Selfies

Before selfies became an art, a photographer’s research area, a psychologist’s study, they were something that we did covertly. The duck face selfies, the funeral selfies, and the half naked selfies that essentially are supposed to centre around the new ear ring - are a relatively new fad. Long before these trends became popular, we had the silent, hidden, old fashioned, selfies –not called selfies but selfies they sure were. Yes, I clicked my first displayable selfie in 2005 or 2006. And when I displayed it shyly to my husband fishing for a compliment, he asked me, “Motte, did you smile yourself?” I mean he didn’t say did you smile FOR yourself? He asked did you smile yourself? I knew what he meant, but I asked, does someone else smile for you? And gall aye gayee ho gayee, but naal di naal meri lassi ho gayee. ( That picture not displayed here. I don’t want any riots on FaceBook. As it is, the world doesn’t seem a very safe place to be anymore.)

A few weeks ago, at a wedding, when I thought I was nicely dressed up, and had some tolerable makeup on, and when I thought it was a good occasion to get myself clicked, I handed over the phone to Rasan to click some nice pictures of mine. She is the one who gives me all my cover pics for the FB, she is good with the camera. However, only she knows or God knows what happens when she is clicking me. She forgets all her art. Or perhaps the teenage is fast catching up with her? I thought she would act like the paparazzi, and click some pictures when I was not looking, and in the process capture some nice shots to keep. What she came up with was some real ugly mug shots with my chin drooping, eyes popping, my fat displayed and hair disarrayed. Thank God, she didn’t make a point of taking the picture of the right ear. Then I called out to Jai, and he is, as you know by now, being raised as a mercenary kid. I had no money to spare, so he didn’t do a good job at all.

Finally I had to resort to, yes, clicking selfies. With age fast getting on to my side, my needs are also diminishing. I just need an angle that shows off a dimple and a mole, perhaps the one from where the cheek looks slightly thinner, chin singular, eyes slightly bigger with eyelashes prominent (sans that grey eyelash, of course), hair less grey and neck slightly longer – and the dupatta has to be in place and the background people have to be minussed. That’s all that a girl asks for.

Vanity, ah vanity !!

P.S. – By the way Microsoft word still shows selfie as a non existent word and gives me “sulfide,” “sulfite,” “sheltie,” “self,” “shellfire,” as alternatives. More on this later, I like "shellfire" !! But I wonder why selfie has not joined the MS Word default vocabulary.

Jai's Lunch Boxes

Jai forgets his empty lunch box (god knows if he leaves it empty or throws his lunch away and then on purpose forgets his lunch box) daily at the school. I end up buying bulk packs of plastic sandwich boxes to compensate. And I have been requesting him to bring back those 10 odd boxes.

Conversation today:

Mampi-Would you bring the boxes back or you want me to show up at the school, yell at you and then bring those boxes back?
Jai- (hands folded) please !!
Mampi- No drama ! Would you or would you not, dude?
Mahesh - (who happened to be around when this conversation took place, in his usual polite tone) - the boy said he would bring the boxes back !
Mampi- (ignoring the father) I am talking to you Jai, would you or would you not ???
Jai- (quietly) You heard the Rooster !!

(For the past three days, Rasan has been roaming about with a book on Chinese horoscopes - Going by the year of birth, Jai is a Horse, Mampi and Rasan are Tigers, Mahesh is a Rooster )

(May 15, FB)

The Martian Rooster

So while I was busy acting the good mommy and the witty mommy, and was posting stuff about his kids, the Resident Rooster was readying for the flight. He informed me two days ago that he plans on buying a one way ticket to Mars. I don't know where he heard it from that there are 40 men and women (they are all Indians of course; maybe there will be more now that there is apni sarkar in the centre) who have bought this ticket. I searched the internet to discover that people are indeed vying for that one way ticket. Now how he would get that ticket is entirely his problem. I, like a true bhartiya pativrata nari, offered him my company. He, in his quintessentially polite way, said, "Mampi, you, precisely, are the reason why I want that ticket !!!"

So much for selfless love !! Bah!!

(May 23, FB)

The Procrastinator

Mampi-Jai ! Stop postponing things. (in Punjabi I said, 'ਪੈਰ ਘਸਾਉਣੇ ਬੰਦ ਕਰ')
Rasan- Jai, you are so lazy. You while away your time doing nothing.
Mampi- Jai ! You are such a procrastinator !!
Jai - What is a procrastinator??
Mampi - Go look up in the dictionary.
Jai - I don't have the time !!

Rasan chokes on the morsel in her mouth and yells (not subtly at all), "Irony Irony." She has been reading 'Macbeth' lately. Thank God she didn't yell "Blood, Blood!

(May 31, FB)

Narinderpal

Narinderpal was hardly 4’-8.” Her face was small, dark wheatish, and she would tie her very curly, very black hair in a plait. She gave the impression of being a little school kid – only until she opened her mouth. Her voice was too heavy for her height and looks.

We were together in the GNDU campus during our M.A. days. I was from Goraya, so I had to live in the university hostel. She was from Sultanwind, and still liked to live in the hostel. The top floor of the B wing ( I think it was B) was assigned to our class. Her room was right opposite the shared washroom, so we would often stop by to say hi to her. Her smile would extend right into her small deep-set eyes.

She idolized me – I never thought I was worthy of her attention, or of her hero worship, but she somehow looked upto me with a certain devotion that would invariably leave me slightly embarrassed. It never flattered. Sincere though they always were - I was always looking for ways to escape her compliments. She would love the way I made notes, love the way I planned my studies, love the way I carried myself, loved the way I handled the stage – but I somehow always wanted to escape that praise.  She would like to walk with me, but I was always kind of self  conscious walking with her –she was so short and thin, I was taller and plumper. (okay, fat perhaps)

She had a huge crush on our very handsome teacher who taught us "Saint Joan." Oh my, didn’t we all? She would look at the tall Sardar with moonstruck eyes while he would animatedly deliver Joan’s speeches and Bluebeard’s exhortations. (Why did I always think Bluebeard must have looked like him?)

M.A. I happened, and then M.A. II flew by. My father passed away just two months before our exams were to start. Narinder would offer support whenever she would find me sitting and crying alone in my cubicle. She would force me to come to her room, and would talk to me. I still remember she said, “Manpreet, you will die crying, stop this and focus on your exams now.” I would be amazed to see where she got the courage to scold me. I had always respected her, but she became some kind of a go-to person in those days. We somehow finished our exams and parted ways, with promises to write to each other. Yes, those were the days when we would actually write long letters to friends.

