On the little things

The last few months have seen big changes - a new job, a new city, a trip home. It sometimes all still feels a little unreal. And while I could, and should, write an entire post on those changes, it's a little easier to, right now, write about the little things** - because, let's face it, the little things is what I spend most of my time choosing to obsess about anyway.

I broke my nail last week, while moving cubes. On the thumb of my right hand, which, as it turns out, I use a lot more than I had realised. More than anything else, I use it a gazillion times a day to do a fingerprint unlock of my phone. So on top of being utterly painful, when I bandaged it for a day to stop the nail from straight up peeling off, I had to keep remembering to use my left hand to unlock my phone - always fun when you're carrying half a dozen things and walking and trying to do everything at the same time.

Can I tell you the best thing about the new laptop they gave me at work? It has this functionality where, if I have it set to mute, it automatically turns the volume back on if I plug in earphones, or connect a bluetooth headset. And then when I disconnect or unplug those, it automatically goes back on mute. As someone who usually has Coke Studio playing on YouTube, this is amazing. Also as someone who previously had a work laptop that was possessed by ghosts, and would on any given day throw a temper tantrum and decide whether or not it wanted to connect to the Internet while either docked or undocked (but never both), this is a level of technology at work that is blowing my mind.

The new workplace also has a furniture surplus room - you can go look at what they have, select whatever is unclaimed, and they'll bring it to your cube. When I was finally given a new cube two weeks ago, I went to see if they had the same kind of tall cabinet a coworker had, because it has plenty of drawers, and even a coat hanging cupboard. They did not have it at the time, so I just picked something else. I went back there yesterday, accompanying a coworker who needed to go, and as we walked in, they were unloading a cabinet exactly like the one I wanted. I claimed it immediately, and they came and swapped out cabinets for me this morning.

I'm telling y'all, it's the little things.

**NOT the web series that has become a Netflix show, even though I'm told I should watch it because it's cute, so at some point I probably should, especially since I am a huge fan of What the Folks, that was made by the same people.

Pet peeves

I've been both lazy and incapable of writing for the last 6-8 weeks, which means June is almost over, and I've written nothing. And because there are too many things going in this world that are annoying and/or worrying me, I'm choosing for today to focus my energies on things in my world that annoy me. Pet peeves, so to speak. Or as the kids call it these days, #firstworldproblems.

• People who won't press "Off" on the office microwave when they're done with it, so when I come to use it, it'll be at 00:03. This is hell on my OCD tendencies, people.
• The fact that UPS and FedEx are nice enough to deliver on Saturdays, but won't bother coming to my apartment to check if I'm home (I am. Every. single. time. (Mostly.)), but will go straight to the leasing office and drop it off with them.
• The fact that my leasing office works from 9 am to 6 pm on weekdays, which is half an hour after I leave home in the mornings and anywhere between half an hour to two hours before I get home in the evenings. Which means I can only pick up packages (or express general annoyance) on the weekends, when I'm travelling more often than not. (Hence the 'mostly' tacked on up above.)
• Pimples or zits that appear on my cheek at just the right spot that they're in my line of vision as I glance downward to type or write. I usually ignore my monthly bout of pimples for the most part, but the ones that like to appear at just that spot annoy me tremendously.
• The fact that after surviving my teenage years without too many zits or pimples, I now have a nonstop outbreak of them more than a decade later.
• Hotels that give soap bars instead of soap wash, because it just seems like such a waste - especially when you're there just for one or two nights, which is how most of my trips are. Also, hotels that ask you to reuse your towels, but then they fold up your towels and put them back with the clean ones, and if you're sharing the room with someone, you have no idea which one you used, and which one your companion did.
• Banks that won't let you set travel alerts on your credit card through their mobile app or mobile website, and won't let you open their full site from your phone or tablet. What if I didn't bring my laptop with me, you geniuses?
• The fact that every pair of black jeans I've ever bought fades to the point of turning white in a matter of months. What am I doing wrong here, people? (Apparently what I'm doing wrong is not turning them inside out before throwing them into the washing machine. Tch.)
• The conference call I'm currently on, and conference calls in general.
• Speaking of which, what is with ads or people in general saying they don't have a meeting till later, so don't have to go into work till then? Are there people who go to work only when they have meetings? When does everything else that meetings get in the way of get done?

