Every girl should have a Dabangg friend

Someone who calls her ‘chikni’ or ‘item’ and gets away with it, because for once, she doesn’t feel objectified.

 

Someone whose idea of button-down dressing is to leave two buttons undone instead of four.

Someone who defines insouciance, but is never sure what it means. And cannot spell it to save his life.

Someone who doesn’t remember your birthday. And makes no bones about it.

Someone who you never have to worry about subtext, because he hasn’t a clue what it means.

Someone who says he will break someone’s arm if they mess with you and mean it.

Someone who says it like it is, because he doesn’t know any other way to do it.

Someone who loves the girl in you and celebrates her.

Someone who makes you feel like a woman, while still counting you as one of the boys.

Someone who never pretends to know what he doesn’t.

Someone who walks in and fills the room, whatever his size.

Someone you walk in with, and think you can fill a room too, whatever your size.

Someone who thinks it’s a waste of time engaging in deep, intellectual discussion.

Someone who will cheer the loudest when you have a victory.  And feel your pain when you are sad.

Someone who thinks ironing your hair doesn’t make you more of a woman;  and using cuss words doesn’t make you less of it.

Someone you can cuss with to your heart’s content and not be judged.

 HK, I salute thee!

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.

Why do men marry?

 So I am back. After a three week hiatus, some of which was technically a vacation, a rather feeble attempt at finding ‘me’ time post marriage. Okay, I am one of those people who loves travelling alone (although now, I am inextricably linked to a blooming toddler whose boarding pass still lists him as an infant, much to our collective annoyance). 

Yes, I did miss the husband when it came to negotiating luggage and trolleys, but that was about it. I guess when you’ve been single for as long as I have been and married for as little as I have been, you value the ‘me’ time even more. The boy is a good traveller, low maintenance, loves airport lounges, the outdoors, markets, parks, new faces, new food and practically everything I love, so was a good travel companion. He is also in that phase where his smile melts hearts and faces, giving me additional me time to wander, ever so slightly out of his radar.

The very next day, the husband called. Now, I have said this before, but I can’t deal with these “miss you” calls, whatever that makes me out to be. “Sorry to bother you darling, but Nadia...”

Nadia is my first born, my feline goddess, the resident slut.

Turns out, Nadia jumped out the window on to the ledge (don’t panic, I live on the second floor, so it wasn’t really danger zone), and decided to go walkabout around the perimeter of the building. The husband had, in the meantime called an animal NGO,  an ambulance and the fire department. Two hours and no interventions later, Nadia walked back into the house.

Phew! And it was only day one, I thought.  

On day two, he called again. No, actually, this time he croaked.

“What happened to your voice?”

“It’s pouring cats and dogs in Bombay. I think I have got the sniffles. Also my throat hurts, and I can’t talk much.”

How wonderful, I thought. Would that mean no more calls?

“Why don’t you talk to me instead? Should I start a course of Amoxycillin? Is it better to start it now, or wait till tomorrow, because I really really want to go to this party tonight and break it down. It will cheer me up.”

I was tempted to start a lecture on the demerits of mixing alcohol with antibiotics and the pharmacist in me (yes, I have one of those degrees tucked away under my clothes in the cupboard) was outraged at the abuse of my favourite, cheap and cheerful drug which helped me wean him off the ten-times-as expensive antibiotic that he was addicted to, prior to meeting me. Not that I am one for drugs anyway, but they help with the whining. 

Whatever.

Turns out he did go to the party and he did break it down with the five-inch heel types and did get his Party Hard Driver (yes!) to drop a certain nubile nymphet home and did go to an after-party too, and did feel twice as miserable for the next two days.

But the calls stopped. And I was able to get back to ‘me’ time.

And then it was time to return.

I came home to a few things, apart from a tender husband:

An Aquaguard that had stopped working.

A broadband datacard (that is what Reliance chooses to call its abyssmal internet connector) that wouldn’t work.

Random lights and bulbs that had gone bust and hadn’t been replaced.

An absconding maid.

Over-fattened cats, thanks to a thriving diet of Whiskas (because the husband couldn’t really follow instructions on how to cook rice for their fish).

A strange red feather stole, a prop from aforementioned theme party that was gifted by nubile nymphet, as a token of appreciation for dropping her home.

Unfolded clothes.

Unchanged sheets.

A leaking bathroom.

Various takeways in the fridge that had begun to provide accommodation for flora and fauna.

Toenails on the verge of curling (his).

Which is when I realised that men are innately irreversible pigs, no matter how old they are, how long they’ve been married. And however hard you may try to work on them, they go back to rolling in their own filth (and are somewhat comforted by it) the minute your back is turned.

So even though marriage is the last chance for a man to redeem himself, it is far from perfect.

