Just because you can!

After all that, you would think that coming back home to India would please the hell out of me. 
But it does not. The problem is not the country but the people. 

The disgust began in Sunnyvale which is so much like Indiranagar that I ought to have fallen in love with it as well, but that was impossible. 

Because in Indiranagar you do not find young Indian men sitting puffed up in their huge SUVs, BMWs and other assorted cars driving around with such a look of smug satisfaction that they look like they are performing for someone. No, in Indiranagar, the young men are just cramped in their small cars (even SUVs here are small) and are so hassled with all the Metro work they look like they can't wait to go home and cry on their momma's shoulders which I suspect nearly all of them do.  

Young Indian men in Sunnyvale (and nearly all of Sunnyvale is filled with young Indian men unless of course they are old and Indian) always hold their head high. Even in profile they look cocky. If they do manage to catch your eye and see that you are an Indian too, they smirk in a very unfriendly manner with a look that says, 'Look at me. Look where I am. Look at what I am wearing and what I am driving. When you go home be sure to tell everyone about me.' And they know you are an outsider because you are not sitting in your own car with an identical smug expression but are in a taxi and watching the world go by. 

But may be I wrong them. May be they are smug simply because they mastered how to drive on the wrong side of the road and follow traffic rules like actually stopping - coming-to-a-complete-halt-stop when there is a red light. May be that's all it is. 

And with that I comforted myself till I reached the San Francisco airport where I saw many small dramas unfold especially with all the Indians boarding the same flight I was, to travel back to the motherland. It's very curious the way Indians who live abroad and who are returning back home behave on flights. Performance comes naturally and inevitably. 

Even a shrug is a well-thought out gesture. 'Oh you don't have another vegetarian meal? That's okay, get me the chicken then.' Shrug. Shrug says, 'I live in America now, you get used to chicken, you know.' 

Inside the plane, their body language is not one of someone exhausted and irritated by hours of being cooped in the plane but that of showing how 'big' they are. The longer the distance they've done, the more smug and bright their demeanour. Indians who got off in Hong Kong just didn't look as smug or as bright as the Indians who continued all the way to Bangalore. The ones who were later going to Chennai needed two seats each, I'm sure. One for themselves and another for their huge ego! And I kid you not - they practically shone!

And when they speak to family, friends, co-passengers in their own tongue or in English, they are always looking around to see who is listening and accordingly brag. 

'I'm an NRI now. But so what? My son must still speak to me in Kannada, gotha (you know)?'
'Howdu, namma culture bida baradu. (Yes, we shouldn't leave our culture.) I was in the US for four years. Just getting back home. I feel I've forgotten Kannada, gotha (you know)?'

'You are going to Michigan next Fall? (It's always Fall - foreign season, you know) You passed the entrance exam?'
'Yes, she is! Rhomba (very) difficult exam, you know. You even have to study differently.'

'I went to Macau, man. For my vacation. Did you go to Macau? It's beautiful. And you are coming from? Oh US? Where do you work? Intel? Oh super cool, dude! You must always be working from America then, no? Have these nachos. They are damn good. I really like Mexican food, you know. I love Taco Bells, man. You like Taco Bells? You must be eating Taco Bells everyday, no? (Taco Bells even in the US, very unsurprisingly, stinks.) So where do you vacation, dude? Try Macau. You will like it. It is super, man, simply super.'

And just when I almost dozed off in the plane, a man walked down the aisle and shouted out to someone on the other side of the plane. 'Oye, car ka kya hua?' (What happened to the car?) You want me to drop you in my car from the airport to the city? I can. Mera arrangement sabhi hogaya. (My arrangements are all done.) i-phone, yaar, super hai, mera i-phone. (i-phone, my friend, my i-phone is super) while brandishing his silly i-phone like some sort of bloody trophy. 

It is really fatiguing to return to a country where everyday the play 'Who's bigger, better, brighter?' is waiting to unfold. 

But I'd be okay with that too if it weren't for the staring game. Indians do it just because they can! 

It is really tiresome to walk into a mall on a Sunday and have men and women alike and of all ages stare at your breasts just because they are big. 

But as a lady psychologist I met at a party before I left to the US told me, 'What do most Indians have? All the good things in life are totally out of reach for most of us. Staring is the only thing allowed to us. Is it any wonder then that we've perfected it?'

