A Pre-Menstrual Stream of Consciousness

A ten-minute cross sectional depiction of the pre-menstrual female mind in real time. 

02:37 PM IST

Can people really be so careless about punctuation? I mean, it's only a comma for God's sake. Proof-reading is shitty business. Wait. I AM getting paid for this right? I'm not going to do more charity. Like seriously, I'm so broke. 

Oh shit! I was supposed to go shopping today! I wonder when she'll have a holiday again. And BRUUUNNNNNCH! I forgot brunch with Kums! Not that it makes any difference now, I only woke up at 11 and. 

Shit, I haven't showered. Why hasn't mum yelled at me yet? What's the bloody time! Oh, where's lunch? Not that I want to eat more rice, I've gained enough weight already. Like seriously! Can you see that damn flab? And when I go back to the hostel, I'll just have to eat even more rice. 

Is my stomach hairier than usual? Is that even possible? I wonder where K* gets her stomach waxed. I mean, who even does that? 

I've got to go to the parlour, by the way. I have no idea when, though. Just before I leave, perhaps (?) so I can be all silken smooth in time for New Years'? But WHENNNN? 

I'm due on the 24th! I'm due on the 24th! I don't want the parlour lady looking up at my period panties when she's waxing my legs. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

WHERE IS MY BOYFRIENDDDDDDDD? WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BOYFRIEND WHEN I FUCKING NEED HIM? I WANNA DO IT NOWWWWWWWWWWWW!

I wish he'd just hold me, you know. I don't want to cry. Okay, don't cry! I'm not going to cry! Shit! I'm about to cry! Stop!

I miss him, okay? What do you want me to do? There was that one time I was pretending to sleep and he sat by my pillow and stroked my hair and all.... Oh S-H-I-T-E, was that this boyfriend? It was this boyfriend only, no???? THINK, THINK!

Abba. Yes, it was this boyfriend only. He was wearing that blue shirt I hate so much. Okay, okay. Disaster averted. I just wish he'd do it more often. 

But by the time I go back, he'll have moved to the other room. The one with the bathroom but without the balcony. Hmmm. I see the pros and cons there. 

OH SHIT! WHERE ARE WE GOING TO HANG THE CLOTHES TO DRY?

~Fin~

02:47 PM IST

MOTHER OF CHARLES DARWIN! Who's your daddy?

Evolution needs to get its priorities straight. And it should start cleaning up its act.

Let's imagine we're all inside a novel. The author begins writing with great enthusiasm- creates character upon character and "develops" them. They come in different shapes and sizes and each has their own balance of awesomeness and flaws. So far, we're understanding the author. And then suddenly, the author becomes really lazy and starts slacking. There are half-written characters everywhere and under-developed, incomplete sub-plots.

Before you know it, the 8-year old girl in the story is getting her period. There is one grown man groaning on a dentist's recliner and another that has gotten away without sprouting wisdom teeth. Those new generation monkeys in their family are born without a tail-bone. And in the spectrum between Sheldon Cooper and Christian Grey, there exist asexuals, sapiosexuals, and very sexuals. And from this diverse range of people, you get to pick ONE ideal partner (Damn you, Society) to have babies with and make sure your genetic line goes forth with adequate energy. Though now, a woman cannot make her decision simply by looking at how tall and lithe the man is and directly correlate it with his ability to hunt and feed the family. Right about here, evolution has confused things for us and complicated everything by not keeping all the characters up-to-date with each others' developments. (I'm not in a position to speak about how men pick their women, so you'll have to listen to this one-sided story.)

People have often heard me talk about men who qualify to be a "Darwinian Fantasy". I've been asked to define this term several times but I haven't been able to articulate it clearly. I'm going to give it a shot now and maybe make it clear, once and for all.

A man who qualifies to be a "Darwinian Fantasy" is basically a poster-boy for Charles Darwin's theory of evolution. He is both extremely "fit" and extremely "adaptable". He's the kinda guy Darwin puts a 'Quality Check- Approved' seal on and says "Ladies, this man will make a good daddy for your babies". While we don't hear Charlie's celestial voice from the heavens, we certainly know it in our jeans (oops, genes!) when we lay our sight on the man in question.

I put "fit" and "adaptable" in double-quotes because it has taken on different meanings for different women. It is neither cool, nor possible to generalize what these definitions are. Each woman has her own blend of preferences that is unique to her. And when we're in a world where the male : female population ratio is extremely skewed, we're allowed to assume the natural right to be picky about our men.

Some of us require that our men be at least 6 inches taller than ourselves (The Optimal Tippy-Toe Kissing Principle), while there are some women who are so tall that they don't mind being with men shorter than themselves but they really need these guys to not make such a fuss about it (The Non-Inflated Male Ego Requirement). There are some of us who have developed a very precise judgement about the amount of chest hair a man has just by looking at his face- is it tolerable or does this guy need a lawn-mower to trim it off? (The Chest Hair Density Factor)
Other important requirements include broad shoulders (Who wants to hug a stick?) and clean feet (The Smelly-Socks Aversion Catastrophe). There are some women who want their men to be extremely well built and there are others like me who just need the guy to be able to carry us from any point A to B(ed).

A physically attractive man just might convince you that he's the ideal daddy for your babies. But men don't have to hunt to feed us any more. Earning a living is an entirely different process altogether, these days. While any bloke can be attractive, only the smart ones become appealing. A woman must be able to hold post-coital discussions about things like Film Theory, Education and Retroflex Sounds. It is important for us to know that his brains can provide for two square meals and a Prada bag. And while they're being smart, we also prefer that they look smart- Suits, good shoes, Nerd glasses, whatever.

If you qualify these two parameters, then here's the next hurdle: Minimum Emotional Fuck-Wittage.
Dear commitment-phobes, if you are just looking to get laid, then make it clear. Kindly do not woo us more than necessary. Do not assume that "it is clear". If there's someone you're flirting with at the moment and if you haven't said it out loud yet, pick up the phone RIGHT NOW and say "Babe, I don't want a relationship with you. We just have some fun, yeah?"
Now, we understand that you guys have a manufacturing defect. That is why we ask for MINIMUM emotional fuck-wittage. In case you already have a girlfriend, then say so clearly. Do not say things like- I have a "girlfriend"- that will lead us to believe that you're simply in love with your job or something. You could either say "I have a girlfriend called *Jane Doe* who is a fair vanilla maiden with good tits" or simply not be with the girl whose existence you do not wish to acknowledge (you arseholes).
So, in order to be the daddy of our babies, we need you to be in love with us and not act like complete jerks at the prospect of being seen with us in public. We'd stoop so low as to be your arm candy for that, even.

