Category Archives: Funny

The Jinx

Alright, it’s official.  This blog has magical powers.  Godly magical powers.  Or someone among the 24 readers of this blog has magical powers. I rant about not being able to laugh-out-loud in this blog and within ten hours, I am suffocating (no exaggeration) because I can’t stop laughing , as are my my kid, my friend L and her daughter, as we sit around the table trying to eat Thai and Chinese food and having the rest of the diners shoot daggers at us for the ruckus we are creating.  There wasn’t even any uterus talk involved !  Either the people at Flower Drum spiked all deserts (“kachang”, there I said that again) with alihotsy, illywig wings, Knarl quills and the like, or our pons were infarcted because that is when things got out of control and the four of us made noises that would scare the hyenas away.


Ice Kachang spiked with laughing portion

There was one particular woman across from me, who was dining with a gentleman, perhaps husband.  She shot a wistful glance at us every now and then. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. I could not stop laughing long enough to walk up to her, pat her on her shoulder and say, write your yearning in your blog, it will change.

My stomach is bunched , my voice is hoarse, my throat is sore and head, light.

Thank you magical blog.  Thank you magical reader.  Most of all, thank you L for the laughs you gave me today.



Work out

I have been going to the gym for the past month and a half.  I don’t have a personal trainer or a schedule, but do a bit of interval training and some strength, with inputs from the gym trainers.  Lately the trainers have been goading me to check out their Zumba sessions, which come free with the membership.  I wasn’t too keen for a variety of reasons, the foremost being, I am the most inelegant woman you could know.  Secondly, the sessions are at six in the evening, and the traffic at that time is a killer. In any case, I buckled under and decided to check it out today.

I enter the gym and the receptionist tells me to go to the second floor for the session.  I walk two flight of stairs, which I count towards warm up, and peep into the room that seems occupied.  There is a friendly-like trainer and five trainees – two women and three rather muscular men.  Do men do Zumba?  I chide myself for being sexist and join them for stay-jogs, butt kicks and such like for eternity.  Finally we stop and I catch the breath that had gone for a stroll.

“Now we begin the session” our trainer guy says.

Say what?

The music starts.  Ah, Zumba, finally.

“A cycle of training consists of ten push ups, ten crunches and fifteen squats.  Three continuous cycles, followed by a one minute break, to be repeated for 20 minutes.”

Again, what?

One of the three women left for the zumbha in the opposite room.  This was crossfit training.  Some people have an ego the size of Kilimanjaro to follow the third girl across the hall.

If I don’t write tomorrow, it is probably because my arms fell off.


An immenses conversation

On the way back from the beach yesterday.  Two moms on the front seat, two teenage kids at the back.

Kids singing some random song, completely out of tune and loud.

Mom1:  Can you please tone it down a little?  Mom 2 and I are trying to have a conversation.

Kids’ ears flap.  Moms’ conversation, they are sure, would be something they can crib about later.  E.g. “moms don’t know how to have fun, you know?”. “Moms are so jealous of anyone who has fun, that they have to get on our case if we laugh ” . (Actual quotes we have overheard in the past few days).

Mom 2:  I haven’t gotten my periods in three months now. I wonder if I have menopaused.

Mom1:  Lucky you.   You can set the calendar by me.

Mom 2:  I wonder if I am really that lucky.  Maybe when it comes, it will finally kill me.

Mom 1: More likely.  At least, when you are dead, you won’t get periods anymore.

Mom 2:  I am not sure.  My ghost will probably get PMS.

Kid 1: May be we are better off singing.

Mom 2:  Don’t behave like you guys don’t know what we are talking about.  Especially considering how crabby you guys get before your period.

Mom 1:  You know how they throw parties and have celebrations for menarche*?  We must have a celebration for menopause you know..makes more sense.

Mom 2: What do you mean we must have a celebration for menopause?  We must have a kick-ass party.  You know, invite all menopausal/perimenopausal women, have a big feast, dancing, singing, new clothes, drinking..the works.

Mom 1:  And banners.  “Take that, uterus”.

Mom 2: “Die, ovaries”

Mom 1:  “Hormones to hell”

Mom 2:  “Vale, vaginal vagaries”

Mom 1:  “Cheerio Cramps”

Kid 2:  You know how moms think we are crazy?…

Mom 2:  And we can have a cake shaped like uterus.

Mom 1: With red icing

Mom 2:  And not cut it, but each of us gets a knife and stabs it

The kids are stunned to silence until we reach home.

Later in the night, mom 1 gets a message from mom2: “Got my P :(”

Mom 1:  What?  No party then?

Mom 2:  More time to plan.

What can I say?  We are glass-half-full people.

* In India, a girl’s menarche is traditionally celebrated on a grand scale – feasting and all.  It still is among many families.

Edited to add:  A dear cousin wrote back saying “why so much hatred for the uterus?  Without it, you two would not have had your kids”.  I feel partly combative, but also bad.  Thirty odd years of pain and PMS shebang (the other mom in this conversation faints every period with pain, and I go through dark mental periods every month) seems like a steep price to pay for reproduction, considering that the other half of the procreationist gets away scott free.  That said, I’d face any pain all over again, and again, and all my life, for my kid. If I have inadvertently hurt anyone by this post, I am sorry. I considered deleting this post, but realised that that would be escapist.  I own these thoughts. They may be wrong, but they are mine.



All that’s white ain’t milk

My father was apparently a sickly child, prone to fevers.  Every time he was delirious, his mother would mix hot, sweetened milk with carbonated water (aka club soda, sparkling water, seltzer, fizzy water) and make him drink it, and as lore would have it, the fever would disappear.  I was thankfully a healthy child, and even the few times that I did end up with fever, my mother had enough sense to not let my dad treat it.

