The ever-increasing number of containers in my kitchen is a testimony to the culinary marathon currently going on in my house. With each passing day the number of containers and their contents keep on increasing. This alarming trend, if not stopped, may lead to our entire family becoming diabetic and obese. Let me start from the beginning.
I am a compulsive cook\chef\baker\bawarchi or whatever you may call me. As Shakespeare has aptly stated' what's in a name'. I cook to survive, but I also cook to keep my sanity, to forget about my anxiety, fears, to ward off tension and stress.
Nowadays I am really stressed out; hence my oven and cooking range are overheated and overworked. The day I was diagnosed as suffering from hypothyroidism. I had baked a storm. In the aftermath of that storm, some or the other factor has been responsible for a continuous production of cakes, pastries, cookies, puddings, chocolate rolls, ice-cream. Kheers & chikkis, in my kitchen.
My kids love this phase, as each day there is a new sweet dish on the table and two in the oven or refrigerator. They are having a whale of a time, but if this present crisis does not resolve itself soon, I will be out of sugar and butter and also my peace of mind.
Frankly I am running out of recipes and containers to store the goodies in. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I exercised instead of cooking during stressful times? I would be slim and trim like Kareena kapoor, hypothyroidism notwithstanding. But life isn't fair and we have to make do with the cards we are dealt with.
I accept the fact that I am prone to cooking at the slightest hint of trouble in my life. I suddenly have an urge to make besan ladoos and I am all out of besan. Let me run down to the shop and get it before I continue with my story.
Lucks aka Sulekha
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
A matter of Life and Death
The brevity of your responses,
leaves me perplexed.
Your rationale leaves me,
dumbstruck.
Maybe I am too emotional but,
your self control amazes me.
I know you care, you do a lot,
But keeping it all in,
is not fair to my heart.
I need expression, demonstration,
Shouting from the rooftops,
Jumping on the couch,
Kinds of proclamation.
A quiet whisper in my ear will do too,
As long as you say "I love you".
Never mind I ask for it,
Say it nevertheless.
It means the world to me,
A matter of life and death.
Lucks aka Sulekha
leaves me perplexed.
Your rationale leaves me,
dumbstruck.
Maybe I am too emotional but,
your self control amazes me.
I know you care, you do a lot,
But keeping it all in,
is not fair to my heart.
I need expression, demonstration,
Shouting from the rooftops,
Jumping on the couch,
Kinds of proclamation.
A quiet whisper in my ear will do too,
As long as you say "I love you".
Never mind I ask for it,
Say it nevertheless.
It means the world to me,
A matter of life and death.
Lucks aka Sulekha
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Soul Writings
I write from the depths of my soul.
Dip my pen into my heart and ,
let the blood drip on the pages,
colouring them crimson.
It shrieks 'Danger', beware of,
the ramblings of the crazy writer,
she's demented and insane, beware.
My writings are tainted with my,
clotting, congealing blood,
hence the stench of grief and pain.
You can smell my rotting flesh and,
dried up stinking blood.
And you are assailed by the whiff,
of my despair and agony.
With each stroke of my pen,
I bleed some more onto the pages,
staining them, soaking them ,
with my lonely outpourings,
my tragic heartbreak,
my despondent feelings,
and poignant emotions.
I cry while writing and the ink,
runs, smudging the pristine papers,
with a tinge of sorrow, grief and,
unbearable agony and ecstasy.
Agony of heartache and ecstasy of Love.
Lucks aka Sulekha
Dip my pen into my heart and ,
let the blood drip on the pages,
colouring them crimson.
It shrieks 'Danger', beware of,
the ramblings of the crazy writer,
she's demented and insane, beware.
My writings are tainted with my,
clotting, congealing blood,
hence the stench of grief and pain.
You can smell my rotting flesh and,
dried up stinking blood.
And you are assailed by the whiff,
of my despair and agony.
With each stroke of my pen,
I bleed some more onto the pages,
staining them, soaking them ,
with my lonely outpourings,
my tragic heartbreak,
my despondent feelings,
and poignant emotions.
I cry while writing and the ink,
runs, smudging the pristine papers,
with a tinge of sorrow, grief and,
unbearable agony and ecstasy.
Agony of heartache and ecstasy of Love.
Lucks aka Sulekha
LONGEVITY AT A PRICE
"A married woman celebrates Karwa Chauth with great fervor and dedication, observing a fast and praying for the long life of her husband, the origin of this festival was based on a very sweet and noble idea. Karwa Chauth is very much a social and seasonal festival. The women get up before sunrise and seek the blessings of the gods for longevity and prosperity of their husbands."
LONGEVITY AT A PRICE
"Bless my husband O Lord I pray, keep him safe by night and day",
Every wife chants this prayer day in and day out, but thanks to the popularity of Karwa Chauth, mainly because of Hindi films, even God is convinced that this wish is to be granted only on this auspicious day. Let me enlighten those of you who are not aware of Karwa Chauth. The wife remains thirsty and hungry throughout the day and prays for her husband’s long life and happiness and also prays that they remain a couple forever .If the husband's wishes were taken into consideration, I am sure they would rather that, their wives binge on good food and leave them and this fast alone.
On a typical Karwa Chauth day, the wife gets up before sunrise and has a hearty meal consisting of sweets, fruits, curd, parathas and juice. This is called 'Sargi'. I am also a typical north Indian dutiful wife who prays for her husband's long life everyday but my efforts are recognized only on this D-day. I ask for a box of. Sweets for puja to be performed in the morning and he gets me four boxes knowing my weakness for sweets. I pretend to be annoyed at him but am salivating at the thought of devouring them at 'Sargi'.
After satisfying my hunger in the morning I am ready to go without water and food for the entire day. Thus at sunrise begins the period of pampering for me, and, an ordeal for my hubby dear. On account of my fast I am exempted from kitchen duty for the day. The entire day is like a blur for me, I laze around the whole day, whereas he cooks, cleans, fetches and caters to my every wish and command.