Speaking of, it's nice to be shown off to your family and friends but we would certainly not want to hear "You see that chick? She's ma gal. I knocked her up", from some lanky college kid with baggy pants and back papers from three semesters ago. So if you're one such guy and a chick who is way out of your league is doing you, don't expect any further than that. And be extremely well stocked on the contraceptive front. Because Darwinian Fantasies are MEN.

I will not deny that it's not just the bulge in the front of your pants that we look for. That out-of-sight back pocket is very important to most of us. There are those extreme cases where eternally shoe-shopping bimbettes look only for men with money, regardless of everything else. But not all of us are like that (okay, we all want a guy who earns a little more than the average man, but hear me out,here). While the amount of money you have is some measure of your accomplishment, it's basically just for us to be financially secure (and not think twice about buying the hard-cover books in place of the cheap paper-backs). But if you have a passion to dedicate your life to, take pride in your profession, have the potential to reach heights and proactively strive to achieve them, stinking rich or not, YOU ARE the Darwinian Fantasy. Men with their daddy's money are SO un-sexy.

So, I think I've explained pretty much everything in adequate detail. Ladies, did I do justice to it? Gentlemen and Douchebags alike, do you now have a vague idea of what we want?

Are we cool now?

Once Upon a Dead Uncle

His name was Vijayaraghavan- named after my long forgotten great grandfather. But for the people who still remember him, he will always be Viji.

My Viji periyappa, four years my father's senior, died of brain tumour at age of 30, long before my parents married and I was born. I know him only from an ancient portrait that hung in the family room, and the many anecdotes that my family has shared with me.

Much has changed since his death- the various members of the family moved on, took their lives elsewhere and eventually rebuilt the house in which they once lived. Nothing remained of the old house, or so we thought, until the sewage pipe got blocked. To avoid digging up the road, the engineer retained the old sewage pipe, but much to our dismay, it isn't taking our crap. From bottom-up, everyone in the three-storey building has been stumbling over themselves in panic due to the plumbing disaster. My father, who has never so much as changed a light bulb in the house, poked me awake this morning and demanded that I fulfill my duties as the daughter of the house.
"Find a plumber!" he bellowed.
"Okay" I said lazily and promptly went back to sleep. 
Knowing that he is no match for my rolling slumber, daddy sat down with a sigh. "Viji," he began "Knew almost everyone on the planet. He would know just where to find a plumber." It had been ages since anyone spoke of Viji periyappa. The sleep still swilling in my eyes conjured the image of my dead grandmother, dressed in her old yellow sari, her imposing eyes suddenly softening at the memory of her lost son-

"Oh, how he loved little children!" she would say animatedly "He would carry one on each hip, one over his shoulder, one on his head, one on his nose!". Her stories were filled with how he would take me to the bakery everyday and buy me cream buns, flaky puffs and porous milk bread warm from the oven. The freshest, most delicious goodies just for Viji's niece because he was friends with the Baker.

My older aunt would pull a face every time my father was being his difficult self and talk about her other brother Viji. "How understanding that child was!" she would say "He would always let your father use the new things. Toys, clothes, you name it. And he would make do with the old" 

Her son, who is 13 years older than I am, was once pampered by this Viji periyappa of mine. With a twinge of jealousy, I would listen to how Viji periyappa would take him everywhere on his bicycle. He never speaks of my uncle and I never understood why. When my aunt, his mother, also met her untimely end, I watched him descend into silence once more. It is then I understood that he is the kind of person who doesn't speak of his grief.

Another time, I found my grandfather's old diary. His handwriting almost indecipherable, he had filled pages and pages of yellowed paper with details so steeped in painful vividness that it brought tears to my eyes. I was 13 years old then, my curiosity suddenly flared by all the new details of how Viji periyappa suffered through his cancer. My grandfather, who was a journalist, had tried to make a note of all the facts. But as much as he had tried, even he could not keep the tone of helplessness out of his writing. 

"Viji unable to remember the way home" one entry said "Was brought home by shopkeeper from two streets away"

The memory impairment worsened- "Viji awake at 2 AM. Unable to locate bathroom". 

I remember pushing myself to turn the pages, without a break. Somewhere in the middle of the diary, the notes stopped abruptly. There were two lines in the handwriting of my younger aunt. They simply said "Viji no more. End peaceful."

I promptly took the diary to my other aunt. By then, the family had lost my grandmother, my grandfather and my older aunt to the tides of time. My aunt is now the only willing story-teller left in the family. Her eyes were moist as she opened up more stories of Viji periyappa, gently unwrapping all the wounded memories she had stored away. 

He was an optimist, I learned. Even through his cancer, he never lost his will to be humourous. I will never find out how much he really suffered, but I know that he believed in the magic of placebo. Apparently, he used to speak of believing that he was cured to trick his body into curing itself. I don't doubt that he had done a fair bit of reading up. The avid reader that he was, sometimes, when I look into the expanse of our bookshelves, I find an aging novel in the depths- something that he had picked up for a train journey and promptly devoured its contents, the stamp of the Higgin-Bothams bookstore printed in dull blue on the first page. 

My grandfather's brother, who never married, has always lived with us. Today, at the age of 82, he is the oldest member of our family. I call him Chikappa. For all intents and purposes, he has been the grandfather to me. My real grandfather died when I was four. All that I have left of him are his many books and his journalist's blood. 

Chikappa was the first to find out about Viji periyappa's ailment. Apparently, when he found out, he didn't say a word to anybody, keeping the doctor's report to himself. Even Viji periyappa did not know that he had cancer, almost for an entire year. It was my father who told me about Chikappa's fortitude during that tough time, diligently taking Viji periyappa to the doctor regularly and having him treated. It was not until chemotherapy had to happen, when the truth came stumbling out. 

More stories- My father went on about how Viji periyappa worked for Kirloskar. "Nobody cared about their products" he said "Viji was into marketing. He went to Bombay and sales shot up!". A people's man to boot, once again Viji periyappa's ability to entertain and empathise surfaced through daddy's memory. 

Sometime in the early 80s, daddy had a hopelessly failing business. "Sometimes, I wouldn't even have the money to pay the shop's rent" he recounts "My father would be so irritated, constantly asking me to close business. But Viji used to hand me money every now and then without their knowledge."

Viji periyappa and my father looked like copies of each other. There is really no way one can tell them apart in an old photograph. Two peas in a pod they may have been, but my father never had Viji periyappa's carefree streak and a disposition for light-heartedness. Daddy's hearing disability has always put him at the edge of anxiety, driving himself to work harder and harder, constantly worrying about the rainy days to come. 

