Have been away, stuck with work, coming home too tired to do anything except go to bed. I just wish that that's what all the people killed in Bombay could still do - have a tough day at work, a frustrating time in traffic and then come home in time to bitch about their colleagues to their best friend in the whole world.
I didn't sleep at all last night, walking up and down, my heart sinking and this feeling that something terrible had happened.
I had a dream a couple of nights ago about one of the people killed at the Taj. I dreamt I saw her standing beside my bed, and I jumped up in joy and surprise, saying : "oh my God! You're safe! How wonderful! Oh I'm so glad you're alive!'
And that's all that I can do now. I hope that wherever you are, all of you, you're safe and quiet finally. You all deserved to be alive today, and your families do not deserve this burden of grief that they will carry for the rest of their lives.
And I also think that it's terrible that those who murdered all these people probably never thought for even a moment that they were doing a very wrong thing. They died thinking that they were doing the right thing. And there is such a thing as wrong and right. This is a moral universe.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
can i please just say
that I thought "Rock On" was a totally crappy film. I was so so bored with this boy fantasy of "Yo dude! Rock on, man!" Ugh ugh ugh ugh. Am I supposed to care about Farhan Akhtar screwing his life up in some multi-million dollar apartment? How am I supposed to care when the script is so bad? The turnaround between him screwing/not screwing his life up is about half a scene. And I'm also fed up of designer Bollywood masquerading as some kind of bearable cinema, just because it's so coool. Krakt me if I am wrong ji BUT haven't we seen everyone before, somewhere? Miserable investment baker who's boxed up his dreams, sweet loving loving wife, cool dude genius failed rocker, fishwife hussy wife, friend dying of BRAIN tumour, nerdy friend whom everyone likes etc etc and all of them with perhaps two good lines between them!
It bothers me that these flat uninteresting characters can be up on screen as acceptable. It bothers me that people can accept that this unsustainable "lifestyle" is the happy end., the dreamed-of end, with everyone swilling beer at some super-expensive resort because they're finally where-it's-at, which is, like, "Look at me! I'm rich! I'm beautiful! I'm successful! I'm silhouetted by the sea like the last scene in Philadelphia! My wife is happy because she's a fashion designer finally, thank god, and wearing white which shows off her lustrous rich lovely brown skin on which a makeup artist has slaved for many an hour! And we all love the children, the lovely lovely children in their frocks dancing around us cause we're musicians, and we're free and happy happy!"
The only interesting fella was Arjun Rampal because his sad eyes and laid-backness had something authentic to say about what failure feels like. The rest just acted it all. Not as bad as the scriptwriter who invented it all with little imagination. When that Channel V competition came up again, I began laughing. I thought it was a good joke - but it wasn't a joke! They took it all seriously all over again, rather than saying, fuck it man, bloody losers that lot at Channel V., let's just do our stuff this time shall we? Why doesn't Farhan-boy just bankroll the album? And how bad was the audience at the show? I thought that wave-thing went out years and years ago.
I noted with interest that Javed Akhtar said recently that he thought that Indian rock was a poor imitation of American whatever (as in the film). I read the article. Of course it was nothing other than a self-congratulatory thing on how good his lyrics were.
And this whole context-thing. Ok, let's forget that because Bollywood is all fantasy mostly, but oh hell, was I bored!!
It bothers me that these flat uninteresting characters can be up on screen as acceptable. It bothers me that people can accept that this unsustainable "lifestyle" is the happy end., the dreamed-of end, with everyone swilling beer at some super-expensive resort because they're finally where-it's-at, which is, like, "Look at me! I'm rich! I'm beautiful! I'm successful! I'm silhouetted by the sea like the last scene in Philadelphia! My wife is happy because she's a fashion designer finally, thank god, and wearing white which shows off her lustrous rich lovely brown skin on which a makeup artist has slaved for many an hour! And we all love the children, the lovely lovely children in their frocks dancing around us cause we're musicians, and we're free and happy happy!"
