A year and a day

A year and a day ago, I came to Delhi, utterly sure that I could face everything the city could throw at me. I fancied myself worldly-wise, and a sophisticate, a gentle ball of joy and wisdom that would obliviate all negativity and coat itself with rose petals.

No such luck - Delhi won, I hate the city (as much as I want to love it, I hate hate hate hate hate hate Delhi and most of its disgustoid, honky, honky, honky, overtake-y, dub stepped inhabitants).

Surprisingly, (or maybe not), most people I knew in Delhi didn't share the sentiment; to them, Delhi was either home, or an adopted home with more pluses than minuses, and it suited their purposes just fine. I despaired of finding someone who would understand how soul-crushing and spirit-defeating Delhi could be - did no one hate it as much as I did? Did no one dream that they'd find satisfying careers elsewhere? Were people really comfortable making long-term plans about staying in Delhi - WHY?

I wondered if there was something wrong with me - did Delhi leave me out of its charm-spell? Why couldn't I enjoy the gol guppas and the lehengas and the meter-using autowallahs and be happy?

I don't know, and I wish I loved Delhi - I really do, because then life would be much simpler - but seven years (bloggy's birthday is sometime now) at idreamthedream should have warned you that I never get to do simple. Its always complex, and sometimes its even batshit insane, and I guess that's what gets a blog running. Who wants to read about a simple life anyway? (looks around warily)

What else - oh, professionally, I am a mess, but not really, I think. I don't know. Clarity is lacking sorely on this front, but I trudge ahead, brave warrior, spiky ball, less gentle than I used to be - wondering why I have to look out for myself as much - what a bloody waste of time it is.

I feel like so much has happened in the last year, but I can't articulate my ineffectual grasp of it all. I lived in Delhi, I tried being in academic / public policy, I slept more than I should have, I am rested now, and I'm ready to take on the world - but I worry that I am losing my gentle, flower-child, sense of self, and am instead morphing into a (even more) manipulative thick-skinned bitch. Will I cry if children die? That's rhetorical, calm down.

I can't say I'm impressed with the last year - it was a more a lesson in what-not-to-do, rather than the opposite. But learning happens in curious ways, and knowing the things that one shouldn't do isn't any less useful than knowing the things one should do - right? I feel so anyway - and that's my silver lining for Aug 2012 - Aug 2013.

That's all my news for you - save one. Over seven years, across themes and fonts and templates, and laundry struggles, and chemo rants, and heartbreaking sadness, and loves, and crushes, and work and play and food, at places, with varying conceptions of privacy, and sense of self, this blog has been a constant in my life, and I love it dearly, and I love you dearly, gentle reader, but you probably know that there is another very special constant in my life - DF, with whom I have an arduous, complex and mostly bewildering relationship,

I've hated him, and loved him, and wanted him, and then not, but its taken nine years and then some to figure out that he isn't going anywhere. And that's fine by me. :) We're going to make this work - and as commitment phobic as I am, that's a huge step to take, isn't it? Well, unless you count the fact that we're getting married as a step - which we are, in the form of a somewhat large madras wedding hoopla, and I'm going to write about it here, but anonymously, because DF is somewhat private.


Goodbye, and Happy Independence Day, gentle reader. I leave to board a flight to Madras, to home, where I shall continue to mend a once-broken, but slowly salvaged relationship with my father. We are both survivors of such tragedies, great and small, real and perceived, some suffered jointly, some separated by 40 years of lives lived apart and before, but there is such peace in my heart these days, and I wish for him to have it too and for us to have it together.

And I wish for you to have it too - so hugs. Don't forget to watch the parade, ok?

I am a fever paapa ... ta nana ta nanana

 I'm unwell, super grumpy and I love that we have a working temperature wand (thermometer). Everytime I diagnose myself and it displays a reading of 38.0 deg C or so, I sing to myself "I am a fever paapa" to the tune of "I am a disco dancer".

Annoying DF thusly makes me feel a WHOLE LOT better.


"FEVER FEVER FEVER AAAAAAA.... I AM A FEVER PAAPA... TA NANANA TA NANANA"

Morning Blues

It is now 6:21 am, and I have been here since 5:59, my feet resting against the railings in the balcony space, steadily observing the early-morning activities of my neighbours and smelling the delicious quiet of the Delhi morning. No-one has honked yet, and I even heard a few non-pigeon birds.

