Swine's Up!

It doesn't take much to excite people. Especially when everything has gotten boring - IPL (but we've discussed that already), Politics and Elections (The long weekend has taken precedence for most people. As for me, I voted in the last LS elections. Yawn.), terrorism (even the Bombay HC thinks the 26/11 case should just be transferred out of sight and more importantly, out of traffic). Now, we have a new source of entertainment, especially for the hypochondriacs amongst us - swine flu!

The name provokes an initial humorous reaction, which is understandable. In the words of my friend Gaugau: "All sentences ending with "...when pigs fly" should now be coming true - because swine flu!"  Anyway, am sure there are people stocking up on the medication which has been front paged in all major newspapers this morning. This just shows that the media can mess up everyone's happiness, be you a concerned-for-your-health citizen or a hostage safely (or so you think) hidden under a bed in the Taj. I'm pretty sure that by the time there is an outbreak (what are the chances of an epidemic not hitting India?) there will be a shortage of the antidote, having been hoarded by hypochondriacs and mommies concerned over their toddler's snifflings (because it couldn't have anything to do with the ice gola and the central air conditioning, can it?).

Poor piggies. Why are diseases which usually target animals suddenly mutating and wreaking havoc upon us homo sapiens? Do they get bored? ("I'm tired of pork tonight, honey. Let's go out for dinner.") 

I don't know how much pork is consumed in India, but quite a few communities enjoy the "other white meat" (yes!) - Coorgis (the Pork Curry has to be tasted to be believed), Malyalis, our friends in the north east (sorry for generalizing, there) and of course, my Goa.

Goa's catholic community sees a lot of variety in Pork Cooking. There's the famous Sorpotel which I have never had the guts to try - it contains pig's blood as a secret ingredient, in some recipe books. Recently I was at a wedding where it was on the buffet display, but I couldn't get myself to spoon it onto my plate. How brahmin of me.

The ET claims that more than a 100 pigs have died in piggeries across the State since the breakout of the Flu. My brahminical upbringing is astounded. Pigs are raised in piggeries? In Goa, pigs are on the road. You'll see fat sows with their little brood of piglets, all black as soot, marching about, eating unmentionables on the ground. Particularly rabid relatives would tell me as a child - "Catholics eat shit! You know why? Because they eat pigs! And what do pigs eat?". 

Take a wild guess.

So my parents, having been indoctrinated as such, would happily eat spare ribs in New York but when it came to indigenous produce, it was a different story altogether.

Mom and Dad do to visit a Roman Catholic friend and his wife in Brooklyn, who has prepared a scrumptious feast for their party. The piece de resistance was the sausage pulao, which everyone eyed greedily. 

After serving the guests and enjoying the praise, Aunty lets everyone know that secret of the pulao was in the sausage:

"I got them from Goa!"

Before my parent's eyes, visions of scavenger pigs floated by, followed by the familiar view of a chain of sausages, hung out to dry on the porch of an old Portuguese house, covered with flies.

My Dad put his fork down. My Mom, being the ultimate polite guest, finished her plate and later lost her dinner in the toilet bowl.

Anyway, Chorizo, or the Goan spiced sausages, are still in my good books. I admit to loving a fix of chorizo-pao whenever I get the chance. My mom gives me the dirts everytime I stow away a packet in my luggage. 

"You're such a kiristao" she says, and if you can figure out the pronunciation you can probably figure out what she means.

Of course now there are professionally manufactured, packed and marketed sausages which is probably where the piggeries come in. And it's good. And let's not forget Salami, Bacon, Pork Chops and Spare RIbs. 

But pigs have had it pretty bad even outside GSB households. The Bible has a story of the sins of a man which were absorbed from him and expelled into a pig. Hence, the Old Testament bans eating of Pork, and apparently that is why communities like Muslims and Orthodox Jews refrain from eating Pork. The New testament allows for eating anything "in the name of God". 

Hindus aren't so bothered with the Pig. Lots of people told me, as a Child, that eating Pork was not allowed. That was before we learnt to raise an eyebrow and ask "Oh yeah? By whom?". 

However, the swine flu shall now unite all communities, against the Rind. Just like Mad Cow made everyone Hindu and Bird Flu made everyone... umm... chicken friendly (no it didn't - the KFC Bucket was at the concessional rate of 150 bucks, and we were all on grass.)

Or maybe this is some ploy to make us all veggie? 

God Forbid!

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.

