My New Grown-Up Drug.

Once upon a time, I read books, dedicatedly, painstakingly, like a pilgrim at the threshold of his pilgrimage. Books consumed me, as I would devour page after page, lost in translation. Then along came people-with speaking faces and myriad feelings, with mincing grudges and obsessions, with overriding affections and affectations, with intense emotions and motions. Their moving hands, the receptive ears, beholding the tingled skin, the eager or hesitant mouths which round and widen, taking shapes of smiles and frowns, as words flowed out of them effortlessly and sometimes, post great deliberation!

Yes, I had found the more grown-up drug.

Faces can beam and rot you know, taking from blossoms. Not due to age, but experiences. It’s not about ‘Does the face make you swoon?’ It’s more about ‘Does it make you smile?’ Faces tell stories, they are an index of our minds, of all that is otherwise latent and sublime. Not eyes, they just need an empathetic heart. Have you noticed someone getting goose bumps on their skin post something you said? Yes, priceless! Sensual pleasures are just not restricted to bed-they can be derived by receptive senses, anywhere and anytime.

The voices, ah! You see most by listening. You could travel up and down an entire scale of passions with the voice that perhaps could personify character itself-the way it ranges from sometimes jingling with excitement like a fresh water spring to soft whispers, like falling into a bed of cotton caressing you with gentle taps till within. Voices don’t lie, people do. Voices entice, beckon, ensnare-like little magical spells that are woven by their mere echo on a person’s hearing. Eargasms, anyone? A soft, passion-smeared whisper in the ear can often be equivalent to the adrenalin rush received by wild searching fingers on the body, the chill down the spine.

I began to study people as though with a voracious starvation, live little lives and learn little lessons. They come wrapped in bundles of expectations and a cartload of disappointments, helping them evolve every minute. Sometimes they live, at other times let-live. Real, breathing, heaving, sighing human beings-they brought along with them hitherto untold stories, of lives they’ve led in bodies and mind. They respond to touch, whether or not there is any skin contact and they embody drama that we only hear of, for like they say, truth is stranger than fiction.

Words are potent, as books prove. However, when they emanate from voices separated from us by miles, generations and no relations, they just touch or instruct us. But when they stem from a person we know and look up to, how quickly they take, to not just touching but clinging and mingling in our very fabric. Words become you. They fill the empty specs, some voids that need to reverberate with some words, magnetically searching each other in the noises of the world. Romance, you ask? Well, yes, to a certain extent. For when he fills your mouth with his words, it is also a kiss or something like that.

I took to people-fascinated by the realms of lives unravelling layer by layer into a common man’s grand saga. How like a bud someone slowly opens to you and how like the petals then slowly encompass you within an embrace of trust! I took to being a co-passenger with some, lighting their path with whatever wispily shone within my own horizon, lending a listening ear to a mouth that craved to be heard, or just giving the complacent pleasure of the knowledge that someone’s there to care.

It’s a more long term gratification that a book could compete to concede. They say you live lives with books-fall in unadulterated love, climb lofty, indomitable mountains, dive into the alluring depths of oceans, conquer countries, travel path-breaking journeys and the likes. Human experience is all that and more.

Reach out to people. Be interested in their stories than in relating your own woes. For in un-knotting someone else’s tangles, you derive solutions for your own. Get outside of books, get into people. Find those worth drenching in, for such are the showers of communicating with brilliant minds that leave you wet in ecstasy of an unheard kinds. Books could help you search your soul, people could end your search for the soul mate.

As I write, I look wistfully at three freshly bought books lying beckoning on my writing table. The scent of a new paperback how like the scent of a man, tends to sneak in your insides to pull from within. Perhaps, I would return to my old love again. Or perhaps, there’d someday be someone to read to me the same. A cold winter evening, a balmy fire place, hands curling onto a simmering coffee mug and a huge bean bag wanting for us to give it shape. Come, let’s glow in this fire and as I sit looking at you mesmerized, read to me from a book and then from a life!

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!*  

Crushing Crushes!

A dear friend of mine just got me down the memory lane to where I began my journey of handling crushes and being crushed!

While growing up and as adolescence set in on my hitherto super seedhi life, I used to have crushes @ of one every day...yes, you read right-almost EVERY DAY on an average. I think it is a little girlie thing don’t you dare single me out now my sisterhood gender on this. We little girls become all ‘awwww-ed’ with and about anyone who is relatively nicer or essentially cuter or gives us a little more than usual attention. For some, this inbuilt defective tendency continues till an unfathomable age, as I am a living proof. So I used to think the world about the new computer teacher-the only male teacher by the way in a convent school, governed by super staunch nuns-are there ever nuns who aren’t those anyways? Also about the friends’ cousins, the aunt’s brother, my elder brother’s friends, the shop keeper’s cute son and heck, much to my embarrassment now, even the boutique owner in those days he was called a tailor but that sounds even more awful and hence these small fonts to escape readers in a rush. There’s a reason why the government does not provide voting rights to adolescents and I just proved them right. But on second thoughts, if they did, at least the leaders representing our country would be good looking...sigh!

So my friends could pretty much count my crushes on their fingers, not the middle ones, please. And for accurate counting here I mean each finger getting into further sub divisions of three and thereby thirty at a time would suffice for reference’s sake. Just so that our moms would not know while eves-dropping, we rechristened the hunks as Anita for say Arun, Sonia for Saurabh, etc*the names have been changed to maintain the privacy of those concerned and also a concerned me* And before you think I was the worst, to keep a count of my friends’ crushes we had to maintain the abacus!

But more of my crushes some other time...this post is not about THAT!

