You Are the Tango |
 You are an emotionally expressive person. You can't ever really hide how you feel. Deep and reflective, you need a style of dance to mirror your intensity.You have a taste of the exotic. You crave sounds, smells, and tastes from foreign countries. You are sometimes misunderstood and unappreciated. But you don't really care to explain yourself! |
I tried a new fruit this weekend, since I’m always on the lookout for fruits that aren’t a huge pain in my ass to prepare*. As I sprint out the door at 9.15 to reach work by 9.30, I need something efficient and easy – an orange just won’t cut it.
This fruit I tried hails from the Himalayan region of Tibet, apparently (although that part of Tibet is dry, cold at night and has basically all the ingredients you don’t want when growing fruit – but hey, I believe anything the nice Health Food Store Crazy Gawar Hippy tells me).
Behold the Tibetan Goji-berry!
Ok, now I just Wiki-pedia’d that to give you all a nice little link and got something about a Wolfberry…what the hell is going on here? Time to get Google involved.
I just uncovered a scandal in the fruit patch! Turns out those Wolfberry guys are selling their product as Goji berries – and Wikipedia is endorsing this! These poor Tibetan monks spend days blessing the little berries, rumored to make people happy for days (natural Viagra anyone?), and those Wolfberry growers just swarm into the US markets, labeling everything they can get their grubby little hands on as Goji berries.
I am shocked and appalled** but mostly disappointed.
Wasn’t that the worst when your parents said that to you? “I’m not mad, just disappointed”.
“Sooo…am I allowed to continue smoking pot and drinking your rye on our garage roof, or not?”
Where was I? Oh yes, Goji Berry “Scandal of the Century”. That’s it I’m starting a not-for-profit group benefiting the Rights of the Goji-Berry. That’s right, this is a war on Berry-imitation and I won’t stop until all perpetrators are dealt with accordingly, by being forced to eat Wolfberries by the handful. Anti-oxidant? I think not! How do like those Berries?
And to think, this was going to be a post about the nutritional benefits of a fruit. I’ve found my meaning in life.
*If it involves a knife – it’s too much work.
** mainly because I have nothing better to do with my time than look into a scandal involving mostly unheard of berries and some greedy fruit dudes.
Well here we are, Monday morning yet again. Why does Monday get 1/7th of my time? I’d way rather give Saturday half of Monday’s time. Can we start a petition for that? Or else just eradicate Mondays all together (although that leaves the problem of Tuesdays – they’ll start being the evil day and then we’ll have to deal with that. Soon the week will comprise of Friday, Saturday and Sunday but we’ll hate every other Friday because it will technically be a Monday).
Nevermind… lets move on…
Right now I just realised that I have been so miserable over the weekend that I should undergo a retail therapy at the earliest. And I just wonder as to why oh why wasn’t I wearing my new dress over the weekend? Why didn’t I put on some fake eyelashes and entertain myself? Why didn’t I brush my hair before leaving the house this morning?
I guess some things we’ll just never know.
Once upon a time,
Two cliffs were born,
Young, sturdy and strong,
They stood facing the shimmering sky,
Chins up and heads held high.
Somewhere beyond that infinite expanse,
They knew, lay the ultimate horizon.
Motionless though in their stance,
They dreamt and aspired and longed,
Day after day,
To break free from the rigid shackles containing them
And stride into the world beyond one’s reach,
Thronged by the mysterious, and the forbidden and the unknown.
So the fervent, stalwart cliffs,
With all vigor and zeal,
Relentlessly pursued the infinite.
And thus, many long years passed,
Until at last,
The cliffs were found in a sundry morn,
Standing where they were born,
With bowed head and sunken eyes,
Sagging down with the timeless time;
Those ruthless shackles were now a bondage,
Embedded in the mighty folds of their beings,
Rocking them to the rhythm
Of dropping walnuts.
Fissures, cracks and cobwebs dense,
Blurred the line where the ‘sky’ and ‘earth’ used to meet,
For there was now the inevitable fence
Between form and soul
A mendacious mirage was thus now,
The infinite goal!
