An October Anniversary

You gave me hyacinths blue

Sincerity first and constancy next

They called me the hyacinth girl.

A year ago...

Days pass and in the silence

there is nothing left to say.

Diwali party invites are doled out

Let's play a game of cards.

I hope you find the hanged man

But I can see the future even without your cards

Tomorrow comes

and comes again

and soon it's time to see who's handicap is the best

on grass green on the other side.

The hyacinths are dead and dry

pressed down in the pages of memory

Truth, sincerity, and constancy

are forgotten in casual tête-à-tête.

An anniversary?

But no, it's just another day.

So let's celebrate it with sweets and lights.

And the pain is washed down by a few more pills

Blue as the hyacinths you gave me.

But tomorrow is another day

And I will have built my purple walls

I will sparkle with diamonds, twinkle with gold

And I will drink from the flower of forgetfulness

And it will again be just a happy day full of sweets and lights.

One good day in October

So the deal was to hibernate and read plenty of books. Bloody hand can't hold any book so that's off the list. But hibernation is on as I'm not checking any of the social-networking sites and surprise, life is going just fine.

And tomorrow is a good October day.

There were two of those before. But thanks to last year, I just have one now.

It's Aradha, my lotus' birthday day tomorrow. And I am happy and excited. So what if she is millions of miles away.

And work is exciting and fun even if working from home isn't easy. For one thing, my mom constantly monitors every changing expression on my face and I hate to see her so worried. And I'm still in bloody pain so I'm usually wincing softly or making my I'm-actually-dead face.

And secondly, I miss speedy internet and download like hell. Even a word document takes 30 hours to download.

My next material wish (after the success of the supermarket) is that either BSNL or Airtel decide to have lines in my back-of-the-beyond area, and I get broadband. I don't see why they aren't doing that already. We have traffic jams in my area - all the time. That's got to count for something.

So since there is no book, I'm into TV in a big way. For comedy I watch Friends reruns, to titillate my social consciousness I watch Colours, and for just dear-old soaps, I watch Zee. In between I catch bits of reality TV as well. Soon I might be able to take quizzes about TV. And my Hindi is getting as good as it used to be. I might even end up climbing a few corporate ladders, ji.

And Diwali is almost upon us. Since last year Diwali had become to me what Christmas is to most of the lonely West. I got a severe case of holiday blues and festive funk.

But this year, work came to the rescue and while organzing an online contest, I got damn excited about it again. So much so I picked up all sorts of lamps to light that day. I will of course sparkle with my new diamonds that made me bankrupt I think for the rest of my life. But since I'm broke I couldn't buy new clothes so now I'll have to just wear the diamonds and little else I think. My neighbours will probably thank me.

So life is not so bad.

And Anukutti, happy birthday day. Kissies and huggies (lol, will never ever stop saying that. It's a tradition now). Hope Arun exceeds your expectations and God, hope you like all your gifts, you difficult woman. Blessed be with health, wealth, job, and joy!

And when all goes well next year, hope you buy me my wig, my turban, my coat, my hat, my cigarette holder (though I can't smoke) and my boots. Oh and that skirt also. And a black lipstick. Mine's too old now.

10 ways of happy!

I want to write something happy. There's been too much sorrow and a lot of kashta pain now.

Pondering on grief, I remembered the most fun song ever on sorrow that a girl and a boy (in the throes of fleeting puppy love then) wrote and narrated to me in school. Divya and Sandeep, I doubt you even remember each other much less this silly song, but I do and it's still as fun as it ever was! (Dukkha in Kannada means sorrow.)

Dukkha dukkha dukkha oops

Dukkha dukkha dukkha ah

Dukkha dukkha dukkha oh

Haha dukkha dukkha dukkha hee

Dukha!

You should hear it sung to appreciate it. Really.

Another reason to count blessings is that finally my wish has come true. Aditya Birla heard me and decided to open a huge supermarket (I'm sure just for me) - a mere 7 minutes away (on foot) from my back-of-the-beyond house. More!

More? I can actually walk to the supermarket now. I tire, but not all that much. And yesterday, I was able to handle the crowds just fine without wishing to kill anyone for just being all alive and bustling and healthy. I even bought myself a mixed fruit and nuts muesli packet that I will eventually eat. So alive I am.

Began the day reading a really lovely piece of poetry that Marvin Grey sent me. Thank you, Marvin. And listening to the songs Praveen sent me, thank you much, Praveen.

Had a series of work-related calls today that led me to feel happy and busy and not so disabled.