Come evening and I am ravenous, my last meal was at 4 A.M, and now it is 4 p.m. The larger the body volume, the more food it craves and I have a humongous appetite, as my BMI is way above 30. All the wives dress up for the evening puja and some lucky ones have tea or juice afterwards, I have a gallon of tea. By 7.30 p.m. I am starving and stark raving mad with hunger. The only place you see a happy, exquisitely made up pativrata wife draped in a designer sari, bestowing coy looks on her husband and singing a romantic song, is in Hindi movies.Like in the movie, Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gam, Amitabh, Jaya, Shahrukh khan, Kajol, Hrithik and Kareena dance and sing on Karwa Chauth Day. Although, how can anyone sing and dance after remaining thirsty and hungry the whole day is beyond my comprehension!
Dressed in an old dressing gown, messy hair, and smudged make-up and cranky to the core, that’s ME. I make my ‘Pati’s’ life hell by asking him to go and spot the moon for me so that I can break my fast. After four trips to the terrace, he throws up his hands and hollers, “Don’t you ever pray for me again and no way are you observing “Karwa Chauth” for me next year.”
This cycle is repeated year after year and God willing will go on forever and ever.
Lucks aka Sulekha
LONGEVITY AT A PRICE
"Bless my husband O Lord I pray, keep him safe by night and day",
Every wife chants this prayer day in and day out, but thanks to the popularity of Karwa Chauth, mainly because of Hindi films, even God is convinced that this wish is to be granted only on this auspicious day. Let me enlighten those of you who are not aware of Karwa Chauth. The wife remains thirsty and hungry throughout the day and prays for her husband’s long life and happiness and also prays that they remain a couple forever .If the husband's wishes were taken into consideration, I am sure they would rather that, their wives binge on good food and leave them and this fast alone.
On a typical Karwa Chauth day, the wife gets up before sunrise and has a hearty meal consisting of sweets, fruits, curd, parathas and juice. This is called 'Sargi'. I am also a typical north Indian dutiful wife who prays for her husband's long life everyday but my efforts are recognized only on this D-day. I ask for a box of. Sweets for puja to be performed in the morning and he gets me four boxes knowing my weakness for sweets. I pretend to be annoyed at him but am salivating at the thought of devouring them at 'Sargi'.
After satisfying my hunger in the morning I am ready to go without water and food for the entire day. Thus at sunrise begins the period of pampering for me, and, an ordeal for my hubby dear. On account of my fast I am exempted from kitchen duty for the day. The entire day is like a blur for me, I laze around the whole day, whereas he cooks, cleans, fetches and caters to my every wish and command.
Come evening and I am ravenous, my last meal was at 4 A.M, and now it is 4 p.m. The larger the body volume, the more food it craves and I have a humongous appetite, as my BMI is way above 30. All the wives dress up for the evening puja and some lucky ones have tea or juice afterwards, I have a gallon of tea. By 7.30 p.m. I am starving and stark raving mad with hunger. The only place you see a happy, exquisitely made up pativrata wife draped in a designer sari, bestowing coy looks on her husband and singing a romantic song, is in Hindi movies.Like in the movie, Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gam, Amitabh, Jaya, Shahrukh khan, Kajol, Hrithik and Kareena dance and sing on Karwa Chauth Day. Although, how can anyone sing and dance after remaining thirsty and hungry the whole day is beyond my comprehension!
Dressed in an old dressing gown, messy hair, and smudged make-up and cranky to the core, that’s ME. I make my ‘Pati’s’ life hell by asking him to go and spot the moon for me so that I can break my fast. After four trips to the terrace, he throws up his hands and hollers, “Don’t you ever pray for me again and no way are you observing “Karwa Chauth” for me next year.”
This cycle is repeated year after year and God willing will go on forever and ever.
Lucks aka Sulekha
Monday, February 21, 2011
FOOD HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE HEART
A woman makes her merry way into a poor guy's heart or rather breezes into it without lifting a finger. It is only after the initial euphoria of love has died down that she needs the help of other traits to ensure that her position in her man's life is not threatened and she can rule over his heart indefinitely. Man is a very simple and predictable species. He can survive on love and fresh air for the initial few years of his marriage.
With the advent of kids and a few other minor hiccups he wakes up from his kumbhkarani slumber and suddenly develops taste buds and an attitude to match. He comes out of his cocoon and demands his basic rights of good food and more of good food. The poor lady of the house is stunned for had she not been making the same soggy rice, lumpy dal, and half burnt chapattis for her man for the past few years? Then how come he suddenly develops taste buds and refuses to eat the healthy nutritious fare she prepares. She is flabbergasted and dumbfounded for hadn't she housebroken and brainwashed her man to be a man and eat up without complaints. Her favorite lines being "Don't leave anything in your plate there are thousands starving in Ethiopia." His prompt reply nowadays is "Parcel this food to them and see how fast it is returned".
To keep the peace in the house she tries to pacify her man and spends a little more time in the kitchen and cuts down on her television viewing. The results are outstanding. The chapattis are edible so are the dal and vegetables. But every action has an equal and opposite reaction hence his midriff starts expanding and love handles become more pronounced. He gains weight and needs to lose it quickly before annual medicals. Immediately starts the cycle of exercise and diet control.
The wife unlearns the puris and the parathas and starts cooking low fat curries and soups. He is grateful for the same and professes to love her more each passing day. So all I can say is, the way to a man's heart may not be through his stomach but once you have possession of his heart, safeguarding it becomes your privileged duty.
Lucks aka Sulekha
With the advent of kids and a few other minor hiccups he wakes up from his kumbhkarani slumber and suddenly develops taste buds and an attitude to match. He comes out of his cocoon and demands his basic rights of good food and more of good food. The poor lady of the house is stunned for had she not been making the same soggy rice, lumpy dal, and half burnt chapattis for her man for the past few years? Then how come he suddenly develops taste buds and refuses to eat the healthy nutritious fare she prepares. She is flabbergasted and dumbfounded for hadn't she housebroken and brainwashed her man to be a man and eat up without complaints. Her favorite lines being "Don't leave anything in your plate there are thousands starving in Ethiopia." His prompt reply nowadays is "Parcel this food to them and see how fast it is returned".
To keep the peace in the house she tries to pacify her man and spends a little more time in the kitchen and cuts down on her television viewing. The results are outstanding. The chapattis are edible so are the dal and vegetables. But every action has an equal and opposite reaction hence his midriff starts expanding and love handles become more pronounced. He gains weight and needs to lose it quickly before annual medicals. Immediately starts the cycle of exercise and diet control.
