Author: winkyspider

5 reasons I hate big classy fashion stores.

1. The moment you enter these stores,  you will most definitely be swept off your feet by a wave of anorexia. Indeed, the salesgirl  wishes “Good Morning” without fail but I can swear on God, it takes me almost 10 minutes to find out where the voice has come from. Thank God for the red lipstick on their pout, I remember reading why some signals are painted red to ensure that they are seen from far away even in a fog, this is science in action. These young girls, I can understand must be profitable to have around, not eating too much while on breaks and saving company money but even the security guard? He had the guts to ask me to deposit my bags with him, implying that he would take good care of it. Tell me, how do I believe a guy who is just as big as my left leg (and I am not even talking about my thighs)!

2. The salesgirl aren’t always pretty to be frank , they are coated with almost 7 layers of compact and foundation and have Hawk like eyes which are coated with Truckloads of Mascara. Is this the image they want young people to follow? Why would their bosses not make it compulsory for the staff to wash their face before entering the store? And yet they have the guts to suggest some anti wrinkle cream to me, “Really good for your tired skin and puffy eyes!” Has she ever studied for a medicine degree? I think this is sheer impudence.

3.  I am not here for the truth, I am here simply because of consumerism. I do not want you following me around and letting me know which dress will hide my belly fat and which will make me look taller. And then when it comes to trying out what I have chosen, there is absolutely no need for you to get me a size bigger than what I have asked for. No, I do not intend to sit down while wearing that denim and yes, I am absolutely comfortable, thank you!

4. And it is not like you people don’t lie, couldn’t you just have said that high heeled shoes hurt! or that those leather boots are never going to loosen up or that all those shoes you had were not for people like me with feet the shape of Africa! So, why is it that ultimately, every time I am the one who looses? MY SELF-IMAGE, THE BONES IN MY FEET AND THE MONEY IN MY WALLET, ALL GONE!

5. Stop giving me the once-over. Stop estimating my monetary value in your mind. That hurts! How do you know, that just because I don’t wear makeup, I am not the queen of Winkyland. I could very well be an Arab Princess on a shopping spree, acting low to not attract attention. I deserve the same courtesy, that lady in the boots with the Chihuahua does!

P.S- These guys in the retail industry are like vampires, thriving on my distaste for them. How and why their business is flourishing I have no idea about, but if you have ever met an Arab Princess with belly fat, please let me know!

 

Presenting Mr.Cat…..

 

 

           When I dream, its of melody in trance,

            of angels in rat-suits with tails that dance.
             
           When I dream, its of amity and peace,

            of stout fishes with burly nephews and niece.

           When I dream, its neither too hot nor too cold,

           its of gay birds neither too chirpy nor too bold.

            When I dream, its too blissful an expanse,
  
           that’s when I realize its all just a trance.
      

Neighbour gazing: To watch and not to be watched.

night

What is the one good thing about living in an apartment? for me, it is the entertainment one can derive from gazing at those shining yellow rooms against the dark background of the night. This is why God created settlements and not television (that was actually a folly of man). Why pay the cable people money when you have “desperate housewives” right next door. I remember on my 6th birthday, my aunt got me an astronomical telescope, the kind that looks huge enough to give a feel of NASA. I was ecstatic, after hours of labour I was able to have a good look at the moon. I even saw the wrinkles on the supermodel-ish face of our moon. Period. The next time, again the same wrinkles. That was when boredom/curiousity got the better of me. I decided to focus instead on our neighbour’s window, after all, what could change in the moon, I don’t think any OLAY anti wrinkle cream has been invented for it.

Anyways, this was a historical landmark in the history of my life. That was when I realised how queer and interesting human behaviour can be. There is so much fun in seeing your neighbour’s dog devour their pillows, when they are not around or seeing your fellow dweller’s mother-in- law inspect her cupboard when her daughter-in-law is out partying and in case you are wondering why the curtains were not put up. Well, first of all, India is a tropical country, where it becomes imperative to let fresh air come in and also to let the houseflies fly out and you may also attribute it to my luck but incidentally, all the houses I have ever targeted have drawn the curtains aside at some point of time to let me have a good look.