Preface

My mom told me this story once, about how she was, as a young girl, laughing at her mother for some archaic practice she was following.

Her mother smiled at her and said “When you grow up, you will understand.”

I’ve never been a very fan of the “when you grow up, you will understand” school of thought. I have been getting it a hell of a lot, and while all of the instances involve the use of this term are devoid of any sense, the most bizarre instance was when as a 11th standard hostelite, I was discussing this new movie, Dil Kya Kare, with my Seniors.

Now, for those of you out of touch with early 21st century cinema, DKK’s main plot is about how the happiness of a family (Mahima Choudhary and Ajay Devgan) is shattered when they meet the mother of their adopted child (Kajol) and find out that the child has been fathered by none other than Ajay Devgan himself.

How this comes about is the crux of this movie. Kajol is being dragged by goons who have decided to loot the entire compartment of a train. Ajay steps in, beats up and throws goons off, Kajol weeps and next thing you know, they are at it on the 1st class coupe. To my mind, this didn’t make any sense.

“You’ll understand when you get older”, said our Hostel in Charge, a post graduate student. 

I’m 26. I still don’t understand that movie. Like I understand that after a near death experience, it’s easy to crave some physical comfort. But forgetting that you are married and to use a condom? Naah.

I figured out very early in life (i.e. about 2 years after I started getting this ‘when you will grow up” nonsense) that I would never understand (or perhaps never grow up) and so my endeavour always was to train my parents to understand things the way they should be. At the risk of cringing my teeth out, I would address important issues with my parents and even other family members, but particularly my mother, to understand how things should be understood (at least to my generation) and to make peace with the bizarreness of human nature.

And till now I thought I had succeeded. 

That is, until I decided to get married. 

All pretenses I had of my family being cool and “above all that” have literally been flushed down the toilet. Apparently the approaching light that I saw was the headlight of an oncoming train. Before my very eyes, my parents are turning into the very antithesis of what I painstakingly worked on for the last 10 years, at least. I watch them with the desperation that one feels when you’ve been playing expert level minesweeper for the last 45 minutes and your mouse slips up when you have 2 mines to go, reducing all of your hard work to a dead smiley on the computer screen.

Yes, ladies (and a few gentlemen), welcome to the Bridezilla blog. Watch this space. Or get out of the way.

PS: Inspired my M I spent a valuable part of this Sunday checking out my stats on Statcounter.com. To my horror, I found that my blog has an incredible number of hits from all over the world which have been linked to a post I put up on India’s first graphic porn star (I shall not repeat her name here for obvious reasons. Do the math.) Jesus H. Christ! 

Moral of the story: Now all of you know how to increase traffic to your blog. 

 

Happy Feat

Last night I went for "Monsters vs. Aliens" at PVR, Lower Parel. We paid a bomb for the tickets (haven't these guys heard of recession?) and were anyway about 10 minutes late (thanks to a messed up order at noodle bar) and as much as I had nothing else to do I didn't think watching an animated movie was the best way to pass time. When we went into the (nearly empty, see, told you so) theatre, however, the screen was slightly blurry and I fumbled in my bag for my glasses, when I realized that I already had them on.

A breathless theatre attendant who chased us in handed us both a pair of what seemed to be sunglasses. Then it hit me.

3D! Yahoo!

I hadn't seen anything in 3D in years, decades, even. Faint memories of my childhood in New York reminded me of the few movies that I had seen (which were totally the rage among -10 year olds) and even a few TV programmes (the glasses would be available at Taco Bell, which was the only acceptable eat out joint for my parents, I suppose because it was spicy food. You can't take the mirchi out of the Goan, apparently) I watched the movie open mouthedly - the movie was no great shakes, but who cares! It was in 3D!

That's the great thing about being a kid. All you need to make you happy is things jumping out at you from a screen. But I'm glad to say that it still does.

Other kiddish things that have made me happy recently:

1. Hopscotch

2. Traveling in an open air bus

3. Trying to watch aeroplanes land and take off (without the influence of Marijuna)

Besides that, I find that the things that amuse me most are things that involve people getting screwed over. I love watching Seinfeld, and I love the fake Steve Jobs blog primarily I suppose because he's being mean to people because he can.

Am I turning into the Wicked Witch of the Western Line? I don't know. And to be honest, I don't care. All that much.

But I like the moments of childlike bliss which shows that I'm still a human being capable of enjoying simple and pure pleasures. Phew!

Justice delayed?

