A Failed Experiment

I suppose everyone has that occasional day or two in their lives when they’re bored stiff and can’t lift a finger to do anything that seems even remotely interesting. Today’s been one of those days. There’s a lot I could be doing, but because none of it’s dire, I can’t be bothered. As a result, boredom has reached such drastic heights that I’ve started to consider taking on new hobbies like embroidery and pottery. A sad state of affairs indeed. Over the last eight hours, I’ve read the news, I've watched the news, I've taken on the lives of the performers in Water for Elephants, I've read Architectural Digest (my new hobby) till I’m blue in the face, I've played with the by-now weary cat at regular intervals of 2.32 minutes, all to no avail. I’m still bored beyond words. It’s 9.09 p.m. and I’m ready for bed and have been for two hours. All this because at 11 a.m. this morning I decided to take a day off from work and live a little.
Few decisions have produced such unfortunate results.
(Excited to go back to work tomorrow.)

We Fly You to Great Heights

You’ve been calling us racketeers, but we’re unsure why. Let’s review: We begin (not gypping you) from the time you book your ticket online (Online because you get charged for buying it over the phone.). Would you like to pick your seat, we ask. If yes, prepare to fork over a fee. If not, prepare to sit wherever we choose to seat you. If we do, that is. Sometimes we’ll choose to put you on standby, but not all of us do that just yet, so let’s hold off on going into that. Next, do you have bags? We’ll be charging you another fee if you do. It’s true we began by charging you to check in a second bag (we’ve begun calling it an extra bag) but now it’s just any and every bag you check in. You see we’ve been using the cargo hold to store all that food we won’t be serving you. Though we do still serve you peanuts. Quite literally sometimes. And that rule applies to absolutely all flights – those that are about an hour long and others that keep you up in the air for over six hours. If it’s domestic, it comes free of food (and now, apparently drinks too). Naturally you can’t get your own drinks, until after security, where the options are so much more limited, but that’s just the way things are. We’re a competitive business and what with fuel prices being so high, we’re having a rough time staying afloat. It’s true fuel prices are now a lot lower than when we first began nickel and diming you, but we’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and would rather not stop.

Thanks for flying with us. We hope to see you again soon.

08.06.11

This weekend we experienced the best kind of musical fusion at an Arlo Guthrie-NSO concert. The sound of some of the most popular folk songs backed by a powerful orchestra was simply amazing. Naturally, for the last 48 hours, I’ve been trying my best to relive so many of those moments—the point in the concert when Guthrie sang Charlie Chaplin’s poem to his wife, the sound of falling rain outside as Time for Three played a jazz piece from New Orleans, the perfect amount of breeze that blew through Wolftrap as Guthrie sang “Goodnight Irene”—all to no avail. It’s simply impossible to hold on to a moment, and I know that in time I’ll forget the way I felt that night. I also know that new, equally magical experiences will replace this one, but until then I’ll mourn the passing of one helluva night!

Failed Experiment #1

I’ve decided to cook more. So, today, Sunday, the 26th of June, I figured I’d start small with everyone’s favorite: Cilantro Chutney. Unfortunately, if everyone were to try my version of this healthy green chutney, they’d scramble off (not before dousing the taste with gallons of water) in search of other favorites.

I don’t know if I put too much salt, or too much lemon, or erred greatly on the side of yogurt, or all of the above, but all we have now is a bunch of cilantro that sacrificed its life for nothing, traumatized taste buds, and tea (just tea) for teatime.

Happy days are behind us.

Issued after the 7/7 London bombings

Security Levels Explained

The British are feeling the pinch in relation to recent bombings and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the Blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

Emily plays ...

Love it (always have):

This is the hour of Lead —
Remembered, if outlived
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

"After great pain, a formal feeling comes" by Emily Dickinson.

Gotta love it!

Just your typical mid-morning email from your visiting parents:

Hi Divya,

Ma wants to know as to how to bend the vaccum cleaner.

Where are the brush and pan to pick up the rubbish?

Love,

Papa

Ode to a Breath of Air

I have fond memories of those days when I could breathe. I always enjoyed the feeling of slowly inhaling, letting the oxygen rush in, cleanse the system, then slowly exhaling, and letting the carbon dioxide out. Not giving it another thought before doing it again ... taking the wonder of it all for granted. I long for those days when I could articulate my "m"s and better yet, see the look on people's faces as I distinguished between my "m"s and "b"s. Look at her go, they'd say, truly amazed. Today, I say "milk" and those same bystanders hear "bilk"; I call earnestly to my "mum" and they hear "bum". I ask you, when will it all end?

Not for another two weeks, at least. Today, the pollen count in DC is high and on Thursday, it promises to be very high. Until then, all the world's pollen will continue to reside in my narrow nostrils, my watering eyes, and my rather irritated throat. And that's just goig to hab to be the story of by life.

La Pauvre Hardy!