Hoppee, curlicular Vat decided to visit me and even unbent so much as to buy me my favourite let-me-orgasm-and-moan chocolate cake. But turns out I'm now asexual even when it comes to orgasmic food! But that's no reason to discount good old-fashioned lesbian loving.

And as only a girl can tell which Vat did - sitting at home has been very good for the hair - which shines (of course when I have bothered to comb it) and skin - which glows (okay, this I just noticed in the mirror.)

I still have Rs.-77 only in my bank account but am now beginning to dream million-dollar dreams. Again.

I successfully conned my mom to feed me twice in a day today. Yea!

I have a brand-new, sleek, purple water-bottle that my momma got for me from More! :)

Guide to Grief

A friend suffered a loss recently. Her mom, the same lady who gifted me my Maharashtrian nath, passed away. And something I will always feel sorry about is that I couldn't go and meet her while she was in the hospital or see my friend after, as it involved a 15 hour journey and in my current condition, that is simply not possible. If you need at least two people to support you when you are offering someone support there is really no sense attempting that.

While this sorrow is certainly not material for a blog, something I've noticed in the past couple of months is.

It's one of the earliest lessons my mom and dad drilled into my head. It's okay if you don't attend someone's wedding but if someone is in pain, you should be there for them. And if it is a death, then you just have to.

But nowadays we've just forgotten what it is to be there for someone. I first noticed it when I told people about my chronic pain.

Friends from whom I expected understanding, support, and love that would lead them to say perky things to cheer me up, got back with - Oh! So you aren't coming for the party later then? I really thought it was the shock speaking. But no, that's all it was. Because the next day I got a - What! Still in pain? Again? Today also?

And then there's the - I feel really bad.

Now if they stop there, that's enough. I'll say, yea me too, but life's a bitch and we can all move on to discussing why Aishwarya Rai was acting so fake, giggly, and idiotic on Oprah and how the hell a witty, charming man like Abhishek B married that giggly twat even if she is really beautiful.

But it doesn't stop there. They say - I don't know what to say.

Now if you are a mere acquaintance then this too is perfectly acceptable. But if you are one of my closest friends, then it's clearly not. I also get that a lot from close friends, writers and communicators all, who read my recent, drenched in tragedy blog posts. I don't know what to say either.

Or this one - Why don't you try yoga?

I have sworn to hack anyone who will say that to me next into tiny pieces and feed them to crows. When I tell anyone that I have been working from home for the longest time now because the pain is a killer, this is what they say. Suddenly yoga is a panacea. Here I am struggling to do even the most basic of one's daily tasks like opening a bottle, carrying a bag, turning my head to the left or the right, and I am asked to try complicated contortions.

Then there are those who walk past you or stop keeping in touch in the fear that they will have to listen to your symptoms and the details of your pain. They are suddenly busy, work's hectic, life's screwed, urgent meetings, exams on the way... all sorts of meaningless excuses.

And just for the record - stop. It's unnecessary because I don't want you to nurse me to health and if I want to discuss the pain, I blog.

And unbelievably this one - I don't know how to deal with this situation. So I will just keep quiet. What you need is probably professional help.

Even in pain, it stunned me that I was now a situation. It's really not about give and take but I was reminded about the countless 'situations' in their lives I was a part of. And I was totally virginal too. But I distinctly remember not being quiet.

No one has a user manual on how to deal with a friend when said friend has a break-up, an illness in the family, family feuds, work trouble, inability to study/cope with some task, coming out to parents/friends, abortion, marital problems, in-laws trouble, divorces whatever. But you do the best you can. You say the things you know will offer your friend comfort. Sometimes, you just hold them. Sometimes, you cry with them.

What do I say?

So when my friend's mom passed on, I heard this so often that I decided may be it was time someone wrote that user manual to help people express condolences.

When someone's suffered a loss, there really is nothing you can say. It's the same as with gifting, the thought that counts. Call them up, meet them, hold them. And if you aren't secretly feeling gleeful that they got what was coming to them, you can certainly mouth an "I am sorry for your loss."

If they are the sort who like to talk and get it out of their system, they will. If they are the quiet types, they will just appreciate the fact that you braved the awkwardness of silence and sorrow and stood there with them, for them.

And when they are slightly better you just reassure them that it will all eventually be fine. But only when they can take that sort of reassurance. We all need some time to simply grieve. It is about respecting someone's right to grief.

And remind them of the good times. If you can praise them sincerely and whole-heartedly and show them what a wonderful being they are, you can really help a speedy recovery. When someone's hit below rock bottom, an ego boost can go a really long way. But not the sort my aunts gave my mom - "How well you used to cook! Now look at you, you can't even hold the spoon. So sad. This shouldn't have happened to you." Aim at something like this - "Remember how you used to cook. I still do. When you are better I'm hoping you can make that dish for me again..."

