Simple complexities

It's been more than 20 days that I have been wanting to get a haircut done and everytime I call my salon, they say they are booked for the next two days. Even my dentist doesn't ask me for such heavy-duty prior intimation of my arrival! Anyways, since I can't decide what I what I would be doing 48 hours in advance I am not comfortable with the whole idea of getting prior appointments with a hair salon.

But then I told myself that it's my problem and the big, complex world of today revolves around appointments and meetings and blah. So, I gathered myself up and tried fixing myself up thrice but got tired of being turned down because they don't work to match my timings! What the fuck! I was just asking them to chop off a little bit of the hair that I thought was redundant! It's not going to take more than half an hour, is it? But there they are, just not interested! Isn't this their job?

So, I gave up on my salon and called up this other guy, who is also really good -- that's what JP old me. And the Other Guy also happens to be an extremely busy hairstylist and asked me to give a call the following week! A whole week before he can touch my hair! That's frustrating! I just want to have my hair cut, damn it!
But I tried being a little patient and called him up the following week, as per his instructions and he asked me to get an appointment at another branch for the weekend!

What the fuck?

What IS with these guys?

Colour, colour which colour?

There's this little girl whom I meet at my gym every day. Well almost every day. There are days when she doesn't wake up on time and there are days when I don't wake up on time. So let's say we meet about four days a week on an average.
Anyway, she might be about eight years old. She's skinny and around four-and-a-half feet tall. I heard her telling the instructor the other day that her mum thinks being four-and-a-half feet tall is terrible for an eight-year-old. And that's what brings her to the gym. So, while the rest of the women (it's an 'only ladies' gym. I think women in Dombs are still very conscious of working out in front of men) sweat it out to lose or add flab, little girl tries growing a few inches taller.
One of these days while I was trying to make sense of parents wanting their children to grow taller than what they can naturally be, little girl diverts my attention towards something I found even more irksome.
"Didi, main itni kaali kyun hoon?" she asks a gym instructor, who has a relatively lighter skin tone.
"Go and ask your parents, why are you asking me?" the gym instructor replies jokingly.
"My mom is very fair. Bahut gori hai. Main kyun aisi hoon?" girls asks.
Gym instructor tries ignoring her volley of questions by telling her that it's important to be tall. Far more important than being fair. She does a good job because little girl gets back to her grow-taller regimen.
Two days later, I hear little girl asking another instructor how to have fairer skin. And that's when it really begins bothering me. Bothering me enough to rob at least two minutes of sleep every night thinking about why little girl is so worried about her colour.
After two nights of thinking, my surmise is she has enough reasons to be fretting.
I am sure the rowdy thugs in her school might have named her kaali naagin or some equivalent of that. Her fair-skinned girl friends might be making her feel ugly. Her teachers might never have chosen her to play a Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty for the school's annual function. Her relatives might have suggested kapuzillion ways for her to grow a shade or two lighter -- drink more milk, try this fairness cream, no, that one's better etc. Her mother and, possibly, father might not be letting her play with other children for fear of little girl growing darker under the sun. Her playmates might be pointing fingers at her, laughing, gossiping and speculating why she can't play along with them -- she is a bad girl, she might have failed in her exams, blah, blah. While little girl might try watching TV to distract herself from the badgering, she would possibly only take notice of all the fair and good-looking women living beautiful lives behind the silver screen.
Phew. Tough life she has. And she is just eight.
Ufff

Mannat

This one is for one of my very close friends AD, who passed away last October. I am certain she still checks my blog and has a hearty laugh from up there.

A,
You know what I had to do today? Stand outside YOUR Shah Rukh's Mannat from 5 pm to 8 pm in the hope that either Sourav, Buchanan or he would come out to update us, the byte-hungry, demented, jobless media about the ongoing KKR controversy. You know what it is about, right? Yeah. So, there I was burning myself away in the heat and sweating myself away like a pig when I could have been chilling my ass in a pretty cool pool tournament. But such is life.
Anyway, all along I hoped for your SRK to come out to speak because then I could have told you how he looks, smiles, waves, speaks, walks in real life. But that was not to be. Forget Shah Rukh, not even his dog Hippo came out to greet us. We just stood there, saw the sun go down into the sea, saw his house light up and also saw Dada storm away to the airport from Mannat.
If you still carried a phone, I would have called you a hundred times to update you about all what happened and curse your King Khan for being so heartless to not even offer us water. I would have gone on for less than five minutes and then heard you go on for half an hour in his defence. But I couldn't do any of that.
Such, also, is life.

