A space called home

Sometimes, small things really matter. I am a spartan in spirit and a pseudo-regal in taste. Being smart and sophisticated is not an easy art. You learn it the hard way through bloopers or by chance or initiation.Going back to old times when I came to Hyd with one big air bag.

I have somehow been never house-lucky in Hyd. I have had one or the other issues,  needless to say I have to approve/affirm my den. Since Dec'06, I have had two stints at the PG - interesting places. A friendly lecturer from my univ informs me from her experience and knowledge of Hyd that Ameerpet is 'safe' for girls. Yes, four of us found refuge in a certain hostel which was a breeding pit of software engineering students. Figured out after a year, that Ameerpet Univ is actually a phenomenal truth!

PG round 2 happened in Madhapur because I was on a deputation-training. I tell you these Telugu hostel owners are great money spinners. 2 of us managed to call the kitchen home for 2 months. The deposit drama and threat is utter sham. They could not even find a remedy for a viral flu, I had to shell out 10 grand spending a weekend in money-stripping Image Hospitals, what image I have of Telugu-land!

Never strike friendship with hostel mates and decide to move out to together to an independent or separate accommodation. I was ditched by a Malllu girl and a borderline Tamil-Mallu girl, of course after we finalised a house and I (silly me) offered to pay the advance and rent, since the other two were broke (you know, the month-ending excuse).The Mallu would live provided another  Mallu girl also stayed and the Tamill-Mallu girl would stay provided the 1st Mallu girl made up her mind. So much for regional collective responsibility. Those girls, I hope I am able to forgive them for their care-a-damn smallness.No offence.

Round 3  of accommodation was Lingampalli, close to Hyderabad Central University - the jinxed house actually, where I was ditched and all.I barely lasted 19 days in that house.What goes around comes around.Some Mallu and Tamil girls from office badly needed accommodation, they moved within a day's notice.

Round 4 of accommodation was more of a makeshift-anywhere-in-the-city but away from ditchers, Jubilee Hills..where getting an auto to and fro was annoying. All the richie-rich Reddys and filmstars live here and nobody takes an auto. The poor basti people took buses or walked. If you cant drive, to hell. This house was beautiful- nice woodwork, nicer (read bigger) rent, civil mates and nice maid. 8 months just passed like that. I hardly met tolerable neighbours. Buying weekend rations and vegetables in the rythu market was another activity. Again, space and difference set in. We moved on.We are barely civil anymore.

Classifieds work the best, again a matter of luck and timing. You get ok-dokey roomies-flatmates, houses and deals. You also have headless men making inquiries about the availability of the house and all.

Decided to go solo. Options were bad, and options just got worse. So-called concerned folks and people also said the same.There are no studio apartments.WTH

Round 5  was Banjara Hills, homely space but I never liked the quack of the doctor who was also our owner. A good 9 months passed with pets and parties. I learnt to differentiate between the sex and the city kinds, the predators and the nonsense in my environment.I had to de-tox everything around me. I decided to move closer to the workplace and also, someplace. 

Man proposes, God disposes.Crossroads.Choices.Classifieds. 

Round 6 was Kondapur, pretty much on the highway with a dusty breeze in the daytime. Wanted a new beginning to everything. Needed space away from the familiar mundane crowd. I lasted 3 months there. Jackie, the gorgeous female labrador still comes in my dreams, she has delivered a lovely litter. The other two inmates quit work in succession and also, decided to leave Hyd for good. I had just unpacked when this news bombed me. I was not keen on taking over. So, the TO-LET went up.Another lesson, a 21-year old and somebody waiting to be 30 have different agendas in life.

It was a nightmarish time. I no longer have just one air bag. It was a truckload of things. I sold a lot of things, gave away a lot of things. The rest, I packed again and moved to a couple of friends'. I am indebted, being homeless.