The wife unlearns the puris and the parathas and starts cooking low fat curries and soups. He is grateful for the same and professes to love her more each passing day. So all I can say is, the way to a man's heart may not be through his stomach but once you have possession of his heart, safeguarding it becomes your privileged duty.
Lucks aka Sulekha
Saturday, February 19, 2011
A 19-hole Golf Course
Golf is a precision club-and-ball sport, in which competing players (golfers), using many types of clubs, attempt to hit balls into each hole on a golf-course while employing the fewest number of strokes. The game is played on golf "courses," each of which features a unique design, although courses typically consist of either nine or 18 holes.”
For all you professional golfers and recreational ones, the topic of my post must be puzzling, to say the least. A 19-hole Golf Course, you must be kidding me!!!
Why don’t I start from the beginning, I love playing golf and have participated in a competition too, long ago, when we used to live in Kochi, Kerala. I was there from 2003 to 2008, five wonderful years in the most beautiful place in India. I still miss the backwaters and boat rides, the greenery and the sense of peace and tranquility of Kochi; monsoons there are amazing.
“For me, the worst part of playing golf, by far, has always been hitting the ball.
Dave barry “
Okay, getting back on track, we had an 18-hole golf course in, practically, our backyard! We used to go for walks around this course and, it was here, on one fine evening, while on our daily walk, we encountered a handsome young man, who smiled at us and exclaimed, “My, What a beauty!!” I was on cloud nine, and blushing a beetroot red, thanked him coyly. My husband gave me a pitying look and I could have sworn that there was an evil glint in his eyes. He acknowledged that handsome stranger’s comment with a 'Thanks', leaving me shocked. Had I been a man and had somebody passed such a remark at my wife, I would have been livid with rage and would have challenged him to a duel, instead of thanking him so politely. So, what was wrong with him?
My dilemma was solved the next minute, when the stranger said,” You must enter her in a dog show”. Oh no... I was so mortified that I wanted to dig a 19th hole on the golf course we were walking in, and bury myself there, like a gopher. My husband’s guffaw still echoes in that Golf Course and I swear, I can hear Sparky’s yelp of glee too. Too late had I remembered that we had had Sparky with us on that fateful day.
Who is Sparky, you ask? She is my darling seven year old Baby Dalmatian, the beauty that the ugly stranger was referring to. Sparky is an enigma, an angel, the darling of our home and my rival, in terms of the affections of my family members. She frantically tries to get the dresser drawer open and crawl into it, trembling with fear, upon hearing the fire-crackers bursting in our locality. She has an acute sense of hearing, like all dogs do, and though she behaves like a scared y cat at times, she is the most beautiful and gentle dog anybody can ever have. She is my baby and the darling baby of the house.
She looks so pretty, with a black patch on the right side of her face, covering one eye and making her look like the female version of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean: Jack Sparrow’s Jill Sparrow.
People stop us on the way to the park and shower compliments on Sparky, “She is so pretty”, “You have a beautiful dog”, “She is a darling”, etc…etc.. You do get my drift, right? All this praise has gone to her head and I swear she prances about the house, almost mocking me. When she does, this quote comes to mind.
“Some dogs live for praise. They look at you as if to say "Don't throw balls... just throw bouquets."
Jhordis Anderson “
And to top it all off, recently, my son said something so very damaging to my ego; his exact words were,” Mom, I just realized that I love Sparky the most in this house and my life would have been empty without her in it.”. I gave him my own lost puppy dog look and asked him; "don’t you love me the most?” He replied, “I love you mom, but I love her more.”
Lucks aka Sulekha
Friday, February 18, 2011
Lonely Vigil
She stands alone at the pier, hungrily gazing at the sea.
fists clenched at her sides, unmoving, still stands she.
Her lone, heart breaking constant vigil, invites curious eyes,
Her dark circled eyes reveal, sleepless nights gone by.
The trembling of her lower lip, gives her feelings away,
She shifts from one foot to another, even as she sways.
There is a melancholy beauty in her quiet still frame,
She whispers silent prayers and gently calls out his name.
The crashing of the waves, match her soul’s screaming rage.
Every day, from dawn to dusk, she stands rooted to the shore,
Scanning the empty waters, for the advent of her love.
Her trembling form flutters in the wind, like a torn page
By the time the night falls, her eyes are lifeless black holes.
She trudges back to her tattered hut by the sea,
only to return again tomorrow, with the first light.
She starts her lonely vigil, afresh every morn,
Come rain or shine, she is there, standing forlorn.
She knows he lives, because she can feel his heart beat in hers,
She wills him to face all odds and come rushing back to her.
One morning, the sun is up and she is not to be seen,
People wonder where she could be, she is never late,
The sun can be a little late but, she never has ever been.
The open flap of her hut reveals, her unmoving, silent frame,
With imploring eyes and her palms outstretched in vain.
Sometime during the night, she had heard her love gasp,
Had felt his breath leave his body, heard his agonizing screams,
Had desperately tried to stop, death from taking his soul away,
she had begged him so much, implored to let her love stay.
But death is no angel of mercy but a slayer of dreams.
He had mocked her pleas and fervent requests,
and taken away her beloved’s last gasping breath.
It was then that she herself had relinquished her,
flimsy hold on life, if he was no more in this world,
She didn’t want to be alone here, she didn’t want to survive.
Lucks aka Sulekha
fists clenched at her sides, unmoving, still stands she.
Her lone, heart breaking constant vigil, invites curious eyes,
Her dark circled eyes reveal, sleepless nights gone by.
The trembling of her lower lip, gives her feelings away,
She shifts from one foot to another, even as she sways.
There is a melancholy beauty in her quiet still frame,
She whispers silent prayers and gently calls out his name.
The crashing of the waves, match her soul’s screaming rage.
Every day, from dawn to dusk, she stands rooted to the shore,
Scanning the empty waters, for the advent of her love.
Her trembling form flutters in the wind, like a torn page
By the time the night falls, her eyes are lifeless black holes.
She trudges back to her tattered hut by the sea,
only to return again tomorrow, with the first light.
She starts her lonely vigil, afresh every morn,
Come rain or shine, she is there, standing forlorn.
