The Art of Leisure.

I've lost it.

 The art of leisure obviously.

Because of reasons I won't get into (not right now, I'll talk about it in a few months - it's a story that is full of hilarity with a small dose of horror) I don't have a job.

Hell yeah, I thought on Monday. This is glorious. I can do whatever I want.

Brilliant, I thought on Tuesday. I'm going to sit and home and revel in doing nothing.

I need to be productive, I thought on Wednesday. I will start writing A Book and I will clean the house from top to bottom (which just goes to show how desperate I was for something to do.)

Today I will grocery shop, I said to myself on Thursday. And I will continue to write My Book. I spent the entire day watching Downton Abbey but I actually did write.

Unfortunately, I also had a panic attack. I didn't realise it was a panic attack because I was relaxed and watching Downton Abbey. Suddenly, I noticed that there was a small, sharp pain with every beat my heart took.

I sent my brother a message on Skype. He told me to go to an ER. Then I messaged Mawii. She said the same thing.

"I'll go in the evening if it isn't better," I said.

"You might be dead by then."

I really should have been more careful when choosing my friends.

The pain changed then. It was just my chest, or my heart, that was paining continuously - not with each beat. My left arm started feeling heavy and then these sharp pains started cropping up. First on my shoulder blades, then to the left side of my chest.

I called my mother. She told me to call Dr. Vatsa.

So I called Dr. Vatsa, described the symptoms, and was informed it was a panic attack.

"A panic attack?" I said incredulously. "But I wasn't feeling panic when the pain started. I'm only feeling it now."

"It's quite common to not feel panic before an attack starts. It feels like a heart attack and then you start panicking and then the pain gets worse and the panic gets worse and - are your palms sweaty?"

I looked at my palms and informed her they were.

"There you go. It's a panic attack. Don't worry. It just manifests as a heart attack sometimes."

Brilliant.

And then my mother called again and told me to do these breathing exercises she always rambles on about - ever since she started yoga - and unfortunately, they helped. There'll be no shutting her up after this.

It took a couple of hours and lots of 'emptying my mind' and it went away.

Dr. Vatsa told me that it was because I had nothing to do.

"I love having nothing to do," I said incredulously. "I thrive on it."

"No, you miss work."

So then my sense of self got completely fucked, obviously.


On Friday, I greeted the morning with determination. I was going to continue writing The Book. Five chapters already and the rest outlined. I got to seven chapters before collapsing on the sofa with beer and moaning occasionally.

I tried reading, I didn't feel like reading.

I tried watching tv shows, nada.

So I just lay there and felt sorry for myself. I was going to have friends over, but I was still too busy feeling sorry for myself, so I cancelled and continued to revel in self-pity, staring blankly at a wall, occasionally sipping on flat beer.

And then I ate a lot of junk food and I went to sleep. (I've been doing nothing except eat the past ten days. Three weeks ago people were telling me I was looking skinny. Now I am being described as 'healthy'. This is not helping the misery.)

Today is Saturday and I am being rebellious and listening to Sunday Morning. I usually only play that on Sundays because it fits the appropriateness of things but to hell with that. I am also giving up on My Book because I was usually stoned when I re-read it and therefore laughed hysterically and thought I'd finally found something worth working on.

But I just read it for the first time when sober and it's so boring I want to gauge my eyes out.

So now, I will stop wasting time, and send my portfolio out, get a damn job, and go back to working life.

Being on holiday somewhere else is different from being on holiday at home. I thought I would love having nothing to do, but I hate it. Even my usual leisure activities no longer hold pleasure.

It's kind of like when someone wants to have sex with you, really wants to, and makes it obvious. And even if you're sex-starved and know you can tap them anytime you want, you won't.

It's sad because I always thought I could perfect the art of leisure given the opportunity. But I can't. I don't like having nothing to do when I actually have nothing to do. I only like having nothing to do when I have something to do and I'm not doing it.

I am deeply disturbed because this week has made me realise that I am not who I thought I was and I will have to re-examine my life perspective completely. I have spent fucking twenty-four years already examining it.

Trust me, it was not fun.

Most people thrive on happiness and joy.

I thrive on misery and self-pity and self-delusion.

So there's a silver lining then.

WOMAN LEAVES OFFICE AT 7 PM, REACHES HOME SAFELY

RSS's Mohun Bhagat calls for change, says Indian culture is being abandoned 

​Raj Thapar, TNN| Mar 10, 2015, 11.14 AM IST

​NEW DELHI: In an occurrence that is becoming increasingly frequent throughout the country, 25 year old Manpreet Kaur reached home after work without any untoward incident despite leaving at 7 pm. 