Round 7, found a basement residential flat in Erramanzil. I was not wow but I needed something closer to work.I hated moving in and moving out. It was not fair on my other roomie. But the daylight theft got me worked up.I dont ever remember cooking in that house, I also remember turning a year older in that house. Forgettable but 2 months.

Round 8 happens to be my current transit camp since last August. It's become my sanctuary. From a difficult Page-3 wannabe breaking my ear-rings to agony bonhomie with my other two flatmates. We meet when F.R.I.E.N.D.S. come on TV.

I swear, I will leave Hyd if I have to move out of this house. I am not as tenacious as a cat and dont want to be a survivor. Reminds me-- when I first came to Hyd, I moved out of the company guest house after the two-week complimentary put-up. I did that on 1st Jan. Someone said, get ready..you are going to change houses often, whatever you do on New Year's..you keep doing that all the time.

I have learnt to take care of rent and expenses. I have never ever slept alone in an empty house full of cartons and boxes, I have done that too. I have found my space to cry and laugh, not be answerable to anyone, including parents. Money cant buy that, even in your own house.

I dont think I want to buy a house in Hyd (whenever I can) or own a house. I'd rather go to the countryside, write during the day and learn bee-keeping (which I will someday) and pay my bills. The romance with a city finishes once the worst hits you. 

"Men may come and men may go

But I go on forever."

Signs I tell you

Ok, so don’t talk today. Why? My right eye has been throbbing for sometime now. Bad time. Alright. My left eye, upper side has been throbbing for ever. Am I hallucinating, my upper left arm is also throbbing?

In Charles A. Kincaid’s Tales of Indian Cavaliers, Princess Rukmini is about to elope with dark and handsome Lord Krishna. She sends a proposal (more of a save-me-from-a-bad-marriage letter) to him through a trusted Brahmin. Her left eye, left arm and left thigh began to throb vigorously when she nearly lost hope. Of course, she married her Lord Krishna.

I see only one magpie, not a good sign. Let’s not do it today.Okay, what if the magpie is a baby or a bachelor or a widow. No, you must spot two to be lucky, otherwise..

No, I sneezed once which is bad. I mean what difference does it make if I sneeze twice or two times - well, the placebo effect, pure coincidence? Things kinda never went wrong. And things were never made to happen when the one-sneeze happened.

Ok, did you see any horses in your dreams? It means war and death. Oh yeah? In fact, I sat on one and rode like a Victorian princess to my castle. The moat is clearly visible now also. I remember sitting with my corseted-gown, I had a third-wooden leg on the other side of the horse.

Trust all the signs and superstitions.

A visit to the Police Station

The police station is 'forbidden' zone for so many.  I nearly had a first time when a student's overpossessive pistol-wielding lawyer boyfriend's misbehaviour on campus got a lil' out of hand. But thankfully, a  very vocal and senior faculty wanted to do the andolan*-reformation bit, so I was left out of it.Of course, the highlights were not pleasant - from a very thick-skinned students' union, my very foolish student and her apparent 'boyfriend' of a terror, there was an out-of-'court' settlement. That bastard lawyer who broke the law did not get punished, I hope he is reading this.

My brother ran away from home on two occasions, those growing-up adventures. Reasons were predictable - that man-to-man fight with dad over pocket money and confiscation of Batman comics, then that famous and occasional "Get-out!" which was taken seriously, and literally. Thankfully, the FIR never happened and pray, that never happens.

Recently, a colleague of mine lost about 8 tolas of gold, hard-earned toil of her late mother. The suspect is her baby-sitter cousin who is doing the victim act and there is no doubt, she is the one - the victim act only confirmed it, she has a growing kid. My colleague who is a couple years younger than I, told me it was weird doing the FIR thingy and all the futile interrogation shit. She did feel uncomfortable and there is no reason to explain that.

