The Love Tag

The Rules:
People who have been tagged must write their answers on their blogs and replace any question that they dislike with a new question formulated by them.

People who have been tagged must Tag at least 6 people to do this quiz and those who are tagged cannot refuse. These people must state who they were tagged by and cannot tag the person whom they were tagged by. Get it? Now spread the love.

If your lover betrayed you, what will your reaction be?
Violent and over the top. I'd oscillate between ice maiden and sarcastic unforgiving capital bitch. Then revenge.

If you could have a dream come true, what would it be?
Qualify as a half-decent writer, I guess. Get out a half decent book, prove my yardsticks to myself, and make the oldies a little proud.

What would do with a billion dollars?
Like I wrote in my 8Th standard Hindi essay: put it in a bank.
( got an A+ for premature pragmatism)

Will you fall in love with your best friend?
Possibly. Mostly. Yes. Bound to happen.

Which is more blessed: loving someone or being loved by someone?
The first. Being loved is such a passive lazy-ass receipt.

How long do you intend to wait for someone you love?
Not long. May always secretly hope wish pine crave, but no real waiting.

If the person you secretly like is attached, what will you do?
Plot, scheme, arson.

If you could root for one social cause, what would it be?
Pollution, environment, pick up garbage, clean the place, leave not ONE stray chip packet/ polly bag to be seen.

What takes you down the fastest?
Consideration, honesty, humour.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years time?
In the same size jeans, a little more sure of myself, with shoulder length uncoloured hair, and a few losses behind me to bring to the fore some humility. Perhaps also answering questions to some interviewer about the journey thus far:)

What’s your fear?
Loneliness, uncertainty, tragedy, disease, conflict, raising rotten kids, losing parents, losing parents' parents.

What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?
Mayonnaise Toss: warmth personified. Affectionate, demonstrative, supportive, helpful, loyal, abusive, fun, wild, and evidently very dear.

Would you rather be single and rich or married and poor?
Single and rich.

If you fall in love with two people simultaneously who will you pick?
I can't imagine. But if one was funnier and the other was a better lover, I'd be confused and cheat. Then I'll stick with the one who doesn't show me the door. Later even write a little something called notes of an escapist.

Would you give all in a relationship?
If I were sure of the relationship, yes.

Would you forgive and forget someone no matter how horrible a thing he has done?
Of course not.

Do you prefer being single or in a relationship?
In a relationship.

People you want to tag:
Perakath, Cinna Square, El, Manu, Crowley, Bluespriite, Brown Girls.

The weekend and I

A two-day weekend isn't quite the norm. So on Friday when I realised I didn't have to come in the next day, relisher-of-little-joys that I am, 'couldn't help bouncing about yelping freeee freeee!

Of course that was just the grand build up. Free, my ass! Social engagements, phooie! Who knew the pressure to enjoy yourself could be this harassing. Work generally excuses me of the depression that could well accompany the prospect of merely flipping channels on a Saturday night. As opposed to being in the company of short skirted jing bangs escorted by heavily cologned, fast driving dhinchak boys, all thronging to the one preferred dance joint in town.

And so to de-stress and keep myself away from buckling under the dearth of such "happening" plans, in the build up to my own little party I had promised to grace, I read book bits, had afternoon nap, treated myself to parlour visit , idle shopped some, bought for my turned-forty one year old cousin, Stephanie Meyer, Breaking Dawn. And that along with two giant lavender candlesticks comprised her heppy birday gift, hand delivered to her later Saturday night, at her home, all yellow lit and select crowded, with George Michael in the background. No speeding in rich car engines, no grooving to Superstar, no drunken making out and awkward parking lot moments.

I wore a yellow and white floral printed summer dress for the dinner do. It's something I've been dying to get into since my friend hand delivered it to me as MY birthday present. (Happy to report, complete justice was done unto both the outfit and the occasion. )

Little niece was taught how to win and or draw at knots and crosses; "call it tic tac toe" -- one observer type. Little niece was offered a sip of chili vodka soda, but still being the obedient child, squirt sprang up saying "lemme ask mama and come". Nearly yanked out kid's arm in trying to hold her back from squealing to mama. "You will do no such thing"- me, mock tipsy, thrusting in her cute paws the yellow sipper containing unspiked orange juice.

