Desicritics Satire

A Lesson Finally Learned

Purba — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 08:10:55 EDT

Once upon a time people bought gadgets that lasted them a lifetime, well almost. Refrigerators, television sets, we almost grew up with them. They did retire, hurt, once in a while but after a brief hospitalisation would resume duty without a murmur of protest.

Our first family car was a second hand, sky blue, Premier Padmini. It was tantrumy, would start at will and stop without warning causing distress, embarrassment and traffic jams. We had many a good Samaritan coming to our rescue, helping us out of sticky situations. Those days Delhi still had some nice people. When we finally sold it off, my Maa actually mourned for it. She loves mourning, animate inanimate notwithstanding.

Our first colour television, a Sony, lasted almost 25 years. Its images had become blurry, the controls cranky, but my parents refused to let go of it. They now have a 53 inch monster which conks off with alarming regularity.

Now that I have a household of my own to run, the gadgets have multiplied, look fancier, have mind boggling functions and come in daring colours. I can remove lint in a jiffy, colour my whites a ghastly orange in the washing machine and place my cup of tea on the warmer lest it get cold. I get cooled, warmed, entertained at the click of a button. But the life time bond is a thing of the past.

The Ray household does not acquire gadgets in haste. We follow a specific order. It starts with a thought. Yes, we need to upgrade our music system. Once the thought has germinated we nurture it. Sometimes we mull over it for over a year. The husband researches, compares and researches some more. We finally settle down for a state of the art music system. But the pleasure doesn’t even last a season. Within months a sleeker model with never-before-seen features makes a glitzy splash in the market, making our existing one look redundant. We start pondering again.

God forbid if any appliance conks off. I have been residing in Gurgaon for the last six years. Many errant appliances later, I can say with conviction that the millennium city has by far the worst technicians this side of the equator. But, the eternal optimist I am, I seldom learn from my past mistakes. I am always in the fond hope of an experience that will not be traumatic and have me close to a nervous breakdown. Every time it is the same sob story: a breakdown, frantic calls to the service centre, the reassurance that things will be taken care of in a jiffy (I wish they wouldn’t say that). It takes half a dozen trips by the technician, two dozen calls in varying decibel levels, threats, arguments, to finally get things back on track. By the end of it I have a hoarse throat and Rathore, Salim and Pandey jee in my speed dial list. Each ordeal later I sit and wonder, wouldn’t things have been much simpler if we had just dumped the damn thing and bought a newer model!

Ironically life is not meant to be simple, it gets insipid otherwise. We thrive on ordeals and challenges, we crib and we cope.

The spice came from unexpected quarters this time. My otherwise well behaved washing machine conked off after managing eight years of glitch free service. One freezing wintry morning, it let out a series of alarms and the heating function stopped working. Since it didn’t appear to be a major fault I decided to call the service centre and made the stupidest mistake of my life. To be fair the service engineer arrived promptly for diagnosing the problem. The circuit board needs to be replaced he announced. It will be fixed in an hour or two. Seven hours and a lot of chaos later it was discovered that the thermostat needed to be changed as well.

When you need something desperately it is always located in a far off city. This time it was Pondicherry. The thermostat finally did arrive after a week of reminders. Thank God, I can finally warm wash my laundry again, I mused. Famous last thoughts. Like King Bruce the technician kept trying to fix the apparently minor problem, and I kept rekindling my hopes. I would switch on the machine, a few minutes later the circuit board would get all hot and sultry and go up in smoke. My teeth had become blunt with all that gritting, my hair sparse from all that pulling. A second opinion was sought. It was discovered that we now needed a new thermistor as well.

A lot of heartburn and a few thousand rupees later our washing machine is finally working. It has become noisy, the heating element is temperamental. And here I am pondering yet again, would it not had been simpler had we just dumped the damn thing!

Last week our geyser started leaking again. I did not call the service centre, instead the husband dismantled it and we sold it to our scrap dealer for a princely amount of Rs 60. We have finally learned our lesson.

Fear and Lust

KG — Tue, 9 Mar 2010 19:17:36 EST

A look of disgust invariably crosses my face when I stand in front of the entrance. What with a glass door, subtly lit veneer walls, the depressingly dull blue stripes on the seat covers and frosted glass in the distance-all signs that scream SUCCESS- the first thought that crosses my mind is 'Dude this guy must be rich!' And not you-and-me rich. More of the fancy car driving, spoiling-the-child kind of rich achiever that makes me sick with the way people have commercialized their talents. No- that isn't right, there's a simpler, altogether more descriptive word for it- sick with ENVY.

