Saturday, 21 December 2013


Have you heard the sound of your amazing goals being crushed into powder by the obese feet of destiny? It sounds a zillion times worse than the fart my elderly neighbour Mr. Kukreja involuntarily passes as I drop him to the local supermarket in my Car with the windows up and AC on. It smells worse too.

Judicial service wasn’t meant to be and I know so because I lost it with a margin of 8 marks from the cut off. Having taken a year drop after my law graduation to exclusively prepare for this marathon exam and having being doubted about my choice by every member of my family tree, it quite sucks when you prove them right. But Bollocks! I did try. 

But life is a funny thing and she gives you a sign in the weirdest of time. On the judgment day, I was moving in circles around the laptop awaiting the result that could possibly save my dignity. After all the basic purpose of our sad little life is to please the society. Just then the results came out and with the pain in my heart and Sahara desert in my throat I found out that the Indian courts weren’t lucky enough to have me as a judge. It hurt. It even hurt to realize that I rejected the job I was recently offered in Chennai. I rejected 4 decent job offers for this one thing. It hurt.

Just then the door bell rang. I stared at the laptop, rubbed my eyes, searched for my big glasses, wore them and then walked towards the front door. It was my farty neighbour’s little grandson with a huge white sack that he could barely carry. Still recovering from my comitragic defeat I just sat on the ground and looked at him. The little ugly boy just grinned and pushed the sack towards me as he said “Garden se Tode Hain Nana Ne. Aap le lo

Lemons. Around 50 of them.

And then I laughed looking at the lemons as if I was a witch who just found the missing ingredient to her potion of immortality. I laughed till the kid left me standing alone before the open door as he ran away and never looked back. I laughed till my eyes couldn’t see clearly.  Life had given me lemons and I was not going to weep over it. But what do you do when life gives you 50 lemons. You make “Nimbu ka Acchar”. Yes! And have it with some Mooli Ke Parathe.

It is quite Ok when the thing that you have been working towards for the longest time, doesn’t work in your favour. It is alright when your extended family which was waiting for your defeat has finally got it. It is even fine when you do not know where your life is headed to. But you have got to move. That is all you need to!

So you ask me, what’s next? Well, this blog post is typed while sitting in the High Court of Kerala. Yes!!!  I joined an amazing Law firm here and I am a litigating advocate now. So what if I did not become a judge, I can always stand on the other side and make their life miserable. You see life is good, provided you use the Lemons in your favour.  Your Honour, My Ass!!

P.S- An update after a whole month. Well, atleast you know what kept me busy.  No internet connection so currently using the Law firm's free wifi. Pray I don't get fired. Amen!

Wednesday, 20 November 2013


I am thinking of having an apple as I type this. Actually chuck that because to be quite honest, I was thinking of ordering a Margherita Pizza with extra cheese from Domino’s right now, since I am home alone and the Menu card that got delivered to me with the morning newspaper is proof enough that the Universe wants me to have a pizza foreplay today. Maybe by the time I get to the end of this post, this pizza laden desire will go away. 

By the way I am also thinking about grilling some Vegetarian Seekh Kebab later this evening. It is 4’o clock already but Seekh kebabs are not the ones to be affected by the Indian Standard Time. Sadly, today morning as I lay in the Shavasana pose during my powerless yoga class, I had made a resolution to not eat anything that would make me spread like a dough with yeast in it. Speaking of dough with yeast in it, I am still thinking about ordering that pizza. Oh did you know that I have some home-made chocolate syrup in the refrigerator?  Pretty easy to make you know. Some brown sugar, some good quality cocoa powder, some vanilla essence and some water, boiled and reduced till you reach the syrup like consistency. How about killing the seekh kebab idea and making some nice fluffy pancakes. It would soak my chocolate syrup so well. Oh Yes!

Green tea is good. I had two cups of green tea today. So I guess I deserve to go out and buy a Paneer Bhurji Puff Pastry for an evening snack. I know I had that yesterday but something about a nice crumbly puff with a melt-in-your-mouth filling of Paneer and caramelized onions deserves my attention even today. I am already forgetting about the Margherita pizza.

What will mom cook for dinner? There are some Cauliflowers and a few White radishes lying unattended inside the fridge. Maybe I will ask her to make me some Gobi Mooli ke Parathe with a chunk of butter melting in the divine heat of the paratha. That reminds me that I need to go buy some sweet lime pickle because nothing compliments a Mooli paratha than a sweet lime pickle.

Yesterday I wanted to have some chocolate. But I was dieting so I did what a prudent girl like me would do. Yes, I made some chocolate brownies. It was eggless and butter-less of course because I don’t like compromising with my health. But a chocolate brownie needs its best friend to give you a happily ever after. So I went out and bought some Vanilla ice-cream and boy! It sure was divine.  Dieting is for losers. Losers as in people who lose, some weight. I am not a loser.