I can almost imagine with sadist pleasure, you watching the screen with a gaping mouth and a disdained look that says, ‘She ranted one page about this crap and says she will “talk” about it some “other” time.’ Yes, sorry, this post was meant to be about people who had crushes on me and the encounters thereby which thankfully did not lead to the ‘happily ever after’.

Cut to my first year in college-the bubbling excitement of being on the threshold of adulthood was barely under control and we attended college for almost a full month as dedicated students. Of course later we realised that in Kanpur, you DON’T attend college, you just appear before the exams to collect your admit cards and then for the exam itself.

There was this College Union Leader. Remember Salman Khan in a flick called ‘Tere Naam’ but minus the atrocious hair flicks? He was the dada of the college-everything, even the teachers seemed to be under his control. He somehow developed a fascination for the plain Jane in me. While I would sit in the class and try to listen to the lectures, he would stand outside and watch me through the French windows. Then like the good Hutch puppy or is it Vodafone now, he would follow me around. This went on for a month till I became the butt of everyone’s jokes, as the moment I entered college and till I left, I had acquired an obnoxious, unpaid, almost pupils dilated for he would just stand and stare, as if in life there was no care body guard. I remember just when I had decided to not come to the college because of him that I got into trouble with not getting an admit card for some stupid reasons. And who else would I have to turn to instead of standing in long queues to wait for irritated professors to hear my plea!

His answer- “You do not worry, the admit card would reach your home.”

Me- “But I can wait here till you get it, sir.”

He- “Girls like you should not wait around here, aap jao, mein hoon na.”

Needless to say the admit card reached my home, without me being asked for my address.

I had not complained about him for he never really tried to approach or talk to me and anyways no one would have listened to me against him. I did not see him again, although till now I can picture precisely his slightly tilted stupid head and fixedly gazing face and all the filmy drama that he created. Maybe that was my preparatory ground of influence for acquiring the title of ‘drama queen’ that I subsequently developed.

There was this another time when a friend’s cousin managed to extract from me, my phone number after badgering me about it for months. After five days of telephonic conversations, he proposed to me I do sound vain here, don’t I? Well, it is a good thing I can’t show you pictures of these samples, so you would then sympathise with me instead. Now, I was in a fix. How do I tell this totally bhaiyya ji type manushya that this was the worst idea ever, even worse than watching shows like Rakhi Sawant or Rahul Mahajan getting hitched on television-my epitome of experiencing hell on earth? So I managed a little argument to confuse his duh-brain-ic abilities. He was thin like a rake and dim like a cake*used the analogy for rhyme’s sake*.

Me- “I don’t think we would have a future. You are soooo thin and I am well, not soooo thin. We would look terribly odd and soon you won’t like me anymore.”

He- “You think I am so shallow to like you for your body. I like your soul”

Me- *Oh my bloody hell-actually thinking that and not saying it aloud...probably because he had rendered me speechless and thank god I did not lose my voice forever out of shock, after hearing such utterances*

Somehow I succeeded to use my weight for the first time in my favour. Sometimes when I still bump into him in public gatherings, after a cold eye, I get a murderous look from him of his late realisation that he was hoodwinked then and how!

There was another episode that is tumbling down the annals of my suddenly revitalised memory. When we gang of school girls would get together at someone’s house, our idea of fun would be to get phone numbers of the hottest, cutest guys in towns and call them up to indulge in anonymous chats over the speaker phone. One would talk and the rest would indulge in mute guffaws. My friends were professionals in the game and we would later sit and do character assassination of too eager boys to spill their beans. With no caller Id’s and cell phones in those good old days, we connived with panache, knowing we’d never be caught.

One fine day at my friend’s house, I was challenged and a new number was put on the platter. I was handed the baton*in this case the telephone receiver* and instructed to get him bewitched. Come to think of it, television shows like “Emotional Atyachaar” where boyfriends/girlfriends get loyalty tests done on their lovers, was actually our brain child, devised years ago but sadly not patented. Anyways, there was a capsule course of voice training given by my batch mate followed by a briefing of what I should or should not do and say yes, the only thing missing was an armour and gun for I felt I was going at the border for a war and the onus of all womankind was on my not-so-little shoulders.

I spoke to this so termed ‘newest dish on the block’ for half an hour and was quite proud of myself, as everyone looked at me with a new respect for they didn’t expect me to last beyond 5 minutes. I still remember we all used the name “Anamika” ironically and left half of the eligible guys in quaint little Kanpur wondering who the hell for ‘who the fuck’ was not so common then was Anamika, screwing up the happiness of their lives.

The drama began when two days later I got a call from this ‘dish’ at my home number. What the fuck! Yes, I decided to fuck decency even in my thought bubble. This had never happened before with any of us girls that the guys managed to know who we were or get our numbers. They were always left at our mercy, to make the next call at OUR pleasure-that is whenever we got together again.

All hell broke loose. My virginal attempt became the biggest screw up and for a long time I got blank calls and pleading calls when I picked up the phone, till he eventually gave up. We never got to know how he reached me but our little secret enterprise died an untimely death and all Anamikas were wiped off from the face of Mother Kanpur for good.

Another dim wit of the highest order, called at my house and the schmuck flirted with my mother thinking it was me and my mother carried along with the whole idea for a couple of calls, throwing in her defence that she wanted to get to the bottom to know how deep my knees were in it. Years later, now I tease her that she did so then for her own little kicks that she must have got out of it!

Enough revelations for now! Such is life-there have been rarely “crush”ed people advancing towards me whom I did not actually want to crush with a rolling pin.

Does everyone go through these buggers or am I god’s special child?

When the f@#$ did womanhood happen here?-In search for the Girl in me!