So, when I went to my grandmother’s house this month. I was astounded by the number of apartments that had crept up around her house since I had last visited. It was like paradise to me. Aah, the companion to my insomnia. The wonderful views I had, of people doing different things at the same time. Of people working late into the night, alone at the desk, doing God knows what on the computer. So, when my grandmother said:

“Darling, draw the curtains when you change, who knows who might be looking.”

 all I could think was “does she even know me!”

So, this is when I let you on a little secret. I have the habit of coming into my room in a towel after I shower. In case it is too hot, I also like to lie on the bed with the fan on at top speed and to let the water evaporate. This is a poor man’s alternative to air conditioning. Anyways, back to my grandmother’s house and long story short, it was hot and I forgot about other creeps like me who had telescopes. So, there I was in a towel offering a 360 degree view to fellow gazers.

The very next day, a group of people came over to visit my grandparents and they asked if my granny had guests because they believed they had seen some activity in the house. I never ventured out, I was afraid that mole on my shoulder would have given me out. I am an Indian woman, I have to hold on to my dignity.

So, I have now become the victim of neighbour gazing. The subject of a fellow resident’s scrutiny, the partner to their boredom. In case you people, think this was Karma that let me down. You better bite your tongue. I am the most ethical gazer you will ever find. Here is how:

1. I have never focused my powerful telescope on a neighbour’s bathroom, that is one place where everybody deserves privacy. Their have been some yummy people I would have loved to have a look at in the shower but I have never compromised on my morality.

2. My brother (a testosterone charged teenager) would have loved to look at our neighbour’s daughter in her bedroom, he fortunately cannot yet focus my telescope and has to call for help from me to set him up. I always ethically focus the telescope at the girl’s grandmother’s room. Talk about being righteous.

Reality check: my gran’s neighbours now know me as the girl in the towel with the mole on the shoulder.  Yeah, I am a girl of perseverance, this cannot stop me from neighbour gazing, in the era of facebooking, neighbour gazing is a dying art and it cannot afford to lose a proponent like me. Oh, the divine art of neighbour gazing and even though I cannot find a suitable ending for this post, my message is now given. Over and Out.

A new rejection letter in my store and a new cow as my alter ego!

Sometimes in life drastic changes take place suddenly. When you are least expecting it, it comes as a jolt to the soul. Today, the most important thing that I saw was a cow with black and white spots, running on a road packed with vehicles, kicking dust in the air in her flight. It isn’t the rarest thing to find a cow on the road in India. I think they have been given the task of traffic control by the police, because if there is chaos on the road, vehicles with blaring horns, a traffic cop will definitely be nearby but if the traffic is sailing smoothly, search not for the cop but rest assured the cow will be there.  So why is this cow important to me? Not only because her huge stomach lilting in the air was a troubling sight but also because she made me realise how similar we were (with no regard to physical appearance)

The other important thing today, was that I got a rejection letter from one of the 4 universities I had applied to (a pre-interview rejection, leaving me with just one awaiting result)

 When my father (who was driving) saw the cow, the first thought he had was “she is going against the cars, this is gonna be rough!” and then “she is going to delay us now.” What I saw however was a child running from something, scared.

When I received the rejection letter, I pretty soon realized that I might have to pursue my backup plan. Take up an alternative course for graduation and then try medicine again. When I voiced this, the first thought my father had was “she is going for the harder path, this is gonna be rough!” and then “this might delay our plans for a golden future”. What I felt however was the inexplicable need to run, I knew I was scared.

And that is when it hit me how similar we were. We both were going against the tides and had the potential to delay somebody’s plans.

Maybe the cow was burdened by her owner’s desire to make her the most milk yielding one. Maybe I am burdened by my father’s desire to make me successful. Anyhow, we both were burdened and we both had owners!

Maybe she realised that her horns were growing slower than the neighbour’s cow and here I am worried that my career is not progressing the way that I had thought.

Quite possibly, she had been deserted or lost midway, running frantically to reach her destination which was so far away. The moment I received the rejection letter, I felt deserted. My destination was miles away and here I was stranded midway.

How sad should one be when the realisation dawns that your alter ego is but a cow? I wasn’t because in her I found what I have always wanted to be, adaptable and self-sufficient. She was but navigating smoothly through the cars that blared their horns. Some cars they stopped to let her pass, others just sailed past often brushing against her, others missed hitting her by inches. But she survived with the grace of a dancer, throwing zig-zags and what bigger happiness then seeing your alter ego thrive.

