Stared out

I knew it was all too good to be true.

I have a gym starer. Ugh!

Now as much as men continuously astound and shock me, this guy takes it up a notch.

Staring is in itself a terrible thing and it makes women feel uncomfortable and it's a violation of space and all, which is true - however gym staring is the worst of them all, I think, though I don't have a very expansive being-stared at experience.

Why gym staring especially sucks:

1. For the woman, you are covered with sweat and wearing gym clothes, which in themselves are figure emphasizing. Lots of women wear loose t shirts and track pants to the gym. I don't believe in that school of thought. Think about it - how will you encourage yourself to work out if you can't see what the problem is? And there's lots to see, thanks to the second issue here -

2. The mirrors. Gyms are wall to wall mirrors, presumably so that exercisers can watch themselves and check posture etc. It is also helpful when your trainer is forced to work a simultaneous double shift thanks to someone being on leave, so he can watch you do your jumbo squats while he's helping someone pump iron on the other side of the room. Unfortunately, your starer can see you too, wherever you are.

3. Workouts often involve strange postures and movements which perhaps can be construed to be sensual, if you're sick in the head and need professional help. Then again, that's probably why you're staring at women with no regard to public decency, 'innit?.

Even so, why you'd want to choose to stalk someone and so obviously stare at them in the gym is beyond me. You see me run 3 kilometers, do 200 ab crunches, pump iron, and you still want to piss me off?

So this hasn't reached the stage where you can complain to the authorities (or even my trainer). He hasn't said anything offensive, or anything at all (till today, that is), or made a pass at me, or feel me up - he just stares. I know plenty of men (and the numbers are rising by the day - isn't that scary?) who'd think that I'm just making a big deal out of nothing and that he probably isn't even staring. Well to all of you - fuck off. Never argue with the chick sense. When a creep stares the stare at you, you can feel his eyes upon you like a red ant. However the sad reality of the Gujju gym is that it isn't quite the right time to get my trainer to dump a 30 kg weight on him.

The stares aren't the lechy kinds, but more like (and you must understand that I've been observing him discreetly, the last thing I want is for him to catch me looking at him in one of the mirrors) soulful looks, which are just as pissing off.

Doesn't take much to guess this guy's athletic capabilities since he has enough time to stare. He uses a small room at the side of the cardio workout area where he does some pansy stretches and yoga (You call that a surya namaskar? Ha!). One day I was reaching for a bottle of water and he made a grab for it as well, our fingers brushed against each other and he turned away in embarrassment.

Seriously. Is this where we're at now?

Today (again at the watering hole, it seems like that's his hunting ground) he waited till I was finished talking to another fellow gymmer about how I stumbled on the treadmill because I was thinking about a case today and NOT because I was dizzy or anorexic or anything (Jesus!). When I turned to drink a sip of water, there he was, in full open mouthed glory. I saw him do his thing through 45 minutes of cardio and I slowly lowered my bottle and looked him straight in the eye.

Not so comfy anymore, are you, buddy?

"You are having very good stamina", he mumbled.

"I know." I muttered, in a "Guess what. Dumbbells can fly." tone of voice.

He looked away as if one was flying right at him.

This guy is not "cute", he's not "sweet", he's an ass. I'm just waiting for him to slip up badly, preferably under a thigh cruncher.

I don't get this new breed of obnoxious men. First there's the serial SMS-er and his assholic friend, and now this - men who are educated, earning well, are exposed to society but enter some random woman and BOOM! They become social spastics.

Someone set up a society for them, please! Or at least classify them as a special class and make them walk around with identity cards which they need to produce when involved in social events, like dating, gymming, pubbing and breathing.

Or else we women will have to take matters into our own (well toned) hands.

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.

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.

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.

