An Unkindness of Ravens and Other Assorted Birds

Adventures have been happening but they have been unrelated to bad dates... there is only so much I can take just for the sake of a blog post! But here are some random entertaining tid bits from the past few weeks.

I was merrily walking one morning towards the metro on my way to work. It was a lovely spring day, not much sun, just a hint of breeze. In short, a perfect day for a long walk without your shirt getting soiled. As I passed one of the houses, I noticed a raven. Of course, I had seen all the horror movies related to that bird species: “The Birds,” “The Omen” and “The Crow.” So that’s what I thought of, as I passed it by. The bird must have known something about my thoughts, because the next thing I knew I felt a swoosh above my head as the bird flew to a tree in front of me. Then, again, I just thought the raven must have a low flight trajectory like many birds [have you noticed that lately, it must be something to do with climate change or something]. But the blackbird was clearly after me, and me only. There was noone else on the street! Once again it flew right over my head and I let out a small “Aaaaak! Scheisse” for some reason, I thought German profanity would have an impact on the bird. No, because it came after me a third time and made sure I was out of that street. I ducked my head and ran across the street towards a nanny or mom walking her 2-year-old. It may have been the anti-Christ (there was even a church nearby), but I am officially going to state my preference for birds in cages, thank you very much.

Here’s my gunshot review of Sex and the City: Great clothes and shoes, one amazing bridal montage, four aging but still gorgeous friends whining about their men, bodies and babies and of course, doing anything and everything with an unlimited expense account. Ah, the good life. SATC has struck a chord with so many women, it’s a wonder how so many so-called independent, urbane and progressive women relate to this overly antiquated notion of feeling inadequate and incomplete without a man, a marriage (or a divorce) and children. But you would think when a bunch of women sit and watch The Ultimate Chick Flick in sheer voyeuristic fashion it would instill some sense of congenial sisterhood. So it was rather amusing to see two groups of women fighting over seats — of all things — at the theater where SATC was showing. I had gone for the midnight show and expected a pretty big crowd. There were women in all kinds of clothes (shoes and gay friends were legitimate accessories) and came in sizeable packs. One group of 10 girls had sent one girl to stand in front of the line so she could reserve seats for all of them. She went and reserved nearly an entire row and kept shooing away the hijackers. Until finally, another group of women proceeded to ignore her and sat in the seats anyway. It would seem like hell broke loose. The manager was called, so was the security guard, and accusations of someone hitting someone flew around. My group of girls and the gang of gay men sitting near us took bets about which team would prevail. They finally resolved the situation outside and the girls who took over the seats continued to sit there. Amen, Sistah. Now, can we watch the movie, please?

Getting There

We all know why we’re on social networking sites. No, it’s not because we want to see what so-and-so is doing after so many years. Well, maybe we do and maybe we don’t. But we really want to check out the guy/girl we had a crush on in class 9 - where, what are they upto and most importantly, who are they with? And do we really want to add them as our “friend?” were we ever friends in the first place? And should we send a ever-so-casual note, saying hi and hope all is well (i.e. look where I am, look where you are!).
But have you ever googled anyone and smiled in sadistic pleasure? A very informal and unscientific poll among some friends has revealed that more guys than girls like to do the web trolling for the “looking up old flame” thing. They say they just want to see how she’s doing. Yeah, right. They just want to make sure she really has gained 20 pounds post-school and post-kids so they can go, “Phew. Thank God.” The girls say they just want to see if the guy is doing well and happy and stuff. Yeah, right. They just want to make sure he really has gained 20 pounds and is still secretly kicking himself for losing The One That Got Away.
Anyhoo – have you ever got one of those emails from a random classmate or school acquaintance where they attempted to catch up with EVERYTHING in your life with ONE sentence about theirs? I just did. It went something like this:
“hi i am in Bangalore, did my b.com from LSR and then masters from uk fell in love got married and have 2 kids what about u what u guys upto?"
Talk about a shot-gun fairy tale ending. I had to read it several times because a) could this person’s life be more predictable? and b) she led a fairly straight-and-narrow path and couldn’t have sounded more happier capturing it all in one sentence. I thought about an appropriate reply and I couldn’t come up with much because a) it really is more complicated than a sentence could deserve and b) although I want the fairy tale (once I start believing in it!) as well, it’s comforting to know I have my own, unique way of getting there.

