Two men and a girl brigade

It has been a long time since I ran into a suitably obnoxious member of the opposite sex. May be it’s my “Don’t mess with me” aura. May be they think I am some sort of extra-terrestrial, or may be they just follow this column and don’t want to be messed with.

The scenario was this. Last Thursday, me and my girl gang from work showed up for pre-dinner drinks at a nearby restaurant to celebrate a team member’s birthday. Just as we were leaving, I noticed a car parked behind mine which blocked both me and the birthday girl ( parked back to back) from leaving the premises.

Said owner of car was a finance/stock exchange type, me thinks (predictably gauche striped shirt was a giveaway). Stripey was bonding with Mr. Sharp Suit (possibly a colleague) over bloody marys. And that should have been a sign for me. What kind of guy drinks bloody mary at 7.30 pm? Simply, someone who is not man enough, as he soon demonstrated.

“Can’t do it now,” he said grumpily, when we asked him to move his car. “Will come after ten minutes….”
Birthday girl was suitably harried and had to make it to another party, and asked him again. He was louder and grumpier. “Can’t you see I am busy? Do whatever you want….

The whole thing blew up hugely out of proportion and we soon went to war! It felt like a Chak de moment, although I would much rather it was the Mirch Masala finale. The details of the exchange are irrelevant, but suffice to say that we pulled all the stops (the pipsqueak of a restaurant manager wasn’t really taking note of the situation)

When we revealed we were a pack of journos, Sharp Suit rose to the occasion and tried to make amends for the damage created by Stripey, who soon retreated into a corner while Sharp suit tried to play good cop. It angered me that we had to display power in such a crude way to earn a modicum of good behaviour, but it appeared that it was the only language they understood.

The last time a guy tried to mess with me, he got hit by a stool. I was all of 14. It was in Teen Murti Bhavan in our great capital (clichéd as it might sound, I was not surprised).. What annoyed me the most was that my parents didn’t allow me to finish the fight and go to jail, as I would have loved to
And strangely, history repeated itself. This time again, I had to leave the scene of the crime, as my sister called at the most inopportune moment, telling me she was stranded without keys and waiting for me outside my building.

Only difference was, this time, I had another me to finish the fight. And she did.

You had me at Chak de!

(This was written soon after Chak De!, a movie that made me look at Shah Rukh Khan in a whole new way)

Dear SRK,

You had me at Chak De!
Actually you did have me at Fauji, a long long, time ago, although the “I say chaps” guy lingered longer in my memory. And then you did have me at Circus, and then at Baazigar.

Somewhere along, you lost me….for a very long time. You were busy prancing around in your Tommy Hilfigers and DKNYs or singing unchained melodies to chiffon clad lasses in deserts or haystacks. And I was suitably distracted by the other Khans and life and general, and it didn’t really matter much.

And then, out of the blue, you had me at Swades again, when I was hit by a surge of patriotism, wanting to build dams and get electricity into people’s homes and write on inland letters and postcards all over again…

The thing is, I never really had a favourite Khan — I find superlatives very hard to negotiate — reason why I don’t have a best friend, the best book I’ve ever read, the best movie I have ever seen, the best thing I have ever eaten or any of that.

Chak De changed everything for me. It’s irrelevant that after years, a movie had me choked, or the fact that my I-hate-Hindi-movies beau was as taken in by its implicit honesty and passion as I was, or that it had no songs, and no pervading gloss. But it all added up to the larger outcome — I had found new respect for you — something that will help me forgive everything you ever did. And that, to me is big.

I find the world of sport and movies about fascinating — probably because it is an alien world to me — a world that I could never really be a part of. When I was a little girl, all the big, bad girls were always into sport, while I was the nerd who sat on the first bench, knew all the answers and did all her homework.

I so wanted to be like them, but my puny frame, weak lungs and tam-bram upbringing never really allowed me. The closest I came to was being a reserve player in the volley ball team at school, and I was so petrified that I would have to play that I fell ill on the said day, and everyone thought I was the traitor.

Finally, after all these years, sport and me have kind of reached middle ground, what with the bro and the beau’s collective passions. I can now survive a game of cricket or golf or football and sometimes even ask the right questions without being totally off the mark.

So when I watched 16 feisty girls of seemingly different shapes and sizes (some who reminded me of me) get together and survive the collective politics resulting from their disparate energies, I am awed.