She knows he lives, because she can feel his heart beat in hers,
She wills him to face all odds and come rushing back to her.
One morning, the sun is up and she is not to be seen,
People wonder where she could be, she is never late,
The sun can be a little late but, she never has ever been.
The open flap of her hut reveals, her unmoving, silent frame,
With imploring eyes and her palms outstretched in vain.
Sometime during the night, she had heard her love gasp,
Had felt his breath leave his body, heard his agonizing screams,
Had desperately tried to stop, death from taking his soul away,
she had begged him so much, implored to let her love stay.
But death is no angel of mercy but a slayer of dreams.
He had mocked her pleas and fervent requests,
and taken away her beloved’s last gasping breath.
It was then that she herself had relinquished her,
flimsy hold on life, if he was no more in this world,
She didn’t want to be alone here, she didn’t want to survive.
Lucks aka Sulekha
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Chastity Garters and Miracle Bras
“Laughter is the best medicine”, and I am thankful to the newspapers for keeping me in the pink of health, by providing me with my daily dose of funnies. Two news articles caught my eyes today morning, it’s evening and I am still laughing. The first one was about a ‘Chastity Garter’, that warns men of cheating girl friends/wives.
According to Wikipedia, “Garters are articles of clothing narrow bands of fabric fastened about the leg, used to keep stockings up. Normally just a few inches in width, they are usually made of leather or heavy cloth, and adorned with small bells and/or ribbons.”
“A Chastity Garter that sends men a text message if their girl-friends or wives try to cheat on them. The garter monitors rising pulse rate as well as surface moisture levels on the skin and when these apparent signals of sexual stimulation occur, a text message is sent to alert the woman’s husband/boy-friend. The woman can’t take off the garter without an automatic text message being sent. Edward and Lucinda Hale, are the brains behind this idea, they came up with this after infidelity threatened their relationship. They wanted to come up with something, for removing the temptation by making straying impossible.”
First, I want to congratulate this wonderful couple for their invention and second I want to say, what were you thinking of? What kind of a sick joke is this? Are we living in the 21st century? Why not a chastity guard for men, to monitor their pulse rate and surface moisture levels, among other things?
I mean, I am appalled at this news item. Imagine a young lady, who is so in love with this suspicious guy, happens to be wearing this contraption, though why anyone in their right minds would do such a thing, for arguments sake lets imagine her wearing it. While watching an epic romance, her pulse rate increases, mine does whenever I am watching a romantic movie, and her surface moisture levels rises, her husband who is in the middle of an important presentation, gets a text message saying,” Your wife is planning to cheat on you, rush home before she acts on her crazy impulse”. He drops the remote, mumbles an apology to the foreign investors, who are thinking of investing in this company. Our man tells them, my wife is about to cheat on me, I have to go home now, not realizing that by the time he makes the 45 minute drive back home, the act would have been committed and all evidence removed from the scene of crime except the Chastity Garter. The surface moisture levels can be explained any which way. So much for the wonder invention!!!
Another flaw in this is, what if the wife/girl-friend decides to go swimming, or falls into a lake, will she get electrocuted or will her garter start screaming, “Cheating woman.” What if the husband is stuck in such a place where there is no signal, no network? The woman can’t take off the garter without an automatic text message being sent, so she waits endlessly for his text, which will take a long time coming.
They wanted to come up with something, for removing the temptation by making straying impossible. Apparently, they had not heard of this famous quote by Oscar Wilde,
“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. ~Oscar Wilde,”
The second news item headline was,” Just clap to unhook this Bra”, another howler. “Randy Sarafan, a US engineer, has invented a bra clasp that comes off when you clap your hands. Metropolitan in the UK reported that, this is an answer to millions of men and women who struggle with unhooking bra clasps. Sarafan was inspired to make this after reading about wacky electronic undergarments, sold in Syria, like musical Knickers.”
"Those of us in Western cultures have a thing or two to learn from the Syrians about gaudy electronic lingerie. Henceforth, it became my mission to fast-forward lingerie technology in the West," The Daily Telegraph quoted him as saying.
Okay, with all due respect, what is this? It brings to mind, a nursery rhyme that I used to recite in school, if you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands. With this invention, the rhyme will go, if you want to be happy, go where there are a lot of women, and clap your hands.
You will suddenly find bras of all shapes and sizes, makes and materials, flying about, like autumn leaves. It will be raining Bras, thanks to the simple act of clapping our hands. I know it’s a bit extreme, but you do get my point, right? Another scenario, you are attending a formal dinner with your boy friend and are wearing a low-cut designer gown, the chief guest finishes his speech and everybody claps, you, and a few other women, clutch your bosoms, why? Because your bras snapped open.
Every day, there will be hundreds of women, wearing this wonder bra, so that their boy friends don’t have to struggle with the clasps, and while out there, if some body clapped, they would be left clutching on to their tops and dignity.
We are becoming a lazy nation, full of lazy people. We already have toilets with automatic spray jets, hand dryers; very soon we will have automatic pants-pull downers, so that we just stand in the washroom and have our pants drop.
“So many tangles in life are ultimately hopeless that we have no appropriate sword other than laughter. ~Gordon W. Allport”
Lucks aka Sulekha
According to Wikipedia, “Garters are articles of clothing narrow bands of fabric fastened about the leg, used to keep stockings up. Normally just a few inches in width, they are usually made of leather or heavy cloth, and adorned with small bells and/or ribbons.”
“A Chastity Garter that sends men a text message if their girl-friends or wives try to cheat on them. The garter monitors rising pulse rate as well as surface moisture levels on the skin and when these apparent signals of sexual stimulation occur, a text message is sent to alert the woman’s husband/boy-friend. The woman can’t take off the garter without an automatic text message being sent. Edward and Lucinda Hale, are the brains behind this idea, they came up with this after infidelity threatened their relationship. They wanted to come up with something, for removing the temptation by making straying impossible.”
First, I want to congratulate this wonderful couple for their invention and second I want to say, what were you thinking of? What kind of a sick joke is this? Are we living in the 21st century? Why not a chastity guard for men, to monitor their pulse rate and surface moisture levels, among other things?