A few good men/women

A single-again friend of mine recently remarked that it was easier to spot a good tiger than a good man these days. She was just back from her tiger-reserve holiday and basking in its after-glow, having spotted a few tigers.

Never mind the fact that her chances of spotting a tiger were far higher in a tiger reserve than in the city.  Or the fact that she had actually travelled a few thousand miles and spent more than just a  few thousand rupees in order to be able to spot them. (Something you wouldn’t do to spot a good man).  But good for her, I thought. What could be more exhilarating than spotting a tiger on a holiday, never mind that they were just home, and you just happened to pass by?

 When I thought about it, I figured this whole ‘good-man’ vs ‘good tiger’ analogy didn’t really work and is a bit of a no-brainer. Here’s why. Imagine if the contrary had happened. Let’s say she hadn’t spotted any tigers. The argument would have still worked. “It’s as hard to spot a good tiger as it is a good man,” she would have said, and all her girl-friends would have nodded in unison.

Which brings me to the cliched ‘Where are the good men?’ and how sick I was of hearing this phrase when I was single.  Now, I don’t know what a good man is, but for that matter, I don’t know what a good woman is either. And don’t tell me I am a smug- married talking,  because I find that the dating scenario hasn’t really changed much since I was single. The women are still hanging out in their comfort zones, with their single girl-friends, gay best friends (GBFs), asexual work buddies,  married friends and their over-protective  (sometimes philandering) husbands. And then they whine that there are no good men.  How many times have you invited a single girlfriend to a brunch or a random-clubbing night and she has showed up alone?  How many of your single girl-friends have done stuff out of character to spot the ‘good men’ that they never seem to spot in their daily lives? How many of them, for instance have travelled alone, joined a zumba class, a Wodehouse club, a film-appreciation workshop, tai-chi or gone speed dating, just for a lark?

Not that too many men do it, but they don’t whine as much about the lack of women.  Okay, I am not taking sides here, but you know what I mean. Men on the contrary are flabbergasted. They are constantly told that there are more good women than men out there, so the few ‘good ones’ are at least hopeful of finding one, but are usually disappointed. But instead of whining, men do what they know best.  Watch television. Drink. Watch football. Drink. Watch cricket. Drink some more.  Hang out with their buddies in the hope of ‘spotting a few good women’. Drink. Because it’s been ten minutes and no one is making eye contact at them. And when they can’t drink anymore, go home or to the nearest couch and pass out. Sometimes, they don’t even remember that meeting a ‘good woman’ or at the very least, spotting her was on the agenda when they set out for the night.

It’s no wonder that seldom do the twain meet.

Relationships and fiscal bottomlines

My buddy R was over a few days ago, and he has never looked so ‘in the pink of health’, despite the fact that he had broken a leg not so long ago and was still recuperating. I asked him what the secret was, adding the cliched, "Is it love?"

"Mad or what!" he said.  "I haven’t stepped out much in the last few months and I am not dating either. I just realised how much being single helps your bank balance. I have never had so much money in my account!"

He had a point. The thing is, when you are on the pull, you have to be seen at the right places, doing the right thing, hoping the right people from the opposite sex will notice you. Plus, you have to eat the right thing, drink the right thing (eating vada-pav and drinking nariyal paani  and going for a walk on the beach doth not a date make, although it looks good in films like Chhoti si baat). Sometimes you have to offer to buy a round of drinks, (or worse, shots!) to impress a certain someone. Not to mention having spent enough on self-grooming—a good haircut at the very least, some cool, yet not over-the top clothes. Having done all that, you have to be able to spot a suitable someone you might want to chat up, and then that suitable someone will have to want to chat you up too.  By the time you call it a night, you are a few thousand rupees poorer (at the very least) and may or may not have scored. So over to the next outing, and it all starts all over again.

Even something as low-involvement as a movie date sets you back by a couple of  thousands. Think weekend. Think gold class. Think nachos and popcorn that cost as much as a starter in a decent eatery. Think water that could well buy you a pint of beer. Think transport to and from the multiplex and drinks pre and post movie. So much for holding hands or at best, a snog.

Single (though not by intent) women, on the other hand, are constantly shopping. Being seen in the right clothes, bags and shoes takes their mind off their sexual bankruptcy to a large extent. In fact, too much retail therapy is a dead giveaway for dubious-state-in-relationship for a woman. And more often than not, she ends up being disappointed with the men she is on the verge of dating, because they still haven’t recovered from their fiscally viable singledom, in fact have begun to enjoy it.

Marriage on the other hand, is good economics. You save on rent, petrol, random socialising (having to score is no longer a priority) you spend less on takeways, you share domestic helps, drivers, etc, and you start SIPs. Of course, the minute the marriage is on the rocks, your credit card bills shoot up again. A friend of mine who is going through a separation seems to be spending absurdly on makeovers, clothes and shoes while her other half is spending it all on alcohol. Clearly a no-win moneywise.

