Why do married folk, even those who are unhappily married, want everyone around them married?

Is it a compulsory punishment for some sin everyone has committed in their past lives?

And what is it with married women who worry excessively about ticking timebombs disguised as biological clocks? 

Is your offspring going to save the planet from total destruction in the year 2012, (which btw is just two years away) when as per a very reliable report on Live India TV the world will come to an abrupt end?? :-) In which case, why do I need to procreate? Your offspring will do the job, right??

I don't want children, what I want is a hysterectomy!

Someone I never liked used to tell me, teri baat alag hai.
That's right. I am different, so sue me, will ya?!!!
 

Am not much of a poet... nor a poem connoisseur. So, not surprisingly, I did not read this poem -- I first heard it in a movie, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and it moved me then. It is by WH Auden, and I find it poignantly beautiful... So much so, that there are silent tears in my eyes now when I read it...

 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Yesterday, my adopted mental 'son', Divyesh who thinks he has seen all that there is to see in this world and that nothing can shock him anymore, came up with one of his brilliant definitions about 'marital bliss' in an arranged marriage scenario.

Husband and wife get married, go to work, come back home, eat, ding dong.
Husband and wife wake up the next day, go to work, come back home, eat, ding dong.
You get the picture? (I hope not literally!)
On weekends, some more ding dong happens.
About a year or so later, bingo, a kid arrives on the scene
And then less ding dong happens.
End of story

It sounded funny. Till I spoke to totally unrelated people who agreed wholeheartedly with his theory, And then, it was just plain scary...

I woke up feeling not so excited. Didn’t wanna celebrate a day that officially made me a year older…

But my birthday couldn’t have been more perfect. Took an off. Spent the day with family. Did things I like – like driving my aunt and gramma around in my car. And eat the wonderful grape-dessert made by Rups, my cousin.

Spent the entire afternoon answering calls. Thank you everyone who called and msgd for showering me with so much attention/affection. :-)
Watched a good movie in the evening. Yes, I liked Slumdog Millionaire, thank you very much. And so what if it ‘showcases’ poverty and the ‘tourist’ side of India. I don’t care – I liked it. Ring ring ringa. :-)

And in the night I met the gang. Its an annual gala affair where my friends shower me with love and ahem gifts.

Remember the old Chinese proverb? He who has good friends… is assured of good gifts. (Ok, I made that up. Heh heh). :-)

And I received books, more books, gold, more gold, perfume, a watch, a bracelet, a study haversack, a steam iron…

But the crème de la crème was an unexpected gift. A personalised calender featuring yours truly with all the people who matter in my life…

I know you guys went to so much trouble for it. And shall treasure it always…

Well, I always knew I was special, :-) but you guys made me feel so loved and wanted last night. So thank you:
 

Swats, who has patiently lent her ear to many an unending story of mine over the years,

Tom, who’s been there through all my ups and downs in life,

Gaurav, for helping us preserve Ladakh’s memories -- I just wish you could gift me half of your talent for taking the most amazing pics in the world,

Deepak, who has cheered me up on so many ocassions. So cheer up Baba. If life throws you a lemon, make lemonade, dilute it and sell it at double the cost,
 

harshada  who is my most favouritest friend, travelmate and ‘so much fun’ and the best person to have (esp on a birthday) cos you can pick the best possible gift. The calendar is purrrfect!,

Pornya, who has jhol in her blood and who inspires me to embark on many a jhol-ful adventure and

Anshu, the coco-nutcase, with the tough exterior and the soft mushy interior

Nago, Punnu n Gsha (who's gonna pay for not comin!) had you three been there it would have been like icing on the cake… Sigh. But life is not a piece of cake, I guess...

I have said it before, but I really am grateful and feel blessed to have you all in my life. XO.

There I’m done with my emotional athyaachaar… Now I shall go back to being my mean wicked self :-)

I thought I was numb. But I was wrong. I was angry. Too angry to vent. I saw the train blasts too in July 2006. But this was different. I still can’t get over the fact that it took just ten guys to bring my city down…

I also found out the RPF cop was admitted to the railway hospital, was reunited with his family and was on his way to recovery.

During one of my many visits to JJ hospital, I saw a boy on a wheelchair, trying to playfully do a wheelie on it. Raviranjan called me and introduced me to his relatives, the ones that his sister-in-law had called that night. They had saved his leg, and removed the bullet from it – he showed the bullet to me. He was keeping it as a souvenir.
 

People, even those who were injured or those who lost loved ones, have forgotten (well, maybe not forgotten...) but moved on. Maybe it's a good thing after all...

