Them Steps

Yesterday Kavs and I were sitting on the steps of my house like we do so often, and it occurred to me that of all the times we hang out at her house or mine, that's more often than not where we end up. I'm sure it suits the parents fine, since it means we're out of their faces but close enough to haul inside when dinner’s ready.

Most of the time, we're at my house. There's something about those five (six?) brownstones that makes it a great place to chill, have aimless conversations, contemplate the meaninglessness of life, or grab a guitar and sing in loud off-key voices. (well.. umm.. the loud off-key may just be me, but whatever).

Now that I think of it, some of the best memories I have of my friends coming over are attached to those steps. I was looking through 14th birthday pics with Ju, Leann, Rhea and me sitting there, can't believe how different we look now. Impromptu counseling sessions with me-and-Ranjit, glad those are over. Where Bijoy and I sat when we had our first three hour long conversation. Christmas '06, when Reuben was down and Dino's Awesomes made their post-midnight-mass debut. A couple of weeks ago it was me-Megs-Ruch-and-Chirag meeting up after three months and creating a ruckus at twelve.

Apparently it's not just us. Kavs and I were looking through her family album, and there's her mom Carole with bell-bottom-pants-wearing Uncle Al, sitting on the steps when they were dating, Desiree and Kenjo as kids, and ancient photos with my Gramma and the Rodrigues Sisters just before one of the weddings (ancient cause they're wearing hats and gloves, wish those days were back).

Of course, when Kavita and I are NOT testing our spitting potential, 'the steps' is where we park ourselves. It's cathartic when you're in a belligerent mood - the combination of trees, darkness and the wall allows any one sitting there to make bitchy comments about unsuspecting passers-by without being seen or heard. Apart from the promenade, it's where I end up when I want peace and quiet, time to think and be left alone. Found the perfect way to relax - head resting on top step, back arched to accommodate second, butt on third and feet on fifth, iPod in hand, and you're set.

Whatever happens to my house (I shudder at the thought and I know so will Kavita), those steps must stay. They've got eighty years of history sitting on them.

After midnight mass, Christmas 2006 - Reuben,

Kavs, me, Mum, Grampa, Ajay, Dad

Ashita, where art thou - three of the four "sexies"!

Steps, Christmas Day 2006.

Spitting

Yes, spitting. Never thought that projecting tiny gobs of spit as far as they'd go would be such a satisfying exercise. Also I never thought I'd be saying it at twenty one - somehow when I was growing up I had visions of myself as a responsible and well behaved (no, really) world citizen at that age.

So you have two very decently dressed twenty-somethings sitting on a pavement at eleven in the night, trying to see how far they can spit, pausing only for the occasional car, and of course Dino Morea's crazy stalker-woman, who by the way would put anyone to shame when it comes to punctuality. Point is, there we were, Kavs and me, stone cold sober, sitting on the pavement and trying to get massive Leo DiCap type gobs of saliva half way across the road (think of DiCaprio clearing his throat in Titanic, possibly the only novel element that movie had to offer).

And I wasn't half bad! I always thought I'd suck at it, but as it turns out, not really so much.. My personal best is 8 feet, Kavita's a few inches ahead. St. Leo's Road still bears the scars of our late night spit-a-thon.. think Kavs and I erased about 20 years of respectable citizenship today. Just a thought, since I'm being disgusting I may as well go the whole hog.. Is spit projectile salivation?

Those who have yet to channel the power of spitting - or of peeing in flower pots, as certain others might testify - are missing out on something wonderful. Hell, Salman Rushdie thought the same thing, what do you think Midnight's Children is all about?

And in other world news, Billy Joel turned 58 today, now yesterday, owing the enormous amount of time it took me to find a picture I liked. Happy Birthday, and may you never crash your car into another tree again.

All About Soul
River of Dreams, 1993
Album Cover designed by Christine Brinkley, his then wife

She waits for me at night, she waits for me in silence
She gives me all her tenderness and takes away my pain
And so far she hasn't run
though I swear she's had her moments
She still believes in miracles
While others cry in vain

It's all about soul
It's all about faith and a deeper devotion
It's all about soul
Cause under the love is a stronger emotion

She's got to be strong
Cause so many things getting out of control
Should drive her away, so why does she stay?
It's all about soul

She turns to me sometimes
and asks me what I'm dreaming
And I realize I must have gone a million miles away
And I ask her how she knew
To reach out for me that moment
And she smiles because it's understood
There are no words to say

It's all about soul
It's all about knowing what someone is feeling
The woman's got soul
The power of love and the power of healing

This life isn't fair
It's gonna get dark, it's gonna get cold
You've got to be tough, but that ain't enough
It's all about soul

Ye olde cribbing-post

It's strange how having a day off just once in a while can make you remember how out of touch you are with the rest of your life. Or in my case, the endless mash of spanishclassfrenchim goingtofailmyMAandwork that I seem to be staring at for the next three weeks.