I began writing to her, as I wrote to all my friends during the hot summer days awaiting results of M.A. She would write back in her small, neat and emphatic handwriting. Then her letters stopped coming. I still wrote – angry some times, anxious at others – but I kept writing to her, asking her - "Narinder - Nanni/Nannu (we used to call her) - where are you? What's happening?"

Three months, or was it four months? I received a letter from her brother. It read something like, “Dear Sister, who are you writing all those letters to? She died three months ago!!”

I did not have the courage to ask what happened to her. I just wrote a letter of condolence to him.

She stayed on, in my mind, I always wanted to write about her, her voice still is around me. We were never very close, but she somehow still lives somewhere in my heart.

(June 13, FB)

Jam Baby

She would be called a Jam Baby or perhaps Baby Jam. Or perhaps Zardari Jam. No, they wouldn’t want to associate her with Z . Lets call her Jam Baby.

Lucky, isn’t she? That she is born. Even if it is in a Jam. Isn't it better to become a Jam Baby instead of having been preserved in a Jam Jar? Zardari should not be upset about her for She and her mother are stronger than those babies and mothers who are forced to suffer the glorious practice of saving female fetuses from the trouble of being born. We women should honor and applaud them both. Even Zardari should be honoured for providing the baby an opportunity to show her strength.

Talking about a different sample of woman power, I have always been somewhat doubtful about the abilities and the merits of our own President, Madam Pratibha (Who??) Devisingh Patil. When I compare her to APJ Abdul Kalam, I often wonder what merit did she have to succeed a man of Kalam’s temperament. Just the accident of birth! Not that I am against her becoming the President. She has raised my own ambitions to the sky. Everytime I see her on television and everytime I see her talking about the imaginary babas that visit her in her dreams, I console myself, “Mampi, tera number bhi ayega.” I would also, inshallah, be the President of India one day. If SHE can, anyone can. And I am not that bad, am I?

Now, I was on a prominent Delhi road, waiting for my bus one day when the President Pratibha (Who??) was to pass by. The security personnel on duty (poor chaps) were requesting the people rather forcefully to go behind a barricade. Everyone moved behind the bus stop screen. Why they did, I failed to understand and I didn’t go behind the screen. I had to work hard to stop myself from laughing. I, however, moved back a little. The Delhi Police Jawan was not happy with the way people hid behind the screen. I wasn’t either, but I didn’t matter and the policeman did, obviously. He asked the people to move further back.

"Where?" The people wanted to know.

"There." He gestured. So the people moved behind the road on a link road.

"Further back," he demanded. I refused to budge. "Why should I go hide when my President moves on the road?"

"Orders from above, Madam." He was trying to be humble.

"But she is our president." I was adamant.

"Whatever. You got to go behind that barricade." He meant business.

"But you are also a danger to her, what with your gun and all. And, for all that you know, I can throw a bomb at her from that afar also, hee hee hee." I teased him. He was stunned.

"Chaliye chaliye, madam."

And I dragged my feet. Though I wanted to spring on the road militant style and tell Madam Pratibha Who?? that she had no business disturbing our life like that. But then, she is not at fault. After all, she does not know that she is causing this kind of inconvenience to people. Hell, she does not know many things. Poor lady didn't even know that she was to become the president of this country when she did.

I know, you Dilli walas/walis would say, "Mampi madam you suffered it one day and we are suffering it everyday." I would say, "Well that is part of the fun of choosing to live in the capital city."

Thank God I was not pregnant and due when Pratibha Who?? passed by.

Otherwise I would have been nursing a Jam Baby too.

Life Starts Anew

What happens when you shift your house? You suffer from a short term memory loss; and in the rarest of the rare cases like mine-you suffer a long term permanent memory loss. The short term memory loss was a family contagious disease that afflicted us for about 4 days and then it got cured by itself. When I say 'us', I include my children who also happen to suffer from selective hearing syndrome at times. When I say 'us', I also include Mahesh, who glared at me everytime I said, “No, I don’t want to throw this away.” When I say 'this,' I mean the art sheet that Rasan had made about 9 years ago. When I say 'art', I mean to say a whole cardboard carton full of sheets colored in myriad shades, variety of styles, and lines and doodles. Phew, as a result, there are two big BIG boxes of this ‘art’ that Mahesh wants to throw away telling the kids, “You can always make new art.” Come on Mahesh, no one can make NEW art, art is art, it stays with you for the rest of your life. If you destroy it, who knows you are destroying a potential Michael Angelo or a Raphael. I will not allow this to happen. I would rather go down in history as a martyr to the cause of saving art and the artist. I must do the saving stint even if it means a big big fight with you. Partly because I know the next axe will fall on my clothes that I simply packed and brought to the new house to give away to people. However, the emotional attachment to these clothes is by far too large for me to give them away. The real secret is that I am living with a vain hope that a few of these fine dresses will finally fit me when I lose weight, in the distant future. W-h-e-n I do. I-f I do. Hope sustains life after all. But I better start giving these clothes away in the really Buddhist style of detachment, otherwise I will end up stacking every box and cupboard with my clothes.

When Mahesh said, “ Look lady, I have only 5 pairs of shoes and you got 36," I was not in the least ashamed. I was actually grossly offended like hell when he said throw all but 5 away. Are you kidding Mahesh? I need them all. I will wear them even if i have to wear them one upon the other. For sure I would. I simply onioned* myself to develop the symptoms of selective hearing and swiftly walked away from the offending words.

Coming back to STML-short term memory loss. Everytime we opened a box, we started to keep the stuff at the right places-only in the middle of the journey to the ‘right’ place , we forgot where we were going and why. Five zombie like creatures - (Mahesh, my mother, Rasan, Jai, Mampi )still managed to give a shape to the new house-and in the middle of the STML also managed to laugh out loud at the one who came saying, “Yaar, where was I going? Where did I place xyz?” The zombie situation came full circle on Friday last when Mahesh and my mother - after I lay dead in the bed with rough feet and dry hands-spent a whole night in moving furniture and shifting stuff. Moving as in moving things physically. Thank God I am a heavy weight otherwise I would have woken up with my bed shifted under the mango tree in the courtyard. The most interesting part is that they would stand still when I would sleep walk and sleep talk asking them what were they doing moving about at that god-forsaken hour. They would grin and pat me back to sleep. In the morning, I would have believed I was in a dream if I had not seen the furniture moved to strange corners.

