Sleepless in the Capital

It’s just so annoying, isn’t it? Life, I mean.

As a rule, I try and avoid using words like “life” or “destiny” in everyday conversations, but sometimes I slip. And then, this happens:

Thoughts can be bitches sometimes. And sleep can be a whore. So when they come together, you’re screwed. There is an phrase, I believe that goes, “sleeping the sleep of the innocent”. Well, if that is true, than I must be an axe murderer.

Sleeplessness drives me crazy. Then I become this insane person, who does stuff like clean her toilets at 3 in the morning or blog at 5. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to be this girl who slept at 10 and woke up at 7. But journalism or Delhi or whatever, has completely screwed me over.

I sit right now, cross-legged, with my tiny laptop on a plastic stool in front of me. Dirty dishes and spoons are lying around the mattress on the floor that I sleep on, with soiled clothes scattered as far as the eye can go. I’ve left my french windows open, so the curtains are moving with the cool breeze, creating an illusion that someone is in this dark room with me. But not in a creepy way, but just as a gentle presence, just someone who is nodding along as I rant and rant. And thoughts chase each other in the brain, with the voices in my head keeping them company.

Oh, if only, like Steinback, I could say”

I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights sleep, worked too long and too hard in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.

But alas, I live my life as if I’m stepping on someone’s toes, eat, drink and sleep with guilt, work as an obligation and love like a miser.

Whereto from here? Don’t know, don’t care.

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The Last Article of a Rookie Sports Journalist

The only thing that a rookie understands from a game of Cricket, is that there are two men in helmets - standing with carved pieces of wood (called the Bat), more men standing around in caps and painted faces (like ancient tribal creatures), and one man with a tiny red ball. The baller and the bouncy person standing behind the main “batsman” keep on screaming things like “oow-waah-zaat” and sometimes “ma-ki” which mean nothing to the rookie, but are interpreted as appeals and insults respectively, by the seasoned viewer.


The rookie does not know why Cricket is called a “gentleman's game”. She does not understand who the referred “gentleman” is. Is it the player, who, amidst thousands of spectators – including ladies, does not hesitate to *cough* touch himself in questionable places? Or is it the viewer, who yells, shouts insults and throws plastic bottles at the players in the middle of the game?

The rookie was recently invited to watch a “net-session” of a local team. The net-session, is a practice session, where in the balling and the batting is done inside a net (so as not to hurt the unsuspecting public, the rookie believes). There were two things going on simultaneously at the ground; one test match (a 5-day infliction) and the aforementioned net-session. Friends of the rookie, immediately set themselves in motion and started pointing out to each other, “that's the yesteryear wicket-keeper!” or “there's the newest member of the IPL team Mumbai!” and “that's the son of a famous cricketer!” The rookie tried to look intelligent and nod as if the names meant something to her, but was thinking all the while, “God! Not a single one of them is remotely good-looking!”

An age old rule that all the journalists (and detectives) follow is - “try to look for something beyond the obvious.” It’s all good in theory, but when sixteen people start to look for “something beyond obvious” at the exact same spot, at the exact same time, it is a pretty good idea to stick with the obvious, as no one is looking at it. But this wisdom, the rookie was yet to learn.

Following the same rule, the rookie decided to interview the security guard, as all the other “non-obvious” mortals were already taken. Right from the caterer, to injured player to the lawn-mower, hell, even the dhobi who worked just outside the grounds, was taken.

The security guard, like the rookie, was also new to his job. The fact that he was being interviewed by a journalist made him immensely happy. He looked at the rookie reverently and answered all her questions very obligingly.

“My name is Pradeep Kumar Choudhry. I have been working here since the last one-and-half year only. Celebrities? Yes, I have seen Dhoni-ji, Yuvraj-ji, Ishant Sharma-ji and Mohammed Kaif-ji too. Only Sachin Tendulkar-ji is remaining,” he told the rookie proudly. “I have watched a lot of Ranji matches here. Yes, they are very exciting” he said, stifling a yawn.