I lost my favourite camel-leather wallet last year on my way to the airport. Some few grand, my ATM-Debit cards, credit card, my PAN card,my health insurance card, my Univ ID-card and my library cards - quite some fortune! I recovered the most important ones but I need to kick myself for procrastinating to recover the rest. Anyway, I went to the PAN card center for a replacement. They told I need an FIR.

The Laitumkhrah PS, I decided to go there. When I got off the taxi, I just sprinted to the PS in lightning speed so that no one saw me going to that 'forbidden zone' for whatever reason. You never know which nosey Uncle of Dad's office spies and even better, report it to Dad before I reach home. No, I am not scared. Dad knows I have to visit the PS, it is not a 'shameful' thing.

 It is a newly constructed 2-storeyed building with ample parking space, and a spacious compound. The stairs were not very dirty, barely swept that morning. The walls had posters of AA, Anti-Drugs and public awareness messages. The station in-charge office in the left wing was empty, no one in the chair.The right wing had people, I walked in with the customary, "Excuse me, may I come in?"

A dapper and good looking sub-inspector turned around, asked me to come in. There were a few other uniformed people whose 'stars' and 'ribbons' I could not see so that I can tell you their designation. I swear I felt very queasy - there was not a lady constable around! The SI asked me to sit down, when that evening round of chai-jingbam** came by. Impromptu, he asked me if I wanted to have a cuppa. I was pleasantly surprised - No, thank you. That is very kind of you. Very politely, he asked me what brought me there. I relayed, he was kind enough to lend me a sheet of paper to file a request for an FIR. Asked me to come the next day to collect the same. 

As the paperwork was going on, I scanned around. There were two cells - one for females and one for males. There was also the very interesting  'Rogue's Gallery' - a nice and neat collage of all the weird and very weird looking criminals with those slates of information, a random 'Wanted' tag on one and the like. There was also a wireless machine and a blackboard full of cryptic information, almost like a complicated weather report chart.

I also chipped in another request to give me the file reference number of an ancient report.The whole station got down to pulling out all the old files without a murmur. They traced the file number after a patient search. The cautious cynic that I am, I never expected such prompt service especially for something so Jurassic. I could not thank them enough. I wish they had a feedback box. Many govt. offices have one but too many complaints than compliments can be morale-damaging. The bulky-brained (or lack of it) people think they are exercising their rights educatively enough but alas! The only and biggest disadvantage of democracy - one has to live by mediocrity, every dimwit feels important and has an opinion. Fatigue creeps in. Anyway, I got my FIR the next day, there was an attractive lady SI, very beautiful eyes and a steely frame who signed my document.

This is an open channel - Laitumkhrah PS, you guys are one in a million. Thank you, you have restored my faith in the system. You are responsible and efficient. You are nice and friendly to the common layperson. Way to go!

*andolan - protest/activism in Hindi
**chai - tea in most Indian languages
**jingbam - something to eat/goodies in Khasi

Watched Antaheen last Sunday and totally loved it

National award winning Bengali movie, Antaheen (which means an endless wait) came a year ago. About love, realisation and longing, life and fragmented relations looking for wholesome completeness, the aesthetics of Aniruddha Chowdhury’s film is sheer poetry,tragic most times and Shantanu Moitra’s music lyrical and haunting. 

Urban Kolkata is beautifully captured by cinematographer Amit Mukopadhyaya in Café Coffee Day mugs, Chivas and Jasmine tea, long drapes and comfortable cushions, beautiful lampshades and window sills, potted glory and wind chimes, that kite longing for freedom at what cost, panoramic landscape, the rain kissed terrace gardens and sunlight dancing through painted glass, the shimmering city in the evening as seen from balconies. There are page 3 launches and parties and Star Ananda is a hep corporate place with writer Kunal Basu making a fleeting appearance. The symbolic telephone is the protagonist.