The only interesting fella was Arjun Rampal because his sad eyes and laid-backness had something authentic to say about what failure feels like. The rest just acted it all. Not as bad as the scriptwriter who invented it all with little imagination. When that Channel V competition came up again, I began laughing. I thought it was a good joke - but it wasn't a joke! They took it all seriously all over again, rather than saying, fuck it man, bloody losers that lot at Channel V., let's just do our stuff this time shall we? Why doesn't Farhan-boy just bankroll the album? And how bad was the audience at the show? I thought that wave-thing went out years and years ago.
I noted with interest that Javed Akhtar said recently that he thought that Indian rock was a poor imitation of American whatever (as in the film). I read the article. Of course it was nothing other than a self-congratulatory thing on how good his lyrics were.
And this whole context-thing. Ok, let's forget that because Bollywood is all fantasy mostly, but oh hell, was I bored!!
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Today, with my Tibetan brothers and sisters I say
Bhod Gyalo!
Bhod Gyalo!
Long live the Dalai Lama
And may His Holiness return to Potala Palace before Losar!
Tibet Will Be Free!
Rangzen!
Bhod Gyalo!
Long live the Dalai Lama
And may His Holiness return to Potala Palace before Losar!
Tibet Will Be Free!
Rangzen!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
one of the greatest talents
is the ability to fall asleep. I am the most stressed-out person! At the moment I have empty hours at work, and my head is aching with lack of sleep - but can I curl up on the couch and fall asleep? no. Though I would love to. There was this cameraman friend of mine, and he had mastered the art of sleeping anywhere - standing in a crowded bus, or on a pile of oddly-shaped rocks in a dry riverbed in the Chambal valley. He was lucky and happy indeed.
Here are the things that go wrong when I try to sleep:
i) I need to pee at ten-minute intervals after getting into bed, even though I may not have drunk huge quantities of water.
ii) I start thinking about how miserable everything is. Naturally, this doesn't help in falling asleep at all
iii) My girlfriend lies next to me, deep in peaceful sleep and this, for some strange reason, makes me start thinking she doesn't love me after all (the reason is not strange when I think about it: obviously my illogical mind expects her to share my misery and not sleep either) and this makes me even more tearful and miserable
iv) I also think about all the stuff I have to do the next day
So the solution is to STOP THINKING AND STOP PEEING. I'm trying. I'm trying.
Here are the things that go wrong when I try to sleep:
i) I need to pee at ten-minute intervals after getting into bed, even though I may not have drunk huge quantities of water.
ii) I start thinking about how miserable everything is. Naturally, this doesn't help in falling asleep at all
iii) My girlfriend lies next to me, deep in peaceful sleep and this, for some strange reason, makes me start thinking she doesn't love me after all (the reason is not strange when I think about it: obviously my illogical mind expects her to share my misery and not sleep either) and this makes me even more tearful and miserable
iv) I also think about all the stuff I have to do the next day
So the solution is to STOP THINKING AND STOP PEEING. I'm trying. I'm trying.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
here is a something I wrote
I wrote it quite a while ago. Anyway. My girlfriend didn't think much of it, but still:
In my dreams my favourite ice-cream
Tastes like a bad hangover
And the faster I run from the monster
Of course I go slower and slower
And I miss by a second the familiar bus
That goes to the house of my lover
And when I do get there in the end
I find her dead in the shower.
At this point, I wake up, check that she's still breathing, and turn over.
And she turns too, looking like an angel, my otherwise psychotic significant other.
When I tell her about it in the morning, she takes out her Jungian de-coder.
The monster is easy: it's obviously my over-controlling mother.
The ice-cream is our sex-life, the less said about it the better
And as for "missing the bus" - she's been trying to expain that to me forever.
She frowns for a bit over her dramatic Hotchkokian murder,
And then says I should "talk more about stuff", not fantasise about killing her.
I watch her get ready for work, mentally kissing each little toe and finger
I would never never want you dead, my irreplacable, wonderful lover.
In my dreams my favourite ice-cream
Tastes like a bad hangover
And the faster I run from the monster
Of course I go slower and slower
And I miss by a second the familiar bus
That goes to the house of my lover
And when I do get there in the end
I find her dead in the shower.
At this point, I wake up, check that she's still breathing, and turn over.
And she turns too, looking like an angel, my otherwise psychotic significant other.