Momentarily lost for words, the rookie confessed that she herself was new to this job. That is when Mr. C took it on himself to supply the story ideas to the rookie. “Come madam-ji, I’ll show you one fruit-vendor, who has been selling fruits here for the last 10 years, but has never seen a match!” Amused, the rookie followed. The fruit-vendor was just setting up his shop. After introductions, the fruit-vendor started telling a long story (whether it was a product of his over-active imagination or it was real, could not be determined) about how he sold three dozen bananas to Bhajji and how Bhajji bargained.

After a long walk and introductions with “a young cricketer who had Yuvi’s autograph” and “the paan-waala who sold gutkha to a yester-year batsman” the rookie was finally able to steer the security guard towards the net-session again. No sooner they reached, than a car pulled up inside the gate. “This is Sir-ji’s car! He’s the owner of the place, and the coach for the KKR” hissed Mr. C vociferously, opening the car door.

Out came small man, dressed in white shirt, dark pink sweater, torn blue jeans and brown shoes. He was chewing something (probably tobacco) and had his (Gucci) goggles on his head. He heard the guard’s remarks to the rookie, glared at them and stalked off towards the dressing room. Mr. C grinned and said, “He’s a very kind man”.

After three hours in the sun, thirsty, hungry and sun-burnt, the rookie had decided that sports journalism was not her cup of tea. If not a story, the rookie that day had definitely left with a healthy respect for all the sports journalists had decided that this was going to be her last ever sports-related assignment.

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It was a 'Oh My God' day...

In a matter of 70 minutes, I have been stepped on, pushed by & yelled at, by half the human population in Delhi NCR.


But this is not where ‘today’ starts. I woke up late today, thanks to the ‘all nighter’ that I had pulled earlier. (Project, you know.) I came in late, sweet-talked my way into the class, settling in with a cup of much-needed coffee.

Okay, so, last night, one of my friends had taught me a Malyali word ‘Maire’, which she said, meant ‘Monkey’. So, when I spotted my mallu friend in class, I greeted him with a loud, “What’s up Maire?” He looked dumbfounded but politely told me that it is a swear-word, roughly meaning ‘pubic hair’.

Super. I can never get over that one.

Later, we had to go for an assignment/field-reporting at one of the press conferences happening. We attended it…& hello?…it was brilliant! At least the part with Siddharth Varadrajan (from The Hindu) was. I taped the whole conversation.

Oh no, now comes the nightmare. I had been told that the nearest metro station from the place was INA. So I went there. And - Oh. My. God. The trains were soooooooooo bloody crowded! It was as if I were on an escalator. I got pushed into the train, as if by magic. No, not the, you-rub-a-lamp-&-pop-comes-a-genie-type magic. It was more like a Rumplestillskin act. Completely horrible. Then, I got down at Rajiv Chowk, which is like the most crowded stations in Delhi. I went round & round looking for the right platform. I couldn’t even look at the sign-boards properly, because, as soon as you loose focus, you ram into someone. And people yell at you. Finally, after 20 minutes of station-trotting, I found the right platform & stood in a line. The metro came, jam packed, as usual…

And I got in…just so. For the next 15 minutes, all I could smell was sweat. Sick, man. And whenever a station came, I was jostled & shoved from all sides. The names of the metro stations started to sound more & more unfamiliar, and that’s when I realized, that I had got into the wrong fucking train! Damn it!

I got down, cursing my luck, got into the right train, went to the connecting station, and finally reached my destination. I was sure that by this time I would be smelling like a dead fish. Yep - and I was. Now it should come as no surprise to you, my readers, when I say that it had started raining. Pouring. I looked like a drowned cat by the time I reached home. By the way, I’ve never understood why they say ‘drowned cat’. I mean, a drowned cat wouldn’t look any different than a drowned dog, or a drowned hyena.

Anyway, that’s when it struck me. If I’ve had such a terrible time, the only way to counter-act would be to write as funny a description as I can, of it.

So here I am.

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Of Devils and Details...

The Devil is in detail, they say. I say, not always! Most of the times, it's the little things that matter. For example, a pinch of cardamom in that tea makes all the difference. From being just tea, it becomes Tea. Or, a little chip in your nail-polish can ruin your whole impression! I always pay attention to details. It is those little details that make a pleasing whole. But remember, it can work both ways.