Young and feisty Brinda ( Radhika Apte, a surprising non-Bong Rahul Bose recommendation amidst teeming Bong actresses) is a Barkha Dutt in the making. She is a delight to watch, her eyes speak much more. She makes life miserable for VK Mehra, the Eldorado builder and also, no-nonsense upright IPS officer Abhik (Rahul Bose) who dismisses her need for bytes. Abhik is cynical about love and Brinda’s relationship with her boyfriend Sujoy is as good as over. 

Abhik has an endearing financial consultant cousin, Ronnoda (Kalyan Ray) - his friend, philosopher and guide who dabbles in the stock market, enjoys a good drink and good books. He is divorced and not divorced. His reel and real wife Paro (Aparna Sen with that frumpy mushroom cut) works as the marketing head in Brinda’s office. They stay apart but can’t do without each other. Paro is an avid photographer- her Tibet trip ‘cost’ her father-in-law’s life and her marriage, and also, her love for photography. The Tibet trip is possibly her best work which remains to see the light of day, her Ronno does not even want to glance at them. Tells a lot about contemporary society which chooses to be progressive with the high-rises and imported liquor but won’t think twice to blame a wife’s work for an already-ill in-law or a house which needs order .

Brinda shares a sister-like camaraderie  with her Parodi and is completely won over with her snigdha (graceful compusure). Unknown to each other, both Abhik and Brinda share soul space online, from cute sweet nothings to typical Mars-Venus takes on the comfort of being strangers and yet, the urge to know more. Their real-life encounters end in sour debates. 

Abhik stays with his graceful spinster Pishimoni (Sharmila Tagore). So used to living a life of loneliness with her potted plants and dusting old books and her needlework, her Penelope-like waiting for that phone-call from that gentleman with that nice voice is heart wrenching. Her jasmine tea is a conversation opener from her reverie. She does become defiant that she is not lonely and it is a choice she has made. She does miss the telephone call. 

VK is unscrupulous, his ever-depressed wife Mita Vashisht (phenomenal waste of an acting powerhouse) won’t forgive him for their daughter Anjali’s death in a car accident eight years ago. VK’s Eldorado project interview with Brinda revives memories of his daughter and Brinda is visibly disturbed. 

Paro’s visit to Ronno’s brings a new turn in their relationship. Her Tibet pictures adorn his study. They love each other but as Paro says marriage is the ability to compromise and feel needed. Her birthday gift of a book by Rumi is telling. She wants to live life her own terms this time - she cleans her camera stuff with renewed vigour. She is planning to move to Bombay on work. Will Ronno be able to stop her? Ronno does not stop her. Paro feels pained he does not stop her. That letting go is tough. Some decisions in life need to be taken without anyone’s help and crutch.

Ronno’s birthday party brings Abhik and Brinda to some civil acquaintance. They begin exchanging SMSes and calls generally and also, around work. Something tells Brinda that her online special stranger and Abhik are one and the same person. She wants to meet him and their rendezvous is almost arranged

.

A working woman’s life in a big city is not easy. From not missing deadlines to remaining picture perfect calm despite the storm in your head about a dear colleague leaving, a sense of abandonment, letting go of a relationship which would not work then seeking solace in on online chat with a stranger. Oh yes, we love pampering ourselves, it  could be staring long enough at the mirror while brushing our teeth or simply lazing in the rug with enough cushions thrown around or staring long enough at the computer screen waiting for that one special ping. Brought back memories of my Hyderabad times. 

Brinda’s mom packs her a sandwich before her last edit job, for some ominous reason she touches her feet. It brought about a numbness of the number of times we say 'bye' our parents before leaving the house and that feeling of how paltry life could become - will they get to see you again? Brinda tells her mother not to stay up, she uncannily does. Brinda tells Abhik - she is a night bird, literally. Think of all those youngsters who go to work at unearthly hours and shifts and for those fortunate ones who have mothers at home who stay up, pray and worry for your safety.