This morning, when daddy was talking about how his brother would have brought home a plumber and have things fixed, he looked into the distance- "Viji had so much going for him" he said "He went and ruined everything."

"Huh?" I said, suddenly confused. 

"Just like your brother" Dad said to me "Not a serious bone in his body."

The untainted, Utopian image of Viji periyappa that the family had painted for me was suddenly taking on a new dimension. Nobody speaks ill of the dead, and daddy spoke no further about it. 

"Not a serious bone in his body". Did daddy mean that he was not prudent financially? That he never got around to doing adult things like investing in property? But he was barely 30!

"Just like your brother". Carefree, larger than life, friendly, social... Sagittarian. I was jarred awake. My Viji periyappa was Sagittarian. My mother often remarks how my brother resembles Viji periyappa. My aunt once said that it was just as well that my brother's birthday is on the 16th of December, Viji periyappa's was on the 15th. 

All the story-tellers in my family, they've grown quite old, I realized. There will be no one to talk about Viji periyappa after a couple more decades, at the most. My veins fill with fondness for the uncle I never knew. For the simple reason that we belong to each other by blood, I feel all this sorrow. All these years, people have told me so many different things about him and for the first time today, daddy said something that wasn't so perfect. Viji periyappa had his own flaws. He was, after all, human. There is now an abyss in my memory of him- one that needs to be filled with all the details of his imperfections, the resentments he had, the regrets he wanted to erase, the sorrow in his tears, the knots of fingers when he wrung his bony hands in despair. Can anyone tell me more about it? I do not know. Will I ever understand who Viji periyappa really was? I think not. 

I have spent about three hours writing out this accidental memoriam for Viji periyappa, just in time for his birthday. I am the last person who can do justice to his memory. And now I must wrap this up, for I have nothing more to say. I can hear daddy yelling at me from the other room. I should go find that plumber. That's what Viji periyappa would have done. 

We, the Technologically Backward.

You read that exactly right. I just referred to ourselves as "Technologically Backward". No, I'm not crazy. Um, no, my mother did not have me tested. And by the way, Sheldon Cooper is equally technologically backward. 

This revelation came to me when my dad had one of his whacko conversations with me. I've always thought of daddy as a genius to the point of madness but I cannot deny the sheer brilliance behind what he said to me today. Consider this-

The idea of a cell phone would have been preposterous some 50-60 years ago. Owning cameras was a big deal in itself. People would have thought it mad to take pictures indiscriminately AND distribute it to the world FOR FREE. Bloody Nonsense! And making calls from anywhere? On a tiny device? Unthinkable! 

And did you just notice how I put the camera before calling while talking about a phone? I must get my priorities straight! 

So you would think- if people could not think of cell phones half a century ago, they were probably worse before that. Somewhere between the wheel and the cell phone, you can only see the arrow of progress pointing in one direction. Fine. Let's go by what you're thinking and we'll rewind a little bit. 

Let's go back to 1916. Einstein published the theory of general relativity. He said that energy equals mass times speed of light-squared. When I parroted the equation to daddy, he grinned his widest grin and he said "Child, The Gita says that Matter and Energy combines with Light to form Life. Einstein? He's just paraphrasing."

Normally, I'd say "Up Top!" but I just wound up snorting on my rasam rice. Daddy looked at me, puzzled. He said- You talk of the Pushpak Viman, the Akshaya Patra, or the disrobing of Draupadi- people laugh at it, exclaim in disbelief and call it fiction. The Pushpak Viman is no different from the modern jet plane in concept. God is the guy who installed CCTV cameras everywhere and teleported to the place that sent out a distress signal. Draupadi had a tracking device in her Mangal Sutra, so Krishna knew what was up with her. People these days bluetooth songs to each other and the connectivity is lost beyond twenty-five feet. At the most, you Whatsapp something as measly and two-dimensional as a photograph. The Akshaya Patra received real, solid food everyday. How is that surprising? Maybe they were just more technologically advanced than we are. 

Methinks that there is too much truth in what daddy said. We're all too happy to talk hours on end about the X-Men and cosplay at Comic Con but we cringe a little inside when we think of what our stories say about Asuras. It is so unfair to say that Ravan is a myth and Batman is literature. Maybe Ravan isn't a myth. Maybe he's just a mutant whose species was so statistically insignificant that it died out. Maybe Gods lived the way the stories claim they did. Maybe they had a Brahmastra which was more powerful than our nuclear missiles.

We're a technologically backward generation with no imagination. We are unable to acknowledge the ideas and the concepts behind the various things in our literatures. We are a generation that hopes to march ahead without looking back and learning from the past.

How did this happen to us, I wondered. Then the answer came to me-
We stopped innovating and started blogging. 

The Mysteries of the Mundu

Today, I faced the Peril of having no choice but to study... Until I remembered that it was The Kerala Cultural Fest Day! (Read: Onam Hang-Over Weekend). One look outside my door told me that despite not having one of those gorgeous white-and-gold sarees, I must dress up and GO. How can I possibly let something as lowly as homework to get in the way of cultural absorption? And so I went.

I regret going nearly an hour late because not only did I miss Rose's Welcome Dance Act (Rose is the Kick-ass Kutty from across the hall), the place was Crowded. With a Capital-C.
By the time I got a spot to sit and watch, we were half-way into the program. But the minute I caught my breath, I got the full blast of the Thiruvadirai dance. Now, I had seen plenty of these at Christ University- but this? This was what made my jaw drop and become one big O-for-Onam!
Of the six girls on stage, I knew only Shilpa; and throughout the performance, my mind was stuck on one thing- "Shilpa is beautiful". Hell! They were ALL beautiful. They were so beautiful, my heart was practically glowing with Joy. IN FACT, they were so beautiful that if Keats saw them, he would learn Malayalam just to rephrase "A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever", and do justice to their beauty. I think I've made my point- Malayali ladies are BEAUTIFUL.

Now I know that my friends from Christ University would come running to butcher me at this moment- I was there for three years and NOW I realize how awesome Mallu folk are? The thought of Revathi Rajeevan's narrow eyed stare scares me already.
But here's the thing- Christ University was SATURATED with Malayali folk. So much so that I was too overdosed to appreciate the high. And at EFLU, my new university, though the majority of people are Keralites, there are fewer of them in number. Due to the lowered density, I can now pick out and admire each Malayali person.... More about this later.

