Utter Deprivation Ahead

Ok, I have committed to the GM Diet from tomorrow. I found it on the net and then called up mom and asked her to bring the Day One fruits. That's it. Done. Can't back out now. My faithful readers, please pray for me. I will be much obliged. Also, I might be reduced to food-craving induced ramblings from tomorrow, so please bear with that.

Mom was highly excited when I called her up and told her I'll be on the diet. She almost behaved like I won the Booker. But of course, that's yet to happen. Maybe in a couple of years or so. Watch this space. Until then, I'll let her reserve her excitement for the mundane dietic tendencies of her multi-talented and exceptional daughter. I'm kind that way.

Now, regular readers might know how I feel about diets. I do not like fruits. Nor do I like veggies. I might be able to force down the non-veg bit, well, ok, I will enjoy it and the milk part is also good. But tomorrow... tomorrow I have to face a day full of fruits. Watermelon, apples, oranges, and pomegranates. But I put my foot down at Papayas. I'm glad I was very firm about that. It's very important not to bow down to these diets in their entirety. I have retained my individuality and decision-making powers by saying no to Papaya. Yeah! Say No To Papaya!!! That shall be my new diet motto. The diet doesn't control me, I control the diet. Do you feel the power?!

Neverthless, I shall continue to deprive myself of fine food in some vague quest for happiness. That sentence contradicts itself, but let's not look at it too deeply. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow will be mine. Why do I feel like Christopher Columbus or some other such famous captain from the past setting out on some back-breaking and otherwise bleak journey? Are you with me in saying that this comparison is totally wrong? I should perhaps feel like, say, Malaika Arora when she goes for her 4 hours of daily workout. Yes, that's probably more appropriate.

On that satisfying note, I shall sign off. Actually, I shall go because I can smell something burning and I think I should shut the computer down. I'm having visions of the whole thing exploding and embedding little shards of glass in my face, killing me instantly. And I would not want to die just when I'm about to attain slimness and perfect body shape.

Oh, ok, well, I was just informed that the burning smell is because they're spraying that gas or whatever chemical it is they spray to keep mosquitoes or whatever insect or disease away. It smells like burnt diesel at the back of my throat and makes me nauseous. If it keeps like this, I won't have much trouble with the diet. Perhaps the mosquito repellant fellow could have come tomorrow. Sigh. I'm all out of luck. Nothing ever happens at the right time.

Anyway. Tomorrow. Diet. B'bye.

Piyo Sar Utha Ke

Yes. That ad. Not the Jassi or the Rathore one. I'm talking of the Aamir Khan Coke ad. For the uninitiated, download the ad from here. I take my ads seriously. Also, I'm very nitpicky about them. Where an ad shows potential and doesn't fulfill it, I mourn the opportunity like it was something personal. And the Aamir Coke ad, it almost ripped my heart out, made me forget to breathe, and each time I view it, I have to ground my teeth and clench my hands in frustration. So the first time I watched it... well, the experience has to be described in detail.

Sar uthta hai sammaan main
Sar uthta hai prarthna mein
Sar uthta hai laad mein
Sar uthta hai... kabhi bas yun hi
Sar uthta hai pyaar mein
Sar uthta hai jashn mein

The words. So apt. The music. Just right. The visuals. Exquisite. Those perfect rows of young cadets, galli cricket and the little sardarji praying for a big hit, the little girl doing grown up things and being allowed to do them in such a sweet gesture of indulgence... then that awesome woman sitting on the top of that wow type car, which reminds me of the lovely Sumo Victa ad ("Zindagi ki rahon mein zimmedarian to aati hain... bas kuchh hi log unhe nibha jaate hain. Kuchh log Sumo chalate hain." That one.)

Then comes the best visual of them all, or what would be the best if I could decide between all the cool ones. Well, the one where the guy is kneeling down and offering a rose in a sort of a proposal, mouthing 'I love you' - Sar uthta hai pyaar mein - and then you see the other side of it and there's this little girl who shakes her hand, dismissing him in the sweetest, most adorable way possible. I almost went "awwwwww..." out loud when I saw it. (Please note, almost. I'm not that far gone yet, though I might be in the near future if people keep making cool ads.) Then the scene where the graduates are celebrating.

The ad is an absolute visual treat till then. It looks rain-washed and sqeaky clean, like people sat and airburshed each scene until it was perfectly shining with the colours and the detail. Oh, the rich vividness of it all! Actually, apart from the visuals, it's perfect in the copy and music departments too. Till here, I'd say is the 'build up' part of the ad.

Now we come to the conclusion. There's this dip in the music and Aamir comes in...

Aur sar hamesha uthta hai Coca Cola ke saath

With that the music swells and the tempo picks up. He looks cool, though a bit old, but we forgive him that when we see him give the most comfortable Coca Cola enjoying smile at the end of the ad. That man is a natural at endorsements (though I hate, hate, hate his Mannu Bhabhi). I'm a happy puppy till this point in the ad and I'm thinking Coke's come up with a lovely campaign...

