What a Tangled Web…

Came very, very close to a major personal loss. I still do not know if I will get any good news over the next two days or if there will be more death and destruction ahead. And the whole crisis just made me more aware of how we take so many things for granted. It made me aware that even the strongest pillar can crumble. And all because of nothing…because we do not behave like we should.

Trying to find humour in a situation like this, for the first time today since I cheated my way to graduation in English Literature, Shakespeare entered my mind with:

Oh! what a tangled web we weave

When first we practise to deceive!

Offensive? Or Is It?

D sent me this and I thought I should put this up on my blog for your opinions. I am putting up what D said about the ad:

I personally think it’s rather sexist. Quite offensive, in fact, though I get the sense of humour involved.
What do you think? Is the ad too sexist for publication? Or is it borderline politically incorrect (but still acceptable)?

What if they did this with a guy? (BMW would never do that, but that’s a different question…)

Or am I simply thinking too conservatively?

And here’s the ad in question:

So what do you think?

Updated later PS: Before you say anything, you might want to take a look at these two links:

http://shetakesontheworld.net/2008/07/how-not-to-market-to-women-bmw-you-know-youre-not-the-first-ad.html

http://www.bushautoblog.com/2008/07/bmw-you-know-youre-not-first.html

For Some Booze

Wanting, not getting.

Getting, not wanting.

Looking, not seeing.

Speaking, not saying.

Hearing, not listening.

Fuck, life is gettting so complicated. Wish there was someplace I could hide in. Like the wardrobe I used to climb into when I was but a girl.

Fuck. I could do with some really potent alcohol right now.

On Men Being Hand-Fed By Mums

Wanted to meet a friend this afternoon and called him about the time. He said something that went “mmm, shee you arooound shay, shiksh?” and so I asked him if anything is wrong with him. He told me, honestly enough, that his mother was feeding him at parathas at that point. I didn’t understand and asked if he meant his mum was serving him or supervising his eating, but no, I learned later that his mother was hand-feeding him. A was very surprised at my consternation and said, “So what, ma shouldn’t feed me, you mean?”

Ok, even I have been hand-fed by my mother till quite late, and that happens sometimes even now, but on a regular basis? My mum would rather let me go without food rather than feed me everyday, so yes, A, I am rather shocked at how you make it a habit and how you say that to most Indian men this is as normal as normal can be. What is going to happen when you get married to that girlfriend of yours in two months? Is she aware of this and is she going to be given the responsibility of hand-feeding you or does this remain an umbilical cord bonding with your mother even when you are pushing 30? Or is this the same philosophy that kids never grow up enough in the eyes of their parents? Once or twice a year was still ok, but on a regular basis? Jesus Christ !! When on earth are you going to grow up and start feeding yourself, if at all?

And what about you men? I know Indian men have a thing for their mothers, and I am really hoping at least some of you will be brave enough to admit here if you are still hand-fed by your mums. Tell me, are you?

You know…

…you’ve been a good girl sometime in the past when your 7-year old niece tastes some shit you’ve cooked with potatoes and tells you that when she grows up she wants to be as good a cook as you are.

*Sniff*

So Much for Chingoo

And I thought I have grown up and don’t give in to temptation easily. Well, I ended up spending 13200 bucks on buying three or four blankets, a carpet, a shawl and some bedsheets all in a “Chingoo” package in Himachal Pradesh. They’re supposed to deliver these to my home in Feb and I shall put up photos of these when these arrive, IF they do.

Apparently the blanket keeps you warm in winter and if you sprinkle a glassful of water on it in summer the other side will keep you cool in summer. Even if this is a tall claim, the sheer softness and the brilliant quality of the blanket was enough for me to make the purchase.

They will deliver it all, won’t they? Keep your fingers crossed for me, ok? It isn’t every day I spend so much on things I don’t really need.

Hmph !!

PS: I was literally marauded on the way to Vashisth temple by guys who gave me a twenty minute argument on why I must buy Chingoo stuff. I fell for their trap which said that in 22 months the government would collect the Chingoo blanket from me and make shawls from the loose yarn in it. SO I went ahead and paid a 900 rupee advance to these guys. Thankfully the next day I visited a huge big showroom-cum-factory in Kullu where I heard that the return claim is all false and that the stuff these people are selling is not even Chingoo. A few more places confirmed that the Vashisth temple guys were selling synthetic blankets that look like wool and that is made in Ludhiana, selling for not more than 400 bucks there. Plus the shawls they were giving as gifts along with the blanket were the ones you would not pay more than Rs. 70 for at any footpath hawker’s who says he’s selling pashmina.

The showroom seemed more credible because it was a more established place than the makeshift stalls at Vashisth and I made an advance there after I wrenched out my advance from the other guys. Here I get the chingoo blanket plus a lot more and the shawl is a brilliant quality (trust me, I know my fabrics). Also the material is all wool I know, because you know there is a simple test for this. Burn a thread and if it crumbles to flaky ash and smells like burnt hair it is wool. I will let you know if my stuff arrives in the last week of February, put up pictures of it all and if anyone’s interested I can also give the phone number of the showroom I got my stuff from. Check it out for yourselves. It’s good stuff. Oh, and if you are still stupid as I was you are going to believe the claim the Vashisth guys made about one of their bedsheets giving out a smell of sandals and chinars each time you wash them.

Whatever…

Parvez has been coming to our house with shawls and silks from Kashmir for as long as I can remember. Each year I buy something from him. Today I did not, and I was very irritated with him.