Making Up for Lost Ground

So I have been procrastinating on the blog front but I will try to update with an abridged (but detailed, I hope) version of events from the past few weeks before I get too foggy.

Why Fierce is the New Fabulous

Imagine being feted and dined by one gorgeous man with the best fake Indian accent this side of the Atlantic. Then imagine his four other gorgeous men friends surrounding you and discussing everything from sharp cheese to bad mortgages in a wonderful ritual that surely every girl must go through – intellectual stimulation by your gay friends while watching Top Chef. Don’t get me wrong: Although I am quite used to “being one of the guys” on occasion but to be a double minority – the only straight girl in a room full of gay men – that was definitely a first. But post 2 bottles of wine, the conversation gently, and naturally steered towards sex. It was inevitable. Just when I started feeling so special, I felt kind of left out. But I enjoyed listening... after all, sex, religion and politics are the only three things that everyone has an opinion on. Oh, and did you know Key West is the latest vacation spot after Providence, Rhode Island?

A Holi Mess

Another year. Another potluck. It was even more chaotic than last year – more people, more food, more booze, even more non-Indians! And definitely more singing. Some memorable quotes from the day (as far as I remember):
“I made at least 60 balls last night.”
“What’s South Indian lassi?” “Anything below Bombay is South Indian. Lassi is North Indian though.”
“You’re asking me too many questions. Please mingle.”
“What’s that stuff in your teeth?”
“I want my chai before it runs out of steam.”
“I work in consulting. That’s code word for pimping.”
“I can’t understand what you’re singing but less volume, more harmony, people.”
“Is it 8 pm already? That was a long brunch!”

Operation Beagle Rescue

I was coming home when I saw a little beagle wandering around my street intersection. I thought it was from one of the houses nearby so I said hi and went on my way... and then he started coming down my street and followed me, right into my gate! He sniffed around the yard, and when I shooed him off, he looked a bit scared. I noticed a collar but without any name. I decided to go after him in case he wandered into the street… when I finally caught the little fellow in my arms, he happily started licking my face :)
So I carried him back towards the intersection and asked a friendly face if she knew anything about a missing dog. Luckily, another lady popped her head through her door and asked what was going on. While beagle boy stared at us with his adoring eyes, we talked about whether to call the animal shelter or report him elsewhere. Finally, it was decided she would keep him – since my landlord doesn’t allow pets – and she eventually had to take him to the shelter. I miss my pooch and hope he finds a good home soon :(

Going to Disney

Orlando was literally a trip: kids, old people and swaying palm trees everywhere. I just didn’t get to see Disneyland since I had gone on work. The highlight was meeting these two precious girls, who were 2 and 6, respectively. They decided to befriend me and barrage me with a bunch of questions. From the demanding “Do you like chips or pretzels?” and “What is your favorite color?” to the fairly insightful “Do you still talk to your childhood friends?” and “What color are they – brown or peach?” Sydnee and Avery were a treat to talk to. I gave them conference goodies like chocolates – which they enjoyed – and a stuffed white tiger – which they were not willing to share or part with. At the airport they fought over who would hold my hand, while my other hand held on tightly to my bags. Finally they agreed to take turns. The younger one asked my name again and repeated it to herself a dozen times. “So I will never forget you.” And the older one decided to ask me what I thought of her mommy and daddy (who I work with). “They are both very, very nice,” I said. She thought for a minute. “Yeah, daddy is a bit weird but he can be nice, too,” she said. Amen to that :)

Ring-a-Ring-a-Roses... And We All Fall Down

The Ides of March are upon us – the U.S. primaries are not even over and the mud slinging has gotten as harsh as Old Man Winter. Ruthless. Relentless. Soooo good.
I’m surviving my own version of a brutal season. It’s called Post-Traumatic Dating Syndrome or when you think you might be on a god-forbid perfect date with a good heavens! an almost perfect guy (because we know the perfect guy doesn’t exist) and then reality hits you with a ton of bricks – it was all an illusion.