The rainy coolness of the early morning is being peeled away, and I can feel (though not see) a sun coming up somewhere. Likely, it is the sun on this planet, and soon it will be so unbearably humid that I will feel the need to walk into my living room and stand under the fan as I observe the geometric-like patterns that dust makes on fan blades. (This is of no consequence to you, gentle reader, and I wish you climate controlled environs in which you read this.)

At 6:30, my alarm aptly titled 'Waist to hip ratio' will go off, and I will hopefully throw on some shoes and take the skipping rope and head to the park nearby. First, I will have to throw on a bra, which ranks highly in the list of unpleasant things I have to do in the mornings.

I haven't woken up unaided as early as 6 without some kind of prodding. Usually, it is an irate parent, or a screechy alarm telling me about an exam, or some impending disaster that requires my early morning attention. Today, it is a nightmare, rather, a dream that figuratively makes me want to feel physical pain so that I may focus on the blood and gore and distract myself from the spectacle of my subconscious masochism.  This dream wasn't brutal, it was just a window into the alternate univii of everything to do with everything that I wish to not talk about or feel anymore - for god's sake, it is 2013. You would think three years and nine-months would do the trick, right? Or atleast I would get a universe where the scenario takes a turn for the better than the fucking reality on earth? Is that too much to ask for Physics and Subconscious?

Cute old Sikh uncles with cloth facelifts to hold their gigantic turbans + beards in place, have started their morning walks. Neighbour old man from the house diagonally opposite has woken up, watered his plants, and is now clad in sweats and a fun T-shirt; he leaves his house with a surprisingly jaunty step in his stride. The cars parked in front of the house have been cleaned, by two different cleaner men - one for each car, not two for each - excuse my poor sentence phrasing.

Early on, at  6:07, I saw a classmate of mine from college, who now lives in the street somewhere, walk by on his way to a jog. I tried calling out to him, but my voice cracked, and whether it was from the reality of the stuff of dreams, or the a/c running all night, we'll never know.

My alarm went off 6 minutes ago, and it says 'Swimming'. The 'Waist to hip ratio' alarm that is meant to motivate me to do, well, cardio is set for 6:45, when I must needs cease writing, but I have some time yet. The sun is definitely out, I can feel a distinct drop in coolness. I have had my glass of lemon water, a new habit I am trying to pick up, and I should really get out of this chair, move my feet away from the railings and drown all of my sorrow in endorphins, but for just a few minutes more, I am going to be weak and pathetic and sad and I am going to let my lower lip tremble. The eyes filling with tears is a good thing though, it sort of self-washes away eye-gunk from the night.

I have a week ahead that I am not prepared to face mentally, more so with what I have woken up to today, Can I really stay in Delhi for a couple of years more? Can I really find it in me to embrace this harsh, aggressive and thoroughly distasteful clump of overgrown villages? I don't know - for once, I truly do not want to live here anymore, but opportunities and circumstance are forcing my hand.

It is 6:43 - I must depart, but I hope your day is going better than mine. If you have a dog of some kimd, can I borrow it for an hour or two? I need some unconditional love, and even that, I'm afraid, isn't going to save me from my signature mix of self-hate, sadness and delhi-hate.

Have a productive week gentle reader, I leave in search of breathlessness and endorphins.
xx
Spaax

I love you prime

Sometimes, when I am ill, (like the last couple of days), or when I screw up a lot, or when I am generally unsure of my place in the world, its nice to say ""I love you"with a puppy face to DF.

DF usually engrossed in a book, or cake, or in cutting fruit (like totally a weirdo hobby if there ever was one) is conditioned enough to say "I love you too!" in a puppy voice with a straight face.

Sometimes, things get a little out of hand, and move from cute-puppy-romantic to hmm-let-me-google-that, like below:

Today I tell DF - " I hurt all over, and I'm, so tired and I feel so ill."
DF says ":( Hug - why don't you sleep and let me do some work. "
I say: "Ok, I love you."
DF says: "I love you too. "
I say: "I love you three. "
DF says: "I love you seventeen."
I say: "I love you seventy-nine."
DF says: "Is that a prime? We can only love each other prime."
I say: "Yeah, it probably is. Anyway, I definitely love you nineteen."