Ah, for a pensieve.

In this precious space of 24 hours I have away from that place, I'm supposed to churn out insane amounts of thoughful, opinionated, well researched essays for my MA exams coming up in just ten days.

I can manage opinionated. The rest I don't know about, considering that after two weeks of working continuously, I feel like I've been lobotomised. It seems strange, but after thinking all the time (or at least trying to), I just want to stop and do nothing. Looks like that's not going to happen for a while.

Hamster, thy treadmill awaits thee...

Weekend? What weekend?

So.. where have I been all this while? The same place I am right now, even though it's a lovely Sunday morning not meant for anything except sleeping. But yeah, I'm at work, wondering what I'm supposed to do so that I can buzz off. Hate to sound cribby but I don't like the idea of spending everyday here, although it looks like I'm going to have to do that to get leave for my exams.
It's not like I don't want to work, but like I was thinking yesterday, I don't want it to be the only thing I do. Now I'm wondering if this 24/7 business is just what everyone is doing, but it makes me feel only marginally better to know that we're all in the same boat. Two weeks is too early to give up, but I've been mulling over this thought too long, and now like fine wine, it's slowly turning to vinegar.
And it's driving me nuts...

Family Outings

I know that a month's mind mass is not exactly cause for celebration, but I will admit that it gave me a chance to catch up with one half of my family, and that turned out to be fun. I met many of my mum's relatives who I don't see often because they are scattered around the city - mostly Thane, or in Chembur, Andheri and the likes. Although one of my cousins Romel will put it down to the fact that "Bandra people" (pronounced: Bandruh) never move their butts out of their beloved suburb, and I have to admit that he's partially right.

After smiling benignly through the usual "my how you've grown!", "she looks just like you, Katy" and "you young people are so busy nowadays, we never see you around", it was quite cool to catch up with the aunts/uncles and my own extended cousins. I've found out my mum, Rhea's mum and I share really similar features with a large number of women in the extended family (yeah I know, 'genetics, DUH' but still). After spinning around and thinking "Hey! She looks alot like me!" about God knows how many people, I just gave up.

It was also pretty easy getting to know my second/third cousins because many of them are my age and doing pretty interesting things with their lives, so catching up with them wasn't so awkward. Hell, come to think of it, up to now, I've only gotten to really know my dad's side of the family, since most of them stay in and around Bandra. My mum's side of the family/friends was reserved for major functions like weddings. Plus, they have children with interesting pursuits like photography (which gave me the first photos of my self that I really liked!), drumming, short film making etc.

Picture-taker Romel's work

Now that I know them better, it hopefully won't be so hard to keep in touch. I feel a warm fuzzy feeling of content spreading through me.... or was that the cheese cake?

Not exactly "mum's side" but what the hell!!

All The World's A Dustbin

Over the past few months, I've become increasingly angry at the sight of people littering public spaces. The way I see it, all those Environmental Education Classes and posters that instruct you to "Keep Mumbai Clean and Green" are a complete waste (no pun intended) because people just don't seem to get the message.

I am not an eco-fascist, nor am I trying to reiterate the "India's such a damned dirty country and nothing can be done about it" stance that a lot of people seem to have. I just have an issue with people who refuse to CLEAN UP after themselves. Apart from appreciating the aesthetic value of a "Don't Litter" sign, it seems to have NO instructive value to people for whom clearing up after yourself doesn't seem worth their time.

This is not a rant based on random incidences I've come across. I see it every single day. For example, Kavita and I will walk down to Andora's for a cup of coffee, only to find that every table is covered with wrappers/coffee cups/tissues. This, inspite of there a being a dustbin 6 feet away big enough to fit a baby beluga into. The same thing happens at MacDonald's from time to time. "Self Service" dammit... it means you order it yourself, pay for it yourself, and clear it yourself!!

The way I see it, I have three options:
1. say nothing, do nothing, and then fume about it.
2. say nothing, do something after they leave and fume about it.
3. give them an earful and hope for the best (this never works and I personally don't like to use it except when someone REALLY deserves it).
4. politely mention that they might have ..er.. 'accidently' dropped a tissue/cigarette butt and hope for the best.

More often than not its options 2 and 4. The strange part, is that the most unrepentant litterers are often the affluent sort - wrappers thrown from Honda Accords, face wipes left on the basins of swish restaurants, stubs left on the floor of a cafe. Does being rich excuse people from having a civic sense?

I certainly don't expect that magical things will happen, like waking up and finding that Mumbai looks a lot like Barcelona (sigh ... :) ). But it would be nice if the 'clean-up after yourself' advocates weren't looked upon as a bunch of freaks whose ultimate aim in life is to save the rainforests, and if people realized that the "Please Use Dustbin" sign does not come with a "If You Feel Like It" clause attached.

