The first time I had beer I could barely stop myself from spitting it out. ‘Yikes, people actually drink this?’ I thought, looking aghast at my cousin bro and his wife, lounging in a beach shack, with at least 10 empty bottles scattered at their feet. It was about eleven in the morning. I was 17 or something similar.
I looked at my new sis-in-law, hair in a wild mess, guzzling away to glory and thought, now why beer of all things? That’s such a guy thing. What on earth did he see in her?
Stuffy? I could have been worse! I could have been one of those girls who snort at beer!
I had tasted port wine, taken surreptitious sips of rum at my dad’s bar and decided rum was my thing. But beer? Sadly, it had me cold from the start. It was bitter and left a horrible aftertaste in your mouth. It made you go to the loo 1500 times and gave you a belly afterwards (as I gathered looking at veteran beer guzzlers). And it was something dad and his buddies drank out of crates while watching cricket or football. Not something for a decent girl to have.
Or so I thought.
The pink-papered girlie visions vanished the moment I landed in Bombay. I stayed with a family friend in Chembur and when aunty and uncle wanted to celebrate my admission into the course, there was nothing at home but…beer! ‘Argh!’ Aunty and me twitched our noses but uncle urged us on. ‘C’mon, it’s only one mug!’
At the introductory session of my mass communications batch, the other girls talked about their ‘changing the media’ and ‘being Rupert Murdoch.’ M, who was sitting next to me, chuckled, held up her Styrofoam coffee cup and said, ‘Hi, am from the beer city, Bangalore. Cheers!’
My education in the golden tipple had begun.
I did try and get back to rum. But I had never really been into it and was accosted by 'beer buddies' from all possible quarters. The thing is that beer grows on you. You find it bitter at first, then take the next sip thinking it would be better, and then the next and before you know it you have finished an entire mug and LOVED it!
The best part? You don’t wake up with 40 hammers knocking on your head (at least I don’t). You just wake up late.
M and I become the best of pals and shifted in together, as the cranky nuns thankfully thought we didn’t deserve the hostel. Before I knew it, I was a beer convert. It helped to be part of an evenly divided mass coms batch. You were either into beer or wine. If you didn’t drink anything, you were on our side, because we, the beer drinkers weren’t alcoholics. With all that barley and water and yeast, it was like having a cake or a nice piece of bread, only liquid. And good for health to boot. What excellent stone-free kidneys were we going to have!
Strangely, for all this talk of beer not being a girl’s drink, most of my girl pal bonding had been done over beer. Perhaps most girls I know drink it or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that right after the course, I jumped into a newspaper, where I met a bunch of fellow-alcoholics masquerading as ‘reporters and sub-editors.’ I joined gang with the con-women pretending to be the ‘Features Team.’ The rest, as they say, is history. Or should I say, her-story?
(And I finally understood what my cousin saw in that girl)
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Monday, March 22, 2004
Howzzat!
Things a man should remember while watching cricket:
There are other channels on television apart from Ten Sports or DD when the cable goes off. I may not be a regular watcher of Jassi, Tim Sebastian or VJ Anusha but I like to watch them and the others once a while. So go ahead, watch the match but why subject me to re-runs, award ceremonies, post-match analysis and discussions? Unless of course, it features Imran Khan.
Cricket does not equal food. If it does, fix yourself a snack before you plonk in front of the television. Don’t ever repeat: 'Er…Kaif’s taken a brilliant catch, could you heat some kebabs? And while you are at it, fix me a mug of cold beer?'
In keeping with the above, cricket does not mean a messy room. Cushions, ashtrays and popcorn don’t have to be tossed in the air because Yuvraj’s hit a ‘brilliant’ six. Who does the cleaning up? His mom?
There is more to meaningful conversation than a running commentary on the day’s match.
I am a woman. A straight one. The kind that knows a good piece of work when she sees one. Just because I think Rahul Dravid is neat does not mean that I am trivializing the game.
