embrace the kadai I place on it, after a good rinse. The water droplets sizzle and boil away, the pan is as hot as it can get and calls upon me to present my case. In goes a little oil, and some spice, some excitement. I work furiously, with my spoons and spatulas, and the art continues - colourful vegetables, succulent meats, some seasoning. I let the heat and the steam do its work, and I become the master - a little too long, and it will burn, and little too less, and it will be raw. There are no distractions, no adjournments. In the end, I turn into the Judge in my own case, and I bear the consequences of my actions. No stress, just Art.

Am wondering whether I can drive Pooh to early retirement by bringing a dabba of phad thai noodles, kimchi salad and salami and cheese roll ups.

The thought of that is more destressing than even cooking. Hmm.

Daddy Cool

Coincidence or otherwise, my Daily Dilbert email had a very interesting sidebar link. Usually I ignore such links the the fear that through my IP address my email address will get tracked down and then I will be spammed to death. Mentally, I am still in the year 2000 when I had a hotmail account which had a non-functional spam mechanism, which meant that I actually had to sift through Betty Crocker discount emails and advice on increasing penis size (I don't know why I keep getting spammed with that, and viagra on 81% discount either) to get to the few emails from people who really mattered, which also would end up to be "forward or die" emails.

Anyway.

This was a find though:

http://www.fatherhood.org/

Of course, since we have so many American men (and at one point of time, Ravi Shankar) running around the United States impregnating women and leaving them to fend for themselves and their children, what else can one do but put up banners and hoardings and sell CD ROMS telling people the difference between "fathering" and "father". So you have, among other things, a group of secret agents who pounce on unsuspecting men playing Frisbee with junior in the park and give them huge gift hampers to celebrate their doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing. Men getting gifts for not acting like jerks. Why didn't we think of this before?

Besides advising men (especially Army men) on how to become true Dads, the organization believes in starting early. The Boyz to Dads link provides for educative materials for

Dads, moms, educators, mentors, social workers, youth ministers, or any concerned adult can use this program to help prepare boys to make good choices on topics like relationships, sex, and peer pressure. Because boys learn best in a visual, interactive, hands-on environment, the Boyz 2 Dads™ interactive game format is the perfect way for you to capture their attention and then start a conversation on these important issues.

I have something to say about this, but it isn't quite forthcoming.

I was suddenly excited that maybe the US Government had programmes to improve men in every role possible - husbands, boyfriends - but to my disappointment, www.husband.org is all about links on finding our whether your husband is cheating on you or not, and www.boyfriend.org deals with shady lingerie. Wah wah.

The morning after a night full of sedate revelry, we suddenly realized that though people around us are getting married left, right and centre, that even among people 5 years older than us, we couldn't name anyone (besides this one woman) who had moved from the recreation to the procreation stage. Do people not have the time? Do people (understandably)not have the inclination? Or have people actually been failing at attempts, which is mother's nature's way of telling us that 5 years of law school have made us incapable of bringing up a sane and happy child? Like a slow genocide?

Anyway - the moral of the National Fatherhood Initiative is to remember that "Have you been a Dad today?" is not a nice way of asking if you remembered to use protection.

Happy Father's Day.

Always the professional

(Note: this is a highly technical post and involves a lot of legal procedural bullshit. Avoid if possible)

I just got back from a gruelling day of Trial Court litigation, with a glow on my face and a grin that could put Jack Nicholson to shame. On paper, it was a sucessful day, but in actuality, it was kick ass.

Where do I begin?

Cut to many many months ago, when I was a struggling clueless junior without a friend beyond the souls that inhabited my chamber. I latched onto friends of friends (very Orkut) who were the most easily available and who I would be hanging out with most of the time anyway. One such "friend of friend" was CP, friend of the much admired SP. They had started their careers together and were professional buddies, often appearing for co-accused. That means that if one of them, say SP, is approached by a pair of Accused persons, he will make CP represent one of them. Having different lawyers gives an impression of there being no nexus between the two Accused, and if you've got a buddy defending the co-accused then you can even have heated arguments during the cross examination while trying to pin the blame on one of the persons. Which goes a lot like this:

"So you saw the guy who did it"

"Yes"

"Was it him?"

"Or was it him?"

"No, it was him."

"But that guy was tall. My Client isnt tall."

"No, he could have been short"

"Stop trying to pin the blame on my Client"

"YOU stop trying to pin the blame on MY Client"

JUDGE: Aargh. Adjourn, adjourn!

(Note: No Judge ever says Order, Order. Not even in restaurants.)

This is done rapidly and repeatedly until the Public Prosecutor has lost his mind and everyone is clear beyond the shadow of a (reasonable) doubt.

Anyway CP and I would catch up for a tea here, a coffee there, maybe lunch at the Sessions Court canteen, mostly with SP, but we had become friends - for me it was the kind of friendship where you don't really care about the other person's feelings or remember their birthday but you feel comfortable in the knowledge that you have a familiar face in your surroundings. One day, he asks me to go for lunch with him. I'm expecting Pritam da Dhaba, we end up at one of the most happening restaurants in Mumbai (at that time, now it serves 6 stale prawns on 6 pieces of stale bread for 400 bucks) on the pretext that he needs to pick up papers from the owner, his Client (the former partners are our Clients. Co-Accused, tra la la). Random chit chat, and then a mention about his daughter.

"You're married?" I asked. Yes, blog slasher, I know it's a stupid question. And I know it makes it sound like I was disappointed to find out that he was married. I wasn't. I just found the whole thing shady.

Not mentioning your marital status is shady behaviour, in my book. Of course this doesn't mean that married people need to walk around with yellow stars or tattoos which say "married to ...", but if you've met someone and had actual conversation with them on several occasions and they do not tell you that they are married, it's pretty shady.

Hmm. That doesn't sound quite right.

Okay. It's not like the person has to make a curtsy and say "Look, I'm married. Now, about last night's Croatia Germany match...". It can be a very subtle reference, like "my husband and I went to big bazaar last week" or "my wife is allergic to mushrooms" or "my father in law has a gun license". It's pretty weird if you don't mention something like that.