"We could drink your lot under the table", ha ha-ed grey head chashmuddins to the youngsters, a mixed age group as there was. Lots of old fogies started a fair few sentences with "back in the day..."/ "when we were your age..."/ "I remember in college..."/ "Before we got married..."/ "In the 70s..."/ "There was a time before Christ..."/"Gautum Buddha said to me..." ndless reminiscing, all very patience testing. To me, after a point, it even involved some self loathing; I was wishing for a more happening plan, with a crowd more brash.

Sunday was just long drawn. Gymkhana lunches, and ex-boy rendezvous. Being told that I'm looking bloody anorexic and all traces of a butt have vanished. Keys getting locked in the car at Khan, and wasting time finding steel foot rulers. Home improvement and being dragged along to give my precious opinion on quilted bed covers and whether the curtains will clash. Skipping dinner for lack of anything better to do, giving up the hunt for a favourite pair of missing silver danglers, and finally succumbing and logging on after a conscious 18 hours of staying offline. Hectic weekend, even in the ho hums and intermittent lack of actual plans.

Wishful thoughts of the leave-deprived

I found out yesterday at work that I have a lot of leave pending. Good child that I am, and having taken what I can count on my one hand, are f o u r days off this year, my attendance is near perfect. Much like the only spark of brilliance on my board exam report card. This is good news. But so much for propagating notions of having a life, it's mid September, and I'm a little unnerved about how to kill that much time -- 45 days, maybe more before the year ends.

A month. I can officially take a full month off to recharge my batteries. How so, remains hanging, but my most easily do-able two options are:

a. Pure and simple, vegetate. Here only, in Delhi. Hit the treadmill, live online, grow my hair, join Yoga classes, and look forward to sundry Diwali melas -- the Blind School one most of all. Stock up on handmade paper diaries for the year, and token-buy some blue glaze pottery. There's no use for the latter other than them making for quirky presents, but if you saw my toothpick holder, you might change your mind and pledge loyalty to me and the advice I dispense.

b. Head for the hills, to my grandparent's gravelled-driveway home, and vegetate there. Maybe fumble around the big kitchen and learn to cook a something or two. Have breakfast out in the garden, drop eggshells in the rose carries for the sake of their nourishment and bloom, and lazily while the mornings away. Easiest thing to do: nod off to sleep with back to the sun, feet safeguarded from tan by big helpful garden umbrella. What joyful sloth. Oil hair even, or play scrabble, lose badly, and go back to sleep. Wake up in good time, raid the fridge, make milkshake, and go for long evening walks -- halfway to Mussorie and Ruskin Bond's shack, come back via the ashrams that have 6.30 p.m aartis and white batasha chips for dessertum prasaad. Right hand over the left. Winter will be around the corner, so night-lamp reading and Jaipuri razais will be unavoidable. No traffic sounds from the road, just crickets under the bed, jobless yowling neighbourhood mongrels, and the distinctly toxic spray of raat ki raani.

One way or the other, 'not quite sure what I'm waiting for.

Ones in the middle unmoved

I’m a cry baby. You wouldn’t think looking at me, and it’s not entirely hormonal, but I sob for no joy. I then reason with myself that it’s good for the eyes. That they’ll now shine clean like green leaves after a downpour.

Rain = tears. I = cry baby.

So, that I cried when the Saturday blasts happened is no big a deal, because I cry at the drop of a hat anyway, right. And here I’m definitely excused, discounted even. People were being killed five minutes from where I spend the major part of my day. That for me would validate a chin trembling outburst.

But then what? -- Nothing. Cried, dried, saw the news, huddled and made idle talk about how pointless it all is, and why these terrorists types can’t play a sport or get a freaking dart board/ punching bag/ something to channelise gung ho fundamentalism they keep yapping about on edits and shows. Aren’t there less harmless vents? Why, how and since w h e n is a death statistic an achievement? What happened to us? How is one more limb lost, and 80 injured reason to uncork whatever tharra it is these people drink – because if they don’t touch liquor but seeing blood ooze is okay, that’s hideously perverse.

I kept thinking my Sunday was no different from how it would’ve been normally, but just a teeny bit of wonder if normalcy was tried too hard for. Yea, so I went for a pedicure, and looked all over for dog food with a specific ingredient. I read my book, and listened to my God Must Be A Boogieman on loop for the longest time, but fact is I was home before dark. Like I had to be when I was little because there were kidnappers and “bad men” out there. All latent insecurities returned. Six thirty in the evening used to do that to me -- the homing pigeon syndrome.