Why? Because he called me “Madamjee”.

So what? At least one person reading this blog will know.

On Working from Home

Since a lot of people wonder what I really do, I work from home. This essentially means that I am a full time employee of an organization and receive regular pay for my work even if I do not have a comfortable swivel chair or work under the AC.

Why am I making this post? Because I am tired of people assuming that simply because I work from home I do not have a job. I am sick of people giving me a dismissive look each time I tell them that my job does not take me to a swanky office and that I do not have the time to visit people or do odd jobs or even take random phone calls only because I am at home. I am tired of people accusing me of being jobless and happily so and not making any effort to get a “real” job. People, my job does not entail 4 hours of travel time in a local train or a bus, a cubicle with a phone buzzing constantly, bitchy co-workers and a big brand, but I have a “real” job, believe it or not.

And my “real” job consists of deadlines, a boss, instructions and work ethics. No, I do not sleep each time you call me, and I do not watch television soaps all afternoon. I W.O.R.K. And if I don’t, I won’t get paid. And this job and its pay work for me way more than your kind of a “real” job. I do not spend half my pay on commute and I do not spend my days howling in the bathroom about why I was not promoted. My job gives me the satisfaction of doing what I do best, and I do not have to live my life on any compromise. At least I do not have to do something brain-numbing only because I can’t find anything that really interests me. I do not take coffee to the boss and I do not have the pressures of keeping up appearances at work.

And contrary to what you think, I am not wasting my education sitting at home. In the first place, in spite of all efforts invested into me, dropping out of education was my own choice, and I am proud of it. I made a conscious decision to pay for my own things, my own cigarette and my own shoes, and that is what I have been doing all this while. And I am not even highly educated. I am a simple second-class literature graduate and I have no other degrees, know no other language and have no other competencies. I have fully utilized the ones I have in my job, and I am happy about it. Sure I cannot afford a lot of things, and often I have to depend on others for a lot of things. But that has nothing to do with my job. I am a pauper because I spend a third of my pay on cigarettes and another third to fund eating out, after I am done using up what my guy earns.

I cannot give you things, and I cannot flash my diamonds. In spite of that I have a job. My job keeps me alive, because I have a debilitating disease and I cannot afford to skip lunch because I am in a meeting with the boss. I do not get propositions to sleep with co-workers. I have been spoilt from childhood because I always traveled comfortably in cars. I cannot take a bus to work. That is my preference. If I stay at home and earn as much as the next person, you’re mad to complain.

And no, working from home does not mean I have been given a day off, so I cannot raise children. If you still don’t get it, you can go complaining to the next pillar and I won’t care.

“Nuff said.

A Woman I Know

What do you say about a woman who walks in to a hospital, wearing a smock, leggings and ballerinas with heels that struggled to bring her height up to four feet eleven inches? She had a three inch cleavage with a rather tacky black string was suffocating in that crevice. On her wrist was an even tackier something with a rather convoluted design that screamed blue glitter in capitals. Her back was fleshy, rough (even with all the olive oil she swore by once upon a time) and laid bare to the delight of the very ugly man sitting in the hospital lobby. Her hair had patches of colour, was obviously straightened some time ago and struggled to cover her very round cheeks and her lips looked bee-stung.

Now people, I am not trying to be bitchy here. But I have a problem with people who walk into hospitals not worrying about how out of place they look. And then this woman, with swinging hips and jiggly breasts walked up to my mother, struggling to breathe in the Intensive Therapy Unit, and spoke about how she just finalised the deal for a flat worth 38 lakhs. Impressive, ain’t it?

My Family and I

I seem to have lost my steam. I don’t feel like writing any longer. May be I can write only when I am alone in Goa.

I have on different occasions spoken about my in laws but I have never really been vocal about my own parents. Paroma’s posts, for example, say so much about her mother and how she can depend on her mother for maximum support. And I have never said as much about my family because I never thought it was worth writing about. This is not to say that I do not get any support from my family. Of course I do, and my parents are big givers. But giving is only financial, only material. When I see daughters staying away come home for a visit, I feel so jealous at the special treatment they get. The mothers make special dishes for them, go out everyday, make special arrangements, go dine outside, and never speak about what could be, For me it is different. Each visit home is punctuated with how brilliant I was and how I could get a fat salary and how I wasted all the money and got to zilch. It’s not just my mother (my father never really mentions all this, and my mother keeps talking about it, though once would have been enough), my entire clan seems to worry about how I did not complete the damn MBA and can’t believe how I refuse to appear for government service to this date.

That apart, there is always the pressure to visit relatives, make social contact, behave like a married woman, and never any concession about the fact that I have come to visit my parents from a place where I manage everything on my own. Am I not special like the other kids I am talking about? Or does being special only mean coming from abroad with a million to spend? Since when did all relationships equate so well with cash? But if you asked anyone, my parents are doing all they can for me. To say otherwise would be ungrateful. And I never really speak about what I really want because things are too far gone for me to expect them to be special. In a way I don’t expect anything special any more, from no one, not even D, who tries his best.

Anyway, so much for so much. I am still in Calcutta, and for the  record, I am NOT pregnant. I am here on purpose and as soon as that is over i will go back to my world in Goa, and hope I do not have to come down again in a hurry.

Meanwhile forgive my own sexist thought that we women make really bad drivers, with the worst road sense ever, but I think this move for extrawide parking space is very commendable. We need it, don’t we? Won’t you agree?