About a hat

The husband wears a hat. He is not bald or balding, neither does he have an ugly skull or dandruff or a wig he is trying to hide.  He is not trying to talk his face away (which is also interesting, if I may). He wears the hat because he likes it, and because it makes him who he is. The hat was sheer happenstance – a dancing night at a nightclub a few summers ago when a few chosen heads were rewarded with hats by the hostesses and his happened to be one. But what was a happy one-night stand for most men in the room turned out to be a long-term relationship for the husband. The hat and he were made for each other. The hat was here to stay.

It has its uses. He is of lean frame and looks much younger than his age. The hat offers many things. Age. Attitude. Insouciance. Mystery. Rank. Sometimes, a point of conversation. At other times, sheer prop powers.

Wherein all the trouble begins. I have done enough theatre to know the power of a hat on stage. In his case, the dance floor. The husband is a fabulous dancer, and the hat just takes him to another level. Things happen.  People are mesmerised. They stop and watch. Then the evil one in them thinks, “Why can’t I have what he has?” The problem begins when one of them believes that the hat can actually transform their gauche self into something fluid, fun and fabulous. Men cannot stand the fact that a married guy gives them a run for their money, so they often try to ask him for the hat, hoping it will turn them into less of insects than they actually are. Sometimes, in a suicidal move, they try to take it off his head.  Women do it too, sometimes they want it for themselves, at other times, for their men.

So every time we go out, there is a hat incident. Everyone wants a piece of the hat. Some guy walks up to him and says he wants it. Another takes it off his head in a deft move, placing it on his own. A woman sends her boyfriend to ask for the hat. A man sends his girl-friend (or boyfriend) to ask for the hat. The husband refuses. They make eye contact. Then follows a verbal duel.  The husband promises dire consequences. Some retreat, some try harder. Some get beaten.

I have no problem with the hat. It helps me play out my fantasy of being married to Johnny Depp, and I must say I know few men who can carry off a hat and the husband certainly is one of them. But what I didn’t bargain for, is that sometimes, I live more on the edge than Vanessa Paradis.

You fat? Me happy

So, you have put on, said she of immodest waist and fat arms.

Yes, I  must have. I went on a holiday, ate a lot, slept well, and didn't exercise.

She looked pleased, almost approving. The rest of the misshapen estrogen population in my yoga class also nodded in unison and displayed their collective delight at my newly acquired 'healthy body'. I call it my Rani Mukherji avatar. I am now mostly square, neck downwards. It's somewhat of a relief not to worry about body contours any more. My friends still think I am thin, although I know that I am not. I can't get into my 26 inch jeans anymore and I find myself looking at M rather than S sections during shopping. Not that I shop much. I hate it. But I have become a little conservative in deciding what fits and what doesn't, and no, I don't keep aspirational clothes that I could get into someday. I just give them away. Currently, I have less clothes than the husband, but that makes it easier to decide what to wear.

But I always wonder why women are always so delighted when someone else puts on weight and not them. Is  it because you have just lowered the bar for them? Is it because it gives them someone else to point a finger at, to deem a work in progress? I also find the same delight on women's faces when a hot girl ends up with a not-so-hot boyfriend.  Perhaps it makes them feel better for the apology-of-a-man they are stuck with.

Perhaps for my yoga class women, I was the epitome of thin and it ired them even more that I was so post-baby. I noticed that they also cringed when I got back to my pre-pregnancy size in less than five months, but never bothered to compliment me about it. That's what women do. When they have something nice to say, they never say it. Unless they are friends. Men on the other hand are far more generous in this area.

Take my hair for example. I had luscious long locks for the longest time. Yes, I got tired of it, and yes, I wanted a new look and yes, I needed a spot of adventure in my life. So I went ahead and surrendered myself to Amanda, my hair-goddess. And she gave me a new look, that perhaps is the cause for my added bounce these days. But forget telling me how good it looks, the women are busy expressing shock at how I let my locks go. Or how good my hair 'used to be'. I beg your pardon? You had a decade to tell me that! And you do now, when it's gone. Strange!

Mix and match

 Two nights ago, when I decided to put in an appearance at someone’s bringing-in-a-birthday thing, I saw something that got my relationship goddess antennae pop up.

So. There was this boy and there was this girl. And there was great chemistry. At least it appeared so, when they moved on the dance floor. Their bodies swayed in unison, they looked great together, they were the same body type (trust me, it is a big deal). They were both pleasant, poised and charming, or least that’s what I could gather upon employing full lung power to make conversation amid the din of the night club (or whatever they are called these days).

I nudged the husband. These two should be together. They will be good.

I think these thoughts all the time. About how X would work so well with Y. Or how certain couples would work better if they swapped their partners. Or why A cannot see that B is not the girl for him. And how B would be so much better off with C.

The husband hollered back. But he is dating Ms Jumpsuit. And what chemistry are you talking about? They are only dancing.

Oh nnnnoooooooo, I said, in the manner of my two-year old when he is trying to express disapproval at an object, an action or a sound. Ms Jumpsuit and he looked so wrong. Not that it was about aesthetics or anything—all people that feature in this story were equals in the looks department—but I have a theory about people who work and people who don’t. My relationship barometer is pretty much the same as my food barometer. Anything that looks right is usually right, and anything that does not look right usually is not. I tried explaining this to a roommate more than a decade ago when she was blinded by love to a certain young man. It does not look right, I said. But I am in love. I can feel the ache, she said.

They went ahead and got married. They were divorced before their second anniversary.  I guess sometimes it takes less than a rock or a marriage to figure that out. Others are just unlucky. In any case, there are no wrong guys and wrong girls. Only wrong relationships.