Now excuse me while I go off mute and yell at someone for a while.

Not just me, 'kay?

The day after I posted my little story about business ventures I used to think would be an excellent idea, I woke up to an email from S saying "Ermm I love you but you know you're weird no?" So obviously I need to share more things that continue to validate this sentiment.

One of the more embarrassing things I don't like to admit to people is that in the five years I've lived in Amreeka, I can't always tell, at first glance, if a person is South Asian or Hispanic. I'll see someone, think they're one of the two, and then when they start speaking realise they're the other.

THEY LOOK SIMILAR, 'KAY?

I was once at a restaurant, with a friend who also happens to be from Delhi. There was a family at a nearby table, and when they left, I asked my friend where he thought they were from. He couldn't tell either. So it's not just me.

AnyWAY. So last week, I was on a flight for a quick overnight work trip. I had the window seat, and an elderly Indian couple came and took the seats next to me. I knew they were Indian, because, well, they were speaking to each other in Hindi. I didn't converse with them through the first three-fourths of the flight - the lady next to me slept through most of it, and the only interaction I had with her husband who in the aisle seat was showing him wordlessly how to open the tray table when I noticed he was struggling with it.

Then, as we began to approach the descent to New York, the lady - who had woken up by this point - said something, and I thought she was talking to me, so I took off my earphones and turned to her. Turns out she wasn't actually talking to me but just commenting on how pretty the view of NYC from the window was, but in all of this confusion, she decided to start chatting with me.

And there went the rest of my flight.

Where are you from?
Dallas.
But originally?
Delhi.
Wait, you are Indian?!?
Haanji.
Arre, we thought you are Spanish! We would have chatted with you throughout the flight if we had known!

Erm, okay then.

So anyway, it's not just me, 'kay?

"You have smartphone, no?"

I was at the doctor's office a few weeks ago, sitting in the waiting area, and watching in fascination whatever home improvement related reality show they had on that day.

The gentleman next to me, who was at least 60, if not older, suddenly turned to me and said, "you're not very good at this waiting thing, are you? Don't you know you're supposed to be on your phone?"

I went for an Indian play this past weekend. The gentleman next to me, not that much older perhaps, but least a decade older than me, struck up a conversation with the opening words, so did you grow up around here? No? What visa are you on?

And having established that I was in fact on a visa, he told me all about the immigration reform advocacy group he is a part of. "You have smartphone, no? Open Facebook - I will tell you what to type and you can find our page."

I always rue the fact that too many of my relatives from the older generation know a little too much technology for my liking - not enough to be completely self-sufficient, but just enough to be dangerous. But what is with random strangers telling me how to use technology, yaar?

On my obsession with earrings

A friend recently told me she's never seen me wear the same pair of earrings twice. This seemed strange to me at first, because I have certain favourites that I repeat all the time, but also entirely possible once I thought about it, because I do have a needlessly enormous collection of earrings.

My mother claims she's never seen me without earrings - when I was born, they took me away to bathe me etc., but before bringing me back, they brought a tray of earrings that my mother was expected to choose a pair from in her groggy state, pierced my less than an hour old ears, and so the first time I was ever put in my mother's arms, I was wearing earrings.

Earrings were a source of great trauma during my childhood, because I had an allergy where if I wore certain kind of metals, my ears would get ghaav - and I have no idea how to say that in English - and start bleeding, etc. A lot of Betnovate and Soframycin has been applied to my ears over the years. My ears have also been pierced several times over the ears, because the ghaav would cause the holes to close and we would have to get them repierced. This is probably why when, during the high school and college years, all my friends were getting their second and third piercings, I was shaking my head and saying "never again".