And that caused some anger. Why the fuck should I have to think twice about staying out late, imagining that maybe extending my one day off for a little bit longer may not be the most sensible thing to do. That I might regret it; still worse, I could be dead and technically be unable to regret it. And that would teach me to throw caution to the winds. Why can’t I go out to dinner and a movie and hobnob with other vella cronies? Why now should I alter my essence and be CAREFUL about window shopping in CP? What is the point of a leisure stroll if I’m going to have to have my guard up? And really, how long is one going to remain alert for? Next week they’ll ease of the ID checking and quit prodding that huge dental molar mirror device those parking guys use to inspect underneath your car. It’ll be back to square one till the next set goes off. And the fact that one has to think on the lines of bach gaye, just isn’t consolation enough.

No horoscope prepares you for unnerving silence on Saturday night roads. They tell you to wear crimson, that your lucky number is nine, and to be careful with money matters. But no heads-up for anything life-threatening, not one squeak about watching out for some good ol neighbourhood gore. Never a mention of fuming dustbins, or that you might have network problems in contacting loved ones to see if all flesh and bones are intact.

And very soon, it’ll all blow over. We’ll stop feeling. It won’t make a difference till someone you know actually cops it. And if the person copped isn’t someone you know too well, it’ll just add colour to some Barista conversation. It’ll never really matter. All the resentment and disgust is neatly boxed. Channels are changed, humanitarian stories glossed over, very sad- very sad bol ke, it’s all over.

I don’t have an alternative, or a suggestion, or even an original opinion, and maybe that’s just what’s so frustrating – that within minutes of the explosions, when some one sweet person sharing a distressed wavelength sees your swollen eyes, comes up to you, instinctively holds you tight, and asks if all is well, the choked replies and runny noses tell a pretty helpless tale.

So many awards, so little time!

I didn't know Priya. I still DON'T know Priya. But that's the thing with the blog world, I suppose. One day you're just a commentor filling in Name ("required") fields, leaving behind an idle thought on a stranger's post, and before you know it, the comments become reciprocal, and rapports are established. Often times, gtalk additions are made. Facebook helps reveal selves, profile pics are exposed, every blogger knows what every other blogger looks like, and if you posted recently about a haircut and blue streak that cost you a bomb, you even get to say oh hey, not bad to them in person. Providential bumping into is required, of course. Or you make it happen. Commenter to blogger. Reader to poster. Cat inevitably out of bag, all that remains is the little matter of an acid test -- do you live up to your blog coolness or are you the person as bland as yours the template?

Ha. New age soul searching at blogspot. com.

ANYWAY.

I got an award! Priya gave. You know Priya? Go here. Say hi. You know what she said of me?

Probably doesn't know I even read her. Probably will freak out when she does know. But maybe not. She keeps me keep in touch with the younger generation. Reminds me of myself 10 years ago.

Yaaay!

She's right, I didn't know she read. Heck, I didn't know <I> was the younger generation link to ..er, 'older' people who're reading this crap, and are reminded of themselves ten years ago! I don't even know what to make of that. She sounds cool though, so this might just be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. =)

Go back to Priya's page and read the rules, and learn how karma works before you take off on your own tangent.

Although, where I get nervous and fumble, is that I don't really read 7 fabulous blogs to pass this on to. And lots of peobles have anyway been bestowed with the honour that is this diamond jpeg.

I do though read my friends blogs. And they're not always brilliantE -- "with an e", but of the ones that I do think are pretty daymn ship shape:

SCHIZOPHRENICSALAD: More for the person than the blogger, but in a little bit spirit of fairness, also for the blogger, the emailer and the endless capacity she has to make me laugh at what she writes, t h e r e b y causing me to choke on my green tea and have it spill out of my nose, and onto keyboard. A s i t w e r e.

( this is my new thing -- spacing for emphasis.)

Then next,

BLUESPRIITE: I love her header, it's a personal favourite and an inside joke. I also religiously read the links she uploads, and I know I have a tendency to borrow her opinions. May not help you very much though, because you need to know her in person. I'm just glad that even when she's invisible on gtalk she pings to let me know that. (Steady now, maudlin overdose:)


This is obviously the closest I'm getting to an Oscar speech.