Enough about the people-here is something about the house. This government accommodation came into existence sometime between 1920 and 1947. Yes, I am the unofficial restorer and caretaker of the heritage buildings of the Punjab. Only they do not offer me any honorarium, rather I have to spend from my own pocket to indulge myself in maintaining it. Okay, not my pocket, but Mahesh’s. However, doesn't gurbani proclaim us Ek Jot doye moorti (We are one in soul though two physically)? Therefore his pocket is my pocket after all-especially when I put my hand in the pocket and come up with crisp new notes of 1000 bucks. We had to spend on getting the big watertank of 300 litres replaced with a bigger 1000 litre ; a flush system had to be put in place – for there was none. The previous occupants made do with throwing bucketfuls of water in the pot after potty. As an aside, I wonder how do you save enough energy to do this exercise after a good session on the pot? Even the kitchen supported the old Indian style of sitting on the floor and doing the dishes. My thundering thighs would have been strengthened to rocky hardness if I had to do dishes like that. The primitive style has now been replaced by a stainless steel sink. The taps that had forgotten to deliver water are now gracefully throwing out water. The quantity of junk thrown out of the stores would have put a good junk dealer into thought and would have made me richer if only the departmental policies had not required me to procedurally write them off and sell them to fill the governmental coffers.

For now, we have settled in the house. The house has settled down on us, I mean it has gotten used to us. We do not have an AC, nor a good old khus-cooler, but the mad May heat has not gotten us down yet. The high ceilings, the 18" thick walls with lime plaster, the cross ventilating windows and doors are a bliss. And also thanks to the loads of vegetation around us, we are enjoying almost sylvan surroundings. Soon we will make the house more livable and then I will probably post some pictures also. This was primarily the reason why I had disappeared from the blogworld.

*little boys (never heard of any girls doing it) in Punjab keep a peeled and raw onion under their armpit to induce fever-so that they don’t have to go to school. (there is no such word as onioning, but then who says we cannot make new words?)

Dalhousie III

A lonely Sardar Ajit Singh

Wish I could trek on this route, but then there is always a next time.

Tere hath'on mein Pehna ke choodiya'n... Remember?? It was here that it had happened

These drops started off as snow and....

Yeh kahan kho gaye hum....

Snow Ji Snow

Immor(t)al Love??

Aiming high? or Earning bucks?? A stall behind the Ajit Singh Memorial

Our last few hours in the Dalhousie town on the third day were primarily spent in collecting water from Panj Pula, and then driving down the hills. I opened my car window and let the air cool the car for as long as it could and wondered aloud why couldn't my hair now be called 'blow dried' instead of the 'wind blown' mess they were soon going to become.
Hope you enjoyed the pictures.
Dalhousie episode endeth here, Thanks for your patience.

Dalhousie-II

25.01.09

The day before had been eventful and I expected this day to be even more wonderful.

I had set the alarm at 7 : 30 am. Yes I know it is not early enough. Not by my standards, not by my mother’s standards, not by my mother-in-law’s standards. But hell, neither mom or mom-law were there. I tried to wake up at 8, couldn’t. How can you, when you have good hug material close to you? It took great will power to finally shake myself up 15 minutes later. Pinku-Parry had ordered morning tea for me too. Sheepishly, I went there (cos I was late), took tea in their room, didn’t want to wake Mahesh who had told me that he wanted to sleep even more. I and P and P decided we wanted to go for a late morning walk. We ventured downhill from close to the hotel. It was a steep downhill walk. All the while I kept thinking that if I have to walk uphill from here, it would an arduous task.

I kept boring P and P with the old songs that I have loaded in my cell-phone. We reached the bus-stand and P and P went to buy muffins from a good looking confectionary shop (wallah who was not worth the money Pinku spent) and found that the shop wallah had, in the process of re-heating, burnt the core of the overpriced muffin. I am absolutely at a loss how someone can burn a muffin from inside while it is still okay to look from the outside. Enough about the muffin, except that Parry burnt his tongue and cursed the good looking muffin walah. We came upto Subhash Chowk where Pinku scared a child in the car with her ‘hello’. With great difficulty we dragged her hurt ego away from the crying child and went to see Netaji’s statue, it is nicely done as compared to Gandhi’s in the Gandhi chowk. I don’t know why I felt very guilty being in front of Bose’s statue in track pants and sweater. It was a beautiful cloudy morning. It was 10: 00 a.m. by now. We then came back to the Geetanjali, showered, changed and took our breakfast at around 11:15 a.m. Pinku drooled at the very mention of Paranthas. She even forgot the 20 bucks worth muffin walah in the process. She and Mahesh had a parantha & butter competition. Mahesh was wicked enough to wipe off all butter and she was left courteously saying, “it’s okay Mahesh”. They asked for more butter from Pirthi Bhaiya (the cook) and he said , we have ample food but sorry we don’t have any more butter for the hungry hoarde. Disappointed, Mahesh and Pinku polished off another parantha each. I exaggerate, I am equally a culprit in over-eating too. By 1, the parantha fight was over. Contented, we thought of what to do next. Khajjiar was out of question, I told you everyone had discouraged us the previous day. We thought , lets go to Lakkar Mandi, about 8 kilometers away and then decide whether to go ahead to khajjiar or not.

Once there, the toll booth walah gave us the green signal, “Arey no problem, go ahead all the way to Khajjiar.” I jumped on the seat, the car shook a little and we were on the way. Snow? In Dalhousie. Yes, there was some, on the sides of the roads, but nothing to get excited about. Hell, the little snow we saw was dirty. Why was Pinku so het up about this bowlful of snow? But then I was being mean. I had seen heavy snow, white snow, rather snow storms in Canada and this baby-snow was rather a wretched cousin of the real snow fall. By Dalhousie standards it was good, and the important thing was that it was SNOW- something Pinku had been singing for about a month. “I want snow fall, I want snow fall, I want snow fall.” In my heart of hearts I had kept laughing. Girl, where would you find snow in Dalhousie? But I also had been assuring her that I was also praying with folded hands for snow. But snow? In Dalhousie? We kept stopping on the way where there was abundance on the hilly slopes. We kept getting drenched by drunk drivers driving cars through potholes in the roads. But I didn’t mind it, not at all. It was fun, it was a cloudy day, no sun, and was cold, really cold, but it was fun. We were with friends; and friends wanted snow.

