Friday, 21 September 2012

How I lost my girlfriends to marriage and 20 other ways to lose weight !

I heard, it happened to people when they hit their twenties. For me, it started last year.
One or two of them innocuously dropped off the radar. Come 2012 second half and 2013- it is here. It is real, and I know what the mayans were going on about.


As a firm believer in sparse use of capslock, I firmly believe that the above sentence (font and capslock not withstanding) does not emphasize my trauma enough!

Once upon a time, I used to look forward to brunches. Just sitting around a table with my girlfriends, breaking bread (biblical reference alert), and talking about everything. Everything namely being, what she wore last night to where we should travel next.  How our jobs, lives and career paths need an overhaul to how our haircuts do. I do believe that, those brunches and dinners, accomplished more than most diplomatic meets can, on their agenda. There is little that can replace your girlfriends glee, when she is told about your latest, “you did whaatttt. I cannot believe it !” . It was banter designed by a really bad author, you spoke together in giggles and overlapping sentences, in written copy your conversation would have an overdose of exclamation marks. Everything was important, everything was urgent and everything need to be analysed. And there it was, this happy, self-contained world filled with comfort, laughter, wickedness and sage, sage advice.

Until of course, the day she sits across you and holds your hand. You promptly shrug it off and wonder if she is on some medication.

Guess what?!

Tell me ! No wait, let me guess. You moved out/quit your job/broke up.”

Oh, you’re such a drama queen. I’m getting married !!! It’s fixed. My roka is next month”

(for the uninitiated and any non- Indian readers of this blog. In which case, I love you don’t ever stop visiting! A roka is where the couple are ‘booked’ for each other. Much like a plot of land, we like that, here’s the down payment. Now  we own it. Muahahahahah, oh and mazeltov)

Don’t get me wrong, you’re happy for your friend and wish her a lifetime of love.
But there’s this split second when you know ,things will never, ever be the same.

And they aren’t, not until the wedding for sure. All talks on the table now revolve around clothes, what his parents said, , how so and so will try and outdo her at the wedding, venues and make up. Even the most sensible, well read girl has a bridezilla in her . You’re no longer breaking bread with your friend; you’re stuffing your face with carb comfort (thin line, big difference).

There’s always that moment, the one moment where you want to ask them to run away with you. Back to how things were and how comfortable and safe everyone felt. Back to when you were plotting on how many minutes to wait before you replied to his message and not how many kids you want with him. Like, all of life’s changes. There is no going back.

Your friend has effectively become a new “we”. And you need to catch up; there is no time to mourn. The new “we” will have diet plans and fittings. You will have vague plans for trips to Ibiza, now maybe by your lonesome. What used to be Saturday nights with you, will now be with her “we” and few other infected “we’s” around town. On the upside, this will happen to boys as well. Suddenly they miss their 'bro', the one they're used to hanging out, drinking beer, and scratching balls with.

At this time, two things happen-

a) you get caught in the madness and decide to propose to your two week boyfriend (monumentally bad move!)
b) you find other single, cougars and sign up for new friends around town.
Don’t do either.

You and I know, your friend needs you now more than ever. Be her gotapatti touting, fake smiling reality check, the one who promises to grind the guy into Matrix like smithereens if he ever hurt her.
Afterall, that’s what friends are for.

Monday, 10 September 2012

An Insomniac's guide to missing.

The anatomy of missing starts with one odd piece, here and there. You can go on, slightly wonky, for a long time without realising it.
Until someone stops and asks you.

"Hey, you Scissorhands- you got a pair of XL shears?"

And you go all wide-eyed, goofy grin-

"You bet I do mate (or whatever lame form of greeting you use)".

Until you realize, you don't.
Your shears fell away, somewhere along the twisted, winding road.
Nothing is more acute than needing them, then. At that moment when someone reminds you of them. Reference to context.

Of course, there is 'even more acute', when you notice another person's shiny new shears. You used to have them. These shears. Together you would snip at life. Well, now you don't.

There are times when you can go on, for a long time, with large gaping chunks in you. Cashmere knits often cover those well. You look at people who are whole- and how simplistic do they look? Their lives are missing that certain sexy Sylvia Plath dimension, that yours took. You would work that, if only you could stop picking at your own gaping chunks, and muttering softly.
Always there is muttering softly.

Then, there is the kind of missing which occurs at night. It's needless, pointless and often just a ghost whisper. However, like the monsters under our beds and in our heads- nothing can seem more real, scary or urgent. Every attempt to fight it, is another moment you succumb to it. Alprax wasn't a coincidence, it was probably invented by some gentlemen with a past best forgotten.

Maybe when you really miss something.
Your grand mom.
An old love.
A pet
It's a collective scream. Parts of you, calling out.

Guys, we left that guy behind. He was one of us. Come on!  Let's go back for him.

And every time we don't turn around for that part of us, that XL shear, we're betraying ourselves. Or maybe we're scattering bit of ourselves around the world. Broken bits which never come back. Those are the bits of us which broke free, they found something to love, live for and represent. They perished with it.

And maybe, you're just a person with holes, desperate to find something to live for. To represent and perish with.

Maybe, that's when they will miss you too.

Photo Credit: here

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

Some things are doggedly simple.

It’s not all that easy, to sit on four legs and watch all of you make a spectacular mess of most things.
Other than, air conditioning. You got that right, that I’m very thankful for.

So, back to what is going on. There seems to be a lot of war.
Now I get that when you are on two legs, testosterone is the only thing which makes you feel real.
I get it. It’s sad you guys don’t have a tail- because sometimes, I feel a tail really does it for me. Really, all this fighting over oil, (water will follow, I hear), it’s a bit pointless. Don’t get me wrong, I know me and my brahs got a bad rep for starting the whole “peeing around our territory”, but we stop at the peeing and friendly brawling. Bombing each other senseless,  destroys what you were fighting for.
Sometimes, humans, not so smart.

Then, there is the whole bit on how you treat your ladies.
People, people! That is not cool.
Ladies are meant to be manipulated into holding you and giving you more food, only with adorable, harmless tactics like big, puppy eyes and incessant happy yelping and licking (Trade secret). We dogs have kept more romance alive than you. Of course, we’re speaking to the concerned authorities and soon there will be a PIL filed against attributing male douchebag behaviour, to him being a “dog”. As if, they ever could.
Take Todd Akin, for example. Matty, the wisest German Shephard in our neighbourhood- he was appalled, when he heard Mr Akin's views on what constitutes legitimate rape. News has spread, and some dogs near the Missouri area will be leaving Mr Akin unpleasant smelling presents, outside his door. We call it our illegitimate reaction to his apparently, legitimate views.

The other day I stared at your machine for a really long time. The really shiny one, that you keep cleaning and dusting and spend most of your evenings with.
I’m all for anthropological research. So, I stared and stared and then I got distracted by a potato which fell off the table. Maybe, I missed a beat, but what is in that thing that’s more fun than chasing your own tail? Or. Playing with me?
 I’m more emotive company, plus no one ever got bad eyesight by playing with their dog for too long. I also read off a piece of newspaper (which I tore, you know for kicks), that canine company releases stress.

Basically, I  thought I’d write to you guys. Help you fix things. Keep it real. Keep it street.
 Advice can come from strange quarters, but it can still be meaningful (that’s what the Marla, the Spitz on our street said to the Great Dane. She handles most of his investments now). I hope you guys pull it together.

Meanwhile, one final word of caution to Ms Hilton and her friends- Do not stuff any of us into your purses. A chihuaha in an oversized bag will not make you cute- Surgery is a more reliable option.