RSS representative Mohun Bhagat called it "disgraceful." "Indian culture is being abandoned." He went on to clarify. 

Kaur, who works in PR, walked 15 minutes to catch a bus which arrived on time. The only occupants were driver Nikhil Sawney (36), conductor Ravi Singh (23) and 11 unidentified male passengers.

Apart from Singh collecting Kaur's fare, not a single occupant of the bus acknowledged her for the duration of the 1 hour journey. 

After alighting, Kaur walked through the narrow alleyway to reach the 2 bedroom flat where she lives alone. Kaur reports that though she passed several local men playing teen patti and drinking in the alley, they did not glance her way even once. 

"Honestly, I am hardly surprised by this now," commented Kaur. "I even frequent Chinese restaurants without feeling unsafe." 

In the past month, at least 3 women have come forward to report similar incidents.

"I was wearing denim shorts and walking along a crowded pavement," says 19 year old Tanisha. "My bottom was not pinched by a single man."

According to 30 year old Riti, she was drinking at a nightclub till 2 am and waiting to be picked up by her boyfriend on the pavement outside. "The only man who approached me offered to stand with me until my boyfriend arrived." she claimed. 

Last week, a Delhi MP stated that women being out on the roads after 7 pm was completely normal. He was contradicted by only 80 ministers.

"The way things are going, we will no longer be able to blame women for men's misdeeds," said a local Delhi constable who wished to be unidentified. He added: "We will have to turn our attention to atheists and non-vegetarians." 

DT News Service

Copy from a spec ad I did at work, I wanted to update this blog, but I didn't feel like writing. 

The most fascinating thing I've discovered this week.

Kim Kardashian apparently pees into her spandex.

And this is not a shallow piece of gossip - it actually requires a hell of a lot of mental processing.

Think about it, people.

Kim Kardashian pees into her spandex and, not stopping there, also chooses to share this information with the world.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2948412/Kim-Kardashian-reveals-struggles-not-pee-spanx.html

And they say social media doesn't bring us all closer together.

Three little kittens lost their mittens.

So I have two cats. They started out as S.'s cats but they're most definitely mine now - ours, I mean. Their names are Zorba and Eustacia. S. named them after some obscure literary characters. Maybe not obscure, Zorba is from Zorba the Greek. I can't remember Eustacia's origins. I think it's because his last cats were called Booze and Snooze. He wanted to move up the ladder a bit.

But this is not about my two cats, this is about their offspring.

Unfortunately, as they grew older, for a couple of weeks, Zorba (who pretty much spends his life eating, sleeping and crying) decided to start bonking Eustacia. I didn't interfere obviously, but it's deeply disturbing. Because I knew them as kittens, as kitten brother and sister, and I guess it's sort of like seeing your children becoming teenagers and having incestuous sex all over the house with no regard for propriety.

Anyway.

The result of this was Eustacia got pregnant.

Two weeks ago, S. and I were sitting in our room talking about something, and all of a sudden, I heard this sound.

"I bet Zorba's stuck in your cupboard again," I said.

But then I realised that there were multiple meows in there. And for three seconds, the universe came to a stand-still while I struggled to cope with the fact that my cat had given birth to kittens in my closet.

Well, S.'s closet. (Thank god.)

I opened the door - I was terrified in case I'd see a stillborn, or blood - but I saw three little clumps of fur. I cautiously poked them one at a time. They moved. I breathed.

And then I became hysterical. (The joyful kind of hysterical.)

We didn't move them. After a couple of days, Eustacia moved them to the top shelf of the cupboard.

I can't even begin to describe how tiny they were. Too tiny to even pick up. We left them to their mother.

But I would rush to the cupboard every morning as soon as I woke up. And every evening when I came back from work. And every couple of hours whenever I was at home. The first thing I'd do was to check that all three were there (all the same colour, all sleeping in a pile, difficult to tell.) Then I'd check to see if they were all breathing. Occasionally I would poke them to make sure. And then, reassured, I'd stand there, beaming like an idiot.

And this was despite the fact that they were boring as hell, mind you. They weren't even particularly cute. They looked like blind and ugly lab rats that turned orange in an unfortunate experiment. Which I actually found quite endearing but I was clear-sighted enough to realise it was one of those delusional parent things. (You know - how most parents think their kids are beautiful despite all evidence to the contrary.)

And throughout, I was terrified they'd die. Because, as I have repeatedly mentioned over the years, I am extremely morbid.