Ahh, Genius

"This is a god that walks as man."
- Comedian Mike Myers, on Freddie Mercury

In Limbo

I HATE waiting for stuff to happen, and being one of the most competent procrastinators around, the combination is driving me CRAZY... I could start work with HT on Monday, but now that MagicWorks has called, I don't know what to do.

The production line is more interesting and supposedly pays better, but the work hours are pathetic and once you jump onto that bandwagon, there's not much time for anything else. I can see that from Ruch's work hours and my own CNBC work-ex. On the other hand, there's HT, which is definitely more laid back, has better working hours even if the pay scale isnt so great to start with. But something tells me that choosing the harder option will be better in the long run. I just don't know if I'm right.

Now that classes are done for the year, I have not much to do except study till the exams, so that won't take up too much time anyway. All I know is if I don't get off my ass and start working soon, I'm going to lose it. Plus all this free time has unwittingly honed my whining/nagging/brooding/being a crank skills.

AAAARRGHHHHHHHHH!!

Noddy Rules

I was just reading a couple of thought-provoking articles about Enid Blyton today, which talk about the thread of 'covert racism and sexism' that runs through her work. A cartload of critics recommend booting her off childrens' reading lists, because her stories apparently 'portray certain communities in a derogatory light'.

For example, Africans and Asians in the Gollywog, excessively girlish characters like Annie in the Famous Five and excessively boyish female characters like George (who according to some smart-ass critic had the "severest case of penis envy" in literary history).

However, as much as I still love her work, I have to agree that going back and reading her books is a mixed bag. Many 'characters' are actually caricatures, and barely cover the bare skeletons of age-old stereotypes. Like, when I went back and read Malory Towers, I was stunned at how bluntly the French boarder Claudine is 'lazy and untidy', and the American girl whatsername, is 'brazen and ill mannered'. All this is while clearly contrasting them with the 'well brought up, disciplined women' that Britain produces. Really? Then HOW do you explain Liz Whore-ley?

In a similar vein, most of the children in the Secret Seven Series, Faraway Tree, are a bunch of goody two-shoes who are now so annoying that I instinctively want to hurt them. And don't even get me started on the Famous Five - it just fries me that George is shown as more independent/smarter than Annie, simply because she wants to be a boy. Calling her 'George' instead of her real name 'Georgina' only underlines this fact. I was pretty much like 'George' when I was a kid (as hard as this is to believe, it IS true), except that I never wanted to BE a boy - or be called Larry, for that matter.

In a way, I think EB is being lampooned not so much for attempting to derogate other communities as much as for failing to deviate from the aged British social norms that already lorded it over the rest of the world, literally. In this age of Postcolonialism and multi-ethnicity, the old-fashioned white male absolutes just don't cut it anymore.

I know this sounds like my English Lit background talking (I can already imagine my mum panicking and reaching for her passport, in anticipation of one of my dreaded "Hey ma, you wanna know what we learnt in lit class today?" discourses).

But I'm pretty sure all this stuff would have struck me even if I wasn't doing Lit. Hell, Enid Blyton's books are actually picking fields for eager psychology students (Kavs?) and feminist/postcolonial theorists. So I'm not alone.

What really strikes me, is that if I go back and read one of Roald Dahl's books, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda or Witches (one of my all-time favourites), I don't have the same sense of "Oh my God, he's so sexist/racist, I didn't notice it the first time". Which is not to say he is completely free from prejudices, but I still think the only "ist" he consciously prescribes to is "anti-grownup-ist". I mean, who else can describe the Queen of England (yes, the living one) "whizpoping" and get away with it?

I think it's because he's so overtly gross and disgusting and so clearly revels in it that any other element just fades into the background. I still remember the part in 'Witches' where he writes that witches can sniff out clean children because they smell like dogs droppings... hah!! Advocating every child's dream - the muddier and ickier you are, the safer you are too (I gather from this that Kavita's and my mudbaths insure us for life).

Which is not to say that Enid Blyton is not cool anymore. Oh no. If you can look past some of the more obviously cloying things, there's still a lot of great stuff. For one, the woman writes BRILLIANT escapist literature. The idea of magic lands at the top of the Faraway Tree is fantastic. Kavita will recall clearly one of my 'inspired' notions that the chickoo tree contained a "Pixie Highway", all this in the pre-alcohol days. And her descriptions of food still make me drool - buttered scones, ginger ale, fruitcake... damn, why wasn't I one of the Five Find-Outers?

There's got to be something to an author who can (posthumously) face a whole storm of blood-thirsty critics, and still emerge a popular choice not only in the UK, but in places like India, where the 'propah' British way of life is pretty much an alien concept. I guess she's like RK Narayan, who face the same kind of criticism for fetishizing small town India, but is a demigod in this country anyway. Which is why, while critics are scrapping over EB's politically incorrect 'Golliwog' character in Noddy, I'll be too busy reading 'The Faraway Tree' to notice.