***

So, we being to make a list of all the primes we know, and it became very difficult once we reached 113. (FYI: 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19,  23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 89, 97, 101, 103, 107, 109, 113... INFINITY)

Now its time to eat dinner, but remember gentle reader, if you love someone, do it prime.

Price of Admission

Its summer. In Delhi. 46 degree Celcius. FORTY-SIX. Stuff melts at this temperature. I may be heatsick. Better than heartsick, yak yak.
My brain has probably melted.

***

I just watched DF cut a watermelon into small perfectly shaped pieces. Eugh.
If only watermelon skins were like mango skins and you could just sink your teeth into them and release your inner savage.

I grumbled that DF had cut all of the watermelon before I could make my pitch for eating them slice-wise as opposed to piece-wise, but DF merely waved a large knife and said that "That's the price of admission.

We're a riot - please visit, in winter.

XX

Cloud Atlas

Today was one of those days when I just couldn't be bothered to go to work. As I said to DF in the morning, "Here I am (hand at chin level), when I know what I am doing, here I am (hand at stomach level), most days of my life, and today, I am the floor."

I pushed myself to get out of bed though, and I dressed and I dutifully ate my breakfast (perspiring gently in the Delhi summer and wondering if I should start wearing sunglasses at home) while looking around for something to read on the way to work.

Usually, my breakfast read is the newspaper, but ever since we had a chik installed, we're lucky if we get the paper 3 days a week. Anyway! I figured I may as well start on Cloud Atlas because I had begun reading it the previous night, and it was getting unputdownable.

I sat on the ratty broken sofa for five hours at a stretch, prolonging my breakfast and reading Cloud Atlas and thinking to myself, "who needs to go to work when I can learn from this book right here!"
I got up when the battery on my phone died, and ventured inside to lie on the bed and finish the book, and I did.

And wow.

And because I am inarticulate and now faced with the consequences of unintended bunking, I haven't the time to review it, but I wanted to point you to this:

At the Cloud Atlas press conference, Lana Wachowski said, “We all felt the book affects your brain. You read it and your brain no longer splits it up into six stories. Your brain begins making connections itself.” The directors line up the climaxes of the many stories like mountaintops in a row so that the viewer can see the same struggle for freedom over the great expanse of time. And in each era, authority figures — whether slave traders or futuristic city cops — say “There is a natural order to the world.”

And in each climax there is a hero, male or female, who knows this to be a lie. The effect on the audience in seeing such vastly different societies from the 19th century’s racial slavery to the genetic clone slavery of the 22nd century is the realization that no natural order exists. Every society is a web of power and ideology woven together that ensnares the bodies of those living in them. What is natural is the desire to embody the repressed truth and live it. 

This Thursday

My plants are dying and its HOT HOT DUSTY DUSTY.

Plus, I am very close to broke.

Its a NEW ME. Do you love me still.

Suffice to say I have done a whole lot of nothingness. Isn't it surprising, I read and wrote and ate and ate and ran and met many *different* people and bought groceries and baked and cooked and did housework and laundrylaundrylaundry and a million other things when I was justanothercorporatelawyerdrone.

I made the switch to whateverthisisnow (new style of replacing hyphens (like so -) with non-spaces (likeso)) to have more time (and specifically to quote myself (because god damn, how much history do I have to deal with)) :

This, this now and here, it doesn’t feel right. There’s always this sense of deprivation, no?

I want to roam streets if I feel like it at 3 pm. I want to be non-corporate. I don’t want to do timesheets. I want to read with the luxury of a lot of time. I want to make and drink a lot of tea. I want to wear orange clothes to work, shut down my computer at 6:00 pm and go out and learn a language or swim or bake or read a judgment or write!  If it rains, I want to go out and splash. I want to be wrapped up completely in my thoughts. 
I want to think.
I want to not sit at a computer all day. I want to be a veryusefulperson. I want to create and contribute.  I’d really like to set a goal and achieve it on my own. A big huge difficult goal. Not atention to detail – that is NOT my goal. NO NO NO NO NO.

