When Shahrukh miffed me...

In the year 1995: I was on the threshold of Standard 11^th and on the verge of spilling out of my charged up frame like peas from a pod, in view of a class trip being planned for us. It was time to break the shackles of a hitherto secured life even though they were more in our heads than on our wrists or being. In a convent discipline with perpetually panic stricken and easily scandalised nuns, no out-station school trips beyond Lucknow from good old Kanpur, had ever materialized, the fears being-what if the horrendous wolves of the horny world pounced on little goslings out of St. Mary’s? Little did they know many of these goslings moonlighted as prey hunting little vixens/tigresses whenever away from the prying eyes.

So, this was a dream come true-never mind if they were taking us to one of the lesser known hills. Everyone got permission-except good old me yes, even the oil-drenched, plaited with ribbon haired, far-from-chick chick. Ironically, just then either mid-life crisis hit or my mother’s lack of action in the sack erupted in this hideous outpouring or my dear sire had a split personality attack-but Amrish Puri’s character from that year’s just released Dilwaale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge vehemently entered all his pours. Damn, I always knew he secretly wanted to be an actor, like me, but Amrish Puri, really!

Papa’s unfaltering “NO” echoed through the walls of my home and my little but massively dreamy, broken heart. “Keh diya na, bas, keh diya” was HIS original dialogue that Salman bhai later copied, tch!

I begged like Simran to let me go-a bunch of my friends came over making the cutest and saddest puppy faces with justifications like “Uncle, Suruchi ke bina hum sab bore ho jaayenge”. But not one hair vibrated in his staunch moustaches in pity. Me: Bau ji, er, papa, you would anyway get me married once I join college. Let me have this one first and last trip where I see the world? ‘the world’ here being some polluted riverside with dumped plastic wastes and ample of just Gorkhas for eye tonic during that off-season time.

Playing on the back of my mind was the fact that perhaps I meet my Raj somewhere, filling an empty bottle by the river side when my chappal accidently slips off and I gracefully scream “Bachao, bachao” for my chappal of course. And he drops off his backpack and risks his life to get it from the swiftly flowing current, looking wet and sexy, as pearls of water stream down his glistening forehead to his almost parted full lips. He hands it to me with a sneeze-the chappal again of course. And I say, “Arrey, aapko to sardi lag gaye hain....” And no, I do not do a striptease then to give him jism ki garmi, you dirty minds, I tear my duppatta and...oho, let’s get him injured and blood flowing instead to avoid technical glitches. I would apologize for the trouble with a grin that would show no sorry and he would say, “Chote, chote shehron mein aise baatein ho jaate hain Senorita”. The rest as they’d say would have been history!

Playing on the back of my father’s mind was khandaan ki izzat and jawaan beti ko akela-nahin, nahin! He probably had gauged also that considering the tharki genes in our family, it was better to keep the daughter out of temptation and mischief. So no “ja Suruchi ja, jee le apne zindagi” happening there. Oh crap!

Dear Mr Shahrukh Khan, the moral of this story is that because of you I never went to any school trip ever! For you chose to star in such a film that my parents took me to and developed unrealistic ideas along with some of her own of their daughter’s. And because of you I often speculated in the hindsight that I could have created an immortal Heer-Ranjha type of love story had I just gone out that one time and ran around some sarso ke khet  in a white suit with open tresses and undone eyebrows. Par alas, aisa ho na saka!

DDLJ spoilt a generation of girls in that era. We craved to say “Kuch kuch hota hain Rahul, tum nahi samjhoge” forever after  I know it was not from this flick-weren’t they anyhow all the same post that? Any Tom, Dick or Harry with the name Rahul, suddenly had vistas of opportunities and legs opened at his disposal.

Even I led a make-belief life after that for a long time where I imagined bumping into Mr Right at the drop of an eyelid everywhere possible:

At the library-Imagining me fall from a ladder and someone there to catch me not bothering about my weight for love at first sight would weigh him down more. Or he and I picking the same book from the opposite sides of the shelf following the smiles-ah! I know filmy, sue me!

In the trains-Getting into a wrong one and being led by a handsome stranger into an adventure of sorts-damn, there was even some mind blowing session imagined in the pantry.

In the park-When a football comes and hits my head as I wear glasses and sit there on a bench concentrating on a geeky romance novel-little did it matter in the pragmatic world that I didn’t wear glasses or ever read any romantic trash.

*Sigh, sigh!*

And then Shahrukh also gave us some unreasonable expectations in men...

1. If he did not look in your eyes and said whatever he said with as much intensity as though he was mentally orgasming as Mr S did on screen, he did not feel it.

2. If he never spread out his hands with a slightly tilted head, when he saw you coming from far even without the slow motion, he does not want you enough.

3. He may look stupid and shaggy but mouth sense.

4. If he did not talk in whispers sometimes just near your ears, he is thoroughly unromantic.

5. If he did not overact-wtf, he’s boring!

6. And when he held you in his arms, if you did not tremble like a fragile leaf hanging on a branch in the face of an overbearing lust storm-he is thanda!

And just when we started to like Shahrukh for the loyal husband that he was and good character, K Jo made his entry and suddenly we did not want a partner like that! Tch, kya Shahrukh! You made vanity a style statement and narcissism a way to be-aped by thousands of men without mettle, shakal or akal. And who had to bear the brunt-we poor women, who didn’t know whether to bang our own heads against the wall or of these jerks when the stuttered or smiled in that obnoxious way that you sometimes do.

And when I did begin to like you a bit as my angry nostrils finally relented to flare less after Swades and Chak De, you managed to wash out all teenage fantasies with films like Om Shaanti Om, Billu Barber and Rab ne Bana De Jodi.  I was back to being angry for making me go through these mind numbing tortures that would warrant years of therapy to sublime it.

And although now some seventeen years have passed by, the after effects of waiting for a Raj for the happily ever after-the wait for a Casanova to turn into a one woman man because he is enamoured by your charms, still lingers!

*Sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh!*  

Nobody Loves Me.

Drama and I have an age old association.

Usually blah these days, while in conversation with a dear friend I crooned my eternal favourite drama line “Nobody loves me” in my whining, attention reeking-seeking tone. And just like that he suggested putting it up on my status to see who all do. And yes, just like that I did. Some 90 comments later, this is what I have concluded from it all:

1. Fine, a lot of people commented though 1/3^rd of this number was my own replies. A little drama never hurts anyone, but I don’t take chances and go all the way.  And three people actually “liked” the idea of me being unloved-et tu Brutuses. Bah, Facebook has gone to the dogs I tell you!