Jangled remains of that red Maruti Swift and a cell-phone which would ring but not answer tell the ominous tale of Brinda’s Eldorado quest, no one comes back alive. VK’s wife suspects her husband’s involvement and he swears no - in fact he wanted their daughter to grow up like her. Abhik comes to her house and then, he realises the truth. It is poignant how he lives every moment of their online conversation again, the Frida Kahlo on the wall and that fluttering kite on the antenna live to tell the tragic tale of love and longing. So close, yet so far. 

Paro leaves for Bombay, Ronno musters courage and calls her if he can come stay with her for a few days. 

There is a recurrent scene of a white pyjama-kurta clad man sipping road-side chai on his Royal Enfield whom Abhik encounters while going to work. He  waits for him everyday, that peace and calm on that man’s visage gives Abhik some security in his life. Today, the man drives away. Today, Abhik refuses to buy flowers. Today, he does not look at the laptop. That greyed out ‘offline’ status of someone dear on chat is almost autobiographical. It brought tears to my eyes and I was reminded of what a loved one told me a year ago when I left one workplace. Just like his Pishimoni (wish we had more of her in the film) who lost the telephone-gentleman, his greyed-out but no-longer-a-stranger chat friend won’t ping him anymore.

Antaheen left me numb, nothing extraordinary or larger-than-life. Beautiful nuanced acting, very restrained and a lot of heart warming moments. Rushing from work to chat with that special online friend-stranger tugged my heart. We have our own ways of coping with loneliness and longing for companionship. We live, we love and we also yearn a little more. Life is fast, work means 24/7 busy (?), take some time off, go spend some time with yourself, with your loved one(s), share that special something, it could be nothing concretely substantial but just be there to admire the raindrops pitter-patter on the window pane or watching that sunset together by the sea-side on occasions or your apartment balcony everyday.

I love you, special one.


P.S. Thank you, Korak for sharing this film with me.

An ordinary examination day in the extraordinary life of an ordinary college lecturer

Yes, we also double up as clerks - we think then we type, we write on paper then type, print and announce notices, we collect fines and we also remain standing for most part of the year for our lectures while our his and her highnesses sit . Life in teaching is always a lesson in itself. Okay, the ultimate finale is everything around is not even hitting average. I don’t see anything being cancelled out to make simplification easy. 

I had invigilation duty almost everyday during all examination shifts and the 2-shift 3-hour jaunt is mercilessly so boring. People who should not get into trouble inevitably get into big messes and the smart ones with whom you would not mind a smart mind game are so committed to playing safe. I so sincerely get bored easily. I tried to multitask, it is not easy. I achieved about 19 percent of work besides penning down tips on how to improve and streamline tests and exams next time round. I can't knit or sew like some accomplished invigilators.

Anyways, as the guinea pigs scribble on paper for our sado-masochistic drive, it‘s another toss here. Your co-invigilator is always going to make or break the game. It’s a game of cricket for me, where I try all kinds of bowling tricks to get my wickets. 

-You have the lame duck who is senior to you at work and lets out classified info who is like what. 

- You have the eternal anti-hero who is victimised by the system, less pay- more work and the blah like "Everybody hates to love me but loves to hate me" kinda thing.

- You have the fence-sitters, the perfect fair weather kinda nice smiling faces.

And the students have amazing paisa vasool fun at our expense. First, they come in late. They take a long time to settle down. Then, they need to be told to switch off their phones. One class came and deposited all their mobiles at the teacher's desk. But most fish out their phones and keep it in the silent-vibraaaaator mode. So, don't be surprised if the mobile blares some Atif song or Telugu song or better still some baby laughing garrulously. 

Then, the exam starts. Some pray, some distress, some de-stress. Some sit, some stare, some gripe. After one hour of breakfast digestion, "Additional!", which means extra sheets. By which time, attendance and autograph session is also over. 

