My ancestors have long since, had a propensity to have their last children as an afterthought, well into middle age, resulting in large age gaps and weird relationships between the siblings. What is characterized by mostly indifference and occasional meanness in teenage, turns into a slightly maternal, indulgent sort of dynamic as we get older. Without going back into the family tree too far, I am guessing that’s how the mutter felt about her kid sister. This kid sister in turn, closer to me in age than to my mother, has spent a good part of her youth keeping me entertained, by means of long Scooty rides to suffer 90s Bollywood and stuff my chubby face. Naturally, the mother hen in me must do its duty, and it did for one year, while I was in Pondy making money. Gundu and I have had the occasional girls’ days out, enduring various travails such as Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief and Subway lunches. J has since taken over this duty after I left for which I am grateful, but can’t help feeling slightly guilty about not being able to do myself.

So I was thinking of what to do, staring at the ceiling one night, and a Sirji with what an idea came. I got very excited, and spent the next hour turning on the shut down computer to jot a few things down, and then shutting it down, only to turn it on in a minute again. At dawn, I was pwning the Energizer bunny’s ass.

So the idea was… that I would write her a birthday song, and send her a video clip of my singing it. Write a song meaning, not compose a song like these song artistes do, shuarely, but simply write my own words to an already existing song.  As is always with inspiration, the words were flowing once I had made my decision, and boy, was I proud. I had decided which T shirt to wear in the video and even dreamt about the clip going viral. Very excitedly, I told the mother, See? Such a cool idea, no?

And the mother thupped, of course. Not without reason, really. Two paatu mamis over the course of five years, silently tolerated my brutal attack on Carnatic music and their ear drums – where Bilahari sounded like Malahari, and Shanmugapriya like Karaharapriya, Natakapriya or Sripriya, I still can’t tell – before I voluntarily relieved them from the torture. I have, on many occasions, been mistaken for the fother on the home phone; such is the mellifluous quality of my voice. I thought I could make up for my lack of singing talent with my expressions, but would’ve ended up looking like a mental Genelia type, which is my least favourite type, among all types of everything that ever existed.

So singing and histrionics were out, and I was feeling a little sad and a lot less clever. And then I thought that just the words themselves might make a sweet enough gift, and set out to complete the song, which I would’ve then emailed to the Gundu. Good thing I looked before I leapt.

Previous attempts at writing songs and poetry have revealed that I have the earnestness of a five year old, and the talent of a two year old in these matters. “I went to bed, and rested my head” would about aptly paraphrase my idea of good poetry. My own ability to write a song or poem would naturally be infinitely worse; sample this:

You are a big girl now.
Study very well,
And people would tell,
Oh what a smart girl, oh wow!

As is noticeable from that one tiny excerpt, thanks to aforementioned mother hen tendencies, my song had turned out quite preachy, and I was sounding uncannily like the mother (Don’t blame me. Girls my age are busy having babies). Sounding like the mother wasn’t a problem; I certainly wish I sounded like her when I sing. Sounding unlike myself was the problem. Consider what Amma-Appa have to say, even if you don’t agree, went my song.  Don’t cut your hair, how does my crop look? Don’t go this weekend, see you Monday. Don’t step out in the rain, achhhhooooooooo. Don’t tell anyone how you feel, oh by the way I confessed my crush. Write AIEEE, bwahahahahahaha. Consider what they have to say? Look who was talking.

Precociousness is not cool, went my song. Of course, “look who was talking” could well apply in this case as well – master of all bad words at age 12 – but that was not my particular grouse with that line. If you had not listened to Amma Appa, you always could start at some point. Precocious hardly ever becomes non-precocious. Gundu’s surprise birthday cake from friends (cut at midnight no less) alluded to her having a good figure. I would not have dreamt of a midnight surprise, or heard the end of teasing to this day if a bunch of boys had acquiesced in acknowledging my figure when I was 15. Of course Amma and I were lamenting kids these days, while Appa was chuckling in amusement. Moni, the cake said ‘Happy Birthday Mis Figure’ instead of Miss Figure – you think they attempted to pun? Yes pa, it is more likely that a bunch of loud 15 year olds who read precious little, actually tried to pun, than that the cake kaaran made a spelling mistake. Zzz.

So much for inspiration flowing. Not only were the words all wrong, but I realized that the words were set to a song that was a childhood favourite of mine. What would qualify as Gundu’s childhood song? Ladki badi anjaani hai? I wouldn’t be caught dead writing words to that one.

So I did the decent thing: dumped the song in Recycle Bin, and screamed HAPPY BIRTHDAY GUNDU on the phone like a maniac.

Why do certain situations demand certain reactions? Why can’t I be happily unemployed instead of unhappily unemployed as I am expected to be? Most people in the world also happen to be unhappily employed. Of course, I’d rather be happily employed, but at least I am happy in the meanwhile, right?

***

Of course, there’s a reason for my being happy. I got off my smug ass, fought the ennui and started to work as a volunteer, which makes me even more smug.