And calling Shoaib Akhtar superfast does not mean I’m supporting Pakistan either.
Finally, I’m not a jinx. If Indian wickets don’t stand when I’m around, it’s their fault not mine. It doesn’t mean I stay locked up in the loo or the bedroom. Ever!
There are other channels on television apart from Ten Sports or DD when the cable goes off. I may not be a regular watcher of Jassi, Tim Sebastian or VJ Anusha but I like to watch them and the others once a while. So go ahead, watch the match but why subject me to re-runs, award ceremonies, post-match analysis and discussions? Unless of course, it features Imran Khan.
Cricket does not equal food. If it does, fix yourself a snack before you plonk in front of the television. Don’t ever repeat: 'Er…Kaif’s taken a brilliant catch, could you heat some kebabs? And while you are at it, fix me a mug of cold beer?'
In keeping with the above, cricket does not mean a messy room. Cushions, ashtrays and popcorn don’t have to be tossed in the air because Yuvraj’s hit a ‘brilliant’ six. Who does the cleaning up? His mom?
There is more to meaningful conversation than a running commentary on the day’s match.
I am a woman. A straight one. The kind that knows a good piece of work when she sees one. Just because I think Rahul Dravid is neat does not mean that I am trivializing the game.
And calling Shoaib Akhtar superfast does not mean I’m supporting Pakistan either.
Finally, I’m not a jinx. If Indian wickets don’t stand when I’m around, it’s their fault not mine. It doesn’t mean I stay locked up in the loo or the bedroom. Ever!
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
The Well Wishers
Well…If you’ve read UTG’s this one's quite similar!
I’m easily annoyed. Have a short fuse that blows up without warning, especially when I’m being given unsolicited advice and facing an inquisition into my private life. And when you live in a country where nobody minds their own business, are married and pushing 30, the advice comes pouring in torrents. It starts with decorating oneself post-marriage. ‘But beta, you don’t look married at all. Thoda sa lipstick laga liya hota…’ cribs Pimmi Aunty from the balcony-next-door. Never mind that this is seven in the morning and you’ve only roused yourself from sleep because the milkman rang the bell too many times.
Pimmi gives way to the others. ‘Why do you need a job? Your husband earns well enough!’ says retired baldie uncle. You gently remind him that you’ve always worked. Ever since you graduated at least. ‘So?’ he retorts, ‘You weren’t married then!’
A couple of years pass. Your marriage is now old enough to contemplate divorce. You chicken out instead and decide to buy a flat. This creates a stir. Why are you moving? Wasn’t this house large enough? Why live in a flat when you have a large place here? Do you get along with your mother-in-law?
You show heartless disregard but the well-wishers won’t stop. ‘Now that you have a house of your own, isn’t it time to have a baby?’ they chorus. Miraculously the intense questioning (why we haven’t had a baby yet, do we want one, what are my bowel movements like, etc) are reserved for that magic moment when I’m left alone with the female. Child production to most Indian women seems a one-sided job. Men aren’t supposed to be bothered.
The funny thing is, all these CBI type intense questioning isn’t seen as rude but concerned. And it must be deep-rooted in our veins because age is no bar here.
Years ago, a cousin who promised never to have an arranged marriage (what a prehistoric practice, oppressive to women, blah blah) said yes to the first IIT-IIM-NRI boy who came along. When I called to congratulate her, she was quick to come to the point: You should agree to an arrange marriage you know. These are the ones that last!
Cousin is separated now and though I may sound like a bitch, I do feel bad that it didn't work out. Last heard, she was passing off valuable nuggets to still-in-school little sister. 'Never opt for an NRI guy. And stay away from an arranged marriage!'
I’m easily annoyed. Have a short fuse that blows up without warning, especially when I’m being given unsolicited advice and facing an inquisition into my private life. And when you live in a country where nobody minds their own business, are married and pushing 30, the advice comes pouring in torrents. It starts with decorating oneself post-marriage. ‘But beta, you don’t look married at all. Thoda sa lipstick laga liya hota…’ cribs Pimmi Aunty from the balcony-next-door. Never mind that this is seven in the morning and you’ve only roused yourself from sleep because the milkman rang the bell too many times.