Bless Mahesh for driving all the way to Khajjiar. We reached there and Mahesh said, “Is this what is Khajjiar?” in the same tone as I had thought, "Snow? In Dalhousie?" I knew he would not be sharing my enthusiasm about the saucer shaped valley. After all what would you expect from a Passionate but essentially practical guy? I said yes, this is it, come lets run about. It was windy and cold. Mahesh would not let go of any pretext to remove his jacket once anyone aimed the camera at him. He would freeze, his teeth would be on the verge of chattering, but he needed to remove his jacket. He even tried to tempt me into removing the jacket. Thank god I didn’t give in. (Wish I had, because I have caught sinusitis anyway.) Then it drizzled and we walked in the rain around the vast meadows. I have been to Khajjiar many times, for camping, for trekking. I even located that hut that we used to use as a dorm and which has now been re-named ‘the Khajji’ as rhyming with Bhajji. But nothing to beat this peripheral walk around Khajjiar. The forest has been cordoned off with a barbed wire. I think it is a wise move that would lead to protection of wildlife. Human beings are more a danger to wild animals than the other way round. Rain forced us to get back to the car and we headed back. A narrow road, super heights, slippery path, but no fear. I had faith in the Man and his Machine. On the way, we were tempted to stop at another snow heap. That was when Pinku finally had her cottony snow in her hands. Boy, was she excited ! Everyone around could make out that her prayers had just been answered. And that is when I learnt about her Skiddaa.

A skiddaa is a skid in Punjabi. Her funda is that you add an ‘a’ or ‘aa’ and the word becomes Punjabi. And she says that you add an ‘o’ and it becomes a Bangla word. Now a big hug is a huggaa to her, and of course a parantha is a paranthaa to her. Pinku, I am just being mean, I know you are reading and I know you are drooling. She took a skiddaa once we reached enough height. That was certainly not enough. She climbed up again as we stood on the road, and took another big skiddaa. All the time, there was this song playing at the back of my mind “tere hatho’n mein pehna ke choodiyan, mauj banjara le gaya’. Ask me why? There was this fat-drunk Punjabi guy who stood watching her taking her skiddaas. All the time, our dear Pinku knew nothing of his existence. She was totally into her skiddaas. He was what we call in Punjabi “Tharki” (voyeur). He kept talking to his fat son, “oye mera alloo da parantha, oye mera burger, oye meri maggi” (all he could think was junk food) and was keeping an eye on Pinku skidding. When she was finally done with her big skiddaas, he looked at Pinku and said, “Maza aya na bhabiji?” Hehee, I wanted to go and ask him, “Oye keehdi bhabi oye?” (Which in simple English means, I dont know you but I am your brother-in-law) and what the hell did you do to add to the fun?" However, I didnt ask him anything, considering he was drunk. I just hummed the song out loud. Got the relevance?

Came back to Dalhousie, all gaga – me over the Khajjiar trip and Pinku-Parry over the snow. I blessed Mahesh, his wife, and his kids for taking me all the way there. And also for asking him to click weird pics on the way ; and that too at a notice of 2 seconds when he couldn’t even find the parking space on the side of a slipping hill.

We again did that parking walah trick with the nearby hotel parking space. Mahesh had not been very comfortable about parking the car stealthily there. What a Gandhi-wadi of a husband. After dinner, we both went to this hotel and talked to the manager. He refused point blank to entertain us or our car. “Kar lo aur honesty,” I wanted to yell out to Mahesh. But he talked the manager into letting us park our car there, and I was relieved. What would I do without this guy in my life? At least I won't be able to park the car anywhere nice.

Ok, I skipped the detail about dinner. We, in the limited choice that we had in our dinner, chose a nice hotel and begged them to give us food because we were sick of dhabaas. They had some corporate party (this is what they chose to call it) which was hardly a corporate party. It was a motley group of diners from the same hotel. The hotel stewards preferred to call it a corporate party, so be it as long as we had a DJ to make the entire din and so long as P and P got a chance to shake a leg there. It was a great fun to watch them have fun. And let me mention that Pinku found the same kid who cried at her very sight and pataoed him to smiles this time. The dinner was really really good.

We came ‘home’. And surprisingly, I was not tired at all. But sleep we did. Incidentally that day there was this big spat between Sajid Khan and Ashutosh Gowarikar as a repeat on TV. I still do not know what all happened there. I never watched that spat. I refuse to patronize anything that is bad publicity. Not that my not watching makes a difference…

Pics in the next post. Promise.

Dalhousie-I

24.1.09

5:20 AM. A clear day ahead. Still dark. I sat in the car while Mahesh went to receive ParryAnka from the Ludhiana Railway Station. Our plan was to head straight to Dalhousie after picking them up. The train was late by about an hour. It was expected at 4:30 AM and it arrived at 5:40 AM. Just when I started to get bored waiting on the front passenger seat, and prepared to take a nap before they tapped on the window, I saw them coming. Hugs and hand shakes and Paulo Coelho’s Eleven Minutes later, we set for our journey. Mahesh on the driving seat-Parry with him, Pinku exactly behind Parry and I sitting behind Mahesh. Typical Pativrata women, you would say. But my idea of sitting behind Mahesh is that I want him to check on me every few minutes through the rear view mirror. Attention freak !!!

We started on an enthusiastic note but then I started to feel sleepy, having slept only minus 3 hours the night before. Roop can vouch for it. I was chatting with her till 1 A.M and I was up at 3: 30 AM the next morning. When I woke up many bumps later, we were in Pathankot, it was a beautiful dawn and Mahesh was on phone with someone arranging for our stopover at the town. I actually thought the Municipal Commissioner would come to welcome us and to express his/her gratefulness for having set foot in his/her city. But no one came. We had a sumptuous breakfast in a luxurious room in a beautiful hotel Venice , freshened ourselves up and set for the onward journey of about 80 kilometers to Dalhousie. Like a seasoned driver, Mahesh wound the car on the snake-like roads. And I kept getting excited about how it was 16-17 years back when I had come as a Youth Camper from my university. As soon as hills of a reasonable size started , we got down from the car and started to click pictures. My Sony Cyber-shot DSC-S700, which I was feeling ungrateful enough to change in favour of a high end one, came to my rescue. As if to prove its worth, it gave out brilliant pictures. Pinku had a genuine problem posing for pictures. I don’t know how, but she can manage to twist her face in such a way that the picture has to be reclicked. She was always in animation. My camera failed before her, but never gave up, and as a result we ended up having some really funny pictures of hers. But let me add that as it happens, she has gone home a reformed person. She now can tolerate being clicked rather gracefully.