I want to wake up and feel like there is a very definite reason why I am doing what I do. If I don’ t have that reason, I want to stop doing it – just like that – poof.  

There is now no definite reason I am doing this. I haven't thought or read a judgment or become more intelligent. I have baked and gone swimming and playing in the rains. Also wore orange and pink. 
I must needs cease this folly, it would seem. 

SIGH.

I WAS JUST GETTING STARTED. DID I ever really ask for such restlessness? I think I need a big difficult goal. Yes. 

Also, the bloggy must awaken from its slumber. Rooooooooar.

Delhi 1.0

(FYI: I wrote this quite a while before recent events sharpened my hatred of Delhi; await more nuanced perspectives.)


***
This blog has taken a while to come into being, as have I, in my Delhi (new) avatar. Moving cities (countries!) and moving jobs is exciting, but having to, alongside the move, shift well-established life-function templates is not only exhausting, its also demoralising.

For example, I miss pavements and comfortable, safe access to public transport. I miss microwaevable 1-minute rice and I deeply and truly miss Microsoft Outlook and its excellent anality-optimising filing functions. I miss grabbing a cappucino on my way to work, egalitarianism dripping off my satisfying goods-services exchange and at a deeper level, I miss swiping in my access card early so I can grab my free copy of the FT.  I miss the honest sanctity of RSVPs, the easy availability of tampons, the creamy smoothness of avocados, the happy zings of bellini-nights and the affordability of Lush products. I miss being enveloped in a cocoon of safe.

Truly, I miss my shallow materialistic self, and I miss my frivolous biglaw life, and I feel a sharp strong hatred for Delhi - my currentus situs.

 However, I do this in moments of pique and not armed with the benefit of forethought. Peruse (if only you could) bloggy avatar 1.3 (2005-2012) and you will realise that for every anguished "Why can I not find a FLUFFY bathrobe in Delhi?" question I could ask now, you will read about a deeply pained "Where can I get jalebis at 2140 while I wait for my evil client to tell me to send out the document?" post or a "Why aren't there enough vegetarian options in the champagne brunch buffet?!" post.
 

Life in cities across the world comes with inconveniences, I know. In some, you can't pay people enough to get them to fix you up an internet connection in two days, while in others, there isn't a true democracy, and in some others, people fight vigorously over parking spots. Families live in some cities, while others are rent-unattractive, or temperature-unattractive, or simply unattractive. Some have only great sushi, some have mediocre vegetarian sushi, and some have no sushi at all. Some have jalebis many metro stops away, but no monuments that are give or take 800 years old. Some only have public transport, some force you to rely on private, and others offer a colourful but expensive mix. Some are clean and scarily ultra-efficient, but they effectively take away all bacterial immunity that growing up in India has lovingly bestowed upon you. In some, you are the ugly, the unsexual, the un-dateable, the other. In others, the others are the un-dateables, and you are still the other. In a few, you are not the other, but you don't like the one. In most, your cleaner will not tell you how strong your 'curry' smells, leaving you with a curious undeterminable sense of shame; in one, your maid will take exceptional pride in her flavourful spicy cooking. In some, you will be saved from having to speak freely to a bewilderingly large number of people everyday about deeply personal matters, but in others, you needs must justify your english-speaking skills and your knowledge of european culture. Threading is cheaper in some and unheard of in others, but they use hair-nets to streak your hair in the a few.  In some, men will stand in queues for you, and insist on dropping you home, in others, they will open doors. In some you will have a spot of tea, in some, tea is chai and you will be encouraged to dip most things into it, and in others, its a choice between a soy chai latte or green tea with red beans. Some days only filter coffee will do and then what will you do? In some, everyone will be your brother or sister unhesitatingly; in others, you must jump through many hoops before you become a friend. In some, you are a size ten, and your hips and arches are compatible with the forms of desirable female bodies laid out numerically on racks. In some, you are large and your chest is too big and they have nothing pretty for you to wear, while in others, your tailor will ask matter-of-factly, if you want "padding". Your freedom in each is determined by different entities, in some, it is a travel pass and a work permit, in others, it is a car.