So I started probing about Ms Jumpsuit, and as usual, people were free with their opinions, only the strain of hearing them made me absolutely certain that I needed new ear drums. But I was bent on doing my research and I am very diligent in matters of the heart. Or the libido. So, one birdie told me that yes,  jumpsuit and the bloke were dating, on and off, but that he was really messed up and that jumpsuit only made matters worse.  Jumpsuit also sulked royally throughout the evening, much before her date was moving with the said ‘other girl’ and apparently, doesn’t like to be seen as an item with said bloke, and doesn’t like to be tagged in pictures with him around (people talk a lot more when they think they cannot be heard).

It was a complete no-brainer according to me. I wondered why Mr Floor wasn’t moving on.

But I am still foxed how the husband could not see the chemistry between the aforementioned that I was talking about. Men are usually daft about these things, sometimes more so when they are married.  I wondered, in this age of deafening music and totally non-conducive to conversation hangouts, what else is there to go by?  

Should do a Dr Hitch and tell the bloke that he was wasting his time with jumpsuit and that he should make a play for Ms Moves? I also wanted to tell Ms Moves (although I just met her) that she should do lunch with Mr Floor just to figure out if the chemistry works just as well in daylight, when the bodies are across the table and not in a simulated spooning position. But I didn’t. If I see them again, perhaps I will. If I meet them in a scenario where I could have a conversation that didn’t involve exploding lungs.

I feel like a fixer all over again. May be I should start a relationship portal. I have the initiative for both, but not the continuity of purpose to see it through, the quintessential Gemini that I am. Not that I am using my birthday as an excuse for not posting. It’s just too hot to write.

Feelings? You must be kidding

These Mars-Venus jokes are really getting to me, or perhaps I am getting old or undergoing a sex change, as my homeopath once insinuated (You have too much testosterone in you!). Okay coming to the point. After a semi-adventurous journey cross-country (actually north to south Bombay) last week, I found myself in a mid-week date with the husband at the Comedy Store. The beer was cold, the blokes were funny, it was 50% off for ladies that night, I could see the performers from where I sat (which is a big deal, especially if you are as small as I am), and for once, the husband didn’t get heckled. So far so good. 

Then the second stand-up comic went ahead and spoilt it all by saying something stupid like ‘Women always like to talk about their feelings’ and that ‘Men actually like it when they have to sleep in the other room’.  He said it like it was some huge gender revelation, and the blokes looked at each other like a big secret was out, and chuckled. 

At the risk of marital harmony, let me just say here that the said bloke is clearly living in another era. Or he is just dating his mommy. Of course we don’t need you to talk about our feelings.  What are our girlfriends for? The maximum we need from you are  ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers. Let me give you an example.  Which of the following is a woman more likely to say to a man:

“Do you feel like going for stand-up comedy tonight”

“What do you feel like doing tonight?”

Go ahead girls, write down twenty others.

Asking a guy an open ended question is a death-trap, because it will just open the door for whining, or listing the nincompoops they have to deal with at work and how they are so dog tired by the end of the day that all they want is a beer and the remote control. How totally unpredictable! I would have never guessed that!And no woman ever asks a man what he thinks of her dress or her haircut or her haiku. Even if they do, dear blokes, it is only out of politeness. 

Coming to sleeping on the couch. Now who wouldn’t like an entire bed to themselves? Of course we are positively delighted that you are sleeping on the couch. We just want to know in advance.

I wish could rewrite the damn Mars-Venus books, because you know what?  It ain’t like that at all. Or maybe all the men have applied for citizenship to Venus.

PAUSE. START. PAUSE. START

The husband and I live our life vicariously through Tata Sky Plus. Now, this is not a plug and I am not a brand ambassador and no one is paying me to write this, but metaphorically, it comes closest to describing our different temperaments.

I like live pause. He likes record. His philosophy is, when in doubt, record. When not in doubt, record. Even in real time, record, because what if something happens? Dammit, just record everything that allows you to record.

He doesn’t know what real time is anymore. Not that he ever did, but since he is a hoarder, he is in a phase of hoarding real time programming. Our hard disk is full of Tonight Shows, Burn Notices, CSIs, Policewomen of Broward County and Hotel Babylons he will never watch. Just as his shelves are full of clothes he will never wear, games he will never play, music he will never listen to, books he will never read.

I on the other hand, am about here and now. I make real time wait for me. I have no patience for collectables. So Vidya Balan and Rani Mukherji can wait, while I heap up my plate with more dill, tomato and lettuce salad. And Karan Johar can stay frozen forever, for all I care. All I know is, when I come back (usually from the kitchen, or warding off a pest at the door), everything will be as is. It is truly empowering.

The more gentle and politically correct husband takes the less harsh way out, and goes into his bank. Now, I hate the fact that I am watching leftovers; it makes me feel marginalised. It’s like watching a movie that you missed on screen on satellite television with all the moronic ads. Yes, you can fast forward the ads, but who has the time? When I was in advertising, I made it clear that TV ads were not my scene, and there was no point telling a story in 30 seconds when I could write 300 words. I guess I was prophetic, because who in their right mind spends crores on ads that can be fast-forwarded?  And no, it's not the same as turning the page.

I am now raising the bar. Earlier, all I did was to pause live television. Now I am cheeky and disrespectful enough to rewind. So if I am late, and Frasier has started without me, back he goes to the start of the program. Aha. That feels good. I am in control. At least of the inanimate objects in my house. It perhaps is some respite, especially in times when my cat is stealing my quilt, and I am left quivering in the middle of the night.

A friend of mine recently forwarded me a quote, which seems to fit in nicely here:

"Life would be perfect if: Some girls had mute buttons, some guys had edit buttons; hard times had fast forward buttons and good times had pause buttons."