As we started to get closer to Dalhousie, I started to get ecstatic. I have childhood memories associated with the town. Parents used to bring us here for our annual vacation. I can distinctly remember walking hand-in-hand with my sister and parents walking leisurely behind us.

We let the fresh-hilly air run through the car. We did not meet much traffic on the way. Early birds perhaps. We reached Dalhousie by 12:30 P.M. Reasonably enough, considering that it is about 2100 Mts above the sea level. And then nostalgia stuck! That same old bus stand, that same old Subhash chowk, and Gandhi chowk. We managed to find our hotel Geetanjali that Pinku had booked for all of us. Among the shiny new hotels, it looked like a poor cousin. But once we went in, it offered us that old world charm of high ceilings, really big rooms-you could actually play football if you wanted to, and a room sized drawing room in the front. Before checking out, Mahesh went and tried to ask the hotel people where did those mysterious doors from the room open? They told him that one opened from the room to a kitchen, and one from the washroom to the outer corridor. Purrfect exit doors for Sahib log. For it was an Officers Mess before it became Indian government’s money earning hotel/resort. Pinku later found out that it is 140 years old. That is quite impressive, considering that Dalhousie itself is a 150 year old settlement. Col. Napier found this place really great and converted it into a cantonment. I find Dalhousie a quiet retreat. Coming back to the hotel Geetanjali, it is an HPTDC venture. What venture? Its just perhaps a dying building. The government is actually planning to tear it down and erect a brand new hotel here. Phew ! God save the building and god save the guests.

Anyway, we checked in, rested a while and then moved out. Mahesh was tired after that tense driving. Leaving him sleeping, I got ready and came out with Pinku Parry to have a wonderful view of snow clad mountains in the distance. We stood munching peanuts and giggling and enjoying the clean-cold-chillingly cold air. Meantime, Mahesh came. Had our lunch at ‘a’ Lovely Dhaba. It was flanked by a ManMahesh Dhaba also. This was a surprise to me because I have often come across the name ‘ManiMahesh’, because of its obvious association with the Kailash yatra, but ManMahesh…?? I thought I had invented the name, obviously I was wrong. Or wait, perhaps they read this blog and thought of making use of the name. Yes, that is a happier interpretation. Anyway, Mahesh aka Shiv ji Zindabad. However, we didn’t patronize it because , because because....

I made enquiries about the existing tourist places. Yes, Panj Pula ( 5 Bridges) still stood about 2.5 kms away from the Gandhi chowk with a desolate Gandhi Statue. A narrow road, four excited people, and we reached Panj Pula. This place has a monument in the memory of Sardar Ajit Singh of the Pagri Sambhal Jatta movement. He was Sardar Bhagat Singh’s chacha and the force behind the mental make-up of Sardar Bhagat Singh. He died on the 15th of August 1947 in Dalhousie and his memorial / Samadhi has been erected here at Panj Pula. I kept running from one end to another trying to find this place where my parents had bathed us in the cold water to ensure we had shiny and healthy skins and then were cruel enough to click pictures of a freezing 6 year old Mampi and her younger sister. Can I ever forgive them? Yes I think I can, for that pool is now stagnant with a few paddle boats out to make some money. No children are bathed there anymore. The Samadhi is littered with torn balloons that come from a recreational stall behind it. We Indians don’t miss any opportunity to make any money, do we? Mahesh is seldom sarcastic but he happened to quote, “Shaheedo’n ki chitaao’n par lagenge har baras mele, watan pey mitney walo’n ka yahi baki nishaan hoga…” (The martyrs will be remembered through these memorials and people will congregate here every year to mark their anniversaries) Being the cynic that I am, I added a question mark at the end of the quote. He was joking that this is how the melas will take place, and that too, everyday instead of the yearly melas as the quote promises.

I was more interested in going right upto the origin of Sapt-dhara (seven streams). My mom had told me that it had water that contained medicinal values. Lord Dalhousie got this water in big quantities for his wife who had some sort of a skin ailment. While Parry and Pinku chose to stay behind, I and Mahesh ventured ahead to reach the visible falling stream. The water was pure, sparkling and untouched by civilization because thankfully, civilization needs to huff and puff to reach there. And civilization has gotten used to using what it gets right at its door-step. Civilisation loves to litter the waters-with plastic bags, disposable glasses, empty liquor bottles, empty chips bags and what not what. We stayed for a few minutes at the Sapt-Dhara and then came back. Hardly a trek you would say, but I loved it. There was a board displayed there that promised a 2 and a half hour trek to Chanmari dam. I wanted to do that one day. But the next day we had planned to go to Khajjiar. Now Khajjiar was higher up from Dalhousie and we had been advised by local shopkeepers, our hotel servants, and others against going there. There had been recent snow fall and rain. Both separate are perhaps not a danger, but can prove to be a deadly combo. We were wavering between going and not going. Over a cup of tea at the Panj-Pula, we finally decided against going there.

At Panj-Pula, we saw a group of guys who were busy drinking and smoking. If Mahesh had not been with me, I would surely have asked them what right did they have to pollute the sacred nature with smoke. Well, Mahesh doesn’t like me getting into the virago mode. His first preference is to keep peace, not to get into a tussle and certainly never to argue. It spoils one’s own peace of mind, he says. So, I had to ignore those stupid guys. We came back to Dalhousie and roamed about in the very very small market. Bought a shawl for mom. I usually refrain from shopping in these markets. They buy stuff from plains and sell it in hills and we, the stupid plain-wallahs buy it again and bring it back to plains. Well, if we didn’t do that, the economies wouldn’t mobilize. So, in buying that shawl, I helped mobilize the economy, yaay yaaye.

We sat in a small time fast food-general store kind of a joint and had some soup and gossiped. When we came out, Pinku located this shop that had a machine that told you of your love quotient. Obviously we had to experiment with it. First Pinku, dropped a 5 rupee coin in it and put her hand on the given space and it showed that she was ‘sensual’. SENSUAL !!! You rock girl ! We giggled and laughed. Then came Parry’s turn. Pinku insisted that it would show ‘dead fish’. No, it didn’t. It showed PASSIONATE (I think so, I have short term memory loss). Then came my turn, and lo, it showed the indicator to ‘hot stuff’, HOT STUFF !!! Finally someone knows my worth, hehehe !!! I shrieked, “Mahesh look at this, it thinks I am HOT STUFF!!!” We couldn’t stop laughing. When Mahesh put his hand on the machine, it said PASSIONATE. No comments!!! Could it have something to do with the hand temperatures? But the machine didn’t seem that intelligent.