I mean, I am appalled at this news item. Imagine a young lady, who is so in love with this suspicious guy, happens to be wearing this contraption, though why anyone in their right minds would do such a thing, for arguments sake lets imagine her wearing it. While watching an epic romance, her pulse rate increases, mine does whenever I am watching a romantic movie, and her surface moisture levels rises, her husband who is in the middle of an important presentation, gets a text message saying,” Your wife is planning to cheat on you, rush home before she acts on her crazy impulse”. He drops the remote, mumbles an apology to the foreign investors, who are thinking of investing in this company. Our man tells them, my wife is about to cheat on me, I have to go home now, not realizing that by the time he makes the 45 minute drive back home, the act would have been committed and all evidence removed from the scene of crime except the Chastity Garter. The surface moisture levels can be explained any which way. So much for the wonder invention!!!
Another flaw in this is, what if the wife/girl-friend decides to go swimming, or falls into a lake, will she get electrocuted or will her garter start screaming, “Cheating woman.” What if the husband is stuck in such a place where there is no signal, no network? The woman can’t take off the garter without an automatic text message being sent, so she waits endlessly for his text, which will take a long time coming.
They wanted to come up with something, for removing the temptation by making straying impossible. Apparently, they had not heard of this famous quote by Oscar Wilde,
“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. ~Oscar Wilde,”
The second news item headline was,” Just clap to unhook this Bra”, another howler. “Randy Sarafan, a US engineer, has invented a bra clasp that comes off when you clap your hands. Metropolitan in the UK reported that, this is an answer to millions of men and women who struggle with unhooking bra clasps. Sarafan was inspired to make this after reading about wacky electronic undergarments, sold in Syria, like musical Knickers.”
"Those of us in Western cultures have a thing or two to learn from the Syrians about gaudy electronic lingerie. Henceforth, it became my mission to fast-forward lingerie technology in the West," The Daily Telegraph quoted him as saying.
Okay, with all due respect, what is this? It brings to mind, a nursery rhyme that I used to recite in school, if you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands. With this invention, the rhyme will go, if you want to be happy, go where there are a lot of women, and clap your hands.
You will suddenly find bras of all shapes and sizes, makes and materials, flying about, like autumn leaves. It will be raining Bras, thanks to the simple act of clapping our hands. I know it’s a bit extreme, but you do get my point, right? Another scenario, you are attending a formal dinner with your boy friend and are wearing a low-cut designer gown, the chief guest finishes his speech and everybody claps, you, and a few other women, clutch your bosoms, why? Because your bras snapped open.
Every day, there will be hundreds of women, wearing this wonder bra, so that their boy friends don’t have to struggle with the clasps, and while out there, if some body clapped, they would be left clutching on to their tops and dignity.
We are becoming a lazy nation, full of lazy people. We already have toilets with automatic spray jets, hand dryers; very soon we will have automatic pants-pull downers, so that we just stand in the washroom and have our pants drop.
“So many tangles in life are ultimately hopeless that we have no appropriate sword other than laughter. ~Gordon W. Allport”
Lucks aka Sulekha
Monday, February 14, 2011
Ramblings of a soul
When will you understand my love?
When will you listen to, what I am saying,
and understand, what I am not saying?
When will you see, what I am hiding?
When will you know, what I mean by,
what I am not trying to convey?
When I pretend to be angry with you,
I want you to do your damnest,
to coax me into smiling at you.
When I walk away in a huff,
I long for you to run after me,
And bring me back to you.
When you look into my unsmiling eyes,
I want you to sense my sorrow,
And chase my cares away.
When I try and choke back my tears,
I need you to hold me close,
say nothing, but just be there with me.
When I say,” I hate you,”
I want you to say,” I love you too”.
I don’t know what I need,
But I want you, to understand.
Lucks
When will you listen to, what I am saying,
and understand, what I am not saying?
When will you see, what I am hiding?
When will you know, what I mean by,
what I am not trying to convey?
When I pretend to be angry with you,
I want you to do your damnest,
to coax me into smiling at you.
When I walk away in a huff,
I long for you to run after me,
And bring me back to you.
When you look into my unsmiling eyes,
I want you to sense my sorrow,
And chase my cares away.
When I try and choke back my tears,
I need you to hold me close,
say nothing, but just be there with me.
When I say,” I hate you,”
I want you to say,” I love you too”.
I don’t know what I need,
But I want you, to understand.
Lucks
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Mute Witness to a Murder
Why do I feel responsible? Why can’t I rest easy at night? I didn’t kill anyone; I was only a mute witness to a brutal murder. But then, I didn’t do anything to prevent it, so, in a way, I am guilty too.
“Help!” Someone, please help me, don’t let her touch me. She will spray me on her multi-layered, stinking, sweaty body and I will choke to death.”
These were the terrified words I had heard when I had walked into the powder room and seen Mrs. Makhija, dressing up to go to the mall. She is a middle-aged, obese woman and insists on wearing synthetic Saris and heavy gold jewelery 24/7. Be it any occasion, while going shopping, visiting friends, on her trip to the temple, all the time, she is heavily made up and swathed in shiny, blingy cheap nylon saris.
It’s a common saying that, “The more load you carry, the more you sweat.” Mrs. Makhija is about 120kgs light and has rivulets of perspiration, dripping from her forehead to her toes, at all times. To counter the body odor, she went and bought a deo-spray, which looks sleek and cool and is frightfully expensive.
Now, coming back to the screams for help. This morning, I had been a guest at Pinky Makhija’s place, and while dressing up to go out, I had heard the body-spray cry out for help. Pink’s mom, Mrs. Makhija, oblivious to the plight of the deo , had been liberally spraying her neck, and hairy under-arms, with the fresh smelling life-saving spray and in the process, had been, smothering and choking the same.
Eventually, the cries and pleas had faded into silence and I had accompanied Pinky and Mrs. Makhija to the mall. There was a niggling ache in my heart; I had not done anything to stop Mrs. Makhija from murdering the poor innocent Deo-Spray. But every man for himself, had I tried to save the spray, I would have choked to death on the toxic fumes, emanating from Mrs. Makhija’s umpteen layers of flab.
Lucks aka Sulekha
P.s. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
“Help!” Someone, please help me, don’t let her touch me. She will spray me on her multi-layered, stinking, sweaty body and I will choke to death.”