Especially when, after not mentioning his marital status for several months, CP then asks me to go out for lunch with him every day.

I admit that in the beginning I would oblige. I mean, married men are supposed to be safe. [I should point out here that CP is too desi and unattractive for me to want for him to hit on me.] Anyway, married men never hit on other women, at least that's what I thought when I was 23. Especially when the married man in question had a "love marriage".

"Well, it wasn't really love", said CP. "I decided to marry her."

"So why isn't that a love marriage?", I asked.

"Because love and passion are things I'd like to keep away from marriage," he smiled, and winked at me.

What actually caused me to sit and wonder what the fuck was going on, were the shady (shady is as shady does) messages that I began to get:

"I miss you every time I don't see you."

"I'm depressed - I haven't seen you all week."

The Ick-o-meter was running amok. I gently tried to show my "I don't think I'm really comfortable" face to him, and he said it was "just a little harmless flirting". Alrighty!

And then, on New Year's:
"Last night I had the most wonderful dream - I dreamt that I was on a deserted island with you."

It was time to pull the plug. And strangely enough, I wound up feeling guilty about this, about being the "other woman" who a (presumably) happily married man finds no qualm about flirting with or dreaming about being on a deserted island with. Can't any normal guy want to be with me? And other similar whines.

Time went on, and I realized that I was no villain - CP, and many many other men that I encountered in Mumbai, were all suffering from the same asshole disease.

I've been handling a matter in the Magistrate's Court at Mazgaon, involving a case dating back to 1986, in which my Client, along with his wife and landlady, were accused of forgery by my Client's own cousin. In the last 22 years, my Client's wife and his landlady both expired. In 2006, my Client's cousin, the Complainant, also expired. Normally, in cases initiated by the Complainant before a Magistrate, if the Complainant dies, the case abates, unless you can find strong reasons supporting the Complainant being replaced. The Original Complainant's younger brother made an application to be substituted, and thereafter never turned up for 2 years. Family gossip says that the young boy, who was only 12 at the time of the alleged offence, had gone mad after an accident and does not recognize anyone. Be that as it may, for about 10 hearings no one turned up on the part of the wannabe substituted Complainant until yours truly went there and kicked up a royal fuss until a final notice was sent to cousin fruitcake.

I walk into court and ask to see the original court papers, when I hear a voice asking for the papers of my case. I whirl around.

I won't even ask you to guess who it was.

"CP, you are appearing in this?"

"Arre, you are there in this matter?"

Arre indeed.

Two questions later I realize that CP has no idea what he's getting into, and I also realize that though I thought I despised him beyond belief, I was actually okay, now, with CP.

"This is really something," he said, looking at the 2 ft pile of papers, known as the case file.

And just when I thought things had gotten better:

"I think we should take... a date." The last two words were whispered so close to my ear that I had to wipe my earlobes after jumping out of my chair.

Goes to show you, pigs is pigs.

Luckily the Judge walked in just then.

I was hopping mad about everything by then - the random flirting, the making me feel bad about myself, the unnecessary display of intimacy, and now, above it all, the fact that he was using all that to completely take me for granted and make a quick escape from the proceedings.

One should never let personal equations hamper legal practice. All the while, I only had my Client's interests at stake, I swear.

The Judge pulled out my application for dismissal. She asked CP to give his "say".

CP took out his pen and scribbled half a page. "Read it", he said, and I had to bear him coming closer to me so that I could read.

"The proposed Complainant has been attending the Court regularly and has been very diligent in dealing with the case".

I smiled. "CP, are you sure you want to keep this line in?"

CP gave me a very confident sidelong glance. "It's a standard reply."

I shrugged.

Our turn came around again, and the Judge asked if I was ready to argue.

After laying down the basic legal mumbo jumbo, I attacked the reply.

"First of all, the Advocate of this so called proposed complainant is making a clear misrepresentation to the court. While he says that his Client has been attending the Court regularly, the record of the Court will show that for the past 11 dates, neither the proposed complainant nor his advocate have been turning up for the hearings, whereas my Client, a senior citizen has not defaulted even once. If anyone is to be termed..." I pretended to relook at the reply "...diligent, it should be the Accused, and not this person."

The Judge snooped through the roznama and glared at CP.

CP took a break from asking me to adjourn the matter in whispers to make a legal point.

"My lady, the law on substitution is very clear."

"Is it?", I asked.

"My lady in case of the death of the Complainant his next of kin or other aggrieved person can step into his shoes and carry on the proceedings."

"My lady, I submit that this depends on which stage of the proceedings we are in"

So saying, I looked at CP for his reply. He had none, because he didn't know what stage this matter was on anyway.

I wasn't quite done yet.

"I don't blame my colleague for making such an error - I don't think he has been properly briefed. As it is, he is neither or record nor has he been instructed by the Advocate on record..."

The Judge glared even more and shuffled the papers for the Vakalatnama, CP was honest enough to admit that he had just been orally instructed and not formally authorized.

"Then?" asked the Judge, clearly irritated.

"My lady, a date may be given?", whimpered CP.

The Judge grunted and began to dictate the day's proceedings.

"The matter is adjourned for arguments on the application."

"Last chance?" I suggested.

"Yes Yes. 'The last chance is given to the Advocate for the proposed complainant to argue the matter.' " She looked at me thoughtfully. "With proper authorization".

CP muttered something while digging out his calendar. "Shall we take a date in September?"

"I'm okay with anything she says", I said, nonchalantly.

"Next date", announced the Judge.

"My lady, September..."

"July 1st!" roared the Judge.

CP bowed down and cringed at the case file.

"Much obliged", we chanted in unison.

I stepped into the corridor to appraise my Client of what exactly happened there, he isn't very good with english but he figured something had clicked for us. CP rushed past me after a quick "bye". I walked down with my Client and as I walked into the compound, I saw CP's balding head turn towards me. He was talking to a young girl, who I recognized to be the trembling intern who was trying to keep her Senior's matter back earlier that morning. When our matter was called out for the second time, I had to go find CP, and he had been in a corner of the corridor chatting with this same girl.

CP gave me a smile - not "a" smile, but "the" smile, a smile I don't think he would have given me even if he won the case we were arguing. As far as he was concerned, CP had won his case, and he was very happy about it.