My thoughts were brought back to the Fest by the next act. And this one was a dance number. Today, I was introduced to the Adrenaline Mixtape of Malayalam music (You MUST listen to Pistah if you haven't already). And three of the most paavam girls I know were ROCKING THE SHIT out of the stage- Revathi Suresh, Fathima and Kruthika- My mind was truly and absolutely blown. And while I'm still talking about this act, I better mention the guys-
Welllll. I completely intend to pseudo-Mallu-fy myself and take part in next year's Onam celebrations. Let's just hope that Geo kid is around for me to shake a leg with.

From then on, all the thus far invisible men of my campus began taking the stage. And boy, oh boy, there is quite a collection of them! Malayali Men are officially my latest drug. I totally sympathize with Balu's Confusion Theerkaname problem because now Abhi Mami is faced with a whole Country of South Indian cousins to pick from! (By the way, Balu, nice dancing!)

Then came the cherry on top- How Malayali love stories happen in EFLU. A skit with more Malayali action. It is then that I realized how I was looking at it all wrong. It is not the matter of "SO MANY Mallu guys". It is the matter of "So many TYPES of Mallu guys". There they were- The tall Mallu guy, The long-haired Mallu guy, The Cupid Mallu guy, The Hot Mallu guy... An endless possibility of Darwinian projectiles that we women can throw into the air and find out what co-ordinates of genetic awesomeness the children will land on.

There is a Malayali guy I talk to on the internet (he is THE PERFECT stranger, to be honest) and I was telling him how I think Malayalam is an evolved kind of language because of the various consonant sounds it has- so many distinct tongue movements- I said. And he put it very simply: "Yes, we guys are good with our tongues."
The more I observe these men, the more I believe what he said. But arriving at solid conclusions and stating it as a verifiable fact needs... well, verification.

Mami's children must laugh at the thought. How hard could this feat be for Abhi Mami, the Gyaani of all Daily Life Wisdom? Like everything else, Mami shall take on the Mysteries of the Mundu... And slowly unravel it.

How Boob-ist This Sex

Given that I have spoken enough about boyfriends, bras, menstrual cycles, female stereotyping and the like, I am sometimes asked whether I am a "feminist". Whenever this question is hurled at me, my inner Goddess arches her immaculate left eye-brow and hisses "Not likely". I have no problems whatsoever in the non-identification of the clitoris, the fact that Medusa cannot get her snakes into a pony-tail and the prospect of washing another man's socks for the rest of my life.

I'm all for making delicious three-course meals and shaking cocktails towards the end of the evening as the husband unwinds in front of the TV. I'm all for making puppy-dog faces and whining apologetically even though it is not my fault by any stretch of imagination, just because the boyfriend has "lost it". I'm all for behaving myself and not revolting when the father tells the brother "You can't be pansy and study the arts like your sister, you can't be a house-wife".

That may seem a poor reflection of my sense of self-worth and the position women-kind are held in my perception but I do, in fact, have a certain "female ideology" which I would like to refer to as Boob-ism.

Boob-ism, in my book, is defined as the motivation behind the massive female ego that seeks to protect its rights against male domination and cooking of paneer-mutter against free will (esp. when pre-menstrual). 

Because I strongly agree with all theories of evolution, I believe that women must play the role of "care-taker" (unfortunate that in many cases, everything else comes second). But given that biology and reality haven't exactly kept pace with each other, leading us on to an age of prolonged adolescence, redundancy of wisdom teeth, working super-moms and blatant disregard for basic grammar (such as using conjunctions in the beginning of sentences), it is little wonder the "natural order" of things have flipped a little bit. Not to mention the extreme lack of uniformity in general female behaviour.

In one extreme of the spectrum, we have women painting vaginas on plates for their little "dinner party" and on the other extreme we have women with hopeless eye-sight and keep bumping into poles, door knobs, etc. while their husbands remain heavily inebriated. And then there is me- feminist by public opinion, victim by self-portrayal and boob-ist by very nature.

I am not alone in the psylent practice of boob-ism. The majority of women, whether they realize and/or agree or not, are of the same breed. We will do whatever it takes to be the "care-taker" and then *evil smile*, we will use it to our advantage when the time comes for a proper payback from men.

Raise your hands if you've ever heard:
Your mother say "You spent nine-months RENT-FREE inside my damn womb, young man!"
Your girlfriend say "And I suppose I was invisible when you were throwing up all over the bathroom floor after the party!"
Your sister say "Just because I'm a girl, you won't let me do it! Wait till I'm married and gone!"
Your grandmother say "Do I look like a maid to you! Wash that damn bowl in which you ate your tachchi mammam!"

Ohh yes! We will lull you into your free subscription of eternal female servitude, dress sluttily and scrub our backsides raw with anti-cellulite nonsense to please you and then bring it up in high-pitched name-calling unfairness when the moment is most crucial to us. And because the majority of us boob-ists are stuck with a majority of you gentlemen (almost), you will relent.

This kind of behaviour may see a sudden spike when we're PMS-ing. We'll throw a hissy fit first and then suddenly become sexually repulsive. It takes a lot of emotional resources to be nice to men when we're about to bleed ourselves to infertility. Therefore, we would rather not. Do try your best to placate us when we're in the middle of practicing boob-ism. It would help during the remainder of the month. 

Vanilla Narrations

When the idea for this piece of writing germinated inside my head, it was with a certain amount of sadness.

All I wanted was a vanilla day. Plain and classic. But it was more like... Lemon rice. It began with great gusto, there were a lot of peanuts that made it yummy, but in the end, all that was left was a lot of cold, yellow, unappealing rice. After much of today's unpleasantness, I thought I wanted to be vanilla. To just exist pleasantly despite being the least favourite option. But I suppose we can never be on the same page as fate, sometimes.

For some time now, I've been going into a little bit of a loss in life, generally.

First, I couldn't find my copy of Tiger Hills by Sarita Mandanna, no matter where I looked or whom I asked. It was a book that was desperately close to my heart. I've never felt a story as much as I have felt Tiger Hills. And when I bought it, I didn't exactly have a lot of money. I saved up money for quite a few months before I could get my hands on it. I can't buy the same book again because that particular edition has now gone out of print. And there is no way I can ever replace the little notes I made in the margins of the book. But over time, I stopped worrying so much about it. Maybe I'll find it, maybe I won't. I will buy myself another copy, eventually.

Today was slightly more interesting.

I almost got a picture taken with MS Dhoni and Chris Gayle, only I'm not in the frame at all. I did, however, walk away feeling like I did a bloody good job of whatever was assigned to me. Cricket(ers), in any case, is not my area of interest.