This one time, I was in Bangalore (which is one of my favourite cities, by the way) and was visiting a famous temple. We had to stand in a queue for a really long time. As it is my favourite past time, I began observing other people. What they were wearing, how they were dressed...etc. I like to make guesses about their background, personality & nature. I'm not bragging, but I am right most of the times. Anyway, I noticed this guy, a village guy, must be around 18, wearing shabby but not unclean clothes, standing in the queue. His hair was weired, he was not shaved...normally, no one would ever give him a second look. Being inside the temple, we all had to remove shoes outside the temple premises. When I saw his feet, I was surprised. They were extremely clean! He had clean toes, no signs of hangnails, nails neatly clipped & the skin of the feet was moisturised. That's when I decided he must be a guy from a village (obviously) but he must be rich & must never have done any outdoor-type work.

To quote another incident, I was at my Dad's resort having a cup of tea with my sister. My Dad was sitting just across the room with a person who was giving him a presentation quite enthusiastically. I mean literally, the guy was bouncing in his seat. I saw that the guy was wearing a white shirt with the top button undone, grey trousers, & a grey jacket. He was wearing brown crocodile scaled shoes. I thought, Aahaa! gotcha! You are not what you try to portray my dear friend! I could even get a sneak peak at his white *gasp* socks!

So I texted my Dad & asked if I could come over. He said yes, and me and my sister Pester joined them. My Uncle M was listening to the guy, mesmerised. My Dad was looking interested. And I was trying not to count his 37 mistakes in every sentence he spoke. Later he even gave my Dad a presentation on the some lame dances he had arranged for some "yelite" (that's the way he pronounced elite) clients. The presentation was fantastic. They had this whole Arabian theme with - hear this - balle dancing (pleeese do not make me explain that it was belly dancing)!! I have never practiced so much self control! Pester was sitting a little behind the group and was shaking suspiciously. I willed myself not to look at her, or I would be in splits!

After the 'meeting', I just said to my Dad, "No way, you've got to be kidding me! You are not thinking of hiring him?!?!" My Uncle M butted in, "No, no, he's too pro-Islam...won't do for our clients...didn't you see his emphasis on Arabian theme?"

That's when I lost it and laughed my ass off!! :-)

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Regarding Lingerie

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman with or without a great fortune has no use for lingerie whatsoever in her life...

Shopping for decent underwear is a thing which requires skill, precision, determination & an ability to choose, to make the wisest decision when you are bombarded with lethal (underwired) choices.

Shopping for my undies has been a painful experience for me, always. Since my 15th birthday, I have been shopping for my underwear on my own. Till then, it used to be a family affair, when 3 times a year, we were bought matching sets of bloomers. It was really hassle-free. In my teens, my Mum bought me sporty bras that made sure that my non-existent cleavage remained inconspicuous.

I remember a particularly painful experience, when I was living in Bangalore and my friend and colleague Rits recommended me a particular lingerie store. The owner/attendant was a middle aged woman, rather like a sweet auntie. That's what I thought first. Then she asked me, "What is your size, baby?" I told her, to which she replied, totally checking me out, "No, no baby, you'll want a B, not a C!" I blushed and asked for some everyday-wear bras, you know, the comfy affairs, which any self-respecting girl would rather die, than show it to her boyfriend. She thrust a brown silk & lace piece with underwire & padding under my nose. "Just try this one, baby...it'll look so good on you" she said checking me out again. I thought I'll find Rits and make her pay for this. She shoved me into a dressing room & started throwing more lace & wire from the top of the door, yelling all the time, "try this one baby...and this...and this will look so good with your skin colour!" Finally & firmly I got through her. I said, "I really like these auntie, but I'd like to see some cotton ones too, please." She shook her head sadly saying, "but baby, you're so young! These horrid cotton affairs are meant for menopausal women!" That was when I dropped everything and fled.

I now take care that whenever I shop for underclothes, I always pick small stores, that carry no labels. Huh. Life has taught me much.