At the cost of sounding holier-than-thou, I am learning that absolutely nothing is beneath you. It is certainly worth shedding the ego and opening your mind a bit. I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw.

Of course, this volunteering business buys me time to stay in the country to continue looking for work. But then, I am also happy to realize that when pay or promotion isn’t a motivation, ideas certainly are. I love my job when I think of something to do and have a chance to do it. I feel valuable, like I am really making a difference, sitting on the balcony of a church, with pews for seats in the meeting room. Of course there are dull days and weekends are a relief, but on most days, I go to work singing aloud. And that’s saying something.

***

In the meanwhile, I continue to look for a paying job. But every day, I am able to appreciate my situation more. Few people are lucky enough to be able to take their time finding a job without too much pressure, and with lots of support, financial and moral. Living at the edge of the underbelly of this great city, walking past the projects to go to work everyday, and watching people devote their time without remuneration is humbling and inspiring.

Apparently Sani is in a perfect place, and Guru is really strong but in tension with Suryan. But the tide is turning, and so, I ought to recite Aditya Hrudayam to move things along a bit.

And when I do find a job, I will first buzz everyone on my Gtalk, prompt them to ask me now about my job scene. And then I will write a smug post on this blog. Post a status on Facebook and force the friends to comment. Discover the perfect reason to reactivate my twitter account. Do a mad jig in my bathroom, and post the video on Youtube. And then, I will run on the streets in the rain and display mental behaviour like a Tamil cinema heroine.

***

I wish that someday, I write an autobiography, and then pretentiously name this chapter of my life, ‘Eliot and Unemployment’; talk of how Eliot and Godard helped me through my dark days. In reality, I am reading a book of JFK’s sexual escapades, and watching Baasha when bored.

Above mentioned book somehow succeeds in being clinical and vivid all at once. Apparently, the ‘subject’ once had a  you-know-what that could have been twanged like a tuning fork. Now you know how worthily I spend my time.

Somehow, there is something about adultery that makes me sick in the pit of my stomach. I cannot read about it or watch it depicted on screen and go to sleep in peace.

***

And then there are days when it seems like you are going to make some money, and so in anticipation you go ahead and indulge in a Gujarati thali, convinced that you deserve it. But the money never comes, and you are left nursing an upset stomach for having been such a glutton.

Apparently the lack of economic prosperity is reflecting on my physical self. I got an email from the mutter telling me that the fother is very worried upon seeing some pictures, and advising me to “eat bananas and all”. With that stomach? No, thanks.

The lack of a full-length mirror in the new house is causing you to check yourself out at every store window you pass, making you look like the most narcissistic ass this side of the planet. E then says that all girls do that all the time anyway, and you call him a wife-beater. What a happy household we are.

***

The most recent excitement in the household came in the form of an idli cooker. None of us had eaten an idli in over a year, and thus, the usually universally-panned lowly idli caused many a ripple. You know how these irritating Indians living in the US will praise a mere ooruga to the heavens? Like that.

And then, those who make pasta and panneer quite nonchalantly had no idea how an idli is made. After gathering a consulting committee, wondering whether to put water in the cooker or not and constantly sticking a fork in the idli like we would check a cake in the oven, we successfully became the first people in the history of mankind to burn an idli.

Of course, that was only the first batch. Subsequently, the specimen felt like mallipoo, resembled Khushboo, and tasted, well, like good idlis should.

***

The most shocking revelation came in the form of my Activities and Interests on Facebook including Amnesia Ibiza, Key Vive, Christmas Miller and Diabetes. Doubtless came from my browsing Facebook on my random touchphone with my fat finger. Like how I once poked an unknown boy and had to clarify, and ‘liked’ a status message that announced another boy going from “in a relationship” to “single”.

While I couldn’t make out what Amnesia Ibiza is, the Christmas Miller page had some buxom girls revealing all, like on benaughty.com. And diabetes is sure to become an activity and interest if I don’t stop eating whole boxes of kaju katli by myself.

***

Few things as happy-making as an iPod shuffle dishing exactly what you want to listen to that moment. Few things as cathartic as chopping off half your hair. Few things as comforting as seeing an important person in a crumpled jacket at a fancy event, clunky silver et al, that you have tried very hard to look spiffy at.

Anything with the word Harvard in it, somehow manages to sound so so fancy. I wouldn’t mind going to a Harvard Tutorial College in T Nagar. Oxford, not so much.

***

Yes, I have an Indian accent. Anyone who claims to have gotten an American accent from being here just over a year, is obviously faking it.

No, I don’t know what a ‘daatabase’ is. I only know Daata Udipi Hotel.

And please. Try not making Bono sound like an uncool Banu.

***

Yes, I have to learn brevity.

In other news, I now have ads appearing on my blog. Does that mean I have arrived?

