Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Fixation: Part I

Little Washedup with Veena Chachi

When I first discovered that breasts held me captive, I was a mere lad of 7. Veena Chachi , my paternal aunt from Delhi, was visiting us in Bangalore. My mother, a harassed, young looking army wife, much raved and ranted of Veena Chachi's impending visit. After all, she was never pleased easily with orange squash from the army canteen or the regular samosas and talked too much. The fact that her two children were a little hazardous to my Mom’s dinner wagon of precious Siliguri crystals dint thaw my Mother much either. Veena Chachi belonged to a rich "South Daali" business family that traded in jewellery. She personified Dillipan so well : Lazy, loud, be-jewelled, shrewd and totally humongous that she almost looked like a beached whale. My petite, cotton sari clad, pearl string donned mother almost looked like a severe school matron in comparison to Veena Chachi . My two cousins, her two children , were little “Dilli-bubbas”: whining, competitive and destructive.. Veena Chachi had ample breasts that bordered more on being “obscenely generous” than on being “well endowed”. I am not too sure if I ogled at them too much, but I surely got to feel them a lot. Oh no. Not what you think. Back then the Pervert Quotient was very low in me, and I could not even imagine cupping, or should I say , arming them. It’s just that Veena Chachi petted me a lot, hugged me a lot and always clutched on to me. She would pluck me from my study table, tell her two impossible kids to “simmer down” and make me sit on her lap and talk for hours. That would ensure two things, first, her not having to help Ma in the kitchen and second, worm out dirty family secrets like if Pa drunk a lot or if Ma partied a lot or in any “Uncle” came about in Pa’s absence. She would drag me to the guest room, would lie on the bed talking, rest on one hand, turn on one side, keep telling her kids to simmer down like they were a rabbit stew and pretty soon snore away to oblivion.

And as she would sleep, I would cuddle up next to her to avoid her two bratty children. They always beat me up. Also this tactic worked well for me because Ma could not bulldoze me into stupid home work. And while she slept, Veena Chachi's big bosom would heave up and down, like gigantic water lions hobbling on the beaches. I would lie next to her, very close and would try not to look at the bright magenta brassiere that peeked out of her yellow top. I would wonder why Ma would wear those boring white ones. Occasional black ones but generally tame white ones. Sighing at the wonderment heaving up and down in front of me and confused at the difference between Ma's choice of lingerie and Veena Chachi’s, I would drift away to la-la-land as well

Monday, June 22, 2009

do the math floozie!!!

mba mitigates risk. u get a job. u get paid. become another coca-cola bottle, lady luck may appoint u a prodigal child and u may appear in CNN live or in WSJ or in ET, but hey its like the government bond. low risk low return.

i flirt with "what if i quit the rat race and write a book". that means i then go to Davidar from Penguin and see how can i get my book published. and well, wait, what then, I also walk in as another one to give him a run around?...he writes and publishes too. wont i be another threat. what am i worth to him really? and more importantly, then what do i write as my eulogy - consulting background, married and lives with her husband and money plants on 8th floor in Kondapur, Hyderabad? where is the Oxford? where is the Mumbai or New York? and imagine my "Blah Blah" titled book next to "Etc. etc." by Rushdie, Seth, Pamuk and Lessing...not to forget Huxley!! who will read me?

see thats why an mba....low risk low return...shut the gob and do the dhanda, like the great Cornflakes Toad!!!

It ain't easy no where, darling!!!

consulting sucks. especially if u are a woman. and a married one at that. office work gets endless. home gets tiring with spoilt spouses who become suddenly juvenile after marriage and maids not turning up. nothing else is so bad. or so i thought. till recently one of my maths faculties in my GMAT coaching institute told me her schedule of 18-hours day. she leaves home at 5.30 am and reaches back at 8.30 pm to find kids hungry and wailing and the husband on the computer playing some game. as she asks him why the kids went hungry, she gets a screaming match. she gets a day off a week. never a saturday or sunday and never off on a holiday. whoever said life is fair. yet day in and day out , so many of us GMAT aspirants try re-schedule timings coz we have some work threads to be taken care of. and she relents. just this morning with GMAT 4 weeks away I was hyper-ventilating, and she re-assured that with her around, things should be smoothe for me. i just hope she has that kind of a mentor too!!

Friday, June 12, 2009

da da da da...duh!!!

its morning half passed five. everyone's asleep. i just made some red tea. i added a cinnamon bark to it. i like it sugarless. i slide the terrace door and gingerly step out on the terrace. i breathe in the wet morning. the lazy "aama miah" rain in hyderabad is so refreshing. the money plant needs some pruning and i can only half heartedly blame my procastination. its so not in my list of things to be honest. i sip my tea and lean across the railing. in B603 i see Mrs Upadhyay. Bunned. Saree carelessly draped and a red bindi. the bengali shakha. in her 60's .lean and hard. she sits on the white garden chair, sipping her tea too. looking through the thick famed glasses. i guess the servant boy is not more than 12. he gets her something in a bowl. i see her setting it down on the little table hidden behind the unkempt foliage of her terrace. then she does something that enraptures me. a very normal act but magical. she un-buns her hair, loosens them, lets them lazily fall and cascade down. from this distance i cant see the grey strands, but i have seen her strolling around the apartment complex. there are ample greys. she dips her finger tips into the bowl and gently runs through her scalp. she oils her hair slowly. deliberately. my tea is finished. i need to go in as the day beckons me. i just found the whole act soothing. very different from my quick ministrations.

o jeeeeeeeeez..

i caught Ahem digging something. nose! i would and should have been grossed out. but i was not. why? i was enthralled by the expression of intense concentration. the utter bliss at locating the itchy malicious culprit, Iggy. Our digger did what i expected ... took out Iggy, looked at Iggy dispationnately, rolled Iggy between the fingers and let Iggy roll away on the soft carpeted floor of the mnc office space. till Miss Stilts passed by, perhaps having just crushed Iggy mercilessly under those profanely expensive shoes, smiled at Ahem, shook hands with Ahem and said " Good Morning"