I was moaning about this to my Bua (my father's sister), Aunt Uma, when she said, "come, I'll show you the perfect shop!" My Aunt U is a black belt shopper. Her bargaining skills are unsurpassed & she knows exactly where the sales are. I'm sure she has a network of something like Baker Street Irregulars, who provide her with the names and addresses of the shopkeepers who are malleable. So she took me with her, in one of the city's most crowded areas. We went through familiar shopping streets, bustling with people, to the slightly unknown areas of the place. We went inside a nondescript building & rode in a elevator, which could very well have been the First Elevator In India.

You know, there is a moment in your life, when everything feels right and the second you meet someone, you know that he/she is the right one for you. You feel that no one else can understand you like him. You just look at him, and you know, everything is gonna be alright.
This is what I felt when I first saw "New Ladies Paradise - Wholesale woman's underwears & bra". What's in a name, I ask like Mr. Shakespeare. There were no vulgar "2-piece" or "4-piece" (?) clothes hanging out, no photographs of busty women showcasing impossible bras. Just a shop, a regular shop with mind-boggling rows and rows of neatly labeled boxes. The shop owner too, was a fatherly looking old man, with a paunch & a benevolent smile.

He tirelessly showed me the things that I wanted to see, gave me a fat discount and bid me adieu. This is what a shopping experience should be like. He has gained a customer for life. God bless you man!

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Rant, Rant, Rant

There's this strange but true phenomenon about me. I can only be creative late at night. Like now, for example. Its 9:14 pm, a perfectly reasonable time for a person to have had his/her dinner, watched some TV, decided against coffee and turn on the computer in expectation of squeezing some creative juices. But does the creativity juice flow? Nooooo. Not for me at least. It must be the magical combination of heavy eyelids, yawning mouth & scrubbed face. Grrr.

So considering that I'm in a 'rant' mode, let me tell you about my interview.
Today I had a Group Discussion & Personal Interview (GD/PI for short) session for my MBA entrance exam. Since Dad & I have decided that unless I get a 'A' list college from Bombay, I won't be going for it. I mean, what the use, right? I'll just be wasting two more years on a mediocre degree & will get a mediocre job. It'll be much better to get married, go some place nice and then enroll in a good college. So, anyway, I was there, 10 minutes early, neatly dressed in a Salwaar-Kameez & completely stress-free.

I had a little trouble in finding the exact building in the Pune University campus (I mean, the place is huge! Must be at least 20 kilometers in radius). After I parked my car, I went there and was made to sit in a classroom and fill out a form. It contained questions like, "What are your strengths and weaknesses?", "Which one of your family you'd save first in case of a fire?" and "What is the biggest mistake of your life?". So I spent my 30 minutes in answering these questions, keeping them as far from reality as I could. Later, we were given a serial number (I was no. 11) and made to sit in a semi-circle. Our topic for the GD was "Is Common Sense more important to running a business that Genius?". I did my thing.

Later came the PI. There were two guys who were interviewing me. They were trying the good ol' 'Good Cop, Bad Cop' routine. But after a couple of minutes due to my charming manners, both of them turned into 'Good Cops'!

Well, lets see how it turns out... I mean, either way I win, right? Anyhoo, I've got another one of the GD/PIs on the 28th. Will have to miss out on one of the south Indian summer weddings. Anyway, the heat at this time of year in the south is simply unbearable! Phew! God luck, Mum, she's going, by the way.

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Why, oh why, don't they write songs like that anymore!

Why, oh why, don't they write songs like that anymore!
God! Their language, their thoughts, their passion, was so...perfect.

I wish someone would write a song for me like that *sigh*

She - by Elvis Costello
From Notting Hill

She

May be the face I can't forget
The trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay

She
May be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She
May be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell
She may be the mirror of my dreams
The smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell

She
Who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one's allowed to see them when they cry

She
May be the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows of the past
That I'll remember till the day I die

She
May be the reason I survive
The why and wherefore I'm alive
The one I'll care for through the rough in ready years

Me
I'll take her laughter and her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I've got to be
The meaning of my life is

She
She, oh she


*Jackie starts daydreaming*

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