Why bother with real names when Bu Bu and Manu and Junny and Nolu and Shamtu and Gogo are what’s personal?

On Wednesday I was at a beauty parlour (Madonna, Vasant Vihar) at 9.30 in the morning for a manicure, pedicure and possible facial. (I like to get there early and be done before the whole place sounds of hairdryers and gossip). Vain as I am about my hands, I’ve never had a manicure done before, but she did a decent job and gave me a big second-smile when I tipped her. The first smile was when I asked her name and she said a little coyly, “Gudiya”.

Once, a Billo threaded my eyebrows. (Sunflower, Khan Market). She was sweet too. I asked her if she’s called Billo Rani and she said she was fed up of the song. Nowadays I go to Neelam (of Shal-Tina, C-block, Vasant Vihar fame) who knows exactly how natural a shape I want for my brows. Once the crucial arches are dealt with, and excess hair pruned, we chat about skincare and yoga and how much water is enough to drink.

I’ve digressed from what I was getting at but my point is I like to know people’s pet names, what they were called in school, and how distortions become the norm. A distant nephew who goes to school in Boston was named Valmik by his epic-loving parents with not very good foresight because the child is now going through a “call me Mickey” phase. Mickey, the name I feel, is too readymade for an alternate career in Hip hop. I like to call my friends by their kiddie names, their strange bilabial sounds Bobo, Momo that must have been given by mothers and relatives out of so much love.

As a teenager I wouldn’t let anyone call me by my so-called pet name because it was embarrassing, especially since it wasn’t one of those stylish short ones like Ash or Divs, and heaven forbid if some boy I had the hots for overhear me be called a name that sounded like a variation of a gurgle. No, pet names were just not cool. In college a boy once made me feel better by default after having confessed to still being called Laddoo at home because he was as a fat child with a sweet tooth. I felt the trauma he must have gone through, but surely everyone reaches a stage where embarrassment just becomes funny, no? The stupidest nick name I’ve heard is Dudi, (like dude-E). I was called Nunu. What was your pet name?

White gold (woohooo!) wedding

My friend from work who sits behind me and brings to office curd rice, cinnamon rolls and sambhar chawal for everybody, got married last week, the Hindu and Christian way.

For the past many months, I have been privy to the progress in her plans; the dates, the ceremonies, the court registry, the menu, caterers, the family meetings, the guest list, the card design, the venues, the liquor options, the make-up artiste, the mehndi wallas, the tent wallas, the ladke wallas, the shopping for clothes, shopping for presents, shopping at large, the music at the sangeet, the organ in the church, the bridesmaids, what they'll wear, the visits to the church, the time of the puja, the date of the puja, the friends flying down, the friends planning a bachelorette, the friends being ferried, the Dadis, the Nanis, the Buas, Papa, Amma, the in-laws, the booking of honeymoon tickets, tackling HR for leave, and some 117 other things I've missed.

And now that the functions are done with, everything settled, and the couple wed, the year seems to be over. Either that or sitting at my desk, typing, with no more running around to do, and mehndi rapidly fading off my palms, I'm having withdrawals. The stress, the fun, the chaos, I miss it. I was a bridesmaid, a first. I was on leave, a relief. I didn't have to see the office for a week. The six of us (bridesmaids) wore tuberose tiaras in our hair, posed for photographs, and poked each other in the stomach in spite of the carefully-pleated saris we wore.

Compared to last week, this Monday's a bit of a downer. I wish I could talk about the bachelorette party madness -- another first. The decorations, the games, the dress code, the sangria made in a pressure cooker with diced apple floating on top. I wish you could see the Kamasutra balloons, dotted, inflated and all over the place. I wish more that I could upload snaps and embarrass my newly-made tipsy women friends but who could then hold me to gun point equally. I wish there was just something to look forward to in the same way as a friend's wedding.

I wish I could show you how lovely white and gold looks, how quiet that church was, and how wonderful it is when everyone seated on those benches turns around to look at the bride when she walks down the red carpet, with flowers, father, smile, and all.

The weather was just right. Chiffons were wearable still. Brocades were bright, sleeveless black dresses were out, the lighting was beautiful, the blouses were low cut, hair stylists did their job well and the food was hot and a song called yeh lazy lazy lamhe played at a nightclub. I drank at least one Kingfisher beer every day. I played with my camera a lot. My boyfriend wore a three piece suit with a piano on his tie and played Going To The Chapel and Here Comes The Bride on the keys in the church. I met a lot of people, folded my hands, said namaste often, and generally smiled a lot in spite of my desperately chapped lips which my dermatologist was a side effect from the medicine (Tretiva) he's put me on so that my skin cleared up by this wedding (and it did).

So as far as I was concerned, there was no reason to not have had a great time, and even if I say so myself, I was pretty bang on.

My boyfriend and his 4-month old Labrador

Is it sick to be jealous of a dog?

Because this good-looking animal (in pic below waiting with his master at the vet), this enthusiastic, pissing-all-over-the-place creature is eating into my time with this man I chose to date.

Whenever I call him, he’s either playing with him or feeding him or running with him in the driveway. Once he was even rubbing ointment on his ass.

To tell the truth, I find it comforting that the lab is a DOG. If she were a bitch, this would be war.

I talk to myself about this shameful attitude. I am a mature woman. I wouldn’t compete with a dog, would I? He’s not even a dog, he’s a pup for Chrissake! Come on, I’m cute. Do I really then have to snack on dead mice and tickle my throat with blades of grass to elicit a pat on the head?

And then you wonder why I haven’t blogged.