So I figured this is the way the world is.

Yes, all your friends will be there for you if you say you are down and want to get drunk at your favourite pub that also has the loudest music. No one has the strength of voice to compete with the noise and talk about sorrow then. So, thank the Lord, that's fun.

P.S. Those who've been there in the truest sense, thank you. And yes, it's October 'Orror.

Karma Chameleon

I was in college and simultaneously trying to earn my living when my mom was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.

My dad had just retired and he got busy building our house on the one hand and keeping house on the other. Except for cooking occasionally and doing the laundry, I didn't contribute much to alleviating my mom's discomfort at all. I couldn't. I was in college by day and having a blast training employees of MNCs at night. It was an incredibly hectic life.

I simply couldn't comprehend mom's pain. Except for telling her not to stress, I remember doing little else.

And today, mom is a constant source of support. From ensuring I eat right to actually helping me wear my clothes, she does pretty much everything to help me forget the pain. And I worry that seeing me in so much pain might trigger a flare in her condition again. So I try to be as cheerful as I can. But it is a losing battle. Especially when you don't know how you actually will end up feeling from one day to the next.

Today is a good day. I'm at work doing all those things I like doing on a work-day.

Yesterday was a bitch. My fingers were swollen to the size of thick gherkins, and the pain indescribable. Actually, let me try and describe the pain. Imagine a layer of pins and needles constantly poking you under your skin. Now imagine 24 hours of such pain. Your skin will rupture, bleed, feel hot and burn. Eventually, the pain will dull your senses till all it is, is a dull, sharp, stinging, throbbing heat all over your joints. (If you think that's an oxymoron, then you don't know the pain, so shut up.) Now that's rheumatic pain. It throbs and occasionally stings. And you simply cannot move your joints or even parts of your body without feeling as if it will all tear and fall apart. And prove to be more painful than it already is.

And then you have people in the same frame of mind I was when my mom was sick, telling me, "You will be fine. Don't stress about anything."

And I wonder why karma is always in such a hurry to bite me in the ass.

And if it is like that, does it please work the other way as well? Will those who've generously contributed to making my life hell get sucker-punched soon? Will I at least get a frigging apology sometime?

Ssshhh... Bhumika, don't stress. don't think. It will be fine. You will be fine.

P. S. or Bhumika finally explains why pain is a constant guest at the boudoir:
Blogging about pain and disease is suddenly fashionable thanks to ill celebrities, they tell me.
Blogging about pain besides making me fashionable will also ensure I have many fans, they tell me.
Blogging about your trauma helps others facing the same trauma, they tell me.
Blogging about my pain will make me less harmful to myself, they tell me. (But I can still kill myself when the pain comes two days in a row.)
Blogging about my pain is cathartic, they tell me. (I'm yet to feel any catharsis.)

Bhumika's epiphanies or Bhumika's karmic realisations that turn chameleons:
Bhumika should ideally blog about they/them and not bug everyone with so much grief.
The only fans and supporters Bhumika will have are the stalkers and the let's-set-fire-to-our-idol-and-watch-the-fun-kinds.
Bhumika really doesn't give a fuck about helping others not unless they are helping her in someway at least. What is the point of being bloody buggering sick if you have to do everything?
Bhumika is not a nice person; even if Bhumika's mom is.
(Gopics, this is for you to help you write the biography in later years) You can't have a six pack and hope to have a six pack.

In silence it echoes...

In silence it echoes twice as loud.

The sibilance sounds softly in my head

And reminds me of heady sweetened Irish.

They like it when I’m quiet.

Quietly the loss is borne and the pain relived.

Only the joints sound now – creaking and moaning like an old woman

Past her prime with nothing left to lose anymore.

But remembering everything.

And everything is suffered in silence.

In silence it echoes twice as loud.

Casually Coded

And we finally moved into the new office - slightly largish classroom/call center (which is just 15 mins of commute time for me) whatever you want to call it based on how mature you are feeling that day. We sit in rows with no sense of a private space whatsoever.

And the interiors are orange (if I'm feeling generous, I call it vermillion) and cream. And it's not cheerful, trust me. Yes, the interior designer must hate me. Of course, I take it personally.

It has what I most missed from my previous place of work - lots of strange/fresh/new faces. But it lacks what my previous work-place had - a dress code.

Now in the next few paragraphs, I'm going to say something that will shock a few.

I like it when offices have a formal/semi-formal dress code. This casual thing isn't really working. I hate being subject to other people's taste (I use the term very lightly) in clothes.