Phew!

My designer mate KK just called me and said that the fault is not really ours. It's some technical hitch at the printer's end. That's some consolation.

P.S.: Cycle ends. :-)

Screw up

My mind is pre-occupied. Something went wrong at work. The page that I made yesterday doesn't have a picture in print, instead has a blank grey patch. I don't know how it happened but I am pretty sure I'll have plenty of brash remarks to hear till the end of today and maybe tomorrow and maybe day after tomorrow and the day after that. How could I be so irresponsible? How could I leave it all upto the designer? How could I this and how could I that?
So, I am horribly tense right now. Waiting for a how-could-you message from my boss. And while my finger nails are moving up to meet my teeth, I am keeping them distracted with the keyboard. I'm breathing heavily to calm myself down. Thinking of the peaceful yoga session I had in the morning.
By the way, my mom's begun joining me on my yoga errands. It feels good to have some company to the gym and back. We can joke about the funny accents of our yoga instructor and more importantly discuss breathing styles.
Ahhh... The horror is returning. My mind is really not letting go of the picture-not-on-the-page issue. This is my problem. I take things too seriously when I get attached to them. Yes, I am quite emotional about my work. Silly, but true.
But right now what my conscious mind is telling my subconscious is that it's really not my job to check the page for formatted pictures or lack of them. That's someone else's job and so I need not worry. I am succeeding to some extent. There's some relief.

P.S.: The horror is returning and cycle is continuing... Boo hooo... I hate the way my brain and my heart work in tandem.

It's been about 15 days -- I am not sure how many exactly, I lost count after three -- that one of my best friend's (GB's) mother passed away. It was all so horrible and terrible over the past few days that I preferred the quiet around it. Now, the shock has passed us by and what remains is some bitterness, sorrow and a blend of denial and acceptance.
I regret not having said my final goodbyes to Aunty. So here I am, doing just that.

Dearest Aunty,
I am sorry I couldn't make it to Kerala. Feel like a s*** pot about that. I would have loved to see you one final time and told you everything I never told.
Aunty, I would have loved to tell you how strong you were. There was nothing that could bog you down. You went through such trauma -- mental, emotional and physical. When I saw you motionless on the hospital bed some months ago, down with whatever got you down, I was shattered. I couldn't see you -- someone who was so full of life -- lying there lifeless. But you kept all our hopes alive. You kept building yourself up. And with you, all of us were building ourselves up. You were strong and inspirational.
I'd have told you how much I am going to miss your sense of humour. You know aunty, you could laugh with anyone and everyone -- you could laugh with the three (GB, PU and me) of us, you could laugh with our mothers and fathers and their mothers and fathers. And I am sure you could have lived to laugh with our children and theirs.
I would have told you how I am going to miss witnessing your tuition sessions through the pink transparent curtain. How you could handle a bunch of students from different classes in different schools, studying different subjects all in the tiny little room. What surprised me is how you managed to make all of them so deftly. I know you never did it for anything in return. You just wanted them to learn. You inspired me.
I would have told you how I am going to miss your snares and glares every time I came to your house and indulged in loud laughter riots. Reminds me how we stifled all the giggling and laughing and got back to our books or at least pretend to, when your eyes met ours. I am going to miss your work-while-you-work-and-play-while-you-play dictum.
I would have also told you how much I liked slurping up your sambar till there was absolutely nothing left on my plate. I am not sure how much I'll miss it, because your daughter is sure on her way to perfecting the art of making the ideal sambar that you made! Congratulations on that!
I would have told you all this and much, much more. There is so much unsaid and, as cliched as it might sound, life really seems short.

I am drunk

This is to sat rgat iu apolhise for my orevious post. I a m drink. damn drubk]