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.)

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.

Enter the Dragon - Part II

Attempt No. 3 (also known as the last chance): As sitting around at home clearly was not conducive to conversation, I decided to move the talk outdoors. Ruchira, the restaurant run by the Goa Tourism Development Corporation, was a family favourite - good food, good view, and cheap booze even by Goan standards. Of course, things HAVE to go wrong, so not only is it raining, it is also peak painful tourist long weekend (good friday etc) and the Catholic Staff has obviously taken the day off and the Hindus etc. were very sore about it, though they would be taking the next day, Holi, off. A disdainful waiter handed menus to us. I recalled my mother wanted to have a Gimlet the other day.

"One gimlet and One bloody Mary Please"

"No Bloody Mary"

"Well, make it two Gimlets then"

My Dad scowled and began a long lecture on ordering alcohol in restaurants.

"How do you know how much alcohol they put in it? They probably put some drops of booze and plenty of sugar. Nonsense. You should have just ordered Limca and Gin."

Yes, my Dad was pained at the prospect of me getting less alcohol than I was paying for. Most people would think that with a father like that, I should be making out with my boyfriend in front of him instead of dying over having a conversation about my love life. But it's never that simple, and it isn't about to start just now.

A long time later, our drinks arrive, lots of fizz and some candied cherries thrown in. My father scoffed as I bent down and sipped the sugary limca hybrid.

Which is what it most certainly was not.

The Gin hit me like a BEST Bus at a Bhandup Crossing. I hadn't had this much of neat alcohol since the time I shot a 3/4th full glass of Romanov one afternoon at Surya.

"Too sweet?" asked Dad.

"I don't think that's the problem here, Dad."

My mom's drink was as loaded, but she finished it without making too much of a fuss. I took about 1 hour, 1 bottle of soda, 1 60ml of lime cordial and lots of ice to finish mine. Dad was down 3 drinks, and we were faced with terrible service and confused cuisine. I was slightly comforted by the high, what's wrong with a little Dutch Courage, right? Then, my mother put her head down on the table, right in the middle of my changing the subject.

"Why are you putting your head down in a restaurant?" my Dad shrieked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing", said my Mother. "Let's go somewhere else?"

Somewhere else was a new hill top restaurant in Panaji, with arguably the most gorgeous view and surprising rates. Also, it was a lot more quieter. Perfect, I thought. Mom disappeared to the ladies room, and came back giggling.

"I haven't been this gone in a long time - I couldn't even fix the door!"

Great - now I had to break the news to them while they were drunk. After we finished dinner, I went to the ladies' room for a pep talk. With myself.

You only have to have this conversation once. After that, the subject is open, things will take their own course, all will be cool.

In a fit of desperation, I had earlier asked the Boy for gyaan on how he did it.

My boyfriend, being the consultant, had come up with a list of potential questions that he thought his parents would ask, and he anticipated each and every question they shot at him and was able to answer them confidently. I tried to recall the question checklist I had prepared in my head.

1. Where does he work?

2. What is his educational qualification?

3. Will his family have issues?

4. When will we meet him?

and some such.

I walked in confidently to the restaurant and uttered the words which would ensure things would move away from the giggling highness which was prevailing at present.

"One pot of coffee, please."

Halfway through the coffee, I intercepted a stupid conversation topic and decided to get over with it, finally.

"Guys, I need to talk to you about something."

"Huh" said Dad.

"There's someone I want you to meet", I said, unabashedly stealing Q's opening line.

"Huh?"

I stared into my coffee cup, at the slowly forming layer of cream, while I muttered something about the tam brahm (this had to be established at the outset, even prior to the fact that the person I was dating was, in fact, a male) guy I've been seeing...dating...whatever... for the past year types.

"And so, I want you to meet him"

I looked up to catch my Dad looking at my Mom knowingly. Oh crap. They were planning the Good Cop Bad Cop on me. Sweet Jesus.

"So, why should I meet him?"