I don’t know about good times and hard times, but yes, there are some men I’d like to fast-forward and some I’d like to mute.

Which brings me to: If there are campaigns for ‘no television’ day and ‘no honking’ day and ‘no auto’ day, how about a ‘no talking’ day? Imagine a day when you wouldn’t have to talk to anyone? And no one would talk to you? Or is it that we have to go all the way to Igatpuri to do that?

Paradigm shift

I was recently hanging out with one of my favourite twenty-somethings (yes I do have a few friends who were born in the eighties) at a birthday do. She is 24, hot (and mean cool-hot, not hot-hot, which I find uni-dimensional), great at her job, super-popular with the boys and quite an achiever. Unlike other girls her age whose chief preoccupation is what to wear this Friday, or what colour should they get their tints done or lenses changed to (yes, I know I am being mean, but there is a point to make), she gives the impression of not labouring too much about her look, yet rocking it. On most days.

I was more intrigued about her when I found out she was dating a fly on the wall till a friend told me the classic rule. Hot girl never dates hot guys. Anyway, she is not dating him any more, but from what I saw of the new guy from Facebook, he ain’t no Adonis either.

Anyway, this is not about him. Here was her dilemma: most of her peers were getting married or were on the verge and planning babies and all of that. So she wondered: if she didn’t take the whole relationship thing seriously, would she get left behind? Should she really stop serial dating and finding that one guy to marry and have babies with? She did say that she didn’t really need a guy to feel complete at this point, but what if she got left behind? She didn’t want to be single at 30!

This was new. In my days, 30 was when the alarm bells rang, the biological clock went ding dong, the parents went chop chop and the friends started dropping dead (read getting married and leaving you) like flies. So somewhere in the next few years, you eventually wound up getting married.

But 24? Seriously? I feel so out of touch.

Aren’t the young people supposed to raise the bar? Change the rules? Shift the paradigm?

In my time, 24 was about career angst and how to communicate with the parental units and how to find a way to make money doing something you borderline like. These days, young people don’t seem to be wasting time pursuing degrees that are so not them (I mastered in Pharmacy, but wanted to write, at 23). So career paths are clearer, less murky and at least you are not on the wrong road. But marriage? Babies? That was nowhere on the radar at 24 even in my time.

So are we regressing or what? Will the next generation actually have babies at 20 and be grandparents at 50?

That, to me, was the revelation of the decade.

Talking that face away

I am still trying to make sense of three random incidents that occurred in the last two weeks


1. Went for a stand-up comedy gig where three men and a woman did their thing. I couldn’t see the woman from where I was. She was as vertically challenged as me, and I still haven’t graduated to comedy on audio mode. So will only talk about the men.

Of the three men, one was cute and the other two were.. well, ugly. If I were to be politically correct I would say their face was not their fortune, but I am not, so there, I have said it. Ugly.

There were all equally competent and funny, although one had a mike control issue, but I will discount that to men and their limited success at multitasking. But while I found myself choking with laughter at the first two, I was harder on the cute guy. It was as though he had to work twice as hard to convince me he was funny. He had to talk his face away. Eventually, I gave in. I laughed just as hard.

2. Sunday. Just back from Goa and wondering what to do with my hair that had turned to this strange thing between straw, rope, and dreadlocks. So I do the old mommy thing and slather it with oil and tie it into a plait. Bell rings. Maid mentions the name of the husband’s BFF and I am like WTF?? How can anyone come unannounced like this? That too, on my bad hair and sloppy skirt day?

Turns out he is a namesake of the said BFF. He starts off in his suave, “Is this a good time to talk to you?” and within ten seconds I know I have to sign a cheque or part with whatever money is left from the vacation (which is not much anyway). I am poised to be my usual rude self and say, “No, it is not!” when I notice he is cute. Aaaarrrgh! This is going to be tough. I find myself awkward and fumbling, and just in time, the boy walks into my arms, and I get my exit route. “I have to give the baby a bath,” I mumble. Cutie is resilient and gets into secondary suave mode, starts pulling out papers, a brochure...and asking me for an appointment.

Thankfully, the husband walks in to my rescue, notices cute boy, says, “We don’t want to be disturbed on a Sunday" and slams the door.

3. Aaron, my hot fix in Masterchef Australia is eliminated. I am devastated. Husband is nonplussed. “Ha, just because he wears a beret!”. I am like, no, he is so flamboyant, really takes chances, has great flair, and hair, a crooked smile and oooh, those glasses are so becoming.

Am I a sucker or what?

Catty with Karan

Okay, quick confession. I am hooked to Koffee with Karan. and I love the way he makes people talk about their exes (when convenient, of course. I did notice he didn’t cross the line with icy Ash)

It’s just that I find it totally reassuring when divas and celebrities display their insecurities about their exes. It makes one feel not-so-sheepish having made references to one’s own. Although it is a tad embarrassing to find that my gender is not too poised about it, whether she is Kareena Kapoor or Aishwarya Rai. Unlike print, where people get away with saying that they have been ‘misquoted,’ it’s hard to camouflage the tightening of the shoulders, the pasty-faced expression (Ash, on mention of Sallu) or the bewilderment on Bebo’s face when not-so-flattering things were aired about her from previous seasons, and the only retort she had was, “Everyone is looking so fat and flabby.”

(I did notice that Ms Size Zero (?) has hugely flabby underarms and was so not toned for her black bustier. But I am no size or fashion expert, so will let that go.)

Coming to Saifeena (yuck!), let’s face it. They are no Brangelina, yet they make each other look good. She has the looks, flamboyance, success, but lacks refinement, cerebral power, sense of humour. He has wit, pedigree, is erudite, but lacks larger than life stardom, masculinity and bravado.