When I tell her about it in the morning, she takes out her Jungian de-coder.
The monster is easy: it's obviously my over-controlling mother.
The ice-cream is our sex-life, the less said about it the better
And as for "missing the bus" - she's been trying to expain that to me forever.
She frowns for a bit over her dramatic Hotchkokian murder,
And then says I should "talk more about stuff", not fantasise about killing her.
I watch her get ready for work, mentally kissing each little toe and finger
I would never never want you dead, my irreplacable, wonderful lover.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
It took this long for my computer to be repaired.
Well the monsoon is here. No more watering the plants. My adenium bulbosa died because of natural over-watering, It was left out while I was away on holiday.
The monsoon means: drying clothes under fans, frequently upset stomachs if not actually full-blown gastroenteritis, quite nice mid-afternoon sex if it's raining and you're on holiday and the most gorgeous woman in the world is lying peacefully with you on a huge double bed with her light, flexible body wrapped around yours, both of you half asleep...
Monsoon in the hills - another world! Why did we ever come back?
Well the monsoon is here. No more watering the plants. My adenium bulbosa died because of natural over-watering, It was left out while I was away on holiday.
The monsoon means: drying clothes under fans, frequently upset stomachs if not actually full-blown gastroenteritis, quite nice mid-afternoon sex if it's raining and you're on holiday and the most gorgeous woman in the world is lying peacefully with you on a huge double bed with her light, flexible body wrapped around yours, both of you half asleep...
Monsoon in the hills - another world! Why did we ever come back?
Sunday, May 11, 2008
my migraine trigger list
1. Foods
- cheese
- red wine
- chocolate
- anything citrus
- alcohol
- MSG
- overloaded sweets like, well, cham cham (one of my favourites).
2. life
- noise
- lack of sleep
- sunlight
- weather changes
- extreme heat
- heavy smells
- emotional stress
- tiredness (even mild tiredness is a trigger)
- eye strain
I have just read that one of my favourite foods, tofu , might be a trigger. Oh no.
- cheese
- red wine
- chocolate
- anything citrus
- alcohol
- MSG
- overloaded sweets like, well, cham cham (one of my favourites).
2. life
- noise
- lack of sleep
- sunlight
- weather changes
- extreme heat
- heavy smells
- emotional stress
- tiredness (even mild tiredness is a trigger)
- eye strain
I have just read that one of my favourite foods, tofu , might be a trigger. Oh no.
Monday, May 5, 2008
after all that rhapsodising..
...I got a migraine!! But I don't care. I dealt with it better. I wasn't afraid of it any more. I'm going to do it, get rid of it. Just watch me. Was talking to a friend on the phone, and she said: "Give yourself six months on this." That's a good idea, having a definite time period to experiment in. Watch this space and see what happens.
To talk a little less aggro, I was feeling romantic so sent my gorgeous girlfriend this lovely little poem by Gavin Ewart:
Love Song
You've got nice knees.
Your black shoes shine like taxis.
You are the opposite of
all farting and foulness.Your exciting hair
is like a special moss,
on your chest are two soft medals
like pink half-crowns under your dress.
Your smell is far beyond
the perfumes at parties,
your eyes nail me
on a cross of waiting. Hard is
the way of the worshipper.
But the heart line on my hand
foretold you:In your army of lovers
I am a private soldier.
And she replied: "There is no army, and you are the only soldier!!" Made my day.
To talk a little less aggro, I was feeling romantic so sent my gorgeous girlfriend this lovely little poem by Gavin Ewart:
Love Song
You've got nice knees.
Your black shoes shine like taxis.
You are the opposite of
all farting and foulness.Your exciting hair
is like a special moss,
on your chest are two soft medals
like pink half-crowns under your dress.
Your smell is far beyond
the perfumes at parties,
your eyes nail me
on a cross of waiting. Hard is
the way of the worshipper.
But the heart line on my hand
foretold you:In your army of lovers
I am a private soldier.
And she replied: "There is no army, and you are the only soldier!!" Made my day.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
migraine relief
Life is beautiful. I prop my sheet music up on a stand, sit down with my guitar and play, and know that this time, this sound has nothing to do with money, with "goals", with "success".