And as my breasts are definitely out of reach for all those dirty men and women in the malls on all days, never mind the Sundays; even that is, apparently, to be forgiven.

And so I've decided to entertain you with a Dolly Parton number because she knows exactly how much special/"industrial" bras (as she calls them) cost and what it feels like to be stared at just because you have big boobs and you try new looks. 

And so I give you, Dolly Parton - definitely bigger. May be better. Almost certainly brighter. Thereby proving that I'm possibly a very different sort of Indian. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, Dolly Parton Live in London performing Jolene!



P.S. Nev, if you still read my blogs, thanks for sending me the song eons ago. 

If you're going to San Francisco...

Sometimes I enjoy being a wet blanket more than other times.

I grew up with non-resident Indian kids whose local guardians were my parents. My dad’s best friend and his wife slogged away in Kuwait and met their four kids only twice a year during the summer and October breaks so they could all have a good life together eventually. It was always a glamourous and exciting time when Uncle and Aunty, who always wore lipstick, came down from Kuwait – especially to my five-year old eyes. There were sacks full of new clothes, more chocolate and cheese than you could finish and the most exotic of toys like a musical TV that played all the Disney characters in a row when you tuned it. 

In the evenings, all the grown-ups sat in the patio eating cheese and other fun food my mom had prepared and guzzling beer. We, as kids, played around them as they spoke world matters, shared stories of common friends and relatives, and told each other dirty jokes and laughed well into the night. That’s when I had my first beer and my first taste of chicken that shocked my Brahmin vegetarian mother no end. 

And then suddenly on August 2, 1990, we heard about the war. Iraq had occupied Kuwait and Indians living in Kuwait were managing to escape the war zone – some taking almost nothing with them. Everyday there were phone calls or messages from friends and friends of friends. Uncle and Aunty were safe – they were on their way. 

They did eventually come down in October. But they were different people. Uncle was gaunt and serious. The flirtatious twinkle that was such an intrinsic part of his bearing was suddenly gone; Aunty had lost weight and her laughter. The most generous of women, she now began to horde things. It became all about ‘that’s mine; that belongs to my children’. And every morning (as this was the age when Cable TV still hadn’t made its presence in India) she would stay glued to the BBC on the radio and hear about how a life she had known and loved was gone forever. She was never the same person. They no longer had beer evenings late into the night. They moved quietly and without fuss to Mangalore. 

Not even all the glamour of coloured lipsticks and sacks of new clothes and chocolates and cheese would compensate for the lines of worry on Aunty’s face as she listened to BBC reports on the radio. And nothing could make up for the fact that Uncle no longer tried to kiss me. And that’s when, all of nine years old, I decided foreign lands were not for me.

For the longest time I had no passport. I saw no need for it. I knew that if I did have to go that’s when I would figure a way. I did want to travel and see the world, but I’d decided it would be on my terms and that when I was all grown up and rich, I’d go travel the world and see the sights – particularly those in Europe. I was so sure that’s how it would be. 

But that’s not what happened. Last year I was told I had to travel to Sunnyvale on work for a conference I could not miss in spite of my illness and chronic pain. 

At every step, I was sure given the way things work in India, my passport/visa to the US would never materialise. But it did. And suddenly I was in London and hearing people address each other just the way I did, and that was fabulous. It was also short. It would have been perfect if that was all it was. 

But I had another 12 hours worth of travel. And I came to America – land of the big and the aplenty. There was no culture shock. There was nothing except pain. In December even in Sunnyvale it is cold unlike the cold we know anything about in India. And the sessions at the conference were interesting and exhausting and I was in severe pain. I was constantly surprised every time I opened my mouth and spoke coherently. 

And in all that, I managed to travel to San Francisco because Cat had told me so much about it. And just like he’d predicted, I fell in love with San Francisco and Castro Street and was awed by the Golden Gate Bridge and thrilled to see Lombard Street. In my head as I shopped for gifts, and clothing for myself, I was walking around wearing flowers in my hair even though in reality I had tears streaming down my eyes from the strain my joints were under. 

Coming back home, it was an achievement. I had survived it. I had survived travel of over 27 hours with fingers the size of cucumbers and I could sit back and gloat. It was over. 

Only it isn’t. 

I’m in Sunnyvale again waiting for the conference to begin and fiddling with the heater in my room and being a complete sourpuss about everything in my life. 