So depending on which way you look at it, they are good for each other. He has given her a vocabulary (by their own admission, Bebo thought quintessential was ‘quintestinal’) she has given him the aplomb of stardom and the equivalent of size zero in a man (if there is something like that).

I guess talking about your ex on national television is one thing. It becomes harder talking about your ex’s current when she is clearly hot (I cannot imagine what Jennifer Aniston must have gone through). So Kareena chose to pick on the banal while talking about her ex and his current (like “Where does Priyanka Chopra get her accent?”). Or Deepika’s curiosity about Kat’s age/place of origin/lineage was more than evident in her desire to see her passport.

(p.s: I don’t know if it’s a conspiracy that all the stars on the show so far have rated PC lowest on sex appeal when it is in fact, the biggest thing in her favour.)

I can’t wait to see what PC’s retort to Bebo’s barbs will be. They will be clever, for sure, and unlike Bebo, PC has wit and vocabulary, even though she may not have the Heroine Number One tag (whatever that means). Her comeback to her accent bit has already been aired on promos. I like!

***

Now that most of this post has been filmi, let me outdo myself by adding my two bits on the whole Sheila vs Munni thing. Now, it might be a good  thing that that Kat is finally out of the (Khan) family bag, else, it might be awkward being pitted with prospective sister-in-law in this manner. But in my mind, the whole debate is like asking what do you prefer, cute or sexy?

Now some girls are cute, and some are just sexy. And moving from one category to another (even if one loses eight kilos, works on one’s hip bone and the toning thereabouts) is a tough one. Malaika is sexy from the word MR Coffee and Kat has always been the Barbie doll – good arm candy, but dubious on sex appeal (I know men like them dumb and preferably fair and lovely, but give them some credit). Of course, a lot has to do with styling and Farah Khan knows her angles as much as she knows her jhatkas. But in my mind, Sheila’s glitziness cannot compete with Munni’s raunchiness, so the whole polling is a non-issue.

I rest my case.

Bitch central

Now don’t tell me, “I don’t have to read this because I never bitch.” Really now! As much as we love to deny it, we all do. It’s therapeutic. It’s de-cluttering. It’s detoxifying. It’s introspective. Men love it. Women love it. There is enough statistics out there to support high prevalence of bitching in both sexes, so no gender issues there.

But like a famous dialogue in a Hindi film which translated as, “Even if you do something unscrupulous, do it scrupulously,” I believe there are ethics of bitching. There is an unwritten code of conduct, an underlying morality to the whole thing, and hence, I am taking the trouble to write out the ten commandments of bitching:

1. Thou shall have (at least) a mental list of “People I will bitch about” and “People I will never bitch about”. It doesn’t matter how many people are in the former list, but there have to be at least five in the latter. There have to be bitching exemptions for everyone, no matter how many flakes and twerps you know in real life.

2. People from the former list can migrate to the latter, but the reverse should not be possible, unless you’ve had a major fallout or discovered that you have been bitched out royally by a member of the latter.

3. Be consistent. Pick a few bitching targets and stick to them. If they qualified in the first place, they will make sure you always have enough material. Don’t randomise your bitching, because then, no one will take you seriously.

4. Thou shall not bitch about someone and then shower accolades/superlatives about her/him the next day, even if the audience is different. You are not a credible bitcher anymore if you do that. There has to be a bitch quarantine period for things to simmer and settle down before you apply your antidote.

5. Have some integrity: which means, whatever happens, never bitch to the one you bitched about.

6. Never try and undo a bitching in haste. Which means thou shall not bitch about someone and then ‘like’ everything they say or do on Facebook soon after. Have some credibility for heaven’s sake.

7. Everyone has a bitch fatigue point, which means you have to draw the line at bitching somewhere and move on to other stuff, else you will be classified as "one who always bitches."

8. Never put all your bitches in one basket. Which means you should have different people to bitch about different things. One for work, one for social life, several for husband/boyfriend, one for family, one for miscellaneous..

9. Thou shall not bitch about your BFF, no matter what happens.

10. Though shall never bitch in writing. No text messages, no email, no social networking site; nothing that can be printed or displayed. There is nothing more crude than documented bitching. Leave it to the gossip columnists.

Woman, uninterrupted

Something happens when a stunningly attractive woman walks into a group of men and women. The pH of the atmosphere changes. Things go from alkaline to acidic in seconds and the room is not the same again. Women are visibly disconcerted and men are ridden by part-anxiety and part-curiosity.

So she was hot. And chiselled. And funny. And kind. And friendly. And well turned out, despite the bikini-top-under-black-mini, with visibly no intentions of getting into her bikini avatar (good call on her part, considering the gentry floating).

The girls at the brunch wanted to know who she was, her back-story, her status vis-a-vis the guy she was with, so that they could compute how often would they really bump into her and whether they should bother being nice, or just pretend she never happened.

The boys wanted to know if she was really ‘with’ the one she had come with, or did they stand a chance at all, considering he wasn’t exactly a Greek god.

In short, she generated enough ripples to last the afternoon, which was not difficult as the only other ripples were tsunamis in the micro-pool generated by a bunch of somewhat gauche men who had no qualms about jumping into the water in their underwear, boxers or briefs notwithstanding.

It’s a tricky thing, being hot and attractive. While it’s ok to be hotter than the lowest common denominator who could be Ms Thunder-Thighs-still-wearing –her-high-school-clothes or Ms Bad-Make-up-camouflaged-by-uglier-sunglasses, or the I-am-two-sizes-too-small-pink-top, it is technically a crime to:

a) Be a stranger in a party and be the hottest thing around.

b) Be hotter than the girl women are not afraid to call hot, because men don’t find her hot, so they are not in the reckoning anyway.

c) Be hot and nice/clever/funny at the same time.