I wish I could just put down my favourite gtalkers..

the above two figure, anyway.


Right.

Next.


VARDHAN/ COAL MINE CANARY : Articulate bastard, reticent blogger. Not my fault.

Oh!!

INK SLINGER: Again, erratic poster, but lovely writer. We did go to the same college, and back then, if anyone as going to be a writer, this woman was.

I love what's on her header too:

"Roll me a joint and pour me some booze,
I'm not going to cry or threaten to die,
Tired of winning and happy to lose,
Brown girls don't sing the blues."

There's also

MILLENIUM HAN: Every post of his is an education to me. Often too academic, but still not incomprehensible. I suspect it's to do with his knack for structure. Makes him easier to read. The bullets, careful para breaks, justified ellipses, the bits in bold, his ideas, indentation, and random Kate Moss pics in black lace. Yep. Definitely.

CAT THAT FISHED, my friend, lover, and writer that delights -- is dead, so pointless brilliance.

I can't think of anyone else, but having saved the best for the last, my thrilled-ness at this whack job having started blogging knows no bounds. Of course, you're going to have to see for yourself if it's up your alley, but give him time. Patronise the boy, see the sapling grow. It is my firm belief the engineer has potential:

ON TWO WHEELS AND WIDE AWAKE : maybe just for his belief that beauty always leads to sadness because it has to fade. "Not fade as in become less beautiful. but disappear."

That's seven. My growing impatience hinders me from plugging anymore, but if you're reading this, lets just go with the belief that what you write is nice too, and well worthy of the award, brilliant with an e.

Birthday Chocolate Goodness and Soul

Birthday crib one: I've never received fewer cards.
Counter crib one: I've never got more calls.

I turned twenty-four a week ago. And besides my birthday, at any rate, being my event of the fortnight, all semi dark clouds, health and brother wise have passed. And a party, and for the sake of a few friends who weren't there, but on whom I've imposed a blog subscription (to be received in mail): the birthday report.

First, say you were born on the first -- which I believe was -- and you plan a dinner thing on the 31st night -- which I did, you're bound to have guests calling 30-31st midnight, singing into the phone, and because it's just so foolishly sweet, you giggle and graciously accept the dementia. Which is like winning a prize in school but the certificate will have your name written in a calligraphy hand but spelt wrong.

Anyway.

I'm also beginning to form an opinion of people who call at bloody midnight in the first place. Do you think it's boorish, just a little bit? I mean, what's wrong with waiting till the morning? What do you have to look forward to in the damn day if all ten morons are going to be over and done with bombarding you with annual mid nighters -- even if on the correct date 31st-1st?! And you can't really talk then, because if you aren't amidst a lot of people, call wait is a pain, and you end up giving yourself so much importance.

Sample conversation:

"Heyyy... thanks.. sweet of you to remember.. god bless face book huh.. heh heh..nahi, just some people over, cake shake, .. no why, do I sound sloshed? hahahah.. acha listen, someone else calling, we'll talk soon ok, thanks , bye."

Thats the formal call from close-ish acquaintances.

Then there are the friends friends who aren't present but INSIST on calling to remind you that they aren't.

"hellooooooooooo lover, hahahaha, thank you thank you.. what to do ya, getting bloody old, 30's around the corner, and all we'll have as achievements are loser friends, you for me, I for you, men be damned. hahaha.. shaddap ya…hm.. No he didn't call, message, fomal tone, naam ke vaaste type thing. Anyway, fuck that, whats up with you..haan haan party's ok. Decent fun, I hope. I've all but given up playing good host, wine beer mix... haan hehe . acha, love, got to go, but we'll talk later, have to give you all the dirt. muah muah thank youuuu!!"

And these are true blue snatches of conversation. Not fictitious or in no way represent any person living or dead. They do. They're real people, close friends and it's all true.

And why one had to hang up wasn't because there's nothing more to say, but because family and people are whimpering, making puppy faces and generally tugging at sleeve and yelling at me to cut

The god damned cake!

And cut it was -- well past midnight and ablaze with 24 puny candles, it had consistency going for it; the deep, stiff, irresistible consistency of frozen quicksand. Thank goodness for elfin friends who work in hotels, get discounts and avail them for you! The 99% chocolate made you feel nice and thirsty afterwards. Which is where the reserve stock of liquor came in handy. Big success overall, the cake, washed down very well with all the surplus beer!

