Christmas Wishes

Christmas makes me unhappy. It wasn’t like this when I was little, though. When I was 8, I still believed in Santa Claus and his elves, and thought that he left me presents in my stocking. I wrote him letters, and lay awake in bed hoping to catch him, but i almost always fell asleep before 12. I never really got what I asked for, but it was ok. No one really ever got what they asked for. Those who did not ask for things also always seemed to get things they didn’t want, and I wasn’t the kind to raise Hell over an unacquired toy.

The next year, I chanced upon my sister stuffing an unwanted present into my stocking, and my little mind raced with questions and overflowed with disappointment. At breakfast, while my little brother was happily tearing away at his loot, I remember saying to my mother, “He does not exist does he? It’s just you.”

Christmases that followed weren’t any different. We made the usual sweets, stuffed and baked the chickens and turkeys, and stirred the giant christmas cake. We skipped to midnight mass like good Catholic people, and came home happy, humming carols and bickering about who would cut the christmas cake.

Things changed. My dad moved to India and it took a while to get used to the idea of him being around. Our lives got complicated, messy, and unhappy. I guess he couldn’t deal with the idea of his family becoming reality, and my mother couldn’t  keep turning a blind eye to his adulterous ways.

Christmas changed.

All I now remember are the numerous times before midnight mass when we’d dress up, and they’d fight; mother reduced to tears, refusing to go to mass anymore. My catholic guilt forced me to go to the service (or else be forever damned in Eternal Hell), and all i’d think of while shivering in the cold, biting, starless night, was how I wish I’d stayed home with her. The caroling was mechanical, and there wasn’t any joy in my world. Or, they’d fight after mass, if and when he’d come home.

Then there were christmases when mother fell terribly ill with the stress. And other christmases when extended family was part of the verbal scuffle, trading insults like they were exchanging presents!

Christmas mornings were silent. Everyone stayed out of everyone else’s way and waited for the damn day to get over, plastic smiles fixed on faces. I stopped doing the church thing, as did my little brother. I remember being snuggled in bed the year after I returned from Bangalore, listening to carols wafting into my room from the service being held nearby and thinking, “Hmmm… I wonder if I should go.” And then thinking, “Naaahhh. And ruin all this blissful blank peace?”

Each year, I now send out cards to those who do believe in Christmas, hoping, I guess, that at some point, i’d be reacquainted with “The Christmas Spirit” because of their belief. For me, Christmas is always going to be a season of stress and painful memories.

I honestly wish I could believe. And I really wish Santa was real.

The Tiger and his Wood…

Just when I thought I had an original idea, the Tiger Woods saga unfolds, fanning my curiosity and killing my creativity… This is obviously neither the first nor the last time that a famous ‘brother’ effed up. But what makes it more interesting than the others is the manner in which it did.

Everyone who’s anyone is taking a dig at him. From David Letterman, SNL, the Tabloids, to certain bloggers with a delusions of being a God-men. Let’s look at the stories that you are least likely to find with a google search…

NAACP organizes a protest march in Stockholm to protest against Swedish women wedding the only eligible African American man. They claim that it is a part of a deeper ‘white’ conspiracy to malign the ‘colored’ people. They referred to the OJ case where a similar conspiracy ended in tragedy. The NAACP also pledged the support of both East and West coast gangstas to bail the Tiger out. The incident, they claimed, was a result of the ‘White’ devil trying to deprive the Tiger of his polygamist urges. 50 Cent, for example, has offered the Tiger a pick from his groupies. His manager said that the 50 Cent girls have “negotiable morals and are trained in the ways of the Candy Shop.”

Meanwhile, The wives of Accenture employees also staged a protest outside their headquarters at Ireland to express their distaste with the company tag-line of, “Go ahead. Be a Tiger.” A troubled wife, on the condition of anonymity told this site: “Since November 29, when the story surfaced, my husband started coming home late. When I confronted him, he said that it was official business. He should thank his stars that neither of us plays golf, and the deck of cards I threw at him didn’t seem to deter him.”

The sporting mega-brand Nike also had to change its tag-line to “Just Do It. Except you, Tiger.” The company spokesperson said that the expenditure to change all advertisements on a global scale could run into millions of dollars. They expect that excluding Tiger from ‘doing’  ‘it’ will salvage their brand till the time their marketing department comes back from their vacations.

The personal products major Gillette, has apologized to all non-blondes. They distanced themselves from Tiger Woods’ choice of blonde women and said that blondes were by no means ‘the best a man can get’. The share-holders meet this weekend to discuss a spin story to counter the offense that billions of non-blonde women across the world have taken.

