Knock knock... I think I'm back. :)

They say that there comes a point in everyone's life when you wake up and you just know what you are born to do. (Like Britney just knew, before she shaved her head.)

So apparently, I had my epiphany this morning. I figured out my destiny, my calling. This is really it guys. I'm born - to clean up my apartment. Why else is this endless tirade against dirt and clutter? It also sort of explains my-far-from-perfect maids, my hormonal urges of obsessive-compulsive-disorder. Gah!

I cant thank every one of you enough to keep logging into this space, checking if I'm still here, and whats been going on with me. I know its been a while since I was last here - in this city, and in this blog sphere...

In the stopgap, I've moved homes, work spaces. And I've been through death. (Yup, cacti do die if you water them, umm, liberally.) I've been dealing with homicidal tendencies. (What! We bought two little Euphorbia cacti from Kerala. And in true mallu tradition, I named them Thangam a.k.a Thangoos, and Kunjyulakshmi a.k.a Kunjya. I water them sparingly, and presto! They're pretty much on their way to the after life. Sigh! I really am a bone collector of the green guys, but more on that lay-ter.)

The Monkey refuses to talk to me anymore since I'm working all the time, and I fall asleep on the couch, often mid-sentence. The last time I checked with the aliens and the zombies, they said world domination sort of fell lower on their priority list. Apparently, they're re-building their economies post the global economic meltdown. And among other things, they have a decorated, peace-loving president who thinks it'll look bad. The bad news is, I sort of ran out of things to say to you.

So I started walking the streets looking for inspiration, to write. Amidst the gutters, stray dogs, stray ducks, (yes ducks) and stray people, I feel like a little girl. Lost in a crowd, teeming with a million people musing over their million moribund lives. I often watch life pass me by like a muted movie, and I wonder if this is sanity, or is it the start of a slow, staggering descent into insanity.

But aall izz well I guess. It turns out I'm still here writing mundane memoirs of middle-class madness... and we've come a full circle. Sigh!
[P.S: In other news, the Muffet Diaries update shortly. Pakka promise. :)]

I'm back to waging a war against my apartment. Life is calling people. I could use a slice of lime to squeeze on my life though. Lime, anyone?

Chiggy wiggy with me boy!

Now, does someone know what on earth does that mean? And while you're at it, try and decode mukkala mukkabla laila, oh maga siya waagi yaga*, ringa ringa ringa for me. I love that Isai Puyal** A.R Rahman. I just don't get the esoteric gibberish in his lyrics sometimes!

I've been listening to one of my favourite tracks of recent times - "I'd rather dance with you than talk with you" (yup, its the one playing for you right now). The visual in my head through those heady lyrics is deliciously flirtatious - a bar, an evening on the dance floor with a tall, hot, deep-voiced indie folk singer/ stranger who'd rather swing you around than sit around talking politics, several happy faces around, tequila shots, sepia lighting... but I still find myself a tad offended at the prospect. So I wondered why.

A little introspection and we realise its because while I can talk, and boy can I talk, I cant dance! Certainly not in a manner thats socially acceptable, and definitely not in a way that would keep someone twinkling toes with mine for over 5 minutes, considering in those 5 minutes I haven't trampled his toes, tripped over, or died of excessive-consciousness-while- in-movement-syndrome. Sigh!

Do you guys think good dancers are genetically good dancers, or is it something we are all programmed to do, once we learn the ropes? Leave me shout.. :)

* Remember uyirin uyire, anybody?
* Isai Puyal - Tamil for storm of music, a title with which Rahman is referred to by the tamil paparazzi.

Where am I going with this?

And so, after nearly a year... I finally desist my urge to log out, and blog! I'm so sorry friends, to have gone off the radar. It was at best, an unplanned dormancy, sans a shelf life. By way of update, I have finally relocated to Mumbai (yes, after all that acute whining) and I'm back to being jobless, with loads of free time and therefore countless hours of useless thinking. Which brings me back to square one of my thought - existential crisis.

So where am I going with my writing? Should this be another read at someone's cheeky take on day to day mundaneness? Should this be a forum to share with the world my schizophrenic view of life? Should this be a support forum for my battle against a dying system? Or should this be a forum to purely entertain?