This would be, and may be rightly so, a dream-come-true for many people I know as is evident by the number of people who ‘like’ my reached SFO status and those who tell me to have fun. 

But when you have a scarred history like mine where you know travelling to foreign lands and making moolah doesn’t always have a happy ending and in addition to that if you suffer from chronic pain and various others ailments like I do, exhaustive five day conferences that take you around 26 hours in a cramped plane seat to reach, become all about doing one’s dharma so as to not lose out on the artha. 

I’m sorry to be such a wet blanket but I just can’t wait to finish and get back home to Bangalore where hopefully it would’ve stopped raining and being cold and pretending to be London. 

But it hasn’t been a complete waste as I got to reconnect with a gorgeous writer friend of mine and meet her extremely sweet husband for the first time, both of whom really showed me how I could have a lot of fun even here in America, if this were indeed a holiday and I was just an idle traveller seeing the world. 

And there I am happy and optimistic again. I think I’m losing the essence of my existential angst. Sartre, here I come! You go listen to this song, please. 

Freedom from stereotypes

My friend Harini recently started this note called Freedom from Stereotypes on Facebook. 

Here’s what she said: I was recently thinking about the stereotypes we break everyday... sometimes in private, in our heads... other times in actual action. These broken stereotypes could be of several kinds... like gender related ones.... for instance girls who think guzzling beer and cheering loudly for their fav football team draped on a sofa in front of the TV is cool.... or boys who like cuddly pink huggables. There are other kinds of very breakable stereotypes as well... like nice girls and guys don't like one-night-stands.... all responsible parents put their children's interests before their own... and such others.

 

Interesting, yes? Leave me comments with some of your own.

Since I was tagged and this was so interesting, here’s what I said:

1. One thing that is plaguing my mind right now because I am leaving today is how much I hate travelling to the US - the great land of opportunity which is such bollocks! And no one seems to understand that! Too long a flight to just hear a bunch of bozos going 'You are Indian? But your English is so good' that begins at the US airport and never ends. I was told that even at Macy’s last year!  

 

2. I do not respect people just because they are old/famous/relatives/rich/bosses/in 'noble' professions whatever. If their thoughts/words/deeds don't speak to me, I like saying 'fuck off' and enjoy seeing them drop dead. I really do not suffer fools gladly.

 

3. I like letting the world know exactly who I am. If you can't be whatever you are, around whomever you are with, then what is the bloody point?

 

4. I like to think that someday I will make a fabulous mom to some child I might not have the conventional way. I don't think men are really required to fulfill a woman's destiny (whatever that is!)

 

5. I'm not religious or spiritual or into yoga or into cooking or into shopping and I'm not going to apologise for that ever. 

 

6. I am essentially and intrinsically irreverent. So I love to swear, smoke occasionally, proclaim how much I enjoy sex, wear clothing that reveals my cleavage and things like that. And no, I don't do it to shock or titillate.  

 

7. I've always believed that healthy bitching is essential in any relationship. Even so, I will never start a fight with anyone, but I will never disappoint anyone who starts a fight with me. And yes, I always win. 

 

8. I know it is possible to be in love with more than one person at any given time. It's not perfect, it's not easy and we all want fidelity; but it happens and you've just got to deal with it. And at the end of the day, what pleases you is all that matters.  

 

9. I make snap judgments about people to amuse myself that I usually keep to myself (unless I'm doing the healthy bitching) but it really gets my goat when people make disparaging and judgmental comments about how someone dresses, what someone's sexuality is and the like.

 

10. I don't do labels. Of any sort. Unless they are calling me 'The Queen' or 'Her Highness'. That's me, all right.  

 

Show me the meaning of being lonely...

There comes a time in every mother’s life when she has to let her son go and have new life experiences that do not include her.

You can only look after your son so much. You can only protect him from this much hurt. You can only watch him from afar as he grows and evolves from a boy to a man. You see him fall in love, change, become someone who is deeply involved in another person. You tell yourself no matter whom he brings home, you will love him/her anyway. But you still hope that the person he brings home to you is someone you can love as your own too. And even when your are lucky enough to have that happen, there are only so many times you can say you love him more than anything in the world. Because that is called overkill. And you don’t want to cringe seeing that embarrassed, exasperated look on his face when you do. So you don’t. So you don’t pull him in hard for a hug and kiss him. So you swallow all the love and all the worry (it comes with the job) and just stand there, help him clean-up/pack, and smile, and may be cook. Even when you hate to cook. 