Post a little private event with these players, I was only at two different places that were quite close to each other. Between this place and that, I lost all my keys. I tried really hard to find them- I crawled under places and pestered security guards, plumbers and a fair number of colleagues. But in the end, the keys were gone with no sign of returning.
I admit I was a little upset for losing a handy pocket-knife in the key-chain and of course every key in the bunch had a spare somewhere. But there was this one particular key I had emotional complications with. That key was entrusted to me. While preserving the actual key was less relevant, what it symbolized made me cringe at the thought of having lost it.

I put aside the keys from my mind after a while. I asked dad to bring the spare key to me so I could take my bike back home. It was when I was waiting for my dad, I checked my wallet to see if I had enough money for petrol. And it was then, standing in the middle of my office, I felt as if some weird joke was being played on me. Exactly 750 bucks was missing from my wallet. I don't know who would take my 750 bucks and leave the other 70 bucks right where it was. Before I jumped to any conclusions, I called mum and asked her to check my pants pockets and my other bags. Surely enough, there was no money anywhere else.

There is only so much one person can lose in a day. It really got to me and I did sit down and cry and cry for a bit. I was even ranting in Achcha Kannada in my head, hoping that my mother tongue would ease the pain and make it go away. I was definitely upset and visibly dead.

When I got home, my mum asked me how much money I was missing. I didn't dare tell her the truth. I only told her that I didn't remember where I put some fifty bucks. She didn't buy it.
I was thinking about how I should have just had a vanilla day instead of all this hoopla. And just then, dad told me rather sternly that I had better finish the butterscotch ice-cream tonight (though I don't know why).
Being home, in the midst of all the warm weirdness of my family and a supportive boyfriend on Whatsapp, I philosophized many a thing. I told myself that money was just pieces of paper... That I don't really need money at the moment and the person who took it probably needs it more than I do... That it was a lesson that life was teaching me to stay simple and not have the chance to be extravagant... That I SHOULD have spent that money, anyway and I must have been a little stingy somewhere...

But none of this calmed me down the way my people did. Life is never going to be vanilla, especially for someone like me. But there will always be that dad who'll hunt down butterscotch ice-cream from anywhere, the mom who knows what you're hiding but continues to trust you, and that love who will stand by you and tell you "That's my girl", with a big, dimpled smile.

I'm fine, really. I have forgotten these mishaps already. I'm going to cash in my next pay cheque really soon and (try to) make myself a little prettier or (most likely) buy books. I hope whoever has my money really needs it and he/she simply isn't buying cigarettes. I understand if it just tempted them and all they wanted to do is buy something nice. I know what it's like to be told that you can't buy stuff for yourself or go out to some place nice. And to be quite honest, I've done both quite recently. Maybe now it's somebody else's turn.

After all, I really have everything I need at the moment. Perhaps some of my more wise friends are correct- money does not belong to anyone, at the end of the day. I think I should be glad that I didn't have the chance to trade pieces of paper with perceived value for colourful things I don't like, anyway. Maybe I'm just rationalizing. But I feel like I'm in a really good place right now.

What would really suck, however, is if this turns out to be one big joke and someone hid my cash and keys to give me a hard time. Then I'd be really crazy to have written all this, right?

Grow up, already!

[This post is dedicated to Lokesh, whose Fresh and Honest, Cheap and Best coffee kept me awake through the boring bits!]

My brother is now in "that crucial point" of life where he has to slog his ass off to not be a total loser, if not a complete star. Indeed, it seems like only yesterday that I myself finished my 12th and whilst I'm still recovering from the trauma, my brother is already at it! And that obviously means he'll never get his bum out of a classroom or his nose out of a book... Well, ideally.

So tomorrow is his first day of Class 12. And before he needs to go to his class at 8.30 AM, he has to get himself to tuition first. 6-8 AM.

Now, all of us at home agree that he better take the morning classes and finish his day early so he can concentrate on other things but none of us are pleased to know that one of us needs to drop him to class every morning, morning after morning, for the rest of the year. 

You see, my brother is not quite eighteen. He's seventeen and something... But still not quite eighteen. And because my dad is my dad, he won't let my brother ride a bike yet. 

After I came back home from work today, I overheard my brother and my father arguing. 

"I'm taking the bike, if it's too much trouble for you to drop me!" says my brother authoritatively. 

"If you're interested in attending class, you might as well wake me up. I'm not going to lose sleep over your irresponsibility!" said my dad "And don't you dare take the bike! If the police catch you, I won't be there saving your lazy ass!"

A flicker of a memory. All thanks to Lokesh's coffee, I thought something passed my mind. The Justice Whats-his-name's review! What was Professor Rao saying?

Oh God, media laws! Media laws! I am the worst media student, ever!

Oh yes, the Delhi gang-rape case. And the accused minor boy. So after he had no choice but to receive a "juvenile's" sentence, the legal system kind of woke up and thought, oh yeah, he's almost eighteen and he did such TERRIBLE shit. People like him need to be tried like adults, yada yada. And then they had to cover up another gaping hole- that amended laws cannot be used in retrospection. Which basically means if they change the law because of this minor boy, they can't use it on him because he's already tried as a juvenile!

So it got me thinking... If my brother was caught riding a bike without a licence, he could be tried as an adult.  Right. So dad wouldn't have to go running after him to "save his lazy ass". 

But wait, I thought, There's something missing here. 

Where's the flip side to it? I mean, if he can be tried as an adult for being almost-eighteen, he can also be given a licence for being almost eighteen! (The fact that my parents won't let him apply is a different story). Which also means, he could have gone out and voted in the elections that just got over for being ALMOST EIGHTEEN! Well, why not? He certainly has some political opinion!

Dear God! I think, I've actually managed to think critically.

This feels so new to me. Did education actually make me grow up? Jeez. Three years and a college degree DOES seem to make a difference, doesn't it?  No wonder I keep getting words like "job" and "marriage" and "property" and "life insurance" hurled at me!

But it is so difficult.. So difficult to know when is it that we're old enough to do whatever. 

Right back in the fifth grade, I remember how I wanted to get out of my bloody pinafore and start wearing a skirt to school. And when I did wear a skirt to school, I wished so much I had the legs of that fifth grade girl who didn't have hormones rushing all over her body and sprouting leg hair faster than cockroaches multiply. 

When I was sixteen, I had the happy realization that I had reached the age of legally sanctioned consensual sex. But I settled for a first kiss. After all, it was "sweet sixteen", and the first kiss was sweet enough for my level of maturity. 

At eighteen, with a part-time job to support my book buying needs, I felt old enough to turn my nose up at my father every time I ran out of bookshelf space because, well, it was my  money, wasn't it? He had no say whatsoever. 