Then... oh then... it happens.

Najaane kitne hothon ko chhoo raha hai

At this point, the ad dies. Whatever came before this is all wiped out and I'm left staring at the screen with a stupefied expression. I simply cannot believe it. There is a heavy weight at the pit of my stomach and I can feel the death of the ad as it was my own. Such a gaffe! Oh Lord, such a mis-step that one line is. How could they do it? How?!

A long forgotten voice is resurrected in my mind due to that one line, and those words, those words which were so often repeated in my childhood come back to haunt me. "Beta bottle ku moonh lagake mat piyo. Pata nai kitne log moonh lagaye. Kitni gandagi...!" And saying that, my petite grandmother (R.I.P) would give such a heartfelt little expression of disgust that her whole body would quiver with the emotion. So even though as children, it would be a real high to drink from the bottle like grown ups, that expression and that shudder would make us look at the bottle like there were the vilest type of earthworms or some other sluggy insects crawling all over it, leaving slimy after-trails. Glasses would miraculously appear just then and we would pounce on them with relief, thanking our stars that we were not drinking from bottles that had been touched by the mouths of thousands of Coke drinkers before us.

And now... now they actually tell us in the ad, in specific terms, that those bottles have been touched by the lips of so many people. And as if we, the people, have not understood the sentiment in that sentence, they proceed to show us visuals of hordes of people drinking with Coke bottles pressed to their mouths. How can somebody be so dumb? Why commit such a suicidal act? Why? What in God's name were you thinking ad makers?

By now I'm such a wreck that I completely miss the last part of the ad. Only the visuals register, not their beauty, but the eye narrows down on the mouth part of the face of the many Coke drinkers who are so oblivious to the anguish they're putting me through. The horror refuses to leave me. I'm numb. Why couldn't they have used the cans that are not recycled? What happenend to the plastic bottles? They are a bit more hygienic when it comes to thinking of these things. Visions of slimy glass bottles assault me and I'm no longer a coherent TV viewer. Will I ever be the same again, I ask myself.

Sigh. The solution: If the ad had been left to me, I'd have stopped the running commentary after Aamir's line. I'd have let the music flare up around the visuals then. The lovely dhol beats that sound so mind-blowing on the surround sound with the woofer on... those would have been enough to convey the majesty of the ad. A perfect crowning glory to a breathtakingly beautiful ad. Let the scenes and the music do the talking. And then, at the end, Aamir saying those by now famous words - Coca Cola... Piyo Sar Utha Ke. Ah, that would have been absolute perfection.

In·so·ma·ni·a (n.)

When the chronic inability to fall asleep or remain asleep for an adequate length of time induces mental and physical hyperactivity, disorganization of behavior, and elevation of mood.

[Latin însomnia, from însomnis, sleepless, and Greek maniâ: in-, not; + somnus, sleep, and Middle English, madness, Late Latin]

Lately, I've not been sleeping for more than 2.5 hours at a time. Moreover, these 2.5 hours happen at the oddest of times in the 24 hours. One could argue that there are no odd times during a day, merely tried and trusted ones, because after all, days are nothing but cyclical and repetitive. Anyhow, by odd, I mean odd for sleep. Normal people do not sleep from 5:30 - 8:00 p.m. Nor from 1:00 - 3:30 a.m. and while I certainly do not claim normality in most areas of life, I was once a normal eight-plus hour sleeper. Now, I'm the 2.5 hour non-normal non-sleeper.

This state of non-sleep has been having severe repercussions in my social life (or whatever passes for it nowadays. (Yes, I know I need a life. (Do not say it. (Thank you)))). I now have time for all those IM people situated all over the world. I'm perpetually available around the clock. I can talk to anybody anywhere at whatever time it suits them. Idaho? Yes, I'm here. London? Sure. Dubai. Yup, here. India? Oh yes. Australia? Present ma'am. This is grave indeed because I'm sure everyone knows what too much of a good thing can do to people. I think some of them have been secretly hating me for the past week or so, but they won't tell me and I know but I won't tell them that I know, and they probably know that I know but they still will not come out and tell me. It's a secretive world we live in, for appearances.

Another problem with the sleeplessness has been the mania. The mood has been excessively manic. Like a bipolar disorder without the depression. I've been all sunshiny and hyper. This is good in small doses, but not for days. There are times when one is supposed to be composed, sedate even. Nobody can tolerate an excessively happy person continuously. Not even your own mother. It's just not possible. There will come a time when you will want to slap the person because she's grinning too much. It gets on your nerves like that. Entirely normal. So the only possible reason why I haven't been slapped yet is because it's kind of hard to slap through IM windows. (Yes, I did tell you my life revolves around those, didn't I?)