2. There were comments from:

       A. My brother (My own khoon, calling me crazy and attention seeker-meh!)

       B. My mother (The epitome of naatak-giving me a jhappad)

       C. 2 Maasis (expressing less concern for me and more for my G)

       D. 3 Mami jis

       E. 4 students

       F. 3 sisters-in-law

       G. 2 students’ mothers

       H. Handful of cousins

Really people? This is NOT THE love I was anticipating! I know hum saath saath hain, but family planning will have to step down for my flirt planning to materialize. Waise, I am blessed that none of them raised an eyebrow at such a distorted status-Nobody doubts me ;) Charm runs in my family, it practically gallops and so does over-expressiveness it seems. Control people, let others take the stage sometimes.

3.  I realized that many of my Facebook friends’ favourite national pass time is calling me a ‘Nautanki’ and how generous I am to provide them this fodder to graze on. Nobody appreciates me should come next. Any references to donkeys is purely coincidental and unintentional.

5. Some great minds sauntered in there and voiced how they empathised and whimpered that nobody loves them either. Ahem, so I ended up doing the very arduous task of sharing the already dim spotlight-boosting their sagging whatevers rather than focussing on my needs! I am a rebirth of the Buddha it seems-such selflessness is unheard of in Kalyug.

5. The targeted audience-THE MEN, were conspicuous by their absence. Bloody hell! What a waste of well-chalked out Naatak! I was hoping for some inbox messages at least to salvage my sinking self-worth or MSA (Market Shelf-life Analysis) but the box was as empty as my brain. *Sigh!*

6. More women dared to openly address the issue of loving me. Yes, that is a nice way, Dear God of hinting that since the men are anyway absent, I might try rethinking of my preferences-the Mayans were right, the end IS near.

7. I think I scared away any remotely prospective “I love you” with my little stint. Sometimes things pop in my head and jump feet first out of my mouth-I need to handle this OCD. Random fact-Most women suffer from some form of OCDs-Obsessive Caring/Cuddling/Cribbing/Crying/Cursing Disorder. Mine is Obsessive Cuteness Disorder which more often than not, materializes and backfires into Chutiappa sometimes.

8. Not ready to give up, my next status was:

Tough choice-To buy a branded watch or a DSLR camera first, especially since I don’t have money for either now.  All those who professed love for me yesterday on my status, now is the time to show. Even if you contribute 10% each, I will feel very loved. Truly!

Only three helpless comments so far, mostly suggesting that they love me but their hands are tied-as if I asked for their kinky bedroom details.

So now, all love has vaporized. Kitne matlabi duniya! *sniff, sniff*

Nobody loves me! *Now where are one of those crying icons when you need them?*

Unisex to One Sex.

Alright, once upon a time I used to go to a gymnasium-a regular not much shoo-sha, sasta-tikau affair kinda space and daybreak was the best time to do so before my body could fully awaken and dawned on with what was happening to it and revolt. Since mornings it were, I was glad to have the much appreciated company of fellow sex-no, we were not having sex here per se simply referring to the presence of the ‘superior’ gender-the men, the boys and even those somewhere in between these two horizons.

And it would be fun to go there with playful, shampooed hair and hook them up in a semi messy but sexy and ruffled butterfly clipped look and let them cascade down post the work out, giving the head a shake as though you just de-boarded in leather skimpies after a long bike ride on a Harley Davidson and removed the helmet to sway the released tresses from left to right in slow motion. Girls, by the way, this NEVER fails and guys, please continue to fall for this one and save us from racking our brains with actual opening lines to draw your attention.

So, that unisex gym was fun. There would be men of all shapes and sizes strictly speaking in physiques, dressed in all colours and clothing, also wearing the weirdest of expressions and mouthing the horniest of moans though just made to dumbbells and also stopping after each set for almost a five minutes gap to “catch a breather”. I often had to physically stop myself from announcing to them that we as a species are called ‘women’ and not ‘breather’ sought to be caught.

It would be fun to gaze at someone eyeing you from some corner that got unwittingly reflected in the mirrors or watching how sometimes men would herd around the area where women were doing the jumps too often so that they could get an up close look of how it feels to go up and down. Fun to notice how often some cute ones attempted to pick up more weights on their rods than their poor frames could handle just because there was a hot chick there to impress non metaphorically speaking.

Fun how some very middle aged man would try to strike a conversation by asking, “Aapka kaisa chal raha hain?” and you reply, “Chal raha hain” and watch the million dollar expression of his face as though I didn’t say it to him but threw it on his face. And also super entertaining if by chance some sexy-smoking hot kitten would get lost in that desi gym and what a stir she would cause as I have enumerated before in a post: The Ultimate Seductress or the Ultimate Bitch?

But then putting on 4 kgs in the six months in this gym was like a shock jolting my senses and screeching in my ears that perhaps I was having way too much fun for my bloody body’s good. Tried as much as I could with the toughest of routines, I was just not sweating-I justified it by saying that I may have an IDDM-Inbuilt Default Defence Mechanism that prevents me from looking grimy in front of hot bloodied men but then how long can you hold a candle in the wind. The tightening jeans finally ripped the truth.

It was time to change. So I looked into the track record of some other gyms flourishing sadistically on the malfunctioning of food loving lazy bums like me and hand-picked one. The only drawback-it was an ‘Only for women’ workout space. What? Are there still places like that except Convent schools, which served the purpose but dished out to the society specimens like me? And there wasn’t even a male instructor? Crap! Who would give me those, divine back and leg stretches after the workout that sent some of the eyebrows up and some jaws to drop?  

Happiest at the prospect was dearly beloved who had mocked and queried if I really went to the gym in those early hours every day for I had inches on my sides to prove an otherwise story. I would pout and talk in a deeply husky, breathing whisper to fan some insecurity that would get my leg pulled even more.

Anyway, so came my first day at this new so-called gym for I’d rather call it 'one giant step back for mykind' and a development of a new sort of claustrophobia, may be. So many women under one roof-I can’t breathe....OH MYYY GAAAWD yes, in Janice style from F.R.I.E.N.D.S my friends. I can barely bear my girlfriends at social get-togethers and find myself magnetically inching towards the male corners and here I was almost tethered in a room full of in-the-heat women: some jabbering, making it an extended kitty party circuit, some exercising as though how far they came in life depended on how far they had panted on the treadmill and some admiring themselves only in the mirrors with god knows what tendencies surfacing along with their curves.

