Beware of Dog(lovers)

Thank you for not smoking

Just like we thanked Abba for the music, I think it is also our duty to thank the cigarette companies for the smokers we have around us. They in turn give rise to the ones about to quit or lets call them the almost quitters.It was them who inspired me to write this post. When a number of my friends and co-workers decided to kick the butt it's a great thing for a person like me who, over the years, is forced to become a chain passive smoker.

Now there is a hundred-last-cigarettes difference between the ones ‘about to’ and the ones ‘who have’ quit. The ones about to quit make straight-faced profound statements like, “Oh this is my last. My very last.” They usually say this with the same weight as the last words of a dying man. How much ever somber, this statement is greeted by cheers of support from involuntary passive smokers like me and plain laughter from the smokers standing around. I don’t blame them, the smokers I mean. They have seen so many of their kind who have tried and failed that they can’t help but be cynical. (Did you know cynicism also happens to be a big side effect of nicotine?) Unfortunately, with regard to that ominous statement their mockery is bang on. The next day our almost quitter sheepishly lights up and produces a lame excuse on why “just this one cigarette will help him quit”. This is the first of those hundred cigarettes that I mentioned earlier. Yes,  his statement is twisted  but haven’t you heard many of them already?

Presenting shit smokers and almost quitters say:

Oh I hardly smoke now. I just need one in the morning for timely bowel movements, one during lunch, one in the evening with my chai, one after dinner and one to get some good night sleep. Plus a bonus cigarette for smoking such few a day.

Come on. It’s been so long since I quit. One drag is allowed. (Smoker has quit 5 minutes ago.)

Oh my god the pollution in this city! (Smoker is smoking and increasing levels of air pollution in the city and my lungs. Smoker then throws the cigarette and stubs it to litter the place. Also smoker just happened to increase noise levels by making the hypocritical statement about the pollution in the city.)

I am dying to smoke. (The most ironical statement I have ever heard.)

I promise I’ll try to quit. I’m promising to try. I didn’t say I’m going to quit. (The thought itself has caused smoker to light up right there.)

I can quit anytime. You know 35 years ago I quit for 10 days. 10 whole days I didn’t touch a smoke. (Smoker smiles triumphantly.)

I guess I can stop here. It’s obvious to most people around how smokers and quitters like to float on their toxic clouds of denial. This might be good point to clear out those clouds for my smoker friends. (Also please excuse me while I type the next sentences in upper case. )

YOU ARE ADDICTED.THE SAME PART OF YOUR  BRAIN IS ACTIVATED WHEN A KLEPTOMANIAC SEES AN UNATTENDED OBJECT AND YOU FEEL THE NEED TO SMOKE. YOU NEED TO ACCEPT THAT FIRST AND THEN YOU CAN TALK LIKE AN EXPERT ON SMOKING.

Phew! There I can I breathe now. (Not the fresh air that I want to.) But that felt like a passive inhaled drag off my chest. Now, back to how strange and unintentionally funny these people are.

I have a smoker-friend who attended to me after a tiny accident that I had. She came running to see what happened. Her concern was genuine. So was her hug. She exclaimed, “Neelie I’m so glad you’re ok! I was so worried. I thought you were hurt. Thank god you’re not. I got so scared. I have to smoke now.” She took out a pack and lit up right there. I stood there passive smoking again wondering in my head, about who really had the accident.

Another friend of mine promised to quit on his birthday a week ago and called me late Saturday night. Now he’s not a church going person and I wasn’t trained to be a priest, but at that moment I felt like we were in a long distance confession box. “Neelie (Silent awkward pause)……………………………………………. …………………………… I smoked.” The weird sanctity of the moment forbade me from yelling “I knew you would” but yes I knew he would.

And then there are those times, after a big delicious feast when a non-smoker is probably feeling a bit guilty about the over indulgence on that last spoonful of chocolate dessert while a smoker on the other hand is dreaming of a nice long cigarette with the same intensity as a person who has loose motions imagines a clean toilet.