It was raining by the time we were done, and it was windy. The eternal question of ‘where to have dinner’ remained. Not that it was hard to decide. Because we hardly had a choice. There were practically no eating joints open. The locals told us that the joints open only in March. For now, we would have to make do with the available eating places. Because we wouldn’t be able to wait till March. Geetanjali did offer dinner and breakfast. But we didn’t want to go back to have dinner to only to come back again for our mutter-gashti. So, in the icy rain, we went inside the only decent eating place that chowk had, and it was the same old Lovely restaurant.

The funny thing about this joint was that it offered elaborate meal – but only on menu sheets. Parry wanted a dosa, they didn’t have it. I wanted a pizza (I knew it would be a tadka-pizza), they didn’t have it. I offered to change my order to a sandwich (yes, I was crazy to want it at dinner time) with a chai. You guessed it right, they didn’t have it. I am not taking chicken etc these days, so I had to order different than these three paapi’s I was travelling with. But it was a big disappointment. The guy serving us was a sweet fellow though. Despite a crazy rush for dinner (because all the famished people of the entire town had come here) he gave us a priority and a service with a wide smile.

Post dinner, we braved the rain again and reached our hotel. Now came the next big issue of parking on the hills. There was an open parking, but I didn’t trust it. We would be parking at an insecure space on a curve of the hill. My paranoid mind was imagining a drunk driver coming fast at 1 A.M. and going tangentially at the curve, and hitting our car. So, all four of us decided to park our car at a nearby hotel parking which was at least in an enclosure. It was tricky. Mahesh did not agree with it, but he gave up 3 to 1. Of course, if we had told them that we were not putting up at their hotel, they would never have agreed to keep our car there. So we just risked it and kept it there for the night. And came back to our hotel. We were cold and we were tired. The old fashioned heaters were a great help though. But I wished the defunct fireplaces were working too. The rooms were big and it took a great while to warm them. But we finally fell asleep.

More Later...

SMS, My God

I love to receive and I love to send text messages. It is such a magical feeling to know you are in touch with buddies, isn’t it? But I received a couple of text messages recently that put me in a fix. I reproduce their text here.

· 27-4-2009 is Sai Baba Ji’s birthday. Don’t delete this message or you will be unlucky for 12 years. Send this message to 15 people except me. You will get a good news tonight.

· SAI BABA: SABKA MALIK EK. Send this message to 9 people. Please don’t say no. you will get a good news till Thursday. It is a real experience.

· This message has come from Kailash Mountain. Do not delete it. Otherwise you will face bad luck for 20 years. Send this to 20 people and you will receive good news within a week.

· This message was created at the Vaishno Mata Shrine. Do not break the chain otherwise you will have a lifelong bad luck.

I initially thought some god-goddess was sending this message. I, in fact, thought of namscaaring my cell-phone. After all, we in India love to find gods-goddesses in objects inanimate. And nothing bad in asking people to comply with some things like sending text messages. It gives the cell-phone companies some business too. I find nothing wrong in mild threats too. Because, I too, usually send threatening messages to friends when I start to miss their text messages. My favorite is a message that shows a picture of a headless person with a warning at the bottom of the message saying, “Acha bhala tha, message nahi karta tha, tapka dala. You are wise enough. Soch lo !!!” and promptly I start to get that spate of messages from friends far and wide.

I am no God, I think I can afford to threaten like this. But what kind of a God is it that believes in SMS forwarding business? What kind of a God is this that tries to coerce you into smsing? I am confused, perplexed, upset, scared…

I cannot help it. I am scared for the life of my family members and am concerned about the ' bad news' that awaits me if I delete the message or if I do not forward it. Oh please, I have to forward it or something like it.
So, with shaking hands, I duly forward the following message.

Om Namah Shivay
Om Sai Ram
Waheguru
Jai Shri Krishna
Allah hoo Akbar

Dar mat,
Kisi ko forward nahi karna hai….
Khud hi jap ley..... PAAPI !!!!

Hairrible Hair Day

I went for a haircut a couple of days back. It was a parlor suggested by Mudita, my friend. My regular parlor for haircut, AAE is one of the best in the city. But then I wanted to try an alternate parlor too. After a long long deliberation with Mudits, I decided upon going to the SU parlor. It had two floors. The lower floor was for men. The upper floor-about six steps above (thankfully not six feet under) was the women’s parlor. I expected a suave ambience from the kind of locality it was in. But what I saw inside was something akin to a fish market. Six chairs, six clients, six helpers to six beauticians/hairdressers. No attendants were free enough to catch me right at the door to ask me ‘yes ma’am’? Managing to look sufficiently lost (as I certainly am not- maybe I was just pretending I was lost so someone should promptly come to attend to the innocent customer to fleece her of the money in her purse), I looked here and there. They read my intention telepathically; because someone did come; I muttered an innocent, “haircut.” He just gave a small nod. Presently, a senior hair dresser (SH) came. Almost dragged me to the chair. Ok, not really dragged, just gestured me to take that chair. Reluctantly I sat there. Put the book I was carrying and the purse on the glass top in front of me.

On purpose, I threw a sudden glance at the hair brushes lying on the side counter. I jumped up on the chair. The SH (and he was with a small paunch you know, and an overconfident demeanor) jumped up thinking I had seen a snake. “What happened?” Making a very pathetic face, I looked back, “You won’t… u-u-use these (pointing at the brushes) on me, will you?” Unmoved, he said, “Of course, I will. Why? What’s wrong with these?” Same innocent sorry face of mine, now aided by my blinking eyes, “Come on, there are hair in these brushes, and dead skin, and they are dirty.” Now there WERE four/five strands of hair each in all three of the brushes lying there meant to be used on me. “Medem, is time toh aise ho hongey” (Madam, at this time of the day, you will get these only). Did I tell you that it was 5:30 p.m.? I wanted to ask him if I should have come at 5:30 a.m. to be privileged enough to have clean brushes used on my hair. Reading my mind, he looked at me as if I was weird. He actually checked my head carefully for any antennae sticking out. ( I saw him in the mirror checking it out) Not finding any, he dismissed me as just another cleanliness freak and started to start with the job.