Why aren’t there more women’s night outs and get-aways in India that are so religiously performed and basked in by our fairer sisters abroad, as depicted in soapy soaps and sit-coms from the West? Yes television is spoiling us, admitted...can we now move on? Our very sexier version of forty somethings of ‘The Sex and the City’ in the U.S. of A have a ball meeting up for a drink to discuss and dissect their sex lives or the lack of it and we are still stuck on maids and mothers-in-law? Excuse me, it is just not me, it is a disease of infectious proportions prevalent among the species that have mated and consummated the task of having junior versions of themselves sauntering along the planet.

Why aren’t there more bars/night clubs/lounges where single beauties and even the marginally so ones can go by themselves and get a date? I have a plethora of still single women friends, who have given up hope of ever finding a suitable guy at a night joint for it is flocked by “boys-girls” or couples...whatever happened to those in between? Why do we have to give up on girlhood and adapt to womanhood, just because we cross thirty?

The Desperate Housewives gals/women or even some of our own metro chicas know how to ruffle up smooth surfaces and raise many an eyebrows when they make entries and we are still hung up on who’s watching and thereby how we should appear to be. And those who don’t bother about the onlookers, the onlookers are most bothered about them and brand them as the next slut on the block. Wtf!

My god, the society-we can neither live with or without it, in or out of it.

There are days when my husband can have one of his many frequent boys’ night outs term it as a stags’ night out, for boyhood would be an illusion now and for me it would remain just a distant dream for many reasons per se:

A. Why do you women need a night out when you can meet over coffee or visit your friend’s home during the day or mall hop? ya right, we meet over soppy coffee and you over wicked vodka-isn’t that a fair world we respire in...sigh!

B. How would you return home baby at late hours, it is not so safe you know? Me: Reallyyy, why don’t we all stack up at one woman’s house then for the night and return home next morning in broad daylight and when we are sober.

He =HUH!!!!!!!!*that sound that emits from your beloved’s now-not-so-beautiful-seeming mouth asserts that you have just committed something short of a terrible blasphemy, even by the mere thought of it*

C. Log kya kahenge oh, crap! Now the only remaining thing to say would be-tum hamare khaandaan ke izzat ho!

Last year while visiting my still single friends in Delhi, we went lounging till the wee-hours, sang songs at the terrace and drove back with blasting music way past midnight enjoying the cool breeze of half deserted and yet alive lanes of Dilli. What a blast it was, making me empathise just for a wee bit of a weak moment with my beloved’s need to do a night out by himself for you realize it is so liberating, when done once in a while. I recommended it to all and sundry in my gender of sisterhood at the cost of being branded as someone whom husbands hushed their wives to listen less to. Needless to say, after many months of trying I could not materialize an encore in my small town and gave up. Maybe it is not so much a matter of small or big town as it is of small minds.

Till three decades of my life, I tried to keep alive the girl in me, so much that I never really felt I had left school so long ago and even unknowingly called some of my age-mates ‘bhabhi’ for along with the fringes of their saris were tagging along toddlers and not so tiny tot brats. I was wild in some sense though always bridled. Heck, last year I was even thinking of joining tennis classes so I could accompany my G when he goes to play squash every morning, learn an instrument/language and lose so much weight with vengeance that Salman Khan signs me up for his next movie session that is, totally besotted.

Things stand at a different shore this year.

Seeya’s bought a change and made me grow up. And needless to say I see-saw between the inferences of whether THAT is a good or a bad thing. You can’t be the girl anymore when the girl in your arms searches for the woman she wants to look up to.

There are days when friends who knew me from then and now turn around to comment how serious I have become or how they miss my puns and double meaning innuendos and banter that would keep them in splits. It makes my heart go split wide open with a strange ache despite the love balm that Seeya’s smile spreads on it each day. I miss writing blog posts that “I” liked and that did not whine. Someone mentioned the other day how I ruled Face book in my hay days with the wittiest of status updates on a daily basis and a string of 60-70 comments on each one. Hay days?????????? My god, what happened since then? Who the donkey, ate up my hay? :(

Somewhere in doing this and that and being here and there, in doing what we must and in being what we ought to, we lose we. And although the men enjoy the pleasure of continuing to be boys all their lives, we women struggle to be more as well as less of a woman yes, that confused is our subsistence.

There were days when I advised these pearls free of cost:

You can’t help getting older but you don’t have to get old!

Growing old in inevitable and growing up is optional!

It is not the years in your life that counts, it is the life in your years!

It is important to have a twinkle in your wrinkle!

Today I look back at these and say what the crap probably the recipients muttered the same under their breath. There are phases in life that very few can obstruct and go past unaffected. You change while shifting from school to college, while transcending from the bachelor state to that of having walked the aisle. Should we then lament and relent or accept and forget? I am now trying to make a mature room for the fun craving girl within me.

Growing up/old is as unavoidable as the sun rise each day no matter how much you like the dark to party. It is important to keep the old girl alive in me but not at the cost of strangulating the young woman also within at each of such attempts. I don’t resist growing up, I resist growing boring. I don’t mind having a wrinkle in days to come, I would mind when that would be all that my face would have to show to the world.

We would always be little girls from inside. We would wish for mothers when we get sick of all that’s happening around and for daughters when we want to see our dreams manifesting through someone else. We would wait for love to happen to us that fairy tales are made of. We would want to be free like men and pampered like women and struggle between realizing ourselves between this to and fro of genders. We would constantly be haggled by “what ifs” and “why nots”. I guess the girl within never gets drowned in the lake of the mirror of time, she just sits by the shore watching the woman tamper with the hitherto silent surface. I guess if I could make this woman happy, she would stop inviting the girl to fill in the gaps.

Seeya's First Fifty!

Naah...Seeya has not joined any cricket league despite the cricketing fever gripping one and all, though she is making sixes of her own.

And naah...this is also not about Seeya’s first fifty dates either, which omg, I would have to tackle someday dates that is and not fifty of them-omg multiplied by fifty otherwise.

