Everything is personal

I must really shut my mouth at my work-place. I don’t get these people, and the feeling seems mutual. As the youngest person in the team, they tend to be mostly indulgent cum dismissive about my opinions anyway. I am tempted to dole out one of those clichés - age is just a number. Bleh.  Anyway who cares?

Yet, they choose to pay attention to things that are not terribly important, like it happened at the lunch-time conversation yesterday. A colleague of mine had recommended Amitav Ghosh’s “The Shadow Lines”. Since, the colleague boy seemed to be sensible and dishy (heh), I gave the book a reading. Besides, I had enjoyed the documentary style of - In an antique Land anyway. I thought that this book was a disappointing read. This was a quasi-exotic oh-so-quaint-calcutta-lanes kind of book, steeped with longing and immigrant angst! *yeah AGAIN*! Dishy Boy seemed offended. And before I knew it, the discussion went into the whole area of how Bengali writers were the most superior Indian English writers. And I was like, WOAH! Also, as a South Indian, I was supposed to feel ashamed that we don’t have great writers in English.

I am not even going to bother to ascertain the validity of that claim. I don’t think it is a personal triumph if someone who shares my gene pool is successful. Why must everyone take every insult and triumph as a personal one? Are there own lives incredibly hollow?

Most boring.

And quite frankly, for a large part of my childhood and teenager years, the only author who I thought actually wrote books in English was - RK Narayan.Heh!

Being Tamil

I am not really a Tamilian. Sure, I have lived in Madras all my life. I am born to Tamilian parents. I don’t know any Hindi. And very importantly, I don’t desire to know any Hindi either. But, I am not obsessive about my Tamil identity. I am not even sure if I have one. Having some kind of cultural identity seems important. I am too obscure for something like that. Besides, it is so boring.

When amma tries to turn me into one of those good Tamil girls, it annoys me. I am not even nice enough to pretend. So, I don’t understand why she must me even bother. What kind of thick skin does she posses? And where does one find that?

 

It annoys me when The Boy says that we go and see – Kattradu Thamizh. He says that only because I suggested that we watch – Jab We Meet. When I become North Indian, his Tamil pride hollers. If I had suggested that we watch the Good German, he would have said that we ought to watch – Jab We Meet. Bleh.

 

I don’t understand this girl. She is charming, articulate and flippant. And she is also difficult to ignore. I can’t help checking her blog every hour to see if she is updating it. If people didn’t do things for money, they would be so much better at what they did, no?

 

But then, I am rich. So, it is easy for me to say that.

Rains and Road Rage

Damn.  It pours all through the weekend, and we get clear skies on Monday? This cyclone is a capitalist plot.

Driving to work was crazy. Two-wheeler folks with their over-flowing rain-coats scare me. I witnessed three accidents on my way to work. Thankfully, none of them involved me.

Because I have a car and a rich father, people at work think it is funny. I am their favourite lunch-time topic. It seems I am responsible for all the poverty of the world. I find them all to be incredibly unfunny and stupid. But then, so am I.

Men and mice

There are some girls whom you take home to your mother.

There are some girls whom you take home, when  your mother is not around.

Never try to trick me with a kiss

I have been re-reading - The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. Need to get some new books to read. The Boy tells me that I need some happy literature in my life.

I find that annoying. 

I am not an intellectual sort. I like books for the flimsiest of reasons. So flimsy that, by the time I am done reading with it, I forget why I like it. As a reader, I am what I have never been in real life: decidedly non-flamboyant. I am a grounded, straight laced reader. I disagree with the Boy’s assertion that I am an unhappy reader. 

Why must one always be overwhelmed and swept away? It is insulting. 

The Boy has this game that he plays with me routinely. It goes as follows:

Step 1: Insult me

Step 2: Profusely apologize

Step 3: Pull my ears, rub my temple, play with my fingers, find some excuse to pet and neck et al 

Where did he learn that? Do the men I meet go to some place called – Special School for Morons?

Note to Amma

You put yourself through nine months of trauma. You warred against the raging hormones. You did all of this, to bring me into this world.

 

You are a goddess.

 Why do you inflict so much pain on me now? Why must you always be dissatisfied with me? Why do you annoy me so much?

 

By the powers that be, I hereby take away your title.

 

You were a goddess.

Why do some people take themselves so seriously?

He tells me, you are superficial.

His tone is accusing.

I am supposed to squirm and feel apologetic.

I have immense urge to show him the appropriate finger, but I don’t. I make bambi eyes and threaten to cry.

He squirms and feels apologetic. He tells me that it was meant to be a joke.

Yeah, right.

I am a hypocrite. I am manipulative.

I am also a nice girl.

I contradict, therefore I am.