"Because... you should know who he is."

"Why?"

"Well because this is getting serious now. And though it's not like marriage or anything..."

My parents looked at me intently.

"...yet".

My mother looked slightly relieved.

"...Because, well, neither of us have figured what we need to do - I've applied abroad, he's trying to figure out what career path he wants to take..."

"Does he even have a JOB?" asked my Father, in all seriousness.

"Yes Dad", I said, pissed off at the ridiculous question but at the same time thankful that this gave me an opportunity to bring out the educational qualifications and the cool job story, which of course I was not given an opportunity to do, as my Father decided to contribute to my chaotic state of mind by asking me another unheard of question:

"But why should I meet him?"

"What do you mean why should you meet him?"

"Look, I could meet the guy, take one look at him and decide I think he's a loser because I don't like his face..."

Trust my Dad to be so reassuring in the circumstances.

"...but I guess I cannot do that, because its, well, stupid." I thought I detected a bit of wistfulness in his voice, like he almost wished he could be like that, "And anyway I don't see the point of talking to him when I should actually be talking to the person who will actually be making the decision."

Thus, two things were established: One, you can never discuss boyfriends with parents when you are above the age of 25 without the issue of marriage cropping up. Two, my parents were threatening to move into the twilight zone of relationships - parents meeting parents.

I panicked.

"Look. We haven't discussed this, long term or anything... " again, "yet. But when he was at home, he told his parents."

Oh f*&^.

"He told his parents?" my mom squealed.

My Dad just looked at me expectantly.

"And they seem to be, well, enthusiastic about the whole thing", I concluded, the bad use of adjective immediately striking me as making myself sound like a new mixer grinder.

"So when did he tell them?" asked Dad.

"Some time ago."

"Some time ago means when?" he leaned forward. "It could have been two days, two months, two years..."

EESSH!!! "Last weekend Dad, before he left for the US", trying to slip in a brownie point, "we hadn't discussed it at all. I was going to tell you..." (quick cover up job, why doesn't life come with a concealer?)"... but I didn't want to discuss this on the phone."

Dad leaned back into his chair.

Whew!

"So?"

"So I want you guys to meet, to get to know each other."

"Now why do we have to meet?"

My mother, the good cop, realized that this was going out of hand. She says my Dad's name slowly and seriously to attract his attention, which is definitely a "mom means business" sign in parent lingo.

"But we have to meet him"

Dad looked pained at the ad lib by my mom. "But what am I going to say to him?"

"Look Dad, there's nothing to say. There's nothing to discuss. You just have to meet him. Okay?"

Dad looked away thoughtfully for a minute, and then said, "But what am I going to say to him?"

At first I wondered whether this was the sign of some geriatric disorder. Then I realized it. My dad was actually looking for a topic of conversation to have with my boyfriend.

"Come on Dad, you can talk about anything - stock market, cricket, whatever it is that men talk about."

"But..."

"No. Stop. No. No no no no no. Figure it out! Do some research! Talk to some of your drinking buddies!"

"But what..."

"Dad," I sulked, "dude, it's my first time man. I really don't know how these things happen. Really."

My Dad finally smiled.

In the end, I mumbled something about the educational qualifications and the parents and the fact that he was a vegetarian.

"So do you think they have any objections?"

"Well, no."

"No?"

"Nope."

"None at all?"

"Well..." I thought hard, and then I remembered. "Maybe they wish I was a little taller."

"How tall is Q?" asked Mom. She knew the answer to the question but she wanted to know it again.

"6 feet" I lied, just to make her happy.

She tried very hard to conceal a gloat meant for all the aunts who thought I wouldn't find anyone who would be OK with my 5' 2" ness.

My Dad wasn't impressed. "I'm sure they wish you were Ambani's daughter too."

The statement was so random that I strongly believed that my Dad had it mugged up all these years just to be used for this kind of occasion. Now that that was over with, I finally relaxed. It was done.