Then, the urge is awakened, the urge to visit the toilet. I am quite ignoringly amazed by the toilet chain reaction. One after the other, there is some collective responsibility and some of the boys will always seek permission to say hi/hello to their 'friend'. Thirst is an understatement of an excuse. The ayah on the corridor insists no water be served to the children as she animatedly signals the little finger code. Hey kids, like we don't know why and what. That graffiti on the wall is very entertaining.

Copying from books is forbidden, but some smarty pants bring along photocopies of notes and think they can get away.Even if we had an open-book policy, I don't think you pay much attention to the best practices.Listen, cheating is an art - either you know it or don't know it. And, if you are copying from somebody, please don't copy the mistakes. My god, you have no idea what happens after that - it is like wearing your friend's chaddi. You can conjure up the rest.

Cynic in the city

The best welcome I could ever have - the whole building came out to see me and my bunch of friends dragging our luggage up the stairs. The watchmen here never help, they only watch. So when I was signing up for this PG accommodation I was asked, Marriage when? Engaged huh? I was like why, is that a criterion? The old wives told me no, it is not. But it is not a good idea to remain single and unmarried if a girl has crossed 25 years of age. Weird. Even at 32, these women are haggardly old because they married so young.

Even worse is to be seen with anybody male - colleague, friend or cousin of friend. You are a not-so-good girl. If your male acquaintance is introduced then it is ok-ok modern and corporate culture. You are a good girl if you don’t  go out on Sundays and watch Rajnikant’s Chandramukhi with 12 other girls on that Big Bazaar color TV and be hysterical. Also, not to forget the suffocating obsession with Shriya and Trisha. Oh, by the way, one is a southern siren and the other a versatile actress. 

We had an awesome bathroom cleaner who wore such fancy salwar suits and still demanded old clothes from us. I miss the wee hours of the morning when one of the ammas would wake up early and do the dosa batter after her sacred ablutions. Since I came from the Highlands, I was not used to cold water showers, I paid her five rupees everyday for 2 litres of hot water.The mornings were sacred -the smell of fresh earth, the wafting jasmine in the air and the incense in the chiming temples and  the aroma from roadside bundis of tea and tiffins.

I miss the Kadapa girls, I fondly remember the henna days and the mehndi nights.I learnt to appreciate the humble FM phone as my ally.

Nobody will believe you that you went out for a late night movie especially when they see you dropped home by a male friend. Something fishy is always running in their heads.

When I left the PG, all the best wishes were around getting married and come visiting there with your husband and kid (not baby).

Guffaws.

My two pence of the Shoaib-Sania hulla-gulla

While my students were worried about their OU final exams and how to reach college to collect their hall-tickets, a 23-yr old city tennis star’s marriage is national front page news, leave alone P3. I mean, alright. Now-wannabe Sania Mirza wants to get married, did I hear that right? OK, the state is worried about relaxing curfew hours in riot- affected areas, and maulvis are being unnecessarily dragged to bless and defend her marriage.

I was coming home from an evening out, barely half a kilometer from my place, I saw a trail of media vans and vehicles, and found out it was the ongoing saga of the Siddiqui girl’s tamasha. Of course, so much has been written about Sania-Shoaib and Shoaib-Ayesha. I feel, all the three deserve each other.

Now whoever Sania Mirza is, she showed amazing promise as a kid. With a ferocious manager dad, and the signature arrogance and aggression of her tees, tennis really looked good. The quick buck, instant and constant media attention and endorsements did her in. Her moment of reckoning came when she cracked into the top 25 and then, it was a spiralling tumble. A fling and friendship with a Bollywood Charlie lasted barely one summer when the chalta hai city woke up to her grand engagement reception at Taj Krishna( or Banjara) with the local but Universal Baker scion - the wah-wahs were many, and it was soon over before they could reach the altar of lifelong vows. The boy was dignified - spoke and discussed lil. Then, within weeks, we hear she is marrying Paki Shoaib Mallik. Sania does not have a great track record of sustainable consistency of behaviour in the choice of her partners, her game is also beginning to show that. Just hope, all goes well and she finds and keeps her intended for keeps. She is clearly a giddy narcissist. Suddenly the saffron brigade is calling her names.