I wish I could have shared my rejection with my soul sister. Dear cow, you are what enlightenment looks like, minus the lengthy meditation period. Different people take different things from the same situation. At the moment, what looks like “rough” to others, might just be our chance to grow and I am glad that even when we are swimming against the tides, we still remain the people who struggle and labour ahead, in the search of better pastures. We are  the ones who inadvertently catch attention. You go girl!

Also, dear cow you re-enforced my belief in the deceptive nature of appearances. You were in terms of age, a baby but nowhere were you the kind of miniscule a baby should be!  It took me quite some time to come to terms with the sheer discrepancy in your dimensions and your age. Not your fault, it seems discrepancy was the word god had in mind while creating the world which is why I ended up applying to universities which weren’t even wise enough to discern a talented girl like me from the applicant pool.  

Anyhow I am pretty confident that we shall meet again, the next time we meet, you would have grown into a beautiful cow with big horns and a humongous source of milk and lean meat, as for me if all else fails, well I guess I will still be writing this blog.

An open letter to the man who is going to snatch my gold chain/diamond earring.

In India robbery is a day to day thing, like taking a bath maybe. Just as rare for a poor man living in a water scarce area and just as abundant for a rich man, who indulges in spas.    Earlier thieves would come over as house guests and would use the locker to retrieve what they thought was of value to them, whilst you snored in the bedroom. Nowadays, thieves, who are considerate people realise that the working class have very little time to rest at home and so robbery too has the option of being “express robbed”. Like the ease of using the ATM to draw money rather than going to the bank. One has the option of being robbed off jewellery on the roads, all while you shop. Plain, quick and simple.

 

An open letter to the man who is going to snatch my gold chain/diamond earring.

 

Dear Mr.Snatcher,

I have come from a distant part of India and am currently vacationing at my grandparent’s place, or to put it better I am currently a guest in your jurisdiction of thievery. My grandfather speaks highly about you. He has warned each one of us and has specifically asked us to remove all gold articles of show like earrings, necklaces and rings before going out. He told me about your unique style of snatching wherein you cut the entire ear in one go, what impressed me even more was that all this you have to do in a matter of a few seconds and then you flee on your motorbike. What a noble profession you have, honourable sir. I have often wondered how women roam around with kilos of gold on their body, so burdening it must be and you sir relieve them of this burden. Your place is fixed in heaven.

I understand that I have no idea of your modus operandi. I do not know whether you work alone or as a part of a team. What I do know is that you have impeccable skills, the combo of a goldsmith and a runner. How unfortunate that you are called a thief.

I must thank you sir, for ensuring work for petty doctors. You feed the starving medics in this town. Had it not been for you, who would have a bleeding ear and a scarred soul due to the lack of pounds of jewellery?

And then sir, you propagate the values of exercise on good health. Little kids all over the town, know how you have amassed so much wealth. Snatch and run, for a good health and wealth. Just the right message for tiny tots.

I have not written this letter just to flatter you sir. I have something to enquire actually. I wanted to know the mechanism of earring snatching. When you grab the earring, do you just pull and the injury inflicted on the ear is coincidental or do you have a pair of scissors handy to cut the ear with earring and all?

Sir, I would like to state that I am yet to be married. It would be better if you could just snatch my earring rather than cutting. This is because.

  1. I have a recurrent ear infection, if you take my ear along with you. It may just pollute the other ears you have in your collection. (Dear sir, do you sell the surplus ear to medical schools or do you have some collecting fetish?)
  2. Also, sir it will be very difficult for me to find a groom with just one ear. It could delay and even destroy my prospect of getting married. Sir, I assure you that if you leave my ear intact, I will invite you to my wedding. Indian weddings as you know are the ultimate occasion for show off, I am sure you will find plenty of gold and diamonds available for snatching there. See, sir I shall help you if you help me.

 

 Also, have you ever been to the theatre? Have you ever had the chance to look at a movie’s teaser, one which is rich with drama, action and romance. Doesn’t it incite the feeling that the movie would also be just as lavish considering the exciting introduction it has? But when you actually go to see the film, you realise how wrong you were, the movie turns out to be dull and boring. Sir, my gold chain and diamond earrings are but mere exciting teasers, to give the impression that my life as a film dabbles with golden drama. Believe me,  my life is just as boring as the film we were talking about, no gold sir, and diamonds even talking about them is expensive for me.  why would you rob a girl of the one good teaser she has in her life?