Every sister is aware that the mad physical fighting with the crazy, annoying sibling is going to stop soon and accept that his loss will be one she feels keenly. 

Siblings know the joy of fighting over nothing and everything at once. Pillows on the bed are dangerous missiles you hurl at each other. Nothing is more shameful than being a girl and fighting like one. Nothing is more equalising than having your brother discount your chronic pain and say, ‘Hey, you messed with me, I will twist your arm.’ And then you pretend you are hurt and then pretend to cry and then watch his disgusted, guilty face twist with love, hate, and concern all at once. And then to laugh – joyously, like mad. And land one on him. Fighting like a girl and winning. Because he’s the only one who will let you get away with it.

Every girlfriend has to bid adieu to her best friend. 

The one who knows exactly what song you will like and what man most attracts you. The one who will analyse television series with you and who will tell you honestly that you need to push yourself and get out there and be the woman you once were. The one who will yell at you when you cry thinking stupid thoughts. But when you really sob, he will hold you so tight and love you so much, that you feel warm all over. The one who helps you select your gadgets and understand latest technologies and trends. The one who says honest wows when you look good. The one who lets you sleep on his arm and shoulder for really long distances on a bus journey, or gives you soothing foot massages because he treats you like a queen - sometimes. He is the guy who knows the perfect gift to buy you, the perfect way to make you laugh. He is the only guy you think of when you are in trouble. The friend who is always there for you even when he’d rather be ten thousand miles away. The one who watches you break up with your boyfriend of over two years and watch you crumble and dissolve and who effortlessly picks up the pieces and plans the next two years of your life. He is the man who will indulge all your whims and fancies and not label you. He is the only one who grumbles but enjoys you for the mad and complicated person you are. The one who pays your bills even when he himself might be a little less than broke because…

A woman can be happy to say good-bye when she really knows she is sending a loved one to good and better things. A woman can cry for herself and still be happy for that special person. A woman can love and let go. 

A woman can let a cheesy song become a favourite memory because it was shared with people whom she is crazy about in a place that always brought her only happiness. 

For the right man, a woman can do the absolutely impossible and smile endlessly at the airport till his flight takes off because she promised him that she would not cry. The right man will anyway know how she is going to sob herself senseless after the plane has taken off and send a message to melt her and make her laugh again. 

A woman can break open her first ever bottle of champagne and toast her son, brother, and best friend and get beautifully drunk even as she tells him, ‘Don’t drink too much, sweety. You have an early morning flight.’

A woman can love a few men so much that the love, and the sorrow of parting, kills her on the inside. 

A few men can, even when they are miles apart, love you, cherish you, annoy you, and exasperate you so much that without knowing it, they shape you and they make you – beautiful, committed, fulfilled, peaceful, happy, alive!

For us, kutti naai. You know you will always be the flowers in my window. 
And here's wishing you all the love, all the learning, and all the lightness of being in the world. Muah. Muah. Muah. Muah. 

Or in other words, 'Woteva!'

By Your Side

He made it because sometimes we need reminding.

He made it because it’s so very good to laugh and cry at the same time.

He made it for me because he’s as self-involved as I am and that makes for difficult soul-sharing.

He made it for me because being my twin-soul he knew I needed it even when I didn’t know it myself.

He made it for me because we fought and we were too proud to talk.

He made it for me to show that he was sorry.

He made it for me because he loves me.

He made it for me to reassure me that they love me too. 

And at the end of the day, love is all there is.

And at the end of the day, we only have each other.

And at the end of the day, family is what you come home to.

And at the end of the day, it’s all only just beginning.

Easy

The incense burns in the air; there is music, and a completely lazy day to look forward to. Get a massage, a new hair cut, let the world go by and do its thing. 

Telling tales, sharing an amusing story with a stranger and nonplussing them completely, speaking to children, falling asleep laughing... 

Love in the heart, relief in the mind, and just ease in the body. 

An existential angst is answered in the kitchen by cooking a dish with no recipe, eating right and healthy while playing the game of 'Who am I in ...?'. 

All we need is food, and the right beverage at the right time, and people who love you no matter who you are, especially when you are just you. 

Get turned on by smells, sounds, and the feel of silky smooth skin on satin. You can be so high on life!