I still can't wipe the smirk off my face.

Class of '99

I finally had a long overdue school friends reunion, but it was under the worst circumstances possible - a friend got into an accident with his young wife, in which she expired. Incidentally we found out only when one of us called him up on his cell to fix the venue of our sixteenth (planned) reunion. His brother picked up and gave him the tragic details. And so, I called my sofawalla in the morning so that we could all meet up and visit Rahul that evening.

I’ve been for very few condolence visits before. As for funerals, I avoid them whenever possible – stemming from my fear of death, I suppose. Condolence visits were just an extension of that – you had to talk about death, it was all around you, Someone would be around to give you the whole details – when it happened, how they tried to help, how it almost didn’t happen – but then it did. Talking about the person very rarely happens on such occasions, besides an occasional comment on how nice the person is. If s/he was so nice, then why did they die? Because God takes those who he loves the most. And some other clichés like so. And on top of this, this was for the death of someone I didn’t even know – the wife of a school classmate who I hadn’t spoken to since Class IX with the exception of a few random Orkut Scraps. As I left the scene of my upholstery work I scanned my cupboard for something to wear. I eyed my whites, but then thought it was too filmi – white salwar, followed by a white dupatta over my head and topped with dark glasses to complete the ensemble. Anyway it had been a week since the funeral. I toyed with the sleeve of a black kurta, but rejected it on the grounds of being labelled as someone who had been watching too much of Star TV since childhood and was under the mistaken impression that Black was the colour of mourning. I settled on a Olive Green FabIndia Kurta teamed with a new black churidar. The FabIndia Kurta betrayed my ever expanding beer belly, while the waistband of the churidar cut into my midriff. I put up with it because despite all this, I looked the part.
An hour later, new sofas snugly placed on the chair, I met up with my estranged classmates at Andheri, and after commenting on how much weight I had put on, they informed me that they didn’t remember where our friend lived.
“We could Just Dial his Dad, maybe?” suggested one.
I raised one badly-in-need-of-threading eyebrow at him.
“Or then maybe we could call GS?”
GS was the one friend of ours who had been to his place, but pleaded memory loss. Suzy looked at me. “Could you call him, please?”
Both eyebrows this time. “What?”
“Well there’s no other way to find out, is there?”
I walked to the side of the building that we were standing at and dialed the number. My heart sank when the phone connected, and almost stopped when it was picked up. Surprisingly, there was a lady on the line. I introduced myself as a classmate, and told her that we wanted to see him. She explained a very complicated set of directions to us, but five minutes later, we were right outside his doorstep.
As we entered, I saw the familiar faces of his father (“Hello Uncle”), and his sister, our Senior in school, now betraying her Punjabi genetics by becoming a plump member of the “aunty” species, and I specifically noted that she was wearing a very pink salwar kameez. She noted that I had “changed completely” (glasses, no braces and a swanky haircut) and we sat down to wait. The sister looked a little forlorn, and told us that they were trying to “cheer him up” but nothing seemed to be working. From well wishers we were now supposed to be entertainers.
Rahul walked out of the bathroom, limping, having just washed his bruises. He looked at us and nodded politely, and I thought to myself, this is it, he’s just going to walk on and not talk to us and sulk in his bedroom. But a split second later, he came back in with the embarrassed smile that was is trademark in school, and then we settled in to talk. I did not ask about “what happened” – I didn’t want to know, and nothing could change the fact that he was a widower now, knowing whether she died of a head injury or internal bleeding would make no difference to my life. So we talked about school - of the good times, of whose pant ripped during PT and who was given that embarrassing name by his teachers. And then we talked about the present, but just in terms of statistics: where X was working, where Y was studying. By the end of it, Rahul was laughing and we had even nudged him into accepting a school friends meet on the first weekend in June.

I remembered our big plan just a few days before the date. My first instinct was to pretend like it never happened - like how you say "I'll call" or something as vague and never mean it. But I needed to keep my moral high ground as the charming ever ready hostess, and so I messaged the lot, hoping for a round of "Can't we do this next weekend?"s. But all I got was confirmations, a few "I'll be late but I'll be there"s and even a drop in from a Delhi based school mate who was in town. Oh boy.

I chided myself for being lazy, especially with there being so little to do - my living room was clean (since my roommate left, the living space was now confined to the bedroom), the fridge could be stocked easily enough, and the boys insisted that I not cook, but we'll all just order in. Then it dawned upon me. I wasn't lazy, or anti social - I was just scared. I was throwing a party and inviting over people who, just a few weeks ago, were mourning the loss of the wife of our friend. And I was inviting the same friend as well. True to my habit of staging my worst apprehensions about an event in my head, I visualized a breakdown, his getting emotional whenever we mentioned marriage or settling down or future plans, perhaps he would lock himself in my bedroom to cry, perhaps he would leave early so as not to make a nuisance of himself. Well, it was too late (or too early, even) to angst about all that. I ordered 6 bottles of Carlsberg (this was a party, after all), picked up snacks, and settled in with the first arrivals.

Then Rahul came in, and I braced myself for the climate change. But there was none. The stories continued in full flow, as did the beer (reinforcements were called for), and we were a group of smiley happy people. The random anecdotes came tumbling out of our memories, as did gossip and speculations about the unfortunate classmates who weren't present with us. All of us were transported back to a time where even crushes were platonic, where competition was only about marks, where you would gasp dramatically if anyone would say "fuck", when you weren't fat, when years of smoking hadn't hampered your ability to run like crazy, when you could buy Pepsi sticks for 50 paise, and when the worst thing that could ever happen to you was a DeMerit Card. And of course, a time when you would never imagine sitting around with these blokes in some other city drinking copious amounts of alcohol.

While serving dinner, I remembered a follow up that I needed to give on something I had appraised a few friends of mine on.

"Guys, the parents meeting was completely successful!"

"See, all fingers and toes intact" said Q, who was a guest of honour for the evening.

This brought a round of cheers from the folks. It was then suddenly that a doubt creeped into my beer high that maybe this was not the time for such an announcement. But just then, I heard a voice.

