I'm a bathroom singer.. taintaintadaan!

It’s 12 am and I’m locked in a bathroom.
I ain’t yelling for help, but weaving a song. 
Ooo ooo don’t sing with me, yeah.
I’m a babe on play mode, buttoned my heart on my sleeve.
My hair is messed up, my lipstick’s smudged.
I’m on rock and roll mode, yeah.


I don’t have a guitar or a microphone
Yet I’ve set this stage on fire.
In the mosh pit, is my reflection on the mirror
Hooting, swaying and singing along with me.
The flickering tube light brings blitz to the show.
Splash goes the percussionist.


I’m a singer, dreamer, lover, rebel out on a rage.
It’s a song from one of those photographic memories.
An old classic that is dark, groovy and trippy.
Ooo ooo oo, don’t sing with me, yeah.
I know you’re swaying to my song on the other end of the door.
But it’s an exclusive show and it must go on.


Dance, hum, sing, scream, headbang.
Quiet, There’s a knock on the door.
The concert’s over. Go home fellas.
It’s morning and I come back to this empty stage.
I’ve left behind some tunes & I can still hear them


Today is gonna be a new track.
Come over for the gig, sing along.
You don’t need to be a rockstar to be a singer.
All you need to be is a bathroom singer
On  rock and roll play mode.
Ooo oo, rock and roll, rock and roll..

Here’s my Idli dabba

“6 idlis” for lunch on Tuesday after a peaceful long weekend. It definitely doesn’t sound great for a Tam brahm youngster who’s born and brought up in a cosmopolitan city and is stuck in this identity crisis of ‘being non-tam’  with colleagues and friends, yet forced to be one in her community.  It’s high time Tam moms realize that even if they put custard on it, it will not go down our throats. Every third day is a festival. Every fourth day some prayers and offerings have to be done.  

If the crow is not fed before we sit down to eat, our forefathers souls will be disheartened.  I remember one of my aunt’s pointing out to a crow that sat on our parapet wall daily and saying, ‘This is your grandfather. That’s why he sits here daily”. I don’t remember the expression I gave to that and choose not to.  Life is meticulously planned by them. Day starts at 5.30 am for which they will keep a 5.20 alarm. Read ‘alarum’ (that’s how they pronounce it). 

They won’t touch food before having a bath and reciting ‘gayatri mantras, shiva chants, ganpati’s wife’s prayers (they will create an idol even if there is none like that)’.  If you live in a South Indian co-operative housing society, you have to chant these prayers, because only ‘gods’ can help you. There are social gatherings in the typical ganpati temple, where there are ‘ayappa bhajan groups’, ‘sathya sai baba groups’, ‘bhajanotsavam groups’ (I myself don’t know about this group), ‘shiv parvati bhajan groups’ and many more that cannot be found on facebook.  They do not believe in zodiac birthdays, only ‘star birthdays’.  Typically, your grandparents or mother will ask the temple pandit to do some ‘archana’ (again prayers, offerings, aarti ) for you on your star birthday and what you get in return as ‘prasaad’ is a weird camphor smelling small plastic container having this sweet submerged in oil.  

Everyone is your maternal uncle or maternal aunt, since we address them as ‘maama’ and ‘maami’. Someone in their family has to be a banker. IIM or IIT passed, yet an accountant or a general manager. Every festival begins at 4 am. I remember one such festival, where we are supposed to look at only gold and other riches as soon as we get up, nothing else. Not even your own face. So my mother drags me by my arm from the bed and makes me sit in front of the valuables. What sort of a festival is this?  

Every culture definitely has its pros and cons, but not such mentally harassing ones.  If Tam brahms would rule the world, I’m sure monuments like Leaning Tower of Pisa would be called ‘Shiva Tandavam’ and there would be stories about lord shiva performing one of his dances here and hence the tower stoops. Even if you go to Goa for a vacation, they will hunt for a temple. If you talk to these tamilian oldies their breath will smell of filter coffee.  As much as the non-tam brahm folks love it, I find it unbearable. 

The lungi is not just a lungi. It’s also their towel, their hanky, their tissue and hence it’s pale yellow.  All said and done Idlis cannot be consumed for lunch or dinner. It is a breakfast dish and cannot be an omnipresent one. So, there I donate my idli dabba gleefully to my colleagues as I relish the Gujarati dal bhaati. 