I don't have an answer. Do you have a thought? Leave me a shout will ya?:)

And then God said: ROTFL

I have always maintained that there has never been a comic, parallel to Life. In fact, Incredible Stupidity is now an international religion, playing on a news channel near you. Well, decided, with the New Year, that I owe it to you guys to keep you entertained.

So what do we read this week. Or not. Spiritual Goru* Deep Luck Chopra came out last year with 'Why Is God Laughing?'. Priced at an exorbitant INR 495 and heavily endorsed by Bike B(u)yers in his adjective filled prologue, my Curiosity just piqued. Bike has made me laugh, a lot, specially in his James Bond spoofs and that ogre cartoon movie trilogy with that cute donkey and the cat in boots. Speaking of cats, we know Curiosity usually kills them. Or as my friend puts it, chokes the damn cat with butter, ties rocks to its fours, puts it in a gunny sack and rolls it down the river. :) You get the picture, right?

So Curiosity, she pestered the life of me to know how and why Bike and Deep Luck discovered that God laughed. I caved in. Then Curiosity and I read the bed time story of a comedian, whose loss of the dad opened "exciting doorways of spirituality" and "he understood the power of laughter in its true depth". It took us about 49 days to complete, because it needed a lot of grit and gumption to inch from para to para, and thereby page to page. The things we do for you guys! Anyways, you should know that God was laughing, because after growing 495 bucks poorer with spiritual psychobabble, customised for individuals with the IQ of Paris Hilton, the joke was really on me! Recommended for people who dig read Pamela Andher-sen-sational frontal protruberances.

Sometimes, you really can judge a book by its cover, and a movie by its trailer. So as dutiful followers of Incredible Stupidity, armed duly with a napkin to wipe excess drool, Curiosity, me and my favourite boy went to watch Ghajini. Its a make believe world in Ghajini, where a corporate honcho falls for a pretty chatterbox who dates men without doing her homework. I must be pretty religious or what. I sat through three straight hours watching a woman clueless about a celeb she dates; she sells her car for her "boyfriend", whose identity, credentials, background, ethnicity or life she has no clue about and doesnt care, because he says he's going to his "gaaon" to treat his "ma". He says it, she buys it. Like Jayaprada would have years ago for Jumping Jack Jeetu in some shady flick. She asks him no questions, and tells him no details. even their calls are brief! [What, did I just hear- the perfect woman? Sigh!]

Oh well, Ms. Heroine quite a devout follower of Incredible Stupidity. In fact, while hiding from a bunch of goon-pursuers in her apartment, she does not switch her cell phone to 'silent mode'. Worse, when boyfriend returns her call, she speaks loudly on the cell to her boyfriend from her hiding place and all through this time she doesnt call or text for help! Move over Scientology, Incredible Stupidity is the flavour of the season!

Oh, you expected a review. Here's what I think: Aamir Khan does a fantabulous job of that six packs and making you believe that his memory shelf life is really 15 minutes. But the rest of the cast are either very silly women or Tamil Movie style villains, making it seem rather surreal. With counteracting elements (such as Aamir Khan vs. rest of the cast) the movie really is one big oxymoron. Like a chaste whore? I'd still give it three stars and a one watch, considering there's a conscience that cries Drool-farhamosh!

And, there's good news! Move over sexy bitches kittens, its the march of the behenji brigade! Don't roll your eyes at me, go read TMSS. This should pretty much be the quote of the seaon:

Where Maxim girls are purposefully brainless, we look at a TMSS and say she's hot because she's smart and beautiful".

Oh Thank you, thank you, you metrosexual male. We can now grow fat, not wax, not do our eyebrows, burp, fart and behave like you, in fact legalise PMses... And we'll be a TMSS! :) Suddenly equality doesn't feel like a concept anymore. :)

That said, Scrubs fans can have one more laugh. Episode titled "My Intern's Eyes" has J.D and jingbang in the Cafeteria, and J.D rebuking Omar in shudhdh turkish "o benim muhallebim ömer" to guard his pudding from being stolen. Only Omar paaji is a Singh is Kingg. Jee! I didnt know Turks were Sikhs. Or worse, my mommy certainly didn't tell me that turbaned bearded men were always called Achmed and should be deported from sight. Meh!