Yeah, right.

Dad finished his coffee. "So do you think they will ask for Dowry?"

I spluttered the rest of my coffee out.

"Actually, I don't think they will be like that."

Much like I never thought my Dad would ever ask me such a question. I had most certainly underestimated how ridiculous he could be. Enough was enough. There was only one thing to do in the situation, only one thing left to say.

"Cheque, please".

***

I didn't know what my Dad's actual take on the whole thing was, till I was given permission to go to Bangalore to spend the weekend with Q's parents (something which went fabulously well, and hence I do not deem it fit to blog about it). I messaged my Dad as soon as I landed to tell him that I had reached safely. I get a reply about a minute later.

"OK. VANNAKAM!"

This may not be as bad as I thought it would be. But then again, that won't be saying much.

In Spite

Today I bunked work. It wasn't about the fact that I had very little sleep over the weekend and particularly the previous night thanks to a 20 hour visit by Q, or the fact that some of the most fantastic women from my batch in College were in town, or the fact that the workoholic law firm which my roommate works for had declared a holiday despite the fact that Gudi Padwa was yesterday. Oh no. Nothing of that sort, nothing that meaningful a reason.

I was stretching out on my makeshift bed in the living room, all set for a day in Office, conquering the world etc etc. having had fulfilling weekend of chilling, alcohol, partying with friends, alcohol, junk food, some more alcohol and of course, the boy. My phone rang and I reached for it lazily. It was Pooh.

Pooh works in my Office, and makes everything seem more difficult than it really is. Pooh used to live at Churchgate and would get to office after everyone else managed their hour long commutes, Pooh would cry after getting adjournments from the Court, Pooh would forget procedural niceties and get our cases dismissed for default, then Pooh got married and angsted so much that I still get the heebie jeebies when someone says the "M" word, and now, now, Pooh has moved to Thane.

Pooh has developed a strange strain of the flu since December, about the time she moved to Thane, which kicks in everytime she has a particularly long day. By a "long day" I mean her coming to Office from Thane and maybe attending a Court or two in between. She develops fever, a bad throat, and will croak pleas to us who need to then run around and handle her matters as well as our own. For the past 2 weeks, the flu has had her completely dead and she hasn't been coming in to work.

You, of course, think I'm a bitch for dissing her like this. You think I'm being a meanie. And you may also be wondering what the fuck this has to do with my bunking work today. Well.

Today Pooh called me, and told me in her oh-my-God-I-am-going-to-die voice that there was a matter she was handling on today at Girgaum, and she was going to come (really, but I'll come by 12), so was it possible for me to pick up the papers from Office and come to the Court by 11 to hold the matter till then?

Taking a cue from A, who had sarcastically suggested a way to handle this situation, I choked my throat and spoke in a oh-my-God-Pooh-these-could-be-my-last-words voice:

"Pooh man, I've been puking all morning. I don't think I'll be coming to Office man."

Don't be fooled. I didn't call in 'sick' I called in 'spite'.

And for all of you who think I'm being mean, not only has Boss told her to take the next 3 weeks off, and not only had he told her not to come during the monsoon season, and not only is she allowed to leave office to catch the 7:05 Thane Fast every day, but also, every month, my Boss gives us both a paycheque - of the same amount.

"Poor thing." said Boss, in a rare display of sensitivity. "It's the commuting that makes her sick. She should actually move closer to here."

I waited a minute actually expecting him to trump up an empty flat in Colaba for her to move into. Then I let it out.

"All of us Commute, and I think we're doing just fine."

He smiled at me.