My fascination for earrings began just before high school ended, though. My mother and I were going through her saris and jewelry to decide what I would wear to my school farewell, when she suddenly pulled out a box full of old dangling earrings (including Exhibit A - to the right here) that I had never seen before, and asked if I'd like to wear any of them.

Umm, yes? Hell yes.

I learned that this was her collection from her college days - bought from a certain shop in New Market Kolkata with whatever money she had left over from the tuitions she used to give. But finding those earrings meant I started my college years with a gorgeous collection, one that would only grow over the years. Dilli Haat, Silofer in GK-I, sundry trips to Jaipur, gifts from friends once my penchant was noticed - all these became sources of earrings.

My collection's rather eclectic too - I have the danglers with stones, in almost every colour so I can be matching-matching with whatever clothes I wear, the silver balis that go with everything else, and the smaller, supposedly more professional ones that I wear maybe once a month. I have short danglers, long danglers, medium danglers. The medium ones, in case you were wondering, are the most fun to wear because of the way they, well, dangle when you're shaking your head to music - and certain songs make this more fun than others (Beera from Raavan, for example).

Five years after my fascination for earrings started, Mamma and I went to Kolkata to celebrate my being done with grad school. On that trip, finally, she was able to locate the shop she used to buy her earrings from all those years ago. I walked out of that first visit to that shop flat broke - all my savings from the tuitions I gave during college were gone. And ever since, I've never gone to Kolkata without a visit to New Market and at least two new pairs of earrings.

Then, last year, when I was in London, my aunt, who used to be my mother's chief shopping partner, saw the earrings I wear and decided to give me her entire collection. She doesn't wear them anymore and was trying to downsize her house, my cousin has no interest in them, and they were too damn gorgeous for me to even pretend to be polite and say no. So my collection exploded again. And since I've found certain stores in Amreeka where the earrings are usually both gorgeous and somewhat affordable and extremely hard to resist, it only keeps growing.

Over the years, my earrings collection was distributed between chocolate boxes and pouches, categorized by colour, size, type, and how much I liked them (or didn't). When I left for Amreeka, the one packing exercise I took most seriously was deciding which earrings to bring with me and which to leave behind (I think I left 4-5 pairs, none of which I'd ever actually worn), and how to organize them.

Then, earlier this year, I finally caved and bought a earring organizing thingummy (Exhibit B - to the left here), only to realize when it arrived that it would accommodate only about half my collection. A second one was subsequently bought and put to use,and so now not only is my entire collection sorted beautifully, but I also have space for more.

Except that my friend's comments were followed by my new boss telling me this morning how I wear such different and lovely earrings. Which makes me think maybe I should cut down the buying any more part.

Triggers

An overheard conversation.

A conversation that made you smile. A conversation that made you furious. A conversation that made you wonder.

Something you saw on the drive to work. A movie you saw. An article you read.

A tweet. A Facebook post. A song on the radio.

Memories. Hopes. Questions you want to ask. Questions you want to answer.

Things you want to say. Things you have to say.

What makes you think? What makes you write?

Of conversations that come out of the blue

We had maybe two conversations all through business school, she and I. Our social circles were completely different, our lifestyles were completely different, and the only thing we probably had in common was that we both kept our distance from the "desi crowd" - her, a tad more than me.

We both ended up getting jobs in the same city, but since her job involves travel, and her personal life involves navigating a long-distance relationship, the first time we met after graduation was at the one-year reunion last month. Where we hugged and promised to get together if we were ever in Dallas at the same time. Because isn't that what you do?

But then she texted me earlier this week asking if I was free for dinner, and I shrugged and figured why not (even though can I just say that my food budget according to mint.com has been absolutely haywire this month, and I don't know where all this money has gone. End sidebar.) And ended up having an interesting evening, simply because it was - at least on my part - such an honest conversation.