I feel fortunate. At the moment I have loads of money compared to many people I know, and hardly any compared to many others - whom I know also. But money is meaningless. It's all in the head. A new dress is not going to make me look any better, and me looking any better is not going to make me feel better.
At the beginning of Tarkovsky's mirror, this man says that we have a lot to learn from trees - the ability to be silent, to be still, to not always be busy and talking. He says we've forgotten all this. It's true. What if we planned our otherwise wasted time around these silent moments of being?
I've put myself on this path now. Hasten slowly. Don't worry. Relax. Laugh. It's all an experiment in curing myself of the migraine. Be like a tree. Be like music. Be yourself. And today is the fourth day running that I haven't had migraine. For me, that's an achievement. I sprained my shoulder two days ago, but had to go to work. Once there, I told myself: it's only pain. It's only a sprain. It'll go away. And it did, with minimum fuss. Then came a crisis - the beginning of a migraine: a feeling of unease, heightened sensitivity to everything, dull pressure building on one side of the head. I talked to myself again: easy does it, girl, I said. Palm your eyes. Think cool for your hot head. Breathe in and out slowly and gently. Don't worry about the time. be kind to yourself. Drink peppermint tea.
And it didn't arrive, the migraine. This was a little miracle. I almost didn't believe it, but then I did, and I also knew that I had done it myself.
I've never been interested in the harum-scarum scrambling of contemporary life, but I think it's only recently that I've given myself permission to approve of this lack of interest. I used to wince each time I thought of my scholarship interview for Oxford some fifteen years ago. When the committee of stern old men asked me what my interests were, I said "reading, music and gardening." Consternation over gardening. How could it be? The answer should have been : Reading, music and mountaineering/ Reading, music and masturbating/ Reading, music and genetic engineering. But gardening!
Well, I still love gardening, and today my answer would be: I'm interested in music, happiness, reading, gardening, watching my two silly cats, protesting against injustice, being alive, being in love, hanging out with my friends...I did get to go to Oxford, and am eternally grateful for the kindness of those unimpressed old men, because Oxford was wonderful , a beautiful and wise dream, an example of what people can do for each other. It actually made me think and be more alive, more motivated, more critical of fuzzy logic, more appreciative of the powers of my brain and sheer hard work. Leaving Oxford made me miserable, but now I'm discovering that the process never ends. Some part of me is always there, with my stern and disapproving tutor shaking her head over a wishy-washy piece on the middle English lyric, and the same tutor exclaiming with delight over another essay on oral traditions and reading out bits of my own writing back to me to tell me how much she liked it. And that Oxford part of me, sitting with my tutor on a dark four o'clock winter afternoon with thick rain beating on the windows, still keeps me going, telling me that I can do it. I can do whatever i decide to do. Because that essay on oral traditions was the turning point. I woke up. I decided I was going to work hard and deserve the place so many other students so separately wanted to have. And I've now decided that I'm going to deserve my life, and get rid of this blasted migraine that has plagued it for twenty years. The way seems so clear now. I wonder I never saw it before: be peaceful inside.
I feel fortunate. At the moment I have loads of money compared to many people I know, and hardly any compared to many others - whom I know also. But money is meaningless. It's all in the head. A new dress is not going to make me look any better, and me looking any better is not going to make me feel better.
At the beginning of Tarkovsky's mirror, this man says that we have a lot to learn from trees - the ability to be silent, to be still, to not always be busy and talking. He says we've forgotten all this. It's true. What if we planned our otherwise wasted time around these silent moments of being?
I've put myself on this path now. Hasten slowly. Don't worry. Relax. Laugh. It's all an experiment in curing myself of the migraine. Be like a tree. Be like music. Be yourself. And today is the fourth day running that I haven't had migraine. For me, that's an achievement. I sprained my shoulder two days ago, but had to go to work. Once there, I told myself: it's only pain. It's only a sprain. It'll go away. And it did, with minimum fuss. Then came a crisis - the beginning of a migraine: a feeling of unease, heightened sensitivity to everything, dull pressure building on one side of the head. I talked to myself again: easy does it, girl, I said. Palm your eyes. Think cool for your hot head. Breathe in and out slowly and gently. Don't worry about the time. be kind to yourself. Drink peppermint tea.