These were the terrified words I had heard when I had walked into the powder room and seen Mrs. Makhija, dressing up to go to the mall. She is a middle-aged, obese woman and insists on wearing synthetic Saris and heavy gold jewelery 24/7. Be it any occasion, while going shopping, visiting friends, on her trip to the temple, all the time, she is heavily made up and swathed in shiny, blingy cheap nylon saris.
It’s a common saying that, “The more load you carry, the more you sweat.” Mrs. Makhija is about 120kgs light and has rivulets of perspiration, dripping from her forehead to her toes, at all times. To counter the body odor, she went and bought a deo-spray, which looks sleek and cool and is frightfully expensive.
Now, coming back to the screams for help. This morning, I had been a guest at Pinky Makhija’s place, and while dressing up to go out, I had heard the body-spray cry out for help. Pink’s mom, Mrs. Makhija, oblivious to the plight of the deo , had been liberally spraying her neck, and hairy under-arms, with the fresh smelling life-saving spray and in the process, had been, smothering and choking the same.
Eventually, the cries and pleas had faded into silence and I had accompanied Pinky and Mrs. Makhija to the mall. There was a niggling ache in my heart; I had not done anything to stop Mrs. Makhija from murdering the poor innocent Deo-Spray. But every man for himself, had I tried to save the spray, I would have choked to death on the toxic fumes, emanating from Mrs. Makhija’s umpteen layers of flab.
Lucks aka Sulekha
P.s. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
8th February 2011
I have lived yet another month without you in my life, when will this heartbreak ever end. You have been gone for 13 months today and I am feeling a deep sense of loss. I hate number 8, it’s the date of my birth and of your passing away, every month I lose a bit of my heart on this day. I go slightly insane and quietly crazy, dare not anyone know or they might send me off to a Looney farm.
Nobody understands how I feel; no one sees my carefully concealed pain. Either I am a good actress or the world is blind, that they can’t see me grieving over you. They don’t see my panic when I suddenly realize that I will never be able to hug you again, feel your hand on my shoulder, never hear your loving voice, nor see your handsome face. I hate this feeling of helplessness which comes over me unexpectedly. Catches me unawares and singes my heart with its burning intensity.
Yesterday I received some great news and you would have been so proud of me, if only you could have heard it. I thought of you, missed you, wept over you and moved on like the other infidels. Shared my good news with my bestest friend but there was something missing, no one can take your place in my affections and heart but the pain does lessen when there is a soothing hand holding mine and giving me strength, a willing ear listening to the outpourings of my soul. Thank you god for my best friend. Amen.
Nobody understands how I feel; no one sees my carefully concealed pain. Either I am a good actress or the world is blind, that they can’t see me grieving over you. They don’t see my panic when I suddenly realize that I will never be able to hug you again, feel your hand on my shoulder, never hear your loving voice, nor see your handsome face. I hate this feeling of helplessness which comes over me unexpectedly. Catches me unawares and singes my heart with its burning intensity.
Yesterday I received some great news and you would have been so proud of me, if only you could have heard it. I thought of you, missed you, wept over you and moved on like the other infidels. Shared my good news with my bestest friend but there was something missing, no one can take your place in my affections and heart but the pain does lessen when there is a soothing hand holding mine and giving me strength, a willing ear listening to the outpourings of my soul. Thank you god for my best friend. Amen.
Side-splitting Excuses
Excuse me; May I jump the queue? I am in a hurry,
For I have left cooking, at home, my famous chicken curry.
This and a whole lot of reasons are given,
By the impatient eves standing, in lines at check-out counters,
Wherever there is a queue, there is an excuse new.
Hi dear, can I go first? As, I am dying of thirst.
Or please let me go ahead of you, or my bladder will burst.
Another cheeky one, I need to go ahead of you, as,
I have places to go and, things to do, unlike you.
Looks like, you are buying, everything under the sun.
I have only a few items, ingredients for making my food.
While you are purchasing, for the entire neighborhood
Having said this, the miss smarty-pants,
At the counter, my place she took.
I have left my baby in the car, in the heat.
And by mistake, have placed the car keys on the seat.
Or my pet Dalmatian, Barks her head off,
And throws a fit. She doesn’t tolerate tardiness,
Even a bit. She is waiting in the car for me,
Let me go first or, you’ll see, Sparky will drive off without me.
I can’t possibly, Walk Back home,
In these Jimmy choo sandals,
And my bags have, such flimsy handles.
Your footwear is sturdy and thick, like your ankles.
You can easily walk on the road,
Carrying this entire heavy load.
What I am getting to, is, I am a delicate darling,
And to this hard labor, I am new.
let me jump the queue,
Please, let me be ahead of you.
My designer dress will, Spoil in the sun, if I perspire.
You are safe, as your clothes, Look like you got them,
From Maganlal dresswala, on hire.
I shop in Paris, Monte Carlo, Milan and Boardwalk
Whereas your haunts are Jan path, Sarojini Nagar,
Karol Baugh and Chandani Chowk.
Even time is partial to us, we buy age, delay wrinkles.
Stay young longer, Die older.
Unlike you poor souls, we pity you.
Let me go ahead, you have no dreams,
Nothing to look forward to, so stay here a bit longer,
And enjoy the view.
Let me jump the queue; Let me go ahead of you.
Lucks
For I have left cooking, at home, my famous chicken curry.
This and a whole lot of reasons are given,
By the impatient eves standing, in lines at check-out counters,
Wherever there is a queue, there is an excuse new.
Hi dear, can I go first? As, I am dying of thirst.
Or please let me go ahead of you, or my bladder will burst.
Another cheeky one, I need to go ahead of you, as,
I have places to go and, things to do, unlike you.
Looks like, you are buying, everything under the sun.
I have only a few items, ingredients for making my food.
While you are purchasing, for the entire neighborhood
Having said this, the miss smarty-pants,
At the counter, my place she took.
I have left my baby in the car, in the heat.
And by mistake, have placed the car keys on the seat.
Or my pet Dalmatian, Barks her head off,
And throws a fit. She doesn’t tolerate tardiness,
Even a bit. She is waiting in the car for me,
Let me go first or, you’ll see, Sparky will drive off without me.
I can’t possibly, Walk Back home,
In these Jimmy choo sandals,
And my bags have, such flimsy handles.