We talked about the choices we've made - professionally, socially, personally. We talked of turning 30 - three months ago for her, a little more than a year from now for me. We talked of our families, parental expectations, what we look for in relationships, and knowing who we are. We talked of moving to the US from India - eight and three years ago, respectively. We talked of why we chose to distance ourselves from people we should have bonded with over a shared identity. And we talked of what it was like to make friends, meet people, form relationships, at this age, in a new city where you know practically no one. And by the time we parted, I felt like I understood her and her choices a little better.

Her name, when it would come up in conversations with the desi crowd, would always be met with eye rolls and sniggers, because she hung out with a very different crowd, and made no efforts to socialize with them. And I would listen and wonder if I was talked about similarly when I wasn't around (I'm pretty sure I was).

I had dinner with a couple of classmates and their wives last night. Over dosa and rasam, I mentioned meeting her earlier in the week. And listened to the same sniggering comments being made. And sighed on the inside.

She said something to me, just before we went our separate ways... something that made me smile and wonder. We had talked of meeting people and forming relationships, and I had, as I am wont to do, whined about being perennially single. And then the conversation turned to choices in life, and I mentioned something I had written about just over three years ago - about how I've never really gone after things, I've always let life happen to me. And she smiled and said, well then, maybe you need to sit back and just wait for this to happen too.

I wonder.

Of the month that was

There are times when so many things happen in such a short span that when you look back you wonder what the universe was even thinking. April was one of those months. Lovely, lovely things happened, but utterly annoying things also happened. And I wouldn't normally dedicate a whole post to such happenings, but my reminder for the second post of April has been going off every time I open my home laptop and who knew if you hit snooze often enough you come to the end of the month without that post getting written?

April involved travel - I was out three weekends in a row, and while they were all for nice reasons, things kept happening while I was traveling that interfered with fully enjoying said travel. On the other hand, I've gotten pretty darn good at packing lightly for a weekend. Also ability to be impulsive is improving.

The godfather visited Amreeka, and I got to see him this time, unlike the last time when stoopid ice storms cancelled all flights to and from Dallas. A friend got married, a friend got a job, a friend got evicted. The first elections back home I wasn't able to vote in, and a part of me was kinda relieved I didn't have to make that choice.

The mother decided she wanted to come visit me in May, so I first freaked out, then started planning Mother's Day. But then the father's eyes started acting up, and we said let's wait and see. Then, when I called them from San Francisco ten days ago (which in itself is rare, because I usually don't call them when I'm travelling) I was informed that all the meds he was on led to him collapsing, he had been rushed to the ER and was in hospital, and that the brother was flying down to Delhi. Okay then. As the friend I was staying with described it, "I came out of the room and she was crying on the phone, and then when I came out again she was yelling at her mother, so I knew it couldn't be too serious."

Tell me, it's perfectly normal for parents to take smiling photos of themselves in hospital rooms and send them to a daughter who's on the other side of the world, yes?

Anyway, he got better, and discharged within a day, but clearly the mother's trip is off. So I can put off that much-needed apartment cleaning even further.

I went back to school, for our one-year reunion, and I can't begin to describe to you how good it was to be back and see everyone. I have very mixed feelings in retrospect about my decision to go to business school, and the two years I spent there, but this weekend brought out everything I loved about those two years. So much happiness.

Unfortunately, on the Thursday of reunion weekend, I managed to sprain my back while lifting my suitcase, and the next 48 hours were excruciatingly painful. By Saturday I was better, because I had found just the right mix of ibuprofen, bengay, and heating patches that would help me get through the night, but then on Sunday I managed to slip and fall in the shower, and banged my elbow, and bruised myself in multiple spots, and basically gave myself another week of excruciating pain which is not helped in any way by the mother whatsapping every twelve hours asking "Hw nw?"

There are also multiple news items related to the brother that make me all squeee. I'm not allowed to talk about them in public but they make me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside because good things lie ahead. FINGERS ARE CROSSED OKAY?