I don’t want to preach on why someone should or shouldn’t smoke. They are well educated people fully aware of the kind of toxicity they send down their lungs. And trust me they will always talk about that mysterious example of a somebody’s somebody’s somebody who lived till 99 after smoking 10 packs a day. And you have to give it to them, with that kind of a statistic of a 1 in a million chain smokers living till hundred, they have every right to believe that the odds are with them.

But for the almost quitters. The stars of this post. Even though other smokers mock you and discourage you and unintentionally smoke in your face try not to give up. 

Now I'll use Abba reference I made right in the beginning  to dedicate this original version to you,
“thank you for trying, and the drags you aren’t stealing. Thanks for all the joy you are bringing. I could live without it. But I ask in all honesty, what would life be. With you to watch, it's so funny. So I thank you for not smoking. Not smoking next to me.”

All the best.

Getting Naked

It so happens, that many times in your life you encounter a song that can be so catchy that you wouldn't even know what the lyricist is making you sing.

For instance, I loved choli ke peeche kya hain, but sitting in the park, we couldn't really sing it on the top of our lungs. We knew we would be singing something that could put us behind bars for harassing women.
Oh, how we needed that song sometimes. Needed it.

Especially during antakshari, it used to be such a helpful song. One of the very few songs we know that begins with “ch”. But no, we had to curb our enthusiasm by humming the tune in place of the words. So it would seem to the friendly neighborhood aunty that we were basically asking ,mmmmm mmmmm peeche kya hain? mmm mm peeche. The aunties never did look back, but always nodded in silent agreement that we had stuck to the code.

With English songs too it was always a problem. I wince at this faint memory I have every time I think about it. I was a highly naive ten year old, who was happily oblivious to the more controversial terms of that time. By controversial terms I mean gay, lesbian, boner and before I get embarrassed typing more out, I'm hoping you're getting the drift here. Right? I mean if you are not, then I think you would need to browse the internet more often. When I was that age, we used to refer to them as non-veg terms. Now, I don't know which sadistic pure vegetarian brahmin decided to make dirty and non-veg synonyms, but to you I say, you are a (insert non-veg term here).

So getting back to my painful story, there I was in the middle of my living room, dancing away to NOW 43 tunes. Now people of my generation will instantly know the NOW series, for the others, NOW was a collection of hit songs and remixes that were popular at that time. They were hits "NOW". Yes, the nomenclature was a no brainer for the record company.

So one particular song started playing, and my six years older brother and mother started watching my moves curiously. I had my hands stuck to my head, with the first and middle finger pointing out like a V. How cute right? Acting like a little deer, bouncing around and being what a 10 year old is good at. Being cute. The only issue was that I, the little cherub, was dancing on a song called , "I'm horny". So there I was gyrating in the middle of my living room, mouthing the words I'm horny, horny, horny, horny,  to my brother and mother, unaware that it does not mean having horns but having other desires. Other non-veg desires. 

Please do not laugh.

It's not funny. 

It's in fact unfair.
Why do musicians insist on having catchy tunes to lyrics that are not "proper”?

Look at the trouble it might get young kids in. 

Not like my mother chided me for dancing to the song, but it's an embarrassing memory that I have to live with.

Thank you Mr.Mouse T producer of "I'm Horny". You and that Mr. Pitbul sure know how to do this to our pure little brains.

Like take Mr. Pitbul for instance. He is excellent at such songs. They are like catchy old folk songs that should be sung at a mating ritual.

Lyrics from two of his popular songs;

Hotel room service:
Forget about your boyfriend, and meet me at the hotel room. 

(Here he insists on me cheating on my boyfriend.)
You can bring your girlfriends , and meet me at the hotel room.

(So first he tempts me with his "charming" pick up lines, and then he uses me as a gateway to my friends. How unfair.)

