While most of her loyal legion said “of course not”, I wonder what else is there that makes the list.

1. Chivalry: What happened to good old fashioned chivalry? When men opened doors for you, said “after you”? I think they are using feminism as an excuse to behave like yobs. For the record, we like being our own women, yes but it doesn’t mean we wouldn’t appreciate it if the menfolk did stuff like opening the hefty door of a restaurant and letting us in first, rather than watch on while we risk an aneurysm wrestling with the damn thing and then  sail through the open door  first, making us feel like a dwarapalak!

2. Kindness: I like it when men are kind – sort of goes hand in hand with being gentle, I think. There is something about the bloke that helps a doddering old woman cross the road that tugs the heart strings. Giving up seats for preggie / old ladies in crowded buses and train don’t come under this category: they are just purely sensible things to do and shame on you if you don’t!

3. Patience: There’s something irrepressibly charming about the man who is calm and holds onto his patience even when the person opposite is driving him nuts, being inexplicably mental. I’d fully understand if he imagined beating said person black and blue whilst being excruciatingly polite. Even more understandable is taking it out on the poor cushion after said person has exited the scene.

4. Humour: Huge dollops of it. There’s nothing to top someone who can take a joke or see the funny side of any situation. Absolutely!

Smelling something fishy, I dug a bit and the bulb went off – that was the day the lovely MM gave me the Blogging Buddies batch and of course, a few of her faithful fans followed the breadcrumb trail.

That was when I realised – it doesn’t matter if I can’t write shit. As long as my lovely mates keep writing about me, folks will keep wandering in. So I’ve got a proposition for you lot, my mad bloggy mates – write random shit about me on a weekly basis and I will split some AdSense moola with you. I’ll even give you a Best Blogging Buddy badge to sweeten the deal. What say?

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So, here it is, leddies and gents – decide for yourself: Is Google Evil? (cue maniacal laughter)

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Why? Not because it is a milestone related to my blog – number of days it has been in existence, number of posts etc. It is special ‘cos it is the first one that is being done from my brand new laptop.

My very own MacBook!

I still cannot believe it! I keep re-reading the above statement but it still feels a bit surreal. I have been glued to the thing since we brought it home earlier this afternoon. My own laptop, my very own. Mine and nobody else’s! As I was coming back home from the Mall this afternoon, I couldn’t help but smile at how it used to be whilst growing up. Dad being in the forefront of IT related stuff meant the comp will get a total rehaul any time. Any files that were dumped on the desktop previous week might disappear any day.

The number of times I had lovingly stored favourite photos, poems, stories only to find the whole contraption gone – well, they are well and truly behind me now! Anyone who touches my spanking new machine will be first fingerprinted and allocated no more than 2.5 minutes at a time. And strictly no games or downloads allowed!

Bring on sem 2!

One of my earliest memories of visiting the paternal relatives in the Village was sitting down for lunch with most of the cousins in one or the other of the aunts’ houses and the first taste of sambhar neatly lifting the roof off my mouth. After losing my fair share of taste buds, I remember screaming for water only for everyone to hoot:

“kaarardha? Appo bus uduma?”

(Sorry – loses essence in translation. Suffice to say I said it was hot and they made fun of the words employed. Simply put, kaaram, uraippu = spicy hot

Apparently, in the Village one must say ‘orakkidhu’ – I had uttered the TamBram equivalent of that, which was found to be incredibly funny. After that, though I tried to watch what I said, it was still a difficult task as those were the only words I knew and I couldn’t come up with different words just to stop them from wetting themselves.

It was during those lonely, puzzling days that I figured my mum and dad came from different communities. As my dad had always spoken like the rest of us at home, I never had realized the difference.

That was when the problem of what I am and where I belonged started. I tried to say it was to the maternal side as I grew up with them, spoke like them, behaved like them, ate like them, and dressed like them, so I should be one of them, right? My school was inhabited predominantly by TamBrams so it was easy for me just to fit in. And I continued to think I was one of them till the day a (maternal) cousin said ‘but you are not Iyengar anyway!’, bursting yet another bubble.

It was confusion time all over again. What the hell am I? Annual trips to the Village reiterated the belief of ‘never the twain shall be met’ and I came back more confused than ever. Being surrounded by proper TamBrams and wanting to belong made me exaggerate the accent and the behaviour and every time it was checked by dad’s remark that I wanted to be a Brahmin. Well, I wanted to belong, that’s what I wanted, without having to choose between one and another. Mum choosing to follow whatever Iyengar traditions she was comfortable with, dad speaking Iyengarese when surrounded by Iyengars added to the layers of confusion. Not knowing much about the paternal culture and background didn’t help me in identifying myself with them either.

This confusion continued for a long, long time, even till my wedding day. When the time came for the wedding pandal to be put outside the gate, I had thought it would be the tricoloured strips of cloth being strung from pillar A to pillar B, like I had seen in most houses nearby. Till mum shushed me and said ‘adhellam non-Brahmins podaradhu!’