"When's the wedding?" asked Rahul, excitedly.

I think all of us did a double take at that one.

We had, amongst us, one of the youngest guys in our batch, easily the most soft spoken of them all, who had gotten married when he just turned 21, and was now a widower. He had his wife's name painted on his bike and had her picture on his phone screen. He had removed his plaster but he was still hurting, it was obvious. But he was now getting visibly excited about attending someone else's wedding, while I had, all this while, been expecting a total break down in my living room. And from the looks of everyone else in the room, it was quite a common expectation.

We may have wound up shooting tequila shots like kids, but I think we all grew up a little bit that night.

Tagged

Jesus!

What Book Are You Reading: Nothing afresh. Rereading Serenssima by Erica Jong. Am generally a big fan but this one's a little random. Also picking through "Maximum City" by Suketu Mehta, again a re-read. Enjoyable in parts. But why does he need to tie it all up?

Favourite Board Game: Monopoly! And Risk, for a while, until a certain Bengali with a sheer lack of sporting spirit ruined it for me one day when I was down with the Cold of 2006.

Favourite Magazine: Time Out

Favorite Smells: Right now, my Jasmine Plant. And also, Calvin Klein One. But only on One particular person.

Favourite Sound: Wind Chimes. And the Doorbell when Q's coming home.

Worst Feeling in The World: When I need to pee really badly when I'm in the Metropolitan Magistrate's Court.

Is the First Thing You Think of When You Wake? Do I need to be in Office/ Court early or can I afford to snooze a little more?

Favorite Fast Food Place: Chowpatty Pav Bhaji and Bhel. That's pretty fast food.

Finish This Statement. "If I Had A Lot Of Money I'd... stop a lot of my present Cribs.

Do You Sleep With A Stuffed Animal? Yes yes!

Storms-Cool Or Scary? Scary. A little.

Favourite drink: Appy Fizz and Green Apple Vodka.

Finish This Statement, "If I Had The Chance I Would ...travel lots.

You Could Dye Your Hair Any Color, What Would Be Your Choice? Some red streaks I think.

What's Under Your Bed? Dust. Suitcases. Raddi. And some clothes.

Would You Like To Be Born As Yourself Again? Yes, but with a flashback hitting me at age 10 about all the crap I wound up doing in my past life. Forewarned is forearmed, of course.

Morning Person Or Night Owl? Depends on what needs doing.

Over Easy Or Sunny Side Up? Sunny side up. I like my yolk a little dribbly.

Favourite Place To Relax: My living room diwan.

Favourite Pie: Pumpkin!

Ice Cream Flavor: Fig and Honey

Testing Times

Holding fort in Office today while my Boss called in sick, he made feeble inquiries about the state of affairs in Office and then told me that he was on his way for a few tests.

"All Okay?" I asked, out of courtesy.

"If it was all OK I wouldn't be undergoing all these tests, would I?" His attempt at sarcastic humour was tinged with a little stress, and some gentle probing revealed that his blood sugar and cholesterol levels had hit the roof. Now his Doctor had advised him to take all sorts of investigative examinations, and so he was on his way to Bombay Hospital from Cumballa Hill, and obviously not very happy, after all, these tests don't come cheap.

The Hypochondriac in me resurfaced. On several occasions I had convinced myself that I had various life threatening diseases, including Cancer, Meningitis, Tuberculosis, Leukemia, and Internal Bleeding, and all at the same time. This has not been helped by incompetent and brash doctors and extensive use of the internet (more importantly, the Symptom checker on Mayoclinic.com). Today I therefore decided that I would use some of my stashed cash to go in for a complete health check up - after all investing in yourself is the best investment, yes no?

In my enthusiasm, I called up Bombay Hospital and clocked myself in for an appointment on Friday, 9am.

"Ma'am, just a few things. You'll have to take nothing from the mouth from 9pm the previous night, no water also. And you will have to come with your samples."

"I'm sorry?"

And then she proceeded to tell me which samples I needed to carry along with me.

"Okay Madam, have a good day."

I winced. Not only would I have to wake up, have a bath (I couldn't subject a Doctor to a stinky patient, could I?), collect my 'samples' (on second thoughts that should have been before the bath) in containers (she was helpful enough to suggest that I could use 'any' container around, provided I cleaned it well before use), take a train and land up across town by 9am.

Yeah, right.

The good thing about all the Big City Hospitals is that they all have very informative websites, and I jumped 21 kilometers by calling Nanavati, which is just a stone's throw away.

"Hello." I began. "My name is Ruma, and I'm 25 years old. I am interested in a Health Care Package."

After taking down my basic details and outlining an extensive package for me, the chirpy guy on the line asks if it is sufficient.

"I'd like a PAP Smear test also. And a mammography."

"Ma'am, actually, your package would not have a PAP Smear test."

"Well, then upgrade me", I said, in my best Diva voice.

"No Ma'am, actually, we don't give PAP Smear tests to unmarried ladies."

I was so taken aback, that only stupidity tumbled out of my mouth. "Why?"

"Actually," I could feel the red flow into his cheeks even so far away. "Ma'am it involves invasive procedures Ma'am, so Ma'am, we don't perform it on unmarried ladies."

Of course. I changed my voice settings back to normal. "Oh, but I think I would require it to be done."

"Yes Ma'am?"

"Yes."

A nervous laughter was heard across the line. "Actually Ma'am normally the unmarried ladies don't take Ma'am, that's why. Sorry."

If I wanted to, I could have gotten really mad at the guy for daring to imply that I was 'abnormal'. But then again, I could think of a lot of women who would get highly annoyed after having unknowingly signed up for the test, the ones who compromised on sexual pleasure in order to protect their pristine honour (like a friend from College who would blush on admitting to 'interesting things' happening with fingers but prided herself on having responded to her mother's asking her if she had done 'it' with a melodramatic "Mother, look into my eyes, see how I am looking into your eyes and saying NO, I haven't, how can you even doubt me!") only to lose their virginity to an Aylesbury Spatula.

The young intern (I am assuming) then told me that I could pick up sample containers at any pharmacy, and lowered his voice again while informing me that for the PAP, there was the additional condition of "no periods can be going on".

