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.

Using siblings

A best friend’s birthday, transported me from my cosy bed to a new lounge or bar or restaurant or whatever they call it now on a weeknight. Now, as many of my irate friends know, I never like to step out of my abode knowing that I have to be at work the next morning. However, last night I’m glad I did.

In Mumbai, seeing a cute guy in person is like spotting the needle in a hay stack or more appropriately catching a shooting star in the smoggy Mumbai sky. Yes, it happened. I saw him. Dressed in a suit, probably arriving at the place straight after work, he had a beer in his hand and enough boyish charm to appeal to the naughty girl in every adult woman.

He was tall, fair and had this bashful look in his eyes, like he was embarrassed with all the compliments he had received up till now. I was definitely not in love, but I had willingly fallen in infatuation. And that’s where it ends for a girl like me. Not having enough confidence to approach him for a conversation I would eventually be condemned to lechery.

That would have been that, if it wasn’t for my brother who made a late entrance to the pub. Two drinks down I began narrating my one sided love story to which he just laughed. Little did we know we were to have a breakthrough in the wingman theory; to be later known as wingling.

We decided to step out for a smoke. While I passively inhaled the fumes, my object of desire stepped out at the same time, to shorten his lifespan as well. Standing beside him, the fragrance from his coat made me remember those days in school where we would have humongous crushes on prefects, the only ones who earned the right to wear a blazer. My brain had evoked the same attraction I had to those students who had more power than the others clad in plain uniforms.

I stood there giggling, as my best friend and brother made expressions similar to those teasing buddies who did the same when you stood next to a crush. And then suddenly, my brother emerged as the greatest wingman there was. Looking at my 1 hour old crush, he asks , “So how come the suits?”.

“We just got here from work actually”, he said casually. He spoke well. Tick mark to that.

“Where do you work?” asked my wingbro.

The conversation had started and it was full of surprises. My suitable boy was Indian, despite his foreign looks and attitude. When I was expecting some exotic name like Kayaan or Anay or Vivaan out comes Vasudev from his pretty mouth. The way he said that ancient name, I took a liking towards it immediately, making a mental note to find out the meaning on Wikipedia.

I watched in amazement as my wingbro set me up for a conversation. He smoothly maneuvered with words to extend the interaction between Vasudev and me. Honestly, I had never been this proud of my brother. It struck me at that point immediately, that a wingbro or a wing sis worked better than any wing man. 

Being of the opposite sex, there will never be any unintentional competition, unless either one is gay. The person of interest isn’t distracted by the same sex wing sibling unless he or she happens to be gay too. Wing siblings or winglings will always act in the best interest of the other sibling. And it would seem harmless, like poor Vasudev never knew that the only reason my brother extended that conversation was so that I could start off my own.

However, while they talked about work and the weather I didn’t say a word of any importance. I could have said a lot but my shyness bound my mouth to a hopeless smile.

When we left the smoking area after three hundred moments of anticipation and excitement and only five words from me, (Hi, nice to meet you) I returned to the seat with that smile spread across my face. Ten seconds later Vasu followed holding a red purse. For that split second, I thought my brother’s move had proved successful to my brother instead. Was Vasu gay? Had my wingling’s plan failed? Little did I know that he was in fact trying to locate me.

I had in my forgetfulness, walked away from my credit cards, cash, id cards and a smart phone kept neatly in my red purse. It was almost like I had denounced all worldly belongings for him. But like the prince with the glass shoe, he came forward to hand them back to me.I thanked him, like he returned my life.

And that was that, actually. Vasu and I were not meant to be. Even though I noticed he enjoyed retro music as much as I did, to have any future with him it would require me to step up to the platform that my wingling had created, and I had happily declined.

It was a chance encounter that I will always cherish. But more than that, it was the discovery of a character that I encourage others to use to their advantage as well. For me this trivial story marked the arrival of the more significant wingling; the best your sibling can be.

Voice

"Tina Ghudiyal is a poet at heart, and a procrastinator by choice. But she manages to find few hours to write copy at Soso's Creative Agency. 

It's common to see such sign offs by writers today. In columns, in blogs and every other place that a writer is trying to be creative.

Trying. To be creative.

You read something like that for the first time and it's like that smile which never makes it to becoming a full fledged laugh.

It's like ha funny. Not a hahahahahahhahahaahhah funny. (A friend described one of my previous posts like this once. I was disheartened. But today I know what she means.) 