So then, the men didn’t speak to her—probably thought she is so stunning— what if she rejects us outright? And the women seemed disgruntled as the objects of their affection were somewhat distracted.

It struck me that while people are fairly okay celebrating the average and the mediocre and thumping each other on the back, when it comes to truly superlative beauty or brains, the world prefers to stay quiet, almost aloof. I wondered why. Beauty always comes with the ‘guilty-until-proven-innocent’ baggage, and so it was for the girl in question.

The only one who was truly democratic about it was my ten-month old who approved of her the minute she played his (current) favourite peek-a-boo game and passed his test. She was excited. So was he. They bonded. She stood a chance.

She had him at peek-a-boo.

Thank god for children.

Cat-a-pulted

When in doubt, bring on the cats. Yes, it’s been a while since I went into feline zone, a subject of great interest to me, more so because it is something that I can never hope to fully unravel, even after spending four years writing this column on gender politics.

And thank god for small mysteries. Lessons from cats far supercede the Mars-Venus anomalies in my world, but I am not the first person to tell you that. I still can’t get over the fact that despite my glorious cat history of two decades and some spent with cats of various temperaments, personalities, quirks and lineages, I have never come across a pair such as my current twosome who are so into each other, and yet have enough left of them for human consumption.

So here’s Learnings from Cats - Part Two:

• Everything around you is not worth comprehending. Why does the fan creak, why does the cook look like she’s had a Happy Meal too many, why do people ring bells even though they can see you sitting right there, why do crows hover around and not have the guts or glory to swoop on you, and why do they find strength only in numbers and why does the neighbour lady talk to me like I am a dog — all a mighty waste of time in the cat world.

• If he’s into me, why is he not calling me, and why is he writing on walls of random sluts, is definitely not a cat preoccupation. When a cat is into you, it makes it amply clear, no mystery there. If a human works any other way, move on.

• Saying it like it is the best policy. No point air-kissing people and then bitching them out behind their backs. On the other hand, if someone’s feet catches your fancy, by all means give them a lick, or a scrub, or a full pedicure, if you please. Rewards will suitably follow.

• Less is not more. I have noticed friends, who in celebration of their newly acquired (read starved) bodies are dropping clothes, showing off cleavage, shoulder, navel, whatever it is they can find more than ever before. It intrigues me, the sudden state of nakedness, not that I am conservative, but the fact that women think that putting their boobs on the table is what is going to get them the guys. It is so not. What’s hidden is always intriguing. And there’s things the degree of buttoning in a shirt or a stray collar bone can do that all the world’s off-shoulder, one-shoulder, microminis, cleavage maximisers cannot. Notice how a cat swathed in your favourite shirt or sheet looks far more intriguing than one flashing its belly in abandon?

• If you are not into someone, make it amply clear. This will just waste less time, yours and his. A bird in hand is only worth two louts in the bush. So what would you rather have?

• If you are gorgeous, do nothing. Or better, just curl up. Let others do the work. If you are not, pretend you are, and things will work just the same.



Miaaaaaoooow!

Sex, Lies and Videotape

It takes an incredibly stupid woman for a husband to have an affair outside of marriage. It takes an even more stupid woman for a husband to have nine of them. But it takes an ‘other woman’ of outstanding stupidity to think that such an affair is about love.

As Tiger Woods’ mistresses emerge from the woodworks (nine and counting), it makes me wonder, “What was the wife thinking?”

The only multi-tasking men can manage with some panache is watching television while eating their dinners. That too, because they don’t necessarily think the two tasks are inseparable. So for a woman not to know what her husband is up to when he is not with her, it takes an amazing lack of talent and intelligence, to say the least.

Woods’ recent car crash has inadvertently opened a can of mistresses, text messages, photos, video footage, voicemails, the works! How he managed his affairs, that too, with nine different women while being married, is a page many men are dying to rip off from his book — the way it’s been discussed, it’s keeping him more in the news than his golf ever did.

One married male friend turned a Facebook fan of Woods post his recent expose, and states in his status message, “All married men should be fans of Tiger Woods. The alleged mistress is super hot.”

“Come on Tiger!” said another status message.

A third one said, “Three down. How many more mistresses to go?”

It’s like the men are living vicariously through Woods and making mental notes about, “I should ask him how he did it..”

Apparently what kept the mistresses quiet was confessions of love, the media reports. Duh?

When Bollywood was abuzz with Hrithik Roshan’s alleged affair with Barbara Mori, it evoked similar reactions from men in my universe. “Hmm… she is hot…” (The statement was accompanied by a faraway look on their faces)

Yes, but you are not, moron.

We all know women who are at the giving or receiving end of such affairs. Someone I know had an affair with a married sugar daddy for eight years, and at the end of it was left with the realization that ‘he wasn’t really into marriage and kids’ and ‘we wanted different things’. Of course, you dodo!

Her professional life, on the other hand, was catapulted by the sugar-daddy connection, which is perhaps what will happen to the Woods line-up.

But there are enough gorgeous women out there entangled with talent-less, spineless, charisma-less men in so-called ‘love-less’ marriages, only hoping that they would leave their wives. Unfortunately there is no reward for ratting them out, like the waitress who was offered $ one million to stay mum. Or the wife who was offered $18 million to the wife to stay.

Methinks Woods’ wife would have the millions in her account, whatever happened with her marriage. So it’s not about ‘rolling in the dough,’ as some men would point out as her reason for staying in the marriage.

But it made me realise one thing. Marriage, even to tigers, is a big deal.