"Yes, I think that is under control."

Upon Googling, I found out that while before going for a med check up, you should stay off alcohol and cigarettes for at least 24 hours before the tests, and you shouldn't have sex within 24 hours of going in for your PAP smear test. It's amazing how much of crucial information I was denied just because the poor guy was afraid of pissing off the 'normal' teetotalling virgin who lands up at Nanavati. Hmm. Do normal teetotalling virgins even ask for Medical Check Ups?

So anyway, I am going to find out how many years I have to live sometime early next week, before which I think I'll have to give up the juice for a day, not a mean suggestion considering I've been drinking at least a mug of beer every day for the past week. After all, I don't want the Doctors at Nanavati thinking that I'm a Slut AND and Alcoholic.

Slutty Savitri?

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Paying the Price

On Wednesday, A and I took a walk on the wild side. We left office early and walked into a new and happening pub in Andheri. I had, in the following sequential order - one mojito, one strawberry daiquiri, one pina colada, half a pina colada (A didn't like hers), one more strawberry daiquiri, one more mojito, and just to make sure that this wasn't an anagram of a drinking pattern, a mug of draft beer. We chomped on many nacho chips and impoverished chicken wings. Any guesses on the bill?
It was a trick question. It was all free.
Three cheers for ladies night!
As I struggled through the next day with my Bacardi White Rum induced hangover (it was for free - cocktails made with the "house pour") I was pouring over a full bench decision of the Bombay High Court wanting to sock it to the Chief Justice for his verbal diarrhoea when a strong pang rumbled in my stomach. I continued to read, distractedly, for the next ten minutes when it dawned upon me that it was time.
To pay the price for ladies' night.
Every month, this becomes the routine. I'll pick up my bag and walk out of the Office, the office peons will joke about how madam was leaving early, madam informs them that she'll be right back. I go to the ground floor to the pharmacy below my office and bark out my order.
The deja vu continues, I walk in and don't give a second look to the people teeming around me, a lot of them just talking to the Gujju boys who run the pharmacy and watching the greenish tinted TV for whatever cricket match is playing. I name my brand, the boy hops on the table to reach for the sanitary pads which are kept in the highest glass doored cupboard. The door is slid open and then the directions begin "no, not that one... no the blue one... not that blue, THAT blue, wait, does that one have wings? (the packet is tossed to me) No, I want the one without wings. Yes yes." The young man's acrobatics have successfully got me my purchase, he hops down and bills it. He looks at me hesitatingly because he knows I'm not done but he's too embarrassed with the situation to say it in a "would you like fries with that" tone.
I make his life easier.
"One strip of Spasmol Proxyvon, please?"
Spasmol Proxyvon has been banned in most countries, and I'm guessing they are all patriarchal nightmare regimes who want women to suffer in pain month after month after month. Nothing beats the cramps like the SP.
The old man who sits at the cash counter (in family businesses the oldest relative will sit at the cash counter. Its OK if he can't see or can't walk, but he's the only one authorized to return change.) gave me my change and a strange look, a very "i know what you did last summer" look. Puzzled, I recounted my change and then I remembered that I had come here 2 weeks ago to buy a Pill 72 for poor old Pooh to stop her from recounting the gory details of her not so safe encounter of the previous night. It was a look of "congratulations, it worked".
The pharmacy is populated by a family of identical looking kutchi boys who certainly have an information overload when it comes to me, at least. They know when I menstruate, the shampoo I use, when I have an embarrassing rash, my preferred brand of deodorant, when I 'forgot' to use protection and when I have a bad stomach. Of course they are sweet enough to be non judgmental about it all and act as if they've never seen me before in my life. Or maybe I encounter a different brother every time.

In the meanwhile the kutchi boy is busy wrapping my packet of sanitary napkins in newspaper. I've noticed this right since my early days. The packet is wrapped tightly in several layers of newspaper, and then put in a plastic bag - not just any plastic bag - but a black plastic bag. So when you are walking around, so one will look at the elongated newspaper wrapped package in the black bag and ever mistake it for a packet of sanitary napkins, right? It would save a lot of time if Johnson and Johnson just gave up on the birds and dancing women on the packaging and stuck to camouflaged packaging.

Personally I don't give a shit about hiding the fact (actually I did earlier, but one day I had the entire investigation team of an arms haul distracted by the bright blue packet which was peeping out from my bag, and from then on I decided that it was pointless to really angst about it from now on) and so I asked the guy to stop wrapping, to not give me the plastic bag (another routine which gets repeated every month) and I stuffed the packet and the pills in my bag and trudged up to office.

Growing up in a confused-brahminical-hangover household, where only one generation ago women were made to sit separately from the rest of the family when religious festivities coincided with that time of the month and clean their sitting area with cowdung, I was often warned that proper decorum demanded that men never found out that you were "down". My mother's father apparently never found out until she was well into her post-teens, that that too he was informed only when he asked (I never claimed to come from the sharpest family in Goa, did I?). This was what was curtly informed to me when, despite having been adequately warned about the possibility, I screamed when I discovered that I was, well, bleeding like an animal. That was also the point of time where I realized that I would never make it in the medical profession. In a 500 sq ft. Mumbai Law Firm Office, it seems a little impossible - right from excusing yourself to go to the bathroom, carrying you entire bag along with you, coming out with a small ball (again newspaper wrapped) clenched tightly in your fist, politely requesting the office peon to move away from the pantry sink so I can stoop down, open the cupboard door and chuck. The new office peon, a 17 year old sprightly boy, looks away in polite embarrassment, if there can be such a term, and continues looking away until I leave the pantry room. We don't have a trashcan in the bathroom - which I don't crib about, because things would just be more obvious then, wouldn't it, with the evidence "on display"?

Those 4, 5, or in the case of a dear friend, 11 days (her conciliation was that it only happens 11 times a year for her) are just the pits - you're emotionally challenged, your face is an oil slick, your back is busted, sex life screwed, tempers flying, you're bloated, dogs follow you around (at least street dogs. I swear this is true.) and even God considers you as non existent. So I shall have my free drinks and chicken wings and fuck all of you who think that it's a little excessive for being born without the Y chromosome. :)

Moving out: Or why you should dump the bastard NOW

Sometimes moving out is as difficult as moving on.