But wait, I'm being very superficial here! Shouldn't I be more worried about the health problems that can arise from not getting enough sleep? Or the under-eye circles? Or the hair fall? Does one suffer from hair fall if one doesn't sleep enough? Whatever... let's just blame it on sleeplessness and get on. I'm sure there are too many other things to worry about. Like... what if I'm losing my youth? There's this tiny old lady who lives opposite our house who wakes up at 2:30 in the morning and cooks. Yes, cooks. Our balcony overlooks her kitchen, with the road in between, and whenever we're up late, we can hear her pottering around in there.

Wait. Why am I thinking about her now? Of course I'm not going to go dotty like that just yet. I'm not. It's not my time. It's just a little sleep, nothing else. What's 2 hours or 8 hours? Nothing major. Not sleeping doesn't mean I've gone crazy, does it? Even though I've used big words like mania and bipolar disorder in this post, it doesn't mean that I'm losing my marbles. Of course it doesn't. Yes. I'm quite okay without sleep, thank you.

The sleep will come. One just has to believe in it.

Hobo

There's this boy... he's the son of my father's childhood friend / companion / playmate. Quite a sweet little wee one he is. He's at that age where one is all solemn about growing up. Nineteen I'd say if I had to make a guess. And the fact that he's lived his entire life in the US makes him even more adorable bcause he has that slightly confused and blank look when he speaks to my grandmother in Urdu. Hehehe. Such loveliness.

I like him. He's too cute. We have a nice enough relationship. But everytime he comes to my house I'm in this state of absolute yuckiness. Most times I'm still in my nightdress and today (oh my God, the horror!), I had oiled hair. I mean, at the best of times, I'm not this alluring, nice-looking person, but when I have oil in my hair, I turn into some really ugly person. Why, why, WHY??!

The thing is that I'm not bothered enough about him to not go out in front of him in this state, but I am bothered enough to be traumatized by it. So why can't God be kind to me sometimes and have him come over when I've washed my hair and am wearing something decent? Why? Why does my laziness have to be paraded before him everytime? I think there's this image of perpetual homelessness in his head about me. And it is so right. I mean, that's all he's seen me as so it would not be his fault.

But God, please, just one miracle. Let me be washed-hair-pretty and dressed ok for once and then let him encounter me. Let me not be anyone's thought-image of a tramp. Please. Just this one plea. That's all I ask. For now. Please, please, please.

Right. Now I go wash my hair.

Subtitles

I just saw this funny video about subtitles. So what's that got to do with this post? Well, with me, it's not so easy to stop thinking. And sometimes when I think, it doesn't necessarily have to be along sane lines.

I was thinking about how wrong the word 'subtitles' is (among other wrong words in the English language. Really, the language is too mad!) Just think about it. The word subtitles is made up of two words. 'Sub' and 'titles'.*

'Sub' is neither meant to be short for substitute here nor is it meant to be submarines or subway sandwiches. And here, please do not even think of sub/dom lifestyles because I apparently haven't. This is a U-rated blog. And if you know what sub/dom is without googling and you're below 18 years of age, then chain your left arm and left leg to the nearest wall and give yourself 60 lashes while sticking a needle into your.... Well, ahem, let's not get carried away. Coming back to what I was saying, when I think about it, 'sub' might have been used a prefix that means secondary or beneath, as in subhuman or substandard. Makes sense.

Which brings us to 'titles'. There is nothing about the way the word is used which suggests that it's a title. It's not. It's merely a translation. Trust the English (the people) to come up with majorly confusing English (the language) issues. Why do they have to confuse the hell out of us innocent peace-loving rest-of-the-world people? Sigh.

So here, let me start a petition to change the word 'subtitles' to 'the translation of what the character on screen is saying, the text of which appears on the screen on the bottom in a language that can presumably be understood by the person watching', which is what it should have been to begin with. That would have saved us such a lot of unnecessary blogging. It's so simple and direct, not to mention exact in meaning with regard to what it intends to convey. I don't know why the English (the people) didn't think of it...


*These sentences reminded me of the following quote.

Maybe in order to understand mankind, we have to look at the word itself:
"Mankind". Basically, it's made up of two separate words - "mank" and "ind".
What do these words mean ? It's a mystery, and that's why, so is mankind. - Jack Handy.

And everyone needs to read his other quotes. Such hilarious madness indeed!

Growing Up, Father's Shoes and Mother's Bangles

It is said that a son comes of age when he fills his father's shoes. (I tried googling that to find a link to that particular saying, but couldn't find anything remotely like that so you'll just have to take my word for it. Yes, I googled. I take my blogging seriously. How jobless are you?) I believe a girl comes of age when she can wear her mom's bangles. That's only because my mom has really tiny feet. I'd have been a grown up at about 5 years if the only criteria was filling her shoes. Or sandals. Or whatever her footwear is. I have my father's feet, unfortunately. Horribly huge. Size 10. Very ungainly for a girl. Yes, please pray for me.