Playing Safe

My life appears to be the dream existence for people back home to have to contend with living with their parents, strict deadlines, and well, living with their parents. I was telling a few friends about my fabulous (pronounced faaabyoolus) life and my fabulous friends and how another friend was coming down to live the fabulous life of the single woman in Mumbai and yadayadayada. Isn't it great? You go out, meet a guy, date some, stay over, doesn't work out, oh what the hell, meet another guy... now, I know my fabulous (stick with the pronunciation, people!) friends will protest that this is pure fiction, which it is, but we've done some of it, A and I, so I can't sign an affidavit (excuse the lawyer humour) that it CANNOT happen.

Then, yesterday, a not-so-fabulous thing, I got myself a Water Purifier. I called up the helpline, placed my order, and the guy said he'd come around 11. 10am, I was sitting in a spag and my sheep shorts trying to draft a Writ Petition when the doorbell rang.

3 men are standing outside my door. Whoa. I look at them, puzzled.

"Filter Order kiya na aapne?"

I heard an imaginary "baa" from the sheep on my nightwear, drawing attention to the state of my undress. "Ek minute" I said, and closed the door, pulled on a kurta and jeans, and made a quick mental calculation. Three of them, one of me. Is that safe? Yes, if they are water purifier setter uppers. But do you need three people to set up a water purifier? Shouldn't I be asking for ID?

There was only one way to find out.

Two of the men trooped in while the third took his own time, I led them into the kitchen. The box was placed on the floor and one of them looked a little perplexed about opening it. The other, in a split second, bent down and ripped through the masking tape.

With my kitchen knife.

Gulp.

As I watched them create a water purifier out of random parts, I remembered about guy No. 3. Now I had left the door open ("Always leave the door open when you're alone at home and some stranger has to come in", says Mom. Apparently you are better off with the possibility of other random goons entering your house than with a closed door and a repairman.) and so I went out to check on him, then suddenly realized that the repairmen could be pocketing forks and knives while I was looking away and so I took a stance which appeared that I was able to survey everything and coolly asked, "So where's the third guy?"

One of the guys looked up, "Oh, he decided to wait outside the building."

Did he? What if he was under the sofa? Or in the bathroom? I hopped into the living room (screw the cutlery) but couldn't see a thing out of place. I left the door slightly ajar (my mother does not live on the ground floor in a colony which houses bandicoots) while the men finished their work and gave me a crash course on the workings of the water purifier, after which I shooed them away, politely. I made some random conversation and threw in, in spite of myself, a silly line on how my husband would have to be explained everything - just because they were nice didn't mean they needed to know we were two women living alone.

And then I wondered, for someone who was that paranoid about undertaking repair work alone, I was pretty careless in letting perfect strangers know that I was living alone, or with my roommate, just because they seemed "interesting" and "nice" and spoke fluent English and laughed at shady characters who frequented clubs like Enigma. Imagine, you meet a guy, get him home, and bam - he knows your house, he knows you live alone, he knows your phone number (which is probably the first thing he got off you) - talk about an information overload. Especially since you don't even know if that was his own credit card that he paid the bill with. The next morning you might want to have nothing to do with him, but the feeling may not be mutual. Oh, and God forbid he's a kleptomaniac. Or if he smses his friends and invites them over. Or (shudder) if he doesn't flush the toilet?

Sex and the City has women getting random men over all the time. None of the lead characters, however, have men stealing stuff from their houses, no men are waiting outside their gates to throw acid on their faces, and none of them date serial killers with a heart of gold. Of course, we all like to think that we are "beyond" all this, and that we have "taste" and that we have a "good judge of character". But in the end, the only judgment you can actually vouch for is your own. I've been lucky with my roommate, touchwood. Think about it. How many women would smile and offer coffee to their roommate's latest 'find' at Poison, who says he's from Bandra and when she doesn't even know his last name? Me, being the paranoid freak that I am, I'd lock my door before going to sleep, if I could manage to get any sleep that night, that is.

I guess in the living-single women's world, safe sex involves a lot more than just condoms.