Don’t get me wrong-there were women in my earlier gym too, but they were either so busy in trying to appear presentable while doing their jobs, or too old to bother about how their flab dangled from under their arms how else do you think I got so much attention there? Besides, most women in small towns generally still chicken out from appearing at the male timings for obvious reasons and that would explain the near population explosion at this new one.

So although used to of being scrutinized, this is a new ball game altogether, like I have said somewhere before-women dress less for men than for other women-as in not less in quantity but as an act in its number.

Competition has been taken to a new level as brands galore and ‘how did she get on the treadmill before me?’ look with the envious twinge gets rampant. Good old days, when I would stand next to the cross trainer and some nice guy who’d almost stepped on it, would get down and say “Pehle aap kar leejeye” as though I’d become happy and agree to a twosome someday-on the cross trainer of course.   

Also when my t-shirt gets a little inched up while doing the bending stretch, I perceive more vixen vibes here than foxy ones as of the erstwhile space. Good old days again when conversations occurred aankhon he aankhon mein- He: *you look hot* Me: *you do not*. Cut to now-the polite conversations on treadmills and mother-in-law and the television serial recitals would definitely kill me some day, if the trainer madam ji does not. She is women’s answer to Sunny by the way-not Sunny Leone, stupid-Sunny Deol. I know lame and over-abused joke, but could not resist. She almost makes it a sophisticated akhhada.

And worst of all are their diet plans-eat 8 rasugullas along with milk in a day and nothing else??????? What, balls to you-I feel like saying. They are worse than horny nuns in the school I went to-although they do say no to bananas. Or just a bowlful of papaya in dinner-really? Do they know how hyper active I get at night and thereby the need for more energy and food? Bah! Let’s just hope I knock down some 20 kgs and be such a head turner soon that the pain of being sandwiched without men gets replaced by being flocked by them-the desirable ones though of course. Till then I keep telling myself I am more important than a bloody number on the weighing scale and the number of grey cells and niceness within count too as I keep waiting for my stupid fat to cry and release in the form of sweat.

But just to vent out my frustration, here’s my parting letter to:

Dear Diet,

It’s not me, it is you. Let me tell you, no matter how much important you feel by coming into my life every now and then, you suck, literally and otherwise and I care a flying fuck about you. You are the bitch who laughs when I fail although you tempt me in the first place even when I decide not to cheat on you. Please be gentle with me this time and let me complete the drill so that you get rid of me once and for all.

Thank you,

Not yours sincerely ever,

Pleasantly Plump Me.

P.S. Someday soon I would be looking like this-more clothed though of course:

My "Other" Woman!

(Warning: Sexual innuendos ahead...frisk at your risk!)

Now before I tell you about the “other” woman in my life, we need to walk down our history first. Yes, it is flashback time folks. Let’s call her X kyonki naam loongi to badnaam ho jaayege na aur mein to general knowledge mein shareef hoon he. X and I are both kick-arse Punjaban kudis and we met post our weddings god was merciful on our husbands and nopes it does not mean that we’ve had multiple marriages. There were instant sparks (yes, an actual short circuit occurred at the venue) and roses smooched each other (we happened to be wearing floral print kurtas when we hugged). See, I might exaggerate but I neeeeever lie.

We were magnetic and bonded almost like Siamese twins-she is pretty, witty, oozing with oomph, flirty and fun okay, I stop complimenting myself here now. We got clicked while giving flying kisses that happened to hit our cheeks, she declared to the world how soft my arms were, which she refused to get her fingers off and whenever I wore a top that rose too up, she always HAD TO manually bring it a little down saying-have it, flaunt it.

Soon hugs became longer and lingering much to no one’s discomfort. Of course the women became bitchy, but then they do they ever need a reason to transform into being one? “How cheap can some people be!” was crooned a couple of times coming out of mouths with noses above them raised to the sky. While the men watching us weren’t complaining-in fact we were often encouraged to drink and get “more comfortable”. Tch, tch, how dumb can the horny man’s mind be for sure, imagining/praying that it might lead to us making out on the couch....sigh!

Soon gossip mongers began to set up their little ventures around our vicinity and at one late night get-together, we could actually see them flourish every time we whispered insane things in each other’s ears followed by teens-like giggles. Little did the guys realise that we were sizing them up all this while giving them blasphemous and mad ratings of their skills in bed based on their physical bearings and our assumptions of their interior possessions yes, we have self-proclaimed and publically defamed degrees in that...sign up for evaluation? We were just 23 years old then by the way just stating before you decide I am a wild child still. We even marked our territories to avoid conflict of interests as some were ticked in both our lists-fetishes were being redefined. Although the next morning of course we realized it was not a wise idea to drink as though it were 21^st December, 2012. Often we would let people think whatever they wanted just to enjoy their half amused, half aghast and half tongue lolling faces and please, there can be three halves in a hypothetical world just as there are threesomes for many of you in your imagination. 

Cut to the more placid present now: A little while back as an anniversary special week, a multiplex played movies of diverse genres for varied tastes. For women there was ‘Sex and the City-2’. Now I am a die-hard Carrie Bradshaw fan although the lesser mortal who missed it when it came the first time around sacrificing motherhood, thy name is Suruchi. Since dearly beloved thought it was too ‘womanly’ for his otherwise very woman-preferring tastes, I had to grab another of my species to take me to this paradise. Who else but X and just to clear the air I did not actually “grab” anything to lure her into this! Often I just need to ask and I get it.

We decided to go by ourselves trying to popularize the “Two is company and three is crowd” theory. However, mischief bound, we decided to upload it as a twisted status on our Facebook and BBMs just to create a little flutter. And boy, there was more action off-screen than on-screen since many of our close friends tease us about what's cooking between us, even after they know we suck at cooking-no puns intended.

In the home front with my beloved:

G: Really, why do you girls need to go alone? And that too for a movie that’s about SEX?

Me (in convincingly put-on anguish): Oh sweet lord...just because it has the word SEX in the title that does not mean there is going to be sex in it? (although I was secretly hoping there would be some sensuous stuff at least)

G: There won’t? Strange then, why would people want to go for it anyway?