It's been said a thousand times before and I'm saying it again:
Someone shoot Arnab Goswami.
Now.

Though I've always had a death wish for him (remember how he declared war on India on behalf of Pakistan during the November terrorist attacks?) I completely lost my mind a few days ago while I was flipping channels during (another) rained out IPL game.

Apparently cashing in on the public outrage (?) that had erupted as soon as it became known that Qasab's new lawyer, Abbas Kazmi, made two applications before the special court - one, that he be given a period of four weeks to read the charge sheet and two, that Qasab be subjected to a medical test to determine his age - Times Now quickly assembled a cast of characters to voice their strong opinion against such "tactics" being adopted by the lawyer.

Arnab angrily pointed out how Qasab was now being given an ultra expensive lawyer from tax payer's money to a patient Majeed Memon.

"But surely there was no need to give him a extraordinary lawyer!" gasped Arnab, obviously referring to the fees (because it's OK for the State to pay extraordinary fees for a Special Public Prosecutor but not to a Defence Counsel)

"He's not extraordinary, just...ordinary" mumbled Memon, obviously not referring to just the fees.

Yee-ouch.

Anyway, the other panelists included a screechy Doctor who saved a life during the Taj siege by conducting a makeshift operation on a security personnel who was shot in the stomach, which was an incredible feat for which she has received many laurels. How this makes her capable of commenting on legal processes I fail to understand. She seemed very disturbed that some factions of the media were referring to Qasab as a "cutie" and referred to Facebook to point out that the sentiment of the public, in particular, young Indians (10 and 13 year olds, she clarified) wanted to tie a time bomb to Qasab's genitals and put him back on the boat where he came from.

I know that Times Now is full of other such ridiculous nonsense (if any news channel wants to pay me to blog on each and every episode of Arnab's panel questioning, I will gladly do so) and that no one besides Goswami takes it seriously, as a legal practitioner who deals with the pressures of conducting criminal trials on a regular basis, I would like to offer my humble opinion.

The other day, I accompanied a new Client who was being served with a copy of the charge sheet for allegedly committing an offence under the Maharashtra Protection of Trees (Urban Areas) Act. The Judge asked me how long I would need before he would explain the charge and record the plea.

I asked for a month. And I'll tell you why. This is what I needed before I decided my strategy in the case:

1. Clear instructions from my Client as to what exactly happened

2. An inspection of the site of the alleged offence

3. Studying the act, which was a new one

4. A good reading of the chargesheet and the witness statements to determine if any offence was made out from a bare reading of the chargesheet, and if so, what offence(s)

And of course as I handle so many other matters I need time to study those matters in as much detail, and hence, I asked for a month, and the Judge gave me two. (Blame it on the backlog)

And I'm not a spastic lawyer. I consider myself to be thorough and I do my homework. Quality is the least I can offer my Clients, right?

My point is this: we're talking about a 10,000 page chargesheet and some 300 different charges (mostly capital crimes) under at least 10 statutes that I can think of. Mr. Kazmi has not spent his entire life waiting for this one case and I'm sure he has other matters to deal with. As I recall he was Amicus Curaie in the 1993 blasts as well. Of course he would apply for adjournments in other cases (and most judges would willingly allow this) but my point is why should his Clients languish in jail because their lawyer was appointed to represent Qasab?

Look, I work here. Don't make a farce out of my profession. If you want this to be a "fair trial" to set an example to the world and what not, then let the law takes its own course and give the lawyer a fair chance to at least flip through a 10,000 page chargesheet. If you want vigilante justice then you should have just accidentally let his prison cell open and let the mob claw him to a gory end.

The screechy Doctor asked why we couldn't just have a trial like Saddam Hussein's? What a great idea!

One month isn't going to kill anyone. Except Qasab, ultimately.

Or are we all just worried that our laws and judicial system are so screwed up that this Lawyer might just get Qasab off the hook?

Faking It

What niceness. My friends are so happy with my resurrection (it's alive!!!) that I feel like a Celeb. They've even dedicted blog posts on their own respective blogs to celebrate my return. So cute - thank you! And Mem, stop making me sound like a slapford wife!