No offence to the first person who signed off like that. The first clever man or woman, who decided to assert his or her identity in a rather original manner.

It was new and charming. 

Today, when I read it for the fifteenth time I pity that fine writer who unknowingly invented a formula. 

Now when Anil, the vacationer at his vocation signs off his article in any media, a part of me pities him.

To have a voice of your own as a writer is rather difficult.

You have to speak different words.

Have a unique tone. Use a sensible volume. 

And it has to be done in all honesty.

Being honest in communication, might come naturally. But to stay honest is a task.

It's easy to start sounding like an advertisement you've heard.

It's tempting to entertain an audience always waiting to laugh, cry or comment.

It's daunting to make a statement without expecting a reaction. 

Or fearing ridicule. 

Writing in your own voice is one of the hardest things to do.

You need to discover who you are, in order to know what you want to say to everyone.

You need to master the skill of catching the thoughts that fall out of your brain and keeping them close.

When you put together those words to form a piece of art it becomes a precious treasure. A classic.
And you would gladly read it again and again, just to appreciate the sound the words make in your head.Now if you can do all of this, if you can write like that with just pure heart and no head, I sincerely request you to not sign off with something this unoriginal.

-Neelie is a part time adult and a full time dreamer, hoping to find a voice of her own.

I sound so cool.

You can thank me now

Dear Men,

Thank you for the great response on the earlier post. Most of you didn't share it because you wanted to be ahead of your competition and I understand that. If you are among the few who haven't read the earlier post, I suggest you do read it, to put this post into context. For the ones who have already read it, I'm, sorry I made you wait very long for the last five tips. Well, there were so many great tips , but I could only shortlist 5. So here they are. Simple to follow and easy to remember. Enjoy.

6) Women can’t handle criticism. Even if it is honest and necessary. Don’t give in, when she says, “It’s ok you can tell me. If you think I”ve put on weight, just tell me."

WARNING: Don’t.

It will come back and bite you in some way or the other. Your girlfriend is Karma. And you remember what karma is?

Handle this situation by sugarcoating the “constructive criticism”. Follow it immediately by bringing up a random bad comment on a girl she dislikes. It's an awesome distraction and make-her-feel-good tool.

7) Know her dates. 88% of successful boyfriends who know their girlfriend's dates, do a brilliant job in managing them. The girls, not the dates. PMS is not a myth like the lochness monster. It is very much alive, at least for a week every month. It takes the form of your girlfriend. It possesses her. Try and avoid confrontations with her during this time. Actually try and avoid her. (If you have no idea what I meant by "dates", you do not deserve to gain more knowledge regarding girls.)

8) Don't talk about the ex. Even if she presses you for it or thinks you have a reached this wonderful point in your relationship where exes can be discussed and praised, leave the conversation, or the room , or the country if you have to. No matter what you say about your ex, she will unnecessarily read between the sentences, the words and the letters. If you bitch about your ex, you will look like the loser. If you praise her, you will be the loser.

9) Do not attempt to multitask. Guys suck at doing two things at one time. (Sometimes I wonder why they dream of threesomes.) Remember, when you are not paying complete attention to your lady-friend, she knows. No you cannot watch TV and talk to her at the same time. No you cannot drive and attempt to listen to her at the same time. It's impossible for you and she knows that too well. Stick to doing just one thing at a time and I promise you peace.

10) The last tip is solely meant for just one male. You know who you are, so here goes:  You will not try and out-think me. You will never have the upper hand. You cannot get away with loopholes in your argument by quoting my blog posts. I am right and you are wrong. Most importantly, the previous 9 tips were not meant for you.

To the rest of the male species, best of luck. 

You can thank me later

Dear Men,

I understand that you hate reading. Before picking up any book or checking out any article, you will see how long it is and then decide whether it can be read. It's as if your interest levels are always inversely proportionate to the length of the book, post or even your girlfriend's skirt.

But stick around till the end of this one. I know it is terribly long. However, you will see that patience pays.
This post is full of pieces of wisdom that women don't talk about.

These are

Ten things that women will never tell you. But will expect you to know.*

*These are not endorsed by anyone else but the Fickle Tickle. You can try this on your own. Although the tips are subject to risks which I'm not aware of. Not market risks. For God's sake, everything is not subject to market risks.