Big deal

A dear friend has declared she is out in the market. She is attractive, successful, well-travelled, articulate, funny, reads poetry, has great taste, has a great cook, and is a great human being.
Now, why would anyone want to ruin a perfectly good life like that, I wonder. She reasons that she doesn’t want to feel like she didn’t try. So she is on a dotcom hunt for a suitable man. She reasons she deserves a good shot at finding Mr Big, after having been with a few not-so-good insignificants. She recently met a Not-so-big in this scenario, but something’s telling her to hang on. There just might be a Mr Big lurking around somewhere, she thinks. As for the candidate in question, she was his Big, a scenario though flattering, isn’t exactly the optimum one.

We all want to be with men who will sweep us off our feet, know jazz and wine, fill a room, cook us a great meal occasionally, have out-of-the-box travel ideas, are capable of being angry and sad, kill us with their voice, and be just the right level of romantic (more about levels in another column). And of course be successful, suave and desirable. In short, we are looking for the great Indian oxymoron.

I don’t know anyone who has found their Big. Yes, they might have been in trying relationships with him, or they are yet to meet him, but most of the women I know have ended up with Not-so-big, and are still in a good place. This is not to say that my friend should settle for less, but may be just continue with the greatest love affair of her life — the one with herself. When that happens (and it often takes a while), the Bigs get drawn to you like magnets.

But if I take a quick roll call of the singletons in my life, the number of interesting women far outweighs the number of interesting men. And yes, men might feel that’s unfair, but take a piece of paper and list five interesting single men and women you know, and write to me. We’ll do the math.

My paradigm for an interesting woman is—if I were a man, would I date her? If the answer is yes, she goes into the list.

The basic difference between men and women, or at least the men and women I know, is that women make the most of waiting for Big. They get makeovers, they work on their look, they straighten or curl their hair (depending on what they have), they travel, they trek, they go on spiritual journeys or look for inner peace, they change careers, go wine tasting, they learn salsa and belly dance and capoeira.

Men whine. They whine that they have no interesting women to take spiritual journeys or salsa or capoeira with. They whine that there are no muses to dress up for. Basically what they want is to be rehabilitated, and they hope that they can be their slouchy selves and someone will just come and whisk them away.

In the meanwhile, they can continue their torrid affairs with their large-screen televisions.

Continuum

“She has so lost her spark after coupledom.”

Thus speaketh a friend about someone we knew in common and largely admired for her pluck to put herself out, and make singledom look good. Apparently, this girl was not so cool anymore as she couldn’t stop talking about her new-found relationship.

My friend, on the other hand, has technically never been single since she turned 18 and was more or less a relationship goddess to me through my long stints as a singleton. She is now finally single, two decades and two marriages later, and is currently tapping me for advice on how to do the ‘table for one’ life. She also wants me to find a ‘suitable boy’ for her, a role I am so not used to playing.

It’s a bit odd, being on the other side with her—she is still dealing with the irony that I have stepped out of my continuum of singledom— having not only tied the knot, but also produced an infant. It is a transition that both of us are learning to handle, she trying to get used to being single, me trying to get used to not being so.

But what I found odd was her desire to now see single as cool, after years of her promoting coupledom to me, and years of me resisting, by saying I was happy for her, but I was happy in my state as well.

I guess she is unlearning wearing the coupledom hat. I on the other hand still have trouble wearing my married hat — read that as thinking like a married person does… for example—“Let me check and get back to you, I don’t know now, can I let you know by the weekend,” stuff like that. I am so used to making my own decisions that sometimes, I have to remind myself that I have to think for two (now three). But I am getting there, with a little help from the husband, so it’s all good.

It’s still funny how singledom is viewed as something in transition, something waiting to be altered, and coupledom as something that has attained balance and stability. It reminds me of my chemistry lessons a long time ago where we learnt about valence electrons and their bid for stability through covalent bonds. So singletons were like electrons, trying to get into stable orbitals, and perhaps that’s why they call it ‘settling.’ But chemistry, unlike life, was kinder to the single bond as it rendered it the most stable as opposed to double and triple bonds which were considered unstable (more to share=unstability in chemistry)

But then again, it is not about singledom versus coupledom. It is which electronic state allows you to form bonds you want to keep.

Game zone

I got hit on!

By a twenty-something. In broad daylight. Straight out of his daddy’s car. Not at a club or a brunch, but at the local nariyalpaniwala. And I didn’t see it coming!

Great, I can still score, I thought, and must say it felt good. Flattery always does, even if people tell you otherwise. Thing is, I have so been out of the game, that it took me a good 30 seconds to realise what was happening. I was caught off-guard, and it was the last thing on my mind—I was still recovering from my post-partum belly, having a bad hair day (nothing new) compounded by a wardrobe crisis, flaunting my greys (now that’s another column, but I believe that if I don’t do it now, I never will, and then one day I will be 60 and wrinkled, but have jet black hair and pretend I am 55, which is all a bit lopsided if you ask me)

Here’s a snatch of the conversation between PFY (pretty fresh youth) and me:

He: Nice shades!

Me: (irritated at being distracted from my nariyalpani): Thanks…

He: Where did you get them? They are really cool

Me: (perplexed as they are really vanilla shades, no big deal about them): They are Fast Track. You get them anywhere I suppose.

He: You come here every day?

Me: No. Why?

He: Just asking. I live in X building. How about you?

Yay! I am still in the game — marriage, infant, notwithstanding. And don’t you believe women who say it doesn’t matter once you are ‘settled’ and have kids and all that. Of course it matters. Else why do books on how to get a man, make him stay, make him think the world of you, etc etc fly off the shelves? Why are parlours never out of business, recession or no recession? Why are women always getting their face, nails and hair done? The pheromones never stop working, do they?

It sounds really lame and clichéd, but your self-confidence is hugely related to your scoring potential, whatever life stage you are at. So the more you are out in the open, the better it is for you. If you are not out there, you will never know.