Me: Grrrr...

G: Okay fine, at least tell me what all happened then and if possible, message me in between?

Me: You want to know what happens in the movie???????

G: No silly, what happened between YOU TWO-I mean there would be darkness, your winter shawls giving the right camouflage, not many in the audience and knowing how tharki both of you are....give me minute by minute detail, okay? Then I won’t feel too bad that I didn’t get to watch.....the movie that is! (And he actually did a holding-his-stomach-and-laugh).

Me (rolling my tongue over the upper lip, followed by a cute pout that muaahs, like I do when I see a KFC burger-this was like having the breast piece): If you want we can take the camera...live action? (a lusty wink)

G: Besharam, tum dono ka koi bharosa nahi waise-go and have fun!

On the social networking status front, here are some of the updates and inbox messages that kept pouring in through the two hours of the movie:

Mr As: Lucky you, I wish I could see ‘Sex and the City’ too in the same hall as you both and since I’ve seen the movie, I won’t need to make an excuse of watching you both instead.

Mr Fu: Wow, two hot women alone in a dark hall...I hope the men in the audience don’t come? Non-metaphorically speaking...

Mr Chu: You could have created less noise about it...now look what you’ve done to ordinary mortals who don’t get to watch “Sex...” and yet think about it!

Mr Ku: Did you get your hands on it finally-the tickets that is?

Mr Bc: I hope you haven’t been lured by those horny behind-the-counter guys to take straws-I hate it when people suck the drinks out in the middle of a quiet moment...

Beloved G: Mere Ganga maile to nahi ho gaye? Mooh kaala kar liya ki abhi naak baaki hain?

Mr Mc: There may be some biting moments in the movie...please keep your fingers and teeth to yourselves or at least don’t leave scratches.

X’s Husband: To kahan tak pahunche? Ache hain? Arre movie yaar!

Phew! Such wise brains all racking whatever little they have to make us rock the sack or rather the seats in this case. While we two seedhe saade Bharatiya pativrata pavitra naaris just had a ball-watching a fun film, hooting a little, taking a couple of cosy clicks for the kicks, sighing at the only proper single kiss on screen, discussing the men in our lives and making a promise that we’d go for an all girls trip too very soon...probably to Bangkok. As for some action between us-naah, we are too busy in being fixated with the male anatomy and attitude to get distracted just by a pair of good boobs-at least for now!

But then seriously, what is with you men and the craving to watch women together? Really! And just checked the newspaper-there is a new comedy flick up that goes by the name “A good old-fashioned orgy”. Hmmm, time to make X come again! ;-)

Dear Mothers-in-law

Epilogue: I sometimes wonder what happens to girls when they become women. I mean I am yet to discover how the metamorphosis materializes for I still yearn to feel like a complete woman and give up on the crazy girl in me. But then I can’t even begin to fathom what transpires within the entire female specie when they turn into monsters-in-law...er...mothers-in-law. Damn you Hollywood movie titles playing on my mind and mouth/fingers.

Dear Mothers-in-law (yes, all of you all over, unsparingly),

Really, what genetic alteration occurs during the seven rounds of the holy fire taken by your doting sons that upshots your ghastly malfunction? You have to explain me that. It can’t be insecurities-for how can anyone even deem to stand in any competition with someone who beds a man every day at least initially and often several times in the same day. Maybe she is prettier and younger than thou, but then your aren’t a sex object for anyone anyways now and least of all for your own khoon-your son? So quit making life difficult for all of us and let your pseudo-beauty ego go for a hike.

I think the onset of wrinkles occurs in women post their promotion to this unenviable position. So much constraining of nerves to show ‘Who’s the boss!’ naturally could lead to some lines forming somewhere! And as if those obnoxious pressing of lips and scrunching of eyes and inflating of an already fat nose are not enough, you soon discover-why there’s even a tongue that can wag with unending zeal to utter some of the choicest of taunts, to put even sarcasm to shame. Aww....nobody allowed you to participate in the school debates and so in the second childhood read that as your darn old age you decided to refresh the latent skills. How charming!

But really, you need a refresher’s course in reality check. These stupid soaps you watch all day on the idiot box yes, even the damn re-runs for apparently one sob/crap watch ain’t enough for your sadistic tendencies show techniques that are long given up even by Ekta Kapoor. I mean the idea of tampering with my door closer, just so that the door remains ajar and you can overhear when I bitch about you is so lame; I have decided to do it in bed when we are tugged in a blanket together and just before sex. It ensures not only you being in your bed too by that time but also I would get an attentive hearing because of His anticipation for what may follow thereafter.

And please, please stop asking him if he wants water when you see me getting him a glass on a tray or suggest he should measure his temperature after you sly watch me washing the thermometer. Ah, the genuine concern just prior to the wife’s is so touching, it makes me weep. Please don’t force on me that he would eat the bitter gourd in dinner when I insist he won’t, just because he did when you eyed him in his days of virginity. He has better taste now, metaphorically speaking. And when he refuses like I anticipated, please shorten the always ready-to-brim-over sermon of how children these days don’t listen to their parents-yours grew up along with his manhood.

And also explain to me dearie, how on earth can he be spoilt if we go out three times a week and not spoilt if you serve him the third bowl of halwa just because it was made by you? It is so amazing that you remember to ask me such concerned questions about my health and well being only when I sit with him on the dining table or do all sort of cootchie-cooing with our baby just as his daddy returns home and ensures he gets a private viewing of this trailer that never materializes into an actual movie otherwise.

And so enlightening are your discourses on responsibility-aah, talk about how the daughter-in-law ignores the house, after you stay out of it for most of your waking hours. Talk about how you don’t get enough money to spend after you ordered a brand new pair of fat diamond studded bangles. Talk about how “we” waste money, when the clothes you got stitched in the year’s beginning are adorning the frame of the maid’s by new years. And before you find fault with the way in which I am raising my child, please don’t even let me start with the faults so glaringly apparent in the ones you did. ‘Appreciation’ I know is the toughest word to grasp in your dictionary just as ‘expectations’ is the easiest.

So now that we are sailing in the same boat, let’s stop rocking it before we both fall. Please come to terms with it that it is not YOUR age to dress up and gallivant around town and instead give us, the lesser mortals a chance too. And also let me bring to light that there are more gadgets in the house which you can use like dishwasher, washing machine and iron so that you think beyond the television and mobile phones!