And it didn't arrive, the migraine. This was a little miracle. I almost didn't believe it, but then I did, and I also knew that I had done it myself.
I've never been interested in the harum-scarum scrambling of contemporary life, but I think it's only recently that I've given myself permission to approve of this lack of interest. I used to wince each time I thought of my scholarship interview for Oxford some fifteen years ago. When the committee of stern old men asked me what my interests were, I said "reading, music and gardening." Consternation over gardening. How could it be? The answer should have been : Reading, music and mountaineering/ Reading, music and masturbating/ Reading, music and genetic engineering. But gardening!
Well, I still love gardening, and today my answer would be: I'm interested in music, happiness, reading, gardening, watching my two silly cats, protesting against injustice, being alive, being in love, hanging out with my friends...I did get to go to Oxford, and am eternally grateful for the kindness of those unimpressed old men, because Oxford was wonderful , a beautiful and wise dream, an example of what people can do for each other. It actually made me think and be more alive, more motivated, more critical of fuzzy logic, more appreciative of the powers of my brain and sheer hard work. Leaving Oxford made me miserable, but now I'm discovering that the process never ends. Some part of me is always there, with my stern and disapproving tutor shaking her head over a wishy-washy piece on the middle English lyric, and the same tutor exclaiming with delight over another essay on oral traditions and reading out bits of my own writing back to me to tell me how much she liked it. And that Oxford part of me, sitting with my tutor on a dark four o'clock winter afternoon with thick rain beating on the windows, still keeps me going, telling me that I can do it. I can do whatever i decide to do. Because that essay on oral traditions was the turning point. I woke up. I decided I was going to work hard and deserve the place so many other students so separately wanted to have. And I've now decided that I'm going to deserve my life, and get rid of this blasted migraine that has plagued it for twenty years. The way seems so clear now. I wonder I never saw it before: be peaceful inside.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
midnight posting
Just got back home in the middle of a kalony power cut. Everything was dark, gloomy and quite dangerous-looking to paranoid, alone me. I was also carrying two loaves of bread, Nanda Devi by Eric Shipton, a creeper ready for planting, my useless handbag, and my house keys. Had to drop everything else on the ground, while trying to get the keys to work in the lock - they are these weird 3-d uncopyables, but also a real pain to align in the lock, in the dark. Thankfully I made it into the house, without encountering rapists, burglars or serial killers. In Delhi one man can usually be all three , if the newspapers are to be believed, and if the general expression on the faces of men in Delhi is anything to go by.
So the frequent power cuts tell me that summer is here, and now that the bijli is back at half-past midnight, my ac is also on. I think if I ever emigrate to some paradisiacal (yes I know there is no such word, but still) mountain country, I might even be nostalgic about all this. Who knows. It feels like home.
So the frequent power cuts tell me that summer is here, and now that the bijli is back at half-past midnight, my ac is also on. I think if I ever emigrate to some paradisiacal (yes I know there is no such word, but still) mountain country, I might even be nostalgic about all this. Who knows. It feels like home.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
summer news
The Delhi summer has begun, but I have yet to
i) turn on the ac
ii) get stuck for a couple of hours on the BRT at one in the afternoon
iii) start eating only ice-cream for lunch
All of this is coming up, though. The ac is not yet required in my cool, cool house (but we're getting there. I give it another two days, at most). I begin a new job this Monday, and I can just see that revolting BRT at Chirag Dilli waiting for me at 9.20 am, with the heat shimmer already beginning to float off the ground. And. Ice-cream only for lunch is my only summer binge-ing. So I allow myself this in advance, even though I have a goal to lose six kilos this year.