Give me everything tonight:
Put it on my lap, baby
I make you feel right, baby 

(What the hell does he want me to put on his lap? And I'll add that this is a rhetorical question. Please do not offer an explanation in my comments box. I am well aware of what he might want on his lap.)

We can also thank Mr. Akon, whose lyrics are so primitive that I wonder if he's ever heard of a dictionary. It’s like looking at notes from the diary of a bird watcher. The bird here happens to be a chick. Pun very much intended.

Lyrics from Nosy Neighbor
But what if she knows that I am spying on her
Would she strip down naked and entertain me
Oh my god she's doing it

(Here he openly confesses to being a pervert)

Taking it off Taking it off Taking it off Taking it off Taking it off 

( She, unaware of peeping Akon here, takes off five pieces of clothing)

She's getting naked; She's getting naked; She's getting naked; She's getting naked; 

( She takes 20 seconds to get naked, in those 20 seconds does he really need to say it four times?)

She threw her shirt (off on the floor) 

(Notice his eye for details)
Then threw her bra (off on the floor) 

(It’s a strip tease commentary. Never heard one before.)
The threw her skirt (off on the floor)
Then threw her drawers (off on the floor) 
I can't believe (she's getting naked)

I can't believe (she's getting naked)

I can't believe (she's getting naked)

I can't believe (she's getting naked) 

(By the fourth time Mr. Akon, You should really believe she's getting naked. You've said it five times already for God's sake. She’s naked. Ok. We get it. You’re excited.)

And I can promise you this, if you’ve ever heard this song, it’s extremely haunting. By the end of the song it's stuck in your head. You'll be walking past your boss or teacher crooning about how you can't believe she's getting naked.
I’m serious about this.

Do you know someone actually said that music is the infatuation you feel when you meet someone attractive and it's only once you know the lyrics do you know the soul of a song. It's only then you can love a song. Whoever said it, would also believe that today, musicians use the music to disguise that lack of soul. The lack of sensible lyrics.


Maybe after you strip the song off all the extra chords and gibberish words and the oohs and the yeahs, peel off all the layers of extra instruments at work , to reach the naked melody; maybe after all that,  you would see it never had any soul. 


So next time you are singing along, maybe you should pay a bit of attention to what you are saying. Yes, music needs no words, no language, and sometimes I wish it wasn't given any. We might have for ourselves better songs.


Till then, like Mr. Akon, you can sing along to believe she's getting naked. She's getting naked. She's getting naked. She's getting naked. Yes, she's still getting naked.

Doodle like no one is watching

People enjoy doodling.
What I love about it, is that it is involuntary.
I mean nobody consciously wants to draw random shapes, alphabets and intricate designs around the logos of the stationery lying at a seminar or a workshop.
It just happens.
Like when I take down a number in the middle of a call, it never remains to be just a number.
The number gets surrounded by strange, undefined and warped boxes and flowers and branches and fishies and stick men and alphabets.
It's as if the rhythm of the conversation made the pencil in my hand dance on the paper.

And the best part is everyone can doodle.
Except for one person I know. She had a big problem doodling.
She tried hard for many days and her final output was writing down the word "doodle" in her regular handwriting.
Maybe her biggest problem was letting go.
Letting go of all the fears of what it will look like, what it might become and what people might think.
Yes, doodling is creative.
And doing anything creative is putting a bit of yourself out there and having people look at it.
Judge it.
Praise it.
Criticize it.
And no matter what people say about criticism, about it being constructive and all, it still kills you.
It might not be traumatic but yes, a little place between the left and right ventricle of your heart collapses for a tiny moment.
You might not agree with the negative feedback, however, you never want it in the first place.
It is a scary experience to put your work up for appraisal.
But a doodle shouldn't be so, since no one really cares what you doodle.
It's few dots and lines put together.
And mostly it is meaningless.
At least at a first glance.
You do not find people looking at a doodle intensely trying to garner what the doodler might want to say to this world.
You do not find doodles in an art gallery that people stare at for hours together,
You do not auction doodles or invest in them.
But if you look at one again, maybe you should remember just this.
No one really cares too much for a doodle.
Making the doodler free to express.
Making the doodler express to be free.