Your footwear is sturdy and thick, like your ankles.
You can easily walk on the road,
Carrying this entire heavy load.
What I am getting to, is, I am a delicate darling,
And to this hard labor, I am new.
let me jump the queue,
Please, let me be ahead of you.
My designer dress will, Spoil in the sun, if I perspire.
You are safe, as your clothes, Look like you got them,
From Maganlal dresswala, on hire.
I shop in Paris, Monte Carlo, Milan and Boardwalk
Whereas your haunts are Jan path, Sarojini Nagar,
Karol Baugh and Chandani Chowk.
Even time is partial to us, we buy age, delay wrinkles.
Stay young longer, Die older.
Unlike you poor souls, we pity you.
Let me go ahead, you have no dreams,
Nothing to look forward to, so stay here a bit longer,
And enjoy the view.
Let me jump the queue; Let me go ahead of you.
Lucks
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Healing “kick”
I came into this world with aplomb, feet first, unlike the others. I landed on my feet at 4:20 AM on 8th Jan more than 4 decades ago and drooled over the handsome doctor. There was another lady who had delivered at the same time in the adjacent labor room. Her daughter was a normal child who came into this world like any other average baby- headfirst.
Whenever I used to defy my parents, my mother used to say, “You were born all wrong. You go against all that is normal and acceptable in society.” I was not fully aware of my uniqueness at that time. However as time passed, I realized the benefits of being born a breach baby. My mother’s innumerable friends used to call up and request my presence in their homes. The first time I went up to one such lady’s place I was shocked. They wanted me to touch my foot to her aching back! According to an old superstition, if a breach baby kicks someone suffering from a backache, the ache disappears pronto.
Thus started the healing process. I am a quick learner and hence realized early in the day that I was the messiah who saved these poor unfortunate people, suffering from back pain. I was a genie. Next time when I was invited to kick an aching back, I held back. After milking the situation to the maximum, by polishing off a plate of snacks and a glass of juice, I did the honors. My reputation spread like wildfire and soon friends of my mother’s friends started requesting my services. I was a celebrity. Thank god for superstitions!
Many years have passed by and a lot of water has flown under the bridge. Last month I sprained my back while walking my dog. The X-Ray showed lumbar cervical Spondilytis. An old forgotten memory of me curing the aching backs flashed before my eyes. I tried to twist my leg to reach my back in vain and in the process aggravated the pain!
I don’t really believe in superstitions but still sometimes I wonder, What if I am special and my foot is capable of performing miracles. If only I could kick myself in the back and get rid of this nagging pain. But like they say, “A tree never eats its own fruits” and “A river doesn’t drink its own water”. Same is the case of a miracle healer “She cannot heal herself.”
Lucks AKA Sulekha
Whenever I used to defy my parents, my mother used to say, “You were born all wrong. You go against all that is normal and acceptable in society.” I was not fully aware of my uniqueness at that time. However as time passed, I realized the benefits of being born a breach baby. My mother’s innumerable friends used to call up and request my presence in their homes. The first time I went up to one such lady’s place I was shocked. They wanted me to touch my foot to her aching back! According to an old superstition, if a breach baby kicks someone suffering from a backache, the ache disappears pronto.
Thus started the healing process. I am a quick learner and hence realized early in the day that I was the messiah who saved these poor unfortunate people, suffering from back pain. I was a genie. Next time when I was invited to kick an aching back, I held back. After milking the situation to the maximum, by polishing off a plate of snacks and a glass of juice, I did the honors. My reputation spread like wildfire and soon friends of my mother’s friends started requesting my services. I was a celebrity. Thank god for superstitions!
Many years have passed by and a lot of water has flown under the bridge. Last month I sprained my back while walking my dog. The X-Ray showed lumbar cervical Spondilytis. An old forgotten memory of me curing the aching backs flashed before my eyes. I tried to twist my leg to reach my back in vain and in the process aggravated the pain!
I don’t really believe in superstitions but still sometimes I wonder, What if I am special and my foot is capable of performing miracles. If only I could kick myself in the back and get rid of this nagging pain. But like they say, “A tree never eats its own fruits” and “A river doesn’t drink its own water”. Same is the case of a miracle healer “She cannot heal herself.”
Lucks AKA Sulekha
Monday, February 7, 2011
My darling Valentine
How does someone become your Valentine?
How does he take over your life?
What makes you hand yourself over to him?
Why do you love him so?
Is it because he is special,
Or because he is He?
How does your heart recognize him?
Does he dress differently,
walk in a certain way?
Or is it because you feel a connect,
A bond with his heart,
Your soul recognizes its soul mate?
Your heart beats crazily,
hands and feet turn to ice.
You feel breathless,
tremble and shake.
Legs give way, you collapse,
In a puddle of emotions so strong,
That nothing but his touch,
Can make you whole again,
Only his embrace can revive you,
Only his kiss can resurrect your soul.
How does he take over your life?
What makes you hand yourself over to him?
Why do you love him so?
Is it because he is special,
Or because he is He?
How does your heart recognize him?
Does he dress differently,
walk in a certain way?
Or is it because you feel a connect,
A bond with his heart,
Your soul recognizes its soul mate?
Your heart beats crazily,
hands and feet turn to ice.
You feel breathless,
tremble and shake.
Legs give way, you collapse,
In a puddle of emotions so strong,
That nothing but his touch,
Can make you whole again,
Only his embrace can revive you,
Only his kiss can resurrect your soul.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Happy Birthday Preetu (6th Feb)
Happy Birthday Preetu (6th Feb)
Once upon a time in Mumbai, a star was born and this star has been twinkling in this world for the past 16 years, or that’s what the star claims but I know differently. Preetu was the name bestowed upon this bright and cheerful star and it’s her birthday today, her 16th birthday, according to her….ha ha…, more like her 36th or 46th.
Preetu, is my andekhi, anjaani friend, I have yet to meet. We are from the same college, Jaihind, Bombay, but we never met there, I met her online last month. She is my dear friend's best friend, and is a gem of a person.
She loves music…all genres and the songs that make her invariably cry are Abke baras bhej bhaiya ko sawan, from the movie Bandini and the other one is , Babul ki duain leti ja, ja tujhko sukhi sansar mile from the movie Babul. If you are on her friends list you will know that she has put up her Son Rohan’s picture as her profile picture. She says that a baby’s photograph always brings a smile to her face.
