Hair Force One -Operation Dis Tress

Yes. So it is. Six months and a few scraggly days. Since my last hair cut. Major chop chop that. Happened in a tiny, shady corner room that cost Rs. 100. The haircut cost Rs.100, not the room.

For a person who has had waist length hair since 1996, and spent years before then trying to get it to grow that long, I am really growing fond of the short hair.(Ok. I've wanted short hair since 1997. But still.) Or, as Violet would put it, obsessed with my hair. You see, I've never had hair around my face. I've never had wind in my hair. I've never needed anything more than a rubber band for my hair. But now I have a round brush, a paddle brush, hair pins, hair bands, hair bands with claws (sounds ominous, no?), barettes, bungees and scrunchys. All this has, predictably, left me with a little lesser money than I'd like. Which means I have none left to maintain this sassy style. Which in turn means, that I have to cut my hair myself. All of you there now going "but well that's easy... you just pull your hair to the front and go snip snip in one straight line": it's a little more complicated than that.

You see, as with anything I do, I began with doing my homework. Not schoolwork. Homework. As in, going online and googling the heck out of "how to cut your own hair". When I was in the des, the Rs.100 bought me the standard issue "step cut". For the hairstyle lingo challenged readers, that's the bushy multilayered sticks out in odd angles hair that you see on any standard issue dilli girl. I did not want to replicate that. But I did want some style. Or as multiple sites put it "layers to maintain definition and give the hair some movement".

So then, armed with the unfanciest hair shears my perpetual adversity would permit me to afford, and all the knowledge a true at heart engineer ever needs to perform any task, I set about snipping my hair in strategic places paying diligent attention to the lengths, angles and densities. And I now sport the I'm-so-cool-I-don't-pay-attention-to-my-hair frumpy style. Perfect for the uber chic grad student.

So there, one more thing I can do myself. One more skill that will come in handy when I face possible unemployment and find myself walking steadfast towards definite poverty. I will be... "RukmaniRan... her own barber shop"

P.S: All overly zealous feminists: start an online petition to call it womenstruation instead.

Desserted in December

Hello world.

[Ok, world is too much.] Hello internet people.

[Still too much.] Hello people who read my blog.

[Actually] Hello people who read my blog and noticed I havent written anything in a while and also noticed that Cayenne ghost wrote for me. How've you all been?

My dear little bike is in the shop. That's right, I went all unstingy and finally took it to the shop for a tune up. The basic, not more than $30, just check the brakes and gears tune up. I figured, when I get it back, it will be all swanky and smooth, and I would be tempted to give my bike a name, like all those corny guys and their cheesy named vehicles. But I don't know what I would call it. It was a hand me down, and I have no idea how old it is. Which, incidentally, is very similar to my brother's last bicycle (and by last, I don't mean the one he had before his current one, because he currently doesn't have one. I mean literally, the last bike he ever owned. Except, he never referred to it as a bike). You see, his was also a hand-me-down-that-no-one-knows-how-old-it-is kinda bike, which was called... "Street Hawk" (Christened by his friends, after a failing tv show that aired on doordarshan and caught the fancy of an entire neighborhood of tam brahm boys. It was supposed to be ironic, or sarcastic, or something like that). But anyway, the cute guy at the shop with the Eastman Technicolor tattooed arms told me today that the bike needed new cables and the wheels needed to be tensioned and trued. You know how much new cables cost? I still gave in, and decided to pay for the sweet ride that I will get when I get my bike back. Which I really wish is soon. I miss it. It spoke to me. (Muahaha).

But the fact that I don't have my bike is not the reason I didn't write. It's the reason I haven't been out exploring more obscure parts of Richmond; and instead, spent most time in my neighborhood. Which is filled mostly with houses, tiny shops and tinier restaurants. Since I can't very well walk into someone's house, and I definitely can't afford food at the itty bitty pretentious restaurants, I spend at the shops. Largely time. Money, not so much. Except the one time that I bought fancy porcelain mugs. I have a thing for mugs. I have so many of them, that I have some packed away, and still have plenty to go around. But in my defense, those are all large mugs. The kind you drink hot chocolate, or coffee in. These though, are a fashionably non-detailed, tea cup sized set of four. Perfect for tea. Which I brew in a flowery tea pot and flavor with local honey. And I am in awe of my tea pot owning, mug buying, tea drinking self. I feel so posh.

But the shopping and tea drinking is not the reason I haven't been writing. It's the holidays. And I've been spending lots of time in the kitchen; not ogling my mugs. I have been making Christmas gifts. Yes. Making. In the kitchen. Want to know what you all are missing? Chocolate sauce, Hot fudge sauce, hazelnut truffles, and Cherry cinnamon granola. Except those of you who live in Richmond and know me and I like. Yes, we are going to be merry around Christmas. We have fancy two feet tall tree and all. With tiny plastic candy canes and baubles, complete with a miniature nativity set. And regular sized stockings. It's funny how everything else is scaled down, but the gift carriers are regular sized. Spirit of Christmas only it is. And you know what's going to stuff my stocking? (No, not my chubby legs. Save the snicker.) Vanilla beans, and local wildflower honey baby! (Yes, I give food and I receive food. What goes around, comes around. Except, I never thought I would be cheering it coming around so much). The honey is going to be the bestest. It's from my bee keeper friend. (I always make it a point to mention my bee keeper friend whenever I can. It sounds fancy, and by simple relation, makes me fancy too! Especially when I show off the creamed honey, and the cut comb honey.) And when my bee keeper friend comes over, I'm making latkes! A German and a tambrahm enjoying Jewish food for Christmas. Life's good.