Doodles to me is a bit of freedom on paper.
Freedom which doesn't fear.
Doesn't conform. (Reality can be disproportionate here).
Doesn't copy.
Doesn't impose.
To doodle, is expression in it's rawest and purest form.
Maybe what we consider Art is actually nothing but a big ass doodle.

In sickness and in wrath

I'm scared of falling sick.

This has less to do with my health and wellbeing.

I can take the germs and I can take the pain. 

I can take the insomnia and the pills.

What I can't take; is the anger.

Do people really believe they can scare away the harmful bacteria and viruses if they shout and yell at the person harbouring them?

My father, for one, believes in the theory.

Hypothetically, let’s say I have a cough.

It's the end of the day and my 67 year old father is sprawled out on the sofa watching his series of series.

(Honestly, Zee Marathi could issue a "best viewer" award to my father.) 

I join him not to watch the TV but to just relax on a couch beside him.

I cough. It's my first and is ignored.

The second time I cough, I look at him. He has tears in his eyes. Thankfully, someone has recently died on the show. 

He's ignored it again.

The third time I let it out. It starts. 

Already there is the serial's dramatic background music that adds to the episode that is about to take place in front of the TV.

Pure wrath is unleashed.

“Why the hell did you have the ice cream yesterday? I told you, you were looking sick last night. Have you taken anything yet? Why would you? You are a 24 year old incapable of taking care of herself."

What's worse is the tone. His words come out in the form of a loud whine. It's a bit nasal but the vocal chords are working to increase the amplitude.

His every syllable grates on your nerves. 

There is crying heard. Not mine. The relative of the person who has died is sobbing.

But tell me is that the way you treat a sick person?

Where is the compassion? The babying and the pampering? 

There have been times when I can sense a cough travelling up my windpipe, knocking vigourously on my throat that I run to a room away from him to let it all out. 
It's exhausting but it spares me the mental agony.

I dread the guilt trip he sends me on.

The guilt is inhaled, every time he breathes out between the venomous words.

It enters my blood stream and begins to kill the foreign organisms that are manufacturing the mucus. That must be my father's logic behind his actions.

No dad, it doesn't work that way. Most likely, they grow stronger inside me.

They feed on guilt and disappointment. 

Then they consume me.

The feelings, the drugs and the pain make a deadly concoction that promises to make me ache.

OK. That was a bit exaggerated.

I usually get ok in a few days.

And I love my dad. He sounds like a villain in that episode, but there is more to the story. 

The only time his third eye opens is when he sees any trace of illness.

Yes, he gets a bit cranky when it comes to anybody falling sick, but he's manageable. And so is any disease eventually.

However, I understand where this anger comes from.

The pure wrath comes from pure helplessness. 
People like him (and there many) have no idea how to make your physical suffering lesser than what it is. It manifests into a frustration, which sows the seeds of anger. 

These are the people who scream and yell and taunt and nag when you're under the weather. 

Keep those mental painfillers near you.

Mostly it's them handing out the pain killers.

Procrastationery

Whenever I walk into a store, and if there is a stationery section, you will find me there. 

I can't help but love:

those tiny little post it pads to write profound notes on;

those colorful A4 sized notebooks to pen down significant thoughts and ideas;

and those sharpened Staedtler pencils always ready to scribble, scratch out and sketch; 

Every time I browse through this section, I have this vision.

At home I would be sitting on my antique mahogany desk, writing furiously into that freshly bought designer notebook . My focus makes me proud. My life has purpose and meaning. As I write about change, the world of the future and....

In reality I have no mahogany desk at home. And it's not antique, but obsolete. 

In fact great writers, thinkers and visionaries seldom need the post it notes and expensive diaries and different colored pens. And they never wait to sit at their mahogany desk to bring their dreams to life. They probably only owned one after they made their money.