I know that what follows is bound to look like some self-important piece of shit; highly presumptuous about the importance of my blog on the internet or any blog or means of online presence in general. Then again, like it or not, social media plays a huge role in our lives, has known to have had political consequences and influenced society in many ways. As a writer and fan of personal blogs where people can describe anything from painful childhood memories to bedroom antics and find readership, empathy and appreciation, it might be ok to write about a train of thought sparked by my personal experience. By virtue of simply being writers of personal blogs and post-ers of pictures, notes and status messages on social networking sites, we are nothing if not self-important, presumptuous people.

There seems to be an obsessive need for validation from others, especially in social media. Just like we would be slightly miffed if no one noticed a new haircut, there seems to be some grief when no one acknowledges something you have done online: changed a profile picture, posted a Facebook note, updated a blog, or tweeted something that you thought was quite smart. Usually I meet with reactions (admittedly only from friends) as soon as I post a note/blogpost, and when that didn’t happen yesterday, I knew something was amiss. The worth of most things online seems to be measured only by validation from others, and these others are not always your friends.

People, me inclusive, often like to believe that the internet and social networking sites are only ways of keeping in touch with friends and the important people of your lives. But the truth is that for many of us, me inclusive, these have also become means to impress a prospective employee, get noticed and be respected, and fall in love – not always intentionally. It is perhaps important to acknowledge the fact that the internet is actually really very big, so big that it could jeopardize your life in some manner. I removed the post mostly because I am at a crucial stage in my life, going through a prolonged period of unemployment and desperately looking for work. A Google search of my name throws up my blog; and if even just a handful of people were disgusted by what they read on it, it is possible that a prospective employer might be, too.

We might all want to come across as irreverent and rebellious and unconventional, but many of us are wondering what strangers may think of us online. It made me anxious about whether I was repulsing an imaginary someone with my scatological story (even if only of me as an infant, and even if it did really repel people I knew) or whether it would affect my social life or whatever. And this is a very real worry, not just a product of my paranoia. Some people only know you by what you write. While it may not be important what an inconsequential stranger thinks and while it may be impossible to please everyone, there is no need to put anyone off. After all, my scatological adventure as an infant is not going to have a bearing on Team Anna in any way, and the internet is perhaps a better place without it being chronicled.

Which brings me to what I actually said in the post. The post did not actually center on the scatology, simply made a reference to it, and one that did not even seem too graphic to my eyes, eyes that don’t even have a taste for this kind of humour in the first place. The feminist in me wonders if it perhaps, just perhaps, might have been more acceptable if a guy had said it. For instance, it’s OK for the guys to be dirty and sloppy, yet somehow adorable in these Judd Apatow movies, and not often is a girl shown to be either of these things. (She is most often a shrill insufferable stickler for cleanliness.) Is it a general expectation from the fairer sex to not be, or say some things? Then again, considering that I did take off the post for whatever reason, I myself am probably not as liberated from these shackles as I like to think I am. This is perhaps the most valuable personal revelation from this exercise.

There are several others. I really must stop pushing my self-deprecation to the edge of the cliff. Most of the time, I think I push it over the edge, like I did with the now-gone post. Woody Allen would be put to shame if only he read this. My mother cannot fathom why a confident, self-respecting young woman would call herself ‘ugly naked girl’ and she has a point. I must tone it down. That said, I must learn to take criticism well without being paranoid, and respect the opinion of everyone within the limited democracy that the internet allows for those who are privileged enough to afford to own an internet connection. Particularly since the internet is, for better or worse, a medium in which everyone creates and consumes content, there is no one authority and no one’s opinion is invalid. Again, that said, I must learn to be more proud of not just myself, but also the stuff I write. I should accept its faults, but also defend it when it deserves to be defended.

Someday, when I am mature (or liberated) enough to not let a simple blogpost affect my life, maybe I will repost it online. Simply for character-building. Not at all for validation from others

Now you can close your moral story books and go to bed. Pah.

But now suddenly, approaching the twilight of 23 that I am, it does not seem so silly anymore. T got married a few weeks back, and the only good thing about missing her wedding, is the bypassing of the whole family pouncing on me to say “You’re next.” To say the same thing to them at the next funeral is a funny idea alright, but I don’t know of a single person who ever got a chance, or the heart, to say that to anyone. (On the other hand, the oldies shall always be allowed to piss us off, trample on our feelings and gift us insomnia for the nights. That’s how life works.)

In light of T’s wedding and my currently unemployed status, my mother has been gently suggesting that she “start looking” now, because “these things take time.” (This makes the whole love marriage or arranged marriage thing sound like the most wonderful question in the world! At least there is still a choice!) Job or no job, now is the time that the mothers of girls start getting a little restless. “Besides, it is not like you are doing anything about it no? So at least let me do something,” is the mutter’s point, which from her warped POV, makes some sense. My being 23 makes her feel old and responsible and the need to see her daughter settled, no matter how.

