Turban troubles: A not so metaphorical true story.

PG18

*All the characters are real, the names haven’t been changed*

Once upon a time, a young whore was born out of, probably a wedlock. The young whore was braindead at birth. Her eyes looked North and she saw South. Her teeth grew like a heavily fertilised cornfield, too many to line up in the jaw. She went to school and did not pay attention to the teachers, but instead kept admiring her fingernails.

As the young whore grew, her grassy hair grew and she learnt a thing or two about tying them into a whorilicious way. She learned about co-ordinating skirts with blouses and hot pants with tank tops. She attended a “fashion school” to learn this. As she reached her 20s, her hemline went higher and higher and the neckline went deeper and deeper. Despite this, the little whore was not able to walk, talk and act like a whore because she was trapped in a family who lived by the book.

One day, as the whore was juggling jobs as a showgirl juggling her boobs, a young, lost soul caught her eyes. She spread her legs wide open and immediately the lost soul decided to marry her to be the sole owner of those legs and that body. The lost soul started out humble but worked hard and reached places in life which the whore had never heard of.

Being free from the shackles of her family, she started her Babylonian epic whore journey, spreading her unfertilised eggs, from one man to another. In the meantime, the lost soul was clueless about his little whore’s business and loved her dearly and showered her with the latest gadgets. iPhone, myphone, a lot of phones were given to her to communicate with her.

But alas! the lost soul failed to see that the little whore was guzzling wine and beer like a parched whale and making other lost souls fall from heaven like Lucifer. The elixir of alcohol went to her braindead head and she looked in the mirror and saw a demigoddess. She levitated with a delusional delight and her feet never touched the ground. Of course, her knees did a lot of groundwork, performing fellatio on any male genitals that came her way. At one point there was also an equally braindead whore who decided to facilitate each other’s deviant desires while the lost soul looked on.

A decade passed by and the whore decided that she needed to mess around with more genitals. She moved to another country seeking cheaper wine and cigarettes and gullible middle-aged men. Her eyes had gone puffy, her voice had grown hoarser, and she was still grotesquely attractive to men. Another dumbass lost soul came her way and they fornicated each other’s brains out, not that there was much to lose to begin with. The dumbass had a star by his side who guided him back to his heaven. The whore kept on luring him back in, and the guardian angels stopped him many a times.

The star that stood by the lost soul’s side while he vomited the germs passed on by the whore, was mangled up, smashed and left at the curb side, begging for help from a child. At last the lost soul opened his eyes and saw the light. He gave his star his American Express Platinum card and the star transformed into Superwoman overnight. Superwoman shouted a lot, because she was dealing with dumbasses and the dumbasses paid no heed to the words and registered the noise as abuse. (*eye roll)

After much deliberation and debates between his brain and phallus, the lost soul decided that the star was indeed right and decided to follow her path. There were slip-ups, mind you, but the star stood her ground. One day, the whore lured the lost soul into a seedy watering hole and filled him to the brim with alcohol. Then, the little whore produced a pack of cigarettes that were hidden in her ass crack and they both smoked like an industrial chimney. They rolled home in their carriage, drunk as skunk and slapped the star across her face.

Now the star got very very angry and decided to bulldoze the whore once and for all. Collected but uncalm within, the star hatched a plan to demolish the harlot. After multiple attempts, she succeeded; first crushing her sunglasses, next crushing her head which was quite easy as there was nothing within and finally, crushing the whore entirely with a speeding truck. The star smiled with a deep sigh of relief and told the lost souls, both of them, “And that’s how you kill a whore.”

The End

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Living without BOYS

In a decade, I haven’t been alone. And I mean ALL ALONE. Four cups of coffee down and I feel like a new me.

I just realised the toilet seat can stay down 24 hours now. There’s no aimless yellow sprinkling all over the toilet.

I just realised I can wake up anytime, sleep anytime and eat anytime. I am not a mother, I am not a wife. I am ME. I can stand on my feet without anyone’s help. I am still hurting. A LOT. An unpardonable sin was committed and I will perhaps never forgive the sinner. But I came out stronger.

A 79 year old man, a lonely homosexual woman, friends from far away in time and space helped me. There is still hope in the world. People are nice when you are nice to them. For the first time ever, I believe!

Thank You all for your support and kind words. Strangers, but not so strange. And women out there, it REALLY us that have the power. Patriarchal society, my ass. We make them from scratch inside our bodies with just a drop from anyone. 😜 We are smart, that’s why we put our feet up and get pedicures while the “patriarchal head” brings home the bacon.

-Hugs!

