#wokeuplikethis #blessed

Unless you live in a sorority or a glossy magazine you have no visibility into what the real world for perpetually put-together women looks like. Which is why you can scoff at those Insta bed selfies of girls with perfect hair and luminous skin that are tagged with ‪#‎wokeuplikethis‬ and ‪#‎blessed‬

Here I am, 9 hours into my long-haul, overnight flight from North America to Europe, looking like I'm ready... to commit a heinous crime. Sleep hasn't exactly been an ally on board and that's the kindest thing I can say about it. Add to it the incessant kicks (I know I'm supposed to love these) from a tall kid who optimized the surface area of all three sequential seats and turned it into a comfortable bed and you have a woman who's sleepless and in pain aka routine mommy life. The man of the house meanwhile slept like a baby and can potentially easily do justice to a #wokeuplikethis and #blessed bed selfie but let's not go there.

We're an hour away from landing. So although it's some ungodly hour in SF it's breakfast time in air as is conveyed to us subtly with the invasive smell of scrambled eggs and skillet potatoes being warmed up. Co-passengers wake up, rubbing their eyes, yawning, opening the overhead compartments. I'm grateful for some activity around. Little mercies. It's the first time I take notice of the fact that there are more women (mostly blonde, mostly light eyes, mostly with a tan, mostly wearing tank tops and printed pants) than men on my flight. I take a closer, incredulous look with my bloodshot eyes. There's mascara that has stood the test of a transAtlantic flight time. Then there's ironed, subservient tresses (yes, tresses, because the usage of hair here seems trite and insufficient) that is ready to face the lens in record time. Photoshop won't be necessary, no ma'am. And there's an appalling lack of oily patches on the nose or forehead.

I'm not at the age where superfluous aspects of my tribe would make me insecure. I've safely left that phase two decades in the past. But out of sheer curiosity I continue to assess and am soon on my way to eating humble pie, or humble jabelis, if you will. The flight has not only robbed me off my precious slumber, it has also robbed me off my prerogative to judge Insta pics that make outrageous claims. Because now I know, more than ever before, that there are indeed many, many women who do ‪#‎wakeuplikethese‬. Guess they are really #blessed.

Meanwhile I'm left with bigger fish to fry, which essentially means looking an immigration officer in the eye and convincing him I'm not about to commit a heinous crime on his turf regardless of what my face may suggest. It's a cruel world out there.

City of my dreams

My heart must be replenish-able because I seem to leave them in too many cities and somehow I still feel one beating inside. Toronto is my latest city crush. It’s one of the more eclectic, bustling, diverse and chic metropolises I’ve been to. It’s got a New York veneer to it but scratch the surface a tad and you know it instantly; it’s far more welcoming, laidback and cheery. And it knows how to play that elongated seduction dance with its old world charm.

What is it that makes a city vibrant and memorable, I often wonder. Toronto boasts of French, British, Irish, Portuguese and other influences given its war heavy history so diversity is deeply rooted around here. Its little surprising then that you see these cultures interspersed and manifest through architecture, food and languages. At the end I remember it as a melee of voices and opinions, angles of face, twists of mouth, vagaries of accent, of a single behemoth with a myriad tongues. A blur, still distinct in its own right.

The downtown is resplendent, filled with beautiful buildings, both colonial from the yesteryears and the modern ones. There’s no pattern there. The old and the new sort of just get along. No surprises then that when Toronto Star, a paper known for hard-hitting journalism per a local fellow, did a survey on the ugliest building in Toronto downtown, it turned out to be the building of Toronto Star. That’s a valuable lesson; be careful what you set out to discover.

Not many can claim of being unaffected by aesthetics. And boy this town knows how to make a grand first impression. Going bold rarely fails and bold it does with color. It’s a bit of a challenge to find two adjacent shops/homes/buildings painted in the same hue. Believe me; I looked before I gave up.
You know the city has a colonial hangover when busy, prominent streets have names like King St. and Queen St. Queen Street by the way is flanked by flamboyant boutiques and people in trendy attire strutting through it ceaselessly. Vogue magazine called it the second most fashionable street in the world I was told. I am yet to look up which street aced that noteworthy contest.

If there’s anything that can top diversity and aesthetics it’s attitude. For if everyone looked at the world with the same lens, it’d make for one dreary realm. Summer ain’t called summer here; they call it The Patio Season. That’s one way to romanticize it I’d say. And patios are aplenty, decked up with cheerful blooms everywhere you look. So sought after are these settings that the city has even set up colorful wooden lounge chairs on certain streets, little happy places if you will, where you can chill and feel blessed with a book or a drink or whatever rocks your boat.

I gathered the city is on the brink of an organic (and raw pressed juice) revolution, something that’s very reminiscent of San Francisco. And when that happens, can hippies be behind? When you have all that organic goodness running through your bloodstream, your veins need a hint of melody to jam to. In a day and a half, I caught bits of 3 concerts and a jazz fest. The concerts were all around office buildings or in parks or at public squares, playing tracks from Imagine Dragon to folk songs of Native American tribes, covering all sides of the spectrum.