Most women spend months and years, not to mention a huge amount of money trying get back their body image (and it’s not about how many pounds you gained or lost) post baby, and in the meanwhile impose a reclusive lifestyle on themselves. I know it’s a bit bizarre that I was reading The Game soon after my delivery, but it wasn’t intentional, just a book I hadn’t read before and a friend visiting duly got. But something from the book still rings true: You are the prize. And it’s not whether you look like a million bucks, it’s about whether you think you do.

The ex effect

Last week, post walking into shockingly non-bouncy new place called Bounce in Bandra for some PBQT (post baby quality time) with the husband, I noticed him squirming as he edged me towards the bar. “Guess what? My ex-girlfriend is here. Should I be ignoring her?”

Now this was a first—the extremely suave and articulate husband transforming into this clumsy rookie that is. But I could sense he was uncomfortable, so I said, “Pretending she doesn’t exist would be giving it too much importance. If I were you, I would throw a breezy ‘Hi’ in her direction and continue doing what I was doing.” (Spoken in the tone and manner of someone who has become a pro at the breezy-with-the-ex thing)

Which is what he did, and then all was well. Except it opened the window to some post-morteming by me. “She needs a haircut, and some tact,” I said. I wasn’t just being my bitchy self—she really could do with a haircut—and her constant nudging of friends, pointing in my direction made me think of the second ingredient. So there!

Coming to think of it, he did the same when we ran into one of my exes sometime last year. “You actually dated THAT?” was his response.

One of the conversations we did have pre-marriage was about not inviting any of our exes to the wedding, since it was about celebrating the future and did not have to involve revisiting the past. But a conversation we didn’t have is what would we do if we ran into one of them.

Which brought me to: why are we embarrassed by our exes? And I figured: we are actually embarrassed by what we were when we were with them. Stupid, needy, clingy, confused or a combination thereof. And when we move on, we pretend we were never any of those things and that’s why an encounter such as the above leaves us flummoxed. What makes it worse is that there is no such thing as closure. It is something one only reads in books.

So we fit our exes into different boxes—some have access to our Facebook (some on limited profile, others whose walls we still write on), some we still call and wish on birthdays, some we socially hang out with (but only in large groups), some who text us and we never text back, some whose numbers we remember by heart but haven’t saved, some whose new girlfriends we are dying to check out, some we call for professional (but never personal) advice, and some we just ctrl+alt+delete from our lives and feel good about it.

What we all really want at the bottom of our heart is a Deewar moment with an ex, however petty that might sound. “Mere paas _________ (fill object of value here, like new boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, child) hai! Tumhare paas kya hai?”

Arm candy politics

Considering that I am five months pregnant, and very obviously showing, the dating game should perhaps be the last thing on my mind. But since I am experiencing what one could call an exaggerated sense of awareness about the world around me, and I can never cease to be interested in the man-woman dynamic, well, I can’t help but share it.

A recent occurrence got me back to thinking why things are the way they are in the dating game and how one can turn things around. A friend of mine who recently turned consummate blogger, wrote a new post about her dating dilemmas, and how men wanted to be friends with her and not really date her. She went into much detail about the definition of dating in various cultural contexts (whether real or adopted) and what people meant when they said what they said. Needless to say, the blog got several hits and several men wanted her phone number.

But it got me wondering. Why would a sensible guy with his heart and mind (and other vital parts) in the right place not want to date an attractive, articulate, intelligent and spirited girl? Was there something I was missing here?

I found the answer at a recent party when I bumped into her accompanied by what one can only describe as a bad prop. Okay, I may be snobbish, but here is my theory: when men see you with someone they see as competition, they want you even more. When they see you with a loser, they think you are one too. Period. The same works for women.

So if you are looking to date, be seen with someone interesting. It could be your best friend, your buddy, cute office colleague (do they still make those?), random guy you met, even a girl friend or the DJ. But be sure the one you are seen with is someone at least two other women wouldn’t mind being seen with. A bad arm candy is worse than going solo, because at least when you are solo, you have the power to be whatever you want to be.

This bloke, I am sorry to say, was the epitome of average, not eligible by any measure and to top it all, he was a leech and never really left her alone, so there was no way she could have scoped the scene or eyed worthier blokes. A classic case of being at the right place with the wrong guy, I thought, and instantly wanted to add a comment to her blog after my aforementioned postmortem.

Remember cute guy who walked in with stunning arm candy and how all of us wanted to be the candy? Now imagine cute guy with insipid arm candy and how the same guy got labeled a loser? Get the picture?

Of course, if Salman Rushdie is your arm candy, there is a whole different math to that.

Mixed doubles

“Baby, are you keeping track of our mutual funds and how they are doing? There’s this chunk of money going out from my account every month, and I have no idea what’s happening to it…”

Sigh. I don’t have the heart to tell him that he should forget about the mutual funds for at least three years, given the current situation. But I make it look good.

“Honey, what’s important is that we bought them cheap, so they can only appreciate..”

"Really, that’s great,” he says in a not-so-convinced voice.

To the husband, any money that is not spent on cold cuts, large screen TVs, gaming consoles, beers or Sunday brunches is money gone to waste. Which is why I have put him in charge of entertainment and other frills while I do the boring stuff like planning taxes, building assets, filing returns and all that jazz.

This is not how I had planned it. Ok, let me confess. I had this visual image of a life partner. Who doesn’t? Mine was lean, a vegetarian, articulate, a great cook, a good listener, someone who went running on a whim, knew money and looked a bit like Johhny Depp. Okay, I know it’s a bit much, but what’s wrong with wishful thinking?

I must say I scored on the lean, the articulate and the Johhny Depp bit (yes!)