Oh and I think I got the H1B visa lottery but I'm not entirely sure because the email and website confuses me so I'm just going to take the word of my friends and colleagues and assume I got it.

So yeah, that was April. I liked you, but I also kinda didn't. I'm glad you're over.

Of broken eggs and deleted posts

Sometimes you go to Whole Foods and accidentally drop a crate of eggs. And you pick up the crate and stand wondering what to do with it, and while you're standing there with yolk dripping on your fingers, a woman who's been glaring at you ever since it happened stops a Whole Foods employee and points him your way. And you keep apologizing, but he just laughs you off saying he drops eggs several times more than you do, and you don't feel so bad. And then you see the woman who was glaring at you look disappointed that you didn't have to burn in hell for what you did and you feel even better. And then you come home and type out a long FB update about the incident and the woman who wanted to see you pay for your sins but delete it without posting because you realize you have an overactive imagination and no one really cares.

And then you open Blogger and post it there instead because what is a blog for if not your overactive imagination that no one cares about.

Of flaws that exist

For reasons I'm not entirely sure of, I would like to make a list of things I am truly awful at. If anyone feels I have missed out on anything, you may inform me thusly and I shall add (if I agree). Except the mother. You are not allowed to add anything.

Any points any readers disagree with are also most welcome.

• Pouring liquids from one mug to another without spilling.
• Saying no to people.
• Being nice to the mother.
• Detecting the BFF's sarcasm (which is just weird, I know).
• Cutting vegetables in shapes that seem non-weird.
• Boiling potatoes and eggs.
• Anything that involves being domesticated, really.
• Demonstrating any sort of will power when it comes to exercise and weight management.
• Displaying facial expressions that don't give away the fact that I think you're an asshat.
• Power Point.
• Being social.
• Getting over grudges. Also developing grudges over things that shouldn't matter.
• Applying nail polish smoothly. And then sitting still long enough for it to not smudge.

What else?

The morning drive

There's something about watching a flock of birds, as they fly in perfect synchronization (assuming that is the right word), that makes the world seem a little more beautiful.

I was driving to work this morning, which by no means is ever my favorite thing to do, and as always, had to stop at a red light for about two minutes. And just as I stopped, a flock of birds rose up from the wires they were perched on, and flew as one, in circles over the intersection, repeatedly for the next minute or so. Then, they split into two groups, with one continuing as they were, and the other changing direction to fly in circles the other way. This flying in the face of each other by the two groups carried on for another minute or so, till the light turned green for me, and they, as one group again, turned direction to fly towards the wire they had flown up from to settle down again and watch the world go by. And watch me drive off with a little smile on my face.

It was a nice couple of minutes.

My lovely purple sweatshirt

Friends from home sometimes comment on my photos these days saying it's nice to see me in colour. There used to be a time when barring my Fab India dupattas, my wardrobe consisted almost entirely of white, blue, and beige. Maybe some black. This apparently has changed.

The first indication of this changing was in March 2009, when I impulsively bought this beautiful velvet-like purple sweatshirt from a random shop in Barcelona. It was a beautiful sweatshirt, perfect for nip-in-the-air-but-not-really-cold weather, and I loved it so. Unfortunately, by the time I got back to saddi Dilli summer was approaching so I put away my lovely new sweatshirt to wear when it more sense to.

That November was the first time I did the whole Great Delhi Walk to raise money for a cause. Since I had to leave really early in the morning, and the nip in the air was quite noticeable, I took out my lovely new sweatshirt to wear on the bus ride. I then gave it to a friend to keep in her car, who gave it to another friend for some reason, and since everyone dispersed very quickly after the run, my sweatshirt went away with her.

A year passed before I met my friend again, and I finally got my sweatshirt back when I went to pick up stuff for the next year's Great Delhi Walk. I wore my lovely purple sweatshirt almost constantly after that; it went me with on every trip I took, and I loved it so.