If you’re anything like me you probably get startled when the duplicate is just as good or better than the original. Toronto is so versatile that Wall Street, the movie about Wall Street, was filmed in Toronto downtown and so was Chicago, that movie about Chicago. For that matter my favorite show Suits gets filmed here as well. They say if they’ve stolen your essence they’ll robbed you off everything. Oh well.
Anywhere you turn in downtown be prepared to run into an art installation. You’ll also run into hot dog stalls that sell everything from halal to veggie dogs, ice cream trucks and a super chic bicycle with a pink-striped box with pretty girls who ride it and sell confectionary goodness. Speaking of food, Toronto mirrors NYC in food options. Countless options, everything just as good. I had to end my last meal on a local note—poutine. Poutine is French fries topped with brown gravy-like sauce and cheese curds. It definitely set off a few happy hormones running amok through my body.
It’s a pity then that I had all of two days here, large parts of which were spent working. But it’s helped me define what I’m partial to and savor the flavor. They say traveling is about the gorgeous feeling of teetering in the unknown; it’s pretty much the only reason I do it.

Why Hindi soaps are the bomb

A friend asked me today whether I was aware that Hindi soap writers were paid thrice as much as Bollywood screenplay writers. She said it in a disdainful tone.

I think writing for Hindi soaps requires heck lot more imagination than say, certain movies. I mean, giving new voices and new conflicts to those cliched cardboard idolized characters for years who barely even step out of their cocoon and have to go through various stages of life looking like their young decked-up self can be no small feat. It must take a toll on the writer.

I recently got lured stumbled upon an episode of Saath Nibhana Saathiya, the show on Star Plus that’s been on for eons and honestly I assumed had been over eons back. The timid, docile, once-illiterate Gopi Bahu was sent to jail for a decade for killing her evil sister. (I had to look this up. So much effort!) You’d think a woman like that would sink into irreversible depression and lose all sense of self-worth and dignity. Not our Gopi Bahu. Our GB is like the mother of dragons; returns with a swagger, bangs and some crackling zingers. Her attitude, confidence and the ability to cut naysayers to size are so refined, Hilary Clinton could take a cue from her for the 2016 presidential election. You’d think GB had returned with an MBA from Yale, not a decade long jail term for murder.

She makes it home but alas, the coochie cooing will have to wait. Husband now lives with a girlfriend and surprise surprise, she's not the first 'other woman' in his life. The pig also almost married someone else. But hey he’s still Ahem-ji ok ok?

She tries to impose herself on him with her new Yale jail returned self.

“Hey baby I’m back. Kisses?”

“Shoo shoo.”

If there’s one thing you learn in b-school, it’s persistence. So she keeps at it.

Ahem-ji is sick of being wooed by two women he doesn’t deserve in the first place so he berates GB. When all else fails, GB resorts to the ultimate weapon of men destruction – sindoor.

Ahem-ji romances the girlfriend in full public view, dishing out trite periodic insults at GB, while GB lovingly has to engage a bottle of sindoor, her only ally in testing times. Hey producers, why don't you get the poor wifey a battery-operated er bottle – you know the kinds that talk back, to keep her company?

GB is determined to win husband back, come hell or high water.

She’s like, let’s do this no, hun?

He’s like, no dice.

She’s like, don’t make me say the s-word.

He’s like, whatevah. I get plenty already.

She’s like, eww perv. I meant sindoor.

He gets so vexed he does something crazy amazing. He asks GB to explain what sindoor means to her while a dozen onlookers nervously bite their lower lips in anticipation. GB gives a huge sermon, no points for guessing, on the magical powers of the colored powder. It's just what the bugger wanted. Sly! Women – do not, I repeat, do not fall into this trap. He lunges forward, grabs the bottle and jumps back to the tile he’s been assigned in the living room. Then as the camera rolls and the cacophony soothing background music ensues, he creates a divider in his house with it in a high tension sequence. Brilliant, no?

This is Rekha, he declares cockily.

Wait, I thought she’s Mansi, GB can’t even keep track of the girlfriends.

Lakshman rekha, you illiterate women, he roars. "If you really value sindoor, you'll never step on this rekha and try to shag shack make up with me."

The episode ends with Ahem-ji and the girlfriend staying on the other side of sindoor ki rekha happily ever after in the same house while poor GB had to buy new sindoor pronto since he used it all up. Dawg.

To Dante's Hell

My short story originally published in AntiSerious magazine.

http://www.antiserious.com/2014/12/10/dantes-hell-where-is-my-religion-taking-me/

Starbucks. San Francisco. A sluggish Friday afternoon. A sugar-free non-fat cappuccino and momentary lapse of control that leads to a Cheese Danish (read 420 stubborn calories and food coma).