Watch the video for graphic details:

And for you guys wondering who the dickens is Sairekha, I'm a world dominating megalomaniac who has 37 galaxies under my control and bought this blog from Z in Arkhyam Asylum for a lie.

Ok, caught me. I'm outta the closet people, real name and all. :) Till the next rant, this is Sairekha signing off....

Now Listening to:

Miss Independent - Ne-Yo

* Assamese for four legged, milk bearing, religious mammal which is also a source for beef.

A blog revival, the year end obligatory patriotic rant, and and a brand new blog!

We live in a world of nonsense, of excuses and sub standard television. I often think it resembles the movies. Like Equilibrium, V-for-Vendetta, and Aeon Flux. And Batman and Superman comics. And in our fiction-esque world, (fiction-esque only because it’s getting close to black and white), we the masses would be those people, like cattle, manipulated/oppressed/taken advantage of by a select few on top. And look forward to a hero to save us. That’s probably why we love comic characters.

I’ve been taking a walk the last few days, in the wonderful world of existence of the insulin pump. This is a useful little device that resembles a pager, to which you can outsource the task of keeping track of blood sugar levels and accordingly give you adequate insulin. In India, this lil thing I am told is priced between INR 1.8 lakh to INR 2.8 lakhs. Other things you get for the proximity of that price is usually a spanking new small car! A little birdie hopped on to my shoulder this morning, with the not so good intent of instigation. It told me US citizens are given free pumps by the government, as part of social security.

My first thought was, hey! What happens to our taxes and social security? Being the nation to arguably house the largest number of diabetics, the government could really arm twist work out a deal with MNCs to ensure every diabetic has a free wonder pump! But looks like what the bosses did was make a buck out the pump makers by augmenting the taxes. So the government gets richer with the taxes, the company makes its profit in spite of the tax, and the customer pays a hefty price should he/she want the wonder pump. Free medication is just that far a cry. We’ve been paying 30-x% income tax for donkeys years with the promise of more roads, electricity, water, no more poor people, better AIDS and cancer care and what not. While no signs of marked improvement due to policy makers’ initiatives showed up on any of the promised fronts, there were complaints on how increased population was the culprit. Its almost like the bosses thought, ah, let them all die. We’ll have lesser heads to worry about. And in the meanwhile, might as well use those losers’ money to some good end, an indicative list of which would look like (i) a huge ass house for self, (ii) bigger cars, (iii) foreign trips, (iv) floozy women, (v) booze and most importantly (vi) some local henchmen.

Now if I were to go weeping to say, my supreme court, that my social security should be channeled to give medical concessions (such as the wonder pump), I’d get swatted away like a fly that innocently appeared on the snack of a fat irate housewife on a particularly warm summer noon, just a few minutes after a powercut during her favourite saas-bahu serial (when the MIL encouraged the vamp to marry the husband). I’d probably even be the precedent of being rebuked with a how-could-you-when-40%-of-the-country-doesn’t-have-food-shelter-clothing? And lawyers like me would cite that to dissuade others who’d try reasoning with the top thereafter, for benefits.

Take a minute to think how your peers earn and live better in other countries. How those peers come here as expats and still earn and live better, under your runny, complaining noses. And why brain drain hasn’t reduced one bit since it started, so much that only Indians among a few other pariahs, are denied visas in bulk worldwide. Think of how the most expensive buildings and hotels in your city in India is usually occupied by foreign nationals. And tell me how it feels that although Gandhi, Bhagat, Bose and the jingbang of freedom fighters drove out the Brits, we pretty much continue to remain second class citizens in our own home town.