But then the sweatshirt started fraying (also I started putting on weight but whatevs), and it needed fixing. I got the tear fixed once, and then when I moved to Amreeka two years ago, I brought it with me. But then when the mother came to visit, we noticed it had torn a bit again, so she said she'll take it back to fix it. And she did.

And then I brought it back with me when I visited home, and it lasted fine till this summer. It had torn again by the time the family landed up for graduation, and this time even the zip wasn't working, so the mother said she would take it back with her again. At this point, my summer trip back home wasn't supposed to happen so I was sad about being without my lovely purple sweatshirt but I was brave and said okay.

And then my joining date for work got delayed by a month and I had no money in my bank account to do fun travel like all my classmates, and so we decided I would go home because who knows when I'll get chhutti after this. And when I got home and saw my lovely purple sweatshirt, I saw the tailor had taken out the entire zip and replaced it with a black cloth and zip.

WHO PUTS A BLACK ZIP ON A PURPLE SWEATSHIRT?

So now my lovely purple sweatshirt is ruined and I left it behind at home because I refuse to wear it with an ugly black strip down the center, and when I think over my years with it I feel it is a bit jinxed and I feel very sad.

Of something that changed

She was one of the first bloggers I started following when I discovered the world of blogs and Google Reader some, what, seven odd years ago? When I joined twitter a couple of years later, she was one of the first people I looked for and started following there as well.

She was - is - a few years older than me, and since I was still a student at the time, was fascinating to me as a single, working woman. She was independent, and confident, and sassy, and open about her life and relationships in a way I never saw myself being. She wrote beautifully, and I often found things on her blog that I had been thinking about only a few days previously, articulated and thought through in a way that seemed so perfect.

I never reached out to her in any way, beyond perhaps the odd comment on her blog, or a random exchange of tweets. But her thoughts, her writing - they continued to be favorites for a long time.

And then at some point, that changed. I started finding her posts a tad too much. There was bitterness creeping into them, her brand of feminism was becoming a bit too rigid for me, her standards were becoming a bit too high for them. Her accounts of relationships made me feel glad about my continued singlehood, her seemingly increased bitterness made me realise the mother might be right about me ending up a bitter and lonely spinster. She seemed to expect too much from the people around her, and was becoming a bit too caustic for my liking.

I'm not sure if this was true, or if it had always been there and I had just mellowed off-late. But at some point in the last month, I unfollowed her on Twitter. And it was easier than I expected. I still follow her blog, but I'm not how long that will last either.

I'm not sure what prompted a whole post about her. But it feels a little like a relationship - albeit one-sided - that suddenly changed and then soured. And it feels a bit sad.

Of squirrels and their stripes

The story goes that when Rama and his Vanara sena were building a bride to get to Lanka, a squirrel appeared out of nowhere and decided to help them, by taking one tiny pebble at a time and adding it to the bridge. The monkeys and bears of the Vanara sena saw this and started mocking and laughing at the squirrel, because y'know, how can that tiny thing help?

Rama, on the other hand, in his infinite wisdom and kindness and all of that, picked up the squirrel to thank it and and stroked it, which led to stripes appearing on the squirrel's back.

I had read this story years and years ago, but it came back to me last year when I came to the US and was startled to see these non-stripy squirrels all over the place. And now, every time I see a squirrel, I remember this legend.

Squirrel. It's a fun word. And a fun animal to watch.

Kiddo

A long, long time ago, he used to be scared of snakes. 

One morning, the four of us went out for brunch. It was a holiday, and just an hour back, I had tied a Rakhi on his wrist, despite the mother's annual grumbling that it wasn't really a Bengali festival. We were crossing the road to the restaurant when a snake charmer approached us. My kid brother, who was already itching to take the rakhi off, grabbed my arm and whispered, "Didi, can you just protect me today from that snake? I'll take care of you after this."

He's the complete opposite of me, the brother. He's reserved, practical, and inexpressive. I'm... none of the above. But then out of the blue, there'll be an email or a gift that will make me all emoshunal, just like that.