Sir, since we have become so close now, I want to warn you that if you meet me, I will be wearing a huge diamond and gold earring. I know you will be tempted. But please sir, let good sense prevail. You should wonder, how can a little girl wear such a huge earring in my jurisdiction? Haven’t her parents told her about me? And then sir, you shall have the answer. Why the earring is fake! Do not waste your time over it. My cousin, though I shall get her to wear the biggest diamond of her collection. That you must take. My parents are poor, plus sir I shall be going to the distant land of the Queen, I need all the money I have but she, don’t ask! Too much money her parents have, that you deserve. I pray sir, take it with you.

I am glad we got a chance to talk. How brief the encounter would be on the streets.  I hope you have a bright “golden” future ahead.

Looking forward to hearing more from you,

Yours sincerely,

The girl with two ears and no money and fake jewellery.

 

 

What my shoes mean to me: Two Cent Tuesday Challenge.

Maybe in the first world country, before a baby is born the social services people give a checklist of things which a good parent may require for parenting, in India we get no such checklist but what we lack in social structure we make up for in advice from fellow Indians. Parents flock in huge numbers to meet the would be parents and give their hard earned advice to them. Always keeping a pair of shoes handy is one such advice, the one essential thing to maintaining a good obedience level in the house. Ask any child brought up in India, they shall reminsesce about their encounters with their parent’ shoes. How any insolent remark or excessive tantrums earned them a  sharp blow on their mortal body with the classic shoes . Over time, this mode of disciplining the kid has also undergone industrialization  . For example, shoes with spiky soles that leave a greater blow and scar on the child, as a reminder for life have long replaced the simple flip-flops, which to the child’s relief used to be less exacting and more tolerable. Even now, the terror on a child’s face can be discerned easily when their parents point towards their shoes, in a moment of truth, their entire life flashes before their eyes and most children alter their lifestyle in an attempt to stop the shoe from rising and landing with a thud on their cheeks.

Or better still, there is the act of reverence which involves touching the feet of our elders, more than direct touching of the feet, it involves touching their dirt ridden shoes, in order to show our love from them, with mud, dirt and all. Such fond, dirty memories of shoes.

I digress from the topic. What do my shoes tell about me? That I take no care of my feet, or they may complain that I sometimes jump into rain water puddles just for the fun of it, with no regard for the lizard’s skin that makes up my shoes and also I let my cat chew on it just to let her have the taste of an exotic lizard or crocodile’s skin.

Some corner of my sole, yearns for flashy stilletos and beautiful boots, just to exhibit the feminine aura a girl should have but truth be told, after an hour of walking in high heeled horrors I always kick them away to walk barefoot, lest my toes should fracture and split apart. My daily wear, however is a pair of flats, part boyish and yet wearable. The boyish ruggedness ensures that I can slip it on easily and go on my adventure and these shoes are indifferent to the mud and sand that coats over it, it gets this attitude from its wearer, who cares not for the social dirt flowing over it,whilst outdoors.

As a short statured girl, I have to wear heeled shoes, in order to join the ranks of the long legged lasses. Heels come in a variety of lengths and in the shoe shop, with one look at me, the shopkeeper invariably suggests the higher side of the heel spectrum. However, even though such long heels look uber cool, my shoe cupboard represents a compromise between me and my parents, a mid way between my desire to way long heels and my parents lack of confidence in my ability to walk without tripping in those heels. So, like my life my shoes are always medium heeled, and like the occasional highs of happiness in life, there are a few high heeled shoes and like the bouts of depression which makes me feel low, there are flats in my closet. Like my life, so my shoes.

As a devout follower of the Hindu culture, it becomes imperative for me to describe the “khadaaon” that even our Lord Rama, wore in days of yore. Till date, it is worn by ascetics and monks to demonstrate the simplicity life can have. It involves holding the wooden slippers between the toe and the next finger of the foot. Hobbling along, holding the slipper against the sole, which demonstrates to me, the essence of life in India. The practice of consciously keeping the footwear against the foot, is like the constant conscious labor that we do in order to ensure that our life is shrouded with comforts.

So, this piece of our fashion has basically risen to a height where it has now become a representative of the lives we lead. It may seem that I have become extra sensitive towards my shoes but no this does not in any way mean that I am cleaning that sticky mess from my shoes.