What I didn’t bargain for is a salami chomping, exercise-hating, beer-guzzling, non-stop blabbering, OCD-ridden, nocturnal version of the same who peers into the cats’ food bowl to check if they get better meals than him (which he secretly thinks they do, I am sure) Or eyes greedily whenever I cook meat for them and not for him. I try explaining that they need it more than he does, but it doesn’t cut much ice.

At a recent lunch date, we played a little game—we asked who, amongst people we knew would we set the other up with, had we not wound up with each other. Cutely, we both picked really nice people for the part—which made me realise that we do dig each other a lot and would only wish the best for each other.

And think about it. Had I married a financial wizard (which 50% of my clan is) or a nerdy genius (which is the other 50%), which is what my Iyer genes would have eventually led me to, I would have driven him insane.

Would Ravi Subramaniam (fictitious name for significant other that I would have ended up with) propose to me post an Indigo brunch in a taxi on Marine Drive? No way. His mother would have called my mother. Or would Neha Srivastava (fictitious name for his significant other) have been able to match him step for step on the floor? No way? She would be too concerned about her eyeliner.

We agreed, what we were both looking for is someone to match our nutty side. And we more than found it with each other. So, just a month away from our first anniversary, I can proudly say, Jai Ho!

Name game

(This was written as a response to Sanjay Dutt lashing out against women (his sister included) who chose to keep their maiden surnames)



Dear Sanju baba,

I am sure I have offended you, as have several other women, including your sister who retained their surnames after marriage. When I was getting married (after most people gave up on the fact that I would ever marry), I was asked by all and sundry, 'So, will you change your name after marriage?' I looked in askance, as I thought it was a non sequitur.

I find it amazing that some of my seemingly cool friends automatically switched to their husband's names after marriage. So quick, that it appeared as though they were waiting all their lives to do just that. It just made me look at them differently. Even the husband thought I would take the middle path and go the Iyer-Agarwal way, though we had never really discussed it before marriage.

Post marriage, when he saw my byline unaltered, he got the message. I obviously didn’t believe in middle-paths, and I am sorry to announce this to the Agarwals, but I honestly think Lalita Iyer has more gravitas than Lalita Agarwal. And Lalita Iyer-Agarwal just sounds apologetic and silly to me.

But I'm sure, Mr Dutt, that if my husband ever contests an election (which god forbid, I don't think he ever will), I would campaign for him, to perform my duty as a wife. But I would still be me.

Besides, I have enough paperwork to deal with and am not looking forward to adding to it with the whole name change thing. And frankly, I don’t have the muscle power or the connections to speed it up like you do.

But I do find it difficult to fill forms these days, as there are these three boxes staring at me: personal name, father’s/husband’s name and surname. I have no dilemmas on the first and the last, I do those on autopilot, but when it comes to the second, I flinch. Who should it be? The father, who contributed to my DNA, or the new man in my life, my husband, who married me?

Think about it. Half my life has gone by. I am an Iyer by habit, conditioning, food, rituals and upbringing. I was an Iyer when I got my first job, my first passport, my first visa, my first raise, my first car, my first piece of real-estate. I was an Iyer when I first started writing and when you first started reading me.

So why should I assume a new surname now, just to ‘fulfill the responsibilities that come with marriage’ as you pointed out? I am fulfilling more than my share of them anyway. And the husband does consider me a good and responsible wife, in fact too responsible for his own good!

I have struck a deal with him that the babies will have both our surnames, so there is a balance. Of course, at a recent visit to the doctor’s when the husband was referred to as Mr Iyer, there was a moment. My point is, how different is it when I get referred to as Mrs Agarwal? Isn’t it the same thing?

Playing by the rules

“If you really like the company, but only a third of what you intended to buy,” said my good-on-paper rational investor buddy.

“And why is that?” the stock virgin in me wondered. I was taking lessons from him in the stock market, having noted that this was a good time to join the fray, and wanting to learn from the best.

“For example, X may be a good company, but market sentiment is weak in the near term, so you might see quotational loss,” he explained.

“Hmm…interesting logic,” I said, “Almost sounds like rules of the dating game”

“Ummm… I didn’t quite get that,” said he.

I explain. “If you really like someone, show only a third of your interest. Else you are unnecessarily inflating value and market sentiment.” His face changed colour.

“You do have a point there. You know, I always have trouble hiding my interest. In fact, I’m too simple in matters of the heart, I tend to show my eagerness too soon. Thank god, at least I’m a rational investor,” he sighed.

I found it interesting that for someone who was really good at the logical game of finance, there was a kind of naivety when it came to the dating game. But it’s not just him.

I have been there too, and have always had friends or near and dear ones at any given point, who have had trouble “getting it right”. May be I can see it clearer now that I’m out of the game.

The signs are many - the commonest ones are rapid-fire messaging, missed-calling, being available for a booty call at midnight, constantly readjusting your life to coordinate with the other person, frequent inclusion of said person in your Facebook status updates, incessant tagging and commenting on said person’s photos and walls, slow dancing, kissing, doing shots, hi-fiving, and the whole shebang.

So relationships replete with status messages like, “X is so thrilled that Y is coming back next week” or “X just can’t wait to meet Y” are entering danger zones. As are talks of trosseau and wedding details when there hasn’t been so much as a proposal.

There’s also something to be learnt from the rules of poker here - a game I’m not very initiated in, but I know that it’s defined by the logic of ‘it’s not what you have, but what others think you have.’

So if one of the duo makes the other believe that he/she is the best thing that happened to her/him, well, it’s easy to start believing that.

Coming back to my savvy-in-money-but-not-in-love buddy, we have a deal now—he will teach me money, and I will teach him dating moves. Together we may both get somewhere, although I am not sure either of us will make a killing. But then, you never know.