Backscratching Darcy boy

So, I made a new friend.

Yes, I know we stopped talking like that since we got home from playing in the park but it's true. I struck up a chat, picked up an acquaintance, and now I have one new friend.

Didn't go out of my way or anything; obviously, CAN I DO FRIENDSHIP WITH YOU isn't going to achieve any normal friendly results. But the warped-ish rapport is struck and it's too late to undo the banter.

How we unearthed the innate goodness in each other: I had the privilege to work with this whack job. I'll make you meet him some day. But till then you don't know what you're missing. Even so, stay with me.

It should be a common enough belief that there's nothing worse than a staid workplace.

Mayank Austen Soofi is the bugger's name. Can't be helped. Pretension loaded son of a gun finds respite in Pride and Prejudice, fantasises about Darcy -- maybe, has some God knows how many blogs, and thinks he's one Soofi reincarnate. Thapad maaro, really! In spite of all which, he has the absolute cheek to not be able to suffer fools. I've never met a more priceless man all year long. Like the other day:

Me: (Bored at work): I think I'll go to the himmelyeas and write my book.

MAS: (Not looking up) Darling, the kind of book capable of you, just go to Tabula Rasa and type.

Now maybe it's not right to be abusing the shit out of people we work for, so that can possibly stay in the closet, but in person, and face to face, there is such joy and camaraderie in venting together a common angst. The gossip and hideously cheap allusions cause stitches in sides. It's like mentally bookmarking every little gem he comes out with, straight-faced and all. Every day he says heyy hiii in this characteristic flirty whats-up-hot-stuff way that makes me choke on my giggles. Given the chance, I'm quite sure he will convince you that being boring is the worst sin ever, and make brilliant earnest cases of just how ok it is chose sex as your religion.

Anyhow, I'd like to believe we became friends or whatever. From which unsaid point on, I took the liberty of sounding off to him just how insufferable I find his writing, and that his is the most m*therfucker of all blogs, blah blah, and it's such a shame that an entertaining little scamp is so hung up on poverty, and. . . well, I can't say the next word out loud.

Do you know how he reacts? "Please will you send that to me?" So I do. I put the one line on email, he puts the one line up (on ((one of))his blog(s)).

It's the most bizarre rapport -- side stitches, angsty abuses and pucker sounds. I'm getting confused traffic from his piss all url, and El's even saying to me yo pip, what gives.

What can I say bebe, it's true. Jog that old fact stranger than line. It apparently takes all sorts.

No rhyme or reason

Parts of October are unsettling for me. It has to be the weather, indecisive and dusty, that makes me want to see more colour, and buy more pink. To wash my hair twice a day to get the smog out. The chill isn't even here, but it's taking too long. It's reminding me of U specials and window seats, and how cold the steel would feel against bare skin. Weekdays just seem loaded with pollen and queer doubt. Nothing thats easy to pin, but my cravings are silly and bursting with little niggling tangents. I feel the need to switch from Aloe Vera lotions to thicker Shea Butter, I don't know whether I want the A/C on at night, but geyser water, I like. Is it just the weather, the hint of cold, why are my arms dry?

It's a dirty, sordid month, this October, that lacks any sort of upswing. You see oranges more often, but the sun is not clear, and you can't properly pelt people with seeds in full broad sunshine. There'll be carrot and orange juice on the table soon. Red froth in empty glasses. And I will need to bury my fingers in clothes-crevices.

It's too soon to bring on the scarves. Sitting indoors is the same, but when I step out, the darkness is too soon. Staying in, I need people and affection. This isn't October specific, but it's in my gut, these general feelings of quiet. In no other season is ginger more welcome, and the sound of shop shutters as abysmal. My need to get home is greater, the want to stay-in-touch, more. Familiarity is needed, and yellow light a refuge. Distance is ok in summer and sweat, but October the wretched is saddeningly intimate. I don't know what it is about this season, and it's crazy moth like bugs and that make me quicken pace, and wish winter were here already.

Good/Bad/Virtuous

“Chastity”

(Gossip done, and standing outside Costa in CP, we were talking about overrated virtues, and that is what accompanying friend came up with.)

Me: “That’s not a virtue, that’s just bad luck.”

He: “How is that bad luck? People “save themselves” all the time.”

Me: “Sure, yes, still doesn’t make it a virtue. It’s not in the list.”