As Seeya turns one year and three months now, here are few of the words she blabbers besides aa-aa, baayla, yoo-yoo, pata-pata, apriya app, etc, that she keeps saying incessantly and we are still in the process of de-coding what these stand for.

She started with proper nouns a long time back...

So mamma, that’s moi, she alternates in calling Sucha smart girl, she knows how sucha and pavitra is her mom-who dareth snigger?

G she calls Thom-tom cause she cannot pronounce or perhaps take the effort of saying his entire name Gautam see, like mother like daughter, I just hope it does not shorten to G for her too some day

She calls my Gauri bhabhi-Gooyeeee

Preeti bhabhi- Pri-ta

Her cousins Chaitanya-Chayta, Kartikey-Kaka, Yashveer-Yajshu

Our servant Bablu- is Bubbbal, which he calls himself now

And Cheela for Sheile and Moyee for Munni, she learnt before all of these thanks to gyrating on their numbers watching the idiot box.

Since many months she constantly asks one question to all and sundry, no matter who they are and what they are doing. Her eternal quest is to find out ‘ka kal laye hain aap?’ (What are you doing?) -some very nosey grandma traits there that kinda bother me, but when she dances like Sheila, my fears kinda rest in peace, before new ones take birth.

And if I tell her once ‘aapko pyjama pehna rahe hoon’ perhaps she is slow on understanding that or just too sharp and insistent on learning what she hears, for she would persist in asking me that again and again till the damn pyjama is up her little legs. Needless to say I hurry up with the process as much as I can, but then comes the wearing of socks and sandals and the rest of the jinga-bang and her intriguing, grilling interrogation continues I wonder then if I should make her join the police force when she grows up-she’ll easily crack up the toughest of nuts

She learnt saying dogh and cat almost along side of saying paapaa and mumma not very good at selecting the synonymous pairing, is she?

She knows what is hot and cold, though she would put her palm on her cheek and take a deep breath, with an aghast expression on her little face, to indicate both as the same. While feeding her with the bottle, she’ll take one gulp and say hawt for she knows mom would then go to the tap to put it under water the bottle silly, not the milk so that it cools and she would get time again to stand on the bed and run in circles as though the pillow was the sun and she must orbit around it diligently like mother earth, to honour the holy processes.

Paani she learnt a long while back too and thank god she did not call it mum-um like other children do-she has now learnt waater, reminding me much of Rani Mukherjee in ‘Black’ saying the same. Now if only my daughter’s teacher ala me, was half as mesmerizing as Rani’s teacher ala Amitabh-I said “half” because one-forth of that I already am but it does not sound good enough, na?

And though I drilled into her whatch too indicating to my hand, just to annoy me she would insist it is not watch but ghaadiii as one of the maids casually explained to her and come back to saying watch only after I would thump my head in despair sadist tendencies too, eh?

And then she would say soyee to imply sorry, touching her ears and tilting her little head that beams with her charming smile and a minute later repeat the mistake. 

She’s a fruit-o-holic and hence ay-apple, guavaaa, papayyaa and o-ange feature big time on her speech list. Ask her at any time of the day, what she is eating or what she wants to eat and pat would come the reply aaaapple! Ask her what you should draw on the paper and voila ‘apple’ again. I mean agreed it is round and red and juicy and scoopy, but it is just a god damn apple at the end of the day, na? Since the time of Adam dadaji and Eve dadi ma, man has not been able to translate the essence of this tempting fruit and Seeya stretches the idea even more.

Other items on the list: 
Ba-ba-is what the balloons are called
Shauce-that is actually tomato sauce, which ends up on her fingers and tongue I don't know how!
Choos for shoes

Book-her eternal friend giving her company on the potty seat.

Boy n gaarl-thank god she can make out the difference from now itself and thank god not in the way that you are thinking of with your naughty mind.

Zip, ship, cow and bird are the lucky names too, that made it to the elite list.

Aur- to indicate more-and her dil forever maange more of everything

Door- which she would pronounce with a big rounding of her sweetest of lips, causing me to ask her on every bloody door step like a moron with the forgetful disease ‘what is this?’

Doll, whom she loves to ill treat-tear their legs apart or rotate their heads.

And teddah for teddy, her first love- you have to see how she makes her huge teddy lie down on the floor and then she lying on top of him to give him the greatest of crushing and actual bear hugs. It’s scary sometimes but then it makes me thank god even more for:

A) I am not that crushed tedda, 

B) It is just a tedda and not a boy, at the end of the day 

C) It is just a harmless hug, at least for now.

A-eyes, thigh, toes-e, arm, navel, carrot, bread, cot, soap, car, bush, Santa, star, oon for moon, naaye for Naani and maaye for mami...

Aa jaayeye aap- to call just about anyone or anything. She would look at water and ask it to come to her for her highness would not take the pains to walk up to it.

Yeh-bhi hai for two of anything- like ask her to kiss on one cheek and she’ll point at your other one asking yeh-bhi, almost indicating mom, what are you saving that one for omg-I hope she is not a reincarnation of Mahatma Gandhi, but then she screams one of her blood curdling yells for just about nothing consequential and even Gandhiji turns in his grave in horror.

She’ll pick up the phone and say hewylooh reminding me that I have to work big time of rectifying that accent.
She loves to get herself clicked and would insist on you showing her the fhoto then on the camera.
There has to be the sound of band-baaja on the road, even at a long distance and watch her go shaayee for she would want to go out and see the shaadi.

She would say haaat in the most offending of manner to all passing by cars for madam’s car is on the road and all must hato to give her way and if they don’t, she takes out her toy gun and says tha-tha-tha to shoot them all off contrary to what you might think, I did not teach her THAT...you ought to know by now that I don’t use guns to shoot and I never do tha-tha-tha anyways...there are sounds of a different variety and pitch altogether.