Well, I snobbishly think to myself- At least I'm an intellectual. I have Nobel Laureate Orhan Pamuk's celebrated novel My Name is Red in my hand- holding it casually with my finger inside making sure everyone can see the title printed in big red letters. To hell with the air conditioning, the pretty-(actually radiant)- secretary biting her pencil trying to figure out the supremely difficult task of who goes in next, all the time blissfully unaware of the fact that her blouse is too tight and things are playing peek-a-boo. It's then - in the midst of this hide and seek that I wonder why she's playing these devious sexual games with me here of all the places. And it's then that I hear a disapproving cough coming from the toady mouth of an overdressed, overweight high society type who gives me the head to toe look. Cool, I think- maybe she's a cougar checking me out- and then her upper lip curls in disdain when she sees that I'm wearing fading, ancient jeans, a dirty grey T shirt and Woodland footwear so discoloured that it's original colour is unrecognizable.

I sit down between my would be cougar lover and the secretary who's obviously so into me that she knows her top button's open and the- well- twins seem to be much bigger than when I last saw them. She's had a boob job done just for me! If that isn't true love, if that isn't the sweet, innocent love that Keats- (or was it Playboy? Damn Literature can get confusing..) wrote about, then I don't know what is.

Well I think- maybe this visit isn't going to be so bad. I've found someone who's ready to enhance herself for me- that can never be a bad thing.

Absolute power is terrible. There are places where you are so completely under someone's control- and this I don't mean in a wink-wink way- that you just can't do a fucking thing. All you can do is to lie down and take it. Even the Queen of England has to submit body and soul to this man once a year. He enjoys men, women, children, virgins- there's no end to his escapades. And what's worse, even in these days of laws and civilization, this ancient profession exists. And thrives.

And then the moment of truth arrives. It's time for me to get mine. The frosted door opens and there he stands- a balding, short paunchy man- the same man who just had a session with my sister the previous day- and he points to me and beckons. The secretary gets up. My eyes travel down to discover to my horror that she's pregnant. And that I'd been ogling a pregnant much married woman.

Fear. That's what it is. Fear of the unthinkable. Fear- that makes you think all kinds of stuff.

And I go in. And the door closes.

And then the dentist hands me a glass of water and says 'Rinse'.

Spring-ing a Surprise

Purba — Thu, 4 Mar 2010 08:33:37 EST

Spring arrived without notice, sans any fanfare. Just a week back I was cosily wrapped in a shawl enjoying a night out with friends. It is another matter that I was the only one in anything remotely woollen. Delhi fashionistas are content shivering in their chiffons. And now here I am sweating profusely, complaining loudly to whoever is willing to listen as to how hot it has become. Gosh! I can’t even bear to look at my full sleeved tees.

A few days back, I went to our local shopping centre, “The Galleria”. The atmosphere was festive, with Holi just round the corner. I spotted quite a few people strolling around in their shorts and tees. My corduroys felt rather overdressed. “Why? It’s only February” I mused aloud to the husband.

Of course by now I was feeling mildly disturbed, I wanted to wear my shorts and tees too, weather be damned. So what do I do? I spent the entire weekend (two whole days to be precise) trying to unpack my summer wardrobe. Actually it’s a pretty complicated procedure. When you are living in a high rise apartment, space is the first casualty. My parents live in this huge three-storied bungalow and there are dedicated rooms and cupboards to store clothes that haven’t been worn the last twenty years. This is not an attempt to be funny, for a change I am dead serious. The kilometre long loft is used to store Diwali gifts accumulated over the last decade or more. Now that I have my own nest, I no longer have this privilege and my wardrobe has to be split according to seasons.