The Fall of the Diva

After a weekend of pure unadulterated fun (absinthe, cold chocolate vodka shots, passing out for the first time since college, southie grub at Woodlands, a live karaoke by the most stunning singer and insider information on bollywood), I was finally living the life I always wanted to live in Mumbai. To me, the ultimate city life was Sex in the City with a 130 IQ. I may not be able to buy $400 Jimmy Choo shoes, but Rs. 400 at Metro isn't a bad deal either. After 1 1/2 years of the working life, I finally had the 'Bombay' checklist down:

1. Getting anything done in 3 phone calls flat.

2. Alcohol Home Delivery

3. The best of friends who are game for anything

4. Attending Page 3 dos without actually getting on page 3.

5. Knowing people in the glamour world who I can afford to be seen with in public.

6. Hosting the best parties without people puking all over my floor.

7. Being able to comment on what's "hot" and what's "not" without looking like an idiot.

And so, though it was a Monday Morning, I strode out to the not so glamorous suburban Metropolitan Magistrate's Court, in full Diva mode.

What's with the Diva infatuation? A 'Diva' was being the woman who everyone wanted to hang out with, because she was so cool, so out of the ordinary, she had it all, or something close to that. I strode into the Court premises in my cool work heels and my Victoria Beckham

gigantic sunglasses, gave everyone around me a Diva nod. The Diva-ness worked, because the Judge informed me that he was all set to acquit my Clients on the next date. I smiled graciously, did the little bow/curtsy that we lawyers do, and picked up my files and sashayed out of the Courtroom.

Apparently I should have quit while I was ahead.

As I was travelling back, suddenly, the air around me became cloudy. The Diva didn't see this coming. Before I could react, my body did. My eyes began to water and my nose began to run with the cold that I was convinced that the Absinthe had cured. I tried to close the window but failed. The smog penetrated even the sunglasses. I held a tissue to my mouth in a desperate attempt to filter the air my lungs were desperate to take in. As the dust subsided, I removed the tissue, and nearly gagged again - the tissue had turned brown. Repulsed, I did the only thing a Diva could do in the circumstances.

I spit.

Well yes, I know - it was disgusting and totally uncalled for. In my defence however, I would like to state that nothing was harmed except my pride and the LBS Road. I sat back in my seat and thanked the BMC for only having dug up 1 km of road for me to suffocate in.

Suddenly, I felt queasy. I was getting stomach pangs, not the hungry kind, and a terrible taste in my mouth, even worse than the chalk powder taste I was getting in the smog attack. I thought I was going to hurl, real soon, that too. My head hurt, my whole body hurt, I felt like I was running temperature - it was the stuff nightmares were made of. However, as I was still in Central Railway Territory, I decided to wait till I was taken to civilization. I closed my eyes and tried to think of that wonderful singer of last night and her arabian melodies.

By the time I got to familiar territory, I decided that I needed a sugar high, and so I went to Cream Centre, which was the first decent eatery I saw. I was a Diva, after all, and Cream Centre was arguable even semi-classy with its South Mumbai roots. Ask Napean Sea Road Gujju kids. I stride in as best as I can, and am surrounded by three waiters.

"Table for one", in my best Diva voice, hoping my face didn't look three shades darker with the dust.

I am scanning the menu for a drink, and I unconsciously sip the water poured in my glass. it's hard to describe what that water felt like, but suddenly, I was relieved. My insides, which till now felt like they were being removed by a slotted spoon, cooled down, my mouth tasted sweet, my head stopped hurting - everything suddenly went back to normal. Better than normal, actually. I greedily gulped down the glass and in a very un-diva like manner demanded another one, to which similar treatment was meted out. And then I realized that though the roadside construction was the catalyst, this body condition of mine was on account of something else.

That Goddamn Absinthe!