Did I tell you guys that I became 65 kilos from 63 kilos? Help me out here and tell me if you know exactly why this is happening to me. We can sit together and come to a conclusion while we share that Margherita Pizza which is still ruling my mind. Or you can take a walk with me while I go buy that much delicate Paneer Bhurji  puff. Who am I kidding, we will take the car, even if the shop is like a 100 mts away.

Whatever happened to the apple I was thinking of having while I started with the post? May be I should think about my waistline and just stick to having an apple. No Margherita Pizza, No seekh Kebab, No Paneer Bhurji Puff, No pancake with my amazing home-made chocolate syrup, No Gobi Mooli ke parathe, No melting butter. Just one good old, low calorie, doctor repelling  Apple. After all, I am not someone who breaks a SHAVASANA  RESOLUTION.

P.S- I am posting this a day later. Yes, I just had an apple as I said……in the gorgeous, divine, exquisite form of…….. an APPLE PIE.  Jesus Christ!! Victoria’s Secret should come up with a body mist that smells like an Apple pie with a hint of Cinnamon in it. Oh God!!!!!


P.P.P.S- Judicial service exam got over!! Phew! Chennai will happen next week because I have an interview scheduled with a law firm. I might either become a cranky judge or I might become a cranky Criminal Lawyer. I am fine either way! Just pray for me and my waistline, Will you?


Monday, 28 October 2013


Studies have shown that 9 out of 10 women are certified blouse readers. Blouse reading is an ancient art of knowing the character and the psychology of a woman by carefully analyzing the pattern of the blouse she chooses to wear. It is an art exercised and promoted only by those belonging to the kingdom of muliebrity and done rightfully so because the trend of Indian men wearing a blouse or a saree  is not yet in practise.

Blouse readers can be found everywhere and are not constrained to a particular age group. Though known to be carrying out their profession individually, they can be found to be collectively practising their gift and expanding their domain at public get-togethers like weddings, kitty parties, ladies sangeet, anniversary bash, spinster party and even baby showers. The key difference between a blouse reader and a palm or face reader is the fact that in the former, the person whose character is being read out has no idea that she is being given a reading free of cost.  Hence, studies have shown that this art is practised for personal amusement and also used as a tool among the feline part of the human race to bond more effectively. 

Yesterday Mrs. Sunita attended Mrs. Kukreja’s 25th Anniversary bash wearing a blouse with hooks on the back, breaking the conventional norms of having hooks in the front. This act of displaying the hooks instead of conservatively covering it up with the Saree Pallu was noticed by the many veteran blouse readers including Mrs.Kukreja, who later that evening told her maid that she felt that Mrs.Sunita was being a cougar who wanted to entice the men in the party with her public display of the hooks. The maid being an incompetent blouse reader could only nod in the affirmative.

You have to be privileged to deserve a blouse reading since it is not for everyone. The conventional ‘U’ neck, medium sleeved blouse that you wore for Mrs.Chadda’s kitty party acted like the invisible robe that Harry Potter wore during his voyeuristic nights. You need to have some guts and you need to have some self confidence to deserve a free reading. Why do you think the veteran blouse reader at your home i.e your mother pointed a finger at Priyanka Chopra and said “What is she trying to be? The maths symbol for percentage (%)?” as the woman danced to the tune of ‘Desi Girl’ with the saree pallu dividing her chest into half, while her sleeveless blouse displayed her toned arms and her well endowed everything else.

It all started back in the age of sage Vishvamitra who sat for a severe penance, while Menaka a beautiful celestial nymph tried to break his Tapasya with her backless and sleeveless blouse. On watching her so do, the other Apsaras called her a ‘Loose Girl’ and moved their head from right to left with a disgruntled look on their face. It is they who became the Godmothers of Blouse reading and since then, the art has thrived on the bosoms of the confident ladies who took it as their job to promote this secret art by wearing airy blouses at every opportunity they got.

A puffed sleeve means that you are trying to camouflage your skinny hands that resemble chicken legs. A 3/4th sleeve means you have gigantic arms that you are trying to hide beneath all that cloth. A backless blouse makes the women weep for your parents, while a sleeveless armpit showing blouse points towards your bad upbringing.  A deep back neck with a thread knot in the middle questions your culture while a short blouse that ends an inch below your ample bosom screams about your ugly character. Your blouse style has nothing to do with fashion but everything to do with your moral code of conduct. Your blouse design has nothing to do with your confidence but everything to do with your shamelessness. Your deep neck has nothing to do with the fact that you can carry it off beautifully, but everything to do with your loose character. It is not just a blouse but your armour of righteousness. Your blouse defines your worth.

A woman is a woman’s arch nemesis. While all the men flock together sharing beer and getting fat, women too flock together but with their knives pointed towards the next one’s back. It is time we saw a woman outside the blouse she chooses to wear (pun intended).