And then, about ten days after they were born, their eyes started to open. Beady little black eyes. One lagged behind a little - it looked like a squinting pirate for a couple of days. That was funny.

I couldn't really tell them apart. But during the first week, one of them kept giving me heart attacks, because it would refuse to stay still unlike its sleeping siblings. I spent most of my time worrying that it would fall out of the cupboard. But I didn't want to move it either. So I piled some of S.'s shirts on the floor as a makeshift cushion. And I piled the rest to make a sort of fortress at the edge of the shelf.

"Have you seen the way you dress?" I said, in response to his feeble complaints. "Like it matters."

Later, when they were over two weeks old, we moved them to a carton on the floor of our room, after cushioning it with, er, cushions.

That's when I noticed that one of them had an abnormally large head - although, to be fair, he was larger in general. Just like his father. (Who, I might add, remained blissfully unaware of the existence of his progeny.)

Were the restless one and the big-headed one the same? I didn't know. But soon, it wouldn't matter.

Exactly a week ago, I went out with Jenny and some of the Indiranagar gang. S. and I met up around 10 and came home together.

As soon as I entered the house, I noticed that kitten noises were coming from behind the UPS in our living room.

"Eustacia must have moved them." I said, rushing towards it.

Two of the kittens were huddled together. One of them was lying on its back.

I have had many nightmares come to life. Here was another one.

I didn't touch it. I just glanced at it and started screaming and rushed into the bedroom. While I was curled on the edge of my bed, sobbing and shrieking, completely hysterical, all self-control abandoned, S. came in and, attempting to snatch some hopeless hope, I said, "is it definitely dead?"

It was. We thought that it had drunk acid from the UPS - it had been leaking some a couple of weeks previously.

I brought the other two into our bedroom and kept them on our bed, kneeling on the floor, with my arms around them, as if that would somehow help them to live forever, to never die.

We buried Kitten 1 the next morning.


*

The next day was Friday. I rushed home after work to check on the remaining two, but even though I was obviously nervous, I'd be lying if I said I was expecting anything to have happened.

I went to the carton - and there was the nightmare again. One kitten was okay, the smaller one. The other was on its side, not moving. I tilted the box and the smaller kitten tumbled gently towards a corner of it, looking up at me reproachfully. The other didn't look up. It didn't move.

I didn't have a phone. S. was at work. I couldn't afford to be hysterical. So I rushed to the computer and messaged him on gchat but he wasn't online. Neither was my mum. So I Skyped Zaev and gave him S.'s number. S. came online five minutes later and said he'd come home as soon as possible.

I rushed back to the carton to take the last kitten out. And I realised Kitten 2 wasn't dead.

Just dying.

And there was nothing I could do.

I've never watched a person or animal die before. I picked Kitten 3 up and held it against me. With the other hand I just softly stroked Kitten 2, and talked to it. It died a gentle death.

Hysteria was starting to set in by now. I noticed the remaining kitten had fleas and I went online and everyone was saying fleas can kill kittens. So I washed it as best as I could in the sink (it protested vehemently) and put it in another carton and sat in the kitchen talking to it inanely.

I also started singing to it. Mostly because my voice is so terrible, I was hoping if Death was hanging around nearby, it would flee in disgust.

S. came home bringing syringes and milk; he guessed that Eustacia, because she's so young, had probably stopped lactating. We called a vet who snorted at the flea story and said that yes, the mother had stopped lactating. He told us how to go about feeding the kitten.

We buried Kitten 2 that night, the same day as its sibling.

There is a coconut tree near our courtyard and coconuts often fall in the corner where S. was digging. I was torn between sadness and an unreasonable fear that a coconut would fall on S.'s head and kill him.

Sadness and the ridiculous intertwined as always.

*

I spent the next three days feeding the third kitten. It was not afraid of voicing its displeasure when milk went up its nose. We'd get a few ml down and then it would wriggle away and go exploring - on a pillow, extensive territory for it - and occasionally roll on to the floor before being picked up and subjected to more milk.

Despite all the warnings that came my way, I began to feel I could save it. In my more optimistic moments, I fondly pictured my kitten and I, taking naps on the sofa together, sitting around in the courtyard (away from the bloody coconuts), being best buds. I let myself hope.

On the third day, I noticed it was weaker. It became more passive, it didn't object to the milk, if I put it down for a minute after feeding it, it would fall asleep instantly. S. didn't think it was a bad sign. It was resting, its heart beat was steady, its mouth was turning pink. But for me the fear returned.

