Friday, May 22, 2009

What is it about that sad sad song with its soaring violins and weeping melody, that gets to us so? Why do we persist in making our heartbreak worse with sad songs? Why must I listen to Damien Rice singing “And why'd ya sing Hallelujah/If it means nothing to you/Why'd you sing with me at all” when I already feel like shit? It’s not even as if the words are especially brilliant. It’s not like I enjoy this feeling of wanting to go on long bawling trip, curled up into a ball the windows closed. Especially not when stuck in office with the most inane cover story in the history of all cover stories. I don’t need to make my claustrophobia worse with that melody that chokes me even as it moves. Why do I do this? Why does my already low, friend listen to So Unsexy over and over again? Are we perverse or what?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Hollywood wisdom

"Girls are taught a lot of stuff growing up: if a boy punches you he likes you, never try to trim your own bangs, and someday you will meet a wonderful guy and get your very own happy ending. every movie we see, every story we're told implores us to wait for it: the third act twist, the unexpected declaration of love, the exception to the rule. but sometimes we're so focused on finding our happy ending we don't learn how to read the signs. how to tell the ones who want us from the ones who don't, the ones who will stay and the ones who will leave."

Gigi, He's Just Not That Into You, 2009

May be if I read this enough, I'll remember not to forget.

Monday, May 11, 2009

why boys are stupid

so it's raining after one of the hottest and most humid week ever. My work's mostly done and I really feel like a drive and coffee. And unfortunately for me drive and coffee type things can only happen with boys ( my equally unfortunate girlfriends don't have cars and aren't trusted with their parents' cars either). So I dig out boy's number from a stream of texts ( I will so not save his number, given number of times I have ended up drunk-texting/dialling), and half smiling at the thought of coffee and the lovely weather, dial... Dated Rahman number as caller tune should have brought me back to earth but nooo, am still dreamy-eyed.

Me, sweet voiced, cheery: about to say hi

Him: Han, Ma bolo.

Me: what the fuck?!

arggh, a particularly dense/ hard of hearing boy: han ma bolo

Me: Ma? what the fuck

Him: Oh it's you... listen, I'm driving now. Will call later.

Why girls are not...

Deflated I walk back to my comp to see an office atex message blinking.

Debo: It's raining. Am drenched:D

Me: You went downstairs without me?!!

Debo: no no, was at the verendah

Me: You wanna go downstairs and get wet?

Debo: lets lets

So we rush down, leave a crowd of puzzled, elderly men smoking at the porch, and into the rain and the already waterlogged pavement. We wade across to the opposite side order tea, run to the pan shop to buy cigarettes, and stand around shivering, smoking, sipping tea, grinning from ear to ear. " I feel like dancing," I say. Debo smirks knowingly: "You already are."

Inside, shivering harder, grinning even harder, when another random elderly man looks awestruck : "Bhijte gechile naki?" We only giggle harder.

Boys stupid. Girls be smarter.

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

So Unsexy, Alanis Morissette

Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought only my father could

Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I'm all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm 13 again am I 13 for good?

I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind

Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I'm devastated

When will you stop leaving baby?
When will I stop deserting baby?
When will I start staying with myself?

Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me

I love this woman. She gets us so.

Monday, May 04, 2009


So it's 2:30 Pm and page release time. And the cover story has a quote about someone gushing about Hrithik's eyes. (Or was it his nose?) Except the person quoted is not qualified with name, age profession etc. And since the reporter is on leave, SeniorPerson1 and SeniorPerson2 decide to pick a suitably "gushy" age.
SP1: Make it 24.
SP2: 24? No no. 19 is more fitting I think.
SP1( disbelievingly): 19?...(pause, and then she looks at me) Malini how old are you? 23 or 24?

By the way, I am now 2 years, 13 days and 6 hours old at this office. When does one stop being "of gushy age" ?