Food Talks and BS walks

The other day I was watching Anna Faris getting all riled up about a plate of risotto. She said, not verbatim, that it was a pile of gooey rice and the “Food Nazis” are going to judge that glop. In another show, I saw Aziz Ansari Instagramming pictures of food while Adam Scott, Nick Offerman and Robe Lowe ate on. In yet another show, I heard Kaitlin Olson say, “I am just going to be one of those douches who takes food pictures”

Rings a bell, anyone? I am one of those incessant food picture taker. In my defense, I have taken other kinda pictures too. Food pictures started happening as this whole brigade of Food Nazis and critiques and Masterchef and Facebook and Instagram phenomenon happened. My family still gets irked by the picture taking. Why, just today, a Peking Duck sat on the plate and I was taking pictures. My husband asked, “What do you get out of this?” And I had a very dumb, unprofound answer to that, “Instant gratification”. What am I going to do with instant gratification? Stew it and eat it?

Seriously, what is the need of being a Food Nazi? It’s food. Everyone eats. It’s as banal as breathing. Is there a “Scrumptious Air Buffet” available? (Although I am sure it will be in the future) Chefs are tarnished, restaurants are blamed, there’s name calling over paltry reasons like why your hash browns are not as good as mine. Then there’s the wizardry of weaving words about food. “Holy Basil from the Indian subcontinent infused in free range, locally sourced lamb, which was carved by our master knife-ninja, and cooked for 38 hours on a low flame, lightly basting with zatar and matcha extracts and virgin peanut oil with a side of organic plum tomatoes injected with wild jalapeños and stuffed with shredded mozzarella made from a farm grazing buffalo milk which was milked after the calf was full” That’s just one dish. The critics on Yelp and Facebook and wherever would elaborate it even further by dragging back two generations of the buffalo and lamb and the earthworms that fertilised the tomatoes. Admittedly, some describe food in a most tantalising way, and if you notice, these are the ones that put it simply.

The two most memorable food writings for me have to be Enid Blyton’s and Yann Martel’s. Enid describes toffees and tarts, just like they should be described: sweetly and with a childish delight. Yann Martel, on the other hand, talks about Idli: the South Indian steamed rice and lentil cake. A very simple food that is made almost every morning by the protagonist’s mother who has just tragically died. There is no nonsense around these writings and yet they live on.

My finest dining experience of all the multitude of meals I have had are easily boiled down to two. One, back in 2008, on my birthday, I decided to trek the Himalayas. After eight gruelling hours of witnessing an avalanche unfold, getting stung by unknown thorns and crossing rivers without help, I was so tired, I could’ve just slept on the ground. A local mountain lady, who did not even have a bathroom in her house, cooked me a cauliflower and pierogi stew, and hands down, that is the best food I have eaten till date.

The other one was in 2013, when I was pregnant and could not eat anything except ice cubes. 🙄 I was prescribed medication to keep food down and something that would stimulate appetite. I was at work and we ordered takeaway. And by jove, when the food arrived, I was on it, like a vicious scavenger. It was just a bunch of sandwiches and some Indian fare, but I remember having tears in my eyes while eating, I was so happy.

Both these instances simply point to one theory: When you are hungry, EVERYTHING tastes good. It’s a plain and simple truth. All these “foodies” (don’t get me started on that term) mushrooming up everywhere claiming their unparalleled love for food.. well, let’s just say, I need a baseball bat to deal with them. The constant Instagramming and Snapchatting and Facebooking and Yelping and the orgasmic ooooohs and aaaaahs; bulimic baboons, really. “Eat with your eyes”, they say. What the fudge! “Presentation is important”. I say, “What for?”. It’s food, take it or stay hungry. And those super-effing-annoying minuscule portions in oversized plates. I absolutely detest that. The goop in there looks so delicate and photoshopped, you wouldn’t want to disturb it. You can gobble it in one go and that’s it, meal over! The next day, it’s going to turn to poop and smell like poop.

The whole molecular gastronomy has left me speechless. There’s liquid Nitrogen and deconstruction and reconstruction and flames and smoke and mist and magic. Its like the Cirque du Soleil of food. Honestly, I get lost in that Tantric deviation. It’s okay to do it for TV, but do we really need the theatrics when we are hungry? All celebrity chefs, big or small, will tell you at the end of the day, that their favourite dish is something their moms or wives or grandmas or dads cooked on Sundays. Why? Because, in the end, food is as pedestrian and as essential as sleeping. A bed and a pillow is all you need.

By the by, I am also guilty of embellishing my food stories and constantly taking pictures of what I ate. Yes, I am one of those. And let me tell you, it’s stupid, fucking, daft. I mean, just eat, man!

Ka-boom!

Oh, headsplits and splinters, go away.
Nasty litle tricks you play.
Deluded, hallucinating, is that you?
The water’s too cold.
And the sunlight’s too harsh.
The noises that sink in beautifully are a din.
Nimble fingers, shaking.
The wait’s over.
Enlightenment dawned.
The dance of the devils,
The sway of the wild.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
It will wait till eternity.