Dating is an equally unviable stage, and the shorter it is, the better. People in relationships for several years are a perennially broke lot. They shop way too much, drink way too much (how else do you hang out all night long), buy too much stuff, and then borrow to pay their credit card bills, get too many manicures, go on too many getaways. Plus  there is the added pressure of having to buy expensive gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, valentines and whatnots (who was the twerp who came up with expensive gift = true love). If they ever get to the point of getting married, they are in debt again, because by then, their finances have cleaned out doing random shallow things.

Which is why I increasingly notice people of undefinable status hanging out in groups of total randoms, pretending to have a great time. It insulates them from having to flash a date or spend (they could well be nursing a beer all night), it increases the probability of scoring, it gives them an easy exit option, should the night not work out to their favour. Plus, there is no pressure on making serious conversation, and the whole night could go by with just a few words like “No way!” or “What are you saying?” or “How cool is that?” while shaking your head and totally escaping eye contact.

I guess times are a-changing. When you have more Facebook friends than real ones, you also pay a price for it. The price of make-believe. 

So far and yet so near

You know you are truly married when it’s hard to say ‘I miss you.’  

The husband has been away for three days at a scam fest (sorry, ad fest) and will be back tonight, so I write this in a hurry.  Through what seems to be an act of some divine pact betwen the ‘misser’ and the ‘missee’ in these situations, the misser calls the missee with some regularity (in this case, once or sometimes, twice a day). Not that I am complaining, but it seems somewhat expected of the missee (me) to say the aforementioned three words to the misser (him). Which means the missee also has to pretend to be the misser. O, whatever!

Unlike most people who fake it and say the fateful three words with a great degree of nonchalance (I am sure some of them mean it too) to their significant other, when they are away from them, I don’t. I can’t. Say it. To anyone.  I have explained this to the husband, who is still learning to deal with it, but I am sure it strikes him (and many others) as odd.

I don’t miss people. Or places. I remember all the times I have been away, and there have been plenty of those, and the calls back home (whether to the mother or the husband) have always been more of an obligation than a need. I am in the here and now, so flashbacks seem like a waste of time. May be the homeopath was right. May be I do have too much testosterone.

Marriage is full of motions, and saying that you miss your partner when he/she is away is one of those. Although I have come to terms with many others, I am still grappling with this one. I also think the true test for when you love someone comes when the person is away. It gives you the objectivity, distance and space to examine your love, to nurture it, feel it all over again. If you still have through the ‘I miss you’ motions, you never get the room to do it. Makes sense?

So yes, I had three days (going on four) of life without the husband. It felt strange to have a house to myself again, although said house is populated by a baby, two cats and a maid. But the point about these are that pleasantries are not expected and it’s a ‘to each its own kingdom’. It is liberating. The boy is just happy to have me around and speak without being spoken to, the cats are in their own hidey holes, waiting to be excavated, feeling a sense of calm that the paranoid cutlet who is always worrying about them running away is actually away. As for the maid, she is a girl after my own heart. Efficient, pro-active, and likes her silences.

The one thing that was truly liberating was that I didn’t have to act excited about a 42'' (television, what else?). There was less garbage generated (what’s with men and garbage?), easier to plan menus (the husband likes four vegetables, so I made all the rest in the vegetable kingdom in the last three days), read the paper and grab the pot without having to make a dash for it.

I think marriages should come with a built-in contract of one partner being away at least a few days a month (I would bargain for a week). It feels good. It gives perspective, objective. I have a friend who is constantly whining that her husband is never around (he is a pilot) and I wonder what her problem is.

Tomorrow, it will be back to business and choosing from four vegetables again. I am already plotting my getaway. 

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.

Two cats, a husband and a baby: Love, actually

It took a nine hour date to seal the deal.  All of which was spent sipping a single malt (Glenmorangie, 12 years), talking (some), listening (a lot) and watching a Don DVD (of course, the old one, what were you thinking?).

Now if you know my attention span is worse than that of my 20 month-old, that must have been a big deal.

It happened when it didn’t matter whether or not it happened. I was, at that point, having the greatest love affair of my life – the one with myself. Yes, I am gorgeous, but it took me a long time and many wrong guys to fall in love with myself. When I finally did, along came the one.

I found many shallow reasons to write him off. The fact that he looked too young (I thought at that point that he was the younger sibling of the girl who introduced us). The fact that he had an American accent (diplobrat=American schools=funny, mixed up accent of no fixed address). The fact that he couldn’t cook. The fact that he couldn’t remember the last book he read. The fact that had never watched a play. The fact that he didn’t play any real sport. The fact that none of his friendships dated more than four years. The fact that he was technically, an alien in my city.

And then I found one solid reason not to. The fact that he totally got me. The fact that he made me laugh. The fact that he still does.