Call me jaded. It’s been a whole month since 200 plus people died in Mumbai. We talked and talked and talked. Then there was that politician shuffle, some terror tourism. More talk. Net net, we haven’t even tried that silly boy in court, who was caught after he took up that offer of getting a 1000 virgins in his afterlife. It appears some of our bosses think he shouldn’t be represented for patriotic reasons and banged up potential lawyers’ houses. It didn’t matter that none of these guys showed up during the Mumbai siege, and it doesn’t matter that if that silly boy doesn’t get represented, he just can’t be tried! And if he’s not tried, well, in time, in the name of justice to foreigners, which we’re prompt at ensuring here, we’ll have to parcel him back to his folks! Now, you do the math.

I’m sick and tired that things don’t, can’t and won’t change. Like Newton’s law on inertia. Only that external, unbalanced force is nowhere in sight. We need that hero, you know. Mutant or alien, or just twisted with shitloadsa money and dead folks, but humanphile. With real powers, like flying, superstrength, artic breath the works. Or real influence, to tilt the odds.

If any of you want to argue on how we-can-make-a-difference without the above, I am in no mood for your arguments this once. I shall however accept your contentions, upon the occurance of the first event from now that we do as a nation that qualifies that (i) this country has acted with some spine; and (ii) not given excuses that can’t walk; and (iii) does not reflect mild temperament of the faint old farts on the ruling chairs.

Call me jaded. But I completely go by something I read sometime back. About how life is really a spiral of despair and your only hope is piling one distraction on top of another, and hoping that your massive heap of delusion doesn't collapse before you die. Sounds extreme, and ranting I know. Even has elements of drama and so many confusing words in there to even pass off for pseudo-intellectual masturbation material. (Yes, yes, with that last line this blog is officially 18+) Although, beneath those layers of words, and words and words, is one underlying fact. If you can’t take matters into your hands, distract yourself and move on.

Until hope and change and a better life sells tetra packed in Spencers.

Meanwhile, if you’re utterly disgusted with my post, which as usual is grey, dull and sugar free, don’t be surprised. My new sugar free diet has me perennially hungry and somehow noticing only the pastries, the chocolates and doughnuts on Friends and Seinfeld. Sigh!

But well, here’s something to cheer us all up. I have a new venture here, which is intended to be a repertoire of recipes, and Viv fans can look forward to all things Viv here.

Happy holidays!

An Indian Dream

I have always watched with immense amusement how Americans pride themselves to live in the Land of the Free, the Land of the Surplus and funnily yet form the Land of the Paranoid. Living in the world's largest democracy, I have often wondered (while stuck for what seemed like hours in crowded, stinky signals) why couldn't this democracy measure up to provide a Free, Surplus living space for its denizens. Technically, going by our statistics, we should be able to be a Free Land in every sense. I understand, given the number of our politicians, Surplus is a far cry. Can we fix this? How?

I don't know. But the thought does keep rolling in my head. More so each time when I glance upon a souvenir that Boy picked up in San Diego. Its a giant plastic container that used to hold about a litre of cola, with a couple of lions on the lid and a perforation for nesting a straw. Bought outside a zoo. That entitled him to free cola refills a gazillion times at every cola tap he spotted in the zoo.

I remembered the stark contrast of a bunch of us stuck in a queue till almost the end of time, one day at the Bannarghatta National Park. So in the promise of being shown what turned out to be emaciated circus lions in a wild safari, we stood sweltering in heat and dirt, with parched throats, poached tempers and murdered appetites. Forget about cola, even dirty water was gladly bought and sold at a premium. It made perfect sense why every average Indian lit up at the thought of the great American Dream.

Another seemingly unconnected event deepened this process of wonder. A free premiere of an upcoming movie that offered free barrels of cola and popcorn to each invitee - one little hinterland of the free and surplus. Within minutes, that entire theatre floor was coated with popcorn and soggy, cola-drenched popcorn. And filled with people, (fully grown mature adult professionals, if you may) covered in popcorn, soggy popcorn, and cola stains.

That minute I realized, what "free(bie)" does to chaos is what "open sesame" did to Ali Baba's caves! (Its a pity the joker wasted all his time pissing batman off).