But at eighteen, I also felt young enough to cry and complain about how everybody else gets pocket money and I was given the unreasonable responsibility of fending for myself, when I couldn't cope with college work and my job. 

Same goes to my brother. At almost eighteen, he wants to be old enough to drive, but young enough to be woken up in the morning and coaxed into going to class. 

So, basically, we're permanently stuck in one place, even as we move on and on in life. 

At every damn point in life, you want to be younger... but you want to be older. 

You could be 21. You want to be young enough to continue studying but old enough to move out and make your own life.  

You could be 27, wanting to be young enough to date but old enough to "settle down".

You could be 32. You want to be old enough to have that second child but young enough to eye up that new girl in the office.

You could be 55. You want to be young enough to continue educating your younger boy but please, oh please, old enough to retire.

And the more we grow up, the more complicated everything becomes. We're all so strong and sure of ourselves because we've been through so much shit. 

I was an alcoholic and I got out of it.

My girlfriend cheated on me and we got out of it.

I attempted suicide and I got out of it.

My partner ran away with all my money and I got out of it. 

But when you're really old enough, you'll know that there's bigger shit waiting in the future. Because the more you live, the more you know, the more you complicate things like a pro. 

Life is like this GIANT game of tetris. 

At first, it's just a few blocks. It's fun. Silly, even. They're just floating down your gameboy and you're putting them in their place. 

Then you get used to the concept, you know you've got to fill in all the gaps.

Then you like the pace. It gives you small challenges every now and then and your adrenaline is shooting up all the time and you're having such a great time. 

And before you know it.... The blocks are out of control! They're falling at random. They're too fast for your reflexes to handle. Your screen is filling up right to the sky and you're going to lose, and lose and lose.

Oh. Game Over. 

The disappointment kills you. You beat yourself up for it. How did this happen, you wonder. Then you realize where you went wrong. You device a new tactic to play the game more effectively. And you start again. Maybe last time you're game was done at Level 10. And this time you make it to Level 12. 

You'll lose again, you'll start again. And you'll go some five levels further. 

Until your battery finally dies, you've got an unspecified number of new games to play, fresh starts to have. And mind you, it will all be complicated in the end. If it doesn't get complicated, you will want it to. Because a game without challenges is not worth playing, is it?

Grow up, already. Play it right for as much as you can. Then make stupid rookie mistakes. Because every time you're ruined, there's a fresh start coming. 

Will the Real Becky Bloomwood Please Stand Up?

Some two weeks ago, I picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on a whim. And I ended up reading the entire HP series like an obsessed person. Re-living my childhood is something, but the more I read it, the more fascinated I was of JKR's writing. I just can not describe how perplexing it is for me to take note of how an intricate plot falls in place across SEVEN books. As it happens, I have been itching to write some kind of serious fiction for a while now. And my plot somehow never sustains. So I thought maybe I should read a few series of books and that would give me an idea about plot-structuring.

Once I was done with the Harry Potter series, my fingers inched towards the paper-backs in my book shelf, like they had a mind of their own. Before I knew it, I was thumbing through Confession of a Shopaholic, and Shopaholic Takes Manhattan and Shopaholic Ties the Knot and... (you get the picture).

.... but the Shopaholic series is not meant to be "studied". That would be just unnatural. Like giving your dad a petrol allowance or shaking someone's left hand. Rebecca Bloomwood is not to be studied in a framework of novel-writing rules. Because one can't study oneself that way. The reader becomes Becky Bloomwood. Chick lit is like that. Before long, I was Rebecca Bloomwood and every two minutes I was thinking "Why don't I have a Louis Vuitton handbag?" or "God, I need a new pair of shoes".

I mean, here I am, doing this awesome internship and getting paid bucket-loads (It's bucket-loads because I've promised myself not to buy any more books until I finish all that I already have). And what am I doing with my money? Nothing. I bought a pair of contact lenses and that's going to last a year. I went to movie and bought lots of cake. So basically, nothing.

I mean, I'm Becky Bloomwood. How can I not have anything to wear? How can I not have a TV career? How come my boyfriend isn't Luke Brandon? Oh, come on!

So paramount was my craving that I finally put my book down and went out. Out, to a shoe shop. I said to myself "Screw functional! I am NOT buying anything in black!" and I march right down, try every pair of sandals on display, I almost buy a pair of yellow pumps with cute little bows on them. But I settle for something colourful in green and blue and whatnot. I am so proud of myself that I march up to the guy and say "I'm gonna buy these". So he wraps them up and puts them in a neat little box and hands it over the counter. The moment my fingers wrap around the cords, a whoosh of joy sweeps down my stomach. It's all mine! I just have to hand in a few bits of paper and it's all mine, mine, MINE!

So I look up expectantly at him and ask "How much?"
"Three-fifty" he says flatly.
I'm gobsmacked! Will I never. 350? That's all? I mean, I thought I'd bought shoes that would come up to some 1199.00 or some such fancy figure. I mean I really wanted to SPEND money on MYSELF. It just didn't seem fair!

So in a daze, I hand over his three-fifty. And in two seconds, he's thrusting thirty bucks back in my hands. I look up to him startled, and he says "Discount, ma'am. Just for you".

And I just want to PUNCH HIS FACE. I mean, who gives a goddamn discount to a person who isn't even bargaining? The entire point of my shopping trip was gone. Poof. Just like that!

But still, I had a new pair of shoes. I come back home and I put them away carefully. Then I start up my computer. While it's booting, I'm thinking of boots, and then shoes and then my brand new pumps. So I take them out and try them on. And then I check my e-mail for a bit. It's junk, junk, spa discount!, junk, horoscope, I-ching oracle, junk, e-mail from office... Hmm. The e-mail from office must be important right? So I open that first and to my surprise, I spot a smiley-face (which is rare for my manager). As I read it, I realize that it's an invitation to a dinner party. I RSVP immediately and I'm suddenly on party girl mode. I want to be in a Vera Wang cocktail dress all of a sudden, with glittery heels and everything. Except... I don't have a Vera Wang dress. And no glittery heels either.

So I'm planning my outfit when somebody pings me on FB and tells me how great I look in my DP. Genius! I could go with THAT outfit. And I pick out my freshly washed light blue jeans (with Swarovski crystals on the back pockets) and a plain green cotton top that hugs my body in just all the right places. And, wait for it, my new shoes would go perfectly well with it! So I put my clothes down with a little glow of satisfaction. I'm being Becky Bloomwood at last, aren't I? Maybe I'm a little short on the Luke Brandon part. My boyfriend doesn't own a multi-million pound, successful PR agency exactly and we don't go to the country for long weekends. But that's ok! All that matters is that I had a party the next day and I was so prepared!

