Say aaah...

Don’t we love to see the line of qualifications following a doctor’s name? Little brackets announcing that the doc’s MD is not from any local college, but from London, Yankee land or Timbuktu… It's a great source of amusement to ask the doc about his experiences practising in Australia. “Being among Kangaroos was a medically enriching experience. And patients there are so refined.” (said with far-away look in eyes)
Oh, note to myself: Next time I see a doctor for pneumonia, I must remember to clean my swollen nose and wear my best dress.
Maybe it’ll be easier if docs just put up a poster spelling out the code of conduct for patients:
“Thou might be itchy, but thou shalt not scratch. Thou might have sinusitis, but thou shalt wipe your leaky nose only with a silk hanky (with monogram). Thou might have a sore throat, but thou shalt address the doc only in the loveliest baritone. And thou shalt leave thine wallet with the receptionist on thy way out. What is thou going to with an empty wallet anyway?”
I have only once dared to venture into a clinically clean, swanky hospital in pyjamas. Though the berating looks I received have scarred me for life, I still prefer it to a half-heartedly stitched up hospital gown that doesn’t leave anything carnal to the imagination. (Why do you think in-patients lie down so much? The stupid back-bearing outfit manages to foil all your plans of running away from the hospital.)
You might excuse a doc’s bizarre idea of what constitutes clothing, considering that he has to remember so much Latin. But hey, one man’s doc is another man’s poison.

the neuter vrroom

There's a motorbike made exclusively for women. Its called black barbie. Ahem. Liking neither nomenclature nor idea behind the exclusivity.
But why should i feel thrilled when i see a woman in salwar-kameez zip past me on on a mobike? I should think it normal, shouldn't i? Aren't i supposed to be worldly?
Damn, forget it... i rode an RD350 some hours ago. So I've kicked ass of enough advertisers who sell bikes as 'Definitely male'. And it was fun riding pillion too. Whether I'm holding the handle-bar or carrier, its just about getting some place, after all.

all for me?

give and take has to be a myth. how can it be real when take-take-take feels sooooo good? unless give means "give me"

celling my soul... not!

i fought hard and strong. honour mattered, nothing else. so people who had them were accessible. i refused to scrunch up my eyes staring at a little green screen (i know they have 'moonlight' and 'bluelight' now. they're imprisoning too).
push-button age. Picking up a cell meant surrendering wonderful day-dreaming. Filling up every unoccupied moment with snakes and bricks. My answer to "whats your currency?" always brought on exasperated sighs. i hear its not "the rupee" anymore. and i always wondered why people said "i HAVE roaming".. like the ability to walk around joblessly was a possession.
i wanted to stay uninfected. news about tariffs and SIMS were arduously blocked out.
nowwwwwwww i bow my head in shame, holding a nokia 3310 in my hand, understanding what pre-activated and recharged means.
but i hereby take this oath:
i will not pace while talking on the cell, just becoz its a 'mobile phone'. i will not dedicate all lunch conversations to 'how to get the cheapest connection'. i will not let something 1/1000th my size rule me.

kitne aadmi the?

did he really make shoes for gabbar singh? 'Little corner' he calls his shop. 'Fida' he calls himself. sitting in a seedy, wet, overly-mirrored (he said he was in a reflective mood) carton-sized store, surrounded by chappals that mirza ghalib, jahangir, allabaksh of shivajinagar, pooja tandon from vogue fashion designing institute and some penniless shoppers with honest faces would venture to buy. a "14-year-old" boy helps you try on some pairs... you get gingery sugarcane juice (Kempfort, take a hike!)... and the bestest part: unbelievable conversation!!
"oh,these kolhapuris chappals are fully hand-made... hamara (note the royal collective pronoun) export ka business hai. tamil nadu, hyderabad, mumbai, we export everywhere. you know, sholay? haaan... you know gabbar singh's shoes? abhi dikhatha hoon. (rummages in chappal pile at his feet and fishes out a huuuuge shoe, face beaming with pride of possession) we made this. (pause for effect) if you want, we can get it custom-made for your size."
i do some basanti bits, and he does some "arey oh saamba!". before we get to the "jab thak hai jaan... mai nachoongi" part, i quickly change the subject. who is that person shaking mohammed ali's hand in that framed photo? What?? YOU, MR.FIDA?? What?? You've met madonna and micheal jackson? some people just have aalll the luck.
i say this with deeply felt guilt: the conversation got me the chappal for half the rate. but i came back home with more gyan about how married life weakens your hair follicles & how a squint makes you lucky. wonder how i can wear-out my footwear faster...