And when the car reaches home she has to scream out kholo although I may be thumping the horn for all my dear life implying to the watchman to do the same.

She has also learnt shtop and chup, both the words, used on none other than me, when I am asking her to do something or am in feeble attempts of getting something done out of her.

She also knows what I call her and ask her ki aap mumma ke kya ho and pat she would say dodo again in an amazingly cute rounding of her lips.

Well, aren’t we done with the 50 yet, you ask?

 Offo, haaaw, fire, heart, no...okay enough already.

For when people say, wait till she begins to speak, I feel omg, I mean there would be more?

You’ll have to meet her to know more and baby sit her for me to allow you to meet her...for it is exactly one month now post no maid still...boo hoo, some anniversary, I’d say!

I will survive; I know I’ll stay alive
Please imagine that being played in the background for a better import of my situation here.



P.S. I am sorry for not being able to reply to the comments on my posts in the last few cases. The reason here is obvious, I do so much talking with her that I can barely manage to blabber back on my page beyond a few blog ideas and these too are connived actually for the hunger of more comments...ah, vicious cycle. I promise to do that at the earliest.

Age is a relative term!

Contrary to what the mind set has drilled into us, age is not really an indicator of maturity and thereby wisdom and substance. We have heard people say umpteenth of times, ‘I am older and have seen the world’ and thereby implying you should blindly follow what they are advising. ‘How could you know better being younger?’ is the typical belief on which the society in structured.

Yet, experience and the number of hours spent on Mother Earth cannot always ascertain the sagacious streaks in an individual. A twenty year old in this decade is smarter than one when I was one. But the adult forum around these twenty years old is still as was before, wrapped snug in the hazy, self-conceived notion that their off-springs are never going to be smart enough to have the last word. And consciously or unconsciously it is telling upon the gullible minds.

Credit should be given where due. The newer generation has the one-up card of modern and pro-active learning up their sleeves. This makes them more street smart than worldly wise. Even in emotional matters, it is often surprising to see many of the early twenty somethings behaving better than those taking precedence by several decades.

Are we heading towards a more mature young force?
Or is the older group suddenly losing its dominance over precision?


Sense and sensibility is an individual thing and can be cultivated!

I can still be corrected for my grammatical mistakes by a twenty two year old college going blogger and in all humility I must graciously accept where I falter. I often get into arguments about the home remedies to be tried on Seeya, with many well-meaning relatives and even my beloved. I refuse to follow just about every counsel that is thrown my way just because someone with more gray hair, is dishing it out, custom-made, without even me soliciting it. I’d rather go by what the doctor says now than what you experimented with, many years ago with your siblings.

However, often not just the oldies but even many-a-children are getting ensnared into this fabricated idea that the elderly are better equipped to handle almost any predicament.

It is sad that often a vulnerable, young mind is led to believe by his parents that they are right in deciding the course of action of his life, irrespective of their personal successes or failures, but by credit of the fact that they seem to ‘think’ they are better positioned to take these decisions. Many youngsters are still opting for a vocation based on their parents’ sketching it out for them, rather than scribbling through vague lines to reach to perfection themselves.

You are pushed into the ‘marriageable’ circuit or ‘child-bearing activities’ because the adults pull your reins and feel it is high time. A surprisingly high proportion of boys and girls let the issue of a life partner be decided for them after a couple of bad ‘love’ experiences, having lost the faith in them and patience to wait and watch.

Age has nothing to do with proficiency. Twenty years spent in erecting a life for oneself, are not less to know what we want. Children are not always wrong and adults not always right. If you are smart enough to know between right and wrong, you should also become smart enough to know what is right and wrong for you; or else give up on yourself as a bad job.

There is something that we are not teaching our children, despite providing them with a plethora of hand-picked facilities and nuances. It is the Midas touch of self reliance that can turn every obstacle into a landmine of golden opportunities. They are so accustomed to decisions being taken for them, that when the onus comes on to their own shoulders, they find their steps hesitating, voice mumbling and mind fumbling. We are not giving them the strength to take their decisions or courage to take responsibility for their actions. We want them to move on in life and yet wait for them to get prodigal and return to us again so that our relevance is reasserted.

Next time someone turns around and tells you that he is older and hence better suited to express an opinion...please give him a piece of your mind too, of whatever age n make it is! Let the children be. We all learn by one own experiences more than by sermons of a hundred epiphanies heard. We all have to make our own paths and walk on them with our own legs...high time we use our own minds too and let others use theirs for their own bodies. Amen!

I Kinda Hate Growing up!

I kinda like being a grown up but I kinda hate growing up!

Sometimes I resist growing up...
For it means giving up on
~The thought that books could actually teach me all.
~That Santa Claus does descend with joys n hence I left my door ajar in the freezing night with the biggest stocking I could find, by my bed side.
~When I watched over EVERY act of mine for eventual accountability, dreading that heaven n hell does exist, even if they were not on the map.
~When I convinced myself that my life sucked for I had no real best friend like on the series F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
~When the only thing I was responsible for were the grades at school.
~When it was not drilled in, that you could yearn only as per what you earned.

~When birthdays were big and little gifts-bigger.
~When getting wet in the rain was as simple as just extending your step out under the open sky.
~When even a little loose change in the pocket was enough to give me a sense of security.
~When ‘Branded’ was a term used to imply types of television, refrigerators or stereo sets and the likes.
~When you kept getting up to check your bed sides for a phantom after watching a horror movie.
~When I believed fervently that my parents would never die.