I met Mr X at one of those suburban jungles — homes with mini vans and a lawn sprinkler lurking somewhere — with barely any intention of getting to know him. We were introduced by a common friend and ended up exchanging info. A few days later I found myself agreeing to meet him for a coffee somewhere in my hood. [Damn, I should’ve met him at the Lincoln Memorial. At least we could have discussed history and the lights wouldn’t be as harsh.] We chatted amicably for a bit before he plunged headlong into an intense treatise on relationships, men, women, exes, and everything that came with it. Couldn’t we share a few laughs and talk about how Cheney and Obama became related? We traded accusations instead.
“You need to be more spontaneous,” he said.
“You just want to kill time before going clubbing with your friends,” I said.
Like a Woody Allen movie gone wrong, this rather testy conversation went on for a while, after which I got tired and wanted to go home. I offered to walk him to his car. He offered to give me a ride home. There were, umm, a few minor distractions on the way. Not terrible. Not great. I reached home and gave him The Side Hug and “I’ll call you soon” line.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come up?” he asked.
Absofuckinglutely.

The only thing my friend had told me about Mr Y was that he was “a nice guy.” Go figure. We were to share a train adventure and meet up some other folks for dinner and a show in Baltimore. Little did I know it would really be an adventure. But he lived near my house, walked over to pick me up and we struck up a fairly cordial conversation. Then we saw the crowds and the fire trucks outside the station. Union Station was evacuated and all trains were put on hold. While I scrambled for other options to get to our destination, he was already laughing and saying, “This could be a movie script!” Then he added, “Should we grab a beer in the meantime?” We did. And that’s when I saw it. The ring. Less Frodo, more Committed Husband. He was wearing it on his right hand but who cares. It was a ring aka don’t-even-think-about-it unavailable. So once again, I had to do the whole You’re-a-Cool-Guy-in-a-Buddy-Sort-of-Way (you know what I'm talkin' about).
We had a wonderful time talking about everything under the sun (except his marriage, I wonder why) and then on the train – when we were finally on it. It was definitely one of the most pleasant journeys I’ve spent with a relative stranger. No weirdness, nothing. Just. A. Truly. Nice. Guy. Only I wish he had mentioned his wife during the oh, 6 hours I spent with him?! At one point someone else asked, “Who do you live with?” and he said, “One other person.” So he may be going through some tough times but seriously, why the shady behavior.
Unfuckingbelievable.

P.S. I just found out Mr Y is NOT married after all. However, the ring is still a mystery. Watch this space :)

My Nano Second of Fame

Ah, finally. My days of toiling away for an undisclosed audience of Web surfers, perhaps 6 loyal readers and other curious onlookers were coming to an end. My blog was about to hit the big time. Millions would track it down to voyeuristically follow the bumblings and mumblings of yet another single woman in some city in some corner of the world. They would search in anticipation of those sexy, glamorous posts that make every 32-year-old journalist living the inevitable life of Carrie Bradshaw – who cares if you’re not in NY, not working at Vogue, not screwing multimillionaires, or not owning a single pair of Manolo Blahniks. This blog could still get its 15 mins. of fame, damn it! Oops. Make that a nano second, please.
I was tracked down by an intrepid reporter from a mainstream Indian newspaper to be asked that profound qs: what is a quarter-life crisis? It is apparently the "it" topic being covered in hazaar places these days to take the pulse of desi youth and all that. But coming from the same tribe, I was happy to spew, umm, some profundity and help out in her quest. Would I be willing to be quoted as a 32-year-old singleton? Would I be willing to give out the name of my blog? Would I be willing to eat cheese and crackers for an entire day? The answers to all those questions were yes. And then the article came out and I clicked on it and scanned for my name, or my blog’s name, at least – wait! Where was it all? Missing. Where was my profundity? Missing. I wasn’t too disappointed, though. For two reasons:
1. Since it was about the QLC (did this acronym exist before?), there were too many people in their 20s in the piece. The very judgmental editor pushed me to the bottom of the copy. And I don’t know who made this decision – writer/editor – but the quote they finally did use was the least interesting and had no context to the rest of the story! But of course I understand sadistic journalists. I’m one of them.
2. And since I do have a blog to air my rants, perhaps you, gentle reader, might care enough to read my Original Pearls of Wisdom for Fascinating Feature Sunday Piece:
“What is a quarter-life crisis? A quarter-life crisis is supposed to be when you hit a wall and you don't know what the future holds for you or what exactly you want from life. If you take it more literally – if the average life expectancy of a person is 75, you hit a quarter-life crisis at 25. But with life expectancies growing, so does the age of the crisis. For today's youth in India it could mean getting everything you want by 30 – job, marriage, kids, house, car, world domination – and then hitting a wall. What next? So it doesn't matter if you're single or not, I think everyone goes through this process. The crisis may be more magnified if you are single and face societal pressure to "settle down" in the more conventional sense. Will I ever get over this crisis? Unlikely. I need to sustain my blog traffic.”
Oh, and please don’t ask me the name of the newspaper or a link to the article – totally irrelevant, and if you’re that curious, I’m sure you intrepid types will find it!!