How amazingly nice it would be if you would just stop staring at my “Pepsi” glass at social dos and not wonder why that glass or its refills were in my hand all night long! And when we get you gifts, kindly don’t judge them by the price but by the sentiment behind it before we lose all our sentiments to do so. While I know I suck at cooking, you aren’t doing a good job of it either by the drama you churn out instead*sniff, sniff*

I guess this is enough “bonding” for this time. Until next time then...please be good and if you can’t be, please be human!

Yours almost lovingly,

Daughters-in-law the world (India) over.

Disclaimer: This is based on a one hour chat I just had with a suffering female friend who painted a picture of her mom-in-law thus, after breaking her monologue with sobs and expletives simultaneously yes, we are weird in our sources of getting inspired. So much she cribbed and moaned that I almost felt for her poor hubby-not in THAT way of course. Any similarities to my own mother-in-law are coincidental and purely unintentional. She’s a darling-of her husband of course. Please take this in good humour or else if I get burnt with kerosene in my kitchen soon hereafter, you’ll be blamed for lightening the fire. 

Does the Sun shining on me make me Sunny?

Yesterday my dear beloved returned from a five days ka tour and very tired. We both unwind around midnight with a little time spent on the web on our respective phones before we curl each other instead and last night I finally got a peek at some sacred parts...of his phone that is, before you begin to question me about wtf was I doing with him for twelve years of our marriage then.

Now I am not a ‘Big Boss’ person or a television person per se but then Sunny Leone is as much a household name in India today as is perhaps Sonia Gandhi, for different reasons of course. Twitter went barmy with her entry and I felt compelled to watch the idiot box for an entire five minutes just to see who is firing the imagination faster than AK47 can ever dream of. But thankfully I soon lost interest in their loony tunes.

It has been ages since I watched porn yes, despite it, I am normal and not frustrated in life and she wasn’t going to make me do it, never mind her 'doing' reputation and whatever of mine too after my open declaration for my fixation with Vidya Balan in a previous post because I had opined she was drenching in hotness.

I see you raising an eyebrow at the “ages” and muttering under your breath, eh-‘Tch, tch, yes, of course, what would old people do with porn anyways?’ Phew! Narrow mindedness and prejudice would bring an end to this country faster than the upcoming elections could. Baby, why would I need outside help when I have a more than eager and flourishing help desk right here on the bed? We don’t help ourselves, we get helped all the time #perksofbeingmarried

So, yes, we are talking porn again!

At the risk of sounding old sacrifices I make for your enlightenment, I belong to the generation when porn was not downloadable my god, the auto correct did not check me, you mean to say that really is a word? We had to manually go up to a stupid CD shop and rent it out. My escapades with a group of friends to go out and rent porn have already been enumerated on some post before but then a quick recap does not harm once a teacher, always a teacher.

Those who’ve been around would recall my telling how I found video porn in my parents’ cupboard, securely tucked under a pile of clothes. That was like sher ke mooh mein khoon lagna. Nopes, that does not mean I developed a compulsive disorder for watching porn else I would succumb to forces unknown; it just fuelled the curious cat in me to want more-get to the bottom of it no puns intended. I went out like on an invisible Noah’s ark to ascertain whether the absurd things done on that video cassette were done on a regular basis in all of them or were my janam-dattas just plain lucky to have found some unique stuff. Needless to say, I now know how easy it was and maybe still is to please my simple set of parents.

Anyway, we digress!

So last night after five nights of almost lambi judai, beloved was extra kind with me and on his own, without me having to plead and trade-bargain for it, decided to show me Sunny Leone on his phone. And obviously we are not talking about her strutting around, looking all innocent and cute like two big fat buttons on Big Boss.

“Aha, she is hot and looks less dumb without clothes” is what I said before he nodded his head in agreement. I am sure he just heard the hot part and nodded too soon and didn’t bother about the dumb bit. Hot and dumb are two adjectives that men don’t mind as long as they come in combination. There were just still pictures, though I know somewhere well concealed in some stupid passwords would be the moving ones too-not those moving you to actual tears but those moving you to wetness for sure.

So I eyed some shots with my gaping mouth till beloved had to manually close it with a push of his fore-finger from under my jaw and then we judge how men cheaply open their gaps at the sight of sexy women. “Please don’t tell me you are turned on again” is what his tired face managed to mouth for now. Isshhh thank god no one heard that or saw those harrowed expressions or else they’d think what a torture the poor guy goes through in bed.

“Don’t worry, I don’t find her thaaaaat hot to give up on men altogether or emotionally blackmail you into creeping into my blanket” is what I said to console. I looked back in slow motion at beloved, whose handsome visage was marked with some concern. “I am not worried about that, though doubtful of it....but then see how unfair, such a sweet and nice and pretty girl na, I wonder why she came in this business....” Had he used any more adjectives of the ‘nicer’ kinds, I would have really done something horrible to him under that blanket. Ya, right, the next you would say that she’s so homely and I would inform you that homely does not mean one whom you want to bring home to your bed.

Poor dear beloved, sometimes I wonder why God clubbed me with such a noble, innocent soul while he was at his pairing trip. Perhaps to show the beauty of equilibrium in action! “Really! She’s too pretty for porn? Would you want to watch ugly girls in the act instead? Please don’t tell me that you would for it would make me doubt myself at having turned you on for all these years like I do?”

During the first few years of my marriage we used to rent porn at every blue moon. There was a fat, middle-aged man in our vicinity who ran a grocery store and lent pirated CDs for a side income. Needless to say with a boys hostel just outside his shop, there was more business out of “woh waale CDs hain?” than any yeh ya koi aur waale. Dear beloved also got a whiff of it post his matrimonial status. I am sure that fat ass must have thrown not-so-subtle suggestions as he was grossly suggestive even without the slightest of provocation on a general basis.

So on some Sundays a CD would be rented for a puny Rs 10 and returned back on Mondays. And on some days if beloved left in a hurry and forgot to do so or I needed some general items from his store and reached his door step, I would be greeted with a horrendous grin from the bastard as though he was running in his mind a re-run of “I know what you did last summer” with a different allusion to summer here. But then thankfully came the era of the downloadable and his unbearable grins rested in peace happily ever after.

God, I digress once more.

What were we talking again...ah, Sunny Leone!

Haven’t I spoken enough today already?