In spite of knowing this truth, we still buy those little things that make us dream of all that we can be. 

We take them home, or put them in our bags or place them on our desks. 

And when inspiration strikes, we never know where to find them.

 Why? Because you never needed them in the first place.

We buy them because they are cute.

We buy into the idea of making us look intelligent and organised. 

And most importantly we want other people to believe we are creative and persevering.

It's a love affair that ends up being a one night stand.

A relationship of pure lust and absolutely no commitment.

Do I blame myself? Never.

After-all, it's those things that seduce us. 

Recently, I walked into a store and picked up this tiny notebook held shut with an elastic band.

It was Rs.315 for 4inch by 4 inch 200 pieces of ruled paper. That is bloody expensive.

However, my rational brain stopped working as I began to read what it had to say.

It was a tiny book to catch inspiration (TM). 

Wow. What a thought.

Let's say it again. "To catch inspiration". 

Inspiration is fleeting and floating and flying through the air. And all we have to do is catch it by opening this book and shutting it tight.

And yes, inspiration can strike anytime and I need to be ready.

I need this wonderful catching mechanism.

Need it.

My insights, ideas, comments, opinions, observations all jotted down. In Rs.315.

Wow. What a philosphy. What a lifestyle. 

Spiritual. Clean. Simple.

Bullshit.

Do I need to spend Rs.315 to make something bigger out of my life? No.

Did I buy it? Obviously I did.

Occupational Hazards of a Blogger

The phrase, "occupational hazard", always reminds me of my father. I have heard him say those words too many times in conversations which invariably ended with the other person laughing. At the time I didn't know what it meant, but I always loved the way he pronounced hazard. "Hazaard". 

The day I  figured  the meaning of both the words , "occupation" and " hazaard" I put the two of them together and began to love the phrase.

I would use it wherever necessary. It was more like an intellectual punch line. Saying it was like asserting my place in the world of high level humor. Mind you, I would say hazard and not hazaard. 

Many years have passed, and now I don't consider it as my most intelligent line. However, it came to my mind,  after a series of disconnected conversations with different males.

The reason I specified that they weren't females is because it is true. When almost 9 or 10 men which includes colleagues, friends, friends of friends, brothers, or the boyfriend make the same remark, you begin to wonder about the insecurities or the need for attention that men have. 

Let me explain the scenario. Whether in office or at home, when one of the concerned males and I are having an intense debate or discussion, and I pause to breathe or just think of my next statement, I find myself hearing the familiar words, " Ok, now don't tell me you will write this in your blog". 

Now the topic of conversation has been forgotten, because I begin to ponder over the guy's statement. Introspection begins. In my attempt to unearth insights and bring forth hilarious observations do I just record what the other says without using my voice or opinion? No I dont. So why do so many people speak to me that way? 

After five such interactions with different people, it struck me that this is the occupational hazard of being a blogger. 

It's probably the reason why I wouldn't befriend a psychologist. Trying to read what he is trying to read about me would drive me insane. After which, my psychologist friend would probably need to visit me professionally.

I'm that person now. I have a blog that few people read and I can express myself well. So now these people see me in a different light. Apparently I have the power to praise or embarass them on a public forum. 

For them this is my disclaimer. My blog is not my weapon. Everything that is said to me will not find its place here. Most importantly everything that they say is not interesting enough for everybody. So stop with the "Ok now go write your blog". 

This is actually what I think. All these boys want to be featured here. They want to be quoted and they want the credit. 

So what if I know someone who had a chicken fly into his face when he was riding a scooter.

Or someone who walked around town wearing only boxers, torn at the place they shouldn't be.

Or someone who has no trace of nails because his OCD won't allow him to get his nails dirty.

Or someone who was not allowed to board  the flight for being too drunk

Or someone who spat in their coworker's hair in the elevator.

No, I won't write about them.