Why DC Ain't So Bad, Y'All

Now that I have been back in DC for more than a week, let me do a brief fifth grade summary of why I like staying here instead of whining about how much I miss India… especially since I have been extolled the virtues of London and NY on more than one occasion this week…those comparisons are totally unfair! Those are cities. Let's not compare apples to oranges.
So anyway: I like DC because I see history everywhere I walk, because I see dead Christmas trees waiting to be collected in January after the fuss of being lit and surrounded by presents, because I do bump into the same people at the same 5 places and I don’t really mind, because I see at least four different skin colors on the metro who are reading books like “Freakonomics” or “Confessions of a Video Vixen,” because there are a lot of smart people who take their work and fun in equal seriousness, because you can get a very good crepe for $7, because nothing beats Bush bashing when you’re in a bar a mile away from where he lives, because I don’t have to live in a house behind a picket fence in the suburbs and spend my weekends at Home Depot, because even though people recycle relationships, there are still enough crazy singletons and crazier married friends who keep it interesting, because there are at least SIX Scottish terriers who live on my street, because I can still walk home at 12 a.m. and feel relatively safe, because even though nobody cares what you’re wearing, they will say you look nice if you do or not say anything at all if they’re indifferent, because nobody here is totally indifferent to the world around them and for the most part they do know what’s happening in sub-Saharan Africa, because for every cabbie who has conned you there are two cabbies who are pretty decent, and because this year, I might, I just might be convinced to run a marathon in this cause celebre-fitness obsessed capital.

Back Home - Update 2

Just got back from Kolkata last night and it was quite a trip! I went there after almost 12 years (we don't have many relatives there so didn't find a chance to visit) and it was something... unlike Delhi which has undergone so many facelifts and plastic surgeries, Cal is not in the crazy madness of change yet. There are lots of changes, yes, and there will be more to come, but the city hasn't lost its character. There were the Communist Party rallies, the French shutters of the old homes and the omnipresent smell of food everywhere. Some culinary highlights were: steamed prawns bathed in mustard curry and wrapped in a banana leaf at Sonargaon, mutton kathi rolls at Nizam's and mishti doi and kachauri at Mithai.
No trip down memory lane would be complete without taking a look at my old school Modern High School for Girls (MHS) where I spent 3 very impressionable years. This was the only school I actually walked to from home, which was about 15 minutes away. Home was 44, Ironside Road, a leafy secluded compound near Ballygunge road, which holds too many memories of My First Best Friend, My First Crush, My First Great Book I Read, etc. etc. It was definitely one of those places that defined my childhood... in a blessedly good way!
So back to Delhi, my present home, and where preps for the shaadi tamasha (not mine, chill!) are well and happening...

Back Home - Update 1

It's Sunday morning and am munching a neatly diced guava peppered in chaat masala. Delhi's winter sun is playing hide and seek but in a couple hours I'll hop onto the nearby metro to walk the streets of Chandni Chowk at the other end of town. Ah! it's good to be home :)
Got in a few days back and have happily caught up with some of the ol' faces... A who finally got hitched after what seemed like The Eternal Courtship (8? or 10 years something like that). C, a recently returned expat and school chum, who was the same as ever... went to one of her famous parties and got introduced as "the journalist from Washington, DC." haha. And S, a former colleague, and Cuban Cigar Convert, who clearly hasn't stopped his brand of madness.
Since my folks have moved into this suburban multi-storeyed haven called Dwarka, getting anywhere into the proper city takes at least 45 mins. to an hour. Thank God for Delhi Radio to keep me company in the traffic, even though the music is constant Bollywood. Not that I mind, but every tune seems to have the same dhin-chak beat!
I went to SN Market and South Ex. They both keep getting bigger and flashier each time. But the aaloo chaat and juice guy at Sarojini has held on tightly to the same corner. Lots more fake jewellery and shawl walas too. Need to go back and get me some...
Tomorrow am off to Cal (or Kolkata if you were born in the 90s) for more reunions, shopping and food adventures!!