Now I got rid of the wretched demeanor of mine, and went into the essentially Durga mode, “What the hell do you mean this time of the day? I will have nothing of these sorts.” “Aapki marzi,” he said in a go- to-hell tone. I actually got up from the chair, meaning to go out. He didn’t imagine a woman could be so stupid to go out just for a petty reason like a dirty hair brush. I said, “fine.” We all know, fine in a woman’s terminology means, “dekh loongi” (I will see you). Not that I wanted to see him anytime later. Now he was a little appeasing, “Arey madam, sit, I will cut your hair, and meantime they will clean the brushes.” “Yeah Motu, now you are talking in my lingo,” I thought; but said, “Okay, get them cleaned first.” Giving up on me, he yelled to an attendant (who I know will ultimately grow to be like him-pot bellied and apathetic to the customers’ need of clean brushes). The boy came, SH told him to go clean two wooden brushes. Duly obeying, the fellow brought two clean brushes. The SH asked him contemptuously to show them to me. I know he actually wanted to shove these ‘clean’ brushes into my face. Not reacting, I checked the brushes. I again found a few strands of hair sticking out. And he rubbed the brushes together. A lot of dead skin fell off those ‘clean’ brushes. YUCK. I was totally put off. And I blurted, “Sorry, I don’t want a haircut”. Now the SH was genuinely irritated. But at the same time, he was not willing to let go of me. The fact that I was carrying Indira Gandhi’s biography with me didn’t help my cause at all. He possibly thought I was one hell of a Nari Mukti types. Or worse, I was perhaps a Press correspondent on a sting operation to catch hold of all dirty hair brushes in his parlor. He told the boy to clean, CLEAN, really clean the brush. And I was suddenly worried about the haircut now. He might snip snap, snip snap allllll my locks and do a Mr. Bean on me. But then the die was cast. Upon instructing the boy to go clean the brushes with dettol (I could sense the sarcasm in his voice), he started his job. Before that, he brought a well scrubbed and clean Dark Pink comb. Usually I like to mentally go to sleep while the job is being done. Today, I couldn’t afford to. I kept my eyes open. He did look antagonistically at me. I wanted to think that he was doing a fine job. He took 10 minutes in re-doing my steps and he was done. DONE. And I was left gaping. “Ho gaya?” “Yes medem ho gaya,” he was already pissed off. So glad to get rid of me he was. Meantime the boy brought those two wooden brushes. I doubt the parlor had seen those two brushes in the color that I saw them in, ever since they were bought. I had a look at them, said “yes,” and three people who were attending to me heaved three separate sighs of relief. I swear, I could hear their distinct sighs. The SH was thinking, “Medem ko pasand aa gaya, brushes ka janam saphal ho gaya.”

I wanted to do a Pappu Dance on my minor victory. Now my head won’t catch any infection and lice (ab ismar mein kaun nikaalta meri juyein?). And then they used those clean clean brushes on my hair. I had originally planned to get a straightening job done after a blow dry. But now I was scared because I had upset too many people. What if they scald my scalp in retaliation? Lene ke dene par jayeinge. I heard SH speak, “Medem-straight or outward curls?” I said without batting my eyelids, “Outward curls.” And thought, Motu, at least you won’t get to threaten me with that hot straightening irons stuff. The three of them then worked on giving me outwards curls, with that big hair dryer and those two brushes of ‘mine’. But they did have their revenge for sure. Pulled my hair once and pulled my hair twice and pretended it was by mistake. I, too, had to do my bit by pretending that it didn’t make any difference to me. Why give them that morbid pleasure of knowing they had given me pain? I wanted to open my Indira Gandhi to forget this pulling at my hair, and intimidate them a little in the process, but with the pulls and the whoosh of the dryer, I don’t think I could have, even if I had pretended I could.

SH did a fine job, with two assistants – and my hair looked awesome. I went downstairs to pay up. “Trimming,” he announced to the receptionist madam and she said absentmindedly, “Three hundred.” I took out three hundred-rupee notes and left NO tip behind…I could sense that the SH was lingering behind for that. I was acting mean, but I meant to be mean. The SH, and the two assistants looked out of the glass doors as I went out. I know they were checking if there was any space ship to take me back to Venus. Relieved, they went back. I am sure they wished they had a life size picture of me to hang in the parlor-just to warn the posterity. And I am sure they didn’t wash any brushes for the following entire week in protest. After all, my hair won’t grow back for another 2 months and they know the weird creature is not coming back for two months at least.

But I know I am not going to go there at all. AAE zindabad.

If you think it was not horrible enough, and if you have more hunger for horror, you can devour some Phool Horrors or Pool Horrors.

Captive...

The other day, Mahesh had asked for a back-to-back session of two movies in my company (wonder why he still enjoys it) in lieu of an exchange duty that I had promised a colleague on a Sunday. Actually, Mahesh had been upset that I had said yes to her during weekend-it is his time after all. He demanded compensation. He was right. My very genuine problem is that I cannot say no. When she requested me to take up that duty in her place, I assumed she had a very very genuine reason to request me-and so I said yes without thinking twice. It meant a spoiled Sunday and a day away from Mahesh and kids. But that never happened, she said she would manage to go; my Sunday was saved and hence there were no back-to-back movie sessions.

Over the week, we forgot about it, in the course of long phone talks over what is going on in India; in the course of his efforts to persuade me to watch television; in the course of my dogged ‘no’ to exposing children to the situation for as long as I could help; and we forgot about it in the course of his cajoling that I must keep myself abreast of the current affairs.

Yester night, when the stress levels of the Mumbai shooting reached the zenith, he proposed that we go watch a movie. Why didn’t I say no? I made quick net searches and we decided to go to the PVR. Found that we could get two respectable tickets and reached there at 9:30 p.m. Which movie will we watch? We will see. The movie was slated to start at 10:55 p.m. Result-Two people-two tickets to "Dostana" in Mahesh’s favorite corner of the cinema, a fast emptying mall, an hour to spend in each other's company and perhaps a cup of coffee.

So?