Right so to the blog of the moment. It's entertaining even if you don't give a rat's ass about IPL (and with the incessant rains in South Africa, it's hard to do otherwise). IPL is the luscious combination of Cinema and Cricket, and this blog throws in gossip and sex. The latest update is about one particularly bubbly team owner who's doing Brett Lee! Personally, I would like dope on Lalit Modi (pun not originally intended but am finding it amusing now) and to find out exactly how many plastic surgeons it took for Nita Ambani to look like she does right now. I can understand the pressure to look good when being seen with the likes of Preiti and Shilpa, but she looks just plastic. I saw an interview of hers with Mandira during last night's match on an LCD screen and I wondered about Botox Overdoses and whether they were potentially fatal. It seems to be a thing with the Ambani brothers, one brother is as fit as a maniac while his wife is much unlike the svelte heroine of her time, and in the other household it seems to be the opposite. Whatever.

My boyfriend as usual made me a little more aware of the (geek) world around us by pointing out that this was a clear take off from the fake Steve Jobs Blog. I was stuck in the High Court all of today and so i settled myself in a chair with decent network coverage and began to read the real fake blog. And I was in major danger of getting debarred. Here's a particularly funny post.

Now that's what I call a fun blog.

I also wonder which celeb I would spoof if I could write a fake blog. Then again, maybe it's a bad idea. Maybe not, but it's definitely a time consuming one.

Well, the Courts are off in May, so maybe... :)

Of Snakes and Jeems.

The lack of activity on this blog is but one indication of how fucking lazy I've become. As if I decided to take a "vacation from myself" (in the spirit of the Seinfeld Butter Shave episode) the sluggish and cynical writer of this blog has decided to become "fit".

Which is funny, because I honestly never considered myself to be unfit. Sure, I would think twice about buying most clothes I've ever laid my hands on, but I had the stamina for a physically demanding job and I wasn't fat enough to repulse the opposite sex (to be that fat takes some doing, look at the excitement to watch Susan Boyle lose her virginity on camera). I have lots of girlfriends whose waist size is <30>

Like most women, I decided the way to go was to diet. Many people find diets to be a lazy person's idea of fitness, which in my case is certainly true. And I've worked hard (or as hard as a lazy person can work) at my diets. I tried the Atkins, which worked wonders even though it had me sobbing at bread baskets. Unfortunately I missed the part about slowly incorporating carbs into the diet, and that's when things went, well, back to normal. With interest. A friend suggested I do the South Beach, and I didn't quite see the point, almost everything I ate seemed to be permissible under this strange eating regime. It wasn't totalitarian enough for me. 

I then decided to do the professional thing. Think about it - you buy a book for 30 bucks from Flora Fountain or read some website on the internet and expect it to work, just like that? People spend years studying nutrition and these books seem to indicate that they are complete idiots who would be better off working at some Burger King Drive In Counter. Luckily, a friend of a friend (I love how significant new entrants in my life make their entrance dramatically and ridiculously on cue, like a slapstick Gujarati Play) who had just turned into an overnight celebrity nutritionist introduced me to the small meals plan. 

And how I love the small meals. I don't care if they don't work (yes I do - I paid a lot for this) but I plan for them and look forward to them with such eagerness that I scare myself at what an obsessive mother I will turn into. I eat, eat and eat, and if I don't get to eat I get goddamn cranky. Luckily, the plans do work. It helps that I get hardly any career satisfaction so I divert my creativity into planning my snacklets. Now do you get why I stopped blogging? :)

Suddenly this all looked promising. I liked the shape of myself in the mirror. Maybe this fit thing wasn't such a bad idea after all - of course there are always limits (size zero - hahahahaha) and I got to eat everything I wanted to. Voila!

It was then that my celebrity nutritionist friend pointed out that celebrities have much more than nutritionists at their side:

"Why don't you start some weight training?"

Ah ha.

The Gym (or as my first not-boyfriend and countless other Puneri boys put it, "the jeem") and I share a chequered history. My first experience with the gym was post my 10th Boards when unlike most of my friends my parents were not taking me anywhere on a holiday and I had nothing to do but sloth around and wait for my results. My dad suggested I join a gym. Come to think of it, the gym has been suggested to me for almost every conceivable reason - "You're bored! Join a gym." "You're fat! Join a gym." "You're depressed! Join a gym." "You're single! Join a gym." "You're getting married! Join a gym." "You need to network! Join a gym." "It's cheap! Join a gym."

FIne, whatever. So he enrolled me in a gym, and I was to report there every morning. I had paid a princely sum of Rs. 600 to enroll for the month. 

The instructor was built like a bull on steroids who also ODed on Prozac. 

Throughout my life, I have noticed that it is difficult to cultivate meaningful and lasting relationships with people who poke me in the tummy on our first meeting.