Rafi Vs. Rihanna

 It’s a grey and lazy Sunday morning.  The right side of the room plays ‘Khoya Khoya Chand’ in Mohd. Rafi’s ever melodious and nostalgic voice and the left side of the room plays the same Khoya Khoya Chand in an unknown young female voice with trippy beats. Let’s call it the Rafi room and the trippy room.  The Rafi room folks still listen to ‘cassettes’ (yes they still exist) on a 1988 Sansui player which has a separate A side and a B side. The trippy room person listens to it on a laptop and facebooks on another window. The Rafi room folks sing along with Rafi, while the trippy room person surfs for the lyrics. The Rafi room folks discuss the next investment plan over a cup of tea or jot down their expenses, while the trippy roomer is looking at the next big smart phone over a cup of cappuccino. Mommy dearest is lost in transition and tries hard to grasp a few words from the Rihanna number. Gives up and goes back to the right side of the room, her side. An hour later, she switches on Sun TV, where the VO guys or hosts sound like they can jump out of the TV any moment and gobble us up and the actors look they’ve been carved straight out of charcoal.  The trippy roomer meanwhile downloads ‘Cowboys and Aliens’ even before the film hits the movie screens or buffers a movie on youtube. But the trippy roomer does relish mom’s south Indian delicacies because they’re too lazy to cook for themselves. Their lives are sorted because the ‘Rafi-ans’ had once discussed the trippy roomer’s savings over the same Rafi songs even before Rihanna started singing. So, this is an endless debate.  The trippy roomer does get swayed away sometimes by Rafi’s high notes, the submerged and grainy feel of the 60’s music; however still comes back to Tiesto and Rihanna. Man, the Rafi-ans have 10 more such cassettes to go while the Rihanna playlist is almost over. So, the trippy roomer quietly shuts her door with a smile and comes back to her ‘Rehab’ while Rafi continues to sing ‘Ek Rasta, Do Rahi’ (For those who don't know this song, click on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQBZsY7SJP4  or go to the Rafian side of the room ;-))

6 days before 25.

It’s only when I took a second look at the Pond’s Age Miracle ad on T.V. that I realized and accepted the fact that 25 is not just a whole number. Honestly, so long I’ve never felt it was a big deal to turn 25. Being in advertising, most of the briefs are written for the 18-25 olds. That hit hard. I do not belong the ‘cool’ generation anymore.  You can hide as many of your friends’ marriage posts on facebook, but you can’t escape the fact that you’re just about to enter the danger zone too. The weekend topics start with ‘when do you plan to settle down in life?’ and end with ‘so, when do you plan to settle down in life?’ The marriage proposals happen to be that of Shyamala aunty’s neighbour’s sister in laws’ younger son’s son.  For god’s sake, I cannot think of settling down in life in the next 144 hours. Friends of your age face similar problems too and that’s the topic of discussion over a cup of coffee these days, which seem to have moved from ‘ex boyfriends’ or ‘whom they spent the night with’.  Life Insurance Policies, real estate investments, easy car loan options seem to interest you.  Birthday parties are about quietly enjoying a few drinks and not dancing to head banging music in a disc. Oh yes, you might have graduated to scotch from vodka (mostly in case of men) by now too. If you’re single at 25, it sucks even more. It’s almost like a board that reads ‘DEAD END’. In my case, I’ve to imagine getting married to a healthy, dark, lungi clad, rice gobbler.  You’re supposed to call the plumber or electrician now, while your dad appears engrossed in the newspaper and gives a wry smile as if to say, “It’s your turn now”.  And if you don’t do it, there will be a voice behind you which would say ‘You’re 25. Till when are we supposed to manage things for you?’ You’re supposed to talk about international politics like a student asked to give extempore speech on a podium in front of a huge audience. Move on from T-shirts and torn jeans to something more 25ish. Social functions are a must to attend. Everyone must know how you look, how much you’ve grown, how much you earn, do you even earn, where you work and the priceless look of ‘you’re in advertising because you couldn’t do anything better’ and why their sons or daughters are engineers or doctors drawing this much salary. So, here I am, standing on the edge of 24,scared to bid goodbye to my naïve –ness, my fantasies, my language, my ‘irresponsibilities’ and put an end to the ‘first cut’ of life.