But that is not the way it works for us, right? For instance, I can think of several reasons why I should have a love marriage:

a)      I do not have a fanatic father who will shout in surround sound DTS effect and irrationally disapprove of my falling in love without any reason and lock me up in my room where I shall weep like a damsel in distress. If anything, sometimes I drive my father to the point that makes him want to lock himself up inside a room and weep endlessly.

b)      I do not have an older sister who ran away with some wastrel mechanic type, making me duty-bound to my parents’ foolish sentiments of only getting their other daughter married to someone they find for her. (Although I can’t, for the life of me, remember exactly which movie that was.) If anything, I am likely to be that older sister running away with some mechanic type, but my eloping with anyone today seems like such an impossibility; so chill, Gundu.

c)       I do not have some morai mama that I was promised to when I was conceived, nor did anyone peep through the olai sandhu while I bathed in my petticoat, for the panchayat to demand that my honour be saved by my being married off to the creep. If anything, if despite my best efforts, I am caught undressing through the one blinds-less window in my room, the neighbour will probably secretly refer to me as ‘ugly naked girl’, and needless to say, no one is getting us married.

d)      My parents found each other, dood. It’s just plain uncool that I ask them to engineer my set up with someone, when they, a whole generation ahead, didn’t do that. It’s like, many steps back from homosapien to Neanderthal. Minus the hot cavemen.

More seriously, I do not have anything against arranged marriages. I think it takes immense courage to take that leap of faith into the unknown, being fully aware that you might not survive and to make the decision happily and consciously like T did (unlike say, resorting to an arranged marriage in order to cope with a broken heart, or doing it due to resignation and defeat to family pressures). These things can be pretty romantic when the girl is not treated like a commodity in the market. It’s just that I have never seen myself as an arranged marriage type; in my opinion, I am chicken to begin with, ineligible and unsuitable for the arrangement in many respects, and only a few of them are actually cool respects, like the tattoo I am hopefully getting next week.

Of course there is the fear that I’d end up with a narrowminded slob (*shudder*), even if some parents really do find a true rockstar for their daughters. But frankly, to hell with modesty, my problem is that I didn’t think the day would come when my mother would even gently suggest she start looking, because there wouldn’t be a need for that. But considering the limited, untimely luck I have had in matters of the heart so far, apparently there is.

Of course I am too young, and it’s too early and ridiculous. Of course I will resist and resist until some day, a hot, older, uncynical man a la Rahul Bose will come by and make it all ok, or till the day I get old and lonely and wish to ‘settle down’ myself, god forbid. Nothing is going to happen for the next few years even if the ball started to roll just about now. It just pisses me off that my mother is gently suggesting it. It is just such a huge dent to the ego, it really is; one of those things that you think will never happen to you, but it all does, like in your worst nightmare, where you are unemployed and single and away from home, and your mother offers to set you up with someone. The horror, the horror.

And you protest, rightfully so, and your mother thinks it is all a case of the-lady-doth-protest-too-much. How did I even get to this point? Unemployment makes me even more angry and angsty and overreactive than ever. I need a job, I really do. A Rahul Bose wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

PS: Situation song, if only I had a girl-in-the-chudidhar equivalent.

And feel like it is within yourself that you are looking.

A little like watching the street through the glass,

And watching yourself watching.

Wondering if anyone will stop at your window,

And in one moment, change your life forever.

Or imagining someone across the street, watching you

Wondering if you could change their forever.

Of dark droplets from the sky that fall forth

Slower and slower as they get closer.

And in the forever it takes for them to get to you

Wondering what they shall bring with them.

Will they disappear in the darkness of my hair,

Or make inky blotches on yellow hem?

I sometimes wish I knew.

But for now, this will do.

This limbo while waiting and watching

As the world goes on, blissfully unaware.

The uncertainty, exciting and strangely comforting,

Sitting on the earth, the water blurring vision.

Knowing is perhaps overrated.

In not knowing, lies the anticipation. And hope.

For what, you don’t know.

Then again, knowing is overrated.