Motivation: the thing that keeps me from kicking the bucket….

‘Motivation’ can be broken down into ‘Moti’, which in Hindi means fat and ‘vation’ which means well, nothing, I admit to having a gluttony for all things fatty. The tendency to splurge on butter rich fatty items is evident from my body mass index, which is rising steadily every single day. So, how can I resist writing on a topic which starts with fat .I need motivation for all those things which need to be done but often I end up ignoring it for something far more desirable and less toiling . 

I admit that I am a “praise-loving, criticism hating” creature and I love it when people tell me how good I am. That is definitely one thing that makes me do things. As a child, I would often cut my play time short and study, tidy my things up just to hear my mom call me a “good girl”. If I were a drug addict, praise would be my Marijuana.  The day God decided to give me a vagina in place of a freaking penis, it was determined that I would be subject to certain stigmas which are absolute essentials for women (atleast in my society). So, I remain motivated to fight for a better future, not only because that would be my vendetta but also because that could be a much deserved gift to my vagina, which like its sisters across women, remains shrouded in prejudice inspite of being as faithful and useful as any penis could ever be. 

And most importantly, my Wish List. This is my bucket list of to-do things which I have to complete before I kick the bucket, most notably I want my childhood crush (read Shahrukh Khan, the Indian Tom Cruise, go google him. He might have wrinkles now but his smile melted my heart years ago) to dance at my wedding (I understand that he might not be in a position to dance then, considering he is already around 50 now, I could settle for a few pics with me in different poses) and I want to be able to buy real jewels and become the devil that wears the Prada. As you can see, all of my dreams are really expensive and so not being motivated is not an option.

So, this was how I remain motivated.  Now for some things that require my unfaltering zealous motivation

You must have heard about child marriages in India, as a child, I was married to the “eat less, eat healthy” philosophy, I even remember celebrating my 10th marriage anniversary through a huge celebration and a cake made of air and imagination. Everything was running smoothly but in the 14th year of our marriage, we had a big row over a cupcake. I do admit to having a bit of craving for that dashing piece of cupcake but trust me I had tried to remain faithful in the marriage for a very long time. So, unfortunately, I had this massive break up an year later. After which like all newly single people, I have had a roller coaster ride through the lanes of pizzas, cupcakes and savouries. Indulging in everything that tickles my taste buds. Anyways, I have heard my ex-husband fell in love with a 20 something supermodel and they both live in the posh “no-carb land”. The psychological effect on me of this break up was that for several years, I have lived with an expanding waist.  Now, in an attempt to join the neighbourhood of anorexic beauties, I have gone on a DIET, now this is something I need motivation for.  

Then on the other hand ,is the need to stay sane during this eternal gap year. The constant need to stay focussed on the shining scalpel at the end of the lane, a long lane which travels past interview experiences, the feeling of having messed it all up, the long wait for the much anticipated good news just like a constipated person waits for the familiar rumble in the stomach, the worst part being that there is no laxative to relax the stress of one’s career. This needs the constant zeal of a fanatic which unfortunately I don’t have.Sometimes, I even need motivation to take a bath. The incessant obligation one has towards the society to maintain a decent level of hygiene, forces me to leave my warm bed and soak myself, infact now on introspection, I think my whole existence is marked by my parent’s never ending  motivation to ‘let live’ no matter how worthless the life in question may be.

 

Last but not the least, the motivation to write this blog. Why, it most certainly is you! You, who had the patience and so much spare time to read through and reach the last paragraph. I admire you for your tenacity and would love to acquire your patience but I pray to God to give you the sense to work more and read less blogs for at the end of the day what matters is not just passive reading but also some action, for starters you could just click on the ‘like’ button below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I may just become the world’s youngest grandmother…..

Right, I am officially going to become the world’s youngest grandmother I think . Dear Ms. Cat is pregnant, and she tells me only when her stomach has grown to the size of a melon. Here, I was worrying about my interview and there she gave me the worst shock, the parent of any teenager can have! I know fellow internet addicts love lists and so just for them here is my list of  reasons why this situation has bowled me over.