~When journeys were begun without the process of working out the destination n path details.
~When I didn’t have to think so many times before making a mere phone call.
~When I believed that manipulative people would LOOK evil and if you keep doing right there is no way wrong would come your way.
~When patting your back was not an extension of back biting.
~When I asserted only perishable products had a shelf-life and not relationships.

~When I could just break down before my mother instead of pretending to be brave.
~When a tear itching the heart was not masked by the explanation of something itching the eye.
~When ‘logic’ was a big word that you had little to do with.
~When you could do whatever made you happy without the fear of being deemed as childish.
~When you said what you felt rather than what you felt would be preferred to be heard.

I kinda like being a grown up but I kinda hate growing up!

The Quest for Prince Charming-The Frogs that I Kissed-Part 2

Alrity...for all those who were born here late...I am not enumerating my fetish for four legged croaky creatures...
I am just naturally assuming the character of a self proclaimed princess who went through the process of self display and mind churning encounters before she could land upon her prince charming...well, not literally ‘land-land’ for then my poor beloved would have been crushed before he could have had a chance to bloom...

In Part 1 of this hopefully two-part trial...I explained how the pear lump rejected me...
Lemme tell here now about a Delhi ke munda for whom I travelled again 440 kilometres in the hope of meeting my Raj, Rahul or Prem (you have to understand that Dilwaale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge had just released then...and all maidens worth their virginity...oops mettle...were dreaming of bumping into their Raj’s in some khet with a mandolin in hand...even a dumroo would have done...as long as he stretched his arms and did “aaaye...senorita” style! And they would run to him in slow motion with hair going left and right, up and down and a starched stark white duppatta lehrao-ing in the wind...running n running...till....they don’t run into his open arms but get a pat on their heads with a thick book, delivered just in time by their moms to remind them to straighten the upside down notebook and study). Gawsh...pardon me my dear readers for this digression....

Where the f@#$ were we or rather was I?
Acha...the Dilli ka munda...
So the mediators were the same...Le Meridian was declared inauspicious and a humbler abode...in this case a coffee house in Connaught Place was selected as the meeting point.
Same my father, same my mother, same brother n same little miss me...
The same salwaar suit...coz it had been barely a fortnight and such repetitions seemed reasonable!
I was so tempted to voice my opinion...Can’t we see them all in one go, in a day and get over with this? And by now you know that the world’s been saved big time because I’ve chosen to shut my gap at the strategically right moments. So needless to say...I decided to shut the f@#$ up and oblige!

Plus then I was getting a chance to come to Delhi and a whole lot of fuss was being created around me...which not surprisingly I always enjoy to the core!
But this time mediator aunty ji decided to intervene...
“Pinky bhabhi ji (that’s my mom...I know PINKY?????????? But that’s how or rather who she has been and that’s how my brother and I have lived with it....thank god they didn’t call me Rosy...despite the obvious similarities)
So.... “Pinky bhabhi ji...this suit...please don’t mind...but it’s screaming so UP!” (that’s not UP-market mind you...or raised Upper expectations....UP here stand for apna Uttar Pradesh...I could sense how she was aching to say it was “Kanpuriya” implying simple (phuleassssssss not Kanpuriya implying flashy). But then she must have thought that a state reference may be less or rather more affronting than a city one)
Oho somebody please stop me from bloody digressing!

Phew! Focus Suruchi, focus!
Anyways... “So bhabhi ji...I was thinking that since the last munda thought this was very simple...let’s go shopping for some new clothes”. “Oh ya aunty ji”, that’s me, by the way “What do you have in mind...a sexy halter top to match a-flirting-with-the-knees skirt?”
“Na na beta ji...it must be conservative still...but maybe a little more stylish salwaar suit...these metro boys, you know!”

So there....after that began a new torture as I might have tried around 50 salwaar suits to find the right one...as bad as kissing the frogs I’d say....coz when we came out of the stores we had purchased just two of them. So much for the bloody ratio 2:50...damn such statistics. Actually most of them didn’t have my size...thanks to my hereditary big butt where they’d usually get stuck...and then there were other classifications of rejections based on colour, creed n kind...whoever said racial discrimination does not exist...must empathize with the poor breeds of clothes that are mercilessly discarded just because a stupid tailor put orange buttons on a shocking pink outfit or decided to get spade n diamond shaped cuts on the edges of a suit.
Hey bhagwaan...why did you make the side tracks so bloody tempting for my vulnerable resistances?

So cut to the scene....
This Delhi munda comes with his mother and father...he has a sister too, married away somewhere in the country, not exposed to us yet till the discussions n deliberations reach the next level. Yup...SAARC summits beware...this was more controversial, confidential n crucial than all your damned meets put together!

The munda was again not very tall...wore spectacles and had a moustache adorning his almond shaped head. Mind you I said adorning as in actually a decorative piece...not in the least must you confuse it with another adjective “adorable”. Did I just feel that his hands were trembling or was he just fidgety or worse still an early Alzheimer’s case? He was bloody nervous alrite!

My modus operandi this time around had been altered keeping in mind the previous disaster!
“Beta ji...please don’t be quiet this time...speak something...we don’t want the munda to feel you are dumb...alright?” Show him that you are not a simple small towner...okkkkkkkk?”

And when someone tells me to show something....I often go all the way...Please don’t get ideas...what I mean is I go all the way to deliver what is demanded.

So again we-the proposed ‘couple in question’ were told to go and take a walk...
By now I was more relaxed in my skin...being one boy-seeing- ceremony down...but I think that was the virgin attempt of the poor boy, this time around. And this time around, as was decided, I yakked my guts outs...I had to show him Kanpur gals can be hip n happening too...I spoke n he fidgeted...I blabbered and he became more nervous...I used my hands and expressions till he almost became expressionless....
And after the rest of the nitty gritties...
What are my hobbies...what do I like to do...how much and what I have studied...part 2 ordeal also got over! Phew!
Result time: 2 hours later
Verdict: F again...not the f@#$ yaar...big Fail...
Reason: “The gal is too bold for our seedha saadha munda”
Ji, ji...NOW is the F-time beta....WHAT THE BLOODY F@#$!