Now, many of you may find the sense of humour thing a bit overrated, but it is the one thing that can keep a marriage going. And when the baby comes, oh my god, you need it real bad.

I don’t understand very long engagements or very orchestrated ones. The best marriages I know are where neither party has officially proposed or been proposed to. He chickened out on proposing to me at an Indigo brunch, where he set the mood for me to expect it. Only to do so in the cab ride back home. It was funny.

He: May be we could do this forever.

Me: You mean brunch?

He:  No, I mean us.

Me: Ha ha, you are funny.

He: Is that a yes?

Me: Well, okay.

I reminded him it was a good thing I wasn’t into rocks and bent knees and all that jazz.  He thought that made me cooler.

A year and some later, we were married.

Four years, four mistresses ( a PS2, a PS3, a PSP and an Xbox), two cats and a baby later, I am still enjoying the ride.

Happy Valentine’s day to all.

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?

Of suitcases and toothbrushes

I hate the day before you go on a holiday. It's when the impending work looms large, as it seems as though the holiday has to be earned all over again by doing all the menial tasks that precede it. Now, I am a list-maker and am also very diligent about things I tick off the list. Why is that a problem, you might ask? The problem is, when you are efficient, you get a raw deal. You do the work. So whether it is a rice-cooker for the boy (for quick meals at the resort) or his paddle pools and beach toys or his air-pump which inflates the paddle pool or his swimsuit (checking if it still fits) or the camera and charger and roaming activation and resort confirmation and cab-booking, guess who's going to do the work? Bloody efficient me!

I wish vacations are just about showing up some place where everything that you need is already there. I am not talking gourmet meals and wine and stuff, but the mundane stuff that you have to pack and are doomed otherwise. Like toothbrushes. Or swimsuits. Or moisturiser. Or hair product (now don't tell me anything will do, you have to see my hair to believe it).  Since I am not a which-dress-goes-with-which-footwear kind of girl, so it is kind of easier for me on the clothes front. Because by the time you do all that you have to do, you suddenly think life is better where you are, so damn the vacation. But it is kind of reassuring that even Megan Fox has to pack her toothbrush. Or hair product. Or whatever. So it can't be such a bad thing.

Look at the husband. His only contribution to the vacation (apart from the fact that he is paying for it) is the following:
a) getting his leave sanctioned
b) changing his mind about dates, and getting it re-sanctioned
c) reminding me at least three times in the past two weeks that his leave might be in jeopardy
d) reassuring me 24 hours before departure that even if he might have to go for a meeting on the day we have to travel, the vacation is still 'safe'
e) offering to pack the electronics (?)
f) ignoring above offer and only packing his PSP (and charger)
g) asking me (and this takes the cake) if we have the tickets!

To top it all, nowadays there is the additional fear of your-baggage-may-go-to-Nasik-while-you-go-to Goa. Or some honeymooning couple who can't wait to get to their resort might walk off with it (it happened to us last time). So to add to my woes, I have to pack everything in triplicate.

I have started chanting.

Stick-in-the-mud

I have had it with stick insects always whining about how they are so fat, or not 'thin enough'. Or how they look fat in ‘that’ outfit, or ‘that’ angle or next to ‘that’ person who is allegedly, skinnier than them.

For them, going on a vacation is about losing weight, as they have to look good in all those ‘holiday clothes.’ Coming back from a holiday is also about losing weight as they have to now work out intensely to knock off the 200 grams that they may have gained by eating a cookie too many, or not working out for four-and-a half days.

Now, I have a theory on body image. If you are never happy with your body, the problem is not your body, it’s your mind. Also, if you are not belly-dancing for a living or posing for swimsuit calendars every other day, neither are you a certain actress passing off as size zero, (which no one disputes as no one actually knows what size zero is), there is really no need to be ‘that skinny.’ Or is it just me?

What I don’t get about stick insects is, how come they are always meeting people thinner than them and feeling miserable? Why don’t they ever meet normal people who make them realise how thin they are?

I was a stick insect (blame it on my genes) when it was not fashionable to be one. I spent most of my teen years going to bed dreaming of filling out in all the right places so that I could be a woman instead of a girl. But no such luck for a long time. (Unfortunately, I never had any stick insect friends then, else I wouldn’t have been so miserable). And then one day, I had a decent bra-size and child-bearing hips and life was beautiful.

But what irritates me the most, other than hearing another person’s workout schedule is someone standing next to something edible and saying things like, “I don’t think I should be eating that, it’s too many calories.” Since I eat like a man, and by my homeopath’s diagnosis, have too much testosterone for my own good, my concerns are hardly the same. I just like people who eat well – man, woman, child, and most certainly stick insects.