• Amma, the biggest proponent of America, was not very impressed with JFK though. “Delhi, Hyderabad airports are just as good, if not better.” Appa, the GMR man, was very pleased with her. “We really make world-class airports, you know,” said the man who will harp on GMR’s social responsibility initiatives even when you talk of Rampia. When it’s your own father, you even find that old-world loyalty to company a little cute.
• Capitalist Amma wasted no time in trying to ‘knock some sense into my head,’ about the need to earn money not just to pay bills but for other things as well. “If you also later marry someone who is here, you can live well, pay off your loans and then come back to India whenever you want!” Yeah right, like I’ll let a wannabe-NRI boy decide when we move back to India, which will most probably be never, nice try.
• The family has been staying in New Jersey with relatives – a great arrangement, in my opinion. It allows me to quickly catch a train back from NJ, attend my graduation party, get high on chardonnay, champagne and pisco, run back home in the rain at 3 a.m., and yet, be up, showered, clean and fresh by the time the parents come to the city the next morning. Ha.
• The ‘do not convert’ rule has, as expected, not been working too well overall. But strangely, only while buying a pack of exactly two honey roasted almonds on the streets of New York for two effing dollars every few minutes, everyone seems to remember the rule.
• Appa, for having lived in the US for a few months and driven around at that time, quickly got some practice on the car. Since then, we/they have been driving around, without having to depend on relatives to drop them at the train station or whatever. This way, we’ve been able to drive to Philly and DC like one maha independent American family all on our own.
• Except, that at any given point, there are five drivers in the car at any point: the actual driver Appa, the rest of us, and Mary, the GPS thingum on the dashboard, that we all turn to for directions. The minute Mary says Keep left, there are three other nervous female voices screaming at the driver to “keep left, keep left, KEEP LEFT!” What can I say? We women outnumber the men in this household.
• Appa, despite having lived in the US for a few months about ten years ago, has been regularly darting across the road in non-pedestrian crossing areas, giving ME a few close brushes with death in the form of heart attacks.
• Gen Y kid Gundu is having the gastronomical time of her life, forever feasting on pizza and pasta. The mother on the other hand, is resolutely demanding fries for lunch and dinner, because she can barely eat anything else.
• As I graduate from Columbia, poor thing Gundu, all of 14 frigging years old (and least inclined towards academics), has been getting the whole “you must also study well and come here” nonsense. I am also subjected to the “you are not motivating her; please talk to her and make her understand” routine. If only Three Idiots were a better film, I would force the parents to watch it.
• In Madame Tussauds, Amma fulfilled her greatest fantasy by hugging Daniel Craig. Shy Appa on the other hand, wouldn’t even touch any of the ladies in wax, but will pose a foot away from them like a gentleman.
• Apparently the Michael Jackson lookalike outside Madame Tussauds in New York, looks like Amma’s cousin Lakshminarayanoum.
• Upon encountering Hispanics for the first time in the flesh, Amma is convinced that she can pass off as J Lo’s mother. “No no, as her sister maybe, because she is some 42 years old, no? Like her perima ponnu.”
• Amma to me, after losing phoneless Appa amidst the dinosaurs in the crowded Museum of Natural history at DC: How are we going to find him, Moni? We don’t even have a family song!
• Gundu’s usual impassive quiet even upon coming to AMERICA has been the subject of many of Appa’s mokkai ‘jokes’. “She behaves like she is some America-born, Broadway babe, hyuk hyuk.” I am beginning to believe that all Appas by default, have a very mokkai sense of humour, but believe they are the funniest men on the planet.

It has been an interesting last couple of weeks with the family which is now away in Canada. I now sit alone at home, eating Ammamma’s thenga burfi, waiting for the day I get to go back to Madras. There is nothing that my grandparents, friends and new cousin cannot set right in my otherwise quite sad life.

I am stumped. It takes a few seconds for me to collect myself before I can congratulate her and express my genuine thrill for her. But after I hang up on an enthusiastic Amma, I can’t help but reminisce.

Flashback to some five years back. (Gulp I am old). College brings with it all these super ideas of doing these really cool things, like dye-ing your hair the colour of vomit, punching holes into every available square millimeter on both ears, and the like. My super cool idea was doing theatre. It’s not that insane, you know. Anyone who says they have never pretended to be a star in front of a mirror, delivering an Oscar/Filmfare acceptance speech ever in their lives, is an effing liar. Of course, you grow up (or you don’t) and these aspirations disappear (or they don’t. Ahem). You and your Amma spend all the 18 years of your life spewing venom on every female face that appears on the TV. Seriously, no one is beautiful enough or talented enough to be in the movies. “If that bonda mooku can be heroine, so can I,” you say in all earnestness, and go to bed dreaming of delivering that acceptance speech. Then of course, spoilsport morning comes, and with it, the full force of your early morning ugliness and absolute lack of glamour in your PJs, to douse your face with well-deserved cold water. And life goes on.

Then suddenly college comes, and this theatre thing becomes a very possible thing to do. Not school dramatics level, but as an adult, like… being a real actress! Suddenly, praise for being a great actress is not that impossible a dream, you know. With stars in your eyes, you hop to your parents and announce that you are going to be an actress. Like a real actress. On stage. Because apparently a lot of people do it – I can do it too, and I can be better than everyone else! What say?

Appa looks striken. After wringing his hands and frowning a great deal, he comes up with an eloquent “Chi”. That you counter with an even more articulate “Huh?” (Is this my uber-cool Appa I am talking to?) By now, the initial revulsion has passed, and you can see the wheels inside his head turn. “No kanna. People in our family don’t act. Now you’ll say theatre, later you’ll say movies. You can’t be a koothadi.” You inadvertently laugh at the ludicrousness of it all, before you explain to him that it is not at ALL like that. But he walks off. No way, Moni. Can’t allow it.