Pimmi gives way to the others. ‘Why do you need a job? Your husband earns well enough!’ says retired baldie uncle. You gently remind him that you’ve always worked. Ever since you graduated at least. ‘So?’ he retorts, ‘You weren’t married then!’
A couple of years pass. Your marriage is now old enough to contemplate divorce. You chicken out instead and decide to buy a flat. This creates a stir. Why are you moving? Wasn’t this house large enough? Why live in a flat when you have a large place here? Do you get along with your mother-in-law?
You show heartless disregard but the well-wishers won’t stop. ‘Now that you have a house of your own, isn’t it time to have a baby?’ they chorus. Miraculously the intense questioning (why we haven’t had a baby yet, do we want one, what are my bowel movements like, etc) are reserved for that magic moment when I’m left alone with the female. Child production to most Indian women seems a one-sided job. Men aren’t supposed to be bothered.
The funny thing is, all these CBI type intense questioning isn’t seen as rude but concerned. And it must be deep-rooted in our veins because age is no bar here.
Years ago, a cousin who promised never to have an arranged marriage (what a prehistoric practice, oppressive to women, blah blah) said yes to the first IIT-IIM-NRI boy who came along. When I called to congratulate her, she was quick to come to the point: You should agree to an arrange marriage you know. These are the ones that last!
Cousin is separated now and though I may sound like a bitch, I do feel bad that it didn't work out. Last heard, she was passing off valuable nuggets to still-in-school little sister. 'Never opt for an NRI guy. And stay away from an arranged marriage!'
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Up and Running and thicking my thongue out ath indiathimess
Phew!
Have finally set up the comment box and feeling very html savvy and proud of myself. Ok don't laugh. Given my ant-sized knowledge of all things techie it's a wonder I can start a blog, let alone try and start a new one which doesn't have a comment facility of its own. But thank you blogger. I have learnt a lot today.
Like Calvin and Hobbes, my days are just packed nowadays. Days are going in a rush of stories, running home to entertain ma and other random things. And I miss being on bewitched but that name was already taken here. Ok won't whine but can't resist giving a link to it. Life is all about moving on as are blogs...blah blah
A, we still haven't had that celebration drink. Or even kofi. sigh. and s, subs, xxx and lee, am v low about not being able to read all your blogs on the site. Though thanks a ton for posting them for me. Touched and all that.
:)
Have finally set up the comment box and feeling very html savvy and proud of myself. Ok don't laugh. Given my ant-sized knowledge of all things techie it's a wonder I can start a blog, let alone try and start a new one which doesn't have a comment facility of its own. But thank you blogger. I have learnt a lot today.
Like Calvin and Hobbes, my days are just packed nowadays. Days are going in a rush of stories, running home to entertain ma and other random things. And I miss being on bewitched but that name was already taken here. Ok won't whine but can't resist giving a link to it. Life is all about moving on as are blogs...blah blah
A, we still haven't had that celebration drink. Or even kofi. sigh. and s, subs, xxx and lee, am v low about not being able to read all your blogs on the site. Though thanks a ton for posting them for me. Touched and all that.
:)
Monday, March 15, 2004
Ok guys, now that the powers-that-be at maha mega media house have tuned onto Big Brother Is Watching mode, it's my turn to shift blog from bewitched.rediffblogs.com
Sniff! Will miss it tho. won't delete it as plan to put a link to it here.
Only hopes the megalomaniacs here don't start blogs and block all blog sites, including this!Talk about pea-brained monopolising dictators! What are they trying to get out of this?
Sniff! Will miss it tho. won't delete it as plan to put a link to it here.
Only hopes the megalomaniacs here don't start blogs and block all blog sites, including this!Talk about pea-brained monopolising dictators! What are they trying to get out of this?
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