By the way, I wonder if anyone has noticed that just as thela ice-cream is no longer what it used to be (it's better now), neither is the famous Delhi summer! Where is the loo, the sweeping hot wind that blew all afternoon, withering everything in its path? Where are the gigantic water coolers, fitted with khus sheets, that used to make those endless afternoons cool and sleepy? Ay, where are they? Anybody know? Most people with means have split acs these days, as far as I can make out.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
the aforementioned
Cham Cham is a friendly and lovable ginger stray who eats here twice a day. As of now, he and his rather ugly black girlfriend have been scoffing the best Pedigree chum dog food (cheaper than cat food) but they seem to be getting bored. After they turned up their noses at the last meal, Sanjana said "They're saying kya hum angrez hain?"
cham cham loses a mouse
Yesterday afternoon, just as I was setting out on a walk around the park, I saw Cham Cham pounce and grab a wee timorous beastie of a mouse who let out one last squeak of true despair. This happened in my front patch and I saw it through the jaali of the front door, stifling my own squeak of horror at this evidence of Cham Cham's residual tigerish genes. Then, not unlike his more magnificient jungli cousins, Cham Cham plodded off to the side, with the (presumably dead) mouse gently clutched in his mouth. But all was not over yet.
When he dropped the fella for the feast to follow, the mouse scampered off under the small raddi cupboard for newspapers. Cham Cham squeezed in after him, tail slashing, paw swiping, waving his ginger balls in the air. This went on for a bit, with me watching from a side window and not daring to step out. Suddenly, the mouse scarpered - off! Gone, and Cham Cham didn't even know. Kept trying to claw him out from under the cupboard. Finally gave up. I stepped out, and the poor fellow looked at me and began a plaintive lament, walking back and forth between me and the cupboard, quite clearly saying waaah. While I rejoiced for the mouse, I also told Cham Cham sternly: "you're a dodo." And left for my walk.
When he dropped the fella for the feast to follow, the mouse scampered off under the small raddi cupboard for newspapers. Cham Cham squeezed in after him, tail slashing, paw swiping, waving his ginger balls in the air. This went on for a bit, with me watching from a side window and not daring to step out. Suddenly, the mouse scarpered - off! Gone, and Cham Cham didn't even know. Kept trying to claw him out from under the cupboard. Finally gave up. I stepped out, and the poor fellow looked at me and began a plaintive lament, walking back and forth between me and the cupboard, quite clearly saying waaah. While I rejoiced for the mouse, I also told Cham Cham sternly: "you're a dodo." And left for my walk.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
the maid
has a name that I don't want to divulge as everybody i know knows her too. I shall simply from this point on call her Sanjana. Want to make clear that I was not being sick and classist by referring to her as "the maid". Had to come up for a name for her too. My life depends on her and she knows it. I'm a useless upper-class babe who cannot cook. I just can't. Everything else, but no cooking. I'm BAD at it. I need her to cook, she needs my money. We are in a co-dependent double-bind.
yikes
no one's been reading this blog but they have been checking out my profile...anyway I clicked on some of my favourite movie hyperlinks and yikes guess what. Only some 56 year old guy in the US has "Easy Rider" down and his interests are....EXTREME PATRIOTISM. Only one interest, and that's the one.
How can "Easy Rider" be his favourite movie? Or maybe I'm being narrow minded here. Yes I am. There's no reason why you can't love a deeply anti-establishment movie and also be extremely patriotic. It could be a little blip in the gamma rays of his brain. Or maybe he loves the moment when the hippie fella gets blown off his motorcycle by a redneck with a shotgun. YESS! So dramatic, so fulfilling...
continuing after break for coke...
Just edited my profile. Whew. Sort of slogged through favourite movies, but got really tired on favourite books. I suppose I could have just said nothing, but years of obedience to forms and rules have left their mark. But am absolutely revelling in this untramelled egotism. I mean, catch anyone I know wanting to know anything like this about me, or me even wanting to divulge any of this stuff. I mean, like, I can say anything here and no one I know will ever know, unless I'm really unlucky. The word dyke is a dead give-away though because the dykes in Delhi all know each other. But hey googling dyke pal, if you've come to this post and figured, pl do me a favour and don't tell none of the other community-walis 'cause I'm having fun here don't you know. Just send me a sneaky little post and I'll buy you a cappucino to shut you up.
My life: revolves around my gorgeous girlfriend. She actually makes me happy, unlike the many before her who didn't. So nearly two years later, we're still happy happy. Hurrah. Also hurrah for the beautiful guitar that was hers but is now mine (she never played it, I do).