Poker-faced Appa doesn’t know a thing about expressing himself, about the catharsis in acting. That’s why he can’t appreciate it, ha. But aforementioned Appa is a formidable man when he is angry. Helplessly, you turn to Amma, that kindred spirit drama queen who wanted to appear at least in one padam as Rahul Khanna’s amma. And the traitor, she says nothing. There’s a flash of compassion before her eyes steel over and she nods a firm No. It’s fun to say all that, but not practical.

You lose it, stomp your feet, tremble in rebellious teenage angst and throw a tantrum that the whole of K K Nagar can hear. Which angers the potential poker champion even more. Tapping his own hidden potential for drama, OVER MY DEAD BODY YOU WILL DO THEATRE, he thunders. Copious tears are in vain. The silence is deafening. And you swear you’ll never talk to the parents again.

Until, auditions are announced a few months later. On the sly, you attend auditions, after taking the blessings of Thatha, comedian par excellence who was into drama for ages, while Ammamma stands in the corner with a smile on her face, secretly praying you won’t make it. But of course you make it, superstar that you are. You march purposefully towards the parents and say look. I’ve made it. Don’t say no, give me a chance. And they reluctantly do, JUST this once, making you promise that in four months, you’ll end everything, and work towards an MBA. Not fair! But under the circumstances…

Those four months are joyous, the workshops, the rehearsals, while the family goes mad. An uncle takes you and cousin T – also into theatre – aside, to convince you to quit asap, because our house girls just don’t do these things. (T, most ironically, went on to be Mani Ratnam’s assistant. Ha.) The grandmothers are clucking about. Tension is rife in the air. When the D-Day comes however, the family is supportive enough. Amma, Appa, Thatha, Ammamma – everyone comes to the play and sits through it, even if, to put it mildly, have nothing nice to say about it (The Cut of Hamlet by evam, for those from Madras).  One nice review mentions you (although not by name), and exactly one boy in the audience thought you were cute. Not so bad. And then, snap, the dream is over.

But, things have changed since, they really have. Some four years later, shy Gundu wants to get into the panto, and with not as much as a whimper of protest, the parents say yes, even take her to rehearsals every week. (Maybe because her hormones aren’t raging yet, and she won’t insist on getting into the movies, and eventually, into compromising positions with men. Or so they think.) Then, Amma, through her gult networking from working for gult bank, gets this chance to do this little TV anchor part in gult play for AIR, which was also going to be staged.

And she does it, in front of a packed audience. And gets a picture of hers to appear in Eenadu. Ammamma, the darling that she is, is apparently accusing Amma of yemathifying Appa. Very cutely, Amma also did her lines for me on the phone. Although I (and Appa) hate Amma’s Telugu propensities (because we have been historically left out of gult conversations when her gult colleagues come home), we are endlessly thrilled. Yentra babloo? Baaga unnara?

The moral of this looong story is: we are a family of hypocrites. Or alternatively, I am the trendsetter in this house, the beacon of light that leads this family out of darkness into Enlightenment. I prefer the latter.

Disclaimer, just so I still get my kaju katli and ribbon pakoda when the parents come down for graduation in a month: My parents are the coolest people in the world, super liberal and very modern. This was the only scenario in life where I had any trouble with them. And I say this very seriously. So next year, if I tell them I want to poke around in Africa after I get myself tattooed and braided, they’ll say yes. Really they will.

It has become routine for S and I to sit together on those solemn evenings, carefully step around each other’s fragile mental states, make comfortable conversation, listen to music and keep ourselves occupied, so as to not feel too bad, to reassure each other that life goes on, and that their leaving does not make a difference to how we feel about them, and they, us. Today was one such evening. P left us to go back to family in Madras, after five whole months. Maybe S and I and the boys thought she was not ever going to leave or something, but she did, and it feels so weird. Of course we are adults now. We can be practical, wear a smile and acknowledge the transience of life and the fact that one phase has to end for another to begin. But it is accompanied with the crushing realization (and just a couple of tears) that things are different now, even if in little ways. Half of our (P’s and mine) huge purple room is empty now, and there really is no one to make conversation with until 5 a.m. tonight, no one who will listen to your mild snoring and laugh at you about it the next morning. No one to bake cakes with, listen to horrible Bollywood songs with and defend Shahrukh with. Just like after S left (the other S, our old roomie), there is no one to discuss worstu Telugu movies with, and no one to patiently help you find your keys and ID every morning. Of course, it’s not such a big deal. But I wonder why it is.

Just maybe, because in the last 5 months, P went from being a school junior-college junior acquaintance to confidante, a little bit of Amma, Gundu and J to me, someone I have to share everything with, who I have to report every detail of my life to. For S, she went from being an infuriating stranger who didn’t bring the badam halwa that her mother had sent for her, to being super close friend who could be forgiven just about anything. In the negligible one month that she was here, S went from being perfect stranger to good friend, someone we first started to discover New York and the US with, someone we first set up this home with.  