One of my husbands says I’m very easy and he should know. 

That's all I am. Easy. Free. High. Happy. 

Happiness is easy when you don’t look for it. 

Flowers in the window!

You will not believe the day I had today. I still don't believe it.

This month has been a difficult month. And will continue to get worse. I'm trying to get used to the fact that the only men who matter will henceforth be available only on Skype.

And if I continue to live in India then may be not even on Skype considering India wants to ban Skype because we have security threats! Not through programs that help lovers stay in touch, you bozos! But again, no one is listening to me!

So I keep trying to come up with creative plans to deal with the weekend.

Saturday was a festival - the Kannadiga Brahmin equivalent of Rakhi. So the uncles (of the priests’ fame) had all come home and I helped my mother, as promised/negotiated, for half-an-hour in the kitchen, after which I continued to watch House M D. Which means I didn't notice any new typical Kannadiga behaviour. My bad. But one fun thing was my mom asked my most-promising-as-an-astrologer-uncle if I would change jobs. She never asks about my marriage anymore because I've told her if she does, I'll produce a baby through outrageous means so quick that the boy's parents won't even have the time to say, 'What star is your daughter?' So uncle asks me for time and I look at the non-digital clock and say 3.15. I can't read non-digital clocks. Then he does ummm nama nama type of thing and says, 'Yes, you will.' But like a jackass I interrupt him and say, 'Wait, I saw digital clock and time is actually 2.52.' So he does the same ummm nama nama and tells me, 'You will get a new job, but they will offer you a lot less than what you are making.' So I say, 'How you can talk such rubbish I'll never understand' and walk out of the room. 

Oh! Epiphany! Okay so that explains why my mom was pissed with me the whole of yesterday. Epiphany! Epiphany! So anyway, later in the evening, family friend and her daughter came home and as I am very fond of both of them, I cancelled a drive to Hosur Road Coffee Day and looked bleary-eyed (too much House watching does that to you - I fancy I look a little like Hugh Laurie when I am bleary-eyed, but that's just me) at the guests instead. They would not stop raving about the Lal Bagh Flower Show. 

I looked at the calendar and it seemed I had a day more before I logged in to work and acted all tired and busy, so I told my parents - let's do Lalbagh tomorrow. My mom promptly went and told the new-to-Bangalore and soon-to-be-mother neighbour of mine and her three-year old son, D, my new best friend in the locality, that they should try and come with us.

So we all piled in their car and drove to Lal Bagh today.

I will be honest. I woke up full of shiny, happy feelings and decided this event would change my life and consequently my weekend. Yes, now I see the error of my ways - it's putting too much pressure on flowers!

But there we were and part of a crowd already at 8 a.m. And we got into the Glass House and saw the rosy India Gate. Everyone was jostling each other with cameras to take the best shot possible of the best flowers ever. No one really looked at the flowers, self included. The idea seemed to be that if you capture it on camera minus yellow duppatta-wearing woman's hair in the back-ground, you could keep looking at the flowers for the rest of your life. Hell, you could even design yourself one of those tacky wall-papers. Not the computer ones. I mean the real ones. 

There were some heliotropes, and that cockscomb which with my exposure to House M D the past few weeks reminded me too much of body parts so I really couldn't gush. A little ahead there were petunias and just when I was trying to get the purple ones into the frame - in burst an Ooper Bharath in multi-sequined salwar screaming - isse dekho kitne cute hein, na? - look at these, they are so cute, no? - and there, that was the end of my petunia wall paper. 

Anthuriums, and some plastic flowers later (and you won't catch me taking pictures of either) we walked a little ahead wondering what we'll see next when we realised that we were out of the Glass House. And the flower show. It was over. Nothing remained in the flower show! It was all over! Yes, that's what is shocking, that's all it was! It was over. The flower show was over!

And while we all sat on a stone seat barely masking our disappointment, helpful police uncle came over and asked us - did you see the show? We were like - hohum, yes, of course. He was on a double dose of endorpins - he said then go straight and see the clock! 

So we went straight to get a look at the clock! The clock turned out to be a statue of a man which also told time! No, I made it sound too hep. Man on horse, clock on man. There you have it. That's all it was. Yes, that's mot juste! Like what the! I'd had enough! I said, 'Let's go buy jacaranda and get home.' But my neighbour's husband had a better idea. He said 'Let's get this disappointment off our system by having a nice lunch.'