Then I experimentally try on some make-up. There are two boxes of eye shadow that I never use. So I open them first. There's a tiny brush in the box with a small sponge-thingy on the other end. I really don't know how to go about it but I bravely put on some glittery stuff on my closed eye, and then on to the other. Now my eyes look all glittery and sparkly. And it's a kind of maroonish/brownish thing that looks great on me. Then I pick up an eyeliner and do my eyes. There's a HUGE tube of mascara. By now I feel really brave so I shut my eye and apply it vigourously. And then I stop. And look.
Oh God, I look horrible. Make-up is not one of my skills at all. It looks more like a paint job, to be honest.
So I put away all my make-up in my little orange bag and with a flump, fall into my bed.

So the next day (which is today), I take my time to get ready. I wash my hair and give it a blow dry. I feel all fresh and happy. I make a big drama out of dressing. I wear my jeans and admire the sparkle on my bum, I wear my top, yada yada. And when I'm all done (even the mascara, and it didn't look bad at all!), I look at myself in the mirror and there is a little glow of satisfaction. My eye make up hasn't blurred my contact lenses or anything. I put on my blue Vera Wang jacket. It makes me look a little bit like Nancy Drew. And that's alright. I wasn't going for biker chick, anyway.

My ride to the office is a black-exhaust filled floaty dream of sorts. And when I get there, I don't really work. I watch the telly a little, I play a bit of Criminal Case, I pick an argument with my boyfriend (so not Luke Brandon), and I jot down a couple of points for my report. Casually, I pick up my phone and I have a new message. I frown. I don't want it to be my boyfriend again. But when I open it, I'm completely flabbergasted.
"I was too shy to mention it, but you look really great today" it says. I look up shocked, and that person is sitting right across me. And nammappanaanegu (swear on my father, I say) he had such a poker straight face, my God! I could hardly believe it was the same person who sent that borderline flirty text to me.
I sit back and relax. He just paid me a compliment, that's all. I'm going to say Thank you and leave it at that.
The couple of people sitting around me get up and leave for a bit and then it's just that person and me.

"Is that a new watch?" he asks me all of a sudden and reaches out to my hand and examines it.
"Um.." I say, not knowing what to tell him.
And very bravely, he traces his fingers down from my wrist to my fingertips and cracks one of my knuckles.
I withdraw my hand (quite sharply).
"Is something the matter?" he asks.
"Just don't do that" I say and walk away.

Before I know it, my helmet is swinging on my arm and I just want to go home! To make matters worse, it began raining.

I get back into the office and find myself a quiet corner. I sit down, head in my hands and gather my thoughts.

About half an hour before that, my boyfriend had said to me "You're too nice to say anything to anyone. No wonder guys think you want them to get all over you." And how vehemently I argued, only I know. I was so cross at being labelled "easy". Well, I wasn't was I? Hadn't I just walked out on someone?
A Luke Brandon-ish someone, a small voice says in my head.

Suddenly, my whole fairy-tale crap-trap collapses around me. I want to get into a baggy gray T-shirt and tie my hair up in a messy bun. That's exactly what I want to do. I don't want my two coats of mascara and three inches of Broadway Bronze lip gloss any more.

I was SO SURE that nobody eyed me up that way. Not after wearing the same bloody gray T-shirts day after fucking day. I was the girl people pointed at and said "she doesn't look like a girl from any angle". And now I couldn't be a girl without someone wanting to hold my hand.

Confused and half-way angry, I wondered, does it really take a glittery bum and an underwired bra for someone to realize that they were in the presence of a woman? Is it me or are men just being men? Do the other girls get felt up every day (cuz believe me, they're hot as burning hell!)?

Wait. Pause. Rewind.

Ok. I'm not Becky Bloomwood, am I? I'm that nerd with no fashion sense with my nose stuck in a book. I'm a... BIBLIOHOLIC, ok? Not a shopaholic. And I'm not going to meet any Luke Brandon. I'm just going to argue away to glory with my existing boyfriend and read books. And not look nice. Exactly. I'll never look nice again. It's not what I should ever do in life- looking nice... and stuff.

I mean, I'm the same bloody person even when I wear lopsided glasses and big gray t-shirts (that I mostly nick from my boyfriend). And I happen to be a damn nice person too. I don't have to look nice to be nice, do I? And if someone doesn't bother to notice me on a non-dressy day, they've got no right to spew their testosterone all over me when I'm dressed up.

It stopped raining after a while and I just upped and left. I get a million phone calls from my friends asking me where I am and why I haven't shown up at the party. One of them is really quite distraught and threatens to end our friendship unless I show up. But I just put one foot in front of the other and walk over to my bike. I get mud all over my new shoes. I really liked my shoes but all people had the time to notice were.... Well, my boobs, actually.

I really don't feel like a party girl any more. And I'm definitely not in the mood for a Vera Wang cocktail dress and glittery heels. In fact, I remember, my legs are just about as hairy as my dad's at the moment. I'm just a girl who wears the right kind of bras, at the most. Yep. That's about all the credit I get under "fashion".

I head back home, thinking about "cognitive dissonance". And that, folks is the Daily Gyaan for today.
"Cognitive Dissonance" is that awkward moment when you think how sick his stubby fingers look on your arm but your body is developing involuntary goosebumps. It is that difference between your ideals and your reality that makes your life all the more shittier.

That's all folks. 

How my Boyfriend made love to Nicotine and Fell into Deep-Tee's Boobie trap.

So a senior of mine told me to "watch out for that test in practical psychology that measures your masculinity/femininity". I finally got to take that test and unsurprisingly, I'm strongly masculine, it says. (Please note: It has got nothing to do with the bike I ride.) (Double Note: No, seriously.)

Some people have a big problem with the way the test is structured. Apparently, it's too "stereotypical" for their liking. They use the word "stereotypical" like it's the colour of shit. Let me give you a piece of Daily Gyaan, here. Stereotypes have evolutionary survival value (happens to be my favourite type of value!) and we all have millions of stereotypes and use them everyday. If you didn't stereotype Biker Chicks to be hot, you wouldn't chat us up (looking to get laid = evolutionary survival value). And many of you think that BECAUSE I ride a bike, I'm butch, masculine, etc. Not true at all, I've always been a tom-boy. (Ask SKPS 10 B boys).

And some of you (those who are looking to get laid) INSIST that I'm just putting on a mask to cover up my insecurities. That I'm really, really a softie inside; that I'm feminine, sensual, etc. and put me in the other end of the spectrum. 

(See who's practicing "Strongly masculine"/"Strongly feminine" stereotypes?)

