In Pursuit of Eternal Happiness..


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The wind played a soulful symphony as it tousled his hair.  Black, wavy, it glistened furiously under the moonlight.  Suvo was surprised at how stunningly beautiful the city looked from the terrace of his building, where he had spent some of the most eventful years of his life.  The street lights that looked like gems strewn on an inky carpet, were winking mischievously at him.  The roads looked like a crazy zigzag… the sounds of lives in motion – a distant echo… the worn out mountains in the horizon – mute spectators to life and death, happiness and sorrow – it all seemed so surreal.  All he could hear was the sound of his laboured breathing, sweat trickling lazily down his forehead despite the chill.  He had to use all his will-power to curb the urge to wipe it off, but didn’t.  Tonight of all nights he should be above such frivolities. 

The last six months had been the happiest in Suvo’s life.  Not that he had been unhappy before.  At 38, he had everything a man could ever ask for – successful, rich, devilishly attractive, happily single and never short of women ready to mingle.  After a wild night of partying to celebrate his promotion as Vice President of his company, he stumbled upon a realization that took him by surprise.  Suvo Sarkar had finally achieved all that he had ever wanted and oddly that did not fill him with elation but a strange sense of emptiness.  Why? Is it because I have nothing left to pursue anymore?  

When he presented the Board of Directors his letter of resignation, they were shocked.  When he told them that he wanted to live a life as if he’s never going to die – they were convinced that he had gone bonkers.  Are you okay? I think you need counseling; do you want me to fix up an appointment for you?

I’d rather be a Bitch!


All through our lives we are confronted with mysteries that play hide and seek with us.  Some reveal themselves in boring Science chapters, while others unravel with age.  

Let’s take flirts.  I was in my early teens when I first heard the word (no, I am not kidding, I was a tad behind my times).  They commanded so much respect that my friends would speak in hushed tones while discussing the exploits of this alluring species.  Not being aware of their mysterious ways, I was intrigued.  I would look at my friends with puppy eyes and implore them to explain what one has to do to earn this elusive title.  They would hem and haw and try to fob me off with vague explanations but nothing was good enough to satiate my curiosity.  I finally got enlightened when someone tried being one with me, but I was too embarrassed to deal with it and far from being deliriously happy at the revelation.    Now, in this information fuelled era even a 12 year old can give a lucid explanation of what flirting means while the elder brother will readily part with helpful tips on sexting. 

But there are certain mysteries that prefer to remain in hiding – Do football matches have a hypnotic effect on men, does cricket induce coma among its spectators, when a baby smiles – is it gas or is it love – and why we prefer calling certain type of women a bitch!  

I actually happen to like dogs.  They don’t sulk, rarely throw tantrums, are fiercely loyal, undemanding and brimming with love.  The female of the species is no different.  Agree it can be quite a pain to keep her suitors off her trail but that’s not really her fault is it?   So when they call a woman a bitch – is it meant to be an affront to the canine species or insult women who have fine tuned meanness into an art? 

Delhi is turning modern jee

Sheila Dixit dreamt of it, our taxes paid for it and DDA in collaboration with MCD almost ruined it.  Delhites caught in the daily grind of generator fumes and traffic snarls shrugged it off as yet another gimmick.  But the megapolis with its many implants and cosmetic surgeries, courtesy fairy godmother CWG almost managed to make it.  If a few strategic implants can make Rakhi Sawant India’s hattest item garl, surely apni Dilli can become a world class city! 

Mumbaikars might try to dismiss it as yet another Behenjee-trying- to- be- modern endeavour but we know it’s a classic case of sour grapes.  Mere pass Ring Road hai, Metro hai, flyovers hai - tumhare pass kya hai Mamu? 

And to further strengthen our case, Delhi will have billionaire drivers vrooming on Budh International Circuit in nearby Noida this weekend.  I am petrified that some Dilliwasi will misconstrue it as broom...broom and reserve a seat at the grandstand for his maid as a Diwali bonus.   If Shiney, according to Spice ads, can buy a mobile for his bai, why can’t the cash-rich Delhizen book a seat for his? 

I am told they call it Formula 1 and no, it’s not another Govinda movie with Shakti Kapoor’s naadha grabbing eyeballs.  Neither does it have any correlation to Maths and Chemistry formulas which have eluded me all my life.  Formula 1 racing is actually a high adrenaline event, where one gets to race long-nosed cars at insane speeds, minus the headache of a traffic cop chasing you with a challaan.  Plus you get to crash cars just like in the movies, get an obscene pay check and carouse with the most glamorous women.

Hey! My husband drives menacingly and scares the living daylights out of people.  And all he manages is pleas for mercy and petrified looks. 

But I am not the type that goes on a fast against the unfairness of it all, especially when there is a plethora of stuff vying for my attention.   Gosh! There’s so much I can choose from.  I can do some head banging to The God of Metal- Metallica- playing in my neighbourhood, or burn a hole in my pocket watching drivers put their lives at risk on a race track.  Giddy with fun, my throat hoarse from all that screaming, I can then proceed to Arjun Rampal’s Lap.   Of course I’d love to spend the rest of my life in Rampal’s lap, but this is LAP the club, host to post-F1 parties.   And Delhi knows how to partyyy especially when drunk.  To facilitate the procedure, the club will have Champagne Sky Bars where firang apsaras will dangle from the ceiling, to top up our Champagne flutes.  Wowie...getting drunk was never this fun!  