I used to bully him when we were kids. We played our own version of the Crystal Maze, he was my unwilling student in countless sessions of Teacher-Teacher, half his birthday gifts were automatically declared to be mine, and numerous other things I would rather not tell you. Then one day, he grew up, and wisened up. And now I go to him for advice, and he acts all wisdomous and all.

He left for the US for his undergrad studies on 24th August 2007. Rakhi that year was on 28th August. I broke down that day, because I had never spent Rakhi away from my kid brother. I sent him a rakhi and a card that year. Five months later, he came home for winter break. Suddenly, in the midst of all the animated catching up, he looked at me and said, "oh, wait." He pulled out his wallet, handed me the rakhi I had sent him, and asked me to put it for him. By the time we woke up the next morning, of course, it was hanging from his cassette rack on the wall, where most of his rakhis over the years landed up.

Last year, we exchanged countries. He went back to India after graduation, and I came to the US. I spoke to him an hour back. I told him we were discussing siblings at dinner tonight, and I had told them about Rakhi, and of this incident. He responded, "oh? I did that?"

*eye roll*

He thinks my blog is quite silly, so it's unlikely he'll read this post. But I just wanted to say, again, I love you kiddo. Despite the fact that you save my number under Duddo rather than Didi on your phone.

Chai and tea

This is a PSA for everyone who is confused about the difference between chai and tea, as well as for those who think they know the difference. Particularly the latter group, actually.

Because there is no difference. Chai is the Hindi word for tea. Tea is Chai. Chai is Tea. C'est tout.

The world is coming to an end when Indian hotels now look at you and ask if you want tea or chai.

Calling it chai tea is stupid and redundant. Calling tea-bag tea, tea and masala chai, chai is confusing and ridiculous.

Call it regular tea and spice tea if you want. Or regular chai and masala chai. BUT STOP MAKING IT SOUND LIKE TEA AND CHAI ARE DIFFERENT.

Okay bye.

Life and soul

I was in Calcutta some time back, my second visit in less than a month, and third in a span of six months. Which is sorta strange, because before that, I hadn't visited in more than two years.

I love Calcutta (in small doses, that is), but I can't really claim to know the city. Visits are too fleeting, and usually too much about family commitments, for me to ever have got the chance to get to know this city properly.

Those two years away, however, consisted of several work-related trips to Chennai. And every time I would visit Chennai, I would be struck by its similarity to Calcutta. The airports are identical, both cities have a sleepy, old-world feel to them, the narrow roads and flyovers in both seem to be fitted between two rows of old, rambling houses - you know? And in both cities, except for the odd pocket or area, you don't see nothing but tall buildings covered in glass.

Which brings me to a major grouse I have. What is this need to build office buildings covered in glass? Every where I look, a new office building is being constructed, covered in glass windows from top to bottom. While I assume the architects, in some corner of their hearts, wanted people to go "Ooooooh" on seeing these building, all I can think is how needlessly astronomical those window-cleaning bills must be.

And these buildings have no character, no soul to them, you know? They seem so... lifeless.

Whereas the nice, old-fashioned buildings with brick and concrete exteriors always seem so much more welcoming, elegant, and human.

Every time I visit CP, for example, I am struck by the Statesman Building. I had once tweeted that it's one of those buildings you have a love affair with from a distance. As Sahil had responded, you've never been inside, don't know what it's really like, but it catches your fancy every single time.

And seeing this photo (obtained from here - I love this site) a few days back reminded me of this old grouse. I have never understood why all modern buildings seem to be covered in glass. It's weird at night, when you can look in and see late workers at their cubicles. And there's just no charm to them at all.

You know?

After the rain...

Was going through unpublished drafts of old posts, and came across this one which started sometime in 2007:

Have you ever gone to your front gate after it's stopped raining and looked at those droplets of water that hang from the grill? Have you ever tried to take them onto your finger and balance them there for as long as possible?