Now who is Shoaib, ask Ayesha Siddiqui or Maha Apa for intimate details. Arrey, don’t get me wrong. They were allegedly married and the two were alone in a city hotel on two occasions. Ok, the little that I know -- many years ago he used to be an upcoming swashbuckling cricketer from Pakistan. Whenever he started hammering fours and sixes, my dad used to have palpitations, such was his influence. So, to cut a long story short. Ayesha is apparently not Ayesha but Maha Apa and how-much-innocent boy Shoaib feels cheated. His jija has valiantly defended him across all sections of the  media. How stupid of him to have a phone nikkah which is apparently invalid. He does not look so dodo to agree to so-called Ayesha or Maha’s every damn tantrum. And, what chivalry, he agreed to marry her to save her honour to stop the wagging media from defaming a poor woman.  Lawyers and social groups will take ages to churn wafers from this. According to latest alleged reports, Shoaib has been accused of two-timing, after 8-years, my lord, point to be noted. Shoaib says he never married for the record. 

Ayesha, kaun hai? The be-spectacled woman who is being flashed in all media studios over phone and pics is apparently a teacher and the first (not yet former or ex) wife of Shoaib. We did hear about some phone nikkah many years ago. We never saw her pics, the Islamist tradition also does not favour much in display of pics and all. Now, her nikkah papers are scanned with great interest by everyone except people concerned. She has chosen to be reduced to a pathetic joke with her fatness being a reason for the apparent divorce, her Cinderella story has gone sour. Good sense would be to be large-hearted and let go, if at all there was any love, like she claims. What nutty behaviour! What was she doing in the last 8-years? Sleeping? And, why is she making her weight issue a national crisis now? There are enough and more obese and fatter people who get married  and live happily. If she is upto changing Shoaib’s mind and also, retain him in the bargain, well she is in for more heartburn. The guy seems to be very firm about his Sania. She should be happy the way she is and not give another case to the plus zero health believers and activists to champion a non-issue of a case and pillory Shoaib. Religious heads are divided over legal issues.  No winners, all losers.

Media, please stay away. The media as a pressure group is focussing on inane issues. Like relationships which don't last, some marriages also don't last. Give them their space.  It is only a 23-yr old girl getting married to a fairly not bad-looking 28-yr old guy. It is also perfectly incidental that both sportspersons are neighbours and we are no longer hostile, remember Aman ki Asha. Shoaib-Sania shaadi could be the stepping stone. Let’s not worry what happens to their careers, they will be taken care of. They are potential national assets in their own rights, even though one is serving a ban. Bala Thackeray Saab, it’s ok, international marriages also happen, don’t be mean… I think you should spend your last few days practising tolerance and restraint, it is not easy I empathise.

Ayesha or/and Maha Apa, you are phenomenally a strange woma(e)n. You mystify everything around you with that inflected accent. Was it love? Or were you too star-struck? Or you are smart and acting duh-duh-damsel in distress. Get real, wake up! You are not criminal-fat! And stop craving for attention. You have had your fair share of dadagiri and mischief, what goes around comes around. No no more emosanal attyachar. Fat is also a shape like thin. Don’t think thin girls get away with everything, including men. Thin girls are disgracefully called waifs and worse, hangars (in the world of fashion) and football grounds too! And, yes. Don’t waste national time giving distressed interviews and feeling wronged. Giving interviews is the laziest thing to do. If you think you deserve better - Just go kick him in the balls and end it there. The country  has better things to do, children have exams. Parents and families have to worry about exams, rations and bills, and life ahead.

Most of us think and are convinced, there is more than meets the eye. So, let there be no traffic jam in Banjara Hills, we love our neighbourhood.

Cheers!