“Is it a boy or a girl?” our Bai asked last week.

“Boy, of course, can’t you see.” my mom said a bit amused.

“Then why have they named him ‘Rakhi’?” she asked. "These young boys -- they all like Rakhi Sawant and her assets!' she added venomously.

When mom managed to finally control her laughter, she told her “The dog's name is Rocky, not Rakhi.”

I heard Bai practicing Raaakhi’s name yesterday…with dogged determination. (Notice the pun?)

One would assume that a dog named after Sly Stallone's famous hulky character would be a bull dog or an Alsatian or a Doberman. But one would be terribly wrong in making that assumption.
Rocky, the ‘boy’ in question is our neighbour’s sons' pet Pomerian, who turned one recently…

Mom, who loves him like the son she never had, refers to him respectfully as Vellaiyaar, or the Great White (haired) One, which is Rocky’s Red Indian name. This, again Bai cannot pronounce. So dad’s come up with an alternative name – Kakdi.

Kakdi (cucumber) is Rocky’s favourite vegetable. And saying ‘Kakdi’ is also the only way to catch Rocky’s immediate attention.

He is a bundle of arrogant fur, you see, and he’s got a mind of his own. On many an occasion, I’ve seen him challenge the two cats in our building to a duel on who can ignore humans better… And he’s always won paws down. (another pun, what joy!)

I think it all comes down to attitude in this dog eat dog world. (Do I even need to draw your attention to this one?)

The way this pooch holds his tail high up haughtily when he struts around in our house, which by the way, he considers his kingdom, says it all. He also tilts his head and looks away in the other direction when we go hoarse calling out his name aloud. He makes it a point to ignore whatever goodies we offer him, unless its kakdi. And then too, he condescends to eat it only if the kakdi is peeled, diced into pieces of just the right size, and fed to him by hand, and not offered on a plate...

He’s the first canine I know who likes cucumber. Carrots, peas, assorted raw green vegetables and grated coconut are next on his list of favourite treats. Then come Maggie, curd-rice, milk-rice and non-veg, which our neighbours feed him.

Dad pretends he doesn’t like dogs. He thinks it’s imperative, or else, I will revert to my old habit of bringing stray dogs home again. Jojo, Blackie, Brownie, Snowy, Kalu and Ricky, named so because he lost his leg after coming under a rickshaw, have all tried to make themselves comfortable in our house at some point of time. Three cats, a couple of pigeons, a baby crow who visited our house were also shown the door.

It used to rain cats and dogs in our house, quite literally, in those days. This was before the Prohibition of Access to Dogs Act 2004 was passed in the Iyer household. No dog has ventured in since.

But Rocky is the only four-legged creature who flouts this law. He’s gained my respect. And I guess Dad’s too.

‘Cos this is how Dad speaks to him in Marathi -- an alien tongue that he's furiously practicing his skill at, courtesy fear of retribution from the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS).

‘Rocky, ikde yaa’ (Please come here…yaa being a respectable way of addressing elders). Rocky just trots away.
'Rocky, bassa' (Won't you be seated, please?) upon which Rocky furiously chases his own tail.

‘Rocky, jhopa’ (Please sleep) upon which Rocky barks his head off like every other annoying Pom I know.

‘Rocky, jhevaa’ (Won’t you kindly eat something, please?) and the bugger after casting a disdainful glance in the direction of the plate, walks away with his tail held high.

“Patti (dog) eats and shits here, but obeys the damn neighbours!” says Dad, who thinks one should not only Not love thy neighbour but one should Not let one's neighbour's dog love the aforementioned neighbour either. Nevertheless, it's dad’s daily ritual to try to get Rocky to ‘shake hand’. To which Rocky gives a look that eloquently says: ‘What!! There’s no way I’ll shake hands with a lowly human being.’

You thought you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? What do you know! You can’t teach a young dog new tricks either, if the canine in question is Rocky.

Walking the dog is a chore that the neighbours have benevolently bestowed upon yours truly. I believe they are trying to secretly teach me the virtues of patience. For there are rules that need to be followed. Every tree trunk has to be circled and sniffed, every car tyre has to be wetted, every other dog or cat you meet en route has to be intimidated with fierce growls, the entire building compound is a jungle that this pint-sized lion has to mark as his own territory and no stone has to be left unturned in the search for gold or mud or moss or whatever lies under every stone…

Meanwhile the real ‘karyakram’ began. A man, lost in a trance, sang a personal version of ‘Omkaar Swaroopa’ -- we later found out he was in for murder. Perhaps he had sung someone to death, we thought.