Having hence recovered, I also recovered an appetite, and so, I ordered a pizza. Yes, for the record, I write a food watch blog and I like the pizzas at Cream Centre. They are thin, crisp and there's nothing wrong with them. You can stop snickering now. Also, I had had a major pizza craving for some time.

As I tried to find the 12 differences in my table mat as I waited for the food to arrive, I could feel a pair of eyes on me. A guy was sitting at the next table, in front of me, and he was looking in no particular direction, which meant that every now and then, he was looking at me.

And then arrived my pizza.

I bit into the slice, and as I moved to pull back and chew, I realized that the entire pizza topping was following the little nibble I was trying to sneak away.

Pizza ranks second in my worst-first-date-dinner-ideas, the first being a burger. There is no neat way of eating a burger that's worth eating. I'm not talking about the anorexic 20 buck McDonalds trash. I mean a Hard Rock Cafe Burger, or even a Big Mac. Just no clean way. The sauce drips out from the other side of the burger, followed by the lettuce, and invariably, one of the slices of bread will finish before the other, and so you will have to hold the juicy soaked vegetable/meat patty in your hands and eat it. You could eat it neatly by taking small bites and then evaluating the damage caused to the burger and repositioning the 'participants', including elimination of the weak links, but in that case you'll go down in dating history as "the guy/girl who went out on a date with me and never, not even once, looked up from that goddamn burger".
Ditto with Pizza. Some people eliminate the messiness by eating their pizza with a knife and fork. If it was meant to be eaten with a knife and fork, then the concept of pizza slices would not exist. As a child in the US, I walked into a Pizza Hut once with my parents and was aghast to see, contrary to my popular cultural notion of pizza eating developed from our highly gregarious neighbourhood Italians who ran a pizzeria (pronounced pitzah-reeya), someone eating a pizza (pronounced peetza) with a knife and a fork. That person was also wearing a hell of a lot of cloth on his head and had a big beard.
"Dad," I hissed. "That guy is eating pizza with a knife and a fork."
"He's a sardar, sweetie. Don't worry about him."
That was also my first introduction to Indian regional stereotypes.
What I'm trying to say is, though I fancied myself to be a Diva, I just could not get myself to pick up a knife and fork.

Instead, I bit further into it, taking the slice on. I held the slice right in front of me, chewed a little, bit more into the crust to support the cheese, olives, mushrooms, onion, tomato and babycorn (unfortunately for me, they were really generous with the toppings) that was already hanging from my teeth. I was using one hand to hold up my slice, but in the end, with the cheese threatening to cover my nose, I had to use my left hand to severe the fevicol consistency like cheese from my bite. I put the truant slice down, picked up the napkin and wiped my mouth (and my nose) with it.

My bored neighbour was watching me through this, in case I forgot to mention, and all of a sudden a teeny bopper hopped in and joined him with profuse yet fake apologies about some extra lecture. I sighed in relief with the thought that she would sit opposite him and so they would have eyes only for each other and so I could munch my pizza in peace.

I had forgotten how lovey dovey couples prefer sitting on the same side of the table.

Good Grief.

I sipped my iced tea and the girl and I, our eyes met.

She gave me the sympathy look. Not the "I know eating pizza is messy, but hang in there" look, but the "you're eating ALONE?" look. Then she whispered something into her date's ear and she giggled.

Wait a second. This was some shit. I wasn't going to sit here and ruin my meal and my thankfully recovered appetite because some ugly people on the next table are staring at me because they have nothing else better to look at. That's not what a Diva does. A Diva does, ladies and gentlemen, whatever the fuck she wants, and that is true style.

I chomped down the rest of my pizza, wiped my mouth, paid the bill and finished off my gigantic and refreshing iced tea. Just before leaving, I drew in the straw of my iced tea one more time just so I could make the obnoxious sucking sound that a straw makes when your drink is over that I haven't gotten enough of ever since my mother told me to "STOP IT" when I was 4.

The Diva may have fallen, but at least she did it in style.