It was then that I saw my final vision of a cola container counter outside perhaps Bannarghatta, that entitled people to refill from free cola taps. I saw stampedes in the park, I saw people filling empty buckets and barrels brought from home with the cola and selling it for kilometres outside in black. I saw cola and cola-container trails, cola patterns and cola graffiti on the park floor. And of course cola-drenched animals adding to the general stench. And anthills, possibly formed pursuant to mass migration of the ant community to capitalise on the long term dried-up-cola accumulation. And possibly bankrupt cola companies. So I collected my final vision of a cola container counter outside Bannarghatta... and I trashed it.

Somewhere, in some school debate, an idealistic kid often questions, "Is India truly free?". I now shudder in rebuttal, wondering who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel...

I rest my case. :)

Driving you nuts!

So we get ourselves two gluttony boxes on four wheels that can be controlled from behind a wheel and a gear box. And it takes us from point to point if we feed it petrol. Lots and lots and lots of petrol.

My glutton is a Veteran. Arguably the first Indian design made with oriental technology, it ruled the roost in its hey day, proudly spouting for the first time on Indian roads, the name of my favorite monkey god. Today, in a road full of swanky youngsters with totally Japanese calibrations, it stands, all of fourteen and pristine white, and unapologetically proud like an Indian war hero.

It stands, coz well, mobility and traffic haven't been bedfellows for a while in Bangalore. So it stands for half an hour at every signal, stands again after crawling an inch, and stands and stands between intermittent spells of motion-like behavior, for the next 2 hours and 8 km till we both reach work, where it stands again for 8 hours before we repeat performance. From the first time I set my eyes on the Veteran, I knew it was born to stand its ground.

Much is said about life, stress, traffic, and traffic related stress in life. Much more is said about a day in the Indian road. Much is experienced for a couple of hours every day, when bumper is sandwiched against bumper, sometimes bumper and bumper are sandwiched with one, two or three adventurous two wheelers trying to 'cut' through a gap while the air is ripe with the cacophony of incessant, unwarranted honking, shouting, screaming, kids playing hopscotch between the bumpers, senior citizens, lazy by passers and housewives wagering on whether or not to cross while halfway down the road the signal turns green, the works.

Much much lesser probably, is the experience of an epiphany. And I had one. Pure, unadulterated epiphany. Of white noise. The sound of silence.

It was this morning, the roundabout of 10 am. The Veteran was slotted as the filling of a jumbo SUV bumper sandwich, with a two-wheeler who was trying to be our cheese slice and if things wouldn't get worse, the Veteran switched off. Nope, it wouldn't budge. Not with the firing and raising. Then it began, the deafening honking, a screaming traffic cop, couple of desperate/amused passerbys knocking furiously at my windows... but my nerves refused to budge. A two wheeler guy knocked the left indicator off, as the honking and the delirious cop only got louder.. but my nerves refused to budge.

Then, it happened. All of a sudden, I heard nothing. The world was playing in mute. Faces moved, vehicles moved, people waved. But not a single sound. My euphoria cannot be compared. Shakespeare was cooing into my epiphany. The world was a stage, people were actors of a mime, in mute. White noise. Pure Bliss.

The Veteran finally started, and we moved ahead. But there was this stunning, overbearing silence, for the next 5 minutes, until the Veteran could feel third gear gain (yes, it does have a third gear, thank you) and the noises trickled back into my conscience..

Selective distortion, is, powerful. Because the world in mute where you cant even hear yourself think, is a gorgeous place. No wars, no Barrack Obama, no Bush. No firecrackers-called-bombs, no ban-on-parties-because-no-parties, no morals, so no-moral-polices. And no traffic. Because the world is but a bubble of silence, now playing at a mime near you. *

Spiderman once said, with great power comes great responsibility. And great spandex is on 50% sale till Sep 7 at a Shopper's Stop near you. But great legs and great hips are six months and 10 kilos away. So you shall not see me hovering above your window, selectively distorting, just about yet.

“Moral” of the post: You can drive yourself to greatness or you can drive yourself nuts. Drive safe. ;)

*For those contesting this post with a “silence is not a super-power”, please refer to the scripture that governs your religious subscription. The first Messiahs kinda did it till their deaths. For those who did their scriptures and still want to contest, two words – buzz off.

Now Listening to: Rihanna - Shut up and drive.