That said, Generation Y that we belong to – of course, it is possible to be in two places at once. There’s technology – Skype and GTalk and the phone – to help us as well. No one is really gone, you know, just like your family really does believe you are home even though you are sitting halfway across the world, rushing to class in the morning as they think about you in bed at night. We still talk to S online often, and take pride in each other’s little every week triumphs. P and I have made Skype schedules already; I am sure my head would burst if I didn’t talk to her every couple of days at least. Distance is not such a bad thing: J has become more of a daughter to my parents since I left, and B and I became uber close only after she left for London.

In the last six months, I have lost plural close friends, people with whom I don’t have any sort of relationship anymore. While that continues to hurt like crazy, I realize I do have a lot to be thankful for, even if no person is replaceable by another. Of the new friends I have made, of the next best thing to my own family I have here – S, who is the best roomie in the world, who tolerates my every quirk, and the boys, who always look out for us, maybe the only constants in my life right now. With S and P, the relationship will continue, of that I have no doubt. There are the everyday existing reminders that are going nowhere. Tumse milke dil ka hai jo haal kya kahe will continue to resonate in the purple room, even amidst constant Shahrukh bashing from the living room. No one’s going anywhere. After all, what is 3153 Broadway without you?

PS: Pah. Too much senti even for me to handle. Maybe I should start considering what to appropriate from P’s debris: Reclaim my sleeping bag, yes. Sleeping pad, return to R. Rubberbands and bodyspray, yes, always useful, no matter how many/much you already have. Lilliputian gloves and sweater, of no use; to give away to some homeless person – god knows there are too many of those here. Pillow and quilt to hoard for guests. Blue shawl, very P, can maybe hang on the coat stand? Box after amazon.com box after camera lens box to throw out. Dear lord, S and I have too much to deal with on Saturday.

Cut to many years later. At 3 a.m., six hours to go for classes to begin for the term, I was on my knees, cussing under my breath, as I rummaged under the closet for a fugly tube labelled Nair Hair Remover. (The Mallus are omnipresent, that we know. But when they shifted main profession from running tea shops to making hair remover creams in the US, beats me.)

At 2.50 a.m., I had been standing in front of the mirror with a pair of tweezers, attempting to get rid of the second set of eyebrows that had appeared under my original set. Following much wincing while plucking out each strand after another, when I stepped back to examine my face, another region of my face grabbed my attention. Now this region, the one strip between the nose and the lips, is that part of the geography map that you would shade dark with your pencil and label “densely vegetated”, especially during the holidays, and especially in the parts of the US where there are no Chinatowns (and thus cheap parlours) in the vicinity.

I panicked. Normally, I would not notice that region at all, desensitized to it as I have become since I came to this country. I am an Indian, and I am not at all stereotyping, but we don’t like spending money on shit. The parlours are too expensive, and the vegetation in aforementioned region, too fine to be handled by a measly pair of tweezers. You want to call me Virumandi, go right ahead, I would think. Until I went to this sweet little college town called Happy Valley, and discovered Nair Hair Remover. It wasn’t until I found the damn tube that night, drew myself a nice cream handlebar moustache over my real moustache, and wiped my moustache off thus, that I felt ready to face the world the following morning. That I almost didn’t wake up in time for class because of this late night beautification business, is another issue. But it is true that this fugly tube that promises “thorough hair removal and beautiful skin that lasts” now dictates my levels of self-confidence. Sad but true.

But why these feelings, you may ask. Cut back to when I was 12 years old. A friend, in front of the whole gang one night, pointed to my golden moustache glistening under the streetlight, remarked that I had more of a moustache than him, the sissy, and literally rolled on the floor laughing. Eyes brimming with tears, I mumbled a few excuses and stomped back home straight to the bathroom, took Appa’s razor and shaved my moustache off. When I rejoined the gang a few minutes later, the same friend again noticed that I looked different somehow, dragged me under the streetlight, discovered my activity and died laughing again. In plain view of the whole world, and the gang, that was also giggling. And you ask why my moustache bothers me as much? I have been scarred for life, that’s why.

The eyebrows didn’t trouble me then. You could sport a bushy unibrow thick enough to hide rabbits and still feel like the queen of the world. In fact, I felt like the queen of the world because of the unibrow that was thick enough to hide rabbits. Because in tender age, when you do those things to yourself, people notice. The boys at school would heckle at the girls who suddenly reappeared after the weekend looking like otherworldly aliens in perfectly shaped thin eyebrows. I thought I was much better off with the unibrow. (And I probably was, considering how everyone who knows me from back then, from watchman to random schoolmate takes the opportunity to tell me I looked a lot better back then compared to now.) In fact, the first ever time I got ze eyebrows threaded, I didn’t even recognize what looked back at me from the mirror, some canvas with two Anna Arches on it. When I did, I was appalled. I seriously wondered if plastic surgery was performed instead, and didn’t feel up to taking on college life at all.

 Not that I was spared the heckling though. The first time I got my arms waxed, the boys who sat behind me in class noticed in about 20 seconds after I came to school, nudged each other and heckled all day. This, after the pores spouted blood during the painful waxing session the previous day. I swore to myself I would never go through that again. But I never stopped. Maybe I just loved my newly super smooth skin too much. Just like I didn’t stop the threading of the eyebrows and the de-moustaching.