Okay, 'she’s hot' is what I muttered to some of my friends today too but apparently not or at least not so much as some Priya Rai-and here I thought my education days were done. All those really dumb jokes of Leone Vs Dharam paaji’s son Sunny had barely done a rest than the ones on Jism-2 starring madam have started doing the rounds. I guess won’t be able to resist her entry in my bedroom for long, will I?

Pardon me but it is midnight once again. Let me see if I could lure beloved into showing me some video clips and lemme play some music in the backdrop to set the mood....#Nowplaying: I’ve got a feeling-that tonight’s gonna be a good night, that tonight’s gonna be a BIG good night!

P.S. Imagine my torture now to have to go through Google images to search for a suitable picture of her to upload with this post #lifeisabitch

How bad can a little bit of Porn be?

I have a very dear friend who has shifted now to the States. When here he was a perennial source of my mirth and jollity for such was his life that epic blunders and wonders kept following him everywhere yes, kind of a carbon copy of me-I often joked that we are like twins separated by wombs. It is sad that he does not blog for his narration is exceptional and engrossing. Here is one of the leaves from his life that forms a memorable anecdote for me to always tease him with.

He (let’s call him Bhola, for this would get to his nerves for sure) was pursuing his further studies outside his quaint, little city and once was home during long vacations. His very small town had meagre sources of entertainment and his friends too had moved on to other parts of the country in search of greener pastures. So he decided to stack some actually a huge amount of porn in between his notes and bring along just in case the forlorn nights made him too lonely and the lovely simple damsels around got him too horny.

Now stashing them in the remote corners of his cupboard in the room, he went out one day to check on the developments in the city happening behind his back which basically means to check out the chicks for he cared a flying fig about the infrastructure-female structure is where his eyes stop for good. Little did he know his mommy dearest had decided to give him a surprise by introducing his chaotic room to some order. He returned home whistling in the evening struck by the smell of something alien-ish in the air. *Sniff, sniff* OHH MYY GOOD GAAAWD! Who the fuck unmessed the mess?

And immediately his popping out eyes went to the closed doors of the cupboard. In slow motion you can imagine him running now towards it with his head moving from side to side as sweat particles splattered around from the panic socked expressions of his countenance actually imagine a constipation stricken tensing of facial nerves here instead for a better understanding of the situation.

Gasping for breath, he flung open the doors in one jerky action and then picture the three times made close-up of his face with thrum-thrum-thrum imaginary backdrop thumping of the drum as happens in stupid Hindi serials. The underwear were washed, the posters of half naked women stuck on the insides were removed and worst-the notebooks were arranged in neat layers and despite moving the pages of all, there was not one CD falling out of any of them.

His first thought:

OMG-I paid half my month’s pocket money on them!

OMG-Some of them had the latest lesbian action!

OMG-How will I spend the rest of the fifteen nights here at home without them?

OMG-(never mind, too many FIRST thoughts there)

OMG-Mom!!!!????????!!!

He darted back to his mother like I do when I go to receive a phone call and end up chit chatting forgetting about milk kept on the stove for boiling not realizing that he had not thought over in his mind about what and how was he going to ask his sari clad, bindi adorning, haath mein puja ki thaali liye hue mom about it. He first took the thali from her hand lest it fell to the ground in the dramatic way shown in the movies, scattering the puja ka sindoor everywhere and extinguishing the diya because the “ghar ka chiraag” is too busy in such “mooh-kaala” activities.

He- Ma, er...did you find anything in my cupboard?

(Forget the “thank-you for cleaning my earthquake stricken zone” –ungrateful kids of this generation, I tell you)

Ma- You mean this? *And she took out the bundle of CDs from god knows where, arranged between her fingers like a neat stack of playing cards with just the right amount of cleavage popping out from each cover*

He- Ma...er...aaaa...mmmm?

Ma-So these are the sounds that I would get from you now? Quite expected! 
He- Maaaaa???? *Raising the tone in disbelief as though she’s the one doing the blasphemy here*

Ma- Yeh kya hain? *Now bringing in view a clothes-free Pamela Anderson look alike in terms of you-know-what for nobody cares two hoots about what is over them*

He- (thinking in his mind- These are the latest inventions of positions and intersections without conception but made for interjections) CDs hain ma...

Ma- I can see that...but what are they doing in your cupboard?

He- (thinking again- They should be "doing it" in the laptop and damn I should have used the laptop cover to stack them there instead) Ma, yeh notes hain!

Ma- Jhoot bol rahe ho ab?

He- Na ma na...These are Suraj’s CDs. I told him to send me the biology practicals ke CDs and by mistake he must have sent me these. I kept them away so that I could go back and return these for the originals *feeling super smug at his presence of mind*

Ma- Chee...beta, mein tumhare ma hoon!

He- Mujhe pata hain ma, meine kab DNA test maanga?

Ma- To yeh sab kar rahe ho Bombaye jaake?

He-  (Karne ka mauka he kahan mila-yeh to practise sessions hain) Ma, aap galat samajh rahe ho....

Ma- To dikha do kya hain is mein-theek se samajh lete hoon?

He- *Now raising an eyebrow at his ma’s intention in tension* Acha ab de do....aage se nahi karonga  (Me-Huh, matlab self service ki dukaan band aaj se?) and papa ko nahi bataana....

Ma- Ofcourse nahi bataana...woh TUMHAARE papa hain! Aur inko bhool jao...

She stomped off now leaving Bhola with the puja ki thaali and almost a KLPD!

And my teasing began at where she left him-

So mast na? Haaaw Bhola, imagine what and how she would have viewed you post this traumatic experience-

~Beta, bahut kamzoor ho gaya hain! (He must be overdoing THAT-I must ask Bhola ke papa to speak to him about IT)

~Itne garmi mein shorts ke jagah pajama pehna hain? (He must have just watched a CD and come...arre woh waala come nahi-Ram, Ram)

~Why is he taking so long in the bathroom? Why has he locked his room from inside? (Let me put my ears to the door to hear some moaning)

~Why is he moaning? (No he can’t have possibly slipped on the soap water left in his washroom-it has to be those karam jali kudiyan)

~Why is he refusing to get married? (Oh god, he’s having an affair with one of “those” girls...)