1) Do not woo the girl:
The biggest mistake any man makes is that he woos his woman. What you actually do is set yourself up for failure later. If you have ever been in a relationship there is a 90 percent chance you have heard a sentence starting this way, " Oh, when we first dating, you used to...". Go ahead. Complete that one on your own. You know,
a) wait hours for her call
b) wait days for her to get ready for a party
c) asked about her imaginary friend (without freaking out)
Who the hell told you to do all this? Right from the beginning of the interaction do not do anything that is uncharacteristic of you. Because once you seal the deal, you will have to maintain it. So it's better for you to not to become the Prince Charming that she expects. Atleast, later she won't nag you about how she wants the man she fell in love with. She doesn't realise that he died as soon as she decided to be with him.

2) Do not give her what she wants:
Men always want to know what the woman wants. Well, be happy you don't know that. She wants a lot. A whole lot. Do not give it to her. If a woman gets what she wants she will get bored. Yes. Bored.
Be unpredictable. Sometimes give her exactly what she wants but most of the times don't. Keep her on the edge. She doesn't know it that drama is a big part of her life. She would feel incomplete without it. So be the asshole and let her play victim at regular intervals. There is always a charm in making up, that she cannot resist.

3) Compliment her. Even if she's ungrateful.
This I have the men to blame. To get your way, you guys can give such baseless compliments, that women have grown cynical. They just can't believe a word you say anymore. A genuine compliment is hard to come by. So even if you are being genuine in your praise, she will look for the ulterior motive. More often than not, she finds it. And more often than not, there is one. However, you have to continue with the compliments. Even if she never thanks you. Even if she thinks you're lying. Continue with the compliments. She's just fishing for more. So repeat this in your head again. Continue with the compliments. Continue with the compliments.

4) Never give her time to think
Women think. About everything. From the molehill to the mountain, they think of it all. Keep this in mind, if your woman has communicated with you via text, mail or even a call, do reply to it within three hours. If you don't reply to her and she has't asked why via text, mail and another phone call, then I'm sorry to inform you that you are in deep trouble. She has thought about everything. About how you don't give her time. How she should have seen this coming. How she feels taken for granted. How she feels that this relationship is on the verge of getting over. You now know where the phrase, "the calm before the storm" comes from.
What should you do to prevent such natural disasters? Always interject these thoughts with random texts, mails or calls. It helps. She's thinking about that piece of communication now. She's distracted. You've given her something to think about. She's at peace now. Atleast for some time. Do keep a bank of things to say that confuse her. Your life will be sorted.

5) Do something publicly
Most of you already know this one, but I think it's important to reiterate this. Atleast once in the relationship express your love publicly. Send flowers to her office, serenade her at the Karaoke night or just do something   so romantically cheesy that she looks so embarrassed that you fear she might call it off. But guess what? She loves it. Deep down she adores this. It won't cost you much in terms of money. However, it could cost you your manly reputation. But trust me this goes a long way.  Ok, I'll say it in a language you will understand - It's a small investment to secure your future.

I know you are tired reading or comprehending the kind of intellectual information I have just imparted.
Take a break. Read it over and over again till you can pass this on as if it's your own advice.
The next five tips will be posted next week.

Good luck till then.

Yours truly,
The Fickle Tickle

Parents say the darndest things

This is probably one of the funniest true stories I have heard in my life.

My mom's friend once narrated an incident that took place when she was on vacation.
She, her two daughters and her husband were relaxing on the beaches of Thailand when this happened.

Now, as you might be aware, that beaches abroad allow people to tan their whole body.
And I mean their whole body.
To ensure, that they receive an even tan, some ladies prefer to keep just the one part of their swimsuits on.
Which part that is, will be clarified in the next thirty seconds.

The two extremely young daughters, run about the beach completely unaware about the adult female human body. To be fair, they were extremely young. And to be fairer they were girls. Not boys.

After two minutes, they run back to their mother, terrified and traumatized.
"Mom!", they exclaim, "You know, you know..."
Their mother seeing the state they were in was visibly concerned,
"There are ladies on this beach whose lungs have fallen out!"

My mom's friend took a few seconds to understand the problem. Or actually to figure out how to explain what those lungs actually were.

But her husband came to her rescue immediately.
Lovingly he told them,"Girls, next time you see such women, just come to me and tell me where they are. I'll go help them out.".

Yes, there is one thing better than concerned and loving parents.
Parents with a great sense of humor.





.

The Indian Clubbing Scene

Have you ever walked into an Indian club?