I think it stems from the fact that deep down where it matters, I don't like people. Humankind has an intrinsic entertainment value and that's really pretty much it for me. Except for one's lovers and friends and intelligent, witty, intrinsically nice bitches, of course. And the gays who are usually sexily smart. Otherwise, the rest...

And now they parade (well they always did, but I'm finally seeing too many Ys all at one place) their appaling taste in clothes. I will refrain from commenting on how most men dress. Suffice to say that those with stomachs like it tight and those who wear okay stuff often look like they need a bath. And a shave. And a bath. Shave too. A hair cut also, may be. Did I mention bath?

Now the girls. They are all oh so unbelievably snooty/shy. As I've been there only a day I will refrain from judging too hastily. The story goes that young Ys from another office building travel to the new place for lunch (a distance of about 7 km worth of severe traffic) with the excuse of eating at the foodcourt here. Now since the food is just about okay, you can figure the rest.

Most of the ladies I saw here were pretty - skimpily clad. I love cleavage. My own and seeing those of others. But I hate it when it's overdone. Like when it is cleavage+butt crack+ waist+thunder thigs encased in tight jeans. That is almost tantamount to what self-respecting beauticians call wearing red lipstick with smoky eyes - a sin I'm rather guilty of committing, but you know what I mean. Make-up faux pas is still okay; it's short-lived. But what you wear usually stays on for a lot longer.

So much skin (and please can someone introduce a few people to body exfoliation?) and attitude at a place of work?

So I was thinking of the good old days at the old place where men with ties complained about ladies' hemlines that were slightly above the ankle on a formal day! Typically, ooper bharath boys creatively writing to the common mail id in their unique English about quasi-romantic moments that get lost owing to a tie. Or complaining about the great injustice of the world - men wear ties on the days a woman wears a blouse with no sleeve! No sleeve! Hear! Hear!

Good days.

I am of course sympathetic to the tie cause. I'm claustrophobic which is why I like necklines that are low, by the way. So ties are just awful. And there is the added complication of having to tie it. Men I love have assured me it's easy and since the Raymond ad fascinated me, I tried to learn it as well, but it's the same as Math. I understand everyone can do it, but damn if I can. I also understand most men don't do it. They just stay knotted for life which defeats the purpose of natty dressing, but then again, I won't judge them too harshly.

Except for a few close friends no one else knew I was so pro-dress code all the time I was there. I worked on many causes during my stint there but cleverly refrained from involving myself too deeply with the cause of the dress code because I've always believed that in a country such as India it is needed.

I mean I happily wear bright blue with dark red and paint my nails and lips crimson and walk into work and annouce, "Oh, I just felt like cheering myself!" And the poor colleagues have to stare at their monitors all day while wishing desperately for shades!

We need dress-codes because as a nation, we think pink and orange and bright green together are just wonderfulji.

And have interior spaces in cream and orange with the furniture in velvet red, satiny green, and striking purple. Go figure.

Now I know why most MNCs in India offer t-shirt freebies. That's brand promotion alright but suddenly it also reeks of self-preservation.

Worst of times

I am reading many blogs these days. I usually start with someone I know or have been following like the WhipperSnapper and then I click on links of other bloggers who've left comments and so on and so forth.

I also watch TV almost like a normal person these days. I watch serials, reality shows, cookery shows, confessionals in regional languages, sometimes even the news.

And of course, when in pain I resort to lying on the bed and watching movies.

I also read two books on two very good days last week. Snow Falling on Cedars. In hindsight, may be this wasn't that good, may be it was just the joy of being able to hold a book in my hand. And then I finally read The Pregnant King which has been lyng so impotently (pun wholly unintended - you will know what I mean if you read the book) in my house all these months. A tale from the Mahabharatha, very well-written, fun, and one of those books that make you think a lot.

Now the Mahabharatha - it's the king of all stories. I really like the collector's Amar Chitra Katha version that they released a couple of years back. It occupies a nice little space in my room. I'm very proud of it. But I like the Mahabharatha so much better when someone subverts the texts and gives you a story that makes you uncomfortable while forcing you to think about things you'd rather not. There is something very reassuring about subversion.

It makes you feel that there is hope for humankind after all.

People with very little talent but lot of clout might succeed in selling theories today, but someone will subvert those theories and ask a few intelligent questions eventually. That is very good.

It's really easy to succeed these days. I actually do know all the tricks. Right words in the right ears. Add a bit of an accent, use words with flourish, and voila - instant stardom. It helps to have your own website of course. I'm working on mine. As in I've thought about it finally.

Bhumika Anand, writer, emcee, trainer, editor, communication expert, branding advisor, event management, production... See what I mean? And you have seperate tabs of course - a sub-category for everything.