Haunting Memories

Halloween has come and gone but the ghosts of some events linger. Last year I remember a certain tow truck driver who was trying to charm me with peppered questions such as if I had the pleasure of seeing a male stripper. At that time, I had vigorously shaken my head and rolled my eyes. I wasn’t exactly dying to see a naked man gyrating in some itsy-bitsy thing (much to the chagrin of said tow truck driver). Until I was invited to a bachelorette party recently. My friend, who is getting married next month, had generously donated his condo for his fiance’s stripper party! That’s one healthy relationship.
“So bring your dollar bills!” said another common friend, who was organizing it. “It’s going down, Vegas style!” Admittedly, there was a lot of nervous excitement. All the invitees were new to this sort of entertainment. Some girls who could not make the actual event still managed to make a cause célèbre out of it analyzing the workplace hazards involved and why it could never be a question of choice for those who do it. Suffice to say, I wasn’t impressed. It’s not that I was lacking for a point of view (no pun intended), I was just curious.
Well, the evening in question arrived. And as we chugged down our wine and discussed the numerous possibilities of embarrassing our bachelorette – who was squirming in anticipation by now – our stripper kept calling to ask for directions. That’s right. The stripper was lost looking for a place to park in the rain soaked street. Talk about an anti-climax. Finally he showed up in mandatory police uniform, ready to “arrest” us with boom box in tow. He turned out to be yet another white boy who couldn’t dance to save his life from hip-hop. But he managed to redeem himself by doing a headstand and giving everyone lap dances. Later, he even informed us that he was college-educated and had a real job. “And if any of you want to get coffee or just want to chat, here’s my card,” he said. Umm, sure. There’s the door.
We called the owner of the condo – our friend who was at a watering hole nearby with his buddies – to say it was safe to return. After laughing about it with us, one guy said it was clear we were novices. Why? “Because you took pictures,” he said. Point noted.

Happy Dussehra

This past weekend was my multi-culti desi-connecting back-to-the-roots extravaganza. Never having gone to garba fests in India, I tagged along with some enthusiasts here and went the whole hog – joining the Gujju community in their own version of country line dancing – replete with a live band and a hall packed with sweaty, earnest and might I say, some very aggressive, dancers. But we put on our desi gear and our enthu smiles and went to expand our cultural horizons. Only thing missing was Falguni Pathak.
Never having been a regular temple-going devotee here or in India (lack of spiritual cravings, lack of mode of transportation - take your pick), I tapped into my outer Hindu shell and inner Bong pride to sniff out where Durga Puja was being celebrated. The trail led me to a high school auditorium somewhere in the suburbs of Maryland. After having seen pujo in Philadelphia, Boston and Chicago with my cousins there, it was my first time to check out how opulent/crowded it was in the DC area. The one I went to was very simple and well organized by the Ramakrishna Mission. The Goddess Durga was not a huge marquee idol but just a large painting with pictures of Vivekananda, Sri Ramakrishna and Saradava Devi at her feet. There were 2 priests – including an American – who convened the gathering, much like a church. There were some bhajans and rabindrasangeet songs devoted to Maa in between the chants and prayers.
But we know the second-most important reason why everyone celebrates festivals: it is a great time to dress up. You come to pray and you must wear freshly minted new clothes. It’s nice to check out what others are wearing and do the customary ooh and aah or in some cases, what the heck? As for me, although I did want to use this ocassion to wear a sari, I ended up with the more practical salwaar kurta, which thankfully, generated some positive reaction. Then after the prayers or anjali, when the food was blessed, it was time to eat bhog. Or for some fasting devotees, a time to attack. The line began to snake around the hall and before you knew it, you could feel the pushing and the pulling. One gentleman behind me was practically drooling on my shoulder with his kid in toe while expressing angst at the slow-moving line: “People are talking too much, that’s why the line is held up,” he told his wife. The wife muttered, “Why are you so anxious? The food is not running away.” How could I feel homesick under these conditions?
Of course, this was nothing compared to the frenzy and excitement of the festivals I grew up seeing in Kolkata and New Delhi. The endless adda sessions, the pandal-hopping, the mughlai parathas and the khichadi, the month-long rehearsals for the dance drama or music session, and of course, finally wearing those 10 outfits in those 5 days. It was our very own Christmas and Mardi Gras combo.

High School's Over... Or Is It?