My current pre-occupation, a case under the Domestic Violence Act, involves a couple who dated for ten years and then got married in their late 20's, which is a great step towards a "mature" relationship, right? Some months later, the Husband smashes her nose into a bloodied pulp in an alcoholic rage, but they make up over several rhinoplasties, she gets pregnant, he gives her a hard time, and even when a baby can't salvage the situation, she leaves the house to retain her sanity, and when she tries to go back to talk to her Husband, he isn't home.

And he's changed the lock on the door.

After a much contested order from what can be only described as a very stoned Magistrate, I obtain interim relief for my Client in being able to enter her house and reclaim her belongings. So braving an auto strike, me, my Client and her Dad travel in an Armada to the back of beyond suburb in an attempt to reclaim her life.

The house was already teeming with people - the Husband (who had been sweet talking me all week), his friends, his lawyer (who only was asked to come because I was coming) and his lawyer's friend, my Client and her father, and her friend (a celebrity nutritionist), and me. It was like a funeral - everyone recounting the good times and the eventual demise of the loved one - in this case, the relationship.

There was a clear divide - there were some, like the Husband's friends, who all had participated in the couple's clandestine dating rituals and seen them right from the time that he "proposed her", who still looked hopeful and all maintained that "he didn't mean almost trying to kill her", and still calling her Bhabhi much like bereaved relatives who keep calling out to a dead person in the hope that they will suddenly awake. There were some who were actually relieved that it was over - like the nutritionist friend. And then there were some who probably would have killed it had it not died its own death - like her father.

"She's so educated," he lamented, "and she married this disgusting man." He had sneered at his soon-to-be-ex-son-in-law's attempts to offer him Iced tea "to refresh himself". I rejected on the ground of added sugar (and perhaps added sedatives. Dude, he disfigured a woman's face. Don't think I was going to push my luck). "Actually whatever happened, and what ever is happening now, only she is to blame."

The Husband's lawyers put down their newspapers and suddenly leaned forward, having obviously heard this strange admission. I was also shocked. "Why on earth would you say something like that?"

"She was the one who wanted to marry him, she married him, it was her mistake. He is like that only. We all knew his character, we told her so many times. But she was stubborn."

The eavesdroppers leaned back and went back to their newspapers. I was intrigued. "What do you mean you knew his character?"

The Father removes his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He inhaled deeply.

"We used to hear her speak to him on the phone. All she would be doing is soothing him and apologizing. Some parents hear their children say 'I love you', we had to hear 'Sorry, sorry, sorry'. But she was stubborn."

I remained silent.

"And then he breaks her nose. The sick, sick man." I thought he would spit, but he didn't. "And she didn't tell us. She told us, she fell in the house. And we thought OK, she must have fell in the house. That sick sick man."

'Sick' was obviously this man's equivalent of the worst vernacular cuss-word I knew.

"I spent 8 lakhs on her wedding. 8 lakhs. And I didn't even want her to get married to him. If she had told me, then, then... well, even we know people. We could have gotten things done. He only did this to her because he knew that he could get away with it."

I could sense his helplessness mount and his cynicism about me handling his daughter's case (he was slightly shocked to see me on the first day of the hearing) was slowly withering away. In the meanwhile, my Client was huffing and puffing over all of the items "mentioned in para 30 of the Petition" and some which she forgot, which her husband was, in a clear attempt to pacify, handing over to her.

She looked around at the things she set up, she paid for, all of the things she had done to her own house, her very own house, and now, she was stuffing all that into Big Bazaar bags and carting them unceremoniously into an uncertain future.

The packing was mingled with her Husband's trying to make polite conversation with me and the nutritionist ("He hates my guts and didn't let her even speak to me throughout the marriage", whispered the Nutritionist, "He's really pulling out all the stops now."), some small memories which seeped through the building concrete of pain ("we bought this in Australia, don't you remember?", "this was a birthday present to you, you should keep it"), and despite everything, little moments of tenderness. As she was going through her books, she found the Holy Bible.

"Keep this properly ya, or your parents will kill you." There was a slight tone of warmth and humour, probably some inside joke. The Husband smiled in recognition.

A quick relook at the things she needed to take back, she walked into the kitchen and opened a cupboard to see a huge stash of foreign liquor, that he collected from the duty free on the way back from his last tour.

"This is all yours only na!", quipped the nutritionist, sarcastically, referring to the Husband's reply to our domestic violence complaint in which he called her an alcoholic.

My Client gave her Husband a scathing look.

"Come on sweetie. Yeh sab likhna padta hai. She should know." pointing to me, of course.

"Nice try." I retorted.

Packing over, it was time to leave. But not just yet.

I was obliged to bring up the fact that since the Husband had made an offer to "Settle out of court" that now we were willing to try and end this "as smoothly as possible". At this, Husband makes a cool "why don't we have dinner" offer to my Client.

"What is there to discuss?" she asked him.

"Everything!" he replied earnestly.

"Arre..." she looked at him, began to say something, and then stopped and urged him to enter the bedroom to discuss the situation in private.

From the hazy reflections on the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, I could make out vigorous hand movements, agitated expressions and even a very filmi tug-and hug. For a minute, I wondered if they would come out of the room, hand in hand, ready to renew their vows. I was then disappointed at the fact that I was so vehemently against this happening. It seemed like the ultimate anti climax. But weren't we supposed to work towards preserving the family, I thought wryly as I remembered the preamble to the Domestic Violence Act.

As we all sat in anticipation, the father of the Client came up to see what was taking us so long.

"They are talking", I informed him.

"There's nothing left to talk about" he said, under his breath, and charged into the room and asked his daughter to come out. A very timely intervention, because my Client was visibly irritated and stormed out as soon as she heard her father's voice.

Thereafter we had a very late lunch and lots of girl bonding between the Nutritionist, the pained survivor of Domestic Violence, and me, the buy-a-lawyer-get-a-friend-and-shoulder-to-cry-on-free. Beyond the call of duty, and moreso when I even went up to say hello to my Client's 7 month year old daughter.