So we went for lunch to Koramangala, but pregnant lady was disappointed - this wasn't the park day she had planned. It was getting over too soon. And my mom who is a ridiculous soft touch with everyone except me said, 'Let's come back here after lunch.' But during lunch, sense prevailed and everyone looked too tired and satiated to go back to Lal Bagh. I was mentally planning how many episodes of House M D I could watch and how long I'd nap and it was a perfect plan in my head, when my mom who will henceforth be called villain-of-this-piece or VOTP for short said, 'Let's go to Cubbon Park. That's also a park and D can also play there.'

So we actually also went to Cubbon Park and did the train ride (don't look to your left unless the view of garbage stimulates you) otherwise it's actually quite cool. They should have toy-trains like that everywhere. It would be perfect to have one from my house to my French class. But no, such brilliance is always frowned upon. Or they copy my plan and call it Metro and think they can fool me! Yea right!

And it was a really good thing we were at Cubbon Park because that's where I learnt pregnant neighbour S had never as a child been to a park/or played on slides and swings/taken toy train rides! Imagine that! And so then VOTP gave me this meaningful look and told me to go watch over D. 

So that's when I got into the fun of things and started playing with D as he took turns on the slide and the swing. And finally when it looked like rain, I told you, in BLondon (that's what I'll call Bangalore from now on) it never rains but pours, the revellers and VOTP decided it was time we returned home. 

But I did do things for myself today - I bought myself a purple balloon and a raspberry dolly.

I also realised I'll make a terrible mom because disciplining kids doesn't sound to me half as fun as winning the fight/game! But yea, who cares as long as the kids learn to make me tea and generally look after me!

So that in turn made me accept that my mental age is the same as three-year old D because we had the most fun fighting over whose balloon was better! Like he even had a chance! His was orange for Chrissake and it made less noise than mine!

And it is possible that my raspberry dolly eating could have inadvertently taught young D to give a man a great BJ (in case he does turn out to be gay when he is all growed up) because he kept imitating me while I was eating it. And I say this with such confidence because I had an audience of fathers of young kids looking at me hungrily. And I'm sure it wasn't the raspberry dolly they craved. But hey, I had the purple balloon in my hand - they ought to have known how old I was - the dirty pedophiles!

So that was my very eventful day. I think I have regressed quite a lot. I'm wondering where exactly I am to get my head examined now! But may be not, I actually do feel happy right now. And how often have I said that!

And of course, what other song would fit so perfectly - in every way! :) 

Feel So High!

It's an awesome night. It's actually drizzling outside. Bangalore has totally become bloody buggering London except for the poshness and the stockings and the killer heels. I still can't sleep but I'm not complaining because the past few days kicked ass and made me feel like I really did live in a good world. 

Last evening, we had a college reunion and I decided to bunk it. Then my boy who was sitting at the Besantnagar beach called me and told me I was being anti-social and that I had to change my gender (not in the same sentence). To which I replied by asking him not to be fathead as I am a gay man and can't change gender again. And I am a gay man because I love gay men. I can't help it. They are the only ones who are hot, witty, and fun. They can even write decent English (most of them anyway). But this illogical discussion convinced me that I need to get out and stop being anti-social. I went and it was a good thing. It was awesome to realise that we haven't changed so much that we can't have fun together. 

And my classmates are really easy on the eye - everyone of them - so that helps too because I've decided to be shallow from now on. And that's what is so good. 

Over the past few days I realised that I really don't give a fuck about what people think about me anymore. Like really. Even I thought I was making an empty statement on the birthday post but apparently not. 

Which means now I'm really a scary woman. Ta da!
I told a guy I barely know to enjoy S&M on Facebook because I thought it was an apt and fun response. I continue to call waiters and other odd people 'sweety' and don't care if their eyes bulge out of their sockets. And when some of them think that my calling them 'sweety' gives them the permission to stare at my ample bosom (how quaint and lovely that phrase) I just raise an eyebrow and make them (the weird men, not my ample bosom) feel really small. That's another thing I'm getting damn good at. Making people feel really small by doing nothing except looking at them for less than two seconds. Earlier I took longer. 

I used to be a wicked girl before. I'm so thrilled I'm now pure evil. It makes things very easy. I'm all growed up. Sniff. I even made my own cup of tea the other day! 