PS: The title of the blog is misleading to the few people who decided that we would all collectively blog on a Model turned Actress who has married into a filmi family after having first been "kept" by a Politician who turned her over to his thespian friend who married her off to his homosexual son. We wanted to do this because we tried to google the story but came up empty handed. Anyway. This blog is not about that. Just so you know.

The Numbers Game

I walk into the little lane that leads up to my office to see that the local newspaper and magazine vendor has erected a poster of the latest filmfare with Kareena saying: "Who gets love bites on your back?"

Somebody can use a little imagination in the bedroom, what says?

The power-couple of Bollywood, or so they would like to believe, should be banned from appearing on the Cover of ANYTHING, even a can of sardines. If Khalid Mohammad places Kareena on the cover of HT Cafe one more time, I might be provoked enough to swallow my pride and go back to ToI. As for Saif Ali Khan, well, he will now be immortalized as the first cover boy of Rolling Stone India. What, are we completely out of photogenic men able to pose with musical instruments? Of course, all good Indian rock musicians are actually Pakistanis. But surely, something better than Saif is manageable?

Then again, its better than Shah Rukh Khan, airbrushed 6 pack and all, holding a violin.

Bombay, I'm back. As you can see, Bombay has made me suitably crabby and I sulked the entire commute to work. It's this city, I tell you.

Yesterday, as I was waiting to clamber into the train, I got a call. Excitedly thinking it was my boyfriend, I whipped the phone out, only to find that it was "Ajay" calling.

"Who's that?" asked Dad, noting my obvious irritation.

"Some random guy", I said.

"Then why does he have your phone number?"

Good question. This goes back to one day in the Metropolitan Magistrate's Court at Bandra, when I was supposed to appear in a Colleague's matter. A fair, young guy was standing next to me, and I was in need of making my stupid sarcastic quips to someone, and he seemed to grasp basic English, so there we had it. He also helped me on a few tactical tips while appearing before this Judge. Everything was fine. He told me about how he was practicing with some guy who was a Professor at his College (talk about Campus placements) and was based out of this Court. After my matter was over, he then asked me for my phone number.

You know what? It's easy to say "Well you should have told him that you don't give your numbers to strangers... that you don't have a phone... that you would rather eat yourself whole, starting from your toes, than exchange contact numbers with him...". But when someone a guy asks a woman for her phone number, especially in a professional set up, denying it is not so easy. If you're a lawyer, exchanging phone numbers can ensure that Clients are referred to you, that you have some trusty soul to keep your matter on hold while you are stuck in traffic, that you have someone to consult for a quick tip on advised course of action before a particular Judge. Socializing was a necessity, created by rules made by the male bastion. In those days, there were only two female criminal lawyers. One was a majestic Parsi Lady whom no one would mess with, because in Bombay you never messed with a Parsi. They'd probably wind up being your landlord. The other woman was about 6 feet tall, 4 feet wide and with teeth which jutted out from her mouth like a coconut scraper, if you know what that is. Anyway the standing joke about her was created when a new whisky in the market was rated by the Bar Association (not pun intended):

"After two pegs, you can see Mona Lisa smiling. After four pegs, even *** smiling looks like Mona Lisa"

Sad, sad. But that's the Bombay Bar for you.

What I'm trying to say that the rules created by the male bastion never figured the possibility of young, unattached women in practice, desperate men, and the SMS phenomenon.

That evening, after exchanging numbers with the seemingly harmless Ajay, the barrage begins.

Good night messages, good morning messages, good afternoon messages, "look at the bright side of life" messages, "forward to 25 people or else you will drop dead of diseases you never even thought existed" messages - the works.

A few days later, he even called. And even more surprisingly, I picked up.

"Hi Ajay", I said.

I don't know why people do the whole "hello? who is this?" on cell phones to people whose numbers are saved on their phone. Thanks to my moving with the mobile times, however, I robbed him of 2 lines of conversation.