To unpack, one has to pack away stuff just to create space. And when you put away stuff, you can’t help but wonder at the sheer volume of apparel you have managed to accumulate in just one season. How the hell did I manage 4 pullovers in rust, even though it’s my favourite colour? Fine, aubergine (the colour, not the veggie) is hot this season, but did I really need that wrap, boots, dress and a bolero jacket in that colour? Actually I blame Gurgaon, the mall capital and my credit cards. The millennium city unleashes the shopaholic in you. The glittering stores with their tantalizing displays beckon at you, you walk in hypnotized, feel the textures, feast your eyes on the new collection, spot a pair of Jodhpurs in your favourite colour, try it on, it fits you like a dream. Ah, Nirvana! I loathe need-based shopping, it seems so mundane. For me it’s about surrendering to my impulses. Sauntering into a mall, inhaling the fresh aroma of coffee, sniffing at tantalizing jars and tubes with exotic ingredients at a Body Shop store, gently filling that enduring little basket with knick knacks and opening my eyes wide in horror when the cashier finally presents the bill to me. For such indulgences, thank god there’s always MasterCard.

Confronted with a pile from my latest indiscretions, I make yet another “no more shopping, I have enough” resolution. Every year I follow this ritual. Silently curse myself, wonder how I can create space for my ever expanding eclectic wardrobe. I weed out stuff and look for unsuspecting individuals I can pass on to - usually my maids.

So it’s that time of the year again, I am atop the ladder reaching out for the loft making careful pyramids of attires from a season gone by. I lug the 100 kilo (at least it felt that heavy) mattress off my bed and stuff some more woollies in my divan. But the incorrigible me is already plotting and planning my next conquest in the shopping precincts. I could definitely do with a few more skirts this season and I need a pair of tracks my dance classes, should I make a quick trip to Mango to check out their spring summer collection? Thank god my cramped closets can’t hear me think or else they would have collapsed in frustration by now.

Satire: A Reasonable Dog

Subroto Pant — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 08:10:31 EST

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself", said Nawab, nibbling away at the bag of chips.

"ME? Now what have I done?" I asked, cursing the day this opinionated hound came into my care. That's right "hound" was what I had said and I am not going into it again, the whole story is somewhere out there on the net if you care to find it. In short, Nawab my talking dog given to me by my Pakistani friend now resident in Canada (the friend not the dog unfortunately).

"You shouldn't have got the cat. You know I am allergic to them".

"Ridiculous. You are only sulking since the cat started sleeping in your basket".

"Am not, I only want the cat to acknowledge that this is a dog's household. That cat has to learn that we live here by doggie rules. All it needs to do is respect my sentiments, why can't a cat be more like a dog?".

"Come on, you are being unreasonable. Its a nice cat, surely there is something about it that you like".

"Well some of that cat food is not bad and I do watch Garfield on TV. Why some of my best friends have been cats. Just let the cat know that I came to this house first, return my basket and all my toys. The cat can then stay if you like".

On that note, he promptly made for the fridge nudged open the door and started nosing around.

"So where is the cat going to sleep now?", I asked.

"Oh put it in the kennel outside, I said I am a reasonable dog", said he munching on the chicken as it started to pour outside.

Twitter Fiction: Twocial Etiquette

IdeaSmith — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 02:28:40 EST

“And this is Kunal.”

“Are you on Twitter?”

“Yes, I’m @c00nal.”

“I don’t think I FOLLOW you.”

“I don’t follow you either.”

Kunal frowns as he turns to the Hot Dog stand.

“I think I hurt his ego a bit.”

“You just met!”

“Social boo-boo, telling someone you don’t follow them on Twitter.”

“What rubbish, nobody cares about these things.”

“Some people do. Maybe he’s one of them. Shit, I blew it.”

“Shh, he’s back. Ice-creams? Isn’t that too…I don’t know…something?”

“Ice-cream is cool.”

“Or maybe it’s c00nal.”

“No, this is c00nal.”

He says, holding out a spoon with a bit of ice-cream stuck to it. It’s green, not an appealing shade for food, she thinks.

“Ooh, you got her an ice-cream, c00nal?”

“A bite-sized version.”

He grins.

“A twitterized ice-cream.”

She replies, smiling back as she takes the spoon.

Twitter Fiction: Equal Sins

IdeaSmith — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 07:00:51 EST

Another writing exercise and this one, I thought up myself! (Pat on the back...thank you, thank you). The challenge was to write a 140-word story about Twitter. Samir and I did this under a timer. And finished in close to 14 minutes. I call this a twory.

~O~O~O~O~O~An 80s song went,

“The instant generation….Instant food, instant love.”