~Why is he insisting on twice cleaning of his room? (I must ask Shaarda bai to stop sending her daughter for cleaning and she should come instead-is ladke ka to kuch pata nahi)

Tch, tch...needless to say he never got the CDs back and whenever he grieved about them, I told him to chill, probably his mom and dad, alone in that drab town are having fun now thanks to him-aaj tak unhone sab sikhaya, kuch aap bhi unke knowledge expansion mein assistance karo! Or be positive, maybe someday when he gets married, his mom instead of handing the house keys on the first night to his bride would make her cup those CDs and say “Aaj se yeh tumhare haath mein hain-uske haath mein mat dena...” And stop looking for innuendos I am sure the poor mother won’t mean THAT what you are thinking!

And so poor Bhola, he never knew porn could land him in the Neverland-the land where he would never be seen without doubtful eyes by his ma or without mad leg pull by me!

Guts out!

I wish I could rant my guts out...

~Like I could write this space as a ‘Dear Diary’ and yet be entertaining.

~Crib about my mother-in-law and make it sound more heart-wrenching than the stupid soap on television no, not that Lux bar kept on the console

~Declare I am horny and not sound desperate.

~Exclaim I care a fuck when I fucking care!

~Be round-the-clock the person that blogosphere thinks I am.

  

~Reveal sheepishly how I almost believe in what Mohnish Uncle said in Meine Pyar Kiya, that the ubharta and ubalta Salman took very seriously “Ek ladka aur ladki kabhi dost nahi ho sakte”

~Articulate about how I view God as my shadow and not as an idol.

~Make people believe that NOTHING in the world is right or wrong-the circumstances are!

~Confess I fall in love/crushes sooner than the fall in sensex and not pretend to be joking about it.

~State that I have so many times thought of eloping to some place far away that I almost believe in my mind now that I did. 

~Grieve about my just-out three white hair and yet pompously rejoice about my three times faster beating heart thanks to coming across wittier men.

~Accept my fascination for colour black for it makes me look lean almost just as much as Abhiskek Bachchan’s for his stupid leather jackets that suit him just as much as English does on Lalu Prasad Yadav whatever happened to him btw?

~Disclose that I have experimented so much that I could have been mistaken for a scientist.

~Take to task the anonymous characters in my internet life for how they make me rack my puny brains in trying to solve the mystery behind them-so please STOP and come out clean no puns intended.

~Philosophise and seem like Mr Deepak Chopra but with Ms Priyanka Chopra’s body!

~Express that I find some women just as burningly hot as some men and not sound gay.

~Explain that all relationships forged out of genes, come with a shelf life-if not becoming dormant, in time they do become lukewarm.

~Sulk openly about how some of the blogs amaze me-for how on earth could they have hundreds of comments on their posts with the kind of drab they publish!

~Blabber that I care a flying fuck about keeping abreast with the news/politics, except what Twitter provides me with and haven’t read the paper beyond the entertainment section in years and still not have you do ‘haaaaaaaaaaaaw’ at me.

~Plead guilty to how I was a better daughter till I had a daughter of my own.

~Divulge that if I ever wrote my autobiography, it would shock just too many to redeem. 

~Expose that I like playing with minds more than with people.

~Practise what I preach and give up on what's beyond my reach.

~Indulge in wild parties and slide into being the sati savitri next day with equal conviction...

~Mention I am fat and give a curvy, wholesome image of me in your mind instead.

~Moan about being alone in the blanket right now.

~Manage to churn out a book someday.

~Look at my wardrobe and sulk for everything is too old, too tight or just not right!

~Complain why I can’t have my pie and eat it too.

~Bring about a rule that you aren't being unfaithful, if it is only in the mind.


~Announce that the only thing I cook well...are the stories.

~Try to act dumb some day, just to see how half of the world feels!


Ah, too many skeletons revealed...so until next time!

The Day with the Magnate

My husband is into garment business-retail and wholesale and the entire big joint family has a few reputed brands and their distributorship under their growing bellies’ belts. For all you know if you are wearing good branded clothing and living in the NCR, it might have somehow channelized through the Arora Parivaar or someone we know closely we aren’t really THAT big but then so aren’t the bulls if you look at them standing next to the elephants as against the dogs. Oho just thinking a random fact #1 here: if A=B and B=C and thereby A=C, does that mean if I touch my husband and my husband touches a jacket and that jacket is touched by a shopkeeper to whom it is sent and then you touch it to buy it, would this imply that I touched you? Issssshhhh...uncalled-for display of my mathematical and calculative genius should be kept aside for some other time.

So when it was heard that Mr Nitin Kasliwal, the owner of S Kumar’s and Reid N Taylors, is coming to town for some business expansion meetings and would be visiting the house for lunch, it was not just another day in the household, heaving with arrangements to dazzle the business magnate, who basically lives in London now, going to and fro nationally when required.

Now being the most chotti bahu not in terms of size or gray matter of course, I do not care have much idea about all that’s happening at the top levels, unless rumour/gossip/news trickles down to me through some kind route. I just heard the oldies talking about how well read and very intelligent THE man is and among the ladies the vine was abuzz about how charming and humble is his wife, Jyoti. They spoke of how varied are his interests and we should open our mouths only if we had something witty to say. Instantly I decided to shut my gap for I kinda have this love-hate relationship with trouble and did not want to be the bread burner with the oven that provides us with our bread and butter. Troubles love to hate me.

So I sat in a corner lounge all dressed up while the rest of the jing bang of some thirty people of the ‘just’ family, ran to and fro making arrangements from laying matching napkin rings on the dining table, right down to keeping scented door mats on the threshold. I resigned to the corner with my thoughts but then troubles go round and strike at the corners first it seems.

The brakes of the long car came to a screeching halt as a pig came right in front of the car from nowhere. But I love these street animals-if it weren’t for them my daughter would never sit put in the car while we commute. We were told that their chartered plane had landed some half an hour ago and the wait had caused a few yawns in some and circulation of scandalous bitching amongst the rest of those waiting. The brakes rang loud like an annoying alarm clock, making you jump at your feet like you do when the realization sets in early morning that you have grossly overslept. Settling the creases on the clothes and managing to place the hair strategically at just the right slant on our foreheads, the pretty ladies ventured to the door while the men sought to please and welcome. Mr Kasliwal is known to be a tad particular about stuff and easy to get offended if things are not to perfection. As for me, this was the materializing of my childhood dream of watching the President’s salutation first hand on Republic Day at the Rashtrapati Bhawan-only in this case there were no trumpets and salaami of bandooks. If I didn’t know better, I might as well look around the milieu with my Ms Homes invisible hat on, snooping for some hidden terrorists all set to attack. Ufff....basically saying there was solemnity and formal seriousness like I have never seen before.