"Hi. How are you?"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"Fine." silence.

Why on earth do people call for no reason when there's absolutely nothing to say to each other? It's different when of course you have an existing relationship and you call to say "Hi." In the course of conversation there's every chance that something new will trump up, like "Guess what? I'm getting married!", which is the reason why I have stopped calling up people "just to say Hi".

Idiot that I am, I actually try and make conversation.

"Well, I got your message..." he had sent me a message, about 10 minutes before the call, with lots of asterisks and dollar signs which are supposed to look like some tangible object, to the trained eye. If the Rorschach Inkblot Test Blot test was replaced with SMS artwork, I'd probably be strait jacketed and sent to the loony bin.

"Yeah..." he said.

"So, what's been up?"

"Nothing. Practice. You tell?"

This was obviously not going anywhere.

"Okay. I am out with friends. I have to go."

Perhaps it was my distinct and subtle disinterest, but the chronic messaging stopped thereafter. Except, of course, the Christmas message (I'm still wondering if it was a Christmas tree or a Santa Cap), the "wishing you a happy new year before the phones lines get jammed" message on the 31st, and the "Happy New Year" message on the 1st.

I was reclining on my diwan, having been sent home early on account of rumours that Bal Thackeray was dead. Sipping a gin and tonic, I was curled up with laptop on belly warmer mode and halfway into Season 4 of Sex and the City when my mobile beeped.

It was a message from Ajay.

"I have been trying to call you for the last half an hour. I am waiting outside your house. Please Come outside."

I sat up. He knows where I live? How does he know where I live? Who told him? Nobody knows where I live. Is this something you can find out from 28888888?

Now that he's standing outside, will he come ring the doorbell? Damn all those boyfriends and home deliveries, now the watchmen let bloody everyone in.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Disturbed as I was, I somehow had the presence of mind to scroll down.

And down, and down, and down.

"MY NAME IS MOON

I jus wanted to say gud nite!"

AAARRRGGHH!!!!!!

So I'm still wondering what to do about this serial SMSer. Surely there must be some Bharti Mittal Clinic for people who just can't get enough of their cell phones? The problem is that I cannot scream at him or accuse him of sexual harassment or get the CBI on his arse (perks of the job) or anything because there's a thin red line between frandship and harassment and he hasn't quite crossed it yet.

But I'm waiting. And when he does, he's definitely not going to get an SMS warning.

Just (not) married

My peer group, officially, is now divided into two. Those who have gotten married, and those getting married in the foreseeable future.

Initially it was one classmate. Then it moved to four. There were the cousins older than me. Then it became the cousins younger than me. Exs (all but one of them), school friends, new friends, office colleagues, former roommates, clients – you name them, I name the date and venue.

And then there was me. And a few other trusty souls, of course, like A, M, Lax and the boyfriend. At least, that’s what he tells me.

I was living in a world where marriage was something obscure, something that would never happen to me, like making a full house at a Bingo game. I never saw myself wanting it either – I didn’t quite see the “value add” of marriage in my life. Come to think of it, I still don’t.

In about 40 days and 40 nights, I will be 25. I will reach an age when things that happened 20 years ago will be in my recallable memory. I already find myself making statements like “Oh, but that was 10 years ago” and doing a mental double take. Still, it’s not that old. Not when you think of the fact that I’ve been in college till age 23 and the last 1 ½ years have passed in an entire blur.

According to my relatives, however, I should be receiving pension.

In my community, women are married by my age, partly because of the dwindling size of the community and the rare commodity status of the single ‘decent’ saraswat boy. Luckily for me, marriage talk in my house was non existent. Nobody ever uttered the M word – my Dad only addresses personal issues through my mother, my mother is still disgruntled over her own early marriage and the amount of compromises it forced her to make, and that was our own little universe.