  1. To think I could in a couple of days become a grandmother to 5-6 kittens is deeply disturbing, to think my cat found her soulmate before me is horrendous even worse what if it was a one night thing, to think she has such standards being an Indian!
  1. She has shaken my faith from children, she is after all 7 months old and has the word “baby” written all over her. I can still remember her being born and now this, it basically shows one cannot even leave children alone nowadays.
  1. The father is nowhere to be seen, I guess responsibility and men are miles apart. But that basically means I am a single grandmother supporting a single mother with multiple children.
  1. The 2 other male cats in my house come nowhere near this would be mom. Is it because even in cat society a large oversized woman is considered unattractive (hypocrites!) or is the father right in front and trying to hide from the spotlight?
  1. My budget is now going to be non-existent, 3 cats+5-6 kittens in a third world country basically hints at an impending financial crisis.
  1. Are there any takers for Indian feral kittens? Are they taken up just as easily as Persian kittens would be? Specially because I take no guarantee for their behaviour, they might just kick, scratch and even steal your money ( we live in the area where Indian politicians live, the father of these kittens could well be a part of a major money laundering scheme that is pushing India towards the status of the 4th world country)
  1. I have watched back to back episodes of ’16 and pregnant’ and ‘teen mom’ to gain an understanding of the role of the mum of  the teenage pregnant cat, however, rather than becoming more experienced, I guess I have earned my father’s suspicions. Why on Earth was his daughter watching about teenage pregnancies?
  1. What if my grand children ask “granny, what do you do?” I don’t think blogging counts for much in the cat society (or for that matter even in human society) and do I hide my application to medical school.
  1. When I was born my grandmother gave me loads of gold and this has continued even till date. I remember telling this to Ms. Cat, shit! Is that why I saw her cleaning her box today. I really don’t have the money to buy her a golden catnip.
  1. Am I supposed to stand right beside Ms.Cat and wipe her face when she goes into labour? I have had no particular experience with labour pain and delivery, all I know about it is from those glitzy movies, where the father is supposed to stand right beside and scream “push, push”. I really am not sure if this would be the right thing to say to her provided I have no idea of cat physiology and I may turn up screaming “push,push” when the right call would be “pull, pull”. Thus, leading to further complications.

Do not get me wrong, I was actually fed up of these mature cats in my house, trying to prove how outdated I am and the prospect of having these little kitties in my house seems enchanting but then becoming a grandmother is an exhausting thing, don’t shake your head granny, I wasn’t half as bad!

You want to know me better? So do I…….

I got a wonderful comment yesterday, what made it great (apart from the fact that this wonderful person called me “incredibly talented”) was the fact that they expressed an interest in knowing who I actually am. Yes, I have my doubts, since this is the first time somebody wants to know who I am *weeps silently*, but I realised how important it was to let people know who I think I am.

So, Here is a list of a few things which I believe every reader of mine should know about me.

1. When you enter my room (not that I am asking you to) there is one particular spot on the wall which is of historical importance in my life. I would say it is the Peepal tree in the process of my enlightenment. Years later, when tour guides take people around my house, they will definitely point at this spot and say
” This is where Winky Spider used to scribble on the wall” and there will be some story of the genius I was even as a child. but like all tour guides and there stories, they will be mistaken. For that is the place where my parents got me to stand every summer for measuring my height. For the first decade or so, I was a wonder growing in huge increments but to the shock of my parents, I think it was around my 14th birthday that the Gods decided to make me a living example of “Good things come in Small packages.” After scratching the wall for several years at the same mark of 5 feet 2 inches, my parents decided to start a fund in my name, for the purchase of the essential high heeled shoes.

2. I have the unique talent of figuring in controversies without saying or even typing a word. If you meet any person of my family from my ancient grandfather to my little cousin brother, do not ask them about Winky Spider because I don’t think they even remember me. One little tip, ask them about the person who they “think” led to the most recent fight in the family. Voila! they will direct you right to me.

3. I am so bad at sports that I gave it up for the sake of humanity. My parents tried a number of sports because they were optimistic that every person is good at something (they still believe that, they have just stopped counting me as a person)

a. Anything to do with a ball – I have a weird problem, I close my eyes whenever a ball is thrown towards me. I think in my previous life I must have been killed in a freak ball accident, so my eyes just close, so that I don’t have to witness my own death. I wonder why my instincts couldn’t have taught me to catch a ball with precision?

b. Anything to do with running- No, I trip on my own feet and have been proclaimed to be a public hazard. So that ended my career there.

c. Swimming- Absolutely failed at that one, when I refused to budge from the children’s pool to the main one, the instructor gently explained to my mother how all kids were special but that I didn’t seem to be really special in swimming.