As for the men, frankly my dear, they don’t give a damn. Dating stick insects would just mean more work for them (like sucking their belly in, or working out as a twosome) which they are happy not doing. Unless, of course they are dreaming of posing with you with a python wrapped around.

We are family

Now that I have chosen to live happily ever after with a husband, a boy, two cats, a PS2, a PSP, a PS3 and an XBox 360, I might as well see the poetry in my life. So instead of asking the husband every time he is clutching a controller for dear life — when is he thinking of calling it a night?—I engage him in a way that doesn’t take him away from what he is doing; instead exalts his state of mind even further.

The husband has 127 saved games right now. Compute that as roughly over 2000 odd hours of gaming and you will agree that it’s a lot. Perhaps more than our relationship hours. Right, you can get the PS3 out of his life; you can’t get his life out of the PS3.

I figured early enough that if you can’t beat them, join them. And if you can’t join them, talk gaming with them. And whoever said men don’t talk hasn’t asked them questions about their current-state-of-game: What potions is he buying/creating, what arms has he collected, how many cars has he stolen, how many men did he kill today, how many times did he die today, how many times did he crash today, how many rockets did he launch today, how many aliens did he hunt out today, how many women did he meet today, how many reward points did he win today...the list is endless.

So here’s my two-bit about life, love and relationships after innumerable conversations with the husband about the world of gaming:

• Irrespective of how many games populate your shelf, there are games that get played over and over again, there are games that get played occasionally and then there are games that are bought, but never played. Each one has a reason to exist and each one creates meaning for the others.

• There is always an all-time favourite game that never loses its place to anyone else, no matter how much time passes, what other games come along and what their ratings are. Even if they are rated 10 on 10.

• The difference between an all-time favourite game and any other game is the same as the one between a girl you are really into and girls you date, but are not really into.

• When you are playing your favourite game, you never think of the other games and wonder what it would be like if you were playing them. But when you are playing any other game, you are always thinking of what it would be like to be playing your favourite game right now.

• There can never be two greatest games, no matter what. One has to tip the rest.

• Two questions will help you decide whether he is the man for you: a)What game are you in his world? b) Is that his favourite game?

I am Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. Incidentally, it is ranked as the all-time greatest role-playing game in the gaming world. Sorry GTA IV. You came close, but I won.

Need I say more?

To write or not to write

I realise that being a gender columnist is more a disadvantage than I had imagined. Unlike, say, writing about B or C grade celebrities (who are always eager to tell you what their favourite fashion accessory is or where did they go for free booze on Independence day, or how busy they are not working), in my case, good material is not easy to come by and certainly not consistent.

The following has been happening far too often for me to ignore. It’s one of those weekends. There’s a bunch of friends – men and women –some married, some involved, some single, some of no specific relationship status. The alcohol is flowing, the music, catalytic, the food, capable of opening all your sensory pores and loosening your tongue. And then, something wise/witty/wicked is about to be said. Suddenly, the said person turns to look at me. “Oh, please don’t write about this..”

Woe upon me!

Earlier it was aunts who said, “Aiyyo Ramachandra, we better be careful. She might write about this.” One uncle recently told me, “I don’t understand your column these days. Please write only about your mother or your cats; that I like.” Or it was the mother’s voice, rather ominous, “Why did you have to write THAT? Now all my friends will know...”. Or it was the husband waking up on Tuesday morning with, “Am I going to get busted today?”

The fact that there are enough people out there who don’t know who I am or what I do helps. And thank god for them, else I would have never made it this far (this column will soon hit a double century).

Consider the odds. The husband has been bashed more than he can recover from, the brother is too far away from my radar, the father hasn’t been up to much lately, the son hasn’t really grown into his manhood, and male friends are always measured. Cat (female) is too alpha male and cat (male) is expectedly and consistently, a bumbling idiot. Where does that leave me?

Since we are now married with child, it so turns out that our repertoire of single friends is rapidly diminishing as they have probably found the first exit and run off. So we end up mostly with married (sometimes with child) couples and inevitably, marriage or husbands are always discussed.

But, in total breach of trust, I must share a great line a friend recently spewed at one of those orgasmic lunches (sorry, it was too good not to be reproduced). We were trying to define marriage and I said, “Marriage is about making lists of things that the other person (always the husband) is supposed to do but hasn’t.”

And she said, “Marriage is like joining the Amazing Race with one hand and one leg tied up.”

Now, someone please better that. Or give me a subject.

Mansel in distress

The husband is very often, a self-appointed knight in shining armour for damsels in distress. He is on a personal mission to set right any man who does not behave with propriety with a woman and always thinks it’s his business to rescue nubile and not-so-nubile nymphets from the clutches of filthy men with dirty minds and long paws. Can’t remember when was the last time someone did that for you? Well, that’s what makes him a somewhat extinct species, and you might think I would be grateful for it.