Nobody wants to put me in-between. 

The fact that I love wearing baggy-gray T-shirts (shop for them in the Men's section), that I would any day buy a black sports bra in place of a (black) lacy, push-up, that I wear no make-up, jewelry, etc. is REALLY all about who I am. I'm at my sexiest in boy-clothes and boy-bikes. 

But there are those days where there's a coat of mascara on my lashes, an ear-ring at my almost invisible piercing, and something that hugs my figure- I dress up for dates, okay? 

Nonetheless, my style didn't develop on its own accord. It was shaped and influenced by a lot of things- a critical aunt who scrutinizes the millimeters of my sleeve, a boyfriend who hates a gaudy chick, an interview with a designer who explained the importance of "fit", and a father who does NOT pay the bills. I can tell you about the time when I saved up money to buy a pair of (then) expensive (for me) 150-rupees-a-pair extra-long metal ear-hangings, the time I wore T-shirts that said "You're so FABULOUS" and "Break Dance Not Hearts". Surprised? I can tell you about the time that I could NOT, simply could NOT bear to make eye-contact with my boyfriend (shy came off) and now I DARE write THIS.

Like all girls, I want to be pretty. I was so jealous of my best friend when I was younger because she had every imaginable Barbie in the collection... And I had ONE. Minor Disappointments have plagued me all my life. Trust me, it's so frustrating when you don't get everything you want. So you develop passive-resistance. You find ways to be cool by being un-cool. You deliberately put away your daily-wear normal looking ear-rings to be "different" (Note to Tarun Surya and everyone else who asked: Story of my life). You don't go on a class trip with your friends because you've given up and don't tell your parents about it in the first place. Your dad doesn't take you ANY place (waste of money, waste of time, no holiday, why don't you learn how to cook instead, excuses endless). 

I really can't help it if I don't have a human ATM at my disposal, and if people's idea of my pocket money is five-hundred bucks with unlimited validity. Some of us need even to pay our own way through college. We know what we would like to wear, but not necessarily own it. We may not go out clubbing every once in a while or even have a suitable party outfit (I still have that Jhataang Blue Ghagra-Choli from high school, though!). So we have to make do with acceptable, repeatable clothes. So we have to make do with baggy gray T-shirts and make do with the same pair of floaters for YEARS. And we wind up with dirty feet and square tan marks. I'd like pedicured feet, too, but after the last time (which also happened to be my first), I dare not even think of spending "somebody else's money" in three-digit figures. Yes, I get that from my dad. 

But I swear I don't care... Or rather, I've learned not to. And for those of you who said "Oh my Gooooddd!" two sentences ago, really, I don't mind my folks. Your stereotypes are now at work and I can see what kind of a picture of my dad you're getting. That's fine. I'm not the only one. And it's not like I don't get anything. Apart from my two square meals a day, a roof over me head, sanitary napkins, etc., I get a bike, a laptop, my own internet connection, the freedom to write my blog and a rasam-on-demand... Which is a lot more than what lots of people have. 

You see, I'm middle-class. I'm not the stereotypical aam-admi, but middle-class enough. That need not be such a bad thing because I still have a comfortable life. A comfortable life but with many Minor Disappointments. 

What you think of me and how you treat me does not bother me because it doesn't make a difference. But I have these "close-few" whose opinion of me matters to me. Hence, the title of this post.

My boyfriend went on a trip to Goa with his classmates to celebrate the end of their last exams ever, Ever! And he has this girl in his class whom I don't like very much (girlfriend instinct). I happened to meet her for the first time on the evening they left and there she was, puffing on her cigarette (that she didn't pay for, beggar princess) and telling my boyfriend how she forgot to bring the bottle of whiskey that was "lying at home" (shut up, bitch, and dress decently). Now I'm sure her father intended for her name to be "illuminating". But this retarded bimbette mistook that for "Deep-Tee" (you're too fat, woman, you don't need a push-up bra! And get those vulgarly large boobs out of my boyfriend's nose).

Described above is a stereotypical "cool, chilled out chick". And my boyfriend (who happens to cool and chilled out... and thankfully humble) and she are pretty good friends. And along with a few others, they make the "in" gang (We're opposite poles in every way possible).

So they go off to Goa, get drunk, do the routine and then they pick a fine time to go shopping (did you find something slutty enough, Deep-Tee?). And Retarded Bimbette with the girl-gang orchestra said to my boyfriend "this dress looks nice, do you want to buy it for your girlfriend?". My till then shy-to-buy in front of others boyfriend called me and asked me if I wanted that gray (favourite colour!) dress. I asked him to describe it for me (only natural). He couldn't (also natural). I asked him to whatsapp a picture to me (practical option), he didn't want to at first but he had no other choice (leading to frustration). 

And then I receive a picture of the ugliest, bed-spread material made, large flower printed (yuck!) gray dress (I wouldn't wear it while cleaning my house. That's what the bitch Deep-Tee picks for me. But of course, I bet she doesn't even imagine cleaning her house.)

But girl instinct kicked into action and I began discussing the merits/demerits of the dress. I asked him NOT to buy it. And my boyfriend began losing his patience (understandable. You don't have to have patience to shop). While I was in the middle of describing what a good dress (for me) looks like, due to some disconnect in communication, random babbling, etc. my boyfriend said "Do you even know what kind of girls wear this dress?"

It was like a slap on my face and it still rings in my ear. 

He meant to say "Your parents won't let you wear it", I heard "It's too cool for you"

He meant to say "It's knee length", I heard "You don't get your legs waxed regularly"

He meant to say "You won't be able to wear it anywhere", I heard "You don't go out partying. It's useless"

And I definitely heard girls giggling in the background. 

Suddenly, I wanted to say to my impatient boyfriend "If you don't want to shop for me, honey, for God's sake, don't"

But my boyfriend is the kind of bloke who likes buying nice things for me, so I held my breath.

I cried so much that night, I now have a bad cold and a snotty nose. My tears are still fresh, my tears are still NOW. 

My middle-class lessons were my lullaby that night. I have no right to expect things from "someone else's money". And so I told him that I won't ever wear a scrap of what he pays for. And off came the silver ring on my finger and off came the pretty brown bead necklace from my neck. And I mean it honey, not a SCRAP of what you buy. EVER.

For once, the take away Daily Gyaan is non-radical, it's non-ideal. Here's some honest gyaan, some real information- What you can buy, What you want to buy, What you're buying at the moment- Your new Holy Trinity, Ladies and Gentlemen. 

And don't you dare tell me how masculine/feminine I sound in this post! I only sound like me!