Except when the pain comes and the anger kicks in and the nightmares with all that negativity start when I do manage to sleep. God, if only it wasn't for the nights. And really, why on earth do we have lawmen? And why are they so efficient? I'd really like to burn down a few places no matter how many times dear friends assure me that they just can't see me as an arsonist. But honestly, I want to. And honestly, it's no big loss in terms of architecture or lives lost. I want to be some sort of modern-day Kannagi like this but apparently I have to wait till revenge will automatically be served cold and sweet by something everyone is calling Karma. So wuss! 

But that doesn't bother me quite so much as some of my regular readers do. Thanks to Feedjit, I now know who my regular readers are. And I really want Heidelberg, Baden-Württemberg person to drop me a line because I have an insane tip for you that will make your life so easy! Bitte? 

And don't please do the anonymous crap with me, readers. It's just so boring! 

Also, Whimsical, thank you. 

I really like that I am now sharing videos on my blog. And music. So hep it makes me. So technically sound. Pun totally intended. So last evening was fucking sexy because I also listened to The Ministry of Sound The Annual 2010 (all three CDs) and I can't wait to go dancing again! So here, get this! So fucking hot! Imagine some 25 hours of music like this going on and on and on. And I really feel so high and I'm not even up to my nose in pills! Now if only I had a car, this would be the perfect time to drive down to Maddoor and ooh ah let the music play and drink cold coffee and eat sizzling hot dessert in the rain! Soon, my love, soon!

Hotel California

So in December 2009, I joined a naturopathy center in a famous temple town in Karnataka. I was assured by people who had been there before that I'd have a great time and come out a new person. I'd somehow miraculously be rid of my arthritis, my skin would glow, and I'd even lose weight! It seemed too good to be true. 

And since this was immediately after my San Francisco ordeal (and knowing I'd survived it) I was in the happiest frame of mind. I went. 

The place was beautiful. Plants, trees, a little stream and birds going crazy over morning, it was all too beautiful at 5.00 am and I was really enthusiastic. I was just talking to the receptionist about my booking when this huge, fat, frisky gecko landed from the wall and onto the receptionist's table. As anyone who knows me can imagine, I lost my faculty for speech for around three minutes. And while the receptionist explained things, the gecko stared at us. The receptionist asked me to stay in the general ward, and since I wasn't able to think I nodded. 

He took me to the general ward. I saw lizards of all sizes and ages happily crawling along the walls and resting on window sills. I was sick to my stomach. I asked them where the loo was and headed there to puke my fear away. In the bathroom/toilet, there were three geckos staring at me. 

I was a perfect ass, I admit now. That would've been my cue to get the fuck out of that place. But I was San Francisco returned and I thought if I survived that trip with fingers the size of really thick sausages, I could survive anything. I saw this as an opportunity to overcome my fear of this particular breed of creepies. So I stayed. 

I had an appointment with the doctor who put me on a fruit diet (this after explaining losing weight was not my priority) and some assorted juices to be consumed through the day. She also asked me to meet the physiotherapist later in the day. 

Then I was asked to go to the sauna. It was dark and dingy. I did not open my eyes fearing that one or more geckos might possibly be sharing the sauna with me. 

Sauna was followed by a cold water bed. I had to get semi-naked with some twenty other semi-naked ladies and pretend that I was relaxed. I'm not usually shy about my body. But there was something downright dirty in the way the women were checking each other out. 

The entire ordeal had given me a blazing headache. I returned to the general ward and pretended to fall asleep. And that's when I overheard neighbouring bed Aunties' conversation in Kannada - That girl, the one with the yellow towel, she's getting married next month. That's why she is here. Have you seen her breasts? Sagging already. I told her to get a massage done here. That shapes it up, you know.

Yes, now see my daughter, she is the one in the pink and white towel, she doesn't have breasts. She feels very upset. But I told her it's okay. May be I'll ask them to give her a breast massage to make it grow. Look at my breasts, still in shape. This after three children. 

Very nice your breasts are. You know that red towel girl, did you see her stomach? She's having sex with her boyfriend it seems. That's why her ass is so big. I don't like this sort of thing, you know. 

Yes, all this will just end up with them all coming on TV on that show. 

Oh that show? My own brother-in-law was on it. He has two wives. One has very large breasts. 

I just got the hell out of that place. 