I think of the man who got them to think of the whole instead of the self…and yes, I know its all about good screenplay and direction and all that. But at the end of the day, it’s what you see. And I saw someone who was large enough to be smaller than the team. And that did it for me. So, SRK, I salute thee!

Random access memory

My best buddy needs to have a placard across his chest which reads “unlimited access.” Recently, he told me that his ex girlfriend, who dropped him rather unceremoniously a few years ago messaged him at wee hours, saying a chirpy hiii. Now, the thing about chirpy hiis is you never know where they are going. The thing also about random texts at wee hours is that they reek of ‘I have a hold on you.’ And more often than not, they are not innocent—there is always a hidden agenda, which is revealed in due course. And so it was.

The next thing he knew was that she needed to meet with him — she was feeling a “little messed up, and depressed” and the guy she was seeing didn’t turn out to be the guy who wanted to see her.
“Why do you allow her to have a hold on you?,” I asked him. Now, I am fiercely protective about my friends, so anything that alters their peace affects me. So I thought my concern was in order.
He looked stumped. “Huh!!! She just showed up on my facebook, so I added her to my friends. What could I have done?”
“Errr…. Ignored her?” I tell him. (They do have that option, I know)
“How can I do that? What will she think?”
(Holy crap! This is a slippery slope, I think….)
Call me old fashioned…but my boundaries are very clear — there is a reason why the ex is called the ex. But for the benefit of some super benevolent souls with closure issues out there, they should change it to axe. As in the verb.

But unsuspecting species like my aforementioned friend have “reach me anytime you need me” written all over them. Small wonder why they get messed with all the time by random exes.
So the next few months were a series of revelations of tell-tale ‘I don’t think I have closure’ signs on his part.
“She wants me to update her resume. She knows I am good at the stuff.”
“She can’t find a pet-sitter. And I still love her dog.”
“She is moving to Bombay, and needs my help. She doesn’t know anyone here.”
“She wants me to pick her up from the airport.”
“She wants me to drop her to the airport.”

There is this thing about airports. They are truly depressing places. Which means you really need to be into someone you are picking up or dropping — the whole thing takes a lot out of you. Definitely not to be wasted on a blast from the past, me thinks.
I listened patiently, as I know it was expected of me. But I knew he was beyond repair, so I let him be.
But it left me wondering. Why do men allow so much random access into their lives? I guess part of the reason is, they don’t have inbuilt filters. For men, all is innocent until proven guilty — and that can be a good thing and a bad thing. Women on the other hand are sharper about accessibility issues. If that makes us the bitches — well, so be it. Someone has to do the dirty work.

Gift me not

There was a time when birthdays made me nervous. Not that I ever gave a damn about getting a year older, but it was the sheer trepidation at opening my gifts and being horrified by some of what I found inside. I have gone through years of being saddled with hideous earrings, books I would never read, music I would never listen to, clothes I would never wear, photo-frames, lamps, vases, purses, pen holders, makeup, knick-knacks, T-shirts, accessories and jewelry that was SO NOT ME.

Not that they all got it wrong. I do have a few friends who always asked me what I’d like or by instinct, got me exactly what I wanted. Thank god for them.

Wouldn’t life be so much easier if people just asked you? Or took you shopping? Or just gave you gift vouchers? May be the reason they don’t is because they feel a certain nakedness in revealing their budget. It’s like saying, “Okay, this year, you are worth Rs X to me…”

 Which is why they try and enforce their choice on you. But I don’t get it. Surely they know you enough to know that you are not going to ask them for a plasma TV or something equally ridiculous. Why don’t they give you the benefit of doubt? And what are multiple options for?

After an era of un-me gifts, I finally mustered the courage to ask people whether it was okay to exchange. So, a not-so-becoming-red-and-yellow sweatshirt was traded for a crisp white linen blouse that was more me. Or the bland Alchemist or Six thinking hats for a Tom Robbins or Bill Bryson that was missing from my collection. They didn’t seem to mind —they were glad it was off their back…

If I have so much trouble with birthdays, I shudder to think of the innumerable monstrosities people receive on their weddings. I know for sure that everyone gets stuck with at least 20-30 gifts they don’t know what to do with. It is quite likely they donate it to charity, or worse, gift it to someone else — someone insignificant enough not to be invited to the wedding. But no one ever talks about it. I wonder why. May be because as a culture, we are taught to be grateful for anything we receive.