Courtesy: www.lifeisajoke.com
Wandering through the darkness
searching for a source of light
walking alone through this desolate land
a land that some call life
I need to find a fire
to kindle this hearts dying flame
someone to Search inside
someone who can stand to see the pain
Chorus: So save me from myself…
And I will give you all of me
Give me a little of yourself
And I will love you endlessly
Don’t be afraid of the shadows
I have been lost in it for so long
After awhile they’re comforting
After all the feeling is gone
Give to me your hand and lead me to the light
Take me from the darkness
Help me regain my sight
I know it’s a lot to ask
and I have not much to give
All I have is love
and the rest of this life to live
Chorus: So save me from myself…
And I will give you all of me
Give me a little of yourself
and I will love you endlessly
Pausing at the garden’s edge,
my shoulders bare and shining
I look upon my handiwork:
Evenly trimmed and primped rows
of soft, cultivated summer grass,
marred by sullen and yellowish
Clumps of abandoned and disowned turf.
I pause and gaze at the heaps,
wondering whether I should continue
my labor and rid the gardens of such refuse.
I think that these untidy piles of dead vegetation
will, in their jealousy, block their more fortunate brethren
from growth and slowly
both will degenerate into
sickly beige pools of rot.
But I am no gardener and, for my ignorance,
perhaps these unlucky corpses of grass blades,
who grew too far above the others,
will nourish their cannibal brothers
into smug verdancy.
I don’t know which and, besides,
I am very lazy.
So, I pause at the garden’s edge
and merely watch to see if the dead
want anything to do with the living.
Their pitch was harsh; their sound was weak,
A nest was hidden high.
The woods were full of creature-speak
Ignored by passersby…
A few were round, and some were slight,
Concealed among the trees,
By parents pausing in their flight,
Upon spring’s warming breeze…
A sparrow brave, petite and frail
Once perched with weary claw -
Was swept away by Nature’s gale
And snatched by prowler’s paw…
The kill so swift, his silenced call
A sacrifice for hatch;
And broken wing, to mark his fall,
Lay tattered in the thatch…
The clutch remained in warm domain,
Their flock reduced by one,
To face the harshness and the strain
Of lives they’ve just begun…
The seeds were sown, to take first flight
On wings of bated breath,
Albeit soon, with all their might
Descend the dance of death…
I have really bad luck with jackets. Not as in I can never find one I like, or that they don’t fit or anything but in that I lose them. All the freaking time!!! Sigh!
I can think of several stories off the top of my head.
A few years ago I had this wicked mid-length jean jacket (you know the ones with the faux-fur trim – so in at the time). I loved that jacket. It was dressy enough to go with, well, dresses and casual enough to go with jeans. Anyway, New Years Eve we’re all on a pub crawl in Mumbai, boozing it up, flirting with random strangers and dancing on the tables (literally!). The party-bus driver told me my jacket would be safe resting on the bus and I drunkenly believed him. As I stumbled my way into bar three of the evening, I carelessly tossed that jacket on a seat. It would be the last time I saw it.
For a long time I refused to buy a winter coat. Maybe this is because I don’t believe in winter and if you don’t believe in something it probably doesn’t exist. Am I right? Apparently not!
Winter still comes, that bastard. So I bought a dark brown, down filled winter coat. It had a hood and was like being wrapped in a fire. Only without the unpleasant burning sensation and 2nd degree burns.
One Sunday I was pretending to play football with a huge group of people before going to a pub to watch the game. Naturally after exercising like that you’re hot and have no need for down-filled jackets so I left it in my friend’s car. Well, I ended up leaving before him – without my jacket. He soon moved to Delhi and the brown coat has never been heard from or seen since.
I have a laundry-list of poor innocent coats left behind at bars: cute little black blazer (RIP), short gray 3-buttoned wool pea-coat, brown plaid jacket, long black wool coat, jean jackets (times two), and beige corduroy blazer (I miss you).
I thought everything had gotten better. I bought a few new trench coats (including an adorable red one), a couple of blazers, 2 leather jackets, a few fleeces, a nice snowboarder coat from my parents – things were looking up.