By then it was time for lunch. I happily went expecting to eat a bowl of nice fruits. Imagine my shock when they served me a huge plate full of a mix of raw vegetables and fruits. Cucumber, tomato, raddish, carrot, cabbage, peanuts (yes, raw peanuts) and knol-kol (yuck) were shredded/cut and mixed with apple, pineapple, and dirtily mashed up over-ripe papaya cubes. Even the plate was dirty. And we couldn't use salt or pepper. We had to down our delicious meal with lime juice stored in a dirty beaker. 

The attenders served our food without wearing gloves and often just using their hands. I found a small, very curly strand of hair in my plate and prayed mightily that it wasn't from someone's pubic area. And while I was wondering how not to gag, the people I was lunching with said how good the food was and how clean the place was, and how hopeful they were of returning home looking beautiful and svelte. 

I thought of the pills I had to take, and with great difficulty, I swallowed the meal.

Next was the physiotherapy session. I met a young doctor in the the physiotherapy room. He asked to see my reports. I showed him. He declared that I do not have rheumatoid arthritis. I just kept quiet. I thought in that lizzie land this was probably some sort of positivity treatment. He asked to see my pills. I showed them. He looked at my favourite blue pill that my gynec has prescribed for me to take during those days when I die. He turned it around this way and that. Then he looked me in the eye and said - Why do you take this?

I replied that my gynec had prescribed it for me because I have severe pain during my periods and no other medication works.  

He turned the strip of blue this way and that again. Then - This is given to cows. It's that strong. Stop taking this immediately. Learn to live with pain. That's your problem you cannot tolerate even a little pain, that's why you are saying you have arthritis and then you are taking these blue pills and all. 

I had had enough by then. I just asked him - Have you ever had a period? 

His eyes bulged out of their sockets. 

His female assistant giggled. 

I smiled at him and said - Sweety, unless you have had at least a really painful period in your life, don't talk to me about pain, no?

He stopped talking to me and asked the attendants to give me the wax therapy for my hands. 

Then they asked us to walk on the grounds. Everyone paired up with someone and walked the grounds. It would have been pleasant exercise if it weren't for the way people were checking each other out. I wanted out by then. But there was no where to go. By then, I had developed a fever and a migraine. I was in a mad lizard jungle and I still thought I must overcome my fear. So I stayed the night. 

Dinner was the same mash of raw vegetables and fruits.

Night was a nightmare. The lizards and geckos that stayed silent and at a distance in the day went berserk at night. They crawled all over the place, jumped onto beds and window sills and even suitcases. 

A big fat gecko crawled on the ceiling right above me. An Aunty had boasted previously that she can never sleep without the fan on. Yes, boasted. In places like that, statements such as I cannot sleep without AC/fan is a boast. Since the ceiling fan and the gecko were right above my bed, I decided Aunty must have her comfort. I went and woke her up. I told her I was feeling feverish and the ceiling fan above me was making it worse. Obviously, telling her I was trading beds because of a gecko would've probably earned me a tight slap. I tried to fall asleep. But the migraine was killing me. I went and puked the horrible dinner and all my pills. I hadn't felt so sick in my life. Not even in San Francisco. I spent the entire night running away from the lizards and the geckos and puking intermittently in the bathroom. 

Next morning I learnt I was to have no breakfast. I was asked to drink water. So I could lose weight. I went and saw the doctor again. I told her how my priority was not to lose weight. I told her that I was very sick and that I had to take all my pills and that I had puked everything I'd eaten (which was that dirty salad on a filthy plate). She said drink some lime juice and take your pills. That was it. I decided that if I stayed there any longer, I would indeed be  changed - I would be dead. And fuck it, I decided, I was entitled to a bloody phobia. 

But they wouldn't discharge me. They wouldn't let me get out of the place. It felt like I was living my own Hotel California. Throughout this I'd been polite and well-behaved (except for being a smart-ass in that physiotherapy room). But when she repeatedly told me I couldn't be discharged and I had to be treated for the next fifteen days, I gave her my Queen-to-prisoner-about-to-be-guillotined routine. And uttered what will always be known as my best line of last year. I declared - I refuse your treatment. Now let me bloody go home. Or you will all be bloody sorry.

At that, they finally let me go. Sitting in the bus on my way back home, I messaged my friends and summed up naturotherapy - Nature cure, my ass!