There's also a bit of a problem with the bangles theory now. Because you see, my mother's hands are also too small. Childlike. And also very... uhmmm... what's the word... contortionistic? Malleable? Ahh supple! She once slipped on the bangles of my 10 year old cousin, but let's not live through traumatic memories now. This is no catharsis going on here, we'll do that some other day. The point is that her hands are also too small, which I'm thinking is a good thing because you cannot have a small body and small feet and huge hands. My mother is alrightly proportioned, that she is.

But then that poses a problem for me, because my saying doesn't really work that way. It isn't very easy for me to admit that my size of bangles got a bit larger than my mother's when I was about 13-or-so years old. She actually wore smaller bangles than I did. This totally overturns our... oh ok... my theory. But let's not give up hope just yet, because there have been certain recent developments which have warmed my cochleae cordis (yay! link!).

Just after I bought my Eid bangles, I realised that they looked quite huge on my hand. I didn't give it much thought then, but two days later when I saw my mother's kaanch ke choodis on our computer table, I thought why not try them on. And I did. And they fit. In fact, I have them on now. I've been wearing them for two days. Continuously. I slept with them on too. Now please, do not speculate about the kind of person I am or my mental capability from this isolated incident. Thank you.

Thus, this, my dear people, proves that I've grown up.

My Mom's a Gyno

Please note: My mom is a Gyno.

The italics in that sentence mean that you do not ask me embarrassing questions about womanly matters. I do not know why your period is delayed or has come early this month. I don't know what you should eat to delay it or to make it regular. I do not know anything about what hormones to take. I don't even know why you're losing hair, although I do not think that's a gynecologist's domain. I studied my basic biology in school, same as you. I never even dissected a frog. We just did cheek cells... and it's a long way to the uterus from there.

I have no idea why my friends consider me the expert on all things that need to be referred to a Gyno. The most recent case was when a friend thought she had miscarried and asked me if she really did. Now, she's in Melbourne and I'm in Hyderabad. I think, even if I was qualified, I'd need to be in the same room to answer that question. Descriptions of bloodied innards coming out followed (at least that's how it seemed) and my pukiness meter constantly fluctuated and threatened to go through the roof. This amid my protests that I will not know anything about miscarriages and its really futile to ask me.

"But your mom's a gyno!" she said.

Right. So right! My mom's a gyno and I am not. I do not accompany her on her rounds or inside those operation theatres. Yes, I'm intelligent and well read, but still, her compounder would give you better advice than I could. I seriously do not know why Taz had that complication after her delivery. How would I know??! Even after she told me all about epidurals and labour pains and other things, even when she described the six hour long delivery in minute detail, I still could not know why her neck felt wooden the next day after the delivery. Why am I expected to know?

"Cos your Mom's a gyno," she said.

Sigh. Well, she is. And I'm forced into being the quack Gyno. Why, oh why?! Does this happen to everyone? Is a cardiologist's son expected to know of matters of the heart? Do neurologists' sons take up cases about sick nerves? Does a sexologist's son... well, maybe if he's interested enough. But really, isn't this crazy? I really do not know anything about what my mother studied, or does for a living. I'm my own self, apart from her. Really. We do not have heart-to-heart conversations about female problems. Never had. In fact, we didn't even have the birds and bees discussion. So really. Please, just stop it. I don't know why things happen to you. I'm perfectly willing to get my mother on the phone and you can ask her. I cannot help it if you're shy and cannot talk to her but would prefer to ask me. I still do not know!

"But how can you not know? You're a Gynecologist's daughter!" she screams.

Well, sadly, it's not in the blood. Otherwise, I'm also an agricultural scientist's daughter. One who invented a new kind of tomato. I don't see you asking me about tomatoes, do I? Huh? C'mon. Ask me. Go on. I'm the tomato girl. What's wrong now? Why don't you?

It's all about what you need. Always.

Aunt?! *gasp*

Visited Taz a few days ago. On Friday to be exact. She had a baby. On the 14th of this month.

How was it? It was weird. I mean, really. She was one of us. Now she's this grown up person. Of course a lot of it was the swelling from the pregnancy but more than the appearance, she's responsible for this little thing. Isn't that scary? Sure, her attitude hasn't changed. She's kind of taking it easy about the lil one right now, but, well, breast feeding?! How can that be the same? She has changed. Times have changed. Most of us have changed. She was one of us. Now she's the mother of this little wriggling pink thing which came out of her. Gross! GROSS!

The lil one is without a name yet. And she's... well... little. I won't say cute. There's something ugly about most babies that small. The good part starts from maybe about five months onwards. Then they become absolutely adorable. All of them.

I still want one of my own.