She has a sweet tooth and loves chocolates and ice creams; she is a fantastic cook too. She loves flowers, friends and family; an emotional softie is our dear Preetu.
And her sense of humor is to die for, when asked about her most romantic moment, pat came the reply,” when I bought a diamond ring for myself...then went and bought a huge Hot fudge ice cream...Lol”
On a more serious note, she seems to be a grounded person, and has no regrets or bitterness in her heart for anyone, no matter how much they might have hurt her...none. She believes even the people who hurt her have taught her a lot about life. She has complete faith in god and sees no negatives in anything and accepts everything as his wish.
Just when things start becoming serious she diffuses the situation with her crazy one liner, in reply to my, “I like talking to you”, she answers, “I like talking to myself too”. That’s Preetu for you. But she immediately retracts her statement and says,” Likewise friend”.
She compliments my craziness, she is a great singer and a fantastic person, loving and caring. Her smiles, and the virtual chocolates and hugs, she sends my way, make my day. She has an uncanny ability to sense other people’s emotions and respond accordingly. The links to songs she sent me when I was going through a rough phase are proof of this. Love you bidu...And wish you all the happiness in the world on your Birthday and every single day of your life.
Lucks
Once upon a time in Mumbai, a star was born and this star has been twinkling in this world for the past 16 years, or that’s what the star claims but I know differently. Preetu was the name bestowed upon this bright and cheerful star and it’s her birthday today, her 16th birthday, according to her….ha ha…, more like her 36th or 46th.
Preetu, is my andekhi, anjaani friend, I have yet to meet. We are from the same college, Jaihind, Bombay, but we never met there, I met her online last month. She is my dear friend's best friend, and is a gem of a person.
She loves music…all genres and the songs that make her invariably cry are Abke baras bhej bhaiya ko sawan, from the movie Bandini and the other one is , Babul ki duain leti ja, ja tujhko sukhi sansar mile from the movie Babul. If you are on her friends list you will know that she has put up her Son Rohan’s picture as her profile picture. She says that a baby’s photograph always brings a smile to her face.
She has a sweet tooth and loves chocolates and ice creams; she is a fantastic cook too. She loves flowers, friends and family; an emotional softie is our dear Preetu.
And her sense of humor is to die for, when asked about her most romantic moment, pat came the reply,” when I bought a diamond ring for myself...then went and bought a huge Hot fudge ice cream...Lol”
On a more serious note, she seems to be a grounded person, and has no regrets or bitterness in her heart for anyone, no matter how much they might have hurt her...none. She believes even the people who hurt her have taught her a lot about life. She has complete faith in god and sees no negatives in anything and accepts everything as his wish.
Just when things start becoming serious she diffuses the situation with her crazy one liner, in reply to my, “I like talking to you”, she answers, “I like talking to myself too”. That’s Preetu for you. But she immediately retracts her statement and says,” Likewise friend”.
She compliments my craziness, she is a great singer and a fantastic person, loving and caring. Her smiles, and the virtual chocolates and hugs, she sends my way, make my day. She has an uncanny ability to sense other people’s emotions and respond accordingly. The links to songs she sent me when I was going through a rough phase are proof of this. Love you bidu...And wish you all the happiness in the world on your Birthday and every single day of your life.
Lucks
Friday, February 4, 2011
Why do people write?
To connect with the world in their own twisted way.
To escape from reality.
To lighten their hearts.
To dull the pain in their chest.
To let others into their lives.
To remain sane in this insane world.
To get rid of their inner demons.
To stem the bleeding of their soul.
To continue living, to survive.
To ease the constriction in their chest.
To share their emotions with loving friends and sometimes uncaring strangers.
To belong, to ward off loneliness.
To put up their scars on display for the world to see.
To invite more pain and suffering into their lives.
To count their blessings.
To share their euphoria.
To rejoice in the wonder of life.
To bond with soul-mates.
To let go of their past and embrace the pain.
To empty their soul, to share their joy.
To torture themselves.
To leave a part of their soul behind.
To breathe, to celebrate life.
To exist, to survive, to belong.
To be themselves.
People write because of all these reasons and more, for, not writing is akin to
Dying.
Lucks aka Sulekha
To escape from reality.
To lighten their hearts.
To dull the pain in their chest.
To let others into their lives.
To remain sane in this insane world.
To get rid of their inner demons.
To stem the bleeding of their soul.
To continue living, to survive.
To ease the constriction in their chest.
To share their emotions with loving friends and sometimes uncaring strangers.
To belong, to ward off loneliness.
To put up their scars on display for the world to see.
To invite more pain and suffering into their lives.
To count their blessings.
To share their euphoria.
To rejoice in the wonder of life.
To bond with soul-mates.
To let go of their past and embrace the pain.
To empty their soul, to share their joy.
To torture themselves.
To leave a part of their soul behind.
To breathe, to celebrate life.
To exist, to survive, to belong.
To be themselves.
People write because of all these reasons and more, for, not writing is akin to
Dying.
Lucks aka Sulekha
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Undeniably true
Unspoken words lie between us,
like unheard echoes of
Our yearning for each other.
Untouched by time and space,
Unconcerned about all but one another.
Undaunted we walk,
Our each separate path.
Unperturbed about the destination,
Undoubtedly sure about
Our journey together.
On untrodden paths of tough love,
Unflinchingly we bear the cross
of separation and desolation,
Unashamedly loving each other.
Unabashedly daring sorrows
to cross our paths,
Unblinking we stare
at distances separating us,
Unwavering we continue
to cherish each other.
Lucky aka Sulekha
like unheard echoes of
Our yearning for each other.
Untouched by time and space,
Unconcerned about all but one another.
Undaunted we walk,
Our each separate path.
Unperturbed about the destination,
Undoubtedly sure about
Our journey together.
On untrodden paths of tough love,
Unflinchingly we bear the cross
of separation and desolation,
Unashamedly loving each other.
Unabashedly daring sorrows
to cross our paths,
Unblinking we stare
at distances separating us,
Unwavering we continue
to cherish each other.
Lucky aka Sulekha
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