Small Talk

**Before I begin the not-so-small talk, let me tell you this- these thoughts occurred to me in the morning cool, while walking past the breezy canopied streets. So, if they are scattered or offensive, my sincere apologies**

I recently read on someone’s blog that nobody pays for Apple Music anymore, it’s the time of podcasts. I don’t know if the blog was very old, or if I am very old, but I still pay for Apple Music, because they keep my playlist as it is, without throttling it with their suggestions. I like the sequence my playlist has been following for years. Sure, there’s more added every now and then, but I do not shuffle. It’s a routine. Imagine Dragon had finally made it to my playlist with Levitate. I am still not buying the “You are my shooting star” nonsense. I mean, come on! A 6 feet tall hunk who can sing and play the guitar would have shooting stars all over the place. But anyway, I figured I don’t want to be one of those frumpy oldies who only lobbies for Hank Williams and Willie Nelson, so I took to the “new-age” music so I could discuss the now-trending-later-classics with my son. 30 years from now, Justin Bieber and Charli XCX would be classic, right? So I like to know what’s going on and some of them are really good. But what is with the EDM, Trance, House and all of those (for want of a better word) thumping, beatboxing, raving, eclectic music scene going on, I do not know and don’t care to know. I may be wrong here, but you must have a temporarily comatose cerebral cortex to enjoy and dance to that. I only hope my son doesn’t take to that.

So back to the business of talking music – I have a morning routine, I walk- earphones and walking shoes and all. (No Fitbit, no!) and during the hour-long walk, I listen to my playlist. I cannot walk without someone blaring in my ears. It’s like a lullaby for walking. And when you go on a routine walk in a routine place, you develop acquaintances. Most of them are just (‘morning!) acquaintances and thank God for those. Some are “smile and nod” ones, which are still okay. But then some are just that make me go, “Man! That b**** is going to want to talk”. So I start preparing for the calamity: you know, put your head down, look the other way as if you have just spotted a blue jay, look at your palms as if you got a boo-boo, pretend your shoe laces are undone, suddenly change the direction you are walking in. And I go through all this trouble, just so I don’t have to stop listening to Bobby Womack. I can easily press pause and unplug, but I don’t want to because when Bobby Womack is singing, you’d want to listen. So, over comes the acquaintance and starts asking weird-a** questions like “How are you? Long time no see? Nice weather, isn’t it? Did the son leave for school? Where is the husband? How is the husband? Why don’t you come to the park? Are you collecting clothes again for donation? When are we ordering those brownies again? Are you going somewhere for the holidays? Were you bathing your cat last evening?”  These are actual questions I have encountered. Now you see my fury?! The answers to all the above are as below:

  • How are you? – DUH! You see me walking.
  • Long time no see? – I turned around before you could see me, every single time, for weeks!
  • Nice weather, isn’t it? – Yes, enjoy.
  • Did the son leave for school – Do you see him with me? Are you going to his school to do some monkey business? Did you want to talk to him?
  • Where is the husband? – Sleeping.
  • How is the husband? – Sleeping.
  • Why don’t you come to the park? – Because I am not 4 and I don’t particularly enjoy slides and swings and sand play.
  • Are you collecting clothes for donation? – No, I am not. If I was, you’d get the news.
  • When are we ordering those brownies again? – Order them yourself!
  • Are you going somewhere for the holidays? – No. All of you go, and I will enjoy the peace here.
  • Were you bathing your cat last evening? – Yes. I possibly cant meow like that, and just like dogs, cats do get dirty.

All of these are fairly obvious answers, aren’t they? Rhetorical! But folks still feel the need to make small talk. I irritate a lady who is pregnant (and she’s not due until the summers) by saying, “Any day now, huh?” every time I see her. She is the only one victimized by my small talk. I do not know how to talk small. I can talk big, but even then, I get tongue-tied and sweaty-palmed and words rush out faster than thoughts. So I end up making a fool of myself. Bose and air-pods and the likes came up with noise-cancelling headphones for a reason. When you see someone wearing those, it is a billboard saying, “Do Not Disturb”. Similarly, if you spot someone wearing Crocs, it is a billboard saying, “Do Not Give Fashion Advice”.

So, to sum up, let me ask you this: If you were walking at the beach and saw someone in their swimming gear, soaking up the sun by their beach umbrella, having a sip of something cold, would you walk up to them and kick sand in their faces? I know one would feel tempted, but would you do that, really? As a society, we must refrain from acting out on our instincts, otherwise the world would go helter-skelter. So next time, you see someone enjoying the alone-time, stay away and do not stop for a chat. They just might be packing heat.