In grad school, my neighbour in the run-down grad-student housing was a North Indian grad student, whose name I have forgotten.  I once dropped into his house to pick up some candles (there was going to be a blizzard that night and the power always fluctuated during blizzards), and he offered me a drink. Since it was non alcoholic, I accepted it with thanks.  The drink was cold coca cola mixed with cold Vit D milk.  I actually liked it  (I like anything with milk) and continued to have it for two years of my life.  Two decades since, I have forgotten the taste of it,  and don’t intend to remind myself of it – do you know coke really cleans your toilet bowl to a shine?  With a pH of 2.53, why wouldn’t it?

Again, in Grad school, in an attempt to put on weight (I was uncharitably addressed as “2D LG” by the juvenile Indian grad students that my university was infested with at that time), I tried the eggy-milky-occasionally rummy drink of egg nog and was hooked.  The egg nog of my grad school days still stays with me, especially around my hip area and refuses to budge, aided by the tubs of rum-n-raisin ice creams of yore.

I have had Irish coffee back in grad school, but had not particularly liked it.

Life in the US killed my relationship to lactose – I suspect it was because grocery store milk in US was reconstituted, and never natural (this was before the “organic” tag gained respectability or was affordable to a grad student).  I became severely lactose intolerant and stayed off all forms of milk products for many years afterwards. Only recently, after 20 years of de-americanising my stomach and re-setting it with what passes off as milk in India, has my tolerance to lactose and diary returned.

My forays into alcohol began only after marriage, but lest you think of me as an alcoholic needing intervention, my frequency of having any form of alcoholic beverage has been once or twice a year.  The last time I had wine was in Italy, last summer, and it was divine and very feebly alcoholic, except for one occasion that made me giggle uncontrollably.  The summer before that, my sister-in-law had brought us vodka and Scotch, both of which I hated because less than a sip made me throw up and gave me a phenomenal migraine for hours afterwards.

Yesterday, I met my BFF over coffee.  The precious woman got me Bailey’s Irish cream and rum-chata, probably sick of my WhatsApp rants about how hard it is in India to get a decent bottle of alcohol that does not give me a migraine, at price that does not require sale of body parts.   After expert advice from Rob on how best to consume Irish cream,  last night, I tentatively sipped the iced milky beverage, almost sure that I was going to head to the sink to throw up.  Caramel, milk and whiskey?  What kind of combination is that?

A few many hours later, as my afternoon coffee with Rumchata fills my being and takes me to almost orgasmic ecstacy as I type this out, I can only be grateful that we don’t get Bailey’s Irish cream or rumchata in India.  I’d probably need an AA membership if we did.


Stop that infernal chewing

I have a fair share of personality quirks.  I have to change into fresh underwear before I go to bed at night.  I have “my spot” on the couch for work.    If I haven’t eaten curd rice for three days in a row, I get cranky.  I am the quintessential wall flower in gatherings.

There is one quirk of mine that I thought is completely crazy.  I can’t stand the sound of people chewing.  Unfortunately, my car pool kids are noisy chewers.  Whenever I make the mistake of bringing them a snack, I kick myself because their sounds of chewing make me want to drive the car into oncoming traffic. It takes all my willpower to not yell at the kids, because, hell they are not my kids.  On the rare occasion that my kid forgets I am in the room, and chews loudly, she gets hit by a tsunami.  Some of my relatives chew loudly.  I avoid going to family functions that involve eating because I feel like sticking my fingers into my eyes when I sit next to them at the meal table.  I believe that if I get a complete nervous breakdown in life, this would be the trigger. Just writing about the chewing sound is making me want to assume foetal position and scream.

I thought I was crazy. I AM crazy, but this is not the reason, because

drum rolls please…

MISOPHONIA is an established condition, it seems, and scientists even know what causes it !

I am thrilled by this news.  Now see, THAT’s what makes me crazy.

Say what?

I have been reading a book on art (as a favour for someone).

“According to Schelling, art is the product or consequence of a world view in which the subject becomes its own object, or the object itself its own subject. ”

And the book is full of such gems.  FULL.   Another example:

“art may be called play, though not in the sense of a worthless occupation, but in the sense of a manifestation of the beauty of life itself, which has no other aim than beauty.”



No, I am not referring to my late Tamil teacher from school who creeped the heck out of us.  I meant the white-throated kingfisher that perched on the gate-rod outside our house.


The wooded campus in which we live, houses a small pond-of-sorts (which is now dry, thanks to monsoon failure), surrounded by marshland.  It is home to migratory birds in winter.  Apparently they have arrived.  I am not sure if kingfishers are migratory, Wikipedia tells me that these are partly migratory, whatever that means.

There is another bird that I see every winter, in the woods in my backyard.  I am no ornithophile, (I know the name of the bird on my gate because I shared the photo with an ornithophilic friend, who mentioned its name in holy rapture) so I don’t know the name of the regular visitor – she is a brown bird who camouflages beautifully with the woods, but when she flies, her elegantly long white wings are unexpected for so plain a creature on land.  I searched for “ugly brown bird with beautiful wings” on google images and landed on the following picture, in an obscure site with no name – yeah that’s the bird (not the exact same bird, but you know what I mean) in my backyard. I am sure my ornithophile friend would know its name.  This is an elusive bird to photograph (not that I have tried too hard).


Regular bird walks are conducted in our neighbourhood, and I have gone on a couple.  But the facts that these walks start at 5.30 AM and  that people point randomly in all directions and call out names like “moor hen” or “grey headed stork” or something, when all I can see are some misshapen tree branches, have prevented me from going on them more frequently.  Perhaps I should hang a pair of binoculars around my neck like the others, equip myself with names of exotic birds from Wikipedia and randomly spew them out during these bird-walks.  Must be fun, no?