Cities reflect values, and identities borrow from the same values that a city allows itself to be shaped by, so there is, in some sense, a limitation on whom you can be, and how far you can take that whom until it ends in ugly consequences. Most cities have some common values and I gladly bask in their safe anonymity, collecting labels to define my space; new-to-delhi, madrasi, girl, heterosexual, modern, vakil, english-speaking, wine-drinker - and for the most part, they work, but I am greedy and I am pushy and I have a maid, and a whole lot of time on my hands and I want MORE. Sometimes, I sit on my ratty broken sofa and think about the fact that nothing occupies the hole in my life that laundry and work used to fill. Jalebis, besan bondas, shiny jewellery and culturally similar companions can only take you that far ahead. Blogging is a sketchy replacement, but its the best I can come up with, and so, here I am.

I'm trying to have a good time in Delhi, but cultural baggage weighs me down. Expectation slaughters my timid explorations into the unknown and I worry that I am all delhi-ed out, that the city is not, to me, a shehron ka sheher, a riot of colour and humour or a capital city that is joyously contrary but merely a crumbling, dusty edifice that is bursting its seams, crime-ridden and is polluted and gender-biased. Regardless, I am here for a while yet, and we shall have to see how this story ends. :)

Like always, welcome, gentle reader.

Statements

In the few days since the beginning of this new year (a year, btw, that has wholly different digits, something that didn't happen since 1987) I've come across some excellent statement material. One is particular, stayed with me, and I wanted to share - not merely because it is ironifunny (ironically funny)

Now, you see, statement material is very different from pithy, sarcastic material, though good statement material is both pithy and sarcastic. Its not merely that. Its more than the sum of pithy and sarcastic words. Like Golpalott's Third Law. (I re-read all of Harry Potter during the holidays, along with every depressing article I could lay my hands on about the Delhi rape).

(On a separate note, look how bad my sentence structuring becomes when I don't blog for a few months...sheesh).

Anyway, I thought'd I share that statement, and let you enjoy your gentle introduction to bloggy verision 1.4, I think.

  "You might as well just put "If you're white, male, first-world and straight, it's your fault in some way" on the front page every day and be done with it."
 

"Truth, please don't pay me much attention"

I love bloggy too much.

2012 has been a smashing year. I've been brave, happy, in love and at peace (mostly). Its true what they say, you know...  blogging, and poetry and the book gently wilted away because I was either sleeping or talking or playing Tetris with DF.

I'm coming back here because I love bloggy too much. (I know, I already said that!) I also love the idea of whining about laundry, and about bellinis, and bad drafting and gender stereotypes and recent science fiction and the weather.

DF says a grudging hello, and is asking that I come set up Monopoly and I'm going to go, but remember that I'm back.

I hear revolutions

You dear loving warm and friendly gentle reader:

I am unequivocally happy. Everyday's randomness of mundanity fills me with mirth and laughter. I no longer wander in hurt, or confusion, I no longer sit down on benches to quell panic attacks while urging myself that there is a ground below, that one day I will be safe and stable - as stable as can be underneath a molten core that spins around a giant gas ball that is held in place just so.

Instead I sit on sofas or plump floor cushions, and whisk cake batter. I've baked three cakes in the last week and every time I needed to amp up my whisking, I don't turn to cancer, or chemo memories, or grunts from a body that I no longer recognise, and is only a shell shaped like my gentle mother. Instead I tell myself, whisk it till the ad-break, whisk it so the crumb will be firm, or more often than not, whisk it - it can be cardio for the day.

My mother was gentle, reader. You should be so pleased. And maybe now you understand why I seek gentleness in those whom I meet. Why gentleness makes me smile. The frown line that grazed the equidistant point between my half-shapely eyebrows is slowly fading. I wake up from afternoon naps, and the house seems covered with presence and silence. My father is visiting me; the boyfriend who I surreptitiously live with, is away on holiday, and the tv hums and the fan hums and the sunlight is dappled and I am drowsy and ready,again, to sleep.

What I used to call curious lethargy is now just a golden sleepy silence. Is this how people feel all the time? Are your lives such mellow afternoons? Gosh - how do you get any work done?
Is this what they mean when internet-folk say, that one day, you will be fine. One day it will seem like there is so much love in your life, so much of you is back, so much of everything you pushed away is somehow suddenly all around you and you will take it in and whoosh - something will click into place?