Not really, because at least in my case, the men have been the ones who needed rescuing, since I look after myself very well, thank you. But the real reason I am not grateful is because most of the time, the said damsel is happy to be in distress and so, the husband’s intervention with a threat or a shove or a “Let’s take it outside” with the said man just spoils things for her. She thinks the pawing and the getting too cosy for comfort is actually working for her, so knights like him are clearly not welcome.

In the past it was his BFF, who often got into trouble with her mixed signals and then screamed for help when the pawing began. The result was many a road block and a few broken bones. In recent times, it has been women going through mid-life crises, after having figured out that they were with the wrong guy after all, so how about a little net practice with Mr Giggolo? (a name I chose thanks to the said person’s over-the-top masculinity and signs thereof)

So while the damsels are doing just fine, the husband seems to be the one in distress, losing sleep and peace of mind trying to rescue them from men they don’t want to be rescued from and then wondering why.

In recent times, his interventions have actually backfired, because the men he took offence to, like Mr Giggolo, seemed to be the flavour of the season among his ‘inner circle’ and so, he came out looking like the enemy for no fault of his.

Ironically, one is also subjected to regular whinings from certified bimbettes about how a certain Mr Spineless did nothing whilst being cushioned in the front seat of a taxi while she was being pawed in the back seat by a certain Mr Creepy. Now why was she in the back seat with Creepy, don’t ask. Why couldn’t she just disfigure his balls, don’t ask. Why was Mr Spineless in the front seat, don’t ask. And how did Creepy get into the taxi, don’t ask.

In the meanwhile, the husband resorts to the controller, killing in virtual life what he cannot in the real one.

No telly no cry

The husband looked gloomy, as if hit by a thundercloud. I asked him if he was unwell and he pointed to the remote. “I can’t believe it. I know I forgot to recharge, but they can’t deprive me of my hard disk. My recorded stuff is mine. How can they deny me that?”

We were having a blank screen situation thanks to our satellite television subscription not being renewed on time. It was one of the few things I always mark as ‘his’ domain, so it’s no wonder it didn’t get done. What really hurt was he didn’t believe that all would be lost, but as it turned out, it was.

Inside, I was screaming with joy. So this is what life would be like if there was no telly. We finally had coffee on the table, breakfast on the table, lunch on the table. We were family! We were having real conversations, and not stolen bits when we paused the TV to warm our plates (me) or refill our beer (he).

In order to make things ‘normal’ for him, I volunteered my Seinfeld DVD collection. It worked, but not for very long. By the end of the evening, I could bear it no more, because his face had shrunk to the size of a pea and signs of self pity were writ large. I turned martyr. I offered to go to the hole in the wall despite the downpour and my nesting instincts to ‘recharge’. Aaaal was well.



***

Cut to Sunday brunch with (largely) singletons, which was a break, plus I got to meet the ex’s current and really liked her. Now, where I come from, this is more the exception than the rule (making the effort, not the liking bit) but it was a good feeling. But one thing I still don’t know how to react to is when someone tells me, “I’ve heard so much about you!”. I am at a loss and almost tempted to ask, “Like, what?”.But then, it’s tricky and one prefers to just bask in the thought that it might be good things and smile beatifically.

I realised singletondom was a bigger giveaway than being married was. Mr Adonis, parading his newly acquired Zara jacket in a near 80 % humidity situation was single. So was Ms Barbie parading her designer gumboots (there are three days in the entire monsoon when you can wear them, but this was not one of them). Or someone telling you when you leave early from a brunch to fetch a help who has been specially imported for you from the wilderness of Jharkhand, “Isn’t that really housewifely?”

If I had said, “Isn’t THAT rather singletonly?”, I would have been labelled a ‘smug married’, so I laughed breezily and mumbled something practical.

I guess the chief difference between being single and being married is that while the latter is not in a hurry to change their status, whether on Facebook or in real life, the former clicks the button the minute they so much as smell a relationship.

Sorry if that was smug, but part a) of this post is enough to burst the bubble.

Dear god and all that

Strange things happen when, after bashing men for four years, you actually give birth to one. For one, it almost feels like the joke is on you. And for another, you wonder if you are contributing to the largesse of convoluted, messed up, “I-have-issues”, “My-mother-did-this-to-me” men who are in queue for being rehabilitated.

So when the boy turned one recently, I found myself saying my “dear gods” with far more passion and fervour than I have ever done. So here are a few that are top of my mind.

Dear God,

1. Let my son not grow up thinking that handling a remote control device will pass for exercise. Even if he has six of them. Even if he is rocking himself in his easy chair and chomping on French fries while doing so.

2. Let him not say yes when he means no.

3. Let him know how to say no.

4. Let him not get any woman pregnant unless she really wants it. And of course, is of appropriate age.

5. Let him be man enough to laugh when it is appropriate and cry when he feels like it.

6. Let him not think that being an alpha male is about being the most obnoxious person in the group. Or the loudest. Or the one with the most trivia rolling off his tongue. Or the one who has the silliest girls eating out of his palm.