I wanted to scream “then what the heck are we?” I was tired of being stuck in the limbo land and desperately wanted a way out.

Well, I found a way out – to far off UK, by way of my Telugu husband. Whose family preferred to highlight my Brahmin roots as it was much more amenable to their clan than the Padayachi dad half.

If I had thought I had left my confusions back in India, I seem to have taken on new ones. Now to which country do I belong? I have been living in England for almost seven years now and it feels home in many ways. But I still do not inherently understand the English and their xenophobia makes it hard to make proper friends. But I am cut off from Madras and India and cannot understand 100% what is happening there – the societal issues, the changing culture, the politics, mega serials….

At the same time, I cannot fall in with Eastenders, the celebrity obsession, the near-zero importance given to academic achievements, the cold shoulder, the prejudice….

Once again, I’m asking myself – who am I? What am I? Where are my loyalties?

Who has the answers?

D – Desi. 100%

E – Enthu; in some cases, OE or Over Enthu

S – Sarky; one of my closest friends once said ‘you are one of the sarkiest bitches I have ever known and if I can get past you, then the official mauling wud be a piece of cake’. One heck of a compliment, that!

I – Inventive; I wish I could spin stories at the drop of the hat like my son. More importantly, I wish he doesn’t lose that ability.

G – Girly; that is one thing I have always wished I was. I don’t mean I took a left turn half way thru college and got a sex-change. I just wish I was soft and girlish like most girls around.

I – Imaginative – in desperate short supply. Help!

R – Rowdy; I was one, growing up. Have been called less flattering versions of the same.

L – Laughter; cos that is the most precious thing, IMO. Have belly, will laugh.

Anyone who hasn’t been tagged for this one, please feel free to take it up.

1. How do you feel after a one night stand?
Rather depends on the bloke, that one, doesn’t it? (now, that isn’t something you’d expect from a shaadi-shudh woman, would u?)

2. Do you ever get used to wearing a thong?
Nope. But as they say, no pain, no gain!

3. Does it hurt?
Er…. let’s say it takes a bit of getting used to.

4. Do you know when you are acting crazy?
Def. That’s when the hubby gets into an apoplectic fit and goes up in blue smoke.

5. Does size really matter?
Yes. (The only ones who say not are the ones with a nub of a weenie!)

6. When the bill comes are you still a feminist?
I shall echo Ams’ sentiment and say, it rather depends on who’s sat opposite.

7. Why do you take so long to get ready?
‘coz I am a woman. It is like, WRITTEN, in my DNA.

8. Do you watch porn, too?
Can I take the Fifth?

9. Will something from Tiffany’s solve everything?
No. Coupled with some grovelling and other random things, it might.

10. Are guys as big of a mystery to you as you are to us?
No way.

11. Why do you sometimes think you look fat?
er, pass.

12. Why are you always late?
Time is relative, isn’t it?

13. Does it bother you when we scratch?
Yep. ‘specially when I am in the vicinity.

14. Do you wish you could pee standing up?
Nah.

15. Why do so many women cut their hair short as soon as they get married?
Er, there are so many ways I could go with this one but I shall pass!

16. How often do you think about sex?
*koff*

17. What do you think of women who sleep with guys on the first date?
Sozzled.

18. Would you?
Moot point, now. But no.

19. Do you realize every guy wants a girl just like his mom?
Unfortunately.

20. Why does every woman think she can change him?
Coz men are like clay – awaiting our hands to mold them.

21. Does it matter what car I drive?
Of course.

22. Do you ever fart?
No way, lay-dees never do.

Right, let us throw it open to the wider public – MM, Dee, Rohini, Tharini and any other girlie readers I have who wants to take this up, pls go forth and blog!

Now I can safely say I have seen and heard it all. Whatever next?!

Well, it was one of those ‘blink and you miss it’ type outfits. As it was kind of warm out, she had taken her jacket off and as a result, all I could see of her from behind were here black and white candy-striped, bum hugging jeans topped with something that looked vaguely like a tatty piece of cloth. There was her black bra, displayed in all its glory and parallel to it were two strips of black t-shirt material, knotted Shakuntala style. That was it.

When she turned into the station, I could vaguely make out the front part of it. There wasn’t much more material that had miraculously materialised and attached itself to her front. All the available material did was to cover the bra.

I was thanking my stars P was 1. too young to decipher that outfit 2. too tired to ask me any embarassing questions.

I wanted to know what that girl’s mum was thinking, letting her loose on the streets, barely dressed so. That garment, laughingly called a ‘top’, is obscene for any age. If she is old enough or ‘developed’ enough to need the services of a bra, then she needs more material to cover herself. When I think of all the poor folks we bump into in India, who wear tattered garments cos they can’t afford any proper ones and then I see idiots like this, traipsing about half naked in the name of fashion.

Kali yug?