Monthly Archives: April 2011

Random

Me to Armaan after his bath:

You smell so delicious, baby! I think I’ll chomp you right up.

The boy grins wickedly

Go upstairs and eat CANDY, Mamma!

Now if only my sweet tooth stopped there.

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In response to someone dear about the state of life in general:

Life? We’re in a passive aggressive relationship

It came out as a smartass thing to write, but turns out its true. Kicking my own butt requires an agility I don’t possess right now.

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In an attempt to be brave and embrace change – as opposed to shrieking and hyperventilating every time it comes within a five metre radius – I went for a haircut. I titled the project, “Changing Fixed Notions of Self”- in this instance, my hysterical “I Am A Long Hair Person” belief.

No really. I AM THIS STUPID IN REAL LIFE. You would smack me if you met me.

Go for it, says Andrea, my lovely hairdresser.

But.. but what if.. what..

STOP thinking, she says and goes on to lop of 8 inches while I hide my face in my hands.

Chrissakes, look! says Andrea in her cheeriest voice, (she who wears hot pink tights to match hot pink nails and was a few hours away from a 2 UNLIMITED concert! Andy, you and I are OLDDDD!)

I loved it. I would have made out with my hair if not for the fact that it was too short to even sniff. I kept checking out the nape of my neck which was every bit as fugly as I imagined it would be. I kept tossing my hair till I became insufferable to myself and had to give myself a stern talking to. I do that sometimes.

This works two ways, says Andrea, chic when straight and very naughty when curly.

Andrea, hairdresser and personality shaper. I could have bought her tickets for 2 Unlimited concerts the world over.

So great was my love.

The new me. Curls temporarily in hiding. Feel free to hit me with your worst puns.

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Today

..was a most wonderful day.

Today India won the ICC World Cup after 28 years and The Indian, The Norwegian and the bi-racial spawn jumped up and down in their living room while De Ghumaake blared. Our new neighbours who were literally just moving in, stopped to stare through our window at this insane display. They might just ask for their deposit back. Bye. Nice seeing you through the windowpane.

Today and the 30th of March surprised me because I am not a die-hard cricket buff. Not really. There is the rather apparent fact that I just cannot resist a great party, but the surprise has stemmed from how moved I have been by these sporting displays. It lifted itself so effortlessly beyond nationalism, beyond a people’s pride and gave us such pure glimpses of grace under pressure and grace in defeat and victory.

Today was wonderful because the Viking woke me up with a perfect cappucino and worried about “our team”. Can you tell that he takes his PIO card very seriously? The wannabe-Indianness in him is unfailingly endearing, especially given that I laugh and scoff my way through the Winter Olympics biathlon with a “seriously! Is all this snot and spit dangling off their faces supposed to MAKE me want to watch???”

Today, it really mattered to be with someone who cared as much about this outcome as I did. Someone who comforted me when it looked grim and who whooped and cheered the boundaries and the sixes with the same enthusiasm.

My son happily spent the entire day watching this thrilling match with me. I translated the Indian national anthem for him and I choked up with tears. He looked concerned and I had the chance to explain to him, in simple terms, how strange and difficult it is sometimes to not live in a country that possesses your heart so fully. How the smallest things can sometimes trigger a longing so powerful that it can knock you off balance.

Today I heard myself say, “I’m sorry, Arvind, but Mamma is so happy that she quietly needs to say a really bad word now.”

And he grinned back at me and said, ” It’s cool. I know you’re happy.”

Armaan drank my adrak chai and danced to Gal Meethi Meethi Bol. The Viking informs me that he also stood on our windowsill and flashed *GASP* our new neighbours. We can’t afford trauma compensation, I told him dryly. I’m hoping that this won’t reveal itself to be pattern of behaviour for the times he feels slightly neglected.

I smoothly transitioned into my mother when I calmly turned on my squabbling kids and said, “If you’re going to insist on fighting, take it outside. Kill yourselves there. There’s a match going on inside.”

Today was about the awesomeness of social media – the comments, the bonding, the virtual high-fiving across continents and timelines. The thrill in knowing that so many were foregoing sleep and routine to watch and hope together. Even before victory was a certainty, the day was touched by joy and and a sense of uncomplicated oneness. An absence of malice. (Ravi Shastri, of course, excelled in milking malice from commenters, but really – he has only himself to blame.)

Today, I had no clue who Poonam Pandey was and I have still not bothered to google her. She may or may not be naked when I make her media acquaintance.

I wondered idly if Rahul Gandhi could possibly be as goodlooking as he appeared on television. I giggled because he looked impossibly bored by the women who insisted on “entertaining” him.

Today we ate takeaway and dinner was ice cream. With champagne for the adults.

Did I already say it was a fantastic day? Right then.

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