We all smiled-they at us, we at them and the servants at each other-it is not every day they saw their masters as submissive as now. The man did have an impressive and towering personality and strides of someone who’s walked half the world and owned some of it. All the tayajis and chachajis and the bhaiyyas were definitely at the “attention/tension” mode and that made my “stand-at-ease” also restless. The general round of introductions followed as the king’s feast was laid and all the bhabhis got down to serving and coaxing the guests to eat. Random fact#2: Now we are much defamed for over-feeding using statements that are dipped in just the right amount of cajoling and emotional blackmail and facial expressions that are so distressed at your refusal that you feel like an executioner. This happens so much that my father lives in mortal fear of being invited to our house for dinner. He gives up on food since morning for he knows his drink would be refilled before it reached the bottom and plate reloaded before he opens his mouth to say ‘no’.

Anyways, when my turn came going through the chronological order, almost like saving the best for last, Mr Kasliwal, THE tycoon stopped before me and smiled, “So you are Suruchi?”

Have you ever seen a magic show on stage in which a magician cuts a woman into pieces and then shows her moving in different boxes kept at a distance? I had the exactly same expression. And have you seen a parent whose ten years old child has peed in his pants and dropped the cake just as the party is nearing its zenith of being termed as ‘the party of the year’? That was my husband’s expression and a little less aghast but definitely concerned reflections were marked on the faces of the others. Now wtf had I done?

“Ji”, I managed to speak out and my lips alternating in doing a dance between rising into a smile and drooping with anxiety and hands almost shivering in such a timid handshake I could have been mistaken for a bunny. And in the next minute, without any warning, he hugged me with a roaring laughter. Now have you seen the expression on the face of a highly placed Incomes Tax official who has broken an expensive vase in some defaulter’s house and knows that they can’t do a fuck about it? Now that was MY expression. I was being embraced by a random stranger in front of everyone in the family and my super-conservative husband when it comes to this and no one could do a fuck about it.

But what he said in the next instant was even more earth-shattering.

“I am a big fan of your blog posts...”

Oh my gaaaaaaaaaawd! (Ekdum woh Janice from F.R.I.E.N.D.S waala OMG here was reverberating in my mind)

“You read my blog?” yes, we suck sometimes in asking the obvious and appearing totally dumb, just at the moment we have been complimented for our wit #God couldn’t find another moment to show me personification of irony.

“Of course I do, in fact just the other day I showed the ‘virginity’ post to my son, teasing him with queries if he went through the same and we laughed about it, didn’t we Jyoti?”

And all eyes now moved from him at one end to Jyoti at the other, like they do in a tennis match. And Jyoti just beamed with such sweet smiles that were it words, it would sound as the sweetest compliment.

“I am so honoured, thank you. I never realized...”

“Oh but not your fault, I never comment and when I do, I use the anonymous feature. It is not easy to do all this with my real profile. Haven’t you noticed all that showering of my complete adulation in so many recent posts as “anonymous”?

“Oh my god, the one with whom I enter into mindless banter. I am so sorry. I just didn’t think...”

And he burst into a boisterous laughter again.

“It’s not your fault. How would you know who I was?

He turned now to my father-in-law’s eldest brother, who was as alien to the entire subject at hand as “Whill you do phrandsheep by me?”-kinda people are to English. “Mr Arora, you have a gem of a writer in your family? Itna talent hain Kanpur jaise sheher mein, it is amazing!” And eyes back to me again, “I thought you looked familiar when I saw you with everyone as I entered, but never did I think that the Suruchi Arora I have been reading so voraciously from a few months would belong to this family.”

By now I had gotten used to the sudden tilt of the spotlight bulb on my proud little head and I was smiling almost comfortably. I had to almost physically stop my finger from rising against them all in an accusing posture. So you people, who thought I spend useless hours on the computer and ‘what blogging-shlogging she does, we only know of water logging’ kinda retorts-here was a mooh tod jawab! I did not know or care how he stumbled upon my blog, all I knew and wanted to know was how much he loved my posts. He was no longer the feared Mr Kasliwal-he was transformed into just another fan and me as the Blog Goddess on the altar that I often placed myself on.

My husband also butt in now, “Oh she writes amazingly well! She even has 250 followers now...” Shhh, abhi celebrity bani nahi ki autograph and photograph greedy log ki line lag gaye! Ya right, as though you read Mr Parmeshwar of Pati variety and as though you would have ever known how many, had I not hammered it about a 50 times into your too-dipped-in-work head, as soon as the figure turned to 250!

“I know Mr Gautam and you are a very lucky man. I hope you know that. In fact just the other day, I mentioned your wife and her absolutely riot writing to Anil...”

Anil who I thought-Anil his secretary, Anil Kumble, Anil Kapoor may be...

Looking at our blank expressions, he clarified, “Anil Ambaniiii and he was very interested in knowing more....”

And just at that precise moment, my glory-shory could not be digested by jealous onlookers and I was visibly and actually being shaken. “Get up Suruchi, the guests have come...” Now that was my husband, doing rightly what he always does in the real world-check me out of my reverie. I had sauntered again into my imagination world and brought back just at the climax-you know how you ‘get turned on to the hilt and then are told-we’ll do it tomorrow’ kinda expression spread on my face as Mr Kasliwal and his wife came, did a “Namaste” to me, ate and chatted with the others and left just like that-without any screech of car brakes, without any happy coincidence and without making me go anywhere near that Blog Goddess altar again! Sigh!

P.S.1 The moral of this story is that being anonymous can be injurious to everyone’s health. So all those who come here, read and go away without doing any cho-cha in the comment box with your name, you realize how years of therapy may be needed to get me to overcome this mind fuck.

P.S.2 Not all the absurd always happens with me-sometimes I attract it by my power of imagination.

P.S.3 If this post ever reaches Mr Kasliwal by some cruel game of fate, please remember to be sporting about it-mere bread and butter ka sawaal hain! And also you should read the Virginity post along with the others, maybe even recommend them to Anil.

P.S. 4 Sorry to put you through such a long post that turned out to be a phoos pataka-damp squib in the end. I guess it is my answer to God-what goes around, comes around!