Him: “There’s no list. Cardinal sins, seven, yes. No virtue list.”

Hmm

Long live Google:

Virtue (Latin virtus; Greek ἀρετή) is moral excellence of a person. A virtue is a trait valued as being good. The conceptual opposite of virtue is vice.

Point being, back then, I couldn’t think of one single virtue, forget overrated.

How can that be, but. Brow deliberately furrowed, and driving back, I forced myself to think. Turns out, diplomacy isn’t a virtue. And neither is sweetness, to set one my one lovely g-talker straight!

Which means, last men standing = Charity, Patience, and Fidelity.

As it happens, Wikipedia has some 85 virtues, including autonomy, foresight inventiveness and unselfishness. All quite peripheral in my book, but I like that they list humour and lovingness as well.

To each his own of course, but apart from the indispensables, and just to my ‘umble way of thinking, compassion, integrity, respect, and truth apart, not too many that would make you a foul person.

No?

Kick starting the kajra re

It had to happen sooner or later. From normal bizarre talk about how I will drive any future mother-in-law of mine completely bananas if I continue to maintain such an untidy cupboard, the fun and games might have actually begun.

I’m serious.

It’s been gently suggested to me that one of these days -- if and when I want, and all in the spirit of no-harm-looking -- I meet a certain Aemrika-based 27-year old doctor for wedding purposes. Of course it’s only if and when I want. But that I must face it, I’m not growing any younger.

Ha. Ouch. But okay, agreed.

Except as far as dubious analogies go, it takes two-three years to build a flyover, correct? And then it’s up, traffic is smooth, people reach their dinner tables on time, and everyone’s nerves are miraculously intact.

Great. So now I can’t help compare flyover-upping time to how long it takes for enterprising families to zero in on good catches. And I’m thinking by 2010, if work starts now, there should be significant progress on both fronts, even if so far all we have is flying dust.

I have to say that unlike my earlier squeamishness, I’m sort of looking forward to meeting these shaadi-candidates, even if just a little bit and mostly out of curiosity. I keep hearing stories about freak shows masquerading as normal people. It makes me want to meet them myself. I love the horrific anecdotes, and am quite looking forward to building my own treasure cove.

It actually started sometime back. A couple of months ago, I was forwarded some merchant navy chap’s ‘bio-data’ to just see if I was at all interested. Scrolling down said ‘bio-data’, a salary-subhead called Present Emoluments popped up. So never mind that these emoluments seemed like lots and lots of money, just who, why, and again who, uses words like present emoluments? There was a photograph as well, with the backdrop of a firang oil tanker, and this emoluee chap, standing with hands on his hips, had flawless skin! Pink cheeks as well, but he was just too fair for me. Too fair, hadn’t run a spell-check on his silly bio document, and I didn’t like his shades. Proposal busted. Period.

And then last year, I was to meet one young buck pilot – family-friend son; lots of those, floating around, just waiting to get married apparently. Except I’d met this buck the year before; polite chap, I remember thinking. Offered me a drink and asked what I was doing later, and that maybe we should catch up. Sure, I said, nodding as nervously as I do when I have no idea how else to tap restless energy. Much later, his mother, (and mine!) were insistent I go to their place for dinner, but I think the heebie-jeebies caught up nicely, and I no-thank-you’d my way out of that. Next time pucca, yes aunty, just too much work these days you know…

And that was that. The sum total of how close I’ve gotten. Which isn’t too bad compared to the mini-hell some of my friends have faced -- for being adamant and ‘feminist’ about not wanting to get married this early etc. Some of these feminist types are eating humble pie, and come November, will gear up in red and gold, and have their friends dance to kajra re on upcoming sangeets.

Good for them, we’re all very happy, and the invitation cards with the subtle ganeshas are lovely. Me, I’m still dodgy. Worldviews are scattered, and perspectives might still be warped.

I don’t actually think I’m too young to get married. Mentally unequipped, is another matter, but I’ve been oscillating between a few lines of thought for myself, and am still uncertain which one to pick.

One is of course, I could meet this doctor, rubbish him – or not actually, but say meet him or subsequent rishta boys and gauge -- over four spaced out lunch and dinner dates-- how much compassion lies in the recesses of this man’s heart who has food stuck between his teeth. I could manzoor-hai the offer, and in a year perhaps, settle for a non-spectacular sedentary life with imagined earnest office-going man, continuing my freelancing frolic.