I had gone months without losing anything. I was being responsible!
Then my home flooded with unnecessary Mumbai rains. I packed away most of the jackets (as it was not the middle of winter, I had no need for a short sleeved cape-style jacket). The rest I took with me to my parent’s house where I ended up staying for 4 months while they gutted my home and help me rebuilt it. As I unpacked my boxes after moving back into my place I realized that a few important things were missing.
All of my jackets that I had stashed away for spring/summer/fall
Every Single One 
I think maybe the movers stole them for their wives. Then again, maybe jackets just don’t like me.
Folks, i wont be here for the weekend for the following reasons:
I hate facebook. I think it’s the spawn of the Devil. See, as much as I try to use it for world peace and stuff that’s good for mankind, I find myself turning into a creepy stalker every once in a while. Last night for example I casually clicked on (ex) pseudo-bf’s page and looked through his pictures while holding my stuffed rabbit to my eyes, rocking back and forth a little, sobbing and hyperventilating into a brown paper bag.
Kidding…! 
I did however look at his new girlfriend, who has a little message on her page for me – what the hell? Let’s say her name is Beach (and not for the obvious resemblance to another word), she has written “Beach is: B is for Alice” um, wait a minute? Who are you? Why are you talking to me? What is this world coming to? Are you peopling 30 or 16 or what?
Then I felt like an idiot because that means she knew I would look at her page…which means pseudo has said something to her about m…which means I may or may not look like an asshat depending on what he told her.
I do wonder though, because he told me once that this other chick, N, might find me on fb and write me a letter because she was in love with him. I laughed about it then but now I’m thinking; does he think I’ll do that? Is that what he warned this new girl?
He must have a huge ego if he thinks I’ll care enough to find his stupid new girlfriend and look at all her ugly pictures cavorting by the beach and stuffing rib-eye in her face. Hello, I would never look at all her pictures while wondering what exactly is so great about her.
Anyway, the thing that bothers me about the whole thing is the fact that I DID find her, and he knew I would and he used that to rub it in my face like a huge asshole. Last time I checked I was a pretty awesome person, one who would never write a letter to a guy’s new girlfriend no matter what he did to me. A person who would look at the pictures but feel that bitter-sweet feeling for them because it means at least he’s off my hands now. Normally I would think “aw that’s sweet” and move on with my life. He had to make it weird.
And you know what the worst part is? I broke it off with him and now he’s trying to make me look like a crazy stalker. Hell-o?! The restraining order expired almost a year ago – get over it already!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to write.
“Make yourself at home” she says. As if this is a relaxing visit to Great Aunt Shobha and at any moment the old dear herself will appear with gajar-ka-halwa and tea. Instead, you’ve spent the last half an hour reading several out-of-date gardening and parenting magazines, after which, the receptionist lead you to the high-backed, plastic coated chair upon which you sit now.
After deliberating where to place your purse and bags (are one of those chairs ok? Does she use both of those? Is the floor clean? What about this counter?) The smiling dental hygienist enters the room. She clicks her tongue at you after hearing your response to the dreaded floss question:
“Well, I floss sometimes…I guess. Maybe once a week…?!?!”
Meanwhile in your head you mentally search for the last time you ate chicken tikka, corn or a lettuce sandwich, knowing that that was probably the last time a ribbon of minty fresh plastic coated string saw the inside of your mouth.
The thought of chicken tikka reminds you that you haven’t even eaten breakfast for fear of a wayward chicken’s chick squeaking and getting caught in your molars, causing the dentist to think that you are incapable of even a simple task like brushing your teeth.
As your stomach growls, the hygienist ties a grown-up bib around your neck and pats it down approvingly. The tray of hooked instruments glints in the sun. Probes, picks and other periodontal punishment tools are just waiting to be jabbed into your vulnerable mouth.
Thankfully there’s a television in the ceiling and while worrying about your mouth hurting may seem trivial compared to wondering just who exactly installed that television and whether or not they knew what they were doing, it is a welcome distraction from the scraping of layers off your teeth.