No matter how old you get, you can’t shake off the high school years. All around us, there are the jocks, the class clowns, the fashionistas, the punks, the nerds and the gossips. Even as we leave our high school years behind, within our friends circle, it’s easy to identify the Monicas from the Chandlers, the Rachels from the Rosses. And whatever the stereotype, each one of those characters loves to gossip. Who was so-and-so dancing with? Did they go home together? They are together. They’re not together? They broke up. Or did they? The rumor mill is constantly churning and some, more than others, keep their minds occupied and tongues wagging with trivial details of other people’s lives. Don’t deny it. You may not always participate in it, but if there is talk, you don’t mind listening.
I don’t deny I’m one of those people. I like hearing stories, I like telling stories, and guess what, I write stories too, for a living! But for others to perceive that I am the only one who likes telling stories would be a complete fallacy. Since I started the blog, trust me, there has been enough fodder in my own life – let alone anyone else’s – to write a soap opera. But this is not what this blog is about. It is not a forum to air anyone’s dirty or clean laundry.
I’ve been told often enough that I like talking, or that I was the resident “gossip girl.” I was fine with those labels only because I knew the gossip was never malicious and it was mostly about me – my silly dates, my run-ins with the opposite sex. But to be labeled as The-Friend-Who-Cannot-be-Trusted-to-Keep-Mouth-Shut, I was amused and frankly, mystified. People who indulge in name-calling are gossiping about something else as I write this. People who choose to ask “so what’s going on?” instead of genuinely asking about my well-being, shouldn’t be fooling themselves. You are looking for a story and I know it. People who give me these labels should not be calling me their friend.

On the Beach

I think it was a brick-colored umbrella that shaded us from the omnipresent sun,
As it baked eager tanners — the shirtless and the hairy, the skinny cats and the curvy hens —and other beach bums.
We frolicked in the high tide with families, friends and other fearless devils,
As a preening beauty walked over and made her intentions almost vocal.
We dozed among shifting sands and medieval castles in mid-construction,
And amicably people watched before rudely getting cut off from a baby-cooing session!
Food was there aplenty: bagels, boardwalk fries, smoothies and funnel cake,
Plus a Thai lunch which gave us plenty of other options to forsake.
A mild distraction on our way back proved a little ominous —
An amusement park; it left one of us positively reeling in a shape that was circuitous.
Finally, homeward bound in our Bhangra Bandwagon ie. the suburban mini,
It shook and heaved as the skies parted but gave us radio waves for company.
Then, there in the distance amidst the pouring rain, was the Golden Arch —
We could eat a non-nutritious dinner and wait for the storm to pass!
A little after midnight we silently rolled back into the city, to our homes, to our beds,
Twas a wonder five crazy women spent the day together without killing each other dead.

It's Mah Birthday!

After one turns 30, any expectation of celebrating one’s birthday in some mad frenzy ie. partying till dawn is quite low. Especially when it falls on a Monday and Hurricane Dean is smashing its way across the American continent. So when the celebrations started from last week, it was a special treat to see many of my friends actually show up at the happy hour at the basement lounge of Saint Ex, a nice downtown bar/restaurant. The DJ was not in the house but the bartender promised to play my ipod playlist. And with hardly any other patrons downstairs, it somehow managed to become our own private space. That had a lot to do with the insane amount of fun we all had. If you don’t count the amount of alcohol consumed.
My road to intoxification began with two quick glasses of white wine, followed by an amaretto sour, a whiskey and tequila shot and generous sips of gin and vodka tonic from whoever was standing next to me. I think I kept saying in my head – must not puke, pass out or make out with anyone. As long as I stuck to that credo, I considered myself pretty sober! But, of course, I was sloshed. Sample behavior:
1. Dancing to “Big In Japan” at least 5 times.
2. Waving a chainsaw-type knife that was going to be used to cut the cake.
3. Saying “I love you” or “I’ve known you for 5 years” to anyone who cared to listen.
4. Singing Spanish songs – without knowing all the words, of course.
5. Stumbling out of the loo, and getting asked if I needed help climbing down 1 step.
6. Taking off my heels, sitting on the sidewalk to eat pizza. New black dress be damned.
7. Telling some random redhead that she was so “brave to carry off those streaks.”
8. Trying very hard to read some menu card on a display window.
Phew! It’s another year… and it’s already off to a brilliant start with news of friends getting engaged, expecting babies and what not. The celebrations continue this weekend on the beach.