I dont know when it clicked. Its not chronicled anywhere but I am ridiculously pleased. Pain and sorrow make me bitter and angry, but also a writer. Happiness lets me float, ignore my blog, ignore my phone and just eat cake. I'm going to go float for a while now - three cakes and a box of jalebis can do that to you. Someday I will be that girl below.

Look me up, vote Dems, and eat cake. Or icecream. You know, eat sweets. Do cardio. Guard your uterus-related rights. BE proudly feminist. Defend libertarianism to the extent it doesnt make you a free-market jerk. Be angry at the world's injustices. Eat more cake. Look for inner peace. Have shiny baubles and cow pajamas. Do the crossword. Read sci-fi. Engage.

 

Good news SBI

I have thought about SBI more these last two days than ever in life. Its a subtle shift, but once you're past the line, you look back and you wonder how you lived differently.

I am now a changed person.  Be afraid.

***

Having said that, the ceaseless upholding of due process makes me VERY happy. Good on you Indian Supreme Court, you're a hero today.

***
Note that the SBI thinking was not _only_ due to CRR spats; in the midst of scam-mania, I noticed that a certain televison channel runs a 'Good News' segment, which, let me hasten to add, is not about babies being created, but a daily snapshot of positive news.

How oddly fascinating is the world these days.

***
Lastly, I found out that I've been a greater fool all along (Ego alert beep beep Ego alert). Its just that no-one told me so.

A week in my own

Everyone says to me: "But you're _from_ here! How can there be a culture shock? You're _from_ _here_!"

And then I sigh wearily (verily, I sigh) and try to change the issue. To a select few (two) I moan in deep detail about how I miss pavements (sidewalks) and queues. I miss buying cheap alcohol. I miss daily cupcake routines. I miss the folks, oh, I miss them so much. +44 calls make me _so_ happy. I miss the email chains that begin on a bored Monday morning - about Sanskrit poems, about Rumi, about burritos for lunch from the van, or Ram Guha's speech at LSE, or the chammak challo trainee's very short skirt. 

I said in my leaving email that I was sad to be leaving, but it was not nearly the truth. What I should have said, is that 2010 to 2012 made me a whole happy person. A very nice cheery mildly crazy happy person.  I really liked who I had become (whom?) and for the first time in a long time, I was so comfortable and happy that I didn't want to leave, as such.

Coming to Delhi is a forceful acknowledgment of Ubuntu-ness. It is a lot less about the I and a lot more about the we. In the sense that India can be a we. It has now been eight days and while I am not struggling, uncomfortable, or unhappy, I am thoughtful more than I was. Crazy less than I was.

I guess I used up all of the craziness in deciding to make the move.
I asked for an adventure, an intellectual powerhouse of an office, and a stable relationship time, and GODAMMIT I think I have it all.


 

Its the wine talking

My wonderful evening plans having been scuttled, I broke open a bottle of red to go with my Starbucks sandwich which is 98% potato and 2% ketchup smushed between slices of crumbly white. My fancy earrings dangle from my earlobes sulkily.

I read somewhere that someone's grandmother said, by way of bread folk wisdom, that "The whiter the bread the sooner you're dead". Since then, I buy the yuckiest black-brown nasty seeded wholemealy wholewheaty bread I can find, yet another attempt at trying to stretch my life a some more.

Once I mentally willed it away and I don't know if the wager went it through, and I feel like I am living it all on borrowed time. Very exhilarating.

Its the wine talking.

***

I have also drunk called and drunk emailed friends because at times like this, when cheesy bollywood songs seem deep and meaningful to me, I have the sudden urge to collect all the people I love into one room. And then to say, ok, don't stray. Stay. I think I have oats somewhere which I can feed you with.

I have said to them all, I am going on holiday, and I love you and miss you and feel yet again yet again that this life is a little confusing, if the point of it is to be away from those who make it bearable. My own company is only tolerable for short periods of time to myself.

***
Deliverance _still_ sends me vouchers and if that seems a mysterious and profound-crappy sentence to you, its only because you haven't tasted Deliverance's samosas. How the FUCK do you unsubscribe to two years of your life's utilities hinged on to the SE1 post code? And what about all my free vouchers?