Can you really know a person well enough to eliminate the possibility of having to enter your own house on the strength of a Court Order and trying to remember which of the fab india pillow covers you had bought with your own money? How does love end up resulting in pulverized nasal bones? I remembered the first time I supervised this kind of job, I saw a girl, 5 years younger than me, sitting there and packing her school books (the "urgent" belongings we got a Court Order for), shaking her head over having married her College Sweetheart in a fit of QSQT like headrush. Especially when he placed her under house arrest and wouldn't let her attend College, and beat her with a bamboo stick if she would protest. It left me shaken, and I realized that this time, I was still shaken, and even more so. God forbid tomorrow I would have to hold the hand of a friend who had to undergo the same torture - mental, physical, emotional, in the end, they all leave scars which take as much time to heal. These women all have the same pattern - the surrounding society disliking the guy, her slowly sinking away from her friends, and silent suffering. While the women themselves may be responsible for the relationship and the man for the violence - every single loved one and well wisher of that woman is responsible for not telling her what she needed to hear - dump the bastard now. But of course, would she be listening?

I don't think, with this level of involvement, that I would make a good "lawyer". But then again, is that really what I want to be?

The "Ex" Factor

On Sunday evening, one of our friends popped in for a little girl's evening at home. Now, I know a lot of people out there (none of whom are ever going to read this) are very pained with the popular cultural notion that women who get together only discuss the following things:

1. Men - and how they are such b%$#@^&s

2. Shoes

3. Clothes

4. Bags

5. Men - again for good measure.

For all those people, I would like to emphasize the main events and topics which we covered between 7pm and 12am last night:

1. Our guest's recent break up with long standing boyfriend and how he deserved no less than to be doused with Domex and allowed to whither away like the toilet bowl germs in the ad.

2. She brought over my Thai gift - the sexiest red bag in the world - which I have named Schumi and is officially the "other" man in my life (always by my side and never has issues with having to hold my wallet and keys when I don't have pockets to store them in).

3. A pair of shoes which were too small for her and which fit A like a glove...err...isn't 'sock' a better analogy?

4. All the wonderful shopping A did at Colaba/Fashion Street and how no matter how experienced you are, you will always make some mistakes while shopping off the street.

5. All the fun in store for A in her second innings as a student, after which A hid under the cushions and we had to calm her down by discussing...

6. ...my Exes and A's Exes and everyone's Exes including the DomEx boy.

See?

I kind of envy my friends who are undergoing painful earth shattering breakups now - not that I desperately want to be dumped (I was JOKING about the red bag, okay?), because when I was going through my painful earth shattering break-up, I also had to deal with the following:

1. Being surrounded by friends who were ALL in happy lovey dovey relationships. They were great and I don't think I would have been able to get through it without them, but when I would be sobbing and inhaling a joint of Marijuana, they would one-by-one disappear to have cuddly-coo phone conversations with their loved ones.

2. Being in the 5th year of College and having no idea what I wanted to do with my life and losing the one certainty I (thought I) had.

3. Being a member of the Recruitment Committee of College, which meant that I was in night long meetings and was left with only 20 minutes a night to call my Ex, not that he was picking up my calls anyway.

4. And most importantly - that they were at least given the dignity of being broken up with, at least on the phone. At the risk of delving into my irritating habit of "really? Well, you wanna know what happened to me? I'll tell you..." my break up went a lot like this:

One fine day, during a weekend trip in the outskirts of nowhere: Though we both have plans to "settle" in Mumbai, he tells me, "I'm thinking about going to Delhi for an internship".

"Cool".

One month later: "I won't be able to call you tonight, I'm giving my friends in Mumbai a farewell party"

That same night: Suddenly I wonder: If he's going to Delhi for an internship, why on earth is he giving a farewell party?

The next day, evening: After much fretting and racking my brains over 'maybe he told me that he was going, did he?' I call him.

"If you're going to Delhi for an internship, why on earth are you giving a farewell party?"

"Well, because I'm leaving."

"No, but it's an internship, right? Internships last for 2 weeks, 2 months, and then you come back, right?"

"No... its not like that. I'm going to work there, and if I like it, I'm going to stay."

"And you were planning to tell me this when?" In the meanwhile I had done the stupid mistake of planning my entire life around him, in Mumbai.

"Didn't I?"

"You told me you were going to Delhi for an INTERNSHIP"

"Did I?"

After much huffing and puffing over this doesn't look like it's going to work if you can't even let me know when you're changing the plan of your entire goddamn life, I slammed the phone down, angsted lots, went for daru with my friend Daze, and slept off.

The next day, early morning, say about 11am (we were in the 5th year), I was sitting on the stairs of the Hostel, waiting for Daze to finish her dolling up (till now she's the only person I know who'd wear lipstick before even going out for a smoke, but she's still a gem) so we could go to Hegde's for tea, and I called him. He didn't pick up. So I figured he was busy.

He didn't pick up for the next 8 weeks.

I tried everything - messaging, emailing, calling - I called once from Daze's phone and he hung up as soon as he heard my voice, I couldn't call from other people's phones because he figured the Bangalore Cell Code (and also I couldn't deal with the whole "excuse me, I need to make an STD Call from your phone, my boyfriend isn't picking up my calls, I promise not to take long, anyway he's just going to disconnect as soon as he hears my voice" discussion). Finally, when I completely lost it, I called him from my cell, he didn't pick up, I called him on the landline from my Cell, he didn't pick up, I called him from a landline on his cell, he didn't pick up. Finally I called him from a landline to his landline.

Success!

And what do I do? I yell, I scream, I curse him and the next seven generations of his entire family, and then I very spitefully tell him that I wasn't going to give him an opportunity to slam the phone down on me ("how DARE you slam the phone down on me") because "I AM GOING TO SLAM THE PHONE DOWN ON YOU".

The thing with cellphones is, they may be convenient, but you can never get the satisfaction of actually SLAMMING the phone down on someone. Poor sod.

Of course it didn't end there, I managed to lose a lot more of my self respect over the next few months, mostly due to the fact that I NEEDED a reason WHY. At the end of it, I was working, I was doing the job I always wanted, I had a place of my own in a great city, I had great friends who were slowly becoming single, and... well, the rest is the rest.