Fogged brain refuses to process a single word from a Pulitzer Prize winning novel that has been checked out thrice from the library and returned each time without so much as even a perfunctory glance. This is my final chance before I give up on my elitist pursuits. I venture into it and learn it’s about an unnamed man in post-Apocalyptic hell of an unending nuclear winter running into cannibals who, get this, don’t even chase him. Please. As if that would happen. So the novel is promptly traded for a fashion blog on the beloved smart phone.

A little piece of the flaky pastry, as if on cue, duly sticks to the side of my lower lip. Tough luck, I tell it. It’s a lazy day.  I let it stay put and move on.

The blog post is quite intriguing. Gothic bride. Dark shades of silk, cascading ruffles, corsets, bold designs, deliberate dark circles all around the eyes, mile-long fake lashes, black lipstick, steampunk hair and raven feathers. Who knew that category had crawled out of the spooky, fantasy-laced Halloween world and turned legit and socially acceptable? And who are these people who throw these weddings? The last ‘out there’ wedding I had attended was where the newlyweds rendered a version of Macarena replete with romantic eyeballing of each other in ornate desi outfits. Then they did a repeat and coaxed all the eager aunties to join in. The aunties lip-synched and shook their derriere a bit much making for splendid photo ops as I cheered through my Patron-affected speech and vision.

I’ve been such an Alice in the Goth world that I’ve not taken note of the erudite crowd that now occupies the adjacent table. Two young men, three young women and one parakeet – or so she sounds like, accompanied by an older gentleman. I scan them because I’m still working on my cappuccino and its peak rush hour and my cross-fit class doesn’t start for the next thirty minutes. (And that’s about as much effort I’m willing to put into my excuses.) Okay I scan them because I hear Lisbon and Madrid and Monte Carlo and a bundle of what looks like travel literature and I’m ready to call my travel agent and take off with them if they’ll just let me. I’m an avid traveler, did I mention? They discuss flights and train stations and points of interests that include a whole lot of churches while I let the lukewarm, bitter liquid coat my throat. Soon it’s time for them to disperse and while the rest shoot for the door, one of the younger men in a blue cardigan and black skinny tie approaches me.

“May I?” he asks, pointing to the chair across from me. Sure I would love to travel with them. Not going to lie. But this is way too fast. I am a conformist at heart. Perhaps they were a MeetUp.com group looking to expand, I reason. He takes my pursed lips for an affirmative response and sinks into the chair.

In a completely appalling move, instead of a hello, he points at my lower lip. How lewd. I’m ready to give him a piece of my mind when I remember the pastry flak. I brush it off sheepishly and straighten my back.

“If you have a couple of minutes,” he says solemnly, pulling out one of the brochures. Gosh, don’t let it be Paris, please. That’d make this the most clichéd story ever. Group met me at Starbucks and asked me to go to Paris with them. Yikes. Not that these things routinely happen to me. Could I bring my kid along? I grab the leaflet from him, silencing my thoughts. The Gospel Of Jesus Christ, it reads. The leaflet cover features a lovely image of Christ with his right hand raised, light rays reflecting from it. I narrow my eyes to read the title again.

“Are you a Hindu?” he asks nonchalantly, giving me no time to warm up to the subject. Yes I am. A practicing one too. I nod weakly because I’m trying to gauge where this is headed. Multitasking is not one of my strengths.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to heaven?” he tosses the million-dollar question at me, just like that, the blue in his cardigan bouncing off his luminous grey eyes. 
As if an eternal spot at heaven for me is simply contingent upon a resounding 
yes.

“Perhaps you can share the founding principles of Hinduism and I can tell you why you may want to think about…” Conversion? He is unrelenting. I was studying Gothic brides a few minutes back. I’m not prepared for this conversation. Plus, I can never defend religion at gunpoint. Founding principles? I blank out and my mouth goes dry. So I do the next best thing and make an excuse about someplace I have to be. He coaxes, I resist. It’s a tug of war. I eventually rise, gather my belongings, and politely part ways.

“It’s the only way to avoid going to hell.” He calls out. I gasp. To some, it could perhaps be a mild insult but to me, the mention of hell invariably causes the images of afterlife by the famous 14^th century Italian poet, Dante Alighieri, to float all around me. Naked sinners in hell being devoured or stabbed by devils, rivers of blood flowing endlessly, birds feasting on their dismantled flesh; perpetual suffering. It is disturbing, infuriating. My left brain tells me he was perhaps just a novice but my right brain is exploding with overreaction. I jump into the car, unsettled, and begin to drive. I slam my breaks at the next signal when the novel I was reading earlier falls off the passenger seat. I pick it up and it induces this vision; I see the same young man in blue cardigan in place of the unnamed protagonist. I see him in the same post-Apocalyptic hell of an unending nuclear winter. Just like in the novel, he’s starved, frozen, and he’s running into cannibals who, for once, (Lord forgive me for saying this) chase him. They chase him hard. And it doesn’t end well for him. Must be what they call poetic justice, a little voice pops in my head. Somehow I instantly feel better. I laugh at my puerility and drop the book off.