***
I am always torn when I have to pick my reading for a holiday. A holiday, when one is otherwise gainful employed, is a chance to embrace time in its chunkiness. I have nine days worth of time to do as I please - should I re-read a series that I whizzed through in early days, or should I re-discover something new?
Should I take up non-fiction? Should I read for my new upcoming job? Should I not read, and just sleep and stare?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

I am torn between LOTR and Maugham. I could re-read Gaiman, except I just did that. I didn't understand the last three books of Ender's Game very well, so I could re-read those. I could read Railsea.
Except that Kraken hurt my head. I could read some more Stross except that all his women get abused and I am feeling rather vulnerable of late. I could finish the sequels to Pattern Recognition, except that the first three chapters of Spook Country also make my head hurt.

My head hurts.

I have forced my traveling companion to read 'The Windup Girl' off my Kindle on this trip (you know, it being set in Bangkok and all - so wonderful I am) , so I needs must transfer my choice to his Kindle in eight hours time.
Sigh.x

Sorkin of Life/Title Groove

I saw the newroom. I dont like the newsroom. I used to love Josh and I wanted to be him. The Newsroom has no Josh. I don't like the Newsroom.

Also, gender bias. No Sorkin, not this time. I wanted a female news lead. One female EP/ VP and econ anchor does not a mountain make. There can be no Sorites paradox (one of my favorite paradoxes) when it comes to female casting. You failed me. You failed Hillary - you failed all of us vags.

***

On that note, this delightful snarky piece in the Slate by Caitlin Moran re her new book - 'How to be a Woman' (excerpt below).

 It’s not sexiness that bothers her—rock ’n’ roll is supposed to be hot—it’s the lack of variety, the soul-numbing repetition of one, wildly unrealistic porn-inflected ideal for women. “Adele is the only woman for years whose been allowed to get to No. 1 wearing sleeves,” Moran said. For awhile her politics bumped uncomfortably up against her passions. Then she found the funny. “What I finally came down to is that we would pity Rihanna,” she said. “I told my girls, ‘Look at Rihanna: She’s one of the biggest pop stars in the world. She’s really famous, really powerful, really rich. Yet in every single video she can only wear panties. Poor Rhianna! We’ll know when she is properly powerful and successful when we see her in a lovely cardigan.’ ”


I want to point out that Lagerfeld called Adele fat and I tore materialism from my heart forever and buried it deep down with my imitation Jimmy Choos. Bloggy and I do not endorse fattism. 

Things to be grateful about

I won't lie to you, the past week has not been a very pleasant one. Every new discovery of a socio-political theory that seems to make sense wipes away, completely, current world view and leaves it with a more nuanced and gritty picture. At some point you need to take stock and stop, because there is too much information fatigue, too much passion fatigue, too much anger fatigue. Being a news junkie is heartbreaking some weeks, and this has been one of them.

I want to make a list of things to be grateful for before I go to sleep, and because I want to keep it real, it will likely be a short one.

1) Belief in utter awesomeness of self.
2) Choice of picking battles to fight.
3) Opportunities.
4) Sweets.

Monsoon grey

I'm sitting down with some paints and a sheet of blank paper. My current living room is a study in understated 90's elegance. Well, for a shell of an apartment, at least.

The floors are pale cream mosaic, the good kind. The walls are cream too, and the lighting is ornate. Furniture is sturdy and well made, some kind of sheeny expensive wood. There is no art on the walls, save a painting of cranes in the marshes - a blue and white soothing still life.

Amidst the mildy incongruous modern touches like a flat screen television, a space-agey heating device and an extravagantly crafted glass bowl centerpiece, there is a lamp that I have grown to love. A fishing pole meets the hunchback alien probe kind of lamp, strangely grounded in a hunk of marble.

On days like this, where the skies are monsoon grey, and the pool is limpid and quiet, and the fairy lights across the green areas are switched off, I pull one of the heavy chairs towards the lamp by the window, drag the side table so I can plonk my feet on it, and I feel a quiet happiness.

I wish you were here so you could be a part of this fleeting monsoon grey joy day. But wherever you are, I hope you are happy.