No Impasse Here

Recently, after walking for what seemed like an eternity in the hot and sticky mess known as The Outdoors, I was welcomed into the cool environs of a Capitol Hill joint, appropriately baptized the Recess Café. I wanted to grab a quick brunch before dashing off to do some errands. It was one of those self-service places where you get food by the pound in a box, dump it on a weighing scale and then pay at the counter. Only when I flashed my debit card, I realized I had to eat at least five bucks worth of food for the card to be accepted. Anything less than five bucks, they would only accept cash. With a shrug, I turned around to pile some more stuff on my plate. But I was stopped. An old lady with a string of pearls (a vision that conjurs a name like Eleanor or Gloria) decided to pay for my $3.95 scrambled eggs, hash browns and sausage with coffee. “Thanks, but you really don’t have to,” I said embarrassed and took a quick look in the mirror to make sure I wasn’t looking like a homeless wreck. Nope, I didn’t look too bad for 11:45 a.m. “It’s my good deed for the day,” she insisted and proceeded to pay for me. I couldn’t believe it. She was such a doll. And I had to write about her. God Bless!

Packed Week

A lot can happen in one week and a lot has happened in the past one week. Let’s see, where do I begin? For one thing, my roommate and I discovered a huge infestation of flies in our apartment. A few of them had sneaked in through the porch door at the back and then steadily reproduced – like flies. And apparently they reproduce every 4 days. So after spending a couple nights at some good samaritans, it was time for the fumigation. I got the defoggers and placed 3 cans around the whole house. For extra precaution, I also got a can of Raid for those pesky ones that didn’t die quickly enough. It was time for the extermination process. My friend and I sealed off the cupboards before placing the cans in strategic corners before locking up the place. On my return the next day, the mission was accomplished: dead flies everywhere. Didn’t stop to count but all I knew was that those flying insects were better dead than alive.
I also went hiking to Shenandoah National Park for the first time. It’s a beautiful park with a lot of nice trails and when some friends made a last minute plan to go, I was a fool not to say yes. Unfortunately these friends, who are pretty frequent hikers, failed to mention we would be tackling the second toughest trail in the park. Anyway, I huffed and puffed my way through and enjoyed the amazing scenery. On our way down, however, we had to help a partially blind man navigate the rocks and crevices of the trail. Not only was he blind, he was having some averse reaction to his medication and we got quite worried. While the rest of his hiking group had clearly abandoned him to go off and set up camp at the base, it was left to us (especially one of my friends) to guide him down, carry his backpack and make sure he was not getting too sick. Where was the National Park Police when you needed them?? We weren’t even getting cell phone signal. Finally we got him down near his “buddies” before taking off.
And finally, in a week punctuated with news of heartbreaks and tragedies, the weekend was a time for renewal and healing — with dinner soirees, clubbing and potlucks, of course! My friends A&P had gone on a 7-week tour of Asia and they decided to put up a power point presentation of their adventures. I can only imagine how creative they will get once they start having kids :) But it was a lot of fun. More fun was a sort of impromptu cooking fiesta we had at our place – 7 friends, 6 wine bottles, 5 entrees, 2 desert dishes, 1 broken glass, and just a whole lot of crazy fun. It’s going to be quite a while to live that down!!

Spellbound

HP is over. Long live HP!! I finished reading book 7 with a sense of relief, sadness and slight confusion. I couldn’t believe JK had written such an amazingly fast-paced finale and ended it with such an overdose of nostalgia. But I suppose some of us Muggles will be senti fools for the wizarding world for quite a while... otherwise the book is deserving of all the hype and if you’re not a HP fan then too bad. It’s like if you were around in the 60s and never heard of the Beatles. How could you not read Potter?? But it is evident there are enough Potterheads everywhere. I saw at least three heads buried inside the book at the Metro this morning. And there were a few more heads when I went out to grab a bite last night. Of course I felt like shouting, “I know what happens in the end!” but that would be bloody unfair, right. You feel such a kinship with Potterheads… no matter where you’re from or what you look like, you have that one thing in common… like being part of Dumbledore’s Army of Resistance… It all started 10 years ago when the Asian Age gang in Bombay became Potterheads… I read the first three books at home, on the train and even at work… basically whenever and wherever I got a chance! Then, it was time for the post-mortem. Endless theories and arguments over why, what, when things would happen to who and You-Know-Who. As the novels became more violent with near-Nazi undertones, it became apparent why the series had got a grip on us. In spite of the fantasy and the spells and the charms, there was always something everyone could relate to… friendship, love, betrayal were just the obvious themes. But JK’s greatest feat has been to expose everyone from a 70-yr-old literary critic to a fourth grader to bigotry, death and loss. It’s never too young to know and never too old to be reminded of those themes.