I went late to work on Monday after a feeding session. S. stayed back for an afternoon feeding session and then went to his office.

One of us needed to go check on it early evening, but I was too scared to. I'd found the other kittens, I didn't want to take a chance with this one. So S. borrowed a colleague's bike and went home.

He messaged me an hour later, telling me it was dead.

He had to work late and I couldn't stand to be in the house alone so I went to my brother's after work and stayed there until S. and I could go home together.

We buried the kitten, the last one, the next morning. And I cried least for the one I loved the most.

I'd even given it a name, that Friday night, when I sat cradling it in the kitchen.

I called it Muhammad Ali.

Big fat help that was.

But to be honest, I like to think that it was appropriate. Because Muhammad Ali was the smallest and the weakest. And it fought. Really fought. Maybe not death - I don't know what fighting death entails. But definitely that damn syringe. We even had to switch to a smaller one. And Muhammad Ali lived for three extra days. Lived long enough to lick my chin. Long enough for S. and I to glimpse the beginnings of an individual personality.

And then Muhammad Ali retired, that's all.

Beef pickle.

The thing about this year is it has been a happy one. Which isn't saying much, considering we're just a little over a month into it, and there's always room for disaster.

But every day, every ordinary day, reminds me what a good place I'm in. (Touchwood - I have a fear of being fey.)

But I believe in the occasional happiness rocket. You find one, you recognise it for what it is, you tie yourself to it. And off you go. Whirling and spinning to a place that only allows you to visit now and then. It's a place that looks like five beers down - but more. Much more.

It turns you into a blithering idiot. It impairs your ability to function. And it makes you want to scream. To turn cartwheels. (Metaphorically in my case.) To run around telling everyone that their lives suck compared to yours.

I just got my first happiness rocket of the year.

Because Mawii's coming to Bangalore next month.

Mawii. Is. Coming. To. Bangalore. Next. Month.

MAWII IS COMING TO BANGALORE NEXT MONTH. I'LL BE SEEING MY BEST FRIEND AFTER TWO YEARS.

What is a Mawii? It's difficult to define, but here's an example.

She posted the (confirmed) news on FB. One of my comments was going to be, BRING ME BEEF PICKLE.

But I didn't end up posting it.

Later, while we were FB chatting (in caps), she said: I'M GOING TO BRING YOU BEEF PICKLE.

That is what a Mawii is.

I hope you have a Mawii in your life. Because good beef pickle is pretty hard to find.

"I'm doing my makeup."

There is one characteristic my mother has that universally pisses off my family (or entertains, it depends on their mood).

And that is her inability to be on time. For anything.

When my grandfather was still alive, he'd be her alarm. Every time she had to catch a flight.

The poor man didn't even live with us, but he'd still set his alarm religiously for 5 AM (depended on the flight of course, but in my memory, it was always 5 AM). And he'd call her.

"Mimi, Mimila. It's time to wake up."

I'd hear her groan.

"Come on, Mimi. You can do it."

A few scuffling sounds. Another little groan.

And then, finally - "Okay, Daddy. I'm up."

You almost wanted to give her an award.

And then half an hour later, another phone call.

"Mimila. It's time to leave now. Have you finished packing?"

"Yes, yes, Daddy. Nearly done." A blatant lie. She was still doing her makeup. She's always doing her makeup. And she hadn't finished packing either.

And then we'd leave half an hour late, and make the flight by the skin of our teeth.

The reason I never missed catching a single plane as a child was because of my grandfather.


***

When her friends come to pick her up for a night out, they usually resign themselves to a long wait.

When I was still living in Calcutta, her friend Nandini would take it upon herself to call me.

"Trishaaaaa. Trishaaaaa."

"Hi, Auntie Nandini."

"Tell your mother I'm leaving."

"Yes, Auntie Nandini. She's already in the shower, Auntie Nandini."

"Okayyyyy. I can't come up, okayyyy? Tell her I can't come up. The car can't be kept waiting. Tell her to come down in twenty minutes."

"Yes, Auntie Nandini."

I don't know why she even bothered. We both knew how it would end. Auntie Nandini would end up coming upstairs after all, and having a glass of whisky or wine, before my mother emerged from her lair.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. I was doing my makeup."

The more optimistic of her friends, the ones who don't know her quite as well as Auntie Nandini, choose to sit in the car downstairs. They think it'll take her only five minutes to join them.

The poor fools.


***

As our visit to London drew to an end last month, she spent a lot of her time nagging me to pack, to be on time.