C'est une très belle chanson, mais un peu triste. Et très, très vieux. (goddamn *read in hot french accent* 1962!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1Y_7XjkJ0g

Happy, Shiny People

Lately I've just stopped caring about work. Like just stopped. There's tons of work to be done, but I can't get myself to work on any of it. This could be what a burn out looks like, or this could be plain boredom. Or it could be both. Either way, I don't care.

And it's not just about work; it's about my profession in general. Yes, journalism has always been exciting -- reporting, editing, enlightening the world one perfectly crafted word at a time, but everything just seems a bit dull these days. In fact, last night I actually thought about a career in music. Fortunately or unfortunately I couldn't quite work out the logistics of that grand plan, and quickly dismissed it as just another fleeting whim.

Which brings us back to journalism. The only thing I've ever thought I'd be good at. The only career for me because you get to express yourself (with minimal editing, if you're lucky), poke around in other people's affairs, and get paid for it (insert loose definition of "paid" here). So what's the problem?

I really don't know. And at this point, I barely care.

To Pick Up and Leave ... Again

It's time again to leave home to go home. Bombay, you've been beautiful. I'll miss you terribly you unruly, lawless, chaotic city, you.

This City by the Arabian Sea

I'm starting to fall in love with Bombay all over again. Damn, it's such a crazy city in the most fantastic sort of way. There's a perpetual racket regardless of where you go, and nobody seems to care. Rather they thrive in this noise and chaos, and helpfully advise you to follow their lead. And so I have. Over the last few days I've literally gone with the flow of 13 million people, tapping into the old, forgotten Bombayite (still not a Mumbaikar) in me. I've assertively stuck my hand out and crossed a bustling road as 10 cars and autos race towards me, I've haggled till I'm blue in the face, and I've chit-chatted in Bombay Hindi with all and sundry (trusting no one, still). Today, I spent a long evening with childhood friends, and had the time of my life. Now I've come home to loud music being played at some neighborhood party that's broken through the routine of a somewhat quiet evening, and quickly destroyed all plans of sleeping early. But that's OK. 'Coz, damn, that's just Bombay. Everything is out of the ordinary, things rarely go according to plan, and, as long as you don't fight it, life in this mad, mad city has a way of working out rather perfectly.

An Exciting Time in Your Life

Today I was reminded that it's critical to stand up to rude smurfs (polite terminology for obnoxious prick). If only others on my team remembered it too.

In other, less life-altering news, Bombay's on red alert these days, as security personnel prepare to counter potential terror attacks. The place is crawling with cops, some comfortably situated behind mile-high bags of cement, others peering out from easily visible camouflaged land rovers. All this because the World Cup cricket matches will make their way to Bombay next week, and authorities don't want a rehash of the November, 2008 attack. Apparently cops have also been quite active in ambushing any semblance of love (both, the slurpy and non-slurpy kind) on our otherwise cultured, traditionally sound streets. If a man and woman are holding hands, they're in for a rough time. It's just not what Indians do, y'see. (we do other things, but more on that some other time.)

Today has been a highly productive first-day-of-wedding shopping day. Already I'm tired of shopping, though, (never thought I'd say that), and I have another 10 days to go. This is why people go on honeymoons right after a wedding -- not to celebrate love (and hold hands, albeit rather discreetly in some places), but to recover from an exhausting experience. Fun and exciting for sure, but mostly exhausting.

Too bad I'm jetlagged, or I'd be asleep right now. Either way I'm off to calm my terribly frayed nerves.

O&O,
D

Wine 101

So here we are, finally writing. We’ve been meaning to for a while now, but perfection got in our way. Now that several of our brain cells have been destroyed, perfection has tucked its tail between its legs and hobbled off. Needless to say, this post will be devoid of eloquence, perfectly crafted sentences, and thoughts of grandeur.

A lot has happened in the last year. And yes, most people will tell you that no news is good news, and hell yes, the news has been good. Now I’m in the midst of wedding planning (save for these days when I choose to put responsibility on hold) and day dreaming – oh so much of it. Now I’m in the midst of being a bride-to-be, where most people seem to ask me, “how can I help” and “let me be a part of your special day.” It’s all a bit surreal, because, even though most of the time I’m craving attention (the good kind), I don’t really know what to do when it knocks on my door.

Wedding planning is a world unto itself. There’s just so much to do. And yet, there really isn’t. If I were a wedding planner, with contacts, real contacts, I’d be done in two weeks. Then I’d stretch it all out to make my clients think they were getting their money’s worth. But, I’m not a wedding planner and so most of my contacts are based on rough Google searches and money-making wedding guide books that promise comfort in chaos. We’ve had our funny moments during this process. Like the time we went to the temple to meet the priest who wanted to marry us, and made it quite clear that the only other priest (the person we actually hoped would marry us) in the temple had a back that hurt, and therefore wouldn’t be much use (we met the man and his back seemed wonderfully intact). Or the time … well, really that’s been the only funny (and somewhat disturbing time) … all in all things are working out quite well (in a perfectly somber sort of way).

There’s not much else to report. I should be asleep because it’s 10.16 p.m. and I’m working off a rapidly depleting resource of brain matter.

I’ll delete this in the morning.