They didn’t know half of it, thought Sanjana. The Internet hadn’t even been around then. They didn’t have Twitter, that two-edged boon that make it permissible to follow somebody.

But was stalking allowed? Her eyes darted about before returning to her screen. Email hacking was passé. His Twitter account lay open to her. With only a moment’s hesitation, she clicked on ‘Direct Messages’. Even her suspicions hadn’t prepared her for what she saw. A screen full of naughty messages, bordering on risqué. That much she had expected, even if the numbers shocked her a bit.

She only didn’t expect to see a row of male faces.

She forced down a wave of nausea and logged out. A few clicks later, she finally took the drastic step as she hit UNFOLLOW.

Confessions of a Facebook Addict

Purba — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 12:49:46 EST

I blame the Aggarwala brothers. Had they not created the eminently buzz worthy Scrabulous on FB, they wouldn’t have featured prominently in the papers, and my interest would not have been aroused.

It was two years back that I read about this exciting new word game on the block that had taken the cyber world by storm. Am not much into gaming, the dexterity required eludes me. But I am hopelessly hooked on to word games. The joy of discovering new words (khi, titi, dado, apod) is unmatched. The game can get ruthless at times, but showing off your vocabulary has never been this fun. I wasted no time in creating an account on FB. Thus began my dalliance with the world of social networking.

So far I had successfully (well almost) managed to evade the lure of such sites. I had joined Orkut briefly. But the lack of privacy always rankled. My mailbox was inundated with enquires from strange males curious to know whether I was the elusive Purba they had been looking for years. All these years I was under the mistaken impression that mine was a unique name, until now. Within a few weeks I had managed a few stalkers and men desperate to have an affair. Disgusted I deleted my account.

My first few months on Facebook were uneventful. I had ventured into this unchartered territory with a gaggle of my friends. We were a close knit circle of thirty, playing Scrabble with passion. New terms baffled me: a wall to scribble messages on, status updates, notifications, getting poked. There was an exciting new world on my desktop waiting to be explored. What a convenient and novel way to keep in touch with your many friends and relatives scattered around the globe, I would often muse. I even managed to unearth my brother under a Jim Morrison inspired pseudonym. Here was a forum where everyone was sharing their opinions, sentiments and even trivial details of their lives. It was through FB I saw my nephew grow up from a cuddly baby to a cherubic angel in far off Baton Rouge. Shared my friend’s excitement as she traversed the East Coast on a solo trip to the US through her many pics and posts. A lyrical ode here, a scene captured there, the seduction was gradual but irreversible. Whenever I could manage some free time I would plonk myself in front of the system, gleefully share links, leave comments or just play my turns on Scrabulous.

On FB you cannot remain anonymous for long. My many ex-students sniffed out my trail and I was bombarded with friend requests. I did accept a few and was now privy to the psyche of the young Indian mind. I am in lurvvvv...teehee....Luv is nyc... Noooo...Yess?? (Subject to interpretation) My powers of deduction were getting severely tested and I was experiencing mild trauma. My news feeds were definitely getting spicier. X took a quiz “How good are you in a bed” Result: Man, you are a nympho. Y just downloaded the Lady Timer. Z just tagged you as “The one with the best body”. I had a choice between squirming and sighing in relief. It could have been worse (the indomitable optimist speaks) - “Best Hag” would have certainly incurred my wrath. To preserve my sanity I now use the hide function to protect me from unsavoury truths of life.

It never ceases to amaze me how even perfectly sane adults are capable of taking the most inane quizzes and add insult to injury by having the results published. Which shoe do I resemble the most?? Which female superhero are you? Which musical are you? A bunch of retarded questions masquerading as a quiz with even more retarded results.

And the status messages some of us write. Agreed the name Facebook stems from the colloquial name of books given to grad students at the start of academic year with the intention of getting to know each other. But posting details about your breakfast or your latest splurge at Bodyshop is definitely not welcome. Some people can write the dullest status messages. “Waiting for the flight to Dallas at Newark airport” “Have a toothache” “The avocados just gave me a rash”. To me it sounds more like an exchange between a husband and wife. CNN went to the extent of listing the “The 12 most annoying types of facebookers” “The-let-me-fill-you-on-every-detail-of-my-life bore” “The self promoter” (is that me?) “The friend-padder”, “The lurker” to name just a few.