Why the hell didn’t I stop, I often ask myself. In India, getting all this done meant a long cycle ride to the parlour for an hour and half of sheer agony. Here, it means spending 15 minutes in front of the mirror twice a week, to pull out each strand of hair after another. The sense of satisfaction and confidence in the end has always been undeniable, but is also always accompanied by a twinge of guilt. Why do I have to go through so much pain and take so much trouble in order to feel beautiful, or to try to fit into what this world considers beautiful? Everytime I want to wear a sleeveless something or a swimsuit, why does it take an hour of preparation? Why do I need to change from shorts to pajamas when our guy friends come home, because my legs are not “clean”? Why did I pay a bomb for excess baggage for a suitcase mostly filled with boxes and boxes of wax strips and razors? Why do unshaved armpits gather so much attention? The same boys who heckled at me in school because I had waxed my arms, would probably turn away in disgust if there was a hint of hair anywhere on my arms. Whatever happened to au naturel? Is this really beauty?

Another friend, who also chi-s girls who don’t wax, argues that girls waxing is like guys wearing perfume – that essential and that normal. I disagree. Going-under-the-knife-to-look-more-beautiful is everyone’s favourite target for condemnation. Applying hot wax on the skin, and violently tearing all the hair off it on a plastic sheet is just as condemnable in my opinion, if you think about it. Even in this case, you are going against nature’s ways in order to look more beautiful, and going through pain while you are at it. (Don’t say there is no pain once you get used to it. You just get used to the damn pain and become all blasé about it, that’s all.)

I am not going to try and figure out how it all started, of the media’s promotion of ideal images and so forth. Shaving may not be painful, but this whole thingamajig of having to get rid of hair is what pisses me off. Powerful chemicals, gadgets akin to the lawn mower which wrench the hair off the skin, and laser treatment are all available for this purpose, and they all, ALL, cause some damage to the skin, or at least, are likely to. Looks like self-harm to me.

In my emo way, I just wish there was some way we could get over this madness. This isn’t being judgemental; I do all these things myself. I just wish I had the courage to not do them. Even if the whole world denounces me as unattractive, so be it. This is how nature made me.

Every cricket match I watched at Chepauk, the heart would leap as He walked in my direction. I would really genuinely believe He was looking at pigtailed monkey me, and not at anyone else in the sea of people in my stand. No one existed in the field for me of course, other than Him. Sitting at Pavilion terrace, I would spend the first minutes of the innings praying for opening batsmen to get out quickly, so He can walk onto the field. And when He batted, I would sort of pray for Him to get out quickly, so He can walk back to the pavilion, towards me. I enjoyed a little less, watching Him bat live, only because He was too far away. But I did watch live, Him crossing the 10,000 test runs mark at Chepauk, and I was without doubt, the most ecstatic person in the crowd. How I loved watching Him on television, that wonder box that proffered close-ups I would never be able to see in person. How many tears my eyes have sprung, for every century of his I have ever watched. How violently I defended His decision to declare, when Sachin was nearing his century (which test was that?) How rock solid I stood even as He went back to playing Ranji. Every criticism directed towards his tokku-tokku defensive batting and his apparent unsuitability for ODIs and T20s were, and are, straight arrows to my lovelorn heart.

Upon peripa’s invitation, He visited Salem, to inaugurate the district cricket association, and I couldn’t go for some godforsaken reason. But for many nights thence, I suffered bile in the throat for the cousin who accompanied Him back to Bangalore in the same effing car for three effing hours. Every day at Pondy, I would go to the kadai beneath my office to stare at the Maggi boy on the wall, a little boy, who I swear looks like a young Him (and like a little boy version of that crush of mine). His jam jam jammy Kissan ad and Hutch ads continue to be among the most watched videos on my Youtube.

Years have passed since I fell in love, and I have become more of a cynic now. I don’t dream anymore of chance meeting at the airport, outside Chepauk or at Bangalore, leading to eventual romance and wedded bliss. I am not hoping for a bitter divorce with doctor anymore. I have also lost hope of finding a boy who looks like him. (Finding a boy, ANY boy, seems like such an improbability now, idule Him vera. Must cut the veerappu.) Above mentioned lookalike crush boy does not even know of my existence, and the crush has passed anyway. But how the heart thumps. Now, He moves to Royals, and the heart goes with Him. What a sight He is in blue. How reliable and solid. The crinkly eyes and the boyish smile. Those beautiful, beautiful hands and the hair. What a gentleman, what a class act.

Have a Happy Birthday, you. No matter what they say, you shall always, ALWAYS have one loyal fan. But let me have you know that you have caused a poor little girl, years of sleepless nights now, and have set impossibly high standards for the man in her life. Cannot yable to handle you, Rahul Sharad Dravid. Cannot yable to handle at all.