Pub Crawling

As part of Japanese style team-building exercises, the whole lot of us from work went bowling to Lucky Strike. This was maybe my third or fourth time bowling in my entire life so I didn’t feel all that lucky. However, with an open bar I was hoping that my strike rate would improve in proportion to the number of beers I was guzzling down. By the time we finished our practice round and got around to playing an actual tournament with 3 teams, it was time to test my skills of speed and accuracy in relation to my sense of gravity. My team came in a respectable second place, plus I managed not to score the lowest and provided a dramatic finish towards the end of the game: I got my lucky strike! People, welcome the new bowling protégé.
It was almost 4 in the afternoon, nobody was planning on going back to work, so what to do next? Proceed to next watering hole. Fado was the Irish pub down the street with the requisite Guinness on tap and some shady contractors in Hawaiian shirts. But our table was soon haunted by Al, a random guy in a wife beater and ponytail. “Are you from Greece?” he moseyed over to ask me. “Err, yeah, sure,” I said. “How about you?” he asked another colleague. “Oh, I’m from the Seychelles Islands,” she said. “Where is that?” he wanted to know. “Google it. Just Google it,” she said. In the end, Al preferred the attention of another gentleman and got a bit too friendly. "Al kissed me on the cheek at least 7 times," he said.
Our next watering hole was La Tasca where the sangrias flowed just as easily as the beer. It was here that I realized I was on a slow, but irrevocable track, to the land of intoxicated suspension. This is also where some of us finally bonded – alcohol has that affect – and it was surprising to find kindered spirits (pun intended) where one would normally think none existed… By the time we moved to our third watering hole at Zatinya, there was no doubt that the remaining troopers had become a solid team. Mission accomplished. Coming to work the next morning was a whole new story.

It's Over Already!

Back in 1982 when I lived in the former Soviet Union, state sponsored television had nothing to offer for a 7-year-old like me. Except for two things: the 8 p.m. cartoon and Wimbledon. So out of sheer curiosity, boredom and fascination I religiously watched my tennis with a side of strawberries and ice cream. The tradition has continued and even though the fortnight is over, I promised some "loyal" readers my two cents about it…
So can I just say this was the best Men’s Final I’ve seen since the 86 or 87 Becker-Lendl final??? Besides an amazing match and all the records it has made, I think am officially falling for Nadal… although the tears from Fed obviously made me melt. As one of my gay friends put it: "I wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed, although I’d prefer to put Federer’s face on Nadal’s body."
And why, oh why, does Fed have to be so gracious in victory and defeat? What a sportsman. Sigh.

White Only, Please

July is here which means I should start sweating about turning a year older next month. But who cares about a number when other symptoms of ageing are more obvious. Stress is doing a number on me and it’s showing, my friends. Grey hair has started sprouting in all directions and when I went to a “wear white only” party recently, I was pretty sure I was wearing it from head to umm, let’s see, below the waist. I could blame it all on genes (dad’s side has a healthy crop) but that would be too easy. Instead, I will go to the mirror and search frantically for some new ones… like waiting for the birth of amphibians waiting to attack in short, sporadic moments. There’s one! And another one! Ooh, I think this is a pretty long one there. At last count, there were about six strands. Maybe I will get my hair coloured the next time I get a haircut. But I don’t see a big deal in keeping it au natural because technically speaking, white is also a colour, right?

One Year Later...

Last Saturday while Princes William and Harry put together a concert for their mother’s 10th death anniversary with Duran Duran, P.Diddy and other stars in attendance, my cousins and I put together something small, but equally significant, to celebrate the life of our cousin brother Raj, who passed away last year before he turned 32. Behind his one-bedroom apt. on Chestnut St. in Philadelphia was an open alley. There, in front of a few dumpsters and next to a shuttered establishment was McGillan’s, the oldest Irish pub in town started in 1860. Raj would frequent it often with his friends on hundreds of occasions. “It was our place,” as one friend told me. Some of us wondered if it would be right to commiserate in a place which helped him in his downfall – but in the end, it was about being at a place where he made some happy memories with his friends. And so we remembered him: we watched his childhood videos, drank Guinness, ate chicken kababs, laughed out loud, danced all night and sang to Bon Jovi, Chris Isaak (he once played “Somebody’s Cryin’” 30 times on a loop) and U2 (Bono was his God). I’m sure he was with us cheering us on.