4. I make silly choices sometimes- Like years ago I had a pet rabbit and I wanted to get a sibling for it. What I didn’t know was that there is a thing called “food chain” and so I got a neighbourhood cat as a big sister for it. That ended badly and all I can say is that I was left with a single child and a scarred conscience.

5. I come from a long line of killjoys, spirit dampening ancestors, who would have 3 heart attacks in a row if they knew that a “girl” in their family was blogging away in the dark world. And knowing how fatal this can be to their oil and butter soaked heart, I prefer to remain anonymous.

Okay I think I have pulled out enough skeletons from my closet for one day.I think you know enough about me now, right?

Mr. Cat, is this why you have an english accent?

Look what i found....

Don’t whine about the quality of the pic, when one has a heartbreak, pic resolutions do not matter.

Yesterday, I had my interview at the medical school I have been talking about. How that went is a different story, but right now I have far more pressing issues to deal with. Namely the picture above. I found this pasted onto a pole in the middle of the road and I had a heartbreak just by looking at it. Have I told you about Mr.Cat, the “only” man (oops,sorry Dad) in my life?

He turned up at my door and life on a fateful night in September. It was pouring outside and I was sitting by the windowsill sipping a hot cup of coffee and then there was a thud on the door, followed by another and yet another. I went up and opened the door and there in the black night I saw two white, partially yellow, oblique eyes standing in front of me.

24876900-cat-eyes-in-darkness

Me: “Yes, Mr.Eyes how may I help you?”

Mr.Cat: “Milady, I am a feline and I have come from a distant land. Can I get some shelter in your home?”

Me:”Oh, sir, pardon me, now I can see your golden whiskers glittering in the bleak night. I welcome thee inside my little abode.”

Mr.Cat:” Thank you for the courtesy, but one last question you do have Catnip, Cat milk, Litterbox and playthings for me, right?”

Me:” Sir, I shall get them in no time!.”

So, this is where he had come from. Is he really a citizen of Her Majesty’s land? and he did not have the courtesy to tell me when I was frantically running from one visa office to another, just to enter this land. All those times when I had to put a “No” in the visa form declaring that I had no friend/relative in the UK, he had just put on a stiff upper lip and gazed ahead. Also, now I know how he gets us to follow his commands, after all he belongs to the tribe of our ancient colonizers, the white who colonized India. Now it is coming all back to me. He does hiss and curse at the picture of my great grand uncle, who was after all a great freedom fighter of India and all this while I thought it was because of his ugly face.

“Mr.Cat, he is one strange fellow!”, Ms.Cat had once remarked. Ms.Cat is my beautiful white feline friend, who is the envy of all other she cats in the neighbourhood. She chose my companionship because as she says ” Only one beauty can reside in a home”,  Alas, Mr.Cat has never set his eyes on her. I had cajoled her, said “Maybe, he has taken up some oath of singularity, you know” but she had indignantly remarked “Haven’t you seen my white tail, you oaf, does it look like somebody can continue with their stupid oath in front of this, I tell you there is something wrong with your Mr.Cat.”

And she had been right, It seems the Indian white was not white enough for him. Maybe he just couldn’t stoop to the third world level.

He is after all too quite for India. All Indian households for cats do not provide attached toilets but he absolutely refused to walk even a step to the loo, he has to have his litter box right beside his bedroom. And he often brings tissue papers to me after his tour to the loo. Just because I am an Indian, no way Jose! I am not wiping your butt.

What better time to have a heartbreak than near Valentine’s day, He could have told me know, which Indian would not harbour a British cat? There are a few things he could tell me though, like how did he end up in India all the way from “There”, and if there is some secret route, it could actually help me save money on freaking tickets for interview trips. Or maybe he could help me with my accent, it is time I changed from Appuish(Simpson style) English to British English.

Anyhow, Mr.Cat is my Valentine this year actually the only one I could manage and with that huge surplus of catnip and the attached toilet in his bedroom, it seems I am quite happy harbouring this runaway cat with me, I know he is going to find this cheesy but yet ” I think I am in love with you, my funny valentine!”