Now, my friends who get crap in relationships have the following benefits:

1. They are surrounded by women (or at least me) who are living proof that this too, shall also pass.

2. They are making money and thus have the potential to get a life.

3. They have friends (or at least me, though there are people better at this that I am) to teach them how to get a life.

4. There aren't any love-conquers-all women to advise them and say "just give him some time" or "but you were so good together" - even those of us who now are in relationships have become cynical enough to prioritize self over ex.

5. I have a copy of "He's Just Not That Into You", remember?

Meg, my desperately-in-need-of-Domex friend, has asked for ideas, and I am bored and I actually have the gall to act as a relationship expert (experiencing so many crap men should count for something, after all) and propound:

The Ten Commandments of the messy Break Up

1. Thou shalt not be obliged to "still be friends": You already have a lot of friends. Friends are people you can discuss the things that are bothering you the most. Common sense tells you that people don't like other people telling them how horrible they are. Can you bitch about your Ex to your Ex himself? I didn't think so.

2. Thou shall realize that as a concept, 'closure' is overrated: I still don't know what that means. So don't break your head over it and keep repeating "I need closure I need closure" like a moron. What you need is...

3. A life, which thou shall realize getting is easier said than done : Sit down, scroll down your phone contacts and note every person who's number you took down at a party or off facebook saying "oh, you're in Bombay? we should meet up!" (unless you're in Delhi, which would just make it a stupid effort) Message them casually, try and get out of office and go meet them, get introduced to new social circles. This isn't about getting a new guy in your life. It's being able to do something else than sit and remember that it would have been 3 years since he first unhooked your bra (I actually know someone who remembered that date from her relationship. Am sending that one to Ripley's.) Remember, when you have no teeth and actually need to wear diapers all the time, you're going to feel really stupid that you spent some part of the best years of your life acting like you were.

4. Thou shall start dating: Dating, as a term, is used really often but rarely actually done. See, dating is when you don't know what's in store and you're taking a chance. We all have these cut off issues and other hangups. I met a gentleman a few weeks ago who was telling me of the time when he was looking for a bride. He told me that he had a list of 10 qualifications his potential wife would have to have. He met a woman who possessed only 2 of them, and I know this is a cliched story but at the end of their first meeting he knew he wanted to marry her. They've been married for 30 years and appear totally besotted with each other even now.

Anyway, dating is fun, and gives you some much needed attention from the opposite sex and reaffirms the fact that you are an attractive being. And it gives you an excuse to dress up and eat at some cool restaurants. Also, when you meet other men, you get to appreciate qualities which your Ex never had. For example, I never realized the importance of being with a well read individual (I dated a guy who hadn't read a single book except a Judge's Autobiography) till I started seeing a Mastermind India Quizzer. And dating also gives you great stories to tell your friends. Just make sure you go to public places and never leave your drink unattended. But that's just me being my paranoid self.

5. Thou shall not rely on Friends, Sex and the City and any other White Urban Sitcom for inspiration on how to handle your situation: Rule of thumb - if you are talking to some friend of yours about your breakup trauma and some sentence ends in "just like in that episode of..." stop right there. Stop whatever you are doing. See the serials may be fun, you may relate to them, but that's about it. The Mr. Pigs of the world never follow you to Paris. You don't have to be friends with Moss so that you can get back after 8 years. Wake up. Watch Seinfeld instead. Remember - though it comes from the writers of Sex and the City, the theory was confined only to one episode.

6. Thou shall get angry. Very angry: Don't think that the need to be dignified means that you need to act as if nothings gone wrong. When I hear the story of a friend of mine getting dumped, I get angry. So if as someone who's been broken up with, you aren't getting angry, it's a major problem. Don't cringe if you can't help thinking about the past. After all, it was a part of your life. Give yourself the right to be angry and to break some glasses. Your own - we have only two martini glasses left.

7. Thou shall ask thy friends for their 'honest' opinion: In most cases, your friends have already realized that he's a jerk even before you even smelled the faintest whiff of scum. Therefore, when you break up, don't be surprised to hear a lot of sighs of relief and "finally"s. Probe them into what they thought was wrong with him. Although a lot of them might be saying it by way of being polite (I've never heard of anyone saying 'Oh, that's too bad. That was the best you could ever have done, anyway. Can I have his number?'), some of them may have cogent reasons which you should listen to and internalize and that'll help you realize that this was certainly not your best shot. Not a chance.

8. Thou shalt not forget the best person to help you get over your Ex: Is your Ex himself. Really. This was a gem from a friend of the Sensei. An exception of sorts to the "friends with the ex" commandment. At times, after breaking up (either you being broken up with or you being so fed up with the situation that you call it quits), you are filled with doubt - did I do the right thing? Was I too hasty? Maybe I should give it another shot? Especially when you remember the 'good times' in the relationship. In this case, sometimes talking to your Ex helps you realize the reason why you wanted to call it quits. At some point, he'll say something that will leave you with no doubt that ending this relationship is certainly the best thing to have happened to you since Whisper Ultra prices falling.

9. Thou shalt not underestimate the support of your friends: Feel uneasy about the whole thing? Need a shoulder to cry on? Think that Ruma would have gotten fed up considering you chewed her brains for 1/2 an hour on gtalk? Stop right there. You're thinking too much. Keeping everything bottled up inside is a big mistake. Talk about it, especially to people who've been through it. It helps. Really.

And very very importantly:

10. Thou shalt not forget: You are gorgeous, smart, and at the very least, deserving of more than this piece of excreta. So don't even think of breakup sex. (I had to slip that in somewhere, didn't I?)

I'm not going to say that one day you will look back at all this and laugh, because I still haven't been able to get to that stage. But you'll be stronger and think more about yourself. Since they haven't found a vaccine for the scumbag virus in men yet, women, many of whom will be those close to you, will keep getting raw deals in relationships. And you can help them get through it. But screw them. This isn't some NGO you're running here. Don't let the bastards get you down. Seize the day. And any other cliches you can think of.

(Dedicated to Meg. There's always light behind the clouds.)