"We have to leave at nine in the morning." She said, over and over again. "Don't be late, finish all your packing on time. Your uncle is driving us to the airport. You know what he's like."

Yes, Mama, I do know what he's like. I've seen him practically have an aneurysm because you're late every time we have to go somewhere with him.

(During the holiday, she was supposed to go to an exhibition with my uncle and two aunts. She wasn't ready, so my aunts carried on. She left with my grumbling uncle. I left the house about twenty minutes later - I was heading out to meet a friend - and bumped into my mother and uncle at the station. My uncle did not look happy.

"I thought you left ages ago."

"We missed the last train. Because of your mother."

"Don't be such a stick in the mud," my mother said shrilly. "The exhibition isn't going anywhere."

Ironically, it did. It got too late so they ended up drinking tea in Covent Garden. My mother also managed to get some shopping done. She was the only one who returned from that expedition in a good mood.)

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah, she was nagging me to pack.

Now this may surprise you, but I can be a little fiendish on occasion. My mother's packing had started two days previously. This is one of the great mysteries of life. She spends at least two days sorting things out and packing, and she still can't finish on time.

So on our last night, when everyone was sitting around watching television, I went up to my room and did my packing. Didn't take me long. Admittedly because, unlike my mother, I don't fold things. I just crumple them in a ball and throw them into the suitcase. And then I went down.

"Trisha," she snapped, as soon as I entered the room. "It's nearly ten pm. Go pack."

"I've finished," I said. "Just need to put the toiletries in - I'll do that after my shower tomorrow."

The look on her face was gratifying. It was exactly what I was aiming for.

Because, after two days of 'packing, she still had to wake up at the ungodly hour of five am, while I slept on blissfully.

I woke up at eight, showered, put the last bits and pieces in, and merrily sat around for an hour, drinking coffee and chatting with the family.

We left when we were supposed to leave. I won't lie. I was disappointed - the last time we were in London, I'd spent a memorable hour listening to my uncle bang on my mother's door, shouting that planes don't grow on trees, while she yelled back the words we all know by heart.

"I'M DOING MY MAKEUP."

But this time, like I said, she was ready. Just before the car rolled out of the gate, she turned to me and said, "Did you take your medicine?"

I cursed under my breath. Ran out of the car, my aunt and cousins were still at the door. Looked for the medicine on the dining table. Ran back to the car, checked my rucksack. Wasn't there. Ran back to the dining table - eventually found it under the newspapers.

As we finally pulled out of the driveway, my uncle started lecturing me. You need to be more responsible, you need to be more prepared, you need to be more punctual, etc.

My mother was sitting in front, but I could still see the small, satisfied smile on her face. And the triumph that draped itself across every line of her body.

Today is my first day back at work. And time, obviously, is crawling by. I'd forgotten how deadening it is to sit in front of a computer screen all day. And there is no work to do, nada, which a part of me is grateful for because I don't think I remember how to work.

But because I am, as always, starting out the year attempting to be productive and focused, I have made yet another vow to immerse myself in my job, to prioritise it above everything else, to self-train and self-learn and self-teach myself in order to one day become a Master Copywriter.

So I made a list of books on advertising to read/study/absorb. And I diligently started with the first one, I've even taken notes. But after a couple of hours, I slid into stalking people on Facebook and rating the dresses worn at the Golden Globe awards. It's okay, I'm human. I'll start again once I've caught up with Buzzfeed.

It isn't all that bad being back here. Home was waiting for me. S. failed to realise I wanted him to pick me up from the airport (it's not like I told him I did, I'm incapable of saying these things out loud). But he soon realised his stupidity (after I called him an asshole) and I couldn't be upset once I got home. There were flowers and there was wine and red meat in the freezer, and my carpets had been sent for dry-cleaning. So nice.

I expected the cats to greet me with affection - I missed them terribly - but they are cats, so I was greeted with supreme indifference instead. Whatever. I'll get a dog one day. That'll show them.

I want to start writing in this blog more regularly, and to write about funny things, not long rambling results of boredom. I've already started a journal. I start a journal regularly every six weeks, but this time I am determined to write in it every single day. Even if it's along the lines of, "Today sucks." or "I don't feel like writing." or the brief yet eloquent "Blah." I've already written quite a lot even though its only been two days since I started it, but every time I go back to read something, my eyes glaze over, it's that boring. At least I don't have to worry about people reading it.

I'm going to go and write in it some more now. No one can judge me for having nothing interesting to say. I will try to make my next post more interesting although I highly doubt it. Optimism was one of my resolutions for this year - but given the past few months, even that is seriously pushing it.