That is, until you realize they’re showing the food network. Thanks geniuses, now I’m even more starving. Wishing you were as cheerful as Kylie Kwong looks, talking about her olive and chickpea salad and risottos simmering in sausage rice, you realize the hygienist has finally finished with her incessant scraping.
The polishing is almost worse, the gritty blue paste getting caught between your newly cleaned spaces, although you’re hungry enough to consider swallowing it. What is it about the dentist that causes you to feel as though you haven’t eaten in days?
Fluoride is next on the docket. At least you have the choice between bubblegum or mint. The former tastes so sweet you wonder if maybe the dentist is really just trying to drum up a little extra business, while the latter burns every last millimeter of your mouth that you thought was free of pain.
Next you’re shuffled off to another room to wait for the Doctor. He enters in a flurry papers and running shoes, his tie thrown over his shoulder and shirt sleeves rolled up as though he’s about to operate.
You wonder how he remembers every detail about you (“why yes Dr. I did get that promotion three months ago, it’s going well and yes, my brother is great. No, I haven’t yet enrolled in those Salsa dance classes…) and rack your brain to remember something, anything, personal about him (…is he married?)
Luckily your teeth are fine, so you sign your name on the insurance papers, book another appointment for six months from now and think about what you’re going to have for lunch. As you stroll out the doors into the fresh morning air you hear the hygienist call after you:
“Remember not to eat for at least half an hour! Have a great day!” I curse under my breath and I wish she first gets punched so that all her molars fall off and then she dies starving in a remote corner of Mesopotamia.
But at least you got a new toothbrush out of the deal.
Just hold it for a little while, she needs to tie her shoes. Or something
You should know that men have to hold handbags sometimes. And it sucks, but it has to happen. And it has to happen because that’s the way life is. And no one can help that, but you can learn to hold the handbag like a man. And then, the world will be like an oyster that is yours, but probably not exactly as enjoyable. Maybe a little more enjoyable, maybe a little less; I find it hard to give you a definitive answer. But take my advice, and know that even a world half as enjoyable as an oyster is more enjoyable than a world where everyone thinks you’re a flaming homosexual because you can’t hold a handbag like a man. 
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It’s more of a brawl with me and the world around. People have come and gone but my idiosyncratic beliefs have always stayed back. With the emergence of my new mental capabilities and observational skills, somewhere life is back to square one. It doesn’t feel good… it doesn’t feel bad… it simply feels anesthetized. Have met quite a lot of people whose claim to fame has been understanding the nuances of my brain… people keep saying they know me and ‘understand’ me but somewhere they are oh so wrong… its nothing to do with the way I am or the way they are… somewhere I feel there is a gaping discrepancy between thoughts and perceptions… I don’t hate them… I don’t love them… I simply pity them… somewhere I hate sitting on the pedestal with the pink champagne twinkling in my crystal goblet… sometimes I wish I was someone they could relate to… probably someone easier to understand… probably someone who could be like them… as time flies away from my glass window, I sit back and laugh at the world around… not because of self righteousness but out of world misery… my penchant for the unusual and the extraordinary fail to arouse me from my gloom as the day somewhere has nothing to hold… the bourgeoisies taper my soul and cling to the fringes of my existence… no matter how hard I try, the feeling of helpless does not evaporate… no matter how much I beg, these iconoclasts refuse to leave the race of life… the hovering continues like an infuriating honeybee… the droning spirals in my ears and seeps into my heart… I wake up from my reverie to find the nauseating drink splattered on my muslin gown… the crystal mingling with my blood and the pain knowing no bounds… I sigh in despondency… throw my head back, not in pain or despair… but out of my sheer will to survive this grotesque world… where there are irate wolves and jackals under a human’s hide… where there are poisonous butterflies who pretend to be breathtakingly beautiful… where the world is nothing but a black coliseum… and look up at the sky to find my guiding light… the light that is the rationale behind my survival… and I see you… smiling… mocking… cajoling… my soul… and I chant my swansong to you till I wait for my forty winks to envelop me forever…
Today there is a ghost of waitress in me and I want to share some useful tips with you so that next time whenever we bump into each other, you know the rules of the game… cool? So here I go…
1. When I have my hands full, how about NOT trying to pass me the three other dishes on the table. I can only carry a certain amount of shit at once. Alternatively, if I’m reaching a ridiculously far distance to reach your plate – try passing it to me, douche bag. I’m not Inspector fucking Gadget.