My brother's friend was having lunch with us recently, and he was rather bewildered at the debate my brother and I were having over our individual reasons for enjoying filling ice trays. Personally, I love seeing the way the water cascades over the squares while you keep pouring the water in just one spot. I think it's just fascinating.

The brother had some other very elaborate reason for loving filling ice trays, which I can't now remember. I do however remember the bewildered look on his friend's face, and his "But... they're just... ice trays."

I was on the phone with the best friend yesterday, and our topic jumped from serious topic to frivolous jokes, and back to serious issues, with the same ease a gazelle displays while prancing around.

I miss having such random conversations. There are very few people you can have them with.

The essentials

I have a #genuinekoshchan, as they say on twitter, for the menfolk today. And to be absolutely fair, I also pose it to the women who will not identify with what I am going to ask.

How, in the name of all that is holy, do you people manage without handbags? To take off from what Shwetha wrote on her blog some time back, there are things that are essential and must be carried everywhere.

I'm known for my penchant for big handbags. I have, in my defense, tried buying smaller purses in the effort to look more formal or some such thing, but the things just don't fit in! There's my wallet (which in itself is fairly bulky), my keys, my little pouch which holds all the various loyalty cards I have (and as I've mentioned before, I have a lot), the case which holds both my glasses and my sunglasses, tissues and hand cleanser, and basic medicines which I always carry around. If it's the monsoon I carry a little umbrella with me, if it's winter a teeny-weeny bottle of moisturizer, and if I'm headed to work or for meetings, then I usually have a note pad and a pen. Sometimes there's a book. There's also the little Ganesha statue my mum gifted me which I carry. My phone and its earphones are usually in my hand anyway because I use it to listen to music - assuming I know where my earphones are, they are currently missing, does anyone want to gift me a pair?

I change my bags often, and each bag has a bunch of miscellaneous stuff anyway - old movie tickets, earrings I was wearing and took off because they hurt, the receipt from a restaurant or the NH-8 toll gate, the last eyeliner I lost. But the essentials listed above - those I move from bag to bag.

So tell me, how do you manage without all that? I mean, even if I'm going to a shaadi and am forced to discard my nice handbags, I usually have a tiny purse with the phone, some cash, and mayyyybe an eyeliner and/or lipstick to be on the safe side - because you know, we're girls and we need to use/carry these things blah blah blah. And if the car is there, I leave a handbag with everything else in the car!

Most of the guys I know roam around with just their wallet and their phone*. I used to stare open-mouthed at these girls in college who could come with one register and a tiny clutch purse which wasn't even big enough to carry their car keys and their phone. Well, they also wore heels to college, know full well that that was just a disastrous idea given the cobbled paths we had, but that's besides the point. My point is, don't you need all this stuff?

*This may be a good time to point out that the brother is not like that. He perpetually needs music and a book and so carries a jhola everywhere he goes. Very shmart the brother is.

Confessions Part 1: Subodh, tumhe time yaad nahi hai?

Quick, have you seen Dil Chahta Hai? Of course you have, you weren't born yesterday.

D'you remember Subodh's character? You know, Sonali Kulkarni's boyfriend till Saif and she got together in what was the weakest part of the movie?

There was a brilliant scene in the movie where Subodh's tendency to remember exact dates and times of event was brought to light, like so:

The family literally howled with laughter the first time we saw this scene because, quite frankly, this is exactly how ze father is. Ever since, the brother and I have taken to interrupting some of his more boring stories with the line "Subodh, tumhe time yaad nahi hai?"

What has struck me recently, however, is the fact that I am in fact as bad as, if not worse than, him (the comma usage in this line needs checking). Case in point: this post. I mean, who remembers such stuff? Me, apparently.

Chances are therefore, that if I've known you for a really long time, and if you're kinda important to me, I not only know your birthday and phone number by heart, but also remember exactly how and where we met/became friends, and have at least one weird memory which you would have totally forgotten about.

I also totally have a memory ready to relate as an example about ze father but a, he may not approve, and b, it is really long and boring.

I see potential in entering the blackmail business though.