Crowd wise

People ikatha-karoed were eclectic, lovely, and having forcefully put oil and water in a room, they floated alogn just fine. Attendance wise, and the too far to drive NCR bahanas apart, the ones who would have turned up out of sheer love and goodwill, did. All others -- well, excuses are excuses, and there's never a dearth. After a point, it becomes difficult to hear them through, care as I still would.

So headcount wise, friends not seen in a few weeks too many were very much in there, all sociable, and making small talk with each other, and this general bonhomie caused me very many teeny bursts of joy.

Early evening, especially when you're still introducing, say, the latest couple entrant, and you rattle off names of everyone sitting around, but run out breath and interest, take a swig, make light of situation, and everybody just laughs and bonds over who the hell will remember. Even so, the important ones, are personally circulated -- by me the hostess, taken arm in arm, and made to force meet, if just for my depraved mind to later know what they thought of each other.

For love of all things wearable, understated and well-lit

Especially when held in your own, fabulously lit, breezy, suburban apartment, birthday parties are very feel-good occasions. I like that. They give you the perfect excuse to do a Clarissa Dalloway and emulate her OCD with flowers.

I was just a little bit stubborn about not letting into the house a single stem of gladioli. It's either tube roses or lilies, as far as I'm concerned. Orchids are permissible, and yellow roses were let in later at night, carried sweetly by one biker boy. How he held the bunch, rode, and still found house, I don't know. He called for directions -- a lot! -- and I'd gaily hand the phone to reliable pillars around me, but it was still sweet that he came from so far and had akal enough to not come khaali haath. It's sweet. It is. I was touched. By which time, the tube roses were all in vases, emitting restrained strains of just the perfume I wanted wafting through the rooms -- apart from the camphor already burning in a Good Earth type holder, and the orchids swooping rightly low. The ambience was bang on, and the matron in me, mighty pleased.

Of course the tightly wound fanaticism -- in case you were wondering about the gladioli -- mellowed as the evening progressed. Evening, very literally, started that early, with brother and boyfriend soothing my frazzled nerves by a) staying out of the way, and b) by sensibly running out for a good 45 mins to get ice, vanilla, juice, chips, milds and some paneer something for a vegetarian cronie who walked in only at cake time.

Still, once the lamps were on, and music as desired, at only seven pm, I was exhausted, and looking most ordinary! Except how dressed-up can you get for a do at your own house? Isn't it just silly to be doddering about in heels in an environment you usually exploit barefoot?

One friend walked in and instantly blurted, "What you wearing, man". And so I changed into what she got me by way of present -- so for the rest of the evening, and very happily so, I was wearing an orange Tee that shrieked: LITTLE MISS WISE, beneath which was the artist's impression of a smart-ass toddler. (There's also a LITTLE MISS GIGGLES in blue, but that I think, will be serving time in the cupboard for a fair bit longer.)

And this of course was the 31st night -1st wee hours. Birthday itself was ordinary in a way I like it to be. I didn't go to work -- providential holiday, so blew up some money shopping instead, and met the feel good factor friends, even had a roll at Khan, then drove all the way back talking on loudspeaker to one friend who'd called to wish me, but just ended up giving me a blow by blow account of how her shaadi prep was going.

But all that's last week's news.

Today's my grandpappy's 87th, and next week his other grand daughter's 41st. I like how we're spaced, three of us, different generations, but 8 days apart.

We're all going to dinner. Family scene. Grandparents -- who are also great grand parents and looking forward to meeting my turning-4 next month niece ( figure it out), their two daughters -- my mother and masi, and the rest of us tag-along-ees but very much immediate family.

I said I'd pick up the cake. Was thinking coffee/fruit/cheesecake something, but Chocolate Truffle, shrieked hag-cousin to me this morning when I asked what time rendezvous was. Wenger's is open till 7.15. Or I could take my chances at the Claridges where my friend got a great fruit cake for 400 bucks. Better still, I could splurge and swing by the decadence that is Big Chill, and drool at the contents behind the glass screen. Either way, worst case scenario is still a big piece of cake, the company of an attitude-tossing toddler, sentimental oldies, toast-raising middle agers, and that infrequent feeling of somewhat not minding the people you're related to.