Also it is time that I stop writing about such a blousy affair.

P.S- If you are wondering why I wrote about a blouse, even I am wondering the same. Let us wonder together.

Tuesday, 22 October 2013


 Sometimes we give life to things. Things that are lifeless if it weren’t for the unreasonable emotions associated to them. We see these things as a Time Travel machine, capable of taking us back in time to the memories of the past and the warmth derived out of it. 

I have heard of people who prefer hoarding a part of their Almirah with old cards, hand written letters, black & white photographs, granny’s hand knitted sweaters and what not. All because it has a connection to their past, a happy past.  

But I have never spared an emotion for things, or so I thought. I have never saved up a birthday card or a friendship band. I have never had a shelf filled with ugly gifts given by friends too important to force me into holding on to them. I have even thrown away old photographs because the photo albums with their plastic cover wearing off seemed too drab even inside the cabinet. I am not emotional, per se.

My relationship with my grandfather was like a toggle switch, having no middle ground. I loved him seldom, hated him mostly. Thinking about it, I know he deserved more warmth from my side. Not that I can bring a change now except pray that his soul rests in peace.

For every chance he utilized to pull me down, I cursed him silently. For every episode of his filthy cursing directed at my parents, I wished him pain. For every time he hit my grandmother, I prayed for his lonely death. And that is how his end came. In pain, alone except for his wife. It was not supposed to turn out that way. God did it and then happily placed the albatross around my neck. It has been 7 years since.

We shifted to a separate house 4 years back and while we replaced all the furniture with new in style ones, somehow we did not let go of my Grandfather’s bed. While the family saw it as a gentle reminder of the once patriarch of the house, I saw it as a leather whip of guilt. I saw it as a constant reminder. We chopped off its legs and placed it in the drawing room as a royal floor diwan, appreciated and copied ever since by everyone who visited our place. If only they knew about its past.

Yesterday we decided to sell it. “OLX mein bech de” my brother said and that is what I am planning to do. I am planning on selling it away. I am planning on selling my guilt away, I am planning on selling all those repulsive memories away and I am planning on giving away the comfortable pain I derive by sitting on it. But I am also planning on keeping the few warm memories attached to the man who breathed his last on it. All for 15,000/-.

So am I attached to things, you ask. I choose to not answer that.

Friday, 18 October 2013


 The concept of ‘The Right Age’ is a universal one. People might differ when it comes to race, caste, sex, religion but there is a thought that binds them together and that is this concept of ‘The Right Age’.
Even before the sperm got its head inside the egg and screamed ‘Ooh Baby!’, the life which might be born after 9 mths was forever marked with this concept of ‘The Right Age’. And once it falls out of its mother’s ‘You-Know-What’ into the dirty hands of this ugly world, the clock starts ticking. The wheel of the Right age starts moving.

The right age to start walking, the right age to start talking, the right age to chuck that breast milk and eat some sambar rice, the right age to go to kindergarten, the right age to hit the school and even the right age to have your first period (if you are a girl that is, or else something is very wrong). No, it does not stop there because right after all that you have the right age to join college, the right age to drink, the right age to have a job, the right age to marry, the right age to get laid, the right age to have a baby and then the right age to decide all the right ages for your child. It is like the bus in the movie ‘Speed’ which has to keep running in order to prevent itself from blowing up into a molten junk. It will only end with our death.

Now what if I decide to mess up with all of that? What if I decide to start walking a year later than expected or what if I play with the right age to have a drink or what if I want to prepone the right age for coitus and postpone the right age of marriage? What if I want no right age to have kids and what if I want no right age to do what I really want to do? What if I want my own set of ‘Right Ages’ made on the spot and untouched by what the society expects from me?

 I hear people say ‘This girl is 24. This is the right age to get married’. I want to genuinely ask these enlightened souls “I never knew that Moses stood on Mount Sinai and screamed out the 11th commandment ‘Thou Shalt Enter Wedlock at Holy 24’. Please tell me more about it, will you? ”.

Society is like USA, while your little pitiful life is like a forlorn country trying to fight its own battles, have a sincere government and make the ends meet. Society bombs you down and beats your dreams, all the while thinking that only good is resulting out of this. Society is a confused leech, sticking to you and feeding on you, yet thinking that it is actually helping you. It is our fault actually.

So the next time someone tells you what the right age is for you, tell them that it is their right age to mind their own business. Next time you are told that now is the right time for some wedding show time, ask them whether they are the last descendants of the Mayans who were too concerned even about the right age to celebrate an Apocalypse. And if ever someone tells you that you should have some kids before those eggs stop hatching, tell them that you are as fertile as Halle Berry who is popping out a kid at the age of 47.

Because the right age is a personal aspect and unless you are a puppet, you will make your own choice.