But I find it amazing that people who are closest to you can also goof up. Like my mother who gave me the shivers with her surprises. I really love her, but don’t necessarily love what she chooses for me, from grooms to gifts. After much deliberation, I had a heart to heart and asked her to leave both departments to me. To my surprise, she was relieved. Now, she either hands me a cash envelope, or buys me exactly what I want (color, design, style, model non-negotiable). It’s been a few years into this arrangement and both of us are extremely happy.

Or when the beau who once called me from Goa claiming he had sighted a ‘nice purple skirt’— I gave him the green signal, thinking purple, obviously. I later realised that there was much more than purple happening on that skirt. There was pink and elastic and flowers and sequins and layers. But his enthusiasm was endearing, and I bravely smiled my happy smile. (Okay, now you know..)
But I am finally in a happy place. Each year, I have a wish list (of items in varying budgets) which I sound off (upon being asked) to my inner circle… This year, I got exactly the wine glasses, perfume, dresses, books, pendant, i-shuffle and the DVD collection I wanted for my birthday. I have perfected the art of made-to-order gifts!

And if anyone out there plans to start a gift registry, I will be the first to sign up.

Picture imperfect

There are two things I find very hard to get excited about—other people’s photographs and other people’s babies. Or worse, photographs of other people’s babies.

Okay, I am not one of those baby haters. Neither am I the bra-burning feminist types (is that still a term?). It’s just that I never know what is the right thing to say when I see a baby. The last time I was in close contact with one, I said something like, ‘Don’t you think she has her father’s jaw line and her mother’s cheeks?” The beau gently nudged me to speak softer, hinting that the ‘baby’ might not be too pleased to hear it.

So now I just reserve my comments to “He/she is so adorable…” It always works.
The baby visit ceremony is a mostly a to-be-done thing, especially if the person concerned is a good friend, and more so if she has spent a good part of her pregnancy moaning about tight bras and breaking wind… People who have babies always want you to come and ‘see the baby’. I have never understood why. Are they expecting you to tell them, “I like what you made.” Would you ever tell them, “Well, you should have another go, this one hasn’t turned out as I imagined….”

Last year, my friend had one, and at the hospital, I was actually wondering why she still looked pregnant, even though the baby was technically out. I was severely admonished by another friend for thinking such insensitive thoughts. I seriously have to pick up some politically correct phrases.

And then is the whole ordeal of baby pictures. I used to live in a hostel, where by default, the women seemed to follow the same biological clock—one by one, they all got married, and most of them had babies soon after. And then began the onslaught of baby pictures— the baby’s first diaper, first tooth, the first thing it put in his mouth, the first time it sat, or stood or burped or farted, or spoke…..and later, first stage play, first karate class, first swimming medal, first work of art or some such.

I can hear my friends saying, “Wait till you have one…” Well, we’ll see.
A close second is wedding pictures. For starters I can never understand the throne thing and the queuing-up-to-wish-the-bride-and-groom-and-taking-a-picture-with-them. In my barometer of uncool, this figures the highest. Why do we have to go through it? I have had many a fun conversation with others in queue, and everyone has the same problem. So why don’t they all just go on strike and say, “We will not be demeaned like this…”

Wait, it doesn’t stop there. Because soon after, the bride or groom will send you a couple of really fat files containing “the wedding albums.” Now, what were they thinking? “Err..in case you missed looking like a complete moron on our wedding, you can see what others looked like….”
Gimme a break..

There are people who know exactly the right thing to say at births, deaths and weddings. I have come to realise that I am not one of them.

Facebooked out!

It will perhaps go down in my book as the most short-lived, yet the most intense relationship I ever had. Facebook and I are almost over, and all it took was less than two weeks.

Let me begin at the beginning. To be fair, I had my doubts, when the beau sold it to me as 'a fun way to stay in touch with so many friends at the same time' when I was leaving for the States. He said, "Even if you are not thinking about them, you know that they are thinking about you..." Wait a minute...I asked myself... Is there anyone you want to be in touch with that you are not already in touch with? The answer was no. Do you really care about those you are not in touch with? The answer was no. Are you seriously 'looking' for new friends? The answer was still no.

I guess I am at that point in my life when I have reached just the optimum level of friends that I could handle. I Secondly, I was the type who never really succumbed to the collective seductions of ICQ, IM, Orkut and other such networking delights. So I wondered how different this could be.

Yet, I yielded. It's funny what just two days out of a daily 32-page newspaper rut and endless stretches of time and good weather can do to you. And before I knew it, I was Facebooked out of my mind.