Needless to say my counsellors sucked!
And when a kingdom has courtiers like that...you can be sure of its doom...I had almost resigned to the fact that probably I would die a frustrated spinster if I followed my so-called well wishers.
But a drowning (wo)man catches at every straw....
I continued to kiss the frogs and feel my mouth turn bitter with every kiss and tell episode...thankfully most continued to be rejected at the sorting table only!

The third munda came along from Pune...
Tall, handsome, some odd 8-10 years older to me...and a Casanova in his hay days...knew it as we knew him through family friends...
This time I thought to take matters in my hands...
And just coz I was rejected two times for no fault of mine...I rejected the poor fellow for no fault of his! Come on...I was 19 then...and entitled to show little traces of dumbness that have blown up with age in my case! Actually I getting to voice my opinion here was anyways a sham as the family had already decided upon disregarding the proposal due to too wide an age gap!
Confession time: His suave manners made me a bit insecure...he was perhaps too good for me...so I backed out! Sigh! Sigh!

Then I remember another cute hottie I was being fixed up with, belonging to my own town...This guy came with almost his whole pind to my school where I was teaching (after passing out from there just a year before) and broke all laws of subtlety...as the news spread like wild fire that someone’s come to “dekho” Suruchi ma’m! He was having a smouldering affair at that time which the whole town knew of, except of course my beloved parents. Besides I knew he’d prove to be too much of a dish to be handled after marriage so that he’s not man handled by the fairer sex in the long run. So though there was a lot of hungama around this one...and everyone thought is baar to sangam hoga he...I kept mum and waited for the next grand rejection. Why rub your fingers in mud when someone else was eager to do the dirty job for you? And so the rejection came and went! We all lived happily ever after for a while!

Finally the fifth time proved lucky as my prince charming managed to find me and released me from this frog kissing spree before it would have become addictive and I might have decided to continue it for a couple of years! More on the drama there for some other time!
Enough for now...all’s well that ends well!
And in my case...by god’s grace...the ends have justified the means...no gains without pains!
And what an awesome gain it has been!
Sorry frogs...another time in another life!

The Frogs I Kissed before landing on my Prince Charming!

Hi! Let me share with you my dearies the story of how I landed up where I am today...Alrity, hold those horses...I am not recounting any horny, cheesy, porny story of how I got on “top” of things...
I would like to share with you how many frogs I had to kiss before I could land on my prince charming...indeed again, without any kisses or doing so literally!

As soon as I had entered my athaarva saawan...bole to I had barely bidden good bye to my teens that my parents created a huge circus around me. I was yet to decipher what I had done to generate such a furore, and simply watched with dazed eyes how virtually a boy- finding establishment cropped up around me....flourishing and seething with activity as though it had been under operation from years. Hmm...Maybe like when I was born, the foundation of this co-operative society had been laid...I call it a co-operative because the motto was “Saathi haath badhana...ek akela thak jaayega, mil kar ladke chaatna...”

So every day and everywhere I went...I felt like a Thai sex doll on display, not because I was flaunting my body parts, but because of the curiosity I was breeding. People would scrutinize me from head to toe...ask me what I was doing...or what were my interests...or what had I thought of my future...and I smiled through this Punjabi torture of their mental maths of balancing my equation with any ‘changa munda’ they knew of.
Hey now that I think of it...not bad yaar...I must have been like the most eligible spinster of my town because practically everyone I knew was on a task of finding me a groom.

So after much grinding, elimination, horoscope matching, family investigation, discussion committee proposals (told u it is a bloody full blown set up of the highest order) I would be “shown” to the guy in question.

Scene 1-My virgin experience:
I was taken to Delhi because my papa ke mama ke bahu ke chacha ke saale ka ladka seems to have fit the bill. Phew! Thank god I didn’t get married there...I would have had to learn that relationship string to recite it with professional accuracy every time, to appear how blissfully glad I were about it! Anyways, he and his sister were flying down from Mumbai for a day...just for me! Whoa...thank you for adding the pressures on the already scared to death nineteen year old “kuan ke maindhak”...that was me! Just fresh out of school and up on display in the nuptials domain...with no clue really about anything!

A new salwaar-suit I wore...which was supposed to be decent and nice, bought from a big store of my not so big-small town. Rushed to Delhi...bathed, powdered a bit, my hair combed for the umpteenth time and me told to smile n look down in shyness for bloody umpteenth to the power of 100 times. Meeting point: The Le Meridian- a five star hotel of the capital...target area: the coffee shop!

And after a wait of about half an hour...fashionably late I guess (the boy shouldn’t seem to eager n desperate...@!#$$%) we watched with baited breathe as a five feet five inches something walked in with a five feet seven inches something. The 5.5er was the boy in question...Didn’t you guys tell this “god’s gift to women” (I swear as he trotted with his plump legs forward and I could hear this tag with each bloody step he took towards us) that I am 5 feet 5 inches myself? He was short, plump...okies pleasantly plump...cause so was moi...and superbly obnoxious with his attitude of a Mumbai-ite looking for a simple homely small towner....
Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh...why didn’t I scream then...I am still wondering n so doing it here n now!

So we settled in and the formalities passed around. I saw my parents fawning for the first time ever and the guests basking in that glory. The sister, straight out of a page 3 circuit...I must say was extremely pleasant, sophisticated and demure.... ‘Where did she pick up her repellent brother from?’ Was a thought I was so tempted to ask but thank god for prudence and timely silence...