"You're different"

Oh, how I hate that line. But for now, I am going to have brunch at the Juhu Mocha. :)

Enter the Dragon - Part I

Of all the retarded relationship stories I know, this one ranks right up there. Usually in my retarded relationship stories, its the guy who acts like he flushed his brains down the toilet. Here, the chick is from outer space, truly. She was seeing a guy for some 8 years and declared herself engaged to him and all that and had full on plans of getting married. For some 8 years, she decided that it wasn't necessary to inform her Dad, because he would probably (she thought) wind up killing her and that wouldn't really fit in with her plans of becoming Mrs. like-you-really-thought-i-was-going-to-name-names. Finally the law firm for whom she (and her rapidly balding beau) were working had to step in to unite the couple while it was still biologically possible for them to produce offspring, and so they actually got a Senior Lawyer of the Supreme Court who is actively into politics to step in and do the dirty job for them. Her father would have been shocked, much like how people used to react when a deep voice would mumble "Main Amitabh Bacchan Bol Raha Hoon" in the heydays of "Kaun Banega Crorepati".

Unfortunately for me, I had to do the task myself.

As stated in an earlier post, my earlier attempts (oh all right, it was just AN attempt) amounted to a flop show, and since the other set of parents were now involved, it was either now or not at all. The Parent-Politics of the situation were mind boggling.

Parents Politics Une: My parents vs. His parents: There could not be anything more than a reasonable gap of time between the informing of his parents and my parents. Then it would be all "Oh you people have decided so why the hell are you even asking us, do whatever you want." Nothing stings more than the "do whatever you want". As the high priestess of the "do whatever you want", let me tell you, no one means it when they say "do whatever you want". What they really mean is anyone's guess, but never do they actually mean "its OK you take whatever decision your independent and unbiased mind deems appropriate in the circumstances and I shall act in whatever manner is deemed appropriate by you accordingly." NEVER.

Parents Politics Deux: My Mom vs. My Dad: There could not be anything more than a split second of time between the informing of my mother and my father. As it is my mother had an unfair advantage. Any time lapse would be construed as trying the oldest parent politics trick in the book - the play off, which works like this in every child's imagination:

"Mommy, can I go for the party?"

"No Way"

"But Dad was pretty chill about it"

"Hmm. Okay."

I'm sorry if this is coming as a shock to most of you, but guess what? It doesn't work. And while we're on the subject - there is no tooth fairy. Sorry.

Therefore, at my last trip home, I had a mission.

Attempt No. 1: Post Siesta: Parents together, awake, post tea comfort zone, flipping channels on TV. I was about to open my mouth to begin when my mother exclaimed: "Bobby!"

For the uninitiated, Bobby was Raj Kapoor's ode to the pangs of adolescent love, the rich and poor divide, and the bars of religion. Maybe the ideal background piece, for some. Unfortunately by the time we settled in to actually watch it, the happy song and dance was over and Premnath, playing Jack Braganza, Bobby's father, was emerging off a ship with a bottle of Rum in his hand, wearing a triangle of cloth, and looking bemusedly at his skimpily clad daughter's attempts to get him to wear a suit to meet her young rich boyfriend.

"Hum ko kyon Suit Pehene ko mangta? Hum lungi mein kaam karta hai aur lungi mein milega usko!"

"Ha ha", my father said, stretching his arms over his bare chest and burping loudly, "what kind of a lungi is that. This," he pointed to his own checked attire, "is a lungi."

I suddenly heard a loud voice: "Yeh rishta kabhi nahin ho sakta!"

Pran, the rich father of the loverboy, was throwing Premnath, stuffed in a suit with his fly open, his bottle of rum and Goan daughter out of the house.

"I think I have some work to do", I mumbled, and left the room.

Attempt No. 2: Same day, after dinner: I even told them that I got rejected by Harvard to create a wave of "aww baby". I had it all planned.

"I got rejected by Harvard. It's all over."

"Aww baby, don't say that..." (my mother would get a little emotional, even)

"It would be nice if you could meet my boyfriend...."

"Of course, sweetie, of course!"

So there we went:

"I got rejected by Harvard. It's all over."

"Why?" asked Dad. "Isn't your litigation going really well?"

"Yeah, kinda", I said reluctantly, trying not to lose the emotion I could see emerging on my mother's face.