2. If you should notice that the restaurant is starting to look pretty empty and the other servers are tidying up all the other tables around you – maybe it’s time to leave. Hey, if you want to spend time talking to your long lost-love/ brother/ college-roommate/ father/ dog/ sister, fine. Just be sure to do it somewhere else that happens to be open for 24 hours.
3. I know this will come as a shock to most people but water is a drink. So when I ask if you’d like to have something to drink you probably shouldn’t say “No thanks….I’ll just have water”. Also, if you are just having water…for now and don’t intend on ordering anything else, drop the for now bullshit. We’re onto you.
4. I am by nature a happy and easygoing person. If you go out of your way to hate yourself and make my life miserable, the following may or may not happen:
5. If you are in a “really big hurry” to get to the theater/hockey game/sex-show it’s advisable for you not to order appetizers and then a well done steak. No, we don’t have a magical machine that cooks steak in ten minutes…unless you consider the microwave magical or want the stuff the last asshole sent back.
Nimmy gave me the following awards in this post… thanks Nimmy… its because of friends like you that I can be myself and dont have to worry that I will be scrutinized by your judgements…
Thanks once again…
I would like to give the same awards to Su, Nikhil, Manushee, Withering Willow, Chiranjib, Reema, Antara, Cupid, Hope, Amit, Vijay, Vivek and ofcourse to Nimmy as I totally love these bloggers. Somewhere I love the way they write and their attitude towards life. Thanks guys, for making my blogging life so wonderful and accepting me the way I am…
Ps- I am too bored to create links for the rest of the names… sorry guys but please accept ur awards… it would mean a lot to me 
So I’ve heard when you’re pregnant you have really strange dreams. I happen to have really strange dreams all the time (and no I’m not perpetually pregnant because that would be more than a little awkward).
For example last night I dreamt that I missed work (as a copywriter!), ran into my boss and her (yes, it was a fat harrowed chick in my dream!) mountain bike and proceeded to explain to her that my key wasn’t working so I couldn’t go to work. We then went on a bike ride out to the Himalayas where she proceeded to cry about some guy and we ate apple muffins with raisins (ugh!)
I used to have a reoccurring dream that I was in a red convertible (with different people in each dream) driving through the mountains. Then the car would either fall off a cliff or a bridge or take a weird turn of unfortunate events and I would wake up being on a rollercoaster.
I’ve dreamt that I was a camp counselor and the kids were trying to light shit on fire all the time. To get them to stop we had to throw ribbons around and braid each others hair. Oh hell! Wait, that was actually a scene in PollyAnna.
I’ve dreamt about pigs that danced (Madagascar style) in the rain dressed as police officers. Under their overcoats (since that’s obviously what dancing pigs wear) they all had knock-off watches they were trying to sell.
The weirdest thing that happens to me by far while I’m sleeping (other then Pistols watching through my window – I’m on to you buddy) is sleep-paralysis. I “wake up” but my body is still asleep. Basically, what happens is that you are totally completely paralyzed but your brain is awake.
Sometimes you even get fun hallucinations, like seeing a man standing at the end of your bed. Of course, you can’t turn on the light because you’re absolutely paralyzed and your brain doesn’t send signals to your body.
Now, it sounds terrifying and mostly it is, but the fun part about it is that a lot of people who get it think they’ve been abducted by aliens, had an out-of-body experience or seen a ghost. So any time I want to make up wild crazy stories about green toothed Martians whisking me away to play bridge and drink swamp water, I have the perfect alibi!
No wonder my dreams are so messed up.
whatever….! I guess it’s the Monday morning blues…!
Look at the poll….! Jeeezzzz! I am amused and flabbergasted…!
