of exceptions

I first met her a few years back. She was a pretty face, but thankfully not just that. She was spirited, quick-witted and fun to hang around. She was not like the other vermilion clad, eternally grumpy women in office, who could only talk about their spats with the husband or the in-laws. She had a husband who seemed to respect her individuality and in-laws who were happy to just let her be. This was not what Indian women are conditioned to expect after their marriage. To me, she was the first woman who was truly happy in her marriage.

Except that she wasn’t.

I will never forget that evening. She was in front of me- a vulnerable and pathetic heap of tears and emotions. Between her incessant sobs and hiccups, she laid bare the story of the farce that was her marriage. She felt empty like the bed she was on every night. She was anything but the blissfully happy façade she used to present. She saw no hope in her marriage and wanted out. She emotionally crumbled as she vented out, what must have been, months of inner turmoil. But I needed some explanation to this outburst- that seemed all too sudden to me. And I did find an explanation. She said she was in love with the Mister. And that he loved her right back (I know, Gasp!).

I knew what this was about. Here was a woman looking for a shoulder to cry on, an anchor for her drowning ship; and a man who was, well a man- just looking for easy sex. This was a recipe for certain disaster. This was never going to work.

Except that it has.

He gorges on fish and mutton while she sticks to her veggies (thank you very much!). He gyrates to dubstep and she sways to Salsa. An adventurous bike trip gets her as excited as he is about finding an interesting new read. He is an unabashed extrovert, while she is a mousy introvert. And yet, despite their many differences, I am yet to meet a woman more suited for the Mister or a man more suited for her.

I do not know how life will eventually turn out. But the Mister has probably been the best thing to have happened to her. I say this because I have seen her change, or rather evolve. She is way more emotionally stable now. She has become more spiritually inclined- more accepting of people and situations. She is more persuasive of the things that she truly wants to do in life. She is reading and writing and travelling and dancing and karaoke-ing and doing pretty much everything that catches her fancy. To put it simply, she is living a life I wish I get to live someday. I wish could be her.

Except that I am not.

Hi, I am Giggles! (and no, I do not giggle even half as much as to deserve this moniker!)


Edited to Add:

As you may already know today is my first blogiversary. What better way to celebrate than have my only girlfriend talk about how she has seen me evolve over the years?

Welcome Giggles, my biggest girl crush whose nocturnal chat adventures we’ve enjoyed (and envied); the friend who made the wasted seamen party happen even though she passed out even before the clock struck twelve; and most of all – someone who manages a job and guitar lessons and kickboxing and gym and a two hour commute within one day and still has the energy to say yes when I ask her to be a guest blogger for me.

Needless to say, I love her. And btw, you will too!

– Ana

of flaws

She’s so… spunky, he’s saying. Obviously they’re talking about you.

I’ve always wanted to be with a woman like that. Driven. Independent. Confident. Sexy. She walks into a room and turns heads. She’s the hottest woman and the coolest friend rolled into one. You know what I mean?

You’re inching closer. You don’t want him to know you’re eavesdropping. She’s the kind of woman that makes you always want to hold on to, he says. You smile. You believe him.

Well, almost. You know he loves you, but always? You’ve never liked the idea of always. You know either of you can’t be absolutely loyal. It’s not in you. Both of you like being loved too much for your own good.

Also, he likes to be needed. All men do. You don’t know how long it’ll be before he realizes that you’re too driven. Too independent. Soon he will see that you can find your way around the world even without him; you don’t need a man to give you safety or money or happiness.

You know his reverence will eventually turn into resentment and that’s why the whole concept of always is so fucking flawed.


of the curious case of the missing toast

You know how much I love mysteries. I woke up to one this morning. Better yet, I solved one!
Here’s what happened.

I lay snoring on our bed this morning when I heard some strange noises from the dining area. Mister and mom were talking loudly, which isn’t really a common occurrence. I was obviously worried and was finding it difficult to ignore the ruckus, so I dragged Mister’s pillow and dropped it over my head.

It didn’t help. I had to get up.

I hate getting up. Especially in the middle of the morning. It turns me into Crankenstein.

I dragged my lifeless body out of bed and crawled toward the dining area. Mister was holding a toaster – yes, a fucking toaster – in his hands. He looked bewildered.

No, not because I was up so “early”.

He was making toast for himself and had put a slice of bread in the toaster and turned it on. Two minutes later, he returned to the toaster, and voila, there was no toast.

Mom and Mister had been speculating the following theories when I woke up:

  • Mister forgot to put the slice of bread in the toaster. He just thought he did.
  • Mister did not really want to eat toast and was just trying to mess with her (which I kinda was leaning a little bit toward, seeing as Mister does not eat carbs and always tries to mess with mom’s head).
  • This could be the beginning of his Alzheimer’s or some such serious disease that will take his life if we don’t take it seriously.

They were driving me nuts so I had to take charge and play detective.

Did I tell you that as a kid I wanted to be a detective like Vyomkesh and Sherlock? I knew the rules – no matter what the crime is, you start by interviewing witnesses and surveying the crime scene.

So that’s what I did.

Step 1: Interview the Victim. Ask the same questions again and again. See if he sticks to his version.

Me: Tell me exactly what happened. Start at the beginning.

Mister: You remember how Luthria (his doctor) told me not to have tea empty stomach?

Me: Skip to this morning dude, I don’t have all day to investigate a missing slice of bread.


Mister: I opened the fridge, took out the packet of bread, took out a slice, put it in the toaster, set the clock to 1.5 minutes, switched it on, and went on to go read the newspaper.

Me: How many times do I have to tell you 1.5 minutes is not enough! Are you absolutely sure you put the bread in the toaster?

Mister: Of course I am. There’s crumbs all over it. See? 


Step 2: Survey the Crime Scene

I picked up the toaster and indeed. Breadcrumbs, and no bread. Nothing. Nada.


I checked around the toaster. Nothing there.

Then I decided to take a closer look, and there it was, lying on the floor, waiting to be discovered by my unsuspecting foot.





Me: Told you 1.5 minutes wasn’t enough time!

Mister: Clearly it was enough time for this thing to jump off the toaster and hide before I got back!


What about you? Have you ever played detective? What did you want to be when you grew up?

Honeymoon Horror Stories – V

You know that the horror series has been on the back burner for a while now. But then I saw this daily prompt in my reader, and it gave me a gentle nudge in the right direction.

Last time I left on on what I’d like to believe was a cliffhanger. Yeah I know. I’m bad at building build-ups. Not surprisingly, I’m not a real writer.

Anyway. We reached Tirthan at 4 in the evening afternoon evening pm and parked our bike on the hillside. The view was amazing. Imagine the hills on one side of the road and a resort next to a blinding white bustling river on the other. Just that the resort wasn’t exactly as close as that sounds. We had to climb down, cross the river, and then get to the resort. Continue reading Honeymoon Horror Stories – V

Honeymoon Horror Stories – III

We threw away the old spark plug and a precious couple of hours in Shimla, and left for Chindi. We were both a little tired, our backs aching (mine more than his, thanks to the fucking sprain). But we were just happy to know that we still had the bike and that it was functioning just as it should. Nothing else mattered at that point.

Some might find the road from Shimla to Chindi picturesque, but it was the same as all roads in the hills are. Mountain looming over you on one side, and the depths of hell on the other. Continue reading Honeymoon Horror Stories – III