They forgot to add the Farmville enthusiast. You can spot this individual from a mile. Farmville, Mafia Wars, Hatchlings or any new fangled application is their raison-d’être. Their wall is chock-a- block with gargoyles acquired, warehouse eggs hatched and fertilizer collected. Their status messages read more like Oscar acceptance speeches where they often thank their friends for helping them build the barn or some such thing. I admit I had joined this strange breed albeit briefly. For a few weeks my routine centred on the endless cycle of ploughing, sowing and harvesting crops. I was saving lost kitties, collecting eggs and tending to my cows. On my trip to Jaisalmer I actually logged in just to save my dying crops. Thankfully my fascination did not last long. I was becoming the butt of jokes of my family members and one fine day I bid adieu to the fascinating world of virtual farming.

But I have been fiercely loyal to FB. There have been temptations galore - Twitter, Myspace and now Google buzz. But I am content with my hundred odd friends on FB. I still play Scrabulous, now in its new avatar Lexulous. I owe my interest in blogging to a note I shared with my friends on this network. The overwhelming feedback made me think of taking writing seriously. Yes, I have this obsessive compulsion of checking my account every few hours and on days I can’t I end up feeling restless. My husband has a new term of endearment for me.....addict. Of late I have been reading about a new movement called virtual suicide i.e deleting all your social networking accounts in one go. Has that thought ever entered my mind? Not even for a fraction of a second. The kind of trash they now show on television I’d rather be the addict I am made out to be. And isn’t Internet one of the nominees for the Nobel prize for peace. So here I am logging in yet again for the sake of world peace.

Fiction: The Winning Point

IdeaSmith — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 07:35:34 EST

Vineet was an ordinary young man with one remarkable talent that came to fore only in his late teens in college. It all started with an inter-collegiate festival.

His college and the hosting campus had a long running feud and the annual festival was both, a new episode in the war as well as a chance for each batch to showcase its coming-of-age skills. When Anveeta, the cultural secretary had called for participants, he had been standing nearby, waiting for her to finish so he could leave the class. But she turned to him and snapped,

“Name?”

and his mind had gone on auto-pilot. Before he realized it, she had written it down and moved on to the next person. He didn’t even have time to tell her that he wasn’t into anything remotely cultural. Anyway, he wouldn’t have. Anveeta was not the kind of person one ever said no to. Not that she had ever asked him anything. Anveeta went with the power pack in college and he doubted that she’d recognize him on the road if they passed. Now that they had spoken, he realized that he would have agreed to anything she asked. Even though she had not really asked.

The festival had twenty-five events with about twelve colleges competing for the trophy. Each event awarded a point apiece for participation and more for clearing each level of the competition. The college with the highest total at the end of the festival would win the shining silver cup.

A bunch of 15-odd people were going to sing, dance, act, talk and strut down the stage for the various events. Vineet found himself herded in with the numbers to grab the participation points. These were the small runs, the ‘singles’ as his buddies on the cricket team called it. First to go were the accomplished artists into the music, elocution and art events. Next were the trained and rehearsed teams – the fashion show troupe, the debating team and the dramatics group. The sports teams had gone straight to the grounds and would catch up with them only at the end of the day.

That left four of them. One of them headed to the advertising contest, having set his sights on an internship at an ad agency that summer. The other two trouped off to the personality contest, more to ogle the participants of the opposite sex than anything else. They left Vineet standing in front of the schedule board.

What could he do? He ran his eye speculatively down the list some three times before he found an event right at the bottom. There were only 3 registrants so far and it sounded easy. So he signed up and walked towards the door he was directed to. To his dismay, it turned out to be a small sized auditorium rather than a classroom. What’s more, it was almost half full. Most of the students were using it as a resting point to lounge in the airconditioning, secure in the knowledge that the peons wouldn’t be able to evict anyone on this day of the festival when it wasn’t clear who was a visitor and who, a student.

It was too late to turn back since the co-ordinator who had registered his name was jostling him from the back. Too bad she was so pretty. She was the only girl to have even looked at him that day. So he took a deep breath and walked up to the raised podium and sat down with the other three participants.

It was two hours before he was able to escape from that room. Outside, his team was waiting, Anveeta hopping impatiently from foot to foot as she gave him an annoyed look.