****

I met my old pal SS for a drink and red snapper at Viva Panjim, one of my favourite restaurants. Being a divorcee, SS was not only at the bottom of the feeding pool of Saraswat arranged marriages (he claimed one woman he was referred even looked like a catfish), but he was also an expert on the subject of societal relationships.
We discussed the marriage disease. SS had boycotted the arranged marriage mela on the ground that he was being unfairly discriminated against on grounds of being a divorcee, with attempts to being set up with women who he’d have to “…fuck from behind, because if I saw their face I’d puke”.
Alright, so he was shallow.
I was amazed at the whole concept of arranged marriages. How did the information that you got about a person in a few meetings suddenly amount to enough to go through an entire lifetime with them? How did you ever know if they were “the one”?
SS exhaled harshly. “Do you think people really think about all that? Look at Pooja.” Pooja was a girl who worked in my old office, who had had a relationship with a guy in her college about 10 years ago which included trysts at the shady London Hotel with a pool table and rooms for rent, wink, wink. She had paid for the hotel room – the guy had receipts to prove it. The relationship never lasted but the London Hotel jokes certainly did. Pushing 30, she married a guy from a Karnataka based Saraswat family, far away from the google news engine that reared its head up everytime an arranged marriage proposal came about.
“She wears her mangalsutra on the outside of her kurta, flashing it around like its some kind of fucking Bharat Ratna. She gets so excited at the thought of performing the silly rituals – like applying sindoor and kumkum on other women’s foreheads, distributing those little matkis at those haldi kumkum parties.” [Haldi kum kums were the religiously ordained kitty parties of my community] “You have to understand. Marriage is the priority. The guy is only secondary. Marriage, apparently, makes you culturally complete.”

Which was true. Amongst Saraswats, for example, the first religious ceremony that a woman was allowed to perform was her own wedding ceremony. After the thread ceremony, a man was allowed to worship the idol of his kul-devta as and when he pleased. A woman was only allowed this privilege after she was married. I had been observing married women for decades (ha, ha). When a married woman came to our house for the first time, my mother would make her sit on a chair, the lady would spread her pallu on her lap and my mother would place a coconut, a blouse-piece, a envelope with some cash and lots of rice in it. Then my mother would put kumkum and haldi on her forehead, and touch her feet in blessing, no matter what her age was. It was the blessing of a “savashin”, the vernacular term for the Married Lady. Any married woman coming home would not be allowed to go without applying haldi and kumkum to her forehead, and in turn she would do the same to my mother. Women would fast on hartalika, the day before Ganesh Chaturthi, to get a good husband, and after marriage they would fast to secure him for the next seven lifetimes. When someone was getting married, during the anointment ceremony, he or she would be blessed by 5 married ladies who would anoint him or her with oil. And of course, the presence of one savashin was required at every pooja conducted.
A small fringe benefit, considering all the pain they had to go through.

“SS, come on. Getting a cultural identity can’t be the only thing that drives these people…”
“I’m not saying it is. There’s also the license for sex, and of course the fear of dying alone. Parental pressure nothing but a force propelled by these reasons.”
Parental pressure is also what got SS married. His initial uncertainties were dismissed by optimists who said that “you’ll feel attracted to her, don’t worry”, and “you’re just nervous” and “this is what your destiny has ordained.” Six months later, SS found himself impotent – in every sense of the term. The annulment followed soon after.
“Arranged marriages,” he continued, after a refill on his RC – Coke, “are the safer bet, because these reasons are always a constant. They will never change. Love Marriages, on the other hand, are even more skewed because all everyone is trying to do is arrange their own fucking marriage.”