But the girl is out of town, so I did lots of washing up and tidying up in the morning, and thought about nothing at all. Heard The Rolling Stones do "Satisfaction" about 20 times over, then got a bit worried that the neighbours might complain, so turned it down. But the neighbours here don't complain. I'm a really good, quiet girl, and only girls ever visit me! One beautiful girl in particular.
I hardly know any men any more, except my father and brother-in-law. Don't miss them at all. Can't help seeing them around in the city, but do this curious visual thing in which I don't see them. But I do see all the women. I wonder if straight men do the same thing.
My life: revolves around my gorgeous girlfriend. She actually makes me happy, unlike the many before her who didn't. So nearly two years later, we're still happy happy. Hurrah. Also hurrah for the beautiful guitar that was hers but is now mine (she never played it, I do).
But the girl is out of town, so I did lots of washing up and tidying up in the morning, and thought about nothing at all. Heard The Rolling Stones do "Satisfaction" about 20 times over, then got a bit worried that the neighbours might complain, so turned it down. But the neighbours here don't complain. I'm a really good, quiet girl, and only girls ever visit me! One beautiful girl in particular.
I hardly know any men any more, except my father and brother-in-law. Don't miss them at all. Can't help seeing them around in the city, but do this curious visual thing in which I don't see them. But I do see all the women. I wonder if straight men do the same thing.
wow ji
Here I am then kicking off years after everyone else - I think having a large flat of my own after years of having but a room has opened up my brain somewhat. So that rather than lurking in a depressed way under the weight of several thousand chattering books, I find myself instead on this warm March day in a large, airy room that overlooks a few freshly planted flower beds. What should I do with myself this Sunday, I wondered. Well here I am then, not being too preoccupied with other things I have to do than blog. At some stage I'll slink off and play my guitar, but till then...
It was torture trying to think of some blog identity for myself. The brain hasn't opened up that much and I've always been terribly un-clever at words. So Cham Cham because it is an amazing mithai - it's pure sugar, more or less, in its pristine form and only dedicated mithai eaters like Bengalis or UP wallahs can eat it without flinching. But if you can get past the first overwhelming punch to the base of the brain as it goes down, it leaves you feeling, how do I put it, tingly and satisfied. A nice substitute for sex, an antidote for anxiety, a soother of mangled nerves after a fraught session with your therapist. Let's say I like Cham Cham and it's also the name given to the ginger tomcat who eats his breakfast here everyday. He was named by the maid, another cham cham addict. Still I must make clear that this name was chosen only because no other name came to my mind at all. While being an admirer of cham cham, I'm not that crazy about it. I have migraine, and more than two cham chams usually bring on an attack.
Ok, why is the blog called aflatoon. Almost the same reason - aflatoon being an interesting sweet you get in Muslim restaurants in Bombay - so while thinking of cham cham, I thought of aflatoon. It also refers to Mr. Plato, and I'm ok with that, but it also sounds a bit like a-flat-of-my-own. So that's how.
It was torture trying to think of some blog identity for myself. The brain hasn't opened up that much and I've always been terribly un-clever at words. So Cham Cham because it is an amazing mithai - it's pure sugar, more or less, in its pristine form and only dedicated mithai eaters like Bengalis or UP wallahs can eat it without flinching. But if you can get past the first overwhelming punch to the base of the brain as it goes down, it leaves you feeling, how do I put it, tingly and satisfied. A nice substitute for sex, an antidote for anxiety, a soother of mangled nerves after a fraught session with your therapist. Let's say I like Cham Cham and it's also the name given to the ginger tomcat who eats his breakfast here everyday. He was named by the maid, another cham cham addict. Still I must make clear that this name was chosen only because no other name came to my mind at all. While being an admirer of cham cham, I'm not that crazy about it. I have migraine, and more than two cham chams usually bring on an attack.
Ok, why is the blog called aflatoon. Almost the same reason - aflatoon being an interesting sweet you get in Muslim restaurants in Bombay - so while thinking of cham cham, I thought of aflatoon. It also refers to Mr. Plato, and I'm ok with that, but it also sounds a bit like a-flat-of-my-own. So that's how.
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