***
I don't really listen to much Coke Studio, but this one, which G has sent to me, is an excellent mid-afternoon rainy day song.

Sonu Kakkar and Vishal Dadlani - Coke Studio, Season 2, Episode 1: Madari

Yar no more

I'm watching Star Trek: TNG and Yar just died! While I was a little shocked, I expected this, as I had already read plot synopses.  What I particularly liked was how simple and effective (and true-like) her death was.

This really isn't a morbid post, merely an observation.

Hello, is it me you're looking for?

Righto.

1) Firstly, I'm really sorry if you have me on Google Reader (why, why would you do that when this header and bloggy design are so pretty?) and I've 'published' about 131 posts today and you missed out on the important news-bloggy stories out there.

Anyway, calm down. I, even I, am not that prolific. They're re-posts (as you already know).

2) Secondly, I know I went away, but I couldn't write on my new secret blog on wordpress. It was a short-lived affair but I am back to my current and usual true love - blogspot bloggy.
(Also, I like tinkering around here better). Also, I heard you missed me. I missed me. So I had to come back by popular demand. Sigh - fandom.


3) Thirdly, like, have you been reading the news? What an AWFUL world we seem to live in. There's been way too much abuse and grief and sadness on the news for my liking. Only the Higgsteria made up for it. And Aung San Suu Kyi. And Santorum withdrawing (horrid man obssessed with vaginas and foetuses and uteruses). America - don't become the Knife of Never Letting Go.
(shudder)

4) Fourthly, I have been reading a lot. Feed by MT Anderson was brutal and honest in a way that little else I've read recently. Except Charles Stross's science fiction which I liked and then immediately unliked and you'll see why.

5) Fifthly, I have had a lot of time to think. Serious think. Like, I read Saturn's Children and I was like wtf is it with female sex robots and why tf do sci-fi writers write semi-porno-sadistic-abuse crap about them? (See below). I mean, is it because you won't be respectable if you write about semi-porno-sadistic abuse crap of male sex robots?  Why dude, why? And The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi. Why talk about their perfect breasts and mango smooth skin and perpetuate body imagery that is patently illogical. WTF is mango smooth skin? And these books are insanely famous. Promethues, Hugo, Locus, Nebula - you name it they've been nominated.
This is not fiction. This is Cosmo + Fifty Shades of Grey.

And lets not even get into gaming and quizzing.

From Wiki, a little intro:

"Emiko is a Japanese-designed windup girl (a humanoid GM organism, used as a slave, and programmed to seek a master and obey him; windups call themselves "New People") abandoned by her Japanese master. As such, she is illegal in Thailand. Raleigh, a sex club owner, gives her some measure of safety by bribing the police to let her live, but at the price of forcing her to work in his club, where she is routinely abused and sexually humiliated." - The Windup Girl


 6) Sixthly, the internet is a wonderful place because there are so many important ways to say what you can about the issues that anger you. Like, you can ready about the Bechdel Test and then say: I will legally only own copies of stuff that passes the Bechdel Test. And you can tell people about it on-the-line :). How wonderful a place is the internet. Also I am now a wiki editor. And a news junkie; seriously, I've read SO much news in the past few months. I've also completely STOPPED buying hard copy books. Ok, if I go on in this rein, this blogpost will not end.

7) Seventhly, I have not been shoe-shopping at all. I have disavowed the excessive materialism which characterised my life for the past couple of years. I like my simple (non shoe-shopping life now). I thought I should tell you this, in case you thought I was buying every pair of flat happy open-toed shoes I could find here

8) Eightly, I am in Singapore - did you already know this? I can never go back to living in a non-sun non-swimming pool place anymore. There is also less Asian vegetarian food in Singapore than in London (also less cupcakes - sigh) so I have been cooking more and I am an excellent chef. Really truly. I am on a new crazy eating and exercise plan though so I haven't eaten a cupcake in about four months. I didn't even eat one when I found out about my new job - though I skipped the gym for 8 days in celebration.

9) Ninthly, I am going to need to make new friends because I will be moving to Delhi.
(Sad face * 453867)

10) Tenthly, hey, hello, gentle reader!!!! Are you well?