An obituary for the dear departed Sari

Courtesy -> Desicolours.com

I have fond memories of the sari.  Coming home to bury my face in the softness of my grandmother’s customary white un-starched taant, keys dangling at its end, inhaling the scents – a heady mix of incense sticks, and paan and kitchen spices.   Watching my Maa wrap herself in silken splendour, the intricate motifs shimmering under the lights, the aanchal flowing over her shoulder like a cascading waterfall.  

For me it was not just a sari but a six yard fantasy.  As a young girl, I badly wanted one for myself, to feel the swish of the silk as I would glide around the room feeling like a princess.  It is in a sari that I took my first step into womanhood, ready to take flight from my cocooned existence. 

There was a time when I used to wear one everyday – not because I was a six yard fanatic, but simply because it was the dress code at work. Initially I found it a menace.  Having to get up early in the morning, spending anxious moments in front of the mirror to get the pleats right.  Walking in an ungainly manner, tripping over the pleats at the most inopportune moments.  I felt it cramped my natural athletic style of climbing three stairs at a time.  So petrified I was of my sari coming undone that I would overdose on safety pins.  Yes, I singlehandedly managed to make even the lungi look elegant.  One look at me and my friends would shove me into the cabin, bang the door shut and re-tie it for me.   Slowly I mastered the art of draping - a tuck here, a nip there, the subtle dip that brings out the essence of femininity so beautifully. 

Very few attires hold as much mystery and allure as a sari.  One can wear it a little low to show off our newly discovered washboard abs, pair it with a backless blouse to bring out the diva in us.  And on days we feel like Mother Teresa and crave for world peace, we can drape it to cover every visible inch of our body.  Now which other garment can match such versatility?  

And the mind boggling variety of patterns, weaves and hues it comes in – each with its distinctive legacy. From flirty Chanderis, to elegant Gadhwals, to the opulent Banarasis, to the gorgeous Dhakai Jamdanis, to colourful Ikkats, we are spoilt for choice.  

This is Sita Reporting Live

Concluding Episode

Mommy love,

I can safely say that today was the most miserable day of my life.  Yes, I had a head on collision with the moment that every woman dreads so much.   We try hard to avoid it with yoga, zero carbs and botox.  Yet there’s no escaping its cruel inevitability.

I believe the animal kingdom, in collaboration with foreign hand, has hatched a conspiracy against me.  First a deer pretending to be golden gets me abducted then an ape-man dressed in Super- man gear, crashes my vanity into smithereens.   

Maa you won’t believe this, that Hanu-man called ME, Matajee! Imagine a grown-up ape-man calling me that! This is even worse than Aunty.  When I heard that god damn awful word, my entire neuro-sensory system stopped responding.  My world came crashing down.  All I could hear was the sound of my sobbing heart.  “Does he think I am old?” “Have I aged overnight?” “Is this the end of my youth?” “Why me??” 
Sitasingstheblues.com

Just as I was preparing to launch into a tirade against men with juvenile aspirations, Hanu-man flashed his ID as Ram’s search engine.  My heart was split in half now- one half wanted to continue crying for a lost youth and the other half wanted to go “Yahooooo!”  Imagine my Ram, actually making efforts to send a snail-male to trawl for his missing wife! 

Guess all those hours on his laptop playing mindless games did not damage his brains after all. 

Sita Travels Abroad

Episode 2

Mommy dearest,

First the good news – I finally managed my first ever foreign trip and that too without a visa.  The bad news – I have been kidnapped.

Remember the golden deer I was soo excited about?  It turned out to be as fake as Aunty Sumitra's Louis Vuitton bags.  And trust Ram and Laks-man to go running after it.  Before I could scream Come back you imbeciles, I spotted that weird Abhishekh Bachhan lookalike winking wildly at me.  God! I was so mad that I had to come out of my eco friendly hut to give him one tight slap.  And you know what that moron does? Pushes me straight into his private jet.  Damn! Why did I leave my pepper spray behind?

Sometimes the universe conspires to give you hell. 

Weirdo’s private jet was kinda strange – an open topped thingy that totally messed up my hair.  Of course I was screaming and throwing a royal fit and that ass kept going hahaha.  Incidentally my dear abductor has a bizarre name – Ra-One. Bwahaha!

Sitasingstheblues.com

When Sita Clicked Write

Episode 1

Since Dusshera is round the corner, I thought I’ll give Sita a modern twist.

Maa,

I am kicking myself for being so goody-goody.  I should have stayed back and gotten fat.  But no! I had to act like one those dumb belles in the saas-bahu serials and follow my husband to the forest like a loyal puppy.  What was I thinking!  Sigh… Life was so much cooler at the Palace – all those maids, the soft bed, the scented massage, the gorgeous Jacuzzi…I miss it so bad.  And guess what! I am even missing my MILs.   Yep, the same old hags I took such pains to avoid.   And it wasn’t that tough you know.  They mostly stuck to their rooms and all they did was play cards and watch TV. 

Actually it’s Paa-in-law’s fault.  He and his fetish for collecting wives!   Which dork sends his heir to the jungles just because he made a promise to his pretty young wife?  Promises are meant to be broken right? And if everything else fails you can always feign memory loss.  But no! You have to act all upright and send us packing to hell. Gawd! I am so maaaad at him! 
  
Maa, next time when you meet that jealous bitch Kaikeyi at one of your Kitty parties, just give her a tight slap will ya?  You know what, I often dream that I am pushing K and her ugly hunchback Manthra off a cliff.  They go down screaming as I grin widely.   I wish I could do that.  Will you ask Dad, if he can arrange someone to crush that bitch under a speeding BMW?  Please, pretty please? 

sitasingstheblues.com

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