But I'm so bored. I have all these thoughts in my head, inspirations from reading posts by even oopper bharath bloggers which are actually well-written and urbane. Yes, I'm a prejudiced South Indian woman, so what now? It's a pity the smart ones stay where they are and let all the half-wits get in touch with me, anyway. I have to believe what I see, no?

So I have so much material - all these things around, all the stories in my head, all those people I'd read before.

And it's still meh. Though saying meh is so not me. I never really took to The Simpsons though I've seen enough of it.

I'm really fed up of everything around me. Even Facebook. Sometimes it's just fun to cry watching TV and to bemoan loss.

A year.

It's the most undocumented of my times, really. I usually turn every experience into a write-up or a story. But here I am, feeling like a has-been at 28 with the frail health of a 82 year old; totally uninspired to move ass; too bored to even be totally pathetic and go on a full-on whining binge.

Truly the worst of times and not even a tale to tell for it all.

Sweetydarling...

Uninspired

Few realisations of the past few weeks in no particular order:

When you go out in the rain, expect to get wet.

When in pain, it's best not to travel.

Freebies attract cheapies and vice-versa.

No one really understands.

May be it's easier to lose weight, hormonal imbalances and a non-existant immune system notwithstanding, than it is to teach people basic manners. Especially the cheap twits.

A good facial lasts over a month.

Yes, they will never tell you that you look good. And if they do, they act surprised.

Mom always knows best. Especially when you are wrong.

Sex drive can return for the most unexpected songs.

You can be full of miss and pain and still have a good time.

Work is usually good when you've been away from it for long.

Even erstwhile randy Malyalee men can act non-horny and behave decently.

You can really miss the sun.

Not tonight, darling, I...

In India, you can have socially acceptable sex only if you are married. Yes, even in 2009.

Ergo, this getting married is still a national pastime beating even cricket. And marriages, between a strange boy who looks at the photograph of some girl and deigns to accept her after his family has carefully matched and pronounced fit both horoscopes, are arranged.

But after all this, will they just let you get married and send you off on a honeymoon and let you settle in your cozy two-people-only apartment fighting about which spouse does what chore?

No.

If you are a girl, you have to learn how to please your husband in bed and outside without being too demanding or knowledgeable yourself; give good lip-service to your husband's siblings and their families if he has any; constantly massage your in-laws both physically and otherwise.

Now let's talk about me.

Old classmates, friends, family, a few colleagues and lovers will all vouch for the fact that I am not shy when it comes to talking about sex. In fact, I'm rather brazen. Sometimes embarrasingly so. There is no innuendo that escapes my attention nor any X-Rated joke (classy, of course) that doesn't get a chuckle out of me.

And if you've done it, you'd know there's little to dislike about sex. And like any other person I've also idly wondered how it would be to be part of an orgy. But to get to participate in a life-long/divorce-long family gang-bang is something even my liberal mind shudders at.

The only way marriage makes sense to me is if you are doing it because you want to, because you love your lover enough to put up with, laugh at, and indulge each other's demonic families. You can experiment with societal roles/rules only if you are having fun doing it.

Now that I'm 28, parents and relatives are desperate that I marry. And since "love marriage" is so clearly not working, everyone wants me to try the arranged route.

Now I do know friends who tried matrimonial websites and found themselves arrangements that make them wonderfully happy. So finally, in despair and a vague hope, I registered as well. For a while I thought I could even try it. Till it reached the photo/horoscope/family meeting stage.

And as the pain in my body increased, I came to the conclusion that this search to arrange me a husband was only adding to all the stress I was already under. I de-registered from the sites. But my relatives and parents continued the search through other means. Even saying wait till I get better at least, did not quell them in their quest.

Until I finally told my mom, "Marry me off if it's so important, but with all this illness I have absolutely no sex drive. Just tell me how to sleep with the man as well."

A shocked silence later, my mom finally understood. Now the search has effectively stopped.

It's sad. I've never been one to say no to the carefully picked lovers when they proposed wild times. I never used sex as a weapon. Though men I know swear I don't put out unless they manage to make me fall in love with them, it's just that I like to make a sensible and sensitive choice. A girl can only be so careful even if she thinks it's not so much 'put out' as it is 'take in'.

And yet here I am, (thanks to a short-sighted man, who incidentally claims that I forced him to have sex with him and that's how it happened between us all those times) feeling almost asexual and certain to die a recycled virgin.

As I was telling my friends a few nights back, I can now use the age-old excuse with my own variation to deny sex to any wannabe lover.

"Not tonight, darling, I'm arthritic."