7. Let him not grow up to be one of those people who feels totally bereft when football season is over and doesn’t know what to do with himself thereafter, and so cries “Waka waka” in his sleep or worse, sleeps with his Vuvuzela.

8. Let him not think that puffing his lungs away or being the last man standing in a bar is a sign of macho-ness.

9. Let him know, and remember this forever, that he will always be a bad liar, so let him not even start going there.

8. Let him appreciate that grunting and muttering are not accepted vocabularies and that one needs to speak full sentences to convey a message. Even if the sentence is as boring as, “Can I please have some potatoes?”

9. Let him never, ever hurt an animal, because I will hurt him.

10. Let him not sit around waiting for an inheritance, because frankly, there is none.

11. I will come back to you dear God, because I have to take a break now as the son has put something suspicious in his mouth and it better not be the cat’s food.

Your friend, my friend

One of the reasons I envy men is that they have such low expectations — they are almost never disappointed. Like with the girl they thought had eyes only for them and then realised she was making eyes at all and sundry and eventually wound up with Mr Moneybags. Or siblings who don’t call or show up except when it suits them, group text when they are breaking up or making up, but knock violently for help when they are broke. Or when the BFF is going through a separation and they are the last one to know. Or when the colleague in the next cubicle is being treated for alcoholism and they didn’t even know he drinks, forget having an alcohol problem. Or when the driver announces his wife had a baby and they had no clue he was even married.

"What you don’t know cannot hurt you" seems to be the motto, and this minimalistic approach works rather nicely and leaves their head to process other important matters. Like sport. And more sport. And some more sport. And beer. More beer. And some more beer. That’s it. Their inbox is full. No more requests can be processed.

So if your ceiling is caving in or the maid has run away or the building is going in for redevelopment, well, it would be too much information for them to deal with after battling the world and its serpents at work.

If women wanted to be truly happy and blissed out, they need to start thinking like men. Rather ‘not thinking’ like men. I practised it for a while and it really worked. Except I am too curious a mind not to wonder why Mr G and Ms K seem like an item when her boyfriend is away. Or why is Mr D still throwing parties for his ex-wife’s birthday. Or why do Mr and Mrs T always walk in separately to parties and leave separately, even though they are necking each other wildly while in it. The things alcohol can do!

And then the husband claims that I have taken over his friends, that his best friends are not his best friends any more, that he never knows what’s happening because no one tells him anything. Yes, why would they? I talk to them, remember? And when was the last time you called or texted them except to exchange opinions on football?

Which is why, at the end of a hard day, men break down when having to process something as simple as their mother’s pan card while women are going on about dealing with far larger catastrophes with elan.

So maybe I am not meant to reach that Zen state where the husband is at regarding friends and family, but then who can bear the unbearable lightness of Zen?

Short term memory

A funny thing happens to some men when they get out of the game for a while. They forget the moves. They get rusty, clumsy, and sometimes, downright embarrassing. It can be frustrating for them, because the harder they try, the deeper they get slotted into ‘loser’ slots by women.

One such just-divorced friend recently got a bit out of hand in the singletons club. For starters, he hit on every woman that came his way. Then he hit on her BFF. Needless to say he is currently neither here nor there and a hitherto okay-for-now guy is now a certified creep.

I was embarrassed. I know the women were smart enough to fend for themselves, so there was no righteousness about it, neither was I overwhelmed by my current motherhood streak of being nurturing. Nevertheless, he was a friend and he was faltering and I think I owed him something. But how to tell the man that what he was doing would never get him anywhere in the dating game?

Since I am a) married and b) the writer of this column (I think the latter is more intimidating), most men do not make an overt move on me for fear of being lynched in public view. But there is always a hug that lingers longer than it should, an arm over the shoulder that applies a wee bit more pressure than required, a handshake that refuses to let go, an eye-contact that is more penetrative than required. Blame it on the post partum hormones or distilled thinking time, but I have become ultra sensitive to behaviour from the opposite sex. On the other hand, any sign that you can score at any time of your life cannot be a bad thing in itself.

Another friend who had been married even longer recently found himself in the open post divorce, and realised that the dating rules had changed. As in, there were no rules anymore. So ‘catch up with you tomorrow’ or ‘call you tonight’ had now become mere phrases that were dropped too nonchalantly by women to mean anything. It left him adrift and lost. He obviously couldn’t start where he had left off.

Marriage makes men complacent. They can now put their feet up, grow their beer bellies, stop flossing, and generally allow their pathetic lives and bodies to be re-engineered and be given some semblance of order by their women. This can take from two years to about five. By that time, they are so cushioned in their nest — which they had very little to contribute to, except exist — that now, they can’t be bothered.