Next the chief guest, jailor, his assistants and the local sarpanch gave speeches, while the 'captive' audience of prisoners looked on listlessly. And then, all of a sudden, we heard our own names being announced over the mike.

We reluctantly rose to receive a grand bouquet of roses from the jailor and a thunderous applause from the silent crowd of convicts and undertrials who had maintained a stoic silence so far. Clearly, the inmates of the state's largest prison wanted to have a say in who could be invited as chief guests in prison. ‘Desperados’ is the word that came to mind.

My dad is the King of ‘dropping subtle hints’. Asia Net, which is No 1 on the priority list of channels on our TV, was showing an interview with Mallu actress Navya Nair last Sunday. And I was forced to watch it with Dad.
It was a typical interview. Started off with several people from the actress’ life speaking about how cute she was as a child and how they knew the moment she was born that she would achieve great fame. Her teachers spoke about how much of a ‘midki’ (smart) she was in class, in sports, in cultural activities and generally in life. She had won many prizes for drama, Mohiniattam cooking, washing and even ‘pookalam-putting’ (which is the floral rangoli that Mallus make). And so we watched, me, dozing due to boredom and dad probably reminiscing about the good old school days in Kerala.
Please note: We were watching it at a volume of 10 (the maximum permissible decibel in the Iyer household, which is perpetually worried about taxing the neighbour’s eardrums). Never mind that the Gujjus below celebrate Navratri by playing disco dandiya at 120 dB (which any doctor will tell you is enough to perforate the eardrum).
And then there was the actual interview with the actress. Typically, the first question was ‘So when are you getting married?’ To which the actress coyly replied that ‘It is not in my hands.’ “Achchan and Amma (Dad and mom) will decide,” she blushed a shade of red visible over her South Indian dusky skin.
The volume suddenly rose to 20. Double the usual. Volume reserved for real breaking news, like bomb blast, earthquake, floods etc, -- news that is not shown on India TV.
And I rose from my stupor, to catch the next few lines. She was saying: ‘Love marriage is out of question. I don’t believe in love marriages,” Volume: 25 now.
“There is too much compromise and responsibility involved in a love marriage. Love marriages are difficult to handle,” I didn’t get her logic, but I did notice that the volume had now risen to 35.
“My parents will find a nice eligible guy from a good household for me. I don’t intend to go against my parents’ wishes,” she continued at a volume of 40.
“I will marry whoever they point out to me. I want a nice family and children, blah blah Blah BLah BLAh BLAH BLAH,” Volume rose to 47. And I left the room, partly to laugh my head off and partly to answer the doorbell which had probably been rung by my angry neighbours to complain about the volume.

As a 10-year-old, I had a pocket-sized 'autograph book.' I used to give it to people each time we shifted base -- which was very very often considering we moved every two or three years. You had to fill in details like your favourite food/music/destination etc. And naturally, I filled the first page myself so people knew what they had to do. (Yeah, yeah I was a very self-obsessed kid -- it comes with the territory when you are a single child) ;-)
I still have that book. My dream destination, it says, was Ladakh. 
When I turned 15, we had something called a 'slam' book -- which was again a book which you gave to your classmates to fill. We made it ourselves and apart from the usual 'what's your favourite... ?' kinda questions we made up our own silly questions like 'Whom do you love the most?' Which place would you like to visit before you die?' 'What would you name your kid?' and so on and so forth. 
The place I wanted to visit before I died was Ladakh. 
And now, I will be going to Ladakh on August 15. The countdown has already begun. But apparently the universe doesn't think that I am ready to go yet... With due apologies to Paulo Coelho's Alchemist, which by the way, did not “change my life” at all, the Universe seems to be conspiring against me.
The situation in Jammu is still out of control. They just dug up the railway tracks with their bare hands and the highway is blocked. I don't see any chances of communal harmony being restored there in the next few days. 
Gaurav, who was going to come on the trip, caught the flu, which strangely has left him with something called benign positional vertigo. He is too dizzy to stand, let alone walk. Although he is steadily recovering, there is a question mark over whether he’ll be able to make it. We're all praying like never before.
Nago, who has been sitting on the fence all along, still says he may be able to make it and he may not. Work beckons him in the land of opportunity and it would be silly to give it up. Mayur and Pornie who were initially going to come have backed out for inevitable reasons.  
And then there were five.
All I know is that go there I most definitely will. Regardless of whether anyone else comes along or not. With due respect to the Universe and Co, I really don’t care what you all want. The world can go eat cake!