Meanwhile, I believe that it’s just a case of Tiger unable to deal with his wood. Being a golfer doesn’t justify him making blondes the butt of his drives. The puns keep pouring in, some good, some obscene… Hyacie wouldn’t publish many of what I’ve come up with, so I’ll spare her the trouble of censoring. But I’ll be following this story, and shall keep you posted of any developments.

Till then, Keep Walking. And stay out of the Woods. ;P

This is Guest Post #2 By George ‘The Walker‘ – hyacie.

27

Sometimes it’s a scary feeling… like falling. It’s like dreading the comfort of sleep but wanting to wake up, to know its ok. It’s like a feeling of expectation that makes me want to throw up. Its hollow and weird and makes things spin. It’s that thing, That Thing that I can’t place my finger on. It’s so slippery… the thought vanishes before it has time to form. It’s contradictory and mad, beautiful and rubbish all at once.

And then flesh hits the asphalt and the numbness of reality seeps in.

“I do not think that they will sing to me.” *

And just like that, another year brushes her blue lips against my ear-jaw-neck- clavicle.

XOXO

Time

Today i woke up at noon, after i slept at half past 3 last night.
i love the surreal nature of things.
dont you have days like this?
when you wake up, the sun is already up high…
and you have no idea what time it is
and its already lunch
and then its too tiring to do anything except lie there
and watch the breeze.
and everything waltzes by in slow-mo
and its the perfect time to listen to floyd, coz there is nothing else.
its just you.
and the silently giggling leaves outside your window.
and Time that tiptoes, There.
(Aug 25, 09)

If Pretty, Will Bite.

All my life, I’ve been a shoe prima donna. I remember being 8 or 9 years old, in a shoe shop in Bahrain, sticking my tiny foot in a shoe with a cork sole, and refusing to take them off even though they were a size too small for me. They didn’t fit, but I couldn’t walk away from them. I thought that if I could squeeze my foot into the shoe, my mother would let me get it. NOT! We walked away from the store with an ugly pair of ‘sensible’ shoes that did not bite. I was miserable.

My dad bought me the shoes in a size that was too large, (poor chap dint know better), and I couldn’t wear them for a year. But for that whole year, those shoes were my prized possession, and I couldn’t wait to be able to fit into them! And when I finally did, I couldn’t wait to get out of them – they pinched too much, but I LOVED how my feet looked in them, so I didn’t complain.

Cut to a few years ago, in my early 20s, when I began experimenting with sex, drugs and rock n roll… And shoes… lots and lots of shoes. I had the spending power, so I shopped; and while I shopped, I learnt to hobble painfully for the sake of fashion. I also learnt that dainty straps knotted around slender ankles do crazy things to a boy’s brain; and sexy calves were easily achievable with the right kind of platform-wedge heel.

My shoe madness peaked when I had more shoes than I had space for. Some, I’d buy and never wear, because they’d pinch too much, and after a point, I’d just take them out of their boxes, walk about my room in them, take a few pictures, and put them away once I was done playing ‘dress-up’. At this point, the boys in my life were few and far between. I began dating one chap, and I fell in love with flat shoes and funky flip-flops. I still haunted shoe sales, and I still cursed my luck at having the same foot size as the average female population, but my heart still did multiple somersaults when I found a shoe that fit, in a pattern that I Absolutely Had To Have, with a price tag that meant I could buy three more pairs if I wished!

And then I’d break up with the boy, and I’d go buy some more shoes and makeup that I did not need.

A few months after, I met a boy who was as crazy about shoes as I was. It was fun for a while, but then we HAD to part ways.  The combined shoe madness was beyond anything I’d experienced or expected.

Cut to today. I’m in my late 20s and I gave up a normal life to move to a strange country (also known as shoe heaven), to study. I’ve been here more than a year and I’ve hardly any shoes to show for it! I started out pretty well – I shopped away my entire first month’s allowance on shoes. Thereafter, I had to keep reminding myself that I mustn’t. And I didn’t.  Singapore makes you walk too much. I’ve grown older and fatter, and I don’t fancy tottering around the city on impossible pointy ends that makes my bum stick out, and gives my back hell.

Shoe shopping is a whole new experience now. I don’t buy on impulse, and I think a hundred times before I do hand over my money. I hunt for comfortable shoes and don’t give a fig about heels. It’s strange how I assess shoes when I buy them. I KNOW they’re being deceptively coy, pretending to be so gorgeous and so comfy because they’re flat… and the minute I take them home, stick them on my feet and go for a walk to the bus stop, *CHOMP* a wee bit of my pinky toe gets peeled off.