“So how many points do we have so far?”

Each person spoke up their share while she added it to the tally. When the stars were done, she stopped listening and just starting counting off the remaining heads to allot 1 point each for participation.

“14…15…16…17…shit, we’re tying for third place. We’re never going to get there, dammit!”

“No, we’re at 24.”

Vineet ventured timidly

“Hmm?”

she paused in distraction and looked down at her tally again. He waited patiently while she recounted and turned back at him with a frown.

“The tally is correct.”

“No, you only counted 1 for me. I got 8.”

The rest of the group was listening now. Boldened a tad, Vineet raised his voice a notch but he was beaten by the captain’s low octave.

“That’s not possible. You’ve to cross all rounds and win to get that high.”

“Err, yes, I won.”

“What?”

She was looking dumbfounded now.

“Twist-a-tune.”

He heard the girl behind him whisper to her friend,

“What’s that?”

“It’s a music event. They give you two songs. You have to take the words of one and the tune of another and sing them without a break.”

Still dumbfounded. With a supreme act of bravado, Vineet opened his mouth and launched into an encore of his performance.

“Jaadoo teri nazar, khusbhoo tera badan”

It took everyone a few minutes before someone whispered,

“But that’s…that’s…Om Jai Jagadish Hare…the tune is that”

“Tu hain meri kiran”

finished Vineet.

He was rewarded not with applause but with a shriek from the captain herself.

“24 puts us in the lead!!!!”

“Excuse me”

said a voice at his elbow,

“You didn’t tell us your name.”

The pretty girl coordinator from the mini-auditorium was smiling back at him, pad in hand. Vineet grinned. Well, when she asked like that…

And that was the day Vineet went from being an extra participant to a winner.

Love Is In The Air...

Purba — Mon, 8 Feb 2010 05:33:54 EST

Love is buzzing in the air. Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk has declared to the world and whoever is willing to listen “It’s no secret, Kiran (Desai) is my girlfriend” The lovebirds will soon be heading off to Goa. It should do them a world of good. Apparently sunbathing jazzes up a man’s sex drive with good ole Vitamin D coming to rescue. According to scientific studies it perks up the testosterone. I love scientific studies. You are forever caught in a quagmire of indecisions. One day eggs are harmful, the next they are supposed to be good for heart. Do I need to drink eight glasses of water? Is it okay to go nuts over nuts? Dusting increases chances of fertility! Ever since I read that I gave up stress for good. All I need to do is take off my glasses and the house looks much cleaner.

Jacob Zuma, South African president is busy propagating love. A practicing polygamist, he has sired his 20th child. Now that’s taking sowing your wild oats to the extreme. But I am a bit tensed up. Not because Zuma at 67 can still do it. I have a list to make of people I have to say “I love you” to. And I barely have a week. You see, the entire year I will be too busy working, living, entertaining myself and others and I will get just one measly Valentine’s Day to profess my love.

My forehead is furrowed in concentration. The list is not very long, but tricky. If I leave out someone who really matters, I will be met with iciest of glares for the rest of the year.

My Mom….of course I love her, I am conditioned to, but can you please stop telling me what’s wrong with my life and finally accept me as a grown up?

The Husband... we have a life-long contract of loving each other. But it would help if you can say I Love you with that beautiful armband from Amrapali. I have been eyeing it for the longest.

My brother… I love you, but I love your cuddly daughter and her most endearing smile more.

Why is it so easy to fall hopelessly in love with babies? Is it because they do not express their opinions (read criticism)? Demand only love and love you unconditionally!

My Daughter... Honey Mama loves you, but can you please be more responsible and study!! (Ha! so much for unconditional love)

My friends…With you I can be myself. Not a mother, a wife, a daughter, just a girl who needs mindless banter to de-stress. And you make the greatest partners in crime (read shopping)

Why is it so difficult to love and so easy to loathe? Ask me about my hate list and I can rattle off names in a jiffy. But when it comes to loving we have the longest checklist list to fulfill. It’s like a hurdle race, the faster you run, the higher you jump, the closer you can come to me. Is he bestowed with a sense of humor? Is Fountainhead her favorite piece of literature? Is she compassionate? Does he love dogs? Of course if the guy looks like Bradley Cooper, the checklist and hurdles can go to hell.

