Posted in Musings

La Vie En Bleu a.k.a The Conjugality Crisis

A dear friend of mine was gracious enough to ruin my last birthday with the enthusiastic comment, “Wow! You’re a leap year away from being 30!”

After an appropriate reply, the details of which I do not wish to taint my blog space with, I proceeded to contemplate the statement. It was indeed true, and a grave issue. Being in your late 20s gives you the air of someone who is young enough to be adventurous and old enough to know what you’re doing, but 4 years down the line I will cross the threshold over to Spinster territory as per the Indian definition. And since I don’t exactly see myself getting married or having kids (for the greater good of humanity), I must brace myself for deep fecal matter.

You see, single women are a dangerous species in India, running wild and threatening mankind with their utter helplessness to take care of themselves and are hunted down in holy matrimony before they can hope to corrupt the society. They can be independent and self sufficient but that is irrelevant of course. How can a woman be deemed to be respectable when she has not known the sign of maturity that is marriage and when she *collective gasp* does not want kids??

So, in order to sustain my singular status I need something stronger than my phobia of commitment to root for me. (Interestingly there is not even an equivalent of ‘commitment issues’ in my mother tongue. It would seem that such a disease does not exist in this hemisphere and I probably caught the infection binge watching Friends and Romedy Now). Hence I have opted for an even better method to ward off potential grooms and hopefully make sure they remain single too, in case I change my mind later on – Tales Of Matrimonial Disasters And Monster Kids, The Extended Version.

I have hordes of stories to dip into of course and it helps that I see the marital world with deep seated psychological issues and the blue tinted glasses that I purchased as a kid, and those obviously got darker with the help of certain innocent romantic endeavours. Childhood and love – the two most celebrated aspects of our existence that inevitably manage to screw us up for life. Father issues, mother issues, sibling rivalry, peer pressure, Nazi affiliated schools, stupid romcoms and implausible fairy tales – is it any wonder that Freud had a heyday analysing this stuff? All he needed to do what write down the obvious to win accolades.

I digress. The matter remains that I must strive to keep my head above water by dragging my wedded counterparts deep below it. It helps if they have procreated. Nothing instils horror like the possible demolition of inner peace. Kids are lovely, fair and meek but they’re destroying the living room as we speak, and we have years to go before we sleep. Something along those lines should do it.

Of course, I have a mind so fickle it borders on multiple personalities, so there is every chance that my next post may be a wedding invitation. But as of now, this is how things stand. 

Ooh, the sweet smell of burnt milk and possible discord is wafting in from my neighbour’s kitchen and we all know what a delightful discourse that can lead to. Now if you’d excuse me, I need to find a pencil. This is promising stuff.

Posted in Musings

Keep Quiet, For Crying Out Loud!

We seem to live in an era where noise pollution is sexy.

Down the street lives a lad who notifies the whole neighbourhood every time he passes thanks to his Royal Enfield ‘bullet’ motorcycle. Every morning we hear him whirring past, and spare a moment to listen intently for the imminent crash that somehow he narrowly missed each day. I have never understood what the deal with the bike is. Sure, it looks sort of cool and apparently it’s great for long rides, but do you really need all that ruckus to accompany you on every single ride? Every time? Seriously?? I’m surprised these people don’t end up stone deaf by the time they finish college.

I watched Breakfast At Tiffany’s for the first time yesterday. Now I don’t want to go into the review and all. It is sufficient to say that I loved Audrey Hepburn and could really relate to her character by the end, but if there’s one thing that stole the show for me it’s the silences. 

Ah the silence! I don’t mean actual breaks in the conversation but the lack of noise in the background. These days there’s always some kind of BGM playing no matter what the plotline is, or else they make sure there is inherent chatter or gunshots or traffic to make up for the absence of it, right to the end credits. Except of course for that one silent moment when you know something crucial is going to happen like someone getting killed or proposed to, but then I repeat myself. The list of songs is so long, it actually takes another dozen songs to get to the end of the credits. (On a curious note, who watches the end credits and listens to those songs anyway? Are there really people out there who go “I payed for the movie/cable/Netflix so I might as well get the most of it. Ooh, Times New Roman. OMG I totally did not know that the the fifth waiter from Hotel XYZ was played by the same person as the Random Guy On The Bus. Ah Coldplay. Now that’s a nice song to go with the font.”. I mean, who does that?)

Clamour clamour everywhere and not a word to be heard. And while we are on the subject, do we really need those long red strings of deafening firecrackers that offer little visual appeal and lots of toxic gases? That will be a useful government ban for a change. Or the endless blaring of horns when you know there is no way the traffic is going to clear up in the country in the next million years? 

I think what I’m trying to say in this neurotically hyperbolic article is that some quiet would be great. Dear lads with the Bullet bikes, chicks don’t dig broken eardrums. Please get silencers, and while you’re at it, maybe you can learn the whereabouts of the brakes on your contraption as well.

Peace. ✌