And heels. The ones that make my fat feet look dainty are the devil’s creation! We had a silent conversation the other day in a shoe store, the shoes and I. I stared at them and they stared back at me. I knew the spots I’d be attacked in, and the shoes knew that I knew and just stared back at me with a look that said, “So you’re not going to buy me because you think you know where I’m going to hurt you.” I bought them, but haven’t worn them yet.

I stare at my heels every morning. I know that the day I do put them on, I shall also be armed with a pair of flip-flops and a packet of plasters.  It’s not like I don’t want to look my sexy best, but I’m not as keen on the torture as I used to be. Is this a reflection of the state of my relationship right now? *Shrugs* *GRINS*

Lessons learnt from Shoes – 1. If pretty, will bite 2. Always carry plaster 3. Proven fact – Old shoes bite. 4. Heels snap without warning at the most inopportune moments 5. I will still love them, even though I can’t/won’t wear them.

This post is dedicated to all the shoes I’ve had, and all the boys I’ve dated and have had crushes on. You make my life non-black and white. Oh, and multiple kisses to my Muse. *giggles *

A guest post

Hello everyone!

Since I’m not too regular on this thing, I’ve decided to ask a few eloquent friends to write in once in a while to keep you (and me) amused.  The Walker is the first person I’ve asked to contribute to this new section, and I hope he decides to keep writing random mad things regularly.

Who is The Walker, you say? Well, in his own words,

“The Walker” is obviously a pseudonym (no sane parent would call their baby TheWalker), since the author is paranoid of retribution from people and groups that he takes care not to piss off. He is a corporate trainer and a guest lecturer in India and thinks he is the cat’s whiskers. Among other things, he actively campaigns against people with sub-90 IQs from using elevators to reproducing. His life’s purpose is to become a God-man.

So, here goes guest post #1…

The Vagina Monologues… A review

This is a collection of monologues by five women, and each takes turns at being a facilitator. It is an internationally acclaimed play by Eve Ensler that has been performed in 120 or more countries and has been adapted to scores of languages. The harshest of critics give it a 100 rating. Armed with this assurance, last Friday, I went to watch this play with a friend in Mumbai.

We got separated in the theatre since we couldn’t find two seats together. I was glad. I mean, nothing wrong with Charu, but being a South-Indian boy with a conservative upbringing, it would’ve been awkward for me to shout ‘Vagina’ at the top of my voice sitting next to a North-Indian girl with a conservative upbringing… however, that was short-lived, since the only seat I could find was between two 40something women in the FRONT ROW!

The monologues, though interesting, were not really relevant to the audience they were playing to. And sometimes, it leaves you feeling stupid. Let me tell you why at the risk of being labeled a misogynic pig:

• 1.       The audience knew most of the facts that were read out. They could be shocking to the Americans, but not to Asians who are better read. We live in the real world and are aware of the real issues.
• 2.       The screenplay thrusts the writer’s obsession with her vagina into your face! About as comfortable as watching porn with your in-laws. Everyone knows how it’s done, but do you really have to watch it… Together?
• 3.       Feminist ≠ Lesbian. This play shattered that myth. I came back understanding that only a woman can satisfy another. And if there’s not another woman around, take matters into your own hands. Literally. Big dent in my male ego!
• 4.       There is nothing in the play that the average (Indian) Joe in the (said) audience didn’t know about either the anatomy of the function of the Vagina.
• 5.       It made me feel guilty and worthless, never being able to look my wife in the eye for being a man! I’m yet to hear many of the sounds of orgasm that women emanate.
• 6.       The play uses the vagina as a metaphor for a woman! Aww c’mon! If you were to alternate a penis to describe a man, how comfortable would you be? It changes your life, shakes your world, and leaves you disturbed. We all have homes to go back to!

I’ve grown up with two sisters and numerous cousins. Some of my best friends are women. I’ve been married five years to the love of my life. I hate being preached on how to respect a woman and her wishes! I’ve lived it and I’m sure it’s the case with people who share my demographics. The demographic of people in the audience… It would’ve been a different story if this were enacted in a village or to an audience to whom this would be a novelty. But then, it wouldn’t be the same upwardly-mobile urbania who are willing to shell out big money to watch this, innit?

IMHO, this is a mediocre play at best. What made it worth watching was the performance of the cast. Some of the better names in Indian theatre proved why they were considered so.

In case any of you’ve seen it, I’d like to know what you think… It seems odd to be the only one who didn’t think it was worth the hype.

Disclaimer by hyacie: I do not necessarily hold the same views as the guest writer.