But a stray uncomfortable incident and we are ready to block the unfortunate person out for the rest of our lives.

Thank god Valentine’s Day was not half as popular when I was in school. Was it because Archies had yet to make its presence felt and Hallmark had not made its mark in the Indian market? Imagine how stressful it could have been! As if exams were not enough, you were now doomed to wait for V day with trepidation. Will I get any cards this year? I have been giving Vinay the glad eye for the longest, will he take the bait? Saisha got 17 cards last year and I managed just 3 (all bought by me). Why me? Why not me?

The florist though is the happiest. He goes laughing all the way to the bank. People shell out forty bucks for a measly rose without a murmur of protest. Your senses are assaulted with an overdose of red. The city suddenly gets infested with gloriously-in-love couples looking deep into each other’s eyes, girls giving off key musical renditions of their love at the local karaoke station, men scurrying off to the jeweler to make an expensive declaration of their love.

So is one day enough to express an emotion so deep that it has the ability to transform; is your biggest weakness and strength? Isn’t any day good enough to feel mushy and gooey? Why do we wait for B-days and V-days to make our special one feel cherished? My take is that occasions such as these jolt us out of the daily rut of our lives.

Many of you would argue that Valentine’s Day is but a shameless marketing ploy. Maybe it is but I don’t care. This Valentine’s I am going to be dressed in my red pair of jeans (fashion police stay away), pop in heart shaped chocolates ,flutter my mascara’d lashes and croon “Oh my love, my darling, I’m hungry for your love” to my one and only. You have a problem with that?

The Five Lettered Word

Purba — Thu, 4 Feb 2010 02:53:26 EST

It is a word we women dread the most. We try to avoid it yet there's no escaping it. Many of us have learned to live with it, accept it as our final destiny.

I vividly remember the day when I first heard this word. Of course, I had been using it all my life but someone using it in my context caught me unawares. I was barely 24, married for just over a year. It was a usual weekday morning until the door bell rang. Outside stood our neighbor's teenage son with yet another missive from his overbearing father. "Auntie, your cooler is........."
AUNTIE ?!

My entire neuro-sensory system stopped responding. My world came crashing down. All I could hear was the sound of my sobbing heart. "Does he think I am old?" "Have I aged overnight?" "Is this the end of my youth?" "Why me?!" I was an anguished soul seeking answers from anyone who cared to listen.

We Indians are a congenial lot and we take the adage "the world is a family" rather seriously. All our lives we are constantly forging new relationships. The sabziwalla, raddiwalla , gaswalla are our long lost brothers, so we address them as "bhaiyya". Men and women in indeterminate age groups are relegated to the category of "Uncle" and "Auntie". Names are meant for family members and fools. "Uncle, can you please not park your car in front of my gate!" "Auntie, your pesky son has been hurling live bombs in my balcony yet again!"

Of course there are times when people do not take kindly to this term of endearment. Like our 50-something landlady of a house we lived in a decade back. She turned vivid shades of blue, red and green when I tried to forge this loving bond with her. She let out a woeful litany on how the whole universe was ganging up against her youthful self. Even 70-somethings at the Mother Dairy booth were clamoring to be her nieces. Empathizing with her, I hurriedly swallowed my 'auntie'.

The same wronged lady, however, had no qualms in addressing my parents, barely a few years older, as "Uncle and Auntie". That left me literally fuming. Anti-aging creams be damned, these magic words are enough to make you feel younger, as long as you are the one hurling these at others.

My age has always been subject to a lot of speculation. Since the age of six, I have always managed to look younger than my age. Of course, now I take it as a compliment. My 30's were plagued with a tussle between "didi" and the dreaded A-word. The younger lot insisted on addressing me as "didi" while their parents wanted to consign me to auntie-dom. I have had instances of a stray sabziwalla trying to auntie me up, only to be met with the iciest of glares. Thank god, looks don't kill.

Gently introduced to my 40's now (that took guts to put in print), I am finally in the reconciliation stage. I still get mildly outraged when a college type kid addresses me as Auntie. Old habits are hard to get rid of, especially vanity.
My 15-year old daughter gets even more livid when people gush about us looking like sisters. "Do they think I am old?" "Have I aged overnight?" "Is this the end of my youth?" "Why me??" she asks anyone who cares to listen.
Life indeed has come full circle for me.