I registered and filled in my details. I sent out invitations to friends, some randoms and some not-so-randoms, I added photos, I filled up activities, interests, books, music and other trivia that 'define me'. To add a dash of social consciousness, I also added causes that define me.
Then suddenly, my cousin threw an omelette at me. And then a dear friend threw a sheep. The beau's words came back to me.."They are thinking about you even when you are not thinking about them...." Hmmmm..this is how...
I decided that since I am not a lurker, I had to go all the way. I did, and made it my full-time occupation. I wrote on people's walls, sent them beers, cocktails, joined food fights, stroked and fed their pets, got bitten and turned into a zombie, got bitten and turned into a vampire, threw tomatoes, pancakes and ketchup at others, and had shrimp, and pickles thrown at me, And before I knew it, my cup had runneth over, and my friend list was burgeoning.

I have sent people pigs and teapots, Porsches and even Johhny Depp as presents.
I have shared my thoughts, moods, pictures.... I have peeped into other's thoughts, moods, pictures.
After ten days of poking, hugging, tickling, spanking, kickboxing, karatechopping, biting people, tagging them in photos, asking them to join my causes, and sending them free beers and cocktails, writing on their walls and even getting into food fights with them, I am utterly and completely bored,
I have been poked by strangers and bitten by people I barely know. I have unearthed cousins and bamboozled dear friends to get on it. I even managed to convince the brother, who has suddenly turned into a 'private person' after being one of the crusaders of icq at a certain point.
What was I thinking?

The good thing is that unlike a real relationship, it is so undemanding and open ended that you don't even have to break up..you can stay ambivalent all your life and no one will know any better because they are busy throwing sheep and sucker punching each other.
To those who have managed to resist the urge--may the force be with you. To those who are still addicted, well, may be there will soon be Facebookaholics Anonymous, and I will be there to help you zone out...

Lost in translation

There is something about queues. It's like when you finally get to the end of it and reach your 'said destination' i.e the person at the counter at the end of the queue, you are expected to give a completely choreographed performance. And so when I waited inordinately long in line at the US Immigration last week, I realised that an act at the end of it was in order. Not that I hadn't done it before -- it's just that you never really get used to these things.

So as I waited, I shifted my not so ample frame from one foot to another, itching to open a bag of crisps, but wondering if that would be against immigration etiquette. An hour later, I was the 'next in line', waiting to be summoned. I could see from the corner of my eye that the Immigration officer, who was bordering on cute was having an exasperating time explaining what 'extra pressure' was to a bewildered Japanese tourist, who was having his index fingers thumb printed, not to much avail. I made a mental note of applying 'just the right amount of pressure'. And voila! It was my turn.

"And how are you today?", he asked in a voice that only Americans can. I was, by this point suitably distracted by a family that had nearly paraded their heirlooms in front of another officer. 'I don't know, I am too dazed..it was an awfully long flight," I blurted.
'Ah, I see (sound effects of pages of my passport being flipped here).
He then asked me what I did in Bombay and I said I was a journalist.
"What kind?", he probed. I was distracted again.
 "Magazine or newspaper?" he prodded further...
"Oh, yes, newspaper"
"So what do you write on?"
"Men, women..."
Curiouser and curiouser...
"People, places, celebrities, trends, lifestyles, attitudes.." I did some damage control...
"So you are a generalist, not a journalist.." His verdict was out, and my passport was stamped.

I seriously have to re-examine my job, I thought.

******

And then there is something about brothers. Even if you have been in queue for two years, there is still no performance expected at the end of it. By this I mean, on either side. So it's okay to unwrap your Xbox 360 and gloat over its goodies the exact same night that your sister has crossed seven seas (I am not sure, I wasn't counting) to meet you. It's okay to have piles of laundry so high, that you can't walk around the house without being run over. It's okay to have stuff in the fridge so old that illegal aliens have acquired permanent residency status. It's okay to have mails unopened, houseplants unattended and consequently withered, books and DVDs unreturned..

But, at the same time, it's okay for you to lie in the exact same posture in bed when he leaves the house and when he returns. It's okay for you to tell him you don't really want to meet any more family. It's okay for you to ask him to take you out for a drink at midnight, because you just 'feel' like it. It's okay for you not to talk when you don't want to.

Because no matter how much older you are, you will always be the 'little' sister that stayed a foot shorter.