****

The next day, I found myself at a family get together this evening, and when I reached down to touch my uncle’s feet, he asked, to no one in particular: “When are you getting this girl married?”
Note please how the question was not even “When are you getting married?” Note also how the question was asked in the same tone of voice as “When will you put the trash out?”
As the question was not directed to me, I decided to shut up.
His wife chirped up 5 eligible bachelors whose parents had even politely inquired about me. Matchmaking was kind of her thing.
Again I smiled politely.
Uncle goes on “I don’t see the point really to this delay. What is her problem?”
My mother volunteered: “Well she is planning a lot, she’s practicing now but she might want to go abroad to study…”
“Whatever it is, why can’t she do all this after marriage? Who says she can’t study after marriage?”
“Well then she needs a guy who will understand that!”
“So what are we there for? We’ll find her a guy who understands! Who doesn’t understand? Everyone understands!”
Another aunt chirped up “This is unacceptable. This is not any way to behave anyway, leaving her like this on her own.”
Holy cow! Alone? Hell, I could take better care of myself, albeit not financially, then any of the men I knew.
The other aunt began trumping up boys who lived abroad.
As the subject of this brewing storm, I decided to speak up and make the crucial mistake of attempting to use a little humour.
“Anyway, mama, I think getting married before the age of 25 is child marriage, don’t you think?”
The family gasped collectively.
“Who says?”
“It’s a new law!”
My Uncle stared. “The law is 21 and 18. There is no 25 age limit now. There is no such law.”
My aunt squawked. “Unmarried till 25? This is ridiculous.”
My mother intervened. “Nobody did me a favour by marrying me off early, for sure.”
The indirect vent at her elder brothers patriarchic stance went unnoticed by all, except me, even while I was mentally noting that my sense of humour must have definitely come from my Dad’s side.
“What law is she talking about?”
“I was JOKING”, I smiled.
My mother’s sister cleared her throat: “How can you be joking at a time like this? Don’t you realize how serious this is?”
My eyes widened. My mother’s brother, who had started this whole hellhole, was recovering from a gall bladder operation that he had put off for 2 years and it nearly killed him, or whatever it is that a bad gall bladder can do to you. And now suddenly I was the one with the emergency status?
The matchmaking aunt decided to be helpful. “Maybe she has someone?”
Now shouldn’t this question have been directed to me?”
“Hayn!” said Mom, the Konkani displeasure word, shaking her head violently.
“What someone? How can she have someone? We can’t be having some outside brought in!” screamed my mother’s youngest sister, the aunt I loved the most.
Suddenly, I imagined all of them taking out stones and pelting me to death, for refusing to get married by age 25. Everyone thinks Goa is progressive because you can walk on beaches topless. Well, if you are a Saraswat, you’re no better off than a Pashtoon tribal lass.
“I just need some time.” I said.
“For what?” boomed everyone.
“To figure out my sexual orientation”, is what I should have said.
“What’s the big rush anyway?” I asked, irritated.
“It’s something you have to do.” said my uncle.
“You won’t get a boy later on,” said the matchmaker “besides, you have to start looking early. You’re very well educated, and also, you have a bit of a height problem.”
I am 5’2”. The shortest guy I had ever dated was 5’9”.
I opened my mouth to say this, but then I thought about the stones.

On the way home, I was amazed at how suddenly, I was four again. I could talk, but other people were asking questions about me to my parents. Remember “She’s so cute…what’s her name?” Twenty years later, life comes full circle. Your opinion still doesn’t matter. You still don’t know what’s best.

As I stepped out of the car, my aunt warned me:

“You have to get serious about this now”

A phrase I hadn’t heard since my Board exams.

When you’re a kid in the throes of adolescence, everyone is out to keep you juvenile. You’re brought a dairy milk every time a relative comes over, at birthday parties you’re made to wear the party hat and stand along with the other kids and sing “Happy Birthday” in return for the party favours bag, and all you want to do is sit in a corner and sulk like you see all the adults do. And when you’re all grown up and you realize that all you want to do is savour the moments that you have and live your own life, all everyone wants you to do is grow up and take responsibility, and more importantly, get married. We all are expected to, as Russell Peters would say: “Be a Man. Do the right thing.”

And my friends wonder why I just don’t sit around in Goa and chill.

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 :)"