He was no exception.

I lasted about 2 days and 6 sit ups.

Various other experiments included College Gyms, another private gym and finally I made my peace with the help of 1) A fitness freak friend, Daze 2) Aerobics and 3) An instructor with a butt like a work of art, no matter that he from the front he looked like just another Digga Superstar.

In Mumbai, it was back to the sloth. I had a partner in crime, my roommate, (though she managed to rise above the Sunday Morning Spazz Outs and run the Half Marathon, wow) who bought a stepper after a hasty tryout session at the Hypercity Mall. The roommate's off to conquer the world (bank) but her loyal Stepper still sits in the living room, drying clothes, and scaring my sister who spends sleepless nights in Mumbai imagining the shadows cast from its handles to be the horns of a crazed antelope.

Anyway. I digress.

I joined a gym about a month ago. And I am ashamed to say that I enjoy it thoroughly and it gives my life new meaning and I think people who think that they are above physical exercise are lowly human beings even if they think my life must really suck if going to the gym is what I look forward to the most.

I started by paying extra for the personal trainer, K, which was the best decision I've taken in about 4 months. K initially shyly suggested that I come into the gym later in the morning to avail of the services of the lady trainer. I didn't, but I met her while being measured (more on that later). Waking up at 545 every morning was worth it. My trainer rocks because he is so damn fit. However, he also has a baby face and is so nice that I actually guilt myself into going to the gym at times. K always comes up with some new method of trying to kill me so I never get bored. It must be all those endorphins. And it's true. Early morning physical exertion makes you disgustingly energetic through the day. K gives me heavy weights and assures me that spot reduction is for losers and I smile through sweat blurred eyes.

The gym is partly airconditioned and fully Gujarati (this is Vile Parle, what did you expect?) and wonderfully entertaining. Today I was cornered by the staff and K who insisted I come to get myself "measured" in the morning. They did this when I joined as well - they didn't seem too concerned about when and if I was going to pay the fees as long as I get myself measured. 

So there it was, loss quantified in terms of inches. I was like one of those chicks on TV commercials holding oversized pants over their new and petite frame, except I just had half an inch (and at one place, one and a half inches!) of measuring tape to show for my efforts. But I was grinning like an idiot. Especially when I found out that my weight on the measuring scale was absolutely the same it was a month ago.

The lady trainer who was sizing me up wasn't, but she obviously hadn't been doing as much internet research as I was.    

And apparently I make a valuable contribution to the gym as well! I went home for a few days and when I came back, K looked more pleased than I expected him to be.

"You see, when you were out, the guys weren't working out as hard as they used to."

Cheesy, I know.

Ooh. That reminds me. Snack time! 

Spring Cleaning

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

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

 

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

 

I was turning into my mother. Seriously this time.

 

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

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

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

3. Sentimental value: Ah.

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

Above all, NEVER FORGET ME!!!

With love, Fiona”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Trust me, it gets better.

 

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

 

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

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

And others.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

      

    

Culinary Pursuits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is that?"

"Bhindi"

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

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

"Huh?"

"Its in such small pieces!"

"Pooh, it cooks faster that way."

"Oh..."

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

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

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

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

"Nothing", I said after some thought.

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

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

"I mean does she help you?"

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

"Doesn't that bother you?"

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

But there's another dimension to this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daddy Cool

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

Anyway.

This was a find though:

http://www.fatherhood.org/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Father's Day.

Always the professional

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

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

Where do I begin?

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

"So you saw the guy who did it"

"Yes"

"Was it him?"

"Or was it him?"

"No, it was him."

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

"No, he could have been short"

"Stop trying to pin the blame on my Client"

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

JUDGE: Aargh. Adjourn, adjourn!

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm. That doesn't sound quite right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"CP, you are appearing in this?"

"Arre, you are there in this matter?"

Arre indeed.

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

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

And just when I thought things had gotten better:

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

Goes to show you, pigs is pigs.

Luckily the Judge walked in just then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrugged.

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

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

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

The Judge snooped through the roznama and glared at CP.

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

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

"Is it?", I asked.

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

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

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

I wasn't quite done yet.

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

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

"Then?" asked the Judge, clearly irritated.

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

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

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

"Last chance?" I suggested.

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

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

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

"Next date", announced the Judge.

"My lady, September..."

"July 1st!" roared the Judge.

CP bowed down and cringed at the case file.

"Much obliged", we chanted in unison.

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

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

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