"So how much are you making this year?"

After a few calculations (I kept the droopy face on) we arrived at a figure. "That's very good for your 18 months!"

"Yeah, well, I guess, hey Dad, I wanted to ask you..."

"So, you'll have to file returns then."

I looked up. "You mean I have to pay taxes?"

Oh shit shit shit shit. I said the T word. Shit shit shit. All the empathy on my mother's face disappeared in a second.

Suddenly, before I could say anything to prevent the situation from spiralling totally out of control, she turned into her alter ego - from soppy mommy, she turned into Tax Planner extraordinaire.

"Of course not - see, you have your education loan which you repaid, and then you have your insurance premium, and in any case, women are exempt for the first...'

Well, at least I managed to get my financials settled.

The Rant

I think all people who've had it easy in their life should take a fall, at least once, just to feel how hard it is to get plonked on the ass. Unfortunately, that list of people includes me. The idea of wanting something - and by something I don't mean a strawberry cheesecake gelato, or a boyfriend, or anything that stupid, however not-stupid it seemed to me at the time - and not getting it, was something alien to me. After I finished my boards, I wanted to do an Arts Course in one of the best Universities in India, and there I was. After Arts, I wanted to study Law in the best University in India, and there I was. After Law, I thought my game was up - I wanted to work as a Criminal Lawyer, an ambition that was practically unfeasible, and poof - here I am. And mind you, all of these ambitions were not well thought out, nor did I actually strive and work hard to achieve them. I did the minimum work possible, and somehow, it all worked out. It was almost the luck of the draw. So when I wanted to study abroad, I slog my butt off - wake up early, sleep late, spend tons of money, get a hundred opinions and drive myself totally up the wall - for what? To be informed by a University Graduate Admissions Member that :

Although the Committee on Graduate Studies recognizes your fine record of achievement, we sincerely regret that we are unable to offer you admission to the *** course at the *** Law School. It is never a pleasant task to advise that an application has not been accepted, but we are much encouraged by the fact that our applicants are so well qualified that most will gain admission to one of the many other fine graduate programs around the country. We hope that this will be true in your case and wish you every success in your graduate studies and professional career.

Well guess what?

And now, much like my failed relationships in the past (for the record I have more University rejects then failed relationships, which is a good thing), I sit to angst over it - was it something I said? Something I didn't do? Did I make my move too late? Was I not just good enough? Did I not deserve this? At least I didn't have to annex photographs to the applications or I don't even think I'd have the guts to get out of the house today morning.

All I can say is, it hurt. One day I'll think back and rate this below the disappointment I felt when I went to the Metro Gelato shack and found that they had just ran out of Strawberry Cheesecake Gelato. Or when I didn't get tickets on the Toy Train at Matheran. But for now, it's right up there, my top three shitty moments - along with being dumped by SMS on my birthday and losing my first independent case thanks to a rigged judge.

But then I think - something better always comes along. I am much happier than I could ever be with the Birthday dumper, who was a loser (obviously - I mean, who on earth does that?) and later on I got strictures form the High Court against the Magistrate and I forced him to rewrite his Judgment. So how's some stupid little Ivy League (and some which are not even Ivy League) Colleges going to change the path of my destiny?

Ah, I ranted. And now I shall go to fight Domestic Violence.

An OUTstanding performance

I heard his voice even through the thick wooden door of our conference room. I immediately tried to slip under the table but to no avail (except for spooking the hell out of the CBI Officers in the room). He may not be an army Officer, but Captain Bahadur was too quick for me.

"THERE YOU ARE!" he said, joyously. "It's today, it's today!"

What, the apocalypse? Then it all came back to me.

"Tonight, blah channel, blah time. I told Boss also. You know, your Boss said, don't call her Ruma, call her Lady. I doff my hat, lady," so saying he made a curtsy, and all the machoness I had developed over the past half hour explaining to Senior CBI Officers why their investigation completely and utterly sucked, went flying through the AC vent.