Ten years into the monotony, I could fancy myself as Francesca Johnson, farmer’s wife in Bridges of Madison County, who when asked by exotic outsider Clint Eastwood what I like about my husband, I could think and think and think only to come up with a “well, he’s clean.” Except in my case, no torrid affair with Eastwood is going to follow that.

Differently, I could up the optimism a notch, and do this my way, without being introduced to alien boys via the parents, and without later being able to blame them for statistically-plausible soured relations. This would mean, in roughly the same fly-over time span – giving myself 2 years tops, bio-clocks a tickin' and all that -- I’d have to zoom in on an equally well-earning boy, with a plus-point of a side-smile, the build to carry off linen, and the brains to crack a joke. Compassion requirement stands, and I could keep fingers crossed and not delve too deep about how it was meant to be. Not linger on the what-ifs, or imagine live-in scenarios with exes who redefined reckless charm and didn’t need cologne to allure. With enough nurturing and fresh air, I could even grow used to telling husband-at-hand that he’s loved, and before turning out the lights, not doubt that veracity too much.

One way or the other, and cynicism apart, maybe starting out with doctor types and examining those intricacies isn’t the worst way to set the future wheels in motion.

I love lucy

We're trying to be inspired, follow some able footsteps, and get into the groove of churning out 500 words a day. For the sake of discipline. Except school essays were so much easier. They always gave you a topic. The Hand That Rocks The Cradle. Or How I Spent My Summer Vacation. Autobiography of a coin. A day in the life of a flea. My favourite book character. Something! Anything! This thinking for oneself is the pits.

Anyway. Also, since I revisited my love for Charlie Brown, and not entirely out of excruciating boredom, Calvin and tiger, I have decided, will always be second best. Lolcats have taken a proper backseat. And all because everything you need to make you feel better about life and Sweet babboos, Schulz has it covered.

Yep, 500 words. Coming soon at a blog near you.

Text therapy

One message received.

That followed by a rapid exchange of idle texts. Long distance. From me to you with love. It's been a while since we sat alongside and spoke such comfortable rubbish. Not since college; those long afternoon commutes made easier by vanity competitions and a comfortable wavelength. With chip packets dug into turn by turn and Bisleri bottles held on to day after day. Like this were the life, and we were the it girls.
--

Happy Dusshera n.!

Oui. Personalised, how thoughtful! Happy Dussera, love!
I'm in office doing some fatru typing:)

Office, aaj?! Ha. I'm enjoying my mid week off! :)

I don't mind coming to office on a holiday. Roads are khalli, you don't have to sit home. Plus no depression end of the day ki kal kaam hai

Weirdo

Yea. P.S: I'm thinking of getting a tattoo done. Grasshopper. Maybe a three leaved clover. Neck nape.

I have no opinion on tattoos. Get it if you want. Except what when you're bored of it

Maybe I should just get a nice big red bag instead

Leather, please

Purple suede?

No, purple doesn't go with everything. red is good. unless its lilac suede, thats girlie n nice

Are you mad! Lilac suede, I can just imagine. Maybe baby pink heels with ruffles on them also?

Ha ha! stick to red please or olive green then - more u

Haan. brown quite fully fed up. but I have a green courdroy bag

Then red

Yes red. not like the one *beep beep* had. Remember? I didn't like that design too much

Me neither!! i hated it! v.bhenji type. get a v.hot one, not big shapeless jhola-v pseudo!

Haan, need a proper shape this time. Not the college ones. All my registers would get bloody dogeared because of those damn jholas! but this hidedesign one has really lasted. good investment, it must be acknowledged

True. took it with me to Thailand also. money's worth. has to be said

Point

I'm having beer today after 9days :)

Good religious child you are. I haven't had beer in.. 2 sundays. made myself scrambled eggs this morning though. with cheese and butter and milk. Perfectly fluffy! :) also sweet tooth in overdrive. I is a pig. I've probably put on as much weight as you. (only slight exagg) And i hate it that your hair is looking better

You are the greatest, N. Your hair is the greatest. No competition. Now shut up. I'm going out to lunch. later

Okay ji. I'll still be in office. freezing my fingers off and finding excuses to not work.