An honest confession-when I was readying myself to move out of the house, subconsciously I was preparing myself for a hostage situation. What if, while I and Mahesh are in the PVR, some terrorists lay siege to it? Consciously, I kept a hairbrush, wore a shawl and sneakers with thick cotton socks. Why, for God’s sake? Mad, wasn’t I? Consciously I wanted Mahesh to wear his warm clothing, he catches colds very easily. Took out an old cell phone, put it on charging mode, and kept it by Rasan’s bedside; just in case she wants to talk to us. Just in case we want to inform her that we are trapped. I wished I could keep a firearm with me. Should I take my red torch too? But the PVR people won’t permit that. But then, those supposed terrorists would have all the ammunition and they won’t wait for the permission of the PVR people. Hmm, I am not as smart as them to be able to smuggle it in. So, the idea was dropped. Kissed the half-asleep Rasan-did I linger a bit longer on her cheek? She wondered what had happened to Mom. She said, “Mmm, you smell like strawberry. Did you just eat one?” I laughed, put another blanket over her favorite pink one, said bye and went out. “Have a nice time, mom.”

Paranoid? I am not. Why this preparation then? When I and Mahesh move out on such nightly jaunts, we lock the house from outside so that no one is disturbed in case we choose to return by 2 a.m. Last night, I put a very small padlock-just for the sake of locking the house. In case, we are trapped inside the mall, I should be able to communicate to mama that they can get someone to break the lock easily. No, I was not paranoid, I was just preparing for an emergency. Downstairs, in the car, I double checked if I still had my cell phone with me, if Mahesh had both his phones with him. If I had a little extra money with me… but what would money do? No idea. Nothing perhaps, it could do nothing.

"Dostana" started at 10:55. Finished at 1:30 A.M. Total value for money. Had good laughs and moments of craziness. Came out of the Mall to a total empty parking lot. Why was I a little afraid?

No, no terrorist could have anything to gain out of taking hostage a solitary car and its two occupants.

We drove around on the deserted roads till 3 a.m.

Torched Tiger

The situation:

The White Tiger - Shamelessly Borrowed
Eveready Torch-Rupees 70 only
Experience-Out of the World

And now, The Story:

I was in New Delhi today. Pinku mentioned she had Arvind Adiga' s novel. I started to drool. Requested her to lend it to me. Very kindly she brought it to lend me the copy. It was still daylight when I left Delhi and I started to read it while enjoying the luxury of not driving and of sitting in the backseat of the car. Travelling alone, I was not obliged to talk. I knew it would soon be dark and was conspiring inside my mind and wishing for a pen-light. Stopped at Murthal for a tea-break. Had a sandwich, and a nice masala tea and asked the Panchranga Achar guy to find me a torch to buy, but not before I had spent 150 odd bucks on achar. You see, anything to read this book. He was such a sweet guy ( was he?), went three shops away and found me this nice red torch. My driver has been wondering about the health of my brain but has also been kind enough to ignore my quirks. Mahesh called up on the way to ask where I had reached. I said I have been reading. "Reading, how? In the dark?" It had totally slipped out of my mind that he didn't know I had been reading by the torchlight. I told him and giggled. "Now I know where Rasan has inherited such stuff from." "From which side, Mahesh?" "Of course from you."

Result-6 hours, two traffic jams, countless naps, two nippo batteries in the torch and 250 out of 321 pages finished. The torch still going strong for another novel !

And now I hit the bed. Been up since 3 a.m. Last night I had slept only for 2 hours.

Normal Life!

ToDay in Bits

Today, I attended a seminar on Indian Writing in English. No comments on speakers. I left the seminar midway considering that much of the knowledge they were imparting was lifted straight from any book on the topic. The papers presented were not introducing any new insight. I came out. Standing near my car, I looked for car keys. I was a common sight. A woman-standing near car/scooter with a hand in the big handbag-misplaced keys-confusion writ large on face-thinking maybe I left the keys on the reception desk. But here is the twist. An old beggar who came near me, said some incoherent words about needing money to eat a meal. I glanced at him-was in two minds-whether to shoo him away, or to give a couple of coins. I still could not locate car keys, but my hands located my change pouch, thought its his kismet, took out change for 5 rupees. He refused, he actually refused. Said he wanted ten rupees. He wanted to eat daal-chawal from a hotel. I was angry, I told him, “Go to a gurdwara, they would feed you. Go find some work.” He said, “I’m running fever, blah blah blah.” I wanted to get rid of him. Took out ten rupees, handed over to him, he went murmuring some blessings. The moment he left, my hand touched my car keys hiding away in a corner of the handbag. Providence?? As I sat in the car, I eyed three rickshaw walahs, standing there watching the whole tamasha. My mind churned out a fear. Wouldn’t these rickshaw walahs think , “It is so easy to make ten rupees. Whats the use of our rickshaw pulling?”
I was a bad example.
Cut.
Reversed the car. Ran the AC full blast. Suddenly saw the fuel indicator and it was on below zero. Oh my God! How did it happen? I’ m never this negligent. What if I run out of diesel and there is no filling station nearby? As it is, filling stations are acting pricey about selling a tank-full of diesel. What a nuisance I would be to my currently crusading qunbaa!
Cut.
I reached that blind right turn near my house, screeched on the brakes, and barely managed to escape hitting a golden Scorpio coming from the opposite side without caring for any ‘keep to the left’ rule. Within seconds I gained my composure and rolled down my window. The other fellow too did. I was angry as it is, and then I saw a cigarette stuck in his fingers and a cell-phone sticking in his hand. Whew, he was talking while driving. I was about to come out of my car and stand on the road to abuse him, but then I changed my mind. Got hold of the bhenji act, thought of not getting down on the road (imagined someone imploring, "Paon zameen pey mat rakhiyega, mailey ho jayenge..." though I was in my sports shoes) and willed him to come out of the car. He seemed to be a spoiled brat with his costly glares and spiked up hair - there are such samples aplenty in my city. I pushed my hand out of my window and gestured him to come. I doubted he would. But wow, very obediently he came. I gave four big pieces of my mind, one after the other, to him in chaste, angry, loud Punjabi. He acted equally angry. I managed to be the louder of us two and dismissed him with a shake of my head. He kept grumbling expletives but nonetheless got the message and climbed back in his baap-wali-scorpio and reversed it. I went my way, he went his way. I went abusing him in my mind for being a reckless irresponsible youth; he drove talking to the same someone on his mobile, probably making fun of a ‘woman-driver.’
Cut.
One thing is clear after today, I CANNOT carry open hair for an entire day.
Cut.
It was my today in bits.