P.S: To those who wondered-Cayenne is a langotiya yaar. A chaddi buddy. We share a connection only surpassed by the one he has with his girlfriend. And by J.D. and Turk. And he's beloved enough that I haven't changed my password yet.

The Blogger is married...

...to the engineering school.

PS: The hard part isn't doing the engineering phd. It is dealing with engineering phd doing you.
PPS: Posted by Cayenne as the blogger is busy getting screwed

Choices

Alamelu woke up. She realized she had woken up by herself. No alarm had gone off. No one had called her. No one had knocked on her door. She was surprised at herself. That too on a day she had decided not to go to work.It had been a tough week, especially on the personal front. Her father, whom she had been estranged from for 4 years now was trying hard to get in touch with her and make amends. He sent her email, photos, packages in the mail. She had disregarded all of them. She could not do it. She could not forgive him. He had been a good father, but sometimes an unforgiving one. It was in her genes, she thought.

At 26, Alamelu was the oldest unmarried woman in her entire extended family. All her sisters, cousins, and even most of her friends had done the right thing. They studied hard, got a good job, which they quit at 23 to marry some Iyengar boy settled in the US. That was not for her though. In college she had met and dated a fashionable Mumbaikar. And when she was about to graduate, she told her parents about him. It surprised and shocked everyone. Shocked people who had met her, because, she, Alamelumangai, with her long oiled hair in a neat braid did not look like someone who would do this to her parents. People who knew her well, were surprised because she, Alamu, with her strategically hidden tattoo was too much of a globe trotting rebel to settle down with a husband and kids. Yes, she had surprised them all. And surprised them even more by making that relationship work for 7 years across countries and timezones.

And that was why her father was reaching out to her now. He wanted to see his only daughter married. Even if it was to some Marathi boy. She had proven her love by making it last. And now she had her father's blessing.

That bothered Alamelu. She wasn't sure she wanted to be married. And certainly unsure about Rahul. No. She didn't think she would marry someone who would fit right in into a Karan Johar movie. The uncertainty was heightened by the new guy she had met. Tall and Turkish, he had walked into her office. When the shift ended at 9.30 that night, he offered her a ride home, during which mentioned that he found her pretty. Alamelu reflexively frowned at him. But upon reflection, realized it was just the thing she needed to hear. It also made her realize things had just ended with Rahul. That night she imagined how her father would react if she brought a new boy home. An Arab at that. Her thoughts took her to the first time she mentioned Rahul. Her father had blown a fuse. It was no surprise. It was the exact reaction she received when she told him she was going to major in Psychology and not Engineering. She remembered feeling guilty. She remembered graduating with a B. Tech.

And here she was again. At a place where she had to make a choice. All of her family and all of Rahul's family expected them to get married. And now she knew she didn't want to. She wanted to tell Rahul it was all over. But she could not bring herself to. Rahul cared about her too much. And there was more at stake than what she was feeling. Breaking those unspoken vows that had gotten them through those seven years had consequences. Of putting her parents and his through all of it. And immediately, again, she felt guilty. Guilty about making a choice that affected her life more than anything else- simply because to everyone else it was a given; there was no two ways about it. She was feeling guilty about making a choice because nobody had expected it of her to be making such choices. With a chuckle she wondered if she was Jewish.

As she lay there staring at the ceiling fan, vaguely following its low hum, Alamu wondered if all her decisions were affected by her need to rebel. She wanted to believe that it was outrageous to even think that; but she suspected that it might have a sliver of truth. Having been taught to be considerate of others feelings first, she realized she could not end it with Rahul simply because of what him and their families would go through. She could not date a Turk simply because she could not put her father through it once again. She remembered all the lessons she had been taught as a child; most important of which was that there were consequences. There were always consequences. When you made a decision, you honored it by following through. She did not know if those lessons were right. But she knew she did not have the courage to investigate them. With that realization, she called her father, asked for his forgiveness, and asked him to arrange for a weeding within the next three months.

Vaudeville is in the Details

I thought crumpling freshly ironed clothes was depressing. Although that is decreasing.

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Defender bender: minor collision between two lawyers

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Being a conservative requires serious deliberating

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I don't like the only candidate for this post. I need to find a denominator.

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I am confused. I need a decider. Although, sometimes, I jut need cider.

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Some say all this new age technology has brought sloth. Would that mean that we simply need a device?

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If inflate is the opposite if deflate, is incision the opposite of decision? Does institute mean the opposite as destitute?

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How is it that part and depart mean the same?

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I wonder if witch hunts were started as a form of demonstration

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I am sure the antonym of assert is dessert.

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If you run uphill on a warm day, it needs to be followed by a serious descent

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Dottie was an unruly child. Dottie needed a despot.

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P.S: Jerry Seinfeld is coming to town. Me and Paprika quarrel about whether or not we can afford it. Unity in diversity is easier than unity in adversity.

Gaah

I think I have earned the right to rant on my blog and vent out to strangers (most of) whose faces I have never seen. With school in session, and all the free stuff that comes with it (right now I'm wearing a shirt that proclaims that I belong to the class of 2013. And some people believed it. Highlight of my day) you would think my life would be better. More interest groups. More student clubs. More people. More work. More excuses. New apartment. New neighbors. Bigger kitchen. Cable. You would think this would make life more interesting. My school has a 'quidditch club'. Much fun. I wondered how they were going to fly high. Many ideas. Then they told me they only run around with the brooms. Life is still teetering on the perilously thin wall between meh and blah. The only good feeling I have is the "runners high" I get from biking my way to and from school. And that's just sad. What's worse is that I'm getting used to the distance and it'll soon no longer be strenuous enough. Also gaah is the realization that said bike is growing old and needs serious tune up. Or replacement. But it's the recession. People are no longer giving away free bikes.

Gaahd help me.