"You look fabulous, though your lovely speech was reduced to just half a second. What a shame, a crying shame."

I wondered whether the human attention span could catch half a second of airtime and secretly heaved a sigh of relief.

"Go through this, " he said, while exiting, handing me a huge bundle of paper. "It's my high court case." He held another one in his arm. "This I'm going to distribute all over."

The compilation included cartoons of his wife eating him up with a fork saying 498A. I also spied a High Court Order which was in respect of a Civil Case he filed against his wife (who else?) and his landlord, incidentally a sitting High Court Judge. The Judge delivering the Order was very critical of Capt. Bahadur's contemptuous acts towards his Brother Judge, but decided not to take strict action on account of the fact that Bahadur "had a case filed against him by his wife and mother who disowned him a very long time ago and so he was obviously disturbed on account of the same".

Even the Judiciary thought he was a lunatic.

The photocopied letter meant for distribution caught my attention.

"Please watch *** Channel at 10PM today for evidences against my wife and corruption in Judiciary. Special Attention to Justice *** and family!"

It was on the letterhead of the POMERO with Boss's name and number as the "Legal Aid Cell".

I began considering who could be engaged to represent us at the Bar Council in contempt proceedings.

A few hours later, A and I gathered at Lax's place to watch me make an utter fool of myself. I called my parents and forewarned them - it was OK to date a guy for a year without telling them, but not informing them of a television appearance was unforgivable. As the programme began, Capt. Bahadur stuttered and stammered through the one minute introduction time, and then a one minute life-clip was aired. I caught a glimpse of Boss, and noted how good the conference room was looking. The clip ended, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't worry", said Lax. "Am sure there's a concluding segment."

Yeow. Lax had already painted a scenario of my clip being broadcast and the audience booing me, and a voice booming from above.

"YOU SUCK"

I laughed nervously, and was distracted by the other contestants - a righteous old man working towards creating awareness and training individuals under the Right to Information Act, and a wannabe feminist activist working on implementing the provisions of the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act regarding banning of sex determination and sex selection of the foetus. The woman had the Judge's sympathy but she was too irritating to be taken seriously and looked like she'd use the 5 lakhs to fund a new fabindia wardrobe. The Old man had to be led to the stage and the mike was too high for him so the host had to hold it to his mouth.

As a child I would be forced to compete in various random competitions. My parents encouraged me to do my best and never give up, like all parents. But unlike most parents, my Dad gave away the secret of competition - if you ever find yourself up against a child, someone handicapped or an animal, don't even think that you even have a hope in hell.

In short, Captain Bahadur was shot down.

Round after round ensued, and after a recap on how the candidates were to be voted for, to our utter surprise, the credits began to roll.

Without my clip.

It was no disappointment, but an anticlimax all the same. I imagined my words being taken out of context, morphed and dubbed to sound like something I wasn't meant to say, or worse, actually having said something which should not have been said. What if this stupid sound byte cost my position as one of the little princesses of Domestic Violence litigation? What if the ladies in the train would point fingers at me and accuse me of being a traitor? What if lawyers I was fighting tooth and nail against in 498A cases where I represented the woman would hold this deposition of mine in a Court and say "Judge sa'ab, she had admitted that false cases are filed! Is it too much to presume that this is one of those cases?" I was prepared to cry, to hide my face in shame, in fact I had even rehearsed defences for whatever I said if it provoked strong enough reactions:

1. (looking nonchalant) "They just caught me out of Court, man."

2. (looking shocked) "I had no idea that THIS was what he was working towards!"

3. (looking angry) "These people at Star can't get away with this. I'll take them to Court!"

4. (looking lost) "Show? What show?"

Instead, all I got was a phone buzz. It was a message from Boss:

"You were OUTstanding!"

Mixed emotions in the end, but on final analysis, I agree, that all's well that ends well. Sometimes, it's not so bad to lose out on your five minutes of fame.