I’m so good, I let me write all my letters

Dear person who organised the party last night,
The beer was over by 10.30, the vodka by 11. The starters were a rumour; my potty complained about the food this morning. I have come to think of these rare occassions as a token of the company’s appreciation of our hard work. Why can’t you love us?!

Educated Tatya

Need for read

Since so many of you have deleted your highly entertaining blogs (I’m looking at you KK and Aditi N) or just cannot be motivated to update them frequently, I am forced to look elsewhere. As you can see, your names have been taken off my blogroll. Let that be a lesson.
Luckily, the lovely Kate has decided to eat her way through New York and chronicle it for all of us. I have mixed feelings about her husband since he just threatened me over e-mail:

Punjab Sweet House, Pali Hill. October, 2008.

Two years ago, we ended on a tie of 30 puris each. It’s time for a re-match.
Back to the lack of reading material, please recommend. In return, I’ll tell you how Oreos saved the day.

Eat, stress, eat, repeat

I may follow the *Broom’s example and put up a weight ticker so that I’m admonished into losing some weight that has been weighing heavily on my mind; and even more around my midriff.
You see, most of my life, I weighed 45 kgs. This is my chance to declare to the Net — I was thin once. If I ate my weight in ice-cream, I would reach a heavy 47.
Of course, in those days, I wasn’t too happy with how I looked either. People were quick to remind me that I had the figure of a French runway model. Unfortunately, I did not live in France and was not fighting off hordes of designers waiting to pay me my weight in cocaine. Besides, my mother would never allow it.
I lived in Mumbai and was hearing limericks that belittled my already little assets. They were so little that when belittled, they shrivelled into my derma.
I once discovered that a long-term **boyfriend never let me sit with his friends in the canteen because they liked making fun of booby and boobless girls, and he wouldn’t be able to stop them.
It was a very different life from the runway in Paris. But this story has a happy ending. In my early 20s, I ***magically put on a lot of weight.
As a result, my boobs take me by surprise to this day. I’m still not used to them and treat them with a little awe and detachment. I don’t know where to put them when I sleep and always offer to show them to friends who’ve met me after long (“You’ve put on weight!” “I know! I have BOOBS!”). I worry that if I take them for granted or torture them with under-wired bras, they’ll leave.
I also like saying boobs a lot and doing a lot of dhak-dhak actions (Mein satra athra baras ki hogayee, mein kya karoo. Hai hai hai. Meri choli chhoti ho gayi, mein kya karoo. Hai hai hai).
****Unfortunately with the boobs came the paunch. So now I have boobs, paunch, no arse or hips and my footballer’s shoulders.
However, I’ve relocated a bit of my 62 kgs in past two-three years with the help of a highly successful diet. I watch what I eat very carefully so that I can remember every offending morsel later and stress about it. It has worked very well so far.
Also, the yoga (two years down and still haven’t completed the 28 day program) and the running with the dog seem to help. This started out as post that would end with me asking you to hold me to losing weight, but we both know that’s not going to work.
So to summarise.

1) I was thin once
2) I’m very lazy

*I’d link to her site but she charges an inordinate amount of entry fee and you’re all here for cheap entertainment.
** Sometimes, I stay up at night and cry for all the good ones I let slip by.
*** Okay, not so magically. There was an unfortunate accident involved.
**** Please, please stop, those who rushing to reassure me. I know I’m gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. We’re all gorgeous people who secretly obsesses about plastic surgery.

That artificial breeze is the coolth of money

Never have I been more appreciative having air-conditioning in my home than now. The city outside my room is pinned under a magnifying glass, focusing the sun’s glare on ants like us.
But I am more grateful for the knowledge that I can afford it.
My father lost his job in the nationalisation movement that swept over the Gulf in the early 90s. He was sporadically employed and infrequently paid over the next 10 years, as a result of which I spent all my teen years in conditions closely resembling poverty. Until I got a job at the age of 20, our living conditions remained the same and took a leap when my brother moved to America about three years later.
Within a month, we went from two-car, three-bedroom, four-AC living conditions to a suburban one-bedroom, two-fan existence.
My brother, who had secured a seat in JJ College of Arts before we moved countries, lost it because we couldn’t afford the donation our NRI status had promised the college. We moved further beyond civilisation to afford a bigger house and I spent four hours travelling to college.
And those are the summers I remember the most.
Standing near the pole that represented an ST (state transport) bus-stop, flagging down buses that came every 40 minutes. My throat would be parched, but I wouldn’t dare move to get a cola or a drink of water because a) I might miss the bus b) I didn’t have the money.
Once I did get in, I would be attached to the other commuters with the adhesive of our sweat till we felt like a giant amoeba — covered in smelly slime.
Rows of watermelon stalls herald the coming of my insignificant town — best remembered for being the stop-over between Bombay and Pune. I would be tempted to get a glass of juice, but every day, would choose instead to go home from the bus depot in a rickshaw.
Today, when I have room full of furniture I bought without assistance from family or husband and a Macbook under my fingers, I can truly profess my love for money and comfort. I relish the luxury of being able to take a cab to work once in a while, and am inordinately proud that it is my money I throw extravagantly about. I didn’t stoop to the folly of marrying to improve my social conditions and if I were to be single right now, my life-style and that of my parents wouldn’t change.
If I am to be accused of arrogance, it is of this — I’ve earned and bought my comfortable bed and love to loll in it.
We’re still not as well off as we’d like to be, my long-nose lover and I. But we’ve married our fortunes together.

But this is not sad a story.
Once, I dated a boy for a month because he would take me to McDonalds, a place I couldn’t afford but salivate at the thought of. C’mon, they had a real burger! Excuse me for having fries on my shoulder. I would always have an entire feast — fries, burger with cheese, ice-cream, coke while he sat with a coffee.
I would stuff my face to avoid looking at the hair sprouting from his ears. It couldn’t last, but I can never go to Macs without being mortified by the memory.

What we call cooking

So many of you are writing food posts about Thanksgiving that the peer pressure is getting to me. I can’t cook, but I make up for that with *enthusiasm.
But we did make a strawberry sorbet once. I bought a sleek mixie and strawberries. TB took out the ice-cubes from the freezer and put them into the mixie, along with chopped strawberries. We are still arguing about who turned on the switch.

The result:
Strawberry sorbet

For all of those who cook, here’s a tip from me mum-in-law: “Butter makes everything so classy, na?” (Yes ma, now I can take my popcorn to the opera.)

*I ate up a caramel custard enough for three the second time I went to TB’s place. Two days later, I was embarrassed to realise I may have taken his mother’s words, “This has your name written on it” literally. Three years later, I brought it up in a ha-ha kind of way, and TB assured me that Ma had made the entire thing for me. The smaller cups were for everyone else.