Which is why men who marry multiple times deserve a round of applause. Bravo! But then, they are the exception rather than the rule. Or maybe they just fall under the tutelage of Neil Strauss and get better at the game.

Blast from the past

Spring cleaning always throws up surprises—some good, some not-so-good, and some downright embarrassing. At least so I was when the husband flashed a CD labelled ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica’ and asked if it belonged to me in one of his sporadic bouts of spring cleaning a few weeks ago.

Me: Err.. yes, that’s mine.
He: What are you doing with an Encyclopaedia Britannica CD? It’s so not you.
Me: Actually it was a gift from an ex-boyfriend.
He: What kind of guy gifts his girlfriend an Encyclopaedia Britannica on a CD? Sounds like a loser.
Me: As a matter of fact, he wasn’t one. He was very bright and funny and an orthopaedic surgeon.
He: Whatever. He sounds really unimaginative and dull.

I had nothing to say.

The husband has his share of demons too. Like a very gauche shirt-and-pant piece I found one day in his wardrobe, which he sheepishly confessed was a present from a prospective mother-in-law (and is now a favourite dusting cloth, however significant that sounds). I must admit, it made my encyclopaedia boy look good.

I think the reason we all have a past is so that someday, we can look back and laugh at it and feel good about ourselves. So that it will make us feel better about our ‘here’ and ‘now’. So that we feel less wretched about time spent (rather wasted) with the said person and be happy that we moved on (whether by choice or by circumstance). So that, in the larger scheme of things, we look like we got a better deal. After all, whatever anyone might say, it is about winning, eventually.

The only reason we want to ‘bump’ into our exes, if at all, is to see what a mess they are without us, how boring their lives are, and how they have absolutely no sense of style without us, how they are constantly in shallow, meaningless company, how their sense of humour has degenerated, how badly they have aged, and how well you have. And when you have a child, you try and imagine—what if the Y chromosome came from someone else—and it makes you shriek, because you can’t imagine your little one looking like anything else.

All of us, some earlier than others, reach that point where our exes go from tormenting us, to inducing a faint twitch in facial muscle upon mention of said person’s name, to downright cracking us up into peals of laughter. It’s a great feeling.

But, at the end of the day, the only thing we ever want to hear about our exes is that they are fat and bald or are married to fat, boring people who will never know what they once were when they were with us. My encyclopaedia boy scored on both counts and that makes me happy. Okay, that sounded mean, but you get my point.

Now that I have exorcised my demons, over to yours.

Four idiots

Okay, my life is turning out to be a constant source of material for this column, but in case you feel I need to address issues/peeves/idiocies beyond that, just write to me and I will address that. After all, there is only so much husband bashing that might be permissible. Competing with which will soon be boy-bashing, and then you will call me a bad mother, which is why I am offering you an open invitation.

So, there I was, not so long ago, leading a perfectly blissful life as a singleton—a job I loved, friends I absolutely dug, potlucks that were the rage, holidays I maxed out, a pad that was perfect for me— where I could find my oregano and my Season 7, Episode 5 of Seinfeld whenever I was in the mood, where plans were spontaneous and one could take off to Pondicherry on a whim.

That was then. Now, I live in boy-land with four idiots. There is a husband, a boy who thinks he is a cat, a tomcat who thinks he is the boy and a she-cat who thinks she is Don Corleone. Together, they drive me nutsidaisies. I like that word. (Note to self: use it abundantly in future conversation with said parties).

If that was not enough, there is football. Now I am not going to lament about the whole soccer widow thing, because, honestly, anything that keeps the boys to themselves and away from me is welcome. Because the thing I miss the most in my new life is me. So I will not be the one who asks the husband for some soccer compensation like a measly movie or lunch or a dress from Zara (which by the way has come a decade too late). And so, here’s my advice to soccer widows. Use this time to get you back. It’s a great opportunity.

No, my only problem with the football season, (and I fear there are too many to keep track of) is being asked to participate in the proceedings. So I am regularly given updates and statistics I haven’t asked for, asked to join in for beer and some rowdy rooting, staring at our 42 inch monster with surround sound, when I could just curl up with a book or do nothing (again, something that has become increasingly difficult to do). I don’t mind devouring cute butts on screen (or in real life) once in a while, but too much testosterone makes me sick. And then the husband blames me for not being into the game, but into the men. Well, what else will I be into, dude?

The boy, by virtue of majority, wants to be where the action is and the cats are excitedly discovering the Messis in them (give them a piece of rolled-up silver foil, and see what they can get up to) and messing up my house. That’s my life currently.

And lest I forget. Yes, Chetan Bhagat, the title for this column was indeed inspired by the movie that was inspired by your story, and unlike the filmmakers, I hereby give you due credit. Happy?