No. There are no super models who have a naughty smile on their face every time you look at them.
No. There are no men, who come up to you to make interesting conversation.
No. You will not find the "one" there.
No. Not everyone is not going to love what you are wearing.
No. This is not going to be the night of your life.


Chances are.
You will be bored.
You will want to shoot the drunk friend who can't stop talking.
You won't be able to shut him/her up over the LOUD music. Infact, it will be tough to hear your own thoughts over that level of sound.
And you will have to hold something in your hand. A smoke. A drink. A girl. A phone. Try standing in a club without any of these and you will feel like we have stripped off your clothes. Do try it next time and feel your self esteem get lowered.


Chances are you will find such characters:


Garba Girls: a bunch of girls who keep their bags in the middle and dance in a circle. Sometimes the steps seem to be predetermined.


The poser couple: A couple who will stand close to each other and look everywhere except into each other's eyes.


The Dancer: A girl or a guy, who thinks their audition for "You think you can dance" is happening right there.(Yes.They will mostly hurt you when they are dancing and you will feel like hitting them back.)


The Creep: A guy who holds his beer and stands towards the edge of the bar. You know he's not with anyone and so does he.


The photo uploaders: The girls who love to pose for pictures every two seconds so that they can subtly boast about what a great time they had. By the way, you find these pictures everywhere on Facebook. Its the same pose. The same smiles. The same drunk eyes.


The Aunties: The kitty party now makes its way to the club. These are forty somethings who hold cocktails and smile to show they are enjoying themselves. If we are lucky we catch them sometimes grooving to " My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard".


The Kids: The trendy super models with braces. Their stilettos are more expensive than your entire outfit. Their behavior louder than the music. Usually seen with boys who have just hit puberty with ill fitting clothes and facial hair equivalent to a girl who hasn't threaded her upper lip area for 2 months. 


And finally,
Us: The ones who watch all this and think "what the hell is wrong with them". 


The ones who fail to realise that that's what everyone in that club is thinking.

Honk away

 

Torn Shorts

Once upon a time, I used to take tutions to learn a computer language.
It was the C language.
Wait, I think it was it C++.
No it was C. 
I guess the lesson here is that we rarely remember what we are supposed to learn and some of the most random memories are what we take back at the end of the class.
My teacher, Mrs. Roy, was one of my favorites. 
In her two hour class I learned more about life's code than the code that designed computer software.  
One such evening she told us the sweetest story about her friend and her 13 year old daughter.
This daughter had fallen in love and had the courage to tell her mum that.
Most moms flip out. 
Most would say that it's not allowed. 
Few would even hire a private detective. 
But thankfully this is the story her mom told her. 


When we go shopping, we seem to like everything. 
Sometimes we buy that pink scarf or the small purse we think is essential to complete our wardrobe. 
We have to have it.
Life would seem meaningless without it. And so would our dreams.
We buy it and take it home.
And a few days later we don't like it that much.
We wonder why we had bought it in the first place.
In a matter of two days we fall out of love with it. 


However, tucked away in our drawers are those pieces of clothing we just can't part with. 
Those torn shorts. 
That souvenir extra large T-shirt.
That 10 year old skirt that still seems to fit. 
No matter what people say we love to wear them. 
We sleep in them. 
We go out in them. 
We can't leave them.
It's the same thing with boys. 
Some are so attractive that we have to have them only to realise that they never really suited us. 
And then there are those torn shorts. 
Those that don't look perfect at all. 
We love them despite of anyone telling us otherwise. 
Those are the ones we have to find. 
There is nothing to worry about, baby. 
This guy can be a gaudy pink scarf or could be well on his way of becoming those torn shorts. 
Either way, it's ok. 
Just hang on to the shorts when you find them.


I love this story. It's simple and sweet. 
Not preachy. Not dictatorial.
Just plain advice from a friend more than a parent. 


The Fickle Tickle piece of advice on this advice:
"The day you realise that those shorts are so torn that they can't cover your arse;
it's time to let go."

;)

Please like this

Daddy's Girl

At the age of 24...

At the age of 13...

Staying in touch

A little kid goes and places his math review on his busy father's desk at home. He had aced the 5 mark test and wanted his father to be proud of him.

A day later, the kid finds the math test paper placed on his own desk.

I guess his father spends too much time on his Blackberry.

How was your day?

Observation: Women are more descriptive than men. 

Part 1:

 Part 2:

Conclusion: Men should be more descriptive.