The menu cards were handed down and I could hear the “order something betaji” being crooned from all corners by my parents n maamas and the mediators to our venerable guests...
“Aunty ji” said the pear lump...oops sorry the pear shaped boy... “Do you mind if I take Suruchi for a walk and maybe we get to talk a little?”
“Of course not beta ji...you must know each other better. But first please have something...errr...coffee, tea or maybe some drink-shrink?” My mom here trying to gauge if the munda has any “bad” habits...Does he drink, smoke or womanize would all be fathomed by his next answer? “No aunty ji...I don’t take drinks regularly and definitely not in the afternoons...I’d order a cappuccino”

Phew! Thank god the boy’s side didn’t hear the loud sighs of relief from my camp or realize that he had already passed one litmus test that should take him to the next level of suitability...never mind if he looked like he’s not slept since he was born. So we peeped into the menu card...for I had yet to discover what the fuck was a cappuccino...I was hoping it would have something to do with Chinese food...coz at 19 Maggie n Chinese were my dream come true...I guess often they still are!

Bloody Rs. 350 for a cup of coffee...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This cappuccino must be like elixir and it better taste as one coz I heard my mom blurting... “Alright then...waiter...cappuccinos for everyone...” Helloooo mom...I want a cold coffee with dollops of ice cream, dripping with smooth chocolate sauce n loads of nuts, garnished my wafer and chocolate bits that I can savour with a lick of my lips and some orgasmic pleasure on one side of the table....
But mums can be pretty unreasonable at times...and this was one of those golden moments when I knew I better not open my mouth to make my ‘outstanding’ suggestions.

The cappuccinos arrived just in time to rescue us from a long recital of how he was making millions maybe with every move he made...not on the tread mill of course...!
Hmmm...The smug reactions of my camp...could almost see a thought bubble over their heads that said “Hamare beti to yahan raaj karege!” Another thought bubble over the boy’s head that said, “Oh I am so smart...oh I am so sexy...oh I am so super-duper good...n oh, oh...” Would someone give me a needle to prick some of his bubbles coz they were reproducing by the minute!

The cappuccino as expected tasted bitter and horrible...why torture your system with something so distasteful...yup, I am still talking of the coffee n not the guy! And we were finally told to walk about the lobby and check out the shops...yippieeeeeee....would he make me shop...hehe...high hopes we all have when we are 19!

And so we walked and talked!
To think I made him ‘move’ his legs for a change...he should have fallen down on his knees and thanked his lucky stars for me!
And then began a volley of bizarre questions...
I was briefed earlier about the agenda and my modus operandi at such a crucial juncture....
“Talk less...just answer....don’t ask too many questions...and smile”
So I guess I did all the above four steps at the same time and looked like a jack ass of the highest order!

I smiled non stop...hey I couldn’t help it really...the guy was actually funny...ROFLMAO funny yaar!
I answered mostly in mono syllables, didn’t ask him much...not that he shut his gap for a reasonable amount of time to allow me to do that! I remember however something insane he asked me....
“Hey, have you watched this latest movie...errr....English movie...I don’t watch Hindi movies, you see- ‘Austin Powers, the spy who shagged me’? So what do you think about it?”

Hmm...A million dollar question that was...It was to seal my fate with this guy...it would tell how happening or otherwise I was...it was to tell what my views were on the “shagging” bit and despite my limited knowledge...I knew “shag” was not such a good word...
So I thought and thought n thought n said...
“No I haven’t...what do you think about it?” Pretty safe I thought...put the balls in his court...heavens knew he needed some!
And there began another round of “blah, blah, blah n me, me, and me” till he finally suggested...“Let’s go back to the coffee shop...they must be wondering.” I gave him a smile that almost screamed, “I thought you would never ask!”

Ya, ‘wondering’ if I am still alive or choked to death by the moron with curly hair...on his head of course...small squintish eyes...ugly teeth and bloated with himself like a fluffed winged pigeon!
Also wondering if he decided to take me to a hotel room instead to check me out even better;)

I returned back to sanity and final pleasantries were exchanged and good bye time came about...My father paid several crisp thousand rupee notes and we all extended the plastic smiles to their full bloom one last time before we’d all get out of one another’s sight and relax those over-taxed jaws. “We’ll let you know aunty ji over the phone as soon as I reach home and ask Munna about this” said the sissy...not the boy yaar...the boy was munna or monu or baba...whateverrrrrrrr...it was his sister who spoke before they whisked past in their Mercedes!

Precisely four hours later the phone rang...imagine the scene like they show in the Hindi movies...a child has been kidnapped and the kidnappers are going to call to tell about the ransom and the meeting spot...So everyone in the room is in nervous anticipation...you could almost see some beads of sweat trickling down...the ring brings in a close up of each face with a dramatic background sound...as one man rises with suspense to pick up the receiver...and slowly says “hello”...hehe...aisa he kuch hua tab bhi!

And I was rejected!
Hahahaha....
I didn’t laugh then, so I am kinda making up for it now...
And the cherry on the cake...
His reasons for citing the refusal....
“She’s too simple and shy, doesn’t talk much, just smiles and didn’t even ask me anything....”
Bloody hell....so much for my trustworthy counsellors misguiding me....actually thank god for them...bless you guys! Well done!

So we packed our boriya bistar and headed back home!
I failed in my virginal attempt...I wanted to tell my parents that it’s ok...I am just one boy down...hehe...not how you think...god bless your dirty mind too...but then like always... I just shut up and enjoyed the moment of me having escaped the idea of having to live with the pear lump....I hope you are happy somewhere and flourishing even more...one last nice word for you coz I have been kinda mean here with you: I